The open sea. Edgar Lee Masters
What clay remains to mould the face of Brutus?
Do you not see a straining of the stuff,
Making that big and salient which should be
Little and hidden in a group of figures?
And why, I ask? Here is the irony:
Shakespeare has minted Plutarch, stamped the coin
With the face of Brutus. It’s his inner genius,
The very flavor of his genius’ flesh
To do this thing. Here is a world that’s mad,
A Cæsar mad with power, a Brutus madder,
Being a dreamer, student, patriot
Who can’t see things as clearly as the madman
Cæsar sees them, Brutus sees through books.
A mad-man butchered by a man more mad.
His father mad before him. Why, it’s true
That every one is mad, because the world
Cannot be solved. Why are we here and why
This agony of being? Why these tasks
Imposed upon us never done, which drive
Our souls to desperation. So to print
The tragedy of life, our Shakespeare takes,
And by the taking shows he deems the theme
Greater than Cæsar’s greatness: human will,
A dream, a hope, a love, and makes them big.
Strains all the clay to that around a form
Too weak to hold the moulded stuff in place.
Thus from his genius fashioning the tales
Of human life he passes judgment on
The mystery of life. Which could he do
By making Cæsar great, and would it be
So bitter and so hopeless if he did,
So adequate to curse this life of ours?
Why make a man as great as Nature can
The gods will raise a manakin to kill him,
And over-turn the order that he founds.
A grape seed strangles Sophocles, a turtle
Falls from an eagle’s claws on Aeschylos,
And cracks his shiny pate.
So at the last
The question is, is history the truth,
Or is the Shakespeare genius, which arranges
History to speak the Shakespeare mood,
Reaction to our life, the truth?
And here
I leave you to reflect. Let’s one more ale
And then I go.
CHARLOTTE CORDAY
(The Revolutionary Tribunal; July 17th, 1793)
Montané, Presiding judge. Fouquer-Tinville, Prosecutor. Chaveau-lagarde, Defending counsel. Danton,} Leaders of the Jacobins. Robespierre,} Madam Evard, Marat’s friend. Charlotte Corday.
Montané
Where is your home?
Charlotte
Caen.
Montané
Why did you come to Paris?
Charlotte
To kill Marat.
Montané
Why?
Charlotte
His crimes.
Montané
What crimes?
Charlotte
The woes of France! His readiness to fire
All France with civil war.
Montané
You meant to kill
When you struck?
Charlotte
Yes! I meant to kill.
Montané
How old are you?
Charlotte
Twenty-four.
Montané
A woman
Young as you are could not have done this murder
Unless abetted.
Charlotte
No! You little know
The human heart. The hatred of one’s heart
Impels the hand better than other’s hate.
Montané
You hated Marat?
Charlotte
Hated! I did not kill
A man, I killed a wild beast eating up
The people and the nation.
Fouquer-Tinville
She’s familiar
With crime, no doubt.
Charlotte
You monster! Do you take me
For just a common murderer?
Fouquer-Tinville
Yes! Why not?
Here is your knife!
Charlotte
Oh! Yes, I recognize it.
I bought it at the cutler’s shop.
Montané
What for?
Charlotte
To kill Marat with; cost me forty sous.
After I came to Paris—
Fouquer-Tinville
When?
Charlotte
Four days ago.
Fouquer-Tinville
That was the day you wrote Marat?
Charlotte
Same day.
Fouquer-Tinville
Saying you knew of news in Caen, knew
Means by the which Marat could render service
To the Republic!
Charlotte
By his death!
Fouquer-Tinville
But yet
You gave him credit in this note for love
Of France, our France. You tricked him.
Charlotte
Like a viper.
He was a mad-dog, dog-leech, alley rat,
With bits of carrion festering ’twixt his teeth,
Hair glued with ordure, urine. Why not trick
By best means, so to catch a beast with fangs