THE MASSACRE:
TAKEN FROM THE FRENCH.
A TRAGEDY OF THREE ACTS.
by Elizabeth Inchbald
PRELIMINARY.
THIS play was suppressed, though printed, before publication, in deference to
political opinions, which we do not absolutely condemn. Now,
however, as curiosity may expect to be gratified by the work
of our Author, we see no reason for keeping it from the Appendix
to the first volume.
ADVERTISEMENT.
THE writer of the following pages, in laying them before the public, imagines
that no further reason requires to be alleged for their not having
first been produced at one of our theatres, than the reason assigned
by Mr. Horace Walpole (now Lord Orford) in the postscript to
his much-admired tragedy, 'The Mysterious Mother,' which was
never intended for representation:—From the time that I first undertook the foregoing scenes, I never flattered
myself that they would be proper to appear on the stage. The
subject is so horrid, that I thought it would shock, rather than
give satisfaction, to an audience. Still, I found it so truly
tragic in the essential springs of terror and pity, that I could not resist the impulse of adapting it to the scene, though it never
could be practicable to produce it there. -Postscript to 'The Mysterious Mother.'
Having applied a paragraph of the noble author's above mentioned, to the present
piece, the writer also avers, that the story of this play (as
well as that of 'The Mysterious Mother') is founded upon circumstances
which have been related as facts, and which the unhappy state of a neighbouring nation does but too powerfully
give reason to credit.
DRAMATIS PERSONAE.
MEN.
Tricastin.
Eusèbe Tricastin.
Glandève.
Rochelle.
Conrad.
Menancourt.
Dugas.
Guret.
Thevenin.
Clevard.
Domestic.
First Follower.
Second Follower.
WOMEN.
Madame Tricastin.
Amédée.
Children, Attendants, Soldiers, c.
SCENE—A City in France, about sixty miles from the Capital. Time of representation,
one day
THE MASSACRE:
A TRAGEDY.
Act I
Scene 1
[A Saloon in the house of Eusèbe Tricastin. Enter Madame Tricastin.]
Mad. Tri.
What misers are we all of our real pleasures! I condemn avarice; and yet,
was gold half so precious to me as the society of my dear Eusñbe Tricastin,
I should be most avaricious! Even now I grudge, to a degree of rancour,
my nearest, dearest relations the pleasure of his company; and think the
loss of him, for one day only, beyond the appointed time of his return,
a robbery on my happiness not to be forgiven.
[The door opens, and she goes hastily to meet the person entering: but, on perceiving
it is Tricastin senior, she turns away with chagrin.]
Tri.
What, daughter, sorry to see me! This is the first time, since I have had
the joy to use that name, that you have ever met me with coolness—nay, this is something more—'tis with repugnance.
Mad. Tri.
Nor ought you to be offended if it is; for I was vexed at seeing you, because I hoped, as the door opened, it was your son.
Tri.
Ay, I imagined as much—uneasy, because he has exceeded his promise a few hours.
Mad. Tri.
A few hours! half a day, and a whole night; he promised to be at home by
noon yesterday.
Tri.
And now pray tell me—is this the first promise he has ever broken with you?
Mad. Tri.
The first, either as a lover or a husband.
Tri.
He is then a more faithful lover and husband than ever his father was.
Mad. Tri.
And you cannot be surprised, Sir, if I feel, on this occasion, such an alarm—such a despondency—
Tri.
For shame!—you have nothing to apprehend. Consider, my dear, he is with your mother, your
uncles, your brothers, nieces and nephews; and, as he does not go from this
town to Paris above once in a year—
Mad. Tri.
It is still cruel of him to remain there without accounting to me for it—it is cruel of him to find delight in the society of his friends, while he knows
what must be the inquietude of my mind at his stay.
Tri.
Cruel! And now do you suppose that my son, and your husband—he, who loved you for five years before marriage, and has adored you for ten years since—do you suppose that he could be cruel to you?
Mad. Tri.
I firmly suppose he could not; and, therefore, I suffer the greatest alarm
lest some accident—
Tri.
Here comes his friend, and yours: I met them, about two hours ago, taking a ride on the Paris road; and they told me they
should go as far as the hill, in hopes to see his carriage at a distance,
and be the first to bring the news to you.
Mad. Tri.
Did they then know of my anxiety? I did not tell them.
Tri.
Tell!—is there cause for telling when a woman of sensibility loves or hates? when she feels hopes or fears, joy
or sorrow? No—the passions dwell upon her every feature—none but the female hypocrite need fly to the tongue to express them.
[Enter Conrad and Amédée.]
Tri.
Well, have you had the good fortune to meet my son?
[Amédée throws herself on a couch, nearly fainting— Conrad shows in his manner marks of confusion and concern.]
Tri.
What, have not you happened of him?
Mad. Tri.
But they seem to have met with something—[Going to Conrad]—oh! do not distract me, but tell me what it is?
Con.
Nothing—I hope, nothing.
Mad. Tri.
Hope!—if you hope, then you also fear.
Tri. [Going to her.]
Don't, my dear daughter, suffer yourself to be thus terrified. Do you think,
if there was any cause to fear for your husband's safety, I should not
be equally concerned with yourself? Why, I have known him longer than you
have done, and (I could almost say) love him something better than even
you do. You have other comforts; your youth, your beauty, and your many near relations:
I can boast none of these—he is the only comfort I have on earth.
Mad. Tri.
But, Sir, you have so much fortitude!
Tri.
I grant you I showed fortitude when my wife died—most men are philosophers on such an occasion; but should any accident befall
my son, you would see me weak as yourself.
Mad. Tri. [Going to Amédée.]
Amédée, whatever makes you look thus pale, do not be afraid to tell it me.
Con. [In a low voice to Tricastin.]
Permit me to speak a word to you alone.
Tri.
Alone?—Why? Wherefore? [Trembling.] I protest you alarm me, almost as much as my daughter is alarmed!
Con.
Follow me into another room. [Still in a low voice.]
Tri.
But, if I do, her friend will tell her the secret.
Con.
She has promised me she will not.
Tri.
Don't mind her promise; she can't help it. However, I'll go with you. [Going.]
Mad. Tri.
Sir! Conrad! Whither are you both going? Oh! whatever has befallen my husband,
do not conceal it from me.
Con.
I do not know that any thing has befallen him—upon my word of honour I speak the truth.
Mad. Tri.
Then why these terrifying looks? Why—
[Enter Menancourt hastily.]
Men.
Tricastin, is your son returned from Paris? all his friends are trembling
for his safety, and have sent me to inquire.
Con.
Then 'tis in vain to conceal any longer the fatal news that was told us,
as we went on the road to meet him—the same accounts have now reached the town, and, I suppose, are made public.
[Madame Tricastin throws herself on Amédée's shoulder.]
Tri.
You distract me with suspense! Tell me the worst.
Men.
Horrid disasters have fallen upon the capital—such—[Faltering] as I cannot repeat.
Con.
Infernal massacre has been dealt to all our hapless party—bonds, vows, oaths, have been violated; nor even the prison-walls been a sanctuary
for the ill-fated objects of suspicion. The report that's brought speaks
of children torn from the breast of their mothers, husbands from the arms
of their wives, and aged parents from their agonizing families.
Tri. [Stifling his grief, and taking hold of his daughter.]
My child—we will still hope—that in pity to us all—in pity to the pangs which are else preparing for you and me—he has been spared.—Perhaps he had left the place before—who knows—[Weeping.] who knows, but we may see him again.
Mad. Tri. [Kneeling.]
Oh, grant it Heaven! Grant that I may see him once again—and living. Though wounded, mangled, dying, yet once more, let me behold him
living—Let me hang over his death-bed, and, while his sense is undisturbed, tell him
how much I love him, and will continue to love his memory—how I will be a tender mother to his children—and all, all, that my poor heart swells to have him know!
Amé. [Raising her.]
Oh, give place to hope—you will see him again.
[Enter Eusèbe Tricastin pale, his hair dishevelled, and his looks disordered.]
Mad. Tri.
I do. I do see him again. [She rushes into his arms, and he embraces her repeatedly.]
Eus.
My wife! my wife! do I hold you in my arms!—My father! [Throws himself on Tricastin's neck.] Oh, I did not think we should ever meet more!—My dear AmÃdÃe—my friends—[Turning to them, then to his father again.] Oh, my father, I thought of you, and of my wife, in the midst of all the dangers!
Tri.
How have you escaped? I here devote my future days to that blest Providence,
who, in protecting you, has rendered those days worth preserving.
Con.
Relate, my friend, the particulars of what has passed.
Eus. [Shrinking.]
Oh, that I could forget them all—banish the whole for ever from my memory!—That al[l] who were spectators could do the same, and human nature never be scandalized
by the report!—But that's impossible—nations remote will hear it, and states of savages enroll us Fellow Citizens.
Mad. Tri.
Oh, Heaven! he is wounded—behold his clothes!—
Eus.
No, I am not wounded—these stains came from the veins—of thy mother—thy uncles—thy sisters—and all of those, who clung fast round me, and I tried in vain to defend. [Wildly.]
Mad. Tri.
Oh, horror!—yet, while you live to tell the tale, I will bear it.
Con.
But how preserve yourself?
Eus.
By miracle—I fought with the assassins, and fell amongst my brethren—at that moment my senses left me.—When they returned, and I put out my arms to embrace my fellow sufferers, I found
I clasped nothing but dead bodies.—I rose from the horrid pile, and by a lamp discerned (all gashed with wounds)
faces, that but a few hours before I had seen shine with health and benevolence.—Rushing from the ghastly scene, I fled. I knew not where, about the town—my sword in my hand, reeking with blood, my hair dishevelled, and my frantic
features caused me to be taken for one of the murderers, so I passed unmolested,
once more to see the dearer part of my family.—But am I with them? really with them? My ideas are confused.—Poor helpless victims of ferocious vengeance, pale, convulsed with terror, and
writhing under the ruffian's knife, pursue and surround me.—Am I, am I with my living family?
Mad. Tri.
Thou art with me—and now the only relation I have on earth—for my sake, therefore, re-collect your scattered thoughts.
Eus.
No, I still hear the shrieks of my expiring friends, mingled with the furious
shouts of their triumphant foes. I saw poor females, youths, and helpless infants try to ward off the last fatal
blow, then sink beneath it—I saw aged men dragged by their white hairs; a train of children following to
prevent their fate, and only rush upon their own. I saw infants encouraged
by the fury of their tutors, stab other infants sleeping in their cradles. *
Mad. Tri.
Oh, Heavens!—
Eus.
I crossed the Seine—its water blushed with blood, and bore upon its bosom disfigured bodies, still
warm with life.—At the sight, single as I was, I would have attempted vengeance;—but you, my dear relations—the thought of leaving you behind, restrained the mad design.
Con.
Revenge is not now too late.
Eus. [Taking hold of his hand.]
And here let us swear—
Tri.
Hold—vengeance is for Heaven—by pursuing retaliation, we shall assume the power of God, and forfeit the rights
of Man.
Mad. Tri.
Rather lot us fly the danger which threatens us; we know the tendency of
the people even of this place—the infection of the metropolis still spreads—let us leave this city—nay, the land: nor breathe its air till the sweet breeze of peace restore its
lost tranquillity.
Tri.
My son, if your father's voice has any power; if you are not bewildered by
the direful frenzy which has seized your enemies; if you have been preserved
to me my child still to obey my commands, fly with your wife to a neighbouring
nation, where (without coldly inquiring who is right or wrong) those in
distress are sure to meet with succour.
Eus.
How! fly from danger !
Tri.
Imprudent courage has worse effects than cowardice. Would you risk the life
of your wife?
Eus.
That's dearer than my own.
Tri.
Fly with her then, and with your children instantly. I, with these friends,
will take a different route and meet you at the appointed place.
Mad. Tri. [ Kneeling.]
My husband! Oh! if I kneel in vain to you, how can you hope my prayers will soften
the murderer?
Eus.
Murder!—your murderer!—protect me from the thought. I'll go with you to exile.
Con.
Let us retire then, and consult the means of our departure.
Men.
Eusñbe, I'll but return to my own house for a few moments, then join you
here again. [Exit.]
Eus. [To his father.]
You shall go with me, Sir:—I cannot, will not part company with you. No, we will go together, and console
each other even under the assassin's dagger.
Tri.
The dagger has no terrors for me, unless 'tis pointed at your breast, my
son. Call your domestics, and instantly give the necessary orders for your
flight; and if, on consultation, we find it practicable, not one of us will separate from the other. [Exeunt.]
* Shocking, even to incredibility, as these murders may appear, the truth of them
has been asserted in many of our public prints during the late
massacre at Paris; and the same extravagant wickedness is attested
to have been acted at the massacre of St. Bartholomew, by almost
every historian of that time. Des enfans de dix ans tuèrent des enfans au maillot.—L'Esprit de la Ligue (back)
END OF ACT I
 Act II
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