 | A Son of The Soil |  |
Scene First.
—A Room in Martel's house; doors at R. and L. 2 E.; table with papers, &c., L.; chairs; table with drinking cups, R.Hoche, Aristides, and Others discovered.
Aristides.
(R.)
You are ready, then, General? If the Aristocrats
should get to their old work again in Brittany, as we
expect, the Republic counts upon your sword.
Hoche.
(L.)
Now as ever, citizen. It is almost rusting for
want of use. But, till it is needed, we wear pleasant faces as
before, and amuse ourselves in the fine ladies' drawing rooms.
Committee Member.
(L.)
Agreed, by all means.
Aris.
Those may who like it. Your fine ladies are the devil,
General.
Hoche.
Then the devil must be a very pleasant person.
You stand alone in your opinion. I think, Citizen Aristides,
that you are the only member of the Committee of Public Safety
who declines to attend Madame Tallien's receptions.
Aris.
Oh, no, there's one amongst us who hates women
worse than I do.
Com.
You forget the Citizen Martel.
Hoche.
Our host; he is indeed incorrigible. These rooms of
his certainly seem better fitted for a meeting of good Republicans
than for an assembly of ladies.
Aris.
A woman in Martel's house! Dont talk sacrilege.
Com.
Well, General, we leave you to fight the ladies' battle
with our stern moralists here. Our business is over for the
day, and we may look to the evening's pleasure. The Committee
thank you for your attendance. We meet to-night at
Madame Tallien's?
Hoche.
I hope so. Au revoir!
Exeunt all but Hoche and Aristides, door R.
Aris.
And this is the Committee of Public Safety! If the
object of your meeting is to arrange visits to fine ladies, you
had better call yourselves the Committee of Public Danger.
Hoche.
Come, my Diogenes! Your classical godfathers
What makes you so savage to-day? Have the Committee
been too merciful to the Aristocrats this morning?
Aris.
Far too merciful for my taste, and they will pay for
their confidence some day. More nobles released this morning
without trial, and without rhyme or reason. One Count de
Valmont especially, a pestilent young intriguer, who should
be under the guillotine now if I had my way.
Hoche.
Thank heaven you have not, and that the times are
not what they were. I would pardon all the Aristocrats if I
could.
Aris.
And I'd take all their heads off—that's the only
difference.
Hoche.
You are in a minority.
Aris.
Worse luck. If it wasn't for Martel and me we
should be having half the emigrants and absentees back in
Paris, and taking their names off the black list. He knows
better. He was a serf himself (we've done with that word
now, thank heaven) on the estate of one of them.
Hoche.
I have heard him speak of that; kindly enough,
too. The Duke de Lille, was it not?
Aris.
Ay, an absentee, whose name was before us the other
day. There was a difference of opinion about him, and many
were for letting the fellow come back to Paris. Even Martel
had a weakness that way, and, if he says the word, it will be
done.
Hoche.
Then I hope he will say it. Haven't I heard him
speak of a daughter of that same Duke's as a friend of his?
I have almost fancied he kept a soft corner in his heart for her.
Aris.
His heart has no corners. It is as round and as
sound as mine. The girl you speak of was some twelve years
old, as I happen to know, and a cursed little Aristocrat. No
fear of anything in the shape of a petticoat from twelve years
old upwards coming between Citizen Martel and the Republic.
Would that others were like him, for the Republic is all but
lost.
Hoche.
Bah! the Republic is well enough; you need not
wear mourning for her yet awhile. Do you mean to tell me
that, because a woman revives the reign of good manners, and
teaches two men of different opinions to know each other for
the good fellows they are in private, though they may go on
hating in public as much as they please, that the Republic is
lost? She wanted men to defend her in the time of danger,
let women brighten her hour of peace.
(crosses, R.)
Aris.
You are hopeless.
(crosses, R.)
Here comes one who
may convert you better than I can. I wonder the sound of
the word women did not bring him down upon us sooner!
Mart.
I have sent off the despatches. Still at work
On the old argument?
(sits at table, L.)
Hoche.
Yes, I was saying
A good word for the women.
Mart.
Our worst foes!
The women always hated the Republic.
Hoche.
Let our task be to teach them how to love her.
Mart.
Impossible! Our lives and theirs are two,
As fire and water are. Their shallow brain
Has room for nothing but for lace and jewels,
For red-heeled boots and for black-painted eyes.
Equality and liberty are sounds
Too rude and rugged for their squeamish ears;
A people's cries are too loud for good taste:
And in the tribune's shouts is hushed and drown'd
The gossip of the drawing-room.
Hoche.
Poor fellow!
How you hate women. I could never see
Why lace and jewels should not hide a heart
As honest as a soldier's uniform.
But we must make the best of them, poor things!
We can't abolish women, or prevent
Their keeping half creation to themselves.
And if the sex and our laws can't agree,
So much the worse—for our laws.
(crosses, C.)
Mart.
Can such men
Speak in such fashion! While our thoughts and time
Were filled with high and holy purposes,
These women studied decency. But now
That we have given up steel for gold, they flaunt
Their classic mockeries in the theatres,
Half dressed, and unashamed. The Grecian girdle
Will be enough to clothe them soon, without
Even the Grecian tunic that it clasps.
Aris.
Hear—hear!
Hoche.
You are too young to talk like that.
Has never pair of bright eyes in your heart
Pleaded the cause of woman?
Mart.
No, indeed;
Bright eyes don't trouble me. My life is still
Tribune at home, and battle-field abroad,
And has no leisure time for sighs and loves.
My country is my mistress, and for her
I breathe my only vows; for her I feel
The lover's passions and the lover's fears.
In all her triumphs, and adore her beauty!
And wonder much that living man can find,
In these our grand and spirit-stirring days,
Room in his heart for a divided love.
Aris.
How well he talks! My sentiments exactly.
(crosses to L.—sits)
Hoche.
I've heard all that before. Such men as you
Are just the very stuff a woman moulds
Into a helpless slave. Converted rebels
Have ever been the most devoted subjects.
Come, dare you stand the test?
Mart.
What test you please.
Hoche.
I dine to-night at Madame Tallien's;
You shall come with me.
Mart.
I?
Hoche.
That is my test.
Mart.
You are joking, General.
Aris.
(to Martel)
Don't think of it.
No compromise with the idolater.
Hoche.
First hear me for a moment—then refuse.
Believe me, times are changed, and Athens reigns
Instead of Sparta. Throw your lot with me,
Among the softened spirits of the time;
Leave uncouth manner and untidy dress
To the low spouters of the clubs and streets.
To-night, at Madame Tallien's, you will find
Science and war shake hands, and even see,
Under the presidency of good taste,
A marquis bowing to a peasant.
Mart.
Thank you,
Your good taste à la mode is not for me;
I cannot put friendships and enmities,
Like old gloves, on and off. Were I to meet
A traitor in your model drawing-rooms,
Why, I should call him traitor, to his face;
Among these women and these men who ape them,
I should be rude or awkward, insolent,
If not insulted. You may go alone;
And when you meet these nobles in Vendée,
At the sword's point, may you fight none the worse
For having met with them before—at dinner!
Hoche.
Incorrigible man! Good night.
Mart.
Good-bye.
Exit Hoche, R. 2 E.
Aris.
Bravo! that's the way to talk; you've come out of the
fire without a singe. Let him hob and nob with his Aristocrats;
none of your bare shoulders and gold hangings, but honest
cotton gowns and wooden shoes; good women of the people,
fit for nothing but to applaud our speeches and mend our
stockings, with no female charms about them whatever, thank
heaven!
Mart.
Well said!
(laughing)
I will start with you directly,
but must sign some orders of release first, the most welcome
work I have to do. Let me see.
(sitting at a table, L., and
looking over papers)
Enter Leonidas, L. 2 E.
Leon.
Wanted.
Mart.
By whom?
Leon.
Woman.
Marg.
What kind of woman?
Leon.
Lady.
Marg.
An Aristocrat? (Leonidas nods)
Young or old?
Leon.
Young, and— (waking up)
pretty—very!
Aris.
The devil!
Exit precipitately, L. 2 E.
Mart.
Is she so anxious to see me?
Leon.
Insists!
Mart.
Show her in.
Leonidas goes to the door, R., and beckons—then enter Beatrice and Leonidas retires, R., after a stare at her—Martel at his papers, L., does not look up—Beatrice pauses at the door, R.
Beat.
(aside)
In the lion's den. Courage.
Mart.
(not looking up)
What do you want, citizen?
Beat.
(quietly)
A chair, sir.
(Martel turns his head, rises and gives her a chair, R. C.)
Thank you.
(Martel remains standing)
Mart.
Now, will you tell me—
Beat.
You may be seated yourself.
(he pauses for a moment, then bows, and sits at his desk, L.)
Beat.
(R. C.)
So I may count upon your courtesy?
Mart.
(L. C.)
Why not?
Beat.
They told me that Republicans
Despised such trifles, and I felt afraid—
But without cause, I think.
Mart.
You are good to say so.
Beat.
It is but justice. I am glad to feel
That an acknowledged patriot, like you,
And stainless democrat, can be polite,
And still receive a woman as a woman,
Not as a—citizen.
If our rough ways
Stand in some need of mending, I for one
Would gladly take my lesson from your lips.
Beat.
A compliment! Then I feel quite at home,
And proffer my petition fearlessly.
I have a right of audience. The bond
That links us both is of no common kind:
In the same canton you and I were born.
Mart.
You come from—
Beat.
Villeneuve. Have you quite forgotten
The old grey manor-house upon the hill?
Mart.
(his manner changing)
I have forgotten nothing; no, nor shall.
Such memories are dangerous, Madame.
A thousand years of outrage and of wrong,
Humiliation's bitterest record,
Were written on that manor's wicked walls,
To be torn out for ever, in a day,
By an awakened people's lifted hand.
Bonds between us! Would you have said so once?
We miserable serfs are not as you,
But of a different form, and flesh, and life!
Your nobles have no country but your caste,
And the blue-blooded alien Englishman
Is more your countryman than such as we.
The thought of marrying with us and ours
Would be a shame and horror in your eyes!
Forgotten! Have you taught us to forget?
Beat.
Were our bad deeds, then, written upon rock,
And the good traced in sand, to fade so soon?
Have you no kinder memories of those
Your revolution beggared? In their ranks
Was there no woman numbered, by whose hand
Your sorrows were relieved, your wants supplied—
Who watched the bedside of your dying? None?
Mart.
True. I did know one such. She was a child.
Beat.
Some children grow to women, for you know
They cannot help it. Do you not remember
Your childhood's little playmate, in whose lap
You used to pour your wealth of fruits and flowers?
Mart.
You—was that you?
Beat.
Yes, it was I, indeed.
Then how you used to take me in your arms,
And carry me across the running streams,
Great, strong boy that you were?
Mart.
Ah! and how proud
I was of my sweet burden! With what care
Afraid to breathe, for fear of wetting you!
Beat.
And all the toys you used to make for me!
Mart.
And then our hunts after the butterflies!
Beat.
The bonfires that we lighted in the woods!
Mart.
The books you lent me, which I carried off,
Rich and forbidden treasures, to my house,
More mindful of the lender than the loan!
Can it be you?
Beat.
What years have passed since then!
Mart.
And yet it seems to me but yesterday.
Ah, nothing speaks to the man's heart so loud
As do the happy memories of the boy!
Beat.
When you had left the village, how I missed
My old companion! But I heard with pride
When Rumour whispered of your growing fame;
My father tore the papers where the news
Of all your great exploits was written. I
Would sew the bits together, and would go
And read them to your mother.
Mart.
You did that?
Beat.
Was it so wrong?
Mart.
Oh, no.
Beat.
But I did more.
Your father died, and all his property
Fell to the lord, as you had left your home.
My father waived his rights, at my entreaty,
And for your mother's sake.
Mart.
Heaven bless you for it!
I can say nothing more.
Beat.
Then peace is made!
And you allow that an Aristocrat
May have some little good in her?
Mart.
Madame!
Beat.
You should be generous now, for we have learnt
Lessons of poverty, of cold and hunger;
We know what suffering and exile mean,
And we have worked, like you, to earn a living.
These very hands of mine have done no less,
And washed out drinking-cups upon the Rhine.
Mart.
What do you mean?
Beat.
Precisely what I say.
I was a barmaid, and a very good one!
Mart.
This little hand—
Beat.
Has carried draughts of ale
Most humbly to my peasant customers,
And in exchange closed tight upon the coins
They gave me for my pains.
What sacrilege!
What an abomination! But the reasons
That brought you to such work?
Beat.
Necessity.
My father with the army, house and home
Pillaged and burned, friendless and destitute,
What could I do?
Mart.
Your husband, where was he—
The Duke D'Armine?
Beat.
Dead! and the guillotine
That widowed, hardly spared me. Penniless
I had no choice but to work, beg, or starve,
And I preferred the first. A barmaid's place
Was all that I was fit for, and I took it.
Mart.
But this is horrible! That such as you
Should work for your own living, drudge, and slave,
And take the wages of a servant. You
Were only born to order, not be ordered.
Those little hands are far too soft and white,
For menial offices, but should be kept
To be admired, and looked at. Ruffians! Brutes!
Beat.
What a consistent democrat you are!
Don't be excited, for I rather liked it.
The air was pure; the food, not choice, but wholesome,
And the whole place was rest and peace itself.
You should have seen the honest German boors
Sit staring at me with their big round eyes,
Admiring my neat figure, and the ankle
That peeped from under my short petticoat.
It so distracted them, that more than once
They wavered in their duty to the beer.
All was so strange, that I could think myself
Acting a part upon some private stage.
And then, to earn my living!—it was grand
To be a useful member of mankind.
If you had seen me in my servant's dress,
Would you have pardoned my old fineries?
You should respect me now, as you respect
The workers of the world, and let the inn
Atone for the offences of the manor,
The barmaid for the duchess.
Mart.
It is you
Who must forgive. I knew not what I said.
What can I do to win my pardon—tell me?
Command me, I obey.
Beat.
I will command you.
You are a member of the great Committee.
From the proscribed list of the absentees.
Mart.
He is an absentee.
Beat.
He's at the frontier;
What matter on which side by a few yards—
That can't concern the safety of the State.
You told me to command, and so I do;
I ask you for my father.
Mart.
What a tyrant!
Beat.
'Tis no great boon I ask, for you to give,
But everything to me. You know my father.
His faults are of his race, more than redeemed
By his own virtues. We, bad as we are,
Have not unlearned the old-fashioned lessons yet
Of filial duty, love, obedience;
And well has he deserved them at my hands.
I never loved but him; he is my world;
His lightest wish has ever been my law.
For him I gave my hand without my heart—
For him would sacrifice my heart's desire,
Unmurmuring, at a word. That is my creed,
And must be to the end. Give him me back.
And think what payment you will earn from me.
Mar.
Well, I will do my best, if you, Madame,
Stand surety for his good behaviour.
Beat.
Most gladly. If he keep not faith with you,
You shall imprison me, and be my jailor.
Mart.
Such pledges might make traitors of us all.
What other orders have you, citizen—
Your grace, I should say?
Beat.
There is yet one more
For whom I play the suppliant. My cousin,
The Count de Valmont, lies in prison here,
In Paris, charged with treason to the State.
He is not worth the compliment, believe me,
And cannot harm you. He is young, light-headed,
But dangerous to no man but himself.
Mart.
And to no woman?
Beat.
Pshaw, he is my cousin.
The veriest trifle Paris ever tossed
Upon her pleasure sea in smoother times.
Mart.
(aside)
She does not care for him. I am glad of that.
He were not worthy, and she said she loved
Her father only. What is that to me?
The Count de Valmont (looking at his papers)
Ah, I fear, madame,
That this I cannot do.
Say that you will not.
Mart.
It is already done. This very day
We signed the order of release. The Count
Is free by this time. And I cannot hope
To do you service there.
Beat.
Service unsought
Is still the greater service, and from this
I draw a happy omen for my father;
And so I have your promise?
Mart.
I will look
Into the case.
Beat.
We have looked into it.
Mart.
I must consult my colleagues. I am not
The entire Committee!
Beat.
I expected that,
And know what you must do. Except yourself
All the Committee meet, this very night,
At Madame Tallien's, and you must come;
She is my friend, and so will welcome you.
A word from you, Puritan that you are,
Will be all-powerful with your wavering colleagues.
So come to-night to Madame Tallien's.
Mart.
No, nothing shall persuade me.
Beat.
Disobeying
Commands already? You must come to night.
Are you so fearful of a drawing-room,
Where I shall be?
Mart.
Not that, but I have sworn
I would not go.
Beat.
You had not seen me then.
And to be forsworn in a woman's cause
Was never counted for a perjury.
I was sent here as an ambassador,
And if my mission fails, my friends will say
The post was ill-appointed.
Mart.
Hear my reasons—
Beat.
(R.)
I will, to-night, at Madame Tallien's—
But not before. I am now upon my road,
And if you still desire to win my pardon,
You follow instantly.
Mart.
(R. C.)
Can we not meet
Elsewhere, some other time?
Beat.
No; there or nowhere!
You have my ultimatum; so, good-bye
For an hour—or for ever. (going to the door, R., then looking at his face, with a curtsey)
For an hour!
(closed in)
| A Son of The Soil | |