Читать книгу The Goddess of Reason - Mary Johnston - Страница 6
ОглавлениеBah!
De L’Orient
She hath
The loveliest face!
Count Louis
Hm!
The Abbé
I am unscathed.
De Vardes is slightly wounded!
All
Oh!
Count Louis
Morbleu!
And how did it happen, Monsieur l’Abbé?
The Abbé
Behold us at our ease in the great hall,
De Vardes and I, a-musing o’er piquet!
Voltaire beside us, for we read “Alzire,”
A wine as well, more suave than any verse;
A still and starlit night, soft, fair, and warm;
Wax-lights, and roses in a china bowl.
He laid aside his sword and I my cap,
All tranquilly at home, the Two Estates!
He held carte blanche, I followed with quatorze.
The roses sweetly smelled, the candles burned,
At peace we were with nature and mankind.—
A crash of painted glass! a whirling stone!
A candle out! the roses all o’erturned!
The thunder of a log against our doors!
A clattering of sabots! a sudden shout!
Morbec, Morbec, it is thy Judgment Night!
Admission, admission, Aristocrats!
Red turns the night, the servants all rush in.
Sieur! Sieur! the lackeys moan and wring their hands.
Give, give! the terrace croaks. Burn, Morbec, burn!
The great bell swings in the windy tower
Till the wolves in the forest pause to hear.
Fall, Morbec, fall! France has no need of thee!
Upsprings a rosy light! a smell of smoke!
Mischief’s afoot! The Baron of Morbec
Lays down his cards and takes his rapier up,
Hums Le Sein de sa Famille, shuts Alzire,
Resignedly rises—
Count Louis (rubbing his hands)
Expresses regret
That monsieur his guest—
The Abbé
Should be incommoded
And turns to the door. I levy the tongs.
The seneschal Grégoire hauls from the wall
An ancient arquebus! The lackeys wail,
And nothing do, as is the lackey’s wont!
Again the peasants thunder at the door!
Open, De Vardes! Oh, hated of all names!
The new is as the old! Death to De Vardes!
The log strikes full, and now a panel breaks;
In comes a hand that brandishes a pike;
A voice behind, We’ve come to sup with thee!
For thou hast bread and we have none, De Vardes!
The Englishman
Ha, ha! ha, ha! ha, ha!
Count Louis
You laugh, monsieur?
The Abbé
I like calmness myself. Calm of the sea,
Calm skies, the calm spring, and calmness of mind!
A tempest’s plebeian! So I admired
René de Vardes when he walked to the door
And opened it! Behold the whole wolf pack,
As lean as ’twere winter! canaille all!
Sans-culottes and tatterdemalions,
Mere dust of the field and sand of the shore;
Humanity’s shreds would follow the mode,
And burn the château of their rightful lord!
De Vardes’ peasants in fine. Mort aux tyrans!
À bas Aristocrat! Vive la patrie!
Vive la Révolution! In they pressed,
Gaunt, haggard, and shrill, and full in the front—
Young and fair, conceive! dark-eyed and red-lipped—
A fury, a mænad, a girl called—
De L’Orient
Yvette!
The Abbé
So they named her, the peasants of Morbec,
Named and applauded the dark-eyed besom!
When, De Vardes’ drawn rapier just touching
Her breast-knot of blue as she stood in his path,
Up went her brown hand, armed with a sickle!—
De Vardes is a known fencer—’tis lucky!
His wound is not deep, and in the left arm!
The Vidame
She may hang for that! How high I forget
The gallows should be—
Count Louis (offering his snuff-box)
Monsieur le Vidame,
Thirty feet, I believe!
The Vidame
But not in chains—
Count Louis
No! It was the left arm.
De L’Orient
What did De Vardes?
The Abbé
De Vardes, with Liancourt and Rochefoucauld,
Holds that the peasant doth possess a soul!
I think it hurt him to the heart that he,
New come to Morbec, and unknown to these,
His vassals of the village, field, and shore,
Should be esteemed by them an enemy,
A Baron Henri come again, forsooth!
But since ’twas so, out rapier! parry! thrust!
Diable! he’s a swordsman to my mind!
The mænad with the sickle he puts by;
Runs through the arm a clamourer of corvée,
Brings howling to his knees a sans-culotte,
And strikes a flail from out a claw-like hand!
They falter, they give way, the craven throng!
The women cry them on; they swarm again.
His bright steel flashes, rise and fall my tongs!
But the lackeys are naught, and Grégoire finds
A flaw in his musket; he will not fire!
Pardieu! the things this Revolution kills!
There is no faithfulness in service now!
Our peasants grow bold. Ma foi! we’re at bay!
De Vardes and De Barbasan, rapier, tongs!
Wild blows and wild cries, blown smoke and a glare,
And the girl Yvette with her reaping hook
Still pushed to the front by the women there!
Upon De Vardes’ white sleeve the blood is dark,
And his breath comes fast! I see the event
As ’twill look in print in Paris next week,
In L’Ami du Peuple or Journal du Roi!
“The Vain Defence of an Ancient Château!
When we Burn so Much, why not Burn the Land?”
And I break with my tongs a young death’s-head
That’s bawling—What think you?—Vive la République.
Count Louis
Death and damnation!
The Abbé
So I said! And then,
Quite, I assure you, in time’s very nick,
The saint De Vardes prays to smiled on him!
A thunder clap!—Pas de charge! En avant!
Captain Fauquemont de Buc and his Hussars!
De Buc
Warned by the saint, we galloped from Auray!
The Abbé
Like the dead leaves borne afar on the blast,
Or like the sea mist when the sun rises,
Or like the red deer when the horn’s sounded—
Like anything in short that’s light o’ heel—
Vanished our peasants! The women went last;
And last of all the mænad with the eyes!
Jesu! She might have been Jeanne d’Arc, that girl!
The man who captures her has a hand full!—
To the deep woods they fled, are hunted now.—
De Vardes and I gave welcome to De Buc,
Put out the fire, attended to our wounds,
Resumed our cards, and finished our Alzire—
The Château of Morbec stands, you observe!
[The company applauds.
Mlle. de Château-Gui
But who was the saint?—
De Buc
Ah, here is De Vardes!
Enter De Vardes. He is dressed in slight mourning and
carries his arm in a sling.
The Guests
Monsieur the Baron of Morbec!
De Vardes
Welcome,
The brave and the fair, my old friends and new!
Welcome to Morbec!
Count Louis
Ah, your wounded arm!—
Our regret is profound!
De Vardes
It is nothing.
The fraternal embrace of the people!
Count Louis
Oh, the people!
Mme. de Vaucourt
The people!
De L’Orient
The people!
Count Louis
My friend, permit us to hope you will make
Of the people a signal example!
De Vardes
They are misguided.
Count Louis
Misguided! Morbleu!
De Vardes
I will talk to them.
Count Louis
Monsieur le Baron,
Let your soldiers talk with a bayonet’s point,
Your bailiffs with a rope—
Mme. de Vaucourt
But what good saint
Brought warning to Auray?
De L’Orient
I guess that saint!
[A lackey appears upon the terrace.
The Lackey
Madame la Marquise de Blanchefôret!
The Guests
Ah!
La belle marquise!
Enter The Marquise.
De Buc
The saint!
De Vardes
My neighbour fair,
And to De Barbasan and me last night
A guardian angel—
[He greets The Marquise.
Madame la Marquise!
The Marquise
Monsieur le Baron!
(To the company.) Messieurs, mesdames!
De Vardes
From Blanchefôret to Auray through the night
This lady rode—
The Marquise (with gayety)
Ah, how I rode last night,
To Auray through the dark! This way it was:
I overheard two peasants yestereve
As in a lane I sought for eglantine.
“How long hath Morbec stood?” said one. “Too long!
But when to-morrow dawns ’twill not be there!
And we were born, I think, to burn châteaux!—
Ten, by the village clock—forget it not!”
The Abbé
Ah, ay, the while I dealt the clock struck ten.
The Marquise
It was already dusk.—Like grey death moths
They slipped away! I knew not whom to trust,
For in these times there’s no fidelity,
No faithful groom, no steadfast messenger!
My little page brought me my Zuleika.
I knew the red Hussars were at Auray,
And that ’twas said they loved their colonel well!
So to Auray came Zuleika and I!
De Buc
We thought it was Dian in huntress dress!
De Vardes
How deeply am I, Goddess, in thy debt!
No gold is coined wherewith I may repay!
[Music within.
The Marquise
Give me a rose from yonder tree!
[Laughing voices within.
Mlle. de Château-Gui
More guests,
They’re on the south terrace!
De L’Orient
Violins too!
Ah, the old air—
[He sings.
There lived a king in Ys,
In Ys the city old!
Beside the sounding sea
He counted o’er his gold.
De Vardes
Let us meet them.
[He gives his hand to The Marquise. Exeunt
Count Louis, The Abbé, De Buc, De L’Orient,
etc. Grégoire approaches De Vardes.
Grégoire
Monseigneur—Monsieur the Deputy!
De Vardes
Ah!
Say to monsieur I’m not at leisure now.
[Exeunt De Vardes and The Marquise. The
terrace and garden are deserted save for Grégoire,
who seats himself in the shadow of the balustrade.
Grégoire
Humph!—Monseigneur’s not at leisure.
[He draws a Paris journal from his pocket and
reads, following the letters with his forefinger.
What news?
What says Jean Paul Marat, the People’s Friend?
[A cry from the wood and the sound of breaking
boughs. Yvette and Séraphine enter the garden.
Raôul the Huntsman’s voice within.
The Huntsman
Hilloa!—Hilloa!—Hilloa!
[Yvette and Séraphine turn towards one of the
garden alleys. Laughter and voices.
Yvette
Go not that way!
Séraphine
There is no way!
The Huntsman (within)
Hilloa!—Hilloa!
Séraphine
We’re caught!
Yvette
The terrace there! Behind the stone woman!
[They cross the garden to the terrace.
Séraphine (She stops abruptly and points to the table)
Bread!
The Huntsman (nearer)
Hilloa!—Hilloa!
[Yvette and Séraphine turn from the table and
hide behind the tall, ivy-draped pedestal of the
statue. Grégoire looks up from his paper and sees
them.
Enter Raôul the Huntsman.
The Huntsman
This way they came!
Grégoire (jerking his thumb over his shoulder)
Down yonder path!—plump to the woods again!
The Huntsman
The Hussars from Auray have twenty rogues!
Grégoire
Indeed!
The Huntsman
These two and my bag’s full!
[Exit The Huntsman.
Grégoire
Diable!
[He reads aloud.
Weary at last of intolerable wrong,
The peasants of Goy in Normandy rose
And burned the château. Who questions their right?
[He folds his paper.
Saint Yves! this stone is much harder than Goy!
[He looks fixedly at the statue and raises his voice.
Ma’m’selle who would smile at the trump of doom,
I think that all the village will be hanged!
And at its head that brown young witch they call
Yvette—
Reënter De Vardes and The Marquise.
De Vardes (to Grégoire)
Begone!
[Exit Grégoire. De Vardes and The Marquise
rest beside the statue, Yvette listening.
Why, what’s a soldier for?
But pity me, pity me, belle Marquise!
Since pity is so sweet!
The Marquise
I’m sure it is
A fearful wound!
De Vardes
A fearful wound indeed!
But ’tis not in the arm!
The Marquise
No, monsieur?
De Vardes
No!
The heart! I swear that it is bleeding fast!
And I have naught wherewith to stanch the wound.
Your kerchief—
The Marquise
Just a piece of lace!
De Vardes
’Twill serve.
The Marquise (giving her handkerchief)
Well, there!—Now tell me of last night.
De Vardes
Last night!
Why, all this tintamarre was but a dream,
Fanfare of fairy trumpets while we slept.
A night it was for love-in-idleness,
And fragrant thoughts and airy phantasy!
There was no moon, but Venus shone as bright;
The honeysuckle blew its tiny horn
To tell the rose a moth was coming by.
Clarice-Marie! sang all the nightingales,
Or would have sung were nightingales abroad!
Hush, hush! the little waves kept whispering.
The ivy at your window still was peeping;
You lay in dreams, that gold curl on your breast!
The Marquise
No, no! You cheat me not, monsieur! Last night
I did not sleep!
De Vardes
Nor I!
The Marquise
Miserable brigands!
De Vardes
No, not brigands! Just wretched flesh and blood.
The Marquise
You pity them?
De Vardes
Ay.
The Marquise
Were I a seigneur,
Lord of Morbec—
De Vardes
Were I a poor fisher,
Sailing at sunrise home from the islands,
Over the sea, and all my heart singing!
And you were a herd girl slender and sweet,
With the gold of your hair beneath your cap,
And you kept the cows and you were my douce,
And you waved your hand from the green cliff head
When the sun and I came up from the sea!—
And there was a seigneur so great and grim
Who walked in his garden and said aloud,
“How many fish has he taken for me?
Which of her cows shall I keep for myself?
I leave him enough to pay for the Mass
The day he is drowned, and the girl shall have
The range of the hills for her one poor cow!
Why should the fisher fret, the herd girl weep?
There is no reason in a serf’s dull heart!
I might have taken all. It is my right!”
La belle Marquise, what would the herd girl do?
And should the fisher suffer and say naught?
