ARTIST-MOTHER AND CHILD
The curtains parting, disclose Mme. Vigée Lebrun and her little daughter, behind a suitable frame, in the picture-pose. The effect is as if the spectator, through a transparent wall, had caught a glimpse of them in their living-room, a blank wall of which forms their background. Mme. Lebrun is gazing intently toward the front, supposedly studying their reflection in a looking-glass. Against her contentedly nestles The Child. Soon, satisfied with the result of her observation, Mme. Lebrun, always behind the frame, reaches for painting materials that lie beyond the scene, and prepares to work on a small study for the picture she is projecting. Suddenly the sound of distant firing is heard. She pauses, brush in hand. When the firing is followed by a rough shout of triumph, and a snatch of the Marseillaise, she drops her brush and clasps The Child to her bosom hard.
The Child.
What ails my mother, in yon looking-glass
Our portrait studying she trembles, turns white?
Why drops her brush whenever people pass,
Marching, hurrahing through the streets?... So tight
You clasp, it hurts!
[Mme. Lebrun caresses the Child soothingly, and, picking up her brush, resumes work. Every now and then the distant echoes of revolution are heard. Soon the Child speaks again.]
You clasp, it hurts! How gay seems Paris! Guns
Firing! Who is the Saint whose fête with praise
Is being kept?
Mme. Lebrun.
Is being kept? Called by her red-capped sons
St. Liberty; her hymn the Marseillaise.
[A slight pause.]
The Child.
This portrait, will you give it me to keep,
If still I stand and am, oh, very good?
Mme. Lebrun.
Perhaps some fairy, when you are asleep,
Will turn it into pretty frocks and food!
[The Child laughs and claps her hands delightedly. There is another pause during which Mme. Lebrun works.]
The Child.
King, Queen, why never go we now to see:
Louis the kind, fair Marie Antoinette?
Mme. Lebrun.
[Trying to speak lightly.]
No more at Trianon or Tuileries,
Their new address have they not sent us yet!
[There is another pause, during which a louder note of revolution is heard, and a red flash as of flame is seen. Mme. Lebrun listens anxiously, but as it dies away, resumes work.]
The Child.
Know you the artist Madame Guillotine?
Mme. Lebrun.
Child!
[Horrified.]
The Child.
[Proud of imparting news.]
Child! Aye! Commissioned by France, heard I said,
Soon will she execute our king and queen,
But not as did you, full-length, just the head!
[A snatch of the Marseillaise again is heard. Mme. Lebrun gives way to sudden, silent weeping.]
The Child.
Mother, dear, see, where on our portrait fell
Tears!
[Distressed.]
Tears! Mother, let me kiss your tears away!
Mme. Lebrun.
[Wiping eyes, and forcing cheerfulness.]
Aye, for I work in oils, not aquarelle!
[Prepares to resume work.]
Come!
The Child.
Come! First at counting-out suppose we play!
[Mme. Lebrun’s lips form the word “counting-out” as if this held an ominous note, then lending herself to the child’s humor, holds her again in the picture-pose, while together they croon a little nursery rhyme.]
Mme. Lebrun.
Marguerite of Paris, lend me your slippers gray!
The Child.
And we will go to Paradise on this sunshiny day.
Mme. Lebrun.
Where we shall see the little birds that Jesus made of clay!
The Child.
Each evening in the chapel old he lights the candles, without doubt.
Mme. Lebrun.
Bread.
The Child.
Bread. Pipe.
Mme. Lebrun.
Bread. Pipe. Bridge of gold.
Together.
The prettiest child goes out!
[They kiss, then fall into silence, in the picture-attitude.]
[The curtains close.]