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why not put out

       The fire by water, snuffing, stamping, why

       Be precious of the means?

      Madam Evard

      You know me, woman?

      Charlotte

      You struck me when I stabbed him. You’re his whore!

      Madam Evard

      Oh! Oh!

      Robespierre

      (To Danton) This is enough! When fury claws at fury. I hear the tumbril for her. Come!

      Danton

       The slut!

      (Danton and Robespierre leave the room together.)

      Charlotte

      Was that not Robespierre who left the room?

      Fouquer-Tinville

      Why do you ask?

      Charlotte

      I wanted him for counsel.

      Fouquer-Tinville

      For what? The guillotine?

      Charlotte

      (Shrinking) You monster! You!

      Montané

      Have you a lawyer?

      Charlotte

      No! I wrote Doulcet.

       He shirks the honor, doubtless; have not heard.

       I thought of Chabot and of Robespierre.

      Montané

      Chaveau-Lagarde shall counsel you. Proceed!

      Fouquer-Tinville

      Is this your letter?

      Charlotte

      Yes.

      Fouquer-Tinville

      This letter here

       Is written to a man named Barbarous,

       Her lover—

      Charlotte

      No! You monster!

      Fouquer-Tinville

      Very well!

       Is this yours: “To the French, friends of the laws,

       And friends of peace.”

      Charlotte

      Yes! I admit what’s true.

      Fouquer-Tinville

      And is this yours: “To the Committee of Public Safety”?

      Charlotte

      I wrote it, yes.

      Fouquer-Tinville

      Let’s see now what’s her mind.

       This letter to the friends of peace and laws:—

       “O France, thy peace depends upon the laws.”

       Laws! And she hastens to the cutler’s shop,

       And buys a knife with which to slay Marat.

       Now look! This friend of France’s peace and laws

       Must dodge self-contradiction. How? That’s plain:

       “I do not break the law, killing Marat.”

       Why? What’s Marat? A man? Of course, a man.

       But then an “out-law,” as she writes. How’s that?

       Outlawed by whom? Charlotte Corday of Caen!

       What else? A man! But then condemned. By whom?

       “The universe.” Voila! The universe

       Is swallowed by her swollen vanity.

       She speaks for God, for solar systems, stars;

       Adjudges laws, interprets, executes;

       Is greater than the Revolution, France.

       She’s a descendant of the great Corneille;

       A stage imagination, actress, acts,

       And quotes here in this letter from Voltaire’s

       “Mort de César.” Now listen what her hate

       Has used for whetrock, in the words of Brutus:

       “Whether the world astonished loads my name “And deed with horror, admiration, censure, “I do not care, nor care to live in Time. “I act indifferent to reproach or glory, “A free, untrameled patriot am I. “Duty accomplished I shall rest content. “Think only, friends, how you may break your chains.” So Brutus lives in her! And like disease Loosed from the crumbling cerements and dust Of broken tombs, the madness which slew Cæsar Infects, makes mad this woman; and she slays The great Marat! She does not care for the world’s Censure or admiration! Does not care To live in time! She lies! Why, in this room A man, Huer, is sketching her. Behold He’s drawing now her face for Time to see. And in this letter written to the Committee She says: “Since I have little time to live, “I trust you will permit me to have painted “My portrait.” Why? If careless if she live In memory or time? The secret’s out, And written in her hand: “I want to leave “A picture for remembrance to my friends.” What friends? Her father? Barbarous? Caen, Paris, the whole of France, the world, if Time Writes down the people’s friend as beast, would see The face, in such case, which destroyed Marat, Condemned first by the “universe” and at last By France, the world! What next? She doubts her God, Her Brutus warrant, “universe” approval, And writes here as a reason, in addition: “That as men cherish memory of good men, “So curiosity”—see her spirit flop And smile with idiot guilt upon itself— “So curiosity sometimes seeks out “Memorials of criminals.” That’s her word: “Criminals,” and by that word she stands Self-dedicated to the guillotine.

      Charlotte

      Well, am I not a criminal in the eyes

       Of such a beast as you? Will nature spawn

       No other beasts like you?

      Fouquer-Tinville

      Yes, in my eyes,

       You are a criminal. But you mistake.

       I have no curiosity about you.

       When you are dead I’d have your name erased,

       Your face erased, lest it corrupt the face

       Of Brutus, and lead hands in years to come

       To speak the “universe,” interpret “laws,”

       And slay whom they would slay.

      This is not all

       About her picture, a memorial

       For admiration by posterity.

       She writes this Barbarous, lover or what,

       It matters nothing, writes him pages here

       In detail of herself, and intimate

       Portrayal of her feelings: how she planned,

       And killed Marat. To Barbarous she writes

       About her letter to the Committee, asking

       To have her portrait painted. Now, for whom? Her friends? Not now! For the department now Of Calvados. There! hanging on a wall, A prize of history, is the deathless face Of Charlotte Corday, destroyer of Marat, Saviour of France, as Brutus struck for Rome! Yes, I invite your thought to what she writes To Barbarous: description of her act In sneaking to Marat with hidden knife; And as he sat there helpless in the tub, And unsuspecting of her hatred, quick She rips him like a butcher. Then, “A moi!”

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