Mary Johnston

The Goddess of Reason

A Drama in Five Acts
Published by Good Press, 2019
goodpress@okpublishing.info
EAN 4064066152352

Table of Contents


DRAMATIS PERSONÆ
TIME 1791–1794
ACT I
ACT II
ACT III
ACT IV
ACT V
SCENE I
SCENE II

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ

Table of Contents

Guests of De Vardes; Peasants; Lackeys; Soldiers; Nuns; Young Girls; The Mob at Nantes; Participants in the Fête of the Goddess of Reason; Republican Commissioners; National Soldiers; Women of the Revolution; Royalist Prisoners; Gaolers; Judges; Executioners; etc., etc.

TIME 1791–1794

Table of Contents
Act I. The Château of Morbec in Brittany.
 
Act II. The Garden of the Convent of the Visitation in Nantes.
 
Act III. A Square in Nantes.
 
Act IV. A Church in Nantes used as a Prison.
 
Act V. Scene I. A Judgment Hall in Nantes.
 
    Scene II. The Banks of the Loire.
THE
GODDESS OF REASON

ACT I

Table of Contents

The Château of Morbec in Brittany. A formal garden and a wide terrace with stone balustrade. In the background the château, white and peak-roofed, with great arched doors. Beyond it a distant prospect of a Breton village and of the sea beating against a dangerous coast. To the left a thick wood, to the right a perspective of garden alleys, fountains, and flowering trees. On the terrace a small table set with bread, fruit, and wine. In the angle formed by the level of the terrace and the wide stone steps leading into the garden the statue of a nymph, its high and broad pedestal draped with ivy. Scattered on the terrace and steps a litter of stones, broken cudgels, rusty and uncouth weapons. The sun shines, the trees wave in the wind, the birds sing, the flowers bloom. It is a summer morning in the year 1791.

Enter from one of the garden paths a lackey and Rémond Lalain. Lalain wears a riding dress with a tricolour cockade.

Lalain
Say to Monsieur the Baron of Morbec,
Rémond Lalain, the Deputy from Vannes,
In haste is riding north, but hath drawn rein—
Hearing to-day of Baron Henri’s death—
And audience craves that he may homage pay
To Morbec’s latest lord!
The Lackey
I go, monsieur!
[Exit the lackey.
Lalain
These gloomy towers!
[He muses as he paces the garden walk before the
terrace.
Mirabeau is dead!
Gabriel Riquetti, dead, I salute thee,
Great gladiator! Who treads now the sand
That yesterday was trod by Mirabeau?
Barnave, Lameth, ye are too slight of frame!
There’s Lafayette. No, no, mon général!
Robespierre? Go to, thou little man!
Jean Paul Marat, dog leech and People’s Friend?
Wild beast to fight with beast! Faugh! Down, Marat!
Who stands this course, why, that man’s emperor!
Now how would purple look upon Marat?
Jacques Danton?—Danton! Hot Cordelier!
Dark Titan forging to a Titan’s end!
Shake not thy black locks from the tribune there,
Nor rend the heavens with thy mighty voice!
’Tis not for thee, the victor’s golden crown,
The voice of France—
[The doors of the château open. Enter three lackeys
bearing a great gilt chair, which they place with
ceremony at the head of the steps which lead from
the terrace into the garden.
First Lackey (stamping with his foot upon the terrace)
The gilded chair place here!
We always judge our peasants from this chair,
We lords of Morbec! North terrace, gilt chair!
Second Lackey
Baron Henri sat here the day he died!
First Lackey
Now Baron René takes his turn!
[They place the chair.
Lalain (as before)
Danton!
Why not Lalain? It is as good a name!
Mirabeau’s dead! Out of my way, Danton!
Third Lackey (gathering up the stones which lie
upon the terrace)
I’ll throw these stones into the shrubbery!
Second Lackey (lifting a rusty scythe from the steps)
This scythe I’ll fling into the fountain!
First Lackey (his hands in his pockets)
Hé!
One sees quite well that we have stood a siege!
[The lackeys gather up the stones, the sticks, the broken
and rusty tools and weapons.
Lalain
Where lives the man who doth not worship Might?
O Goddess All-in-All! make me thine own,
As the bright moon did make Endymion;
And I will rim thy Phrygian cap with stars,
And give thee for thy cestus the tricolour!
Enter Grégoire.
Grégoire
Monsieur Lalain!
Lalain (waving his hand)
My good Grégoire!
Grégoire (to the lackeys)
Despatch!
Monseigneur will be here anon!
[He glances at the stones, etc.
Rubbish!
Away with’t!
[Passing the statue of the nymph, he strikes it with
his hand.
Will you forever smile?
Stone lips that long have smiled at bitter wrong!
You might, my dear, have lost that smile last night!
First Lackey
Last night was something like!
Second Lackey (throwing the stones one by one into
the shrubbery)
Sangdieu! last night
My heart was water!
Grégoire
Ah, poltroon; your heart!
Third Lackey (making play with a broken stick)
Our baron’s a swordsman! His rapier flashed!
First Lackey
Keen as the blade of the Sieur de Morbec!
—And that is a saying old as the sea!
Second Lackey
Hard as the heart of the Sieur de Morbec!
—And that was said before the sea was made!
[They laugh.
Third Lackey (pointing to Lalain)
What’s he?
Grégoire
The advocate Rémond Lalain.
Third Lackey
A patriot?
Grégoire
Hotter than Lanjuinais!
Third Lackey
What does he at Morbec?
Grégoire
How should I know?
His home was once within the village there,
And now and then he visits the curé.
First Lackey
The curé! He visits Yvette Charruel!
Lalain (as before)
Mirabeau and I were born in the south.
Oh, the orange flower beside the wall!
And the shaken olives when Mistral wakes!
Grégoire
Once they were friends, Baron René and he;
The Revolution came between—
First Lackey (He sends a pike whirling into the
shrubbery)
Long live
The Revolution!
Grégoire
My friend, ’twill live
Without thy bawling!
Third Lackey (arranging the bottles upon the small
table)
So! The red wine here,
The white wine there!
(To a fallen bottle.) Stand up, Aristocrat!
Lalain
The sun is high!
[He approaches the terrace and addresses the nearest
lackey.
How long must I await
The pleasure of Monsieur the Baron here?
The Lackey
Monsieur?
Lalain
Go, fellow, go! and to him say,
Rémond Lalain—
The Lackey
I go, monsieur!
[Exit the lackey.
Lalain
’Tis well,
René de Vardes, to keep me waiting thus!
[Grégoire pours wine into a glass and descending
the steps offers it to Lalain.
Grégoire
The old vintage, Monsieur Lalain!
Lalain
Thanks, friend.
The day is warm.
[He raises the glass to his lips. Laughter and voices
from the winding garden paths.
What’s that?
Grégoire (shrugging)
More guests, no doubt!
The count, the vidame, and the young marquise!
All Morbihan felicitates Morbec,
And brings our baron bonbons and bouquets,
As if there were no hunger and no frost!
[A distant sound from the wood of harsh and complaining
voices.
Lalain
And that?
Grégoire
Soldiers and huntsmen beat the woods;
For half the village is in hiding there,
Having assayed last night to burn Morbec!
As if ’twould burn! This time the soldiers came!
Mon Dieu! the times are bad.
Lalain (abruptly)
All the village!
Did Yvette Charruel—
Grégoire (shrugging)
Yvette!
First Lackey (from the terrace)
Yvette!
Second Lackey
I warrant monseigneur will hang Yvette!
[Lalain pours the wine upon the ground and throws
the glass from him. It shatters against the balustrade.
Laughter and voices. Guests appear in the garden
walks, the women in swelling skirts of silk or muslin,
powdered hair and large hats; the men in brocade
and silk with cane swords, or in hunting dress.
A Lady (curtseying)
Monsieur le Vicomte!
A Gentleman (bowing)
Madame la Baronne!
Mme. de Malestroit
A heavenly day.
Enguerrand La Fôret
No cloud in the sky.
The Vidame (saluting a gentleman)
Count Louis de Château-Gui!
Count Louis
Ah, monsieur!
[Presents his snuff-box.
Mme. de Pont à L’Arche
For laces I advise Louise. Fichus?
The Bleeding Heart above the flower shop.
The Vidame
—A lettre de cachet. To Vincennes he went!
Mme. de Malestroit
But ah! what use of laces or fichus!
We emigrate so fast there’s none to see!
The Englishman
I quote a great man—my Lord Chesterfield:
“Exist in the unhappy land of France
All signs that history hath ever shown”—
Mme. de Pont à L’Arche
The Queen wore carnation, Madame, pale rose,
The Dauphin—
Lalain
What do I in this galley?
(To Grégoire.) I’ll walk aside!
[Exit Lalain.
Count Louis (to Grégoire)
Was that Rémond Lalain?
Grégoire
It was, Monsieur le Comte.
Count Louis
Ah, scélérat!
The Vidame
The talked-of Deputy for Vannes?
La Fôret
Tribune
Eloquent as Antony!
Count Louis
Demagogue!
The Englishman
I heard him in the Jacobins. He spoke,
And then they went and tore a palace down!
Count Louis
Stucco!
Enter, laughing, Mlle. de Château-Gui, Melipars de
L’Orient, and Captain Fauquemont de Buc. De
L’Orient has in his hand a paper of verses.
My daughter and De L’Orient,
Captain Fauquemont de Buc!
Mlle. de Château-Gui
Messieurs, mesdames!
The poet and his verses!
The Company
Ah, verses!
Count Louis
Who is the fair, Monsieur de L’Orient?
Lalage or Laïs or little Fleurette?
Men sang of Célestine when I was young—
Ah, Célestine, behind thy white rose tree!
De L’Orient
I do not sing of love, Monsieur le Comte!
Mlle. de Château-Gui
He sings of this day—
De Buc
The Eve of Saint John.
De L’Orient
It is a Song of Welcome to De Vardes!
De Buc
But yesterday poor Colonel of Hussars!
Mlle. de Château-Gui
To-day Monsieur the Baron of Morbec!
De L’Orient
Mars to Bellona leaves the tented field.
De Buc
That’s Bouillé at Metz! Kling! rang our spurs—
De Vardes’ and mine—from Verdun to Morbec!
De L’Orient
The warrior hastens to his native weald.
Count Louis
Would I might see again Henri de Vardes!
De Buc
It would affright you, sir! The man is dead.
Count Louis
Ah, while he lived it was as did become
A nobleman of France and Brittany!
He was my friend; together we were young!
From dawn to dusk, from dusk to dawn again,
We searched for pleasure as for buried gold,
And found it, too, in days when we were young!
From every flint we struck the golden sparks,
We plucked the thistle as we plucked the rose,
And battle gave for every star that shone!
O nymphs that laughing fled while we pursued!
O music that was made when we were young!
O gold we won and duels that we fought!
On guard, monsieur, on guard! Sa! sa! A touch!
What shall we drink? Where shall we dine? Ma foi!
There’s a melting eye at the Golden Crown!
The Angel pours a Burgundy divine!
Come, come, the quarrel’s o’er! So, arm in arm!
O worlds we lost and won when we were young!
O lips we kissed within the jasmine bower!
O sirens singing in the clear moonlight!—
With Bacchus we drank, with Apollo loved,
With Actæon hunted when we were young!
The wax-lights burned with softer lustre then.
The music was more rich when we were young.
Violet was the perfume for hair powder,
Ruffles were point and buckles were brilliant
And lords were lords in the old land of France!
We did what we would, and lettres de cachet,
Like cooing doves they fluttered from our hands!
De L’Orient
Our tribute take, last of a noble line!
Count Louis
Women! There will come no more such women!
De L’Orient
The laurel and the empress rose we twine.
Count Louis
And Henri’s gone! And now his cousin reigns—
René de Vardes that hath been years away!
The King is dead. Well, well, long live the King!
They say he’s brave as Crillon, handsome too,
With that bel air that no De Vardes’s without!
Enter Mme. de Vaucourt followed by the Abbé Jean de
Barbasan.
Mlle. de Château-Gui
Monsieur l’Abbé!
De Buc
Madame de Vaucourt!
Mme. de Vaucourt (with outspread hands)
You’ve heard? Last night they strove to burn Morbec!
All
What?
Mme. de Vaucourt
The peasants!
Count Louis
Again!
De Buc
Ah, I am vexed.
Messieurs, mesdames, the Baron of Morbec
Silence enjoined, or the tale I’d have told!
The abbé is so bold—
The Abbé
De Buc’s so proud!
And just because he brought us help from Vannes!
The red Hussars to hive the bees again!
The Englishman
The seigneur and his peasants are at odds?
The Abbé
Slightly!
Count Louis (complacently)
Henri was hated! Hate descends
With the land.
De L’Orient
There is a girl of these parts—
Count Louis
Eh?
De L’Orient
She plays the firebrand.
Count Louis
Bah!
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!
Alzire
The Château of Morbec stands, you observe!