The open sea. Edgar Lee Masters

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СКАЧАТЬ luke-warm craft of states:

       Girondists: patches on the robes of kings;

       Girondists: autogamists; mating sisters,

       The past, and in the mating without child

       Of truth or progress. Neither hot nor cold,

       Spewed, therefore, from the mouth of Time. Betrayers,

       Waylayers of the brave, the clear of eye;

       Girondists: ’twixt republicans and kings,

       And holding hands of each to make them friends.

       Workers and owners of the new foaled mule

       Bred of the royal stallion and an ass.

       Girondists! loving wealth and ease, the church

       Which loves them too. Girondists picking steps

       Of moderate reform. Girondists hating

       The Revolution, which must kill the foes

       Of Liberty, as criminals are killed

       For robbery, yet rejoice to see the blood

       Of dead Marat. They’re lofty! They are pure!

       They love the laws, love peace! Yes, as this woman

       Loves law and peace.

      What is it like? A play

       Where all is mimicked. Do we talk of facts?

       Are these not fautocinni? Where’s the hand

       That plays this coarse and bloody joke to eyes

       Of men that crave reality? I mean this:

       A woman with lovers who suggest, abet;

       A woman with no man, who dreams and reads,

       Lives in the stench of these Girondist lies;

       Ghosts float on fogs of her miasmic soul.

       She hears Marat’s a monster, dabbling blood,

       A rabid ignoramus running foul

       Of liberty and order, nihilist,

       And sanguinary madman, dragon slimed

       In back-wash of all hatred, envy, lust

       Of the dispossessed, malformed, misborn; and then

       She dreams of Brutus, who struck down—there now

       I nail a lie that will be always truth

       To Charlotte Cordays. Cæsar? Tyrant? No.

       No man is tyrant who sees truth and rules

       For truth’s sake. For the ruled must share the truth

       Where Cæsars rule.

      So much for her. She stands

       Watchful and envious in the wings, and sees

       Marat, not as we see him; not as Time

       Will see Marat. L’Ami du Peuple to her

       Is enemy of France, of Liberty.

       This man most rare, most pure of soul, most clear

       Of vision that the contest lies between

       The rich and poor, has always lain between

       The rich and poor, and not between the people

       And kings; that poverty’s the thing, is seen

       By Charlotte Corday from the wings, as nothing

       But hatred, murder.

      Well, my girl, you’ll get

       Your picture in the galleries of history.

       You’ll get it; and to choke you with your words:

       “So curiosity would have memorials

       Of criminals, which serve to keep alive

       Horror for their crimes.”

      Your picture’s up

       Already. Horror stares! You killed Marat.

       That is your place in Time: you killed Marat!

       You sneaked upon a great man, true man, weak

       From torture of disease, contracted serving

       Democracy, and slew him like a beast.

       Charlotte Corday, assassin! That’s your place,

       And character in history.

      Charlotte

      Let it be.

       Assassin. Well, assassins kill assassins:

       The words repel, destroy each other, sir.

       If any grieve for me I beg of them

       To think of me in the Elysian Fields

       With Brutus and the heroes.

      Chaveau-Lagarde

      Gentlemen!

       The deed’s admitted. What to say, but ask

       Your clemency? The girl’s fanatical.

       The prosecutor argues well for me

       In saying that a lie corrupted her,

       And maddened her to act; which is to say

       If that lie were a truth, she had the right

       To slay Marat. With this regard Voltaire,

       Great minds before him, painted Brutus great

       Because he slew a tyrant. But if Cæsar

       Was not a tyrant, how does Brutus stand

       But mad-man who believed, was honest, slew

       In honesty of heart? Then what’s the case?

       To punish for ill-judging of the facts,

       Or mercy show for human frailty

       Of judgment and of vision? Great Marat

       Has done his work, and left his legacy.

       We cannot help him, meting death for death.

       And would his noble spirit ask her death?

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