Commedia della Morte (16 page)

“I agree,” said the handsome young actor, folding his arms and staring into the distance. “It has to be lighter or broader if we want to amuse the audience. As it stands, it won’t make anyone laugh.”

“There. You see?” Photine demanded of Theron.

Theron bristled, his brow darkening. “You don’t understand what is happening in the scene.”

“Well, if
we
can’t understand it, how will the audience?” Photine challenged. “I admit I am baffled.”

“Isn’t it your craft to understand it?” Theron countered. “Aren’t you supposed to find the elements that make for humor?”

“They have to be there to be found,” said Pascal, his face impish. He looked over at Photine.

“Yes, that’s our task,” said Photine, surprising Theron. “But bear in mind, anyone may have an experience and not understand it, but to act an experience, the actor must understand what it is, what its meaning is. I’m pleased you grasp that.” She assumed her most patient demeanor. “Your words may be amusing when read on the page, but the stage isn’t the same thing as a book: what we play must be understandable and consistent in its presentation, which this is not. We want an abrupt contrast between this interlude and the appearance of the Corpses.” She held out the pages to him. “You wrote this scene and we have done our best to play it, but, as you see, we don’t know what the intent is. You must make it clearer.”

Theron scowled. “You want more changes?”

“I fear we must have them, and have them by morning, or we won’t have time enough to have the lines memorized before we reach the border-crossing; we will need to be ready by then,” said Photine, softening her words with a winsome smile. “If you like, Sibelle, Pascal, and I will help you. We can read the words aloud and try to find a better way of making your purpose more apparent.”

Valence stepped up to Photine. “If you don’t need me, I’d like to have a wash and go to bed.”

“Of course. All of you but Pascal, Sibelle, and Heurer may follow your example,” Photine announced to the troupe at large. “This will take some time; make the most of your chance to sleep. The night-watch will begin shortly. Tonight it is Aloys and Urbain, then Feo and Ragoczy. Once the clean-up from supper is done, the rest of you may retire.”

While most of the troupe moved off in the direction of the various wagons, Lothaire and Tereson poured the last of the stew into a large bowl, Sibelle glanced at Theron. “I think Desiree needs to be more of a coquette, feather-brained without being silly. When Cleante speaks of America, she could reveal her ignorance by saying something about the place that everyone knows is wrong.”

“So this is more than the changing of a few sentences,” said Theron, his face blank.

“If you cannot provide what we need, then we will have to improvise this scene, which wouldn’t be a good decision dramatically,” said Photine.

Standing off to the side with Aloys, da San-Germain said softly, “Best break out the lanthorns. They’re going to need light for some hours yet.”

“And be sulky as spring bears in the morning,” Aloys agreed before raising his voice. “Madame, do you want the chairs and the rest put away?”

“No. Leave them. We may yet have to rehearse new lines tonight.” She turned to Theron. “It is for you to write, but we must memorize and set action to your words.”

“So you tell me,” said Theron, covering his eyes with one hand. “Well. We had better get to it.”

Photine beamed at him. “Very good, poet. I begin to hope there is promise in your plays.”

“I don’t need your sarcasm,” Theron told her bluntly.

“I’m not being sarcastic—quite the opposite. For the first time I can see you may have the makings of a real playwright within your verses. You’re showing a glimmer of comprehension of how a play is made.” She took him by the arm and all but dragged him to the table where they had dinner. “Come. Sit down. Aloys, fetch us a lanthorn and paper.”

“I have paper; I need pens,” Theron added as he sat on the bench, setting the box in front of him; Sibelle took the place on his right, Pascal on his left.

“The rest of you,” Photine called to the troupe. “If you can sleep, I suggest that you do so. We have much to do tomorrow.”

Enee glowered at his mother. “Do you want me to stay with you?”

“Get some rest,” she said to her son, and sat down beside Theron, unaware of the furious glance Enee gave her. “Shall we start our work? Pascal, what do you think would work in this scene?”

“A grandiose speech at the beginning, extolling Desiree and their love in such exaggerated terms that there is no feeling that it reveals genuine emotions; all over-blown and filled with aggrandizement,” Pascal said, extending his arms dramatically. “And Desiree should respond with something equally elaborate.”

Sibelle managed to curtsy while remaining seated. “Yes. That would be good.”

Theron shook his head twice. “That would border on the burlesque.”

“Exactly!” Photine rounded on him. “Yes. That’s what’s needed in this scene—a serious situation pushed to the extreme so that it becomes absurd. Remember the Commedia del’Arte traditions.”

“You mean farce?” Theron asked, dreading her answer.

“Perhaps not as much a caricature as farce, but much nearer it than the play is now,” Photine said with unexpected sympathy. “This is to be humorous, because that is expected, but you must underlie the humor with irony.”

“And in all the other scenes, as well?” Theron asked, his face a mask of misery. “Is there no way to accommodate the profound?”

“You may let the First Corpse do that, if you like, in an epilogue; you may be as eloquent as you like then, so long as what is said isn’t so morbid that it leaves a bad taste with the audience,” said Photine. “If we try to convey too much depth, we’re likely to be hauled into jail for presenting plays sympathetic to the Old Regime.”

“So you keep saying,” Theron muttered.

“And I think the Corpses should appear while Cleante and Desiree are kissing,” Photine said. “That will provide a greater shock.”

“But—” Theron began, then was silent.

“It is this contrast that makes the play daring, the absurd and the inexorable, which is what we want,” said Photine with exaggerated patience. “We want the audience to stop laughing with a gasp, not a yawn.”

“How can you ask this, after playing Racine?” Theron’s caustic remark was intended to sting.

“For the same reason I do not wear the same clothes every day—acting is kept fresh through variety, as is life.” Photine sat down at the end of the drop-table. “If one does the same thing always, it becomes stale.”

Aloys, with two lanthorns in his hands, approached the table. “The oil should last four hours, Madame.”

“Very good; thank you, Aloys; if you will take the first watch on the camp? Ragoczy can relieve you at midnight. We’ll need the fire built up before dawn,” she said, and placed the lanthorns so that they provided the largest pool of light on the table. “Now, let us start at the beginning of the scene and see what can be done.”

Theron did his best not to sigh; he picked up a goose-feather, checked it to see the nib was properly trimmed, then looked about. “Where’s the ink?”

Da San-Germain came up to him, holding out a standish of ink and a firkin of sand. “This should be sufficient for tonight.”

“Thank you, Cont—Ragoczy,” he said without a trace of gratitude. “I will do my best not to run out.”

“Oh, don’t despair,” Photine advised Theron. “You will yet have the opportunity to write your tragic drama, but it won’t be for us, not on this tour.”

Theron stared at her in astonishment. “I saw you do Phaedre. You were magnificent, and noble. How can you … Variety. You don’t have to tell me again.” He took a sheet of paper from the box and smoothed it. “Eh bien,” he said to Pascal, “what kind of excess did you have in mind?”

As if unaware of Theron’s mockery, Pascal rose from the bench. “I believe Cleante would compare his passion to the effulgence of the sun, and Desiree to the radiant moon, that he might speak of Heloise and Abelard as paltry in their love, that he would extol his devotion as the equal to any lover in myth or history: Helen and Paris are mere playmates, Antony and Cleopatra are only political opportunists.” He paused as if expecting applause; when none was forthcoming, he sat down again.

Tereson took the ewer of hot water off its stand next to the fire and used half its contents to wash out the stew-kettle, all the while whistling an aimless melody; Lothaire added three cut logs to the fire, then built up the low rim of earth around it. Olympe emerged from the wagon she shared with her mother and Sibelle, a basin in her hands for warm washing water. None of them paid attention to Theron, Photine, Sibelle, and Pascal.

Roger came up to da San-Germain, saying in Byzantine Greek, “Do you need me any longer tonight, my master?”

“I don’t think so,” said da San-Germain.

“Then I’ll go and find something to eat.” He held up his skinning knife. “I’ll have my meal away from the camp; no one will mind that the meat is raw.”

“Prudent as always, old friend,” said da San-Germain, and went off to the larger cart, where he took up a seat on the rear of the vehicle and spent the next two hours watching Photine and Theron wrangle over the particulars of the play.

*   *   *

Text of a report from the Revolutionary Tribunal of Avignon to the Revolutionary Assembly of Avignon, delivered the day it was signed, carried by a Captain of the Revolutionary Guard.

To the learned Deputies of the Revolutionary Assembly of Avignon on this, the ninth day of September, 1792, a report from Evraud Marais, Maitre de Prison, the Revolutionary Tribunal of Avignon,

Esteemed Deputies of the Revolutionary Assembly,

In accordance with your instructions, I have prepared, and now submit to you, a report on the state of our prison:

We now house 739 male prisoners, most of them enemies of the Revolution, but in that number are 114 criminals, 14 of them children under the age of nine. These two groups, the common criminals and the enemies of the Revolution, are kept apart from one another, and have separate squads of Revolutionary Guards to keep watch upon them. As you are aware, the prison has 120 individual cells and 20 general cells, all of which are overcrowded, which is contributing to the increasing incidents of disease and violence among the inmates. In addition, there are three general cells set aside for women prisoners which now number 83, of which 27 are nuns, 34 are prostitutes, and the remainder are enemies of the Revolution. The three general cells are each designed to hold twelve.

It is the opinion of the Revolutionary Tribunal that these numbers must be reduced for the safety of the public, and as we have not yet scheduled trials for most of the inmates, the situation is likely to get much worse before it is improved through the execution of sentences upon these prisoners. There is an offer from the Revolutionary Tribunal in Lyon to take on enemies of the Revolution for trial there, which I believe is an offer we must now seriously consider. If we sent only those accused of being enemies of the Revolution to Lyon, we would seriously reduce the crowding we experience and it would allow you to try those prisoners who are ordinary criminals before having to make decisions about the many additional enemies of the Revolution who are even now being rounded up by the Revolutionary Guards.

It is my belief that we will better serve France by consigning the enemies of the Revolution to the Revolutionary Tribunal of Lyon for their judgment, for not only is that city willing to aid us in this matter, the place is far enough away that traditional loyalties will not be an issue as they are likely to be here, and the verdicts given will then better reflect the goals of the Revolution instead of the dedications of those who still harbor sympathy for the Old Regime. We have Guardsmen to escort them, and funds enough to pay for the journey.

If you were to authorize the transfer of these prisoners, you could commandeer barges to transport the prisoners north, lessening the chances of escape as well as avoiding the dangers that may be encountered on the roads. We could have the prisoners ready to travel in two days’ time if you will agree to my recommendation. The Revolutionary Guards currently sweeping the countryside are due to return in six days, and if we have not alleviated the crowding in the prison, it will be impossible for us to maintain order or even effective surveillance upon those we are charged with keeping within our control.

Sixteen men of the Revolutionary Garrison of Avignon are already on record as being willing to be part of the escort for these prisoners. Another 100 Revolutionary Guards should be an adequate number to ensure that the prisoners reach Lyon without serious incident. I ask that you take this under advisement as soon as possible, before we have a wholesale revolt in the prison and risk having our Guards killed by these enemies of the Revolution.

All glory to the Revolution,

Evraud Marais

Maitre de Prison

Revolutionary Tribunal of Avignon

8

“There are only two of us house-servants left here; there are four grooms and a shepherd as well, for what good they are. It would be wrong to admit so many unknown…” The man on the other side of the gate at Montalia faltered, trying to choose a word to describe the troupe of players gathered at the entrance; he was broad-shouldered, between thirty and thirty-five, with shaggy hair, two days of stubble on his cheeks, and looked to have recently lost flesh; the apron he wore proclaimed him the cook. “I haven’t the authority to allow you to enter.” He stared at the troupe as if hoping they would vanish, unwilling to let them in. “I don’t know how I could be responsible for any mischief that might occur.”

“Players don’t always mean mischief,” said Pascal with a winning smile; he and Photine had used the guest-bell to summon a warden and had almost given up waiting for anyone to answer the clang and permit them inside the walls. “Not often, in any case.” He chuckled to conceal his relief that someone had answered their ringing, for it was mid-afternoon and he knew if they were not taken in here they would have only a few hours to find an inn or a place to make camp for the night. “Certainly not here.”