ASYMMETRIC CHINESE BOXES
A Scenario by Alec Stuart, M.A., D.Phil.,
of Narkover College, near Borchester, England.
[Edited by Dr. Roger Peters.]


«FOREWORD»

[Whilst the prefatory remarks are spoken by a voice-over, four scenes are projected on a split screen, and a hunting-horn fanfare by the Marquis de Dampierre, Le point du jour, is played sotto voce.

1° N.-E. quadrant: Louis XV aged 11, lost in wonder, and three of his gentlemen of the bedchamber, who are casting meaningful looks at the uncovered bed, are standing in the king's apartments at the Tuileries (in February 1721); in sub-titles, for the king: During the night I experienced a most agreeable pain that I had never felt before.

2° S.-E. quadrant: Three lackeys are bastinading François-Marie Arouet, known as Voltaire, near the Duc de Sully's townhouse in the Rue Saint-Antoine, where the Chevalier Guy-Auguste de Rohan-Chabot, hanging out of the window of a second coach in this street, is wearing a conceited expression (in January 1726); in sub-titles, for Rohan-Chabot: Don't crack his head; something good may yet emerge from it.

3° S.-W. quadrant: Louis-Yves Aubry and his father, Louis-Rémy, in the audience of Montauban's principal theatre, where a playbill indicates a contemporary performance of Le Franc de Pompignan's Didon, are looking in the direction of a pretty girl aged 15 (in January 1764); in sub-titles, for the father: Yes, my son; that is indeed Mlle Gouze.

4° N.-W. quadrant: Joseph Boulogne, known as the Chevalier de Saint-George, holding his violin, and Captain Choderlos de Laclos, holding his libretto Ernestine and with tears in his eyes, are standing on the stage of the Théâtre de l'Hôtel de Bourgogne, where the audience are directing various expressions of applause towards Saint-George and those of derision towards Laclos (in July 1777); in sub-titles, for Laclos: It's pearls before swine.]

VOICE-OVER.
Greetings, ladies and gentlemen. ... In my opinion, great events spring forth, more often than not, from mere trifles. Scholars, of course, will not have it so; according to them, the policies and subtly laid schemes of statesmen are what influence the destinies of nations, with the opinions of intellectuals and the writings of philosophers sealing the fate of mankind. Well, an element of truth may lie therein: but I contend that the discharge of seminal fluid from a chaste but uncommonly precocious king, the bastinading of a commoner by a conceited aristocrat, the lecherous eye of a youth, the pique of an engineer lacking literary talent, and the like, just as often shape the course of History. So, it is considered judgement when I assert that the face of North America was definitively changed as a result of the visit by Antoine de Sartine, Lieutenant General of Police and future Minister of the Marine, to the Saint-Ovide Fair in Paris in September 1771, to attend the première of a frivolous entertainment supposèdly about wigs: I jest not. ... Now, at this point, I could introduce a literary conceit. Thus, following Umberto Eco's example, in his celebrated novel Il Nome della Rosa, I could witter on at length about a «recovered manuscript» — incidentally, the mere idea of an agèd monk remembering such exhaustive and minute details of an event which occurred in his youth is, for me at least, more than a shade bizarre, if not downright contrary. But I'm reasonably certain that you would accuse me quite rightly of being patronizing, and you might then say, as William Shakespeare might have written in his tragedy Hamlet: «My word, methinks he doth protest too much.» Moreover, and much more importantly, there is no need for such nonsense, because the sources of the story below exist within those flowers of high French culture: not the pristine shelves of the Bibliothèque nationale, but the dusty boxes of the Archives nationales. So, without further ado, allow me to present a dramatized reconstruction of this fateful incident in the life of Sartine, France, and, yes, North America. ... ... But, first and foremost, the Dramatis personae, among others: M. Antoine de Sartine, Comte d'Alby, aged 42; M. Loiseau, aged 32, wig-maker; M. Valentin Haüy, aged 26, multilingual translator, cryptographer, and younger brother of the Abbé René-Just, deputy regent at the Collège Cardinal Lemoine and future «father» of crystallography; and M. le Dauphin, aged 16, King Louis XV's eldest surviving grandson and future Louis XVI.

«PROLOGUE»

SCENE 1. Sartine's chambers in the Hôtel Desmarets, Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin, near the Place Louis XIV (the present Place Vendôme); its clock shows 6.15. The sumptuously furnished room of octagonal form, lit by several lighted chandeliers, is sprinkled with richly patterned rugs; opposite a desk awash with paperwork, there is a piece of furniture, whose upper half is a large cupboard with two door panels of looking-glass, and lower half is a rosewood secretaire. Sartine, wearing a black robe and a lightly-powdered wig, enters his chambers and walks towards his pride and joy.

SARTINE.
[Opening the looking-glass cupboard, filled with scores of wigs, he admires and handles his collection with visible pleasure for three minutes — background music: Jacques Duphly's harpsichord piece La De Sartine. Then, aloud to himself.] To work! [Sitting down at his desk, he starts to cast a conscientious eye over the mountain of paperwork: official statements and reports, secret instructions, notes, and his private correspondance.] ... ...


SCENE 2. Sartine's chambers; its clock shows 9.15.

SARTINE.
[Reading aloud.] «My Lord, ... I was most flattered to have had the honour of seeing you again last week. Furthermore, as in previous years, I was deeply affected by the sympathy that you expressed concerning the huge costs of leasing, constructions, and moving from the Temple to the Place Louis XV for the Saint-Ovide Fair. My word, the entreaties by the traders who believe that my theatrical works appropriate for attracting increased business there are most insistent! / I have the honour to be, with a very respectful attachment, my Lord, your most humble and obedient servant, Nicolas-Médard Audinot. / PS M. Olivier has confirmed that many merchants are eager to see the new entertainment by my young protégé, M. Plagiatte, probably because it requires so many luxury items: laces, silk fabrics, wigs,...» [Interrupting himself.] Wigs!? Mmm, ... That reminds me! [He shakes the rope of the bell connected to his private apartments: his manservant immediately appears in the half-open door.]

LATULIPE.
What would you like, my Lord?

SARTINE.
I'm dining out: have my clothes laid out for two o'clock.

LATULIPE.
Are those the only orders that my Lord has for me?

SARTINE.
That's all. Er, ... Loiseau hasn't forgotten my wig?

LATULIPE.
He hasn't sent it yet, but my Lord knows his punctuality; once he was advised that my Lord desired his wig today, it would be most improbable that he forgot.

SARTINE.
All the same, it would much better to pay him a visit; besides, he's late.

LATULIPE.
[As he leaves.] I'll go at once to refresh M. Loiseau's memory, and bring back the wig in question.

SARTINE.
[Making a small sign of agreement, he resumes his toil, and says aloud to himself.] Ah! From my good friend Diderot. [Reading aloud.] «Sir, ... Please find enclosed a copy of my recent letter to MM. Briasson & Le Breton. / I am, with profound respect, ...» ... «This 31st August, 1771. / Sirs, ... I did not read M. Luneau's Report, and I shall not read it, because I have better things to do; but I see from your reply that he blames you for having printed a greater number of volumes of the Encyclopaedia than would appear necessary. And where did M. Luneau assume that the number of volumes depended on you? The number of volumes of a work depends on the scope of the manuscript, and the scope of the manuscript, from the subject and the way of treating it, are matters which concern only the author, who maybe concise or diffuse. M. Luneau is more aware than me that one does not give oneself the talent to write well. If the Encyclopaedia has defects, it is not your fault; it is mine. / The quibbles that he has with you over the choice of typeface and page length appear to me no better founded. I do not know the first thing about the commitments that one supposes you have with the public. What do these commitments matter to me? I asked for the typeface which was agreeable to me; I arranged my layout as I wished; I wanted my edition to be as it pleases me. ... ...»


SCENE 3. Sartine's chambers; its clock shows 10.00. There is a light scratching at the door, particular to his manservant.

SARTINE.
[Without glancing up.] Enter. [Latulipe enters on tiptoe, carrying an enormous, round tin box under his arm.]

LATULIPE.
Here it is, my Lord; here it is! M. Loiseau assures me that he has taken the greatest care; and he hopes that it does him credit. But my Lord was absolutely right in not relying on the poor man's memory; I found him most upset and quite exhausted.

SARTINE.
Oh? What's happened to him?

LATULIPE.
[Solemnly.] His lady wife has just given birth; she had a difficult confinement; they were not able to conserve the life of their child, which grieves them greatly, for it was their first: ... and yet, they are both still young.

SARTINE.
Latulipe, you speak like a book! But, my word, since the box is here, ... well, I must see at once how this wig suits me; I distrust new wigs almost as much as new faces.

LATULIPE.
Here you are, my Lord.

SARTINE.
[Taking the box from Latulipe's outstretched hands.] It is even more fortunate that Mme Loiseau's confinement was not an obstacle to the creation of my wig. I don't know what the devil I would have done, since I don't have another one that is presentable. ... But let's see this one. [He turns the lid, which opens with a grating sound, and from where a cloud of powder immediately rises. No sooner has he cast an inquisitive eye into the box than he cries out.] My God! [He lets the box and cover fall on the desk.]

LATULIPE.
[In a concerned tone.] What's the matter, my Lord?

SARTINE.
[Weakly.] Look, ... look for yourself.

LATULIPE.
Gladly, my Lord. [He hurries to obey, and casts an intrigued look into the box: one which changes instantly.] Ah! My God! What's that I see!?

SARTINE.
[Murmuring.] I'm not mistaken then; it's a...

LATULIPE.
A child! ... A dead child, ... a small child who has had no more than twenty-four hours of life: if that! ... Who has had the inhumanity!? ... It's unbelievable! ... Monstrous!

SARTINE.
[Shaking the rope of the bell connected to his constables' offices, he cries out.] Hey! Someone!

DUBUSQ.
[Bowing respectfully on entering almost immediately.] What's the problem, my Lord?

SARTINE.
Quickly! Apprehend the wigmaker Loiseau, and bring him here at once. If he questions you, you are not to answer! [Dubusq exits. He paces up and down his office, his hands behind his back, with an almost feverish impatience; then, aloud to himself.] I've always considered Loiseau as a most respectable and worthy man, incapable of removing one hair of whomever, save with his comb, much less commit a crime of such a nature; human shoulders have never served to support a seemingly more straightforward and inoffensive face. It's enough to make one doubt everything!


SCENE 4. Sartine's chambers; its clock shows 10.15. There is a knock at the door. Latulipe stands unobtrusively in one corner.

SARTINE.
[Glancing up at the looking-glass cupboard.] Enter!

LOISEAU.
[Bowing deeply on entering.] My Lord, you summoned me: and here I am. ... Am I to presume that the wig is not to your satisfaction? That would surprise me greatly, because, on my word as a wigmaker, I lavished all my care and attention on it.

SARTINE.
Ah! M. Loiseau, you lavished all your care and attention, you say? ... I believe, on the contrary, that you will have every reason to reproach yourself for a misdeed that may well cost you your head; indeed, I believe that this ... wig should be anywhere but here.

LOISEAU.
My Lord, I really don't know what to think; ... no, I don't understand.

SARTINE.
You don't understand? ... Well, open this box, and you will understand.

LOISEAU.
[Opening it, he immediately cries out.] Oh! My God! [He lets the box fall on the desk.] My Lord, what have I seen?

SARTINE.
[Severely.] Well, M. Loiseau?

LOISEAU.
[Sobbing and murmuring.] My God! My God! My poor child! ... My poor child.

SARTINE.
You admit it then, wretch? ... Now, will you explain to me how this child, this victim, comes to be here? ... [No reply from Loiseau, who appears aghast.] ... I ask you once again, how did this child come to be here? ...

LOISEAU.
Alas, my Lord, I don't know, ... I cannot imagine by what combination of circumstances, ... by what misfortune, ... I ... [He tails off.]

SARTINE.
Sir, I can readily imagine myself in your situation, and I must admit that — in the present case — the easiest and most prudent option is to lose one's memory: and yet, I urge you to make some effort in respect of my entreaties, otherwise we will be minded to deal with you without scruples.

LOISEAU.
[Looking frightened.] What, my Lord!? ... You would make me undergo torture? My God! My God! But I swear to you that if they tortured me, not one more word could be extracted from me! ... After all, what crime have I committed? That I had killed this poor child for whom I wept torrents? No, my Lord, otherwise you would not be treating me so.

SARTINE.
It is, wretch, that, until you clear yourself of the quite hideous suspicion that hangs over you, the most damning charges accuse you of an abominable crime; one which I had never supposed you, Loiseau, capable...

LOISEAU.
[Interrupting him with a vehemance marked with righteous indignation.] But what crime, my Lord? ... It wouldn't be by any chance of having made an attempt on the life of this fragile creature, whose life I would have saved at the cost of my very own? Ah! ... My Lord! ... But since a father needs to prove that he is not his son's murderer, it will be easy for me to supply this proof to his Lordship. ... This poor child lived barely a few minutes, and died in the hands of the doctor. [Allowing his head to fall on his chest, he appears plunged in a reverie; a silence of several minutes follows.] ... ...

SARTINE.
[Speaking to himself sotto voce.] My word, that was said with such conviction that there is no reason to doubt an assertion so easily verifiable. But how does that dead child find himself in this box instead of my brand-new wig? That there is the true conundrum! ... ...

LOISEAU.
[Suddenly, tapping his forehead, he cries out in a broken voice.] My Lord, ... I understand ... I've guessed ... I understand everything, at last!

SARTINE.
Well then, M. Loiseau, explain yourself.

LOISEAU.
My Lord, the paupers have buried the wig!

SARTINE.
What wig?

LOISEAU.
Yours, my Lord; the one you ordered from me!

SARTINE.
You're out of your mind, M. Loiseau!

LOISEAU.
Not so, my Lord.

SARTINE.
They would have buried my wig!?

LOISEAU.
That much is certain, my Lord; and the priests will have made a mistake, having taken one box for another. [A very long mournful silence, then :]

SARTINE.
Well then, what's to be done?

LOISEAU.
Nothing, I'm afraid, my Lord, other than to give a Christian burial to this little angel of the good Lord.

SARTINE.
Yes, yes, to be sure; but my wig? I attend a civic dinner at two o'clock, and you know better than anyone, Loiseau, I have nothing presentable.

LOISEAU.
That's true, my Lord.

SARTINE.
Goodness me! I find myself in a most difficult position. I cannot miss this dinner, and for nothing in this world would I go there in anything other than the finest of my wigs; so, M. Loiseau, you must help me out of this awkward predicament.

LOISEAU.
I would be only too pleased to help, my Lord, but time has slipped away; the clock shows 10.30, and a wig like the one that I had the honour of making for his Lordship is not created in three hours. ...

SARTINE.
What an absolutely wretched idea it was for your wife to put this child in a powder box. ... My word, for want of a wig, I shall be forced to remain here; it's enough to make one lose one's mind! [From the corner, his manservant coughs discreetly, then :]

LATULIPE.
My Lord, unless I am mistaken, it would appear that we are not without a remedy.

SARTINE.
Good heavens! If you have found one, do hasten to explain yourself; time is of the essence!

LATULIPE.
The paupers buried the wig, so we dig it up; one should be no more difficult than the other.

LOISEAU.
[Murmuring.] And we would put this dear boy in its place; he has been baptized; he is a Christian: he cannot be refused sacred ground.

SARTINE.
That is indeed the only thing which remains for us to do; but that could present difficulties, and, in any case, we do not have enough time to bring that matter to completion. [He shakes the left bell-rope: Dubusq appears immediately. He gives him his instructions in a hushed voice, then turns to Loiseau.] M. Loiseau, I have absolutely no doubts about the veracity of your statement, but it is my duty to verify the fact all the same. You are my prisoner for an hour at most: follow M. Dubusq. [Loiseau bows and follows Dubusq, whilst Latulipe withdraws. After a few minutes, Dubusq returns and takes away the box; then Sartine withdraws to the adjacent library.]


SCENE 5. Sartine's library; its clock shows 11.00. The handsomely proportioned room, with its splendid ceiling painted by Jean-Baptiste Jouvenet, is lined with oak bookshelves. Sartine is leafing through a red morocco book embossed with the three sardines of his coat of arms. There is a knock at the door.

SARTINE.
Enter! [Dubusq enters.] Well, Dubusq, have you brought the wig?

DUBUSQ.
No, my Lord.

SARTINE.
Hmm! So how have you spent the time? At least tell me when I will have it. You are aware that I need it straightaway?

DUBUSQ.
My Lord, I fear that is impossible.

SARTINE.
Impossible! What word is that!? And why, if you please, impossible? How much time does one need to dig up six foot of earth and grab hold of a wretched tin box?

DUBUSQ.
Ah! That there isn't the difficulty; if it was only that!

SARTINE.
So, pray, what is the difficulty, if there be one?

DUBUSQ.
My Lord, I've come from the parish, where they refuse to bury Loiseau's son, on the pretext that he is already there.

SARTINE.
But didn't you explain the misunderstanding to them?

DUBUSQ.
Yes, my Lord; but they claim that that is neither here nor there, because he is inscribed on the register and was buried in due and proper form.

SARTINE.
Fair enough. That matter can be arranged later; it's less pressing than my wig.

DUBUSQ.
I'm very much of your opinion, my Lord. But when I spoke about digging up the wig, the priest was adamantly opposed.

SARTINE.
Bah! ... And what are his reasons?

DUBUSQ.
One must have the archbishop's written authorization.

SARTINE.
To dig up a wig!?

DUBUSQ.
Yes, my Lord.

SARTINE.
But that's a joke; and one of the more foolish!

DUBUSQ.
On the contrary, my Lord, I swear to you that this is a most serious matter. Whatever I said, the good Father was firmly entrenched in his conclusions: a written authorization from the archbishop, sine quâ non. He is sorry to have been unable to do something agreeable for my Lord, but he could not take it upon himself to do so, without compromising himself. I pleaded, and I implored, but in vain; the negotiations could have continued until the Last Judgement, but to no avail. In desperation, I withdrew so as to give his Lordship an account of the failure of a mission which I had not supposed would be so difficult. ... Has my Lord any other orders for me?

SARTINE.
No. ... Though, since you're here, tell the coachman to harness the horses; and that he hurries about it! If I don't involve myself in this, I'll never have my wig for two o'clock: and then what a shabby appearance I would cut at the mayor's official reception! [Several minutes later, he throws himself into his coach and shouts to his coachman.] The archbishop's palace! [Then the background music of a hunting-horn fanfare by the Marquis de Dampierre, Le départ pour la chasse, is played sotto voce.]


SCENE 6. The courtyard of the (former) archbishop's palace; its clock shows 11.15. As his coach comes to a halt, Sartine leaps to the ground with the nimbleness of a young goat; a porter greets him.

SARTINE.
Is Mgr de Beaumont receiving visitors?

PORTER.
No, my Lord; His Grace has gone out.

SARTINE.
Drat! What do you mean? Do you know if he'll be returning soon?

PORTER.
His Grace left for his country residence at Conflans, and will only return for certain on Saturday for the evening office.

SARTINE.
For Conflans! I'm done for!

PORTER.
My Lord would have wished to see His Grace?

SARTINE.
What! Give me patience. How I wished it!

PORTER.
But it may still be possible; perhaps His Grace is not yet on the road to Conflans: and, if my Lord made haste.

SARTINE.
I would kill twenty horses to rejoin him. So, don't keep me waiting, my good man: no preambles, just come to the point!

PORTER.
His Grace had to pick up the General on the way; it's not impossible that he is still with him.

SARTINE.
At M. de Richelieu's residence?

PORTER.
Yes, my Lord.

SARTINE.
How long ago did Mgr de Beaumont leave the palace?

PORTER.
About an hour or so.

SARTINE.
An hour? My God! The General will not have held him back that long. ... All the same, I'll dash to M. de Richelieu's; it is, after all, my only chance. [He hurriedly climbs back into his coach and shouts to his coachman.] The Hôtel d'Antin! And go like the devil!


SCENE 7. The courtyard of the Hôtel d'Antin; its clock shows 11.25. As his coach comes to a halt, Sartine raises the window; a footman approaches the door.

SARTINE.
[Aloud to himself.] They will have left; that much is certain. [To the footman.] How is the General?

FOOTMAN.
In excellent health, my Lord.

SARTINE.
I'm delighted to hear it. ... Is he receiving visitors?

FOOTMAN.
The General is away.

SARTINE.
Away!? Away today?

FOOTMAN.
Yes, my Lord.

SARTINE.
Would he be at Conflans?

FOOTMAN.
Yes, my Lord; he left in Mgr de Beaumont's coach.

SARTINE.
My God! It's enough to drive anyone insane! And how long ago did His Grace and the General set out?

FOOTMAN.
A few minutes ago.

SARTINE.
Is that right? So, by making haste, I could catch up with them?

FOOTMAN.
Without a doubt, my Lord; by forcing the pace a little.

SARTINE.
Thank you, my good man. [Then to his coachman.] Gros-Jean! Gros-Jean! Quickly on the road to Conflans; and don't spare the horses! Ten louis if you catch up with His Grace's coach; otherwise, I'll dismiss you: ... so make sure of it! [Looking anxiously at his watch, he says aloud to himself.] Eleven thirty! Come now; that's all the time I need, were I to have the good fortune to lay a hand on Mgr de Beaumont. Fortunately his horses aren't as good as those of General de Richelieu; and if what that rascal said is true, I have not lost all hope of catching up with them.


SCENE 8. The road from Paris to Conflans; a fob watch shows 11.30. The coachman plies the whip with a will, the mettlesome beasts run hell for leather, and in the twinkling of an eye they leave behind Paris and are galopping in the open countryside. From one moment to the next, Sartine puts his head at the door and casts an anxious look on the road ahead; he sees little more than swirling dust and greenish-brown grass, with the terrain offering a somewhat flat and dreary horizon. ... ...

SARTINE.
[Aloud to himself.] Mmm, according to the General's footman, the archbishop's coach should be nearby: but where is it? [To his coachman.] Quicker, quicker! You scoundrel, you're not going fast enough!

GROS-JEAN.
But, my Lord, your horses are going like the wind.

SARTINE.
Hmph! Flog them, wretch! Flog them into the ground!

GROS-JEAN.
My Lord, I swear to you that I'm acting accordingly. Don't lose patience; these beasts can't be hurried, and they're pouring sweat and totally covered in lather. I give them no more than fifteen minutes before they're dead on their feet.

SARTINE.
Fifteen minutes: so be it! In fifteen minutes, unless the devil rears his head, we'll have caught up His Excellency. So, flog away! Flog away; and don't concern yourself!

[Gros-Jean obeys, and flogs with a vengeance. ... Imperceptibly, the road rises to form the summit of a steep hillock: but the slope of the descent is almost sheer, and the road appears to rush into a ravine traversed by a babbling brook over which is a small and very narrow stone bridge; at a short distance from the road and bridge stands an inn. ... Sartine sees and suspects nothing, because he is exclusively absorbed by the obsession of catching up with the archbishop's coach. Gros-Jean, who stops flogging the horses at the summit, cannot contain them, because they are over-excited by the swiftness of the trajectory and driven by the weight of the vehicle; he alone manifests an unspeakable fear. The coach, at the moment when it is going to cross the bridge, narrowly grazes the bank of the ditch with its left wheel; this heavy vehicle, resting on no more than one wheel, loses all equilibrium, overturns, and lies down on its side with a resounding crash, hurling Gros-Jean some ten paces from his seat, where he remains spread-eagled as if he has died as a result: but he is only stunned. ... Shortly after, he lifts himself onto one knee, then onto the other, and finishes by feeling his legs. He drags himself towards the coach, grimacing in pain, and comes face to face with the innkeeper: they do not exchange introductions.]

INNKEEPER.
[Opening the right door, he observes Sartine stretched out on the opposite door.] Good grief! What a lucky devil! He's damn fortunate he's still alive! My word, he should have broken his neck against the windows. Providence is... [Gros-Jean interrupts him sharply in a frail voice.]

GROS-JEAN.
Stop wittering on! I'm too shaken to be of any help to his Lordship; I barely have the strength to stand up. Quickly, take his Lordship to your place. [The innkeeper carries Sartine towards his inn, self-evidently little frequented.]


SCENE 9. The lounge of the Auberge Marie-Céleste; its clock shows 12.10. The innkeeper deposits the unconscious Sartine on a dilapidated chair in this nondescript room, then splashes some cold water on his face: no reaction.

INNKEEPER.
[To the servant-wench.] Fetch the vinegar!

SKIVVY.
Yes, Father. [She scurries off.] ...

INNKEEPER.
[Bawling in the direction of the kitchen.] Hurry up, you good-for-nothing! ...

SKIVVY.
[On returning.] Here it is!

INNKEEPER.
Don't just stand there doing nothing! Quickly, pass some vinegar under this lord charming's nose.

SKIVVY.
Yes, Father. [She does so. Sartine comes round slowly but surely; he re-opens his eyes languorously, raises an arm with difficulty, then :]

SARTINE.
[In a feeble voice.] Er, where am I? ... What happened? ... What... [He tails off.]

GROS-JEAN.
Alas, my Lord, what happened was what had to happen; merely that instead of flogging my horses into the ground, I did it so well that they bolted and then made us pay. My word, it makes me shudder to think that two steps more from those confounded beasts and we would have tumbled down from the top of the bridge to the bottom of the ravine.

SARTINE.
[Sighing in discouragement.] Heaven conspires against us! Henceforth it would be sheer folly to want to catch up with His Grace, even supposing that the horses are in a fit state to continue their journey. I should be reduced to feigning illness; because not for all the world would I go to the mayor's civic dinner in the least sightly of my wigs. [Then his eyes come to rest on the innkeeper.] My good man, how long has it been since Mgr de Beaumont's coach passed?

INNKEEPER.
It would have had to have passed early in the morning, my Lord; since I've been at home for a good couple of hours, and not a soul could have passed without me seeing him.

SARTINE.
So, my young man, you don't miss a thing; His Grace's coach preceded me by ten minutes at most.
INNKEEPER.
That's as maybe, but it makes no difference to the fact that no coach has passed all morning; it is you who uses me first.

SARTINE.
And I'm none too proud of it! I would have willingly ceded that honour to anyone; all the more so since I had not a spare moment to lose. Well, no matter. Together with Gros-Jean, go and see my horses, and both of you can try and get them back on their feet; the coach too. I have neither the possibility nor the desire to sleep here. [As he finishes these words, the rumbling of a coach is heard; the noise stops as this vehicle comes to a halt.]

INNKEEPER.
Good Heavens! If it continues like this till evening, the day will be a good one!

SARTINE.
Hey! Chatterbox, instead of holding forth, go and see what that is.

INNKEEPER.
I'm going, my Lord, I'm going. [Just before he crosses the threshold, two agèd men — General de Richelieu (i.e., Duc or Le Maréchal de Richelieu) and His Excellency the Archbishop of Paris, Christophe de Beaumont du Repaire — enter.]

SARTINE.
[Articulating as he is staring wide-eyed.] General! Mgr de Beaumont! Should I believe my own eyes!?

RICHELIEU.
[Emphatically.] You can do so with complete confidence; but how the devil do we come to run into you, my dear Sartine, on the road to Conflans? [Then, in a bantering tone.] Would His Grace be devising some plot of which I am unware? It's no small matter to have a brush with persons of the Church; they have on their side Heaven, for whom they serve: so woe betide those who threaten them! Those are sure to break their necks or at least overturn halfway, as you have just done with more good fortune than you deserve; since you're not hurt, I suppose?

SARTINE.
No, General. Thank the Lord, I got off with a fright. [At this juncture, he belatedly makes a small sign of deference to Beaumont, then kisses the episcopal ring.] ...

BEAUMONT.
And where were you going, M. de Sartine, if my question is not too indiscreet? As my conscience does not reproach me for anything, I would have been delighted to receive you at Conflans: but I would wager that wasn't the purpose of your journey there.

SARTINE.
Well, Your Grace, saving your presence, you are mistaken; I was chasing after you, and you are partly the cause of a rather harmless disaster, albeit incidentally. I went to ask for you at the archbishop's palace, and I was told that you might be at the General's residence; I went there in all haste, but you had just left the Hôtel d'Antin a few minutes previously. As my horses are excellent, I prided myself on catching up with you before too long, so I gave my coachman orders accordingly; but it has been a fool's errand because I saw nothing on the road.

RICHELIEU.
Good heavens, that would have been difficult: because it was us who were unbeknowingly chasing after you, Sartine.

SARTINE.
And yet, General, according to your people?

RICHELIEU.
Just so. But we made a slight detour on our route; I had a visit to make at the Tuileries, and His Grace had the kindness to accompany me.

SARTINE.
[Smiling.] At Mme de Rooth's residence?

RICHELIEU.
Just so, my dear commissioner of police. [Then to the archbishop, in a bantering tone.] Your Grace, do you not find that a police commissioner is something of a sorcerer, and, therefore, deserving of the stake? Nothing is truly hidden for these gentlemen.

BEAUMONT.
[Smiling tolerantly.] That's as maybe, but here and now it would far better to enquire as to what do I owe this meeting with M. de Sartine.

SARTINE.
Ah! Your Grace, rest assured that a third exile is not in the offing. No, I sought Your Grace in order to obtain the written authorization which grants a Christian burial and the exhumation of a wig.

BEAUMONT.
M. de Sartine, pray do explain to me what you mean.

SARTINE.
Certainly, Your Grace; it concerns a misadventure involving a wig-maker and his poor child.


SCENE 10. The courtyard of the Auberge Marie-Céleste; its clock shows 12.30. Sartine, clutching the archbishop's written authorization, is casting anxious glances alternately between the clock and his watch; a minute later, his coachman reappears.

SARTINE.
[To Gros-Jean, with some trepidation.] The horses?

GROS-JEAN.
Safe and sound, my Lord.

SARTINE.
Well then, about turn and back to Paris at full gallop!

GROS-JEAN.
Yes, my Lord. [He withdraws.]

RICHELIEU.
[Smiling quizzically.] Would this charitable desire to pay as quickly possible your last respects to that poor little mite's death be the only reason for bringing about this keen impatience to leave us?

SARTINE.
[Speaking out of earshot of Beaumont, and looking somewhat malignly at the garrulous Richelieu.] That would be more than sufficient in itself, General; but there is another reason that you will understand better than anyone, I'm quite sure: to wit, I am a guest at the dinner given by M. Bignon for the gentlemen of the City.

RICHELIEU.
Ah! That's told me! You must not keep the mayor of Paris waiting. So, leave at a gallop, my dear commissioner of police: you have barely enough time, and it would be quite dreadful to arrive at the ceremony once it had started, and you are not wrong to think that I understand perfectly your anxiety, without in any way envying you. I will abstain from meat at His Grace's country residence, but there are heavier penances, I can assure you.

SARTINE.
[Most impatiently.] Yes, yes; to be sure, General. Now, I really must take my leave. [He makes his farewells.]


SCENE 11. Sartine's chambers; its clock shows 1.15. Sartine glances at the clock as soon as enters his chambers, then shakes the bell-rope: Dubusq appears immediately.

SARTINE.
Here's the archbishop's authorization. [He gives same to Dubusq.] You can use it as you see fit: but I want my wig within three-quarters of an hour at most.

DUBUSQ.
You can set you mind at rest, my Lord; moreover, I will do best to bring it to you as soon as possible, so that you can be at the mayor's residence at the appropriate time. [He bows and withdraws. Then the background music of a hunting-horn fanfare by the Marquis de Dampierre, L'hallali sur pieds, is played sotto voce.]


SCENE 12. Sartine's library; its clock shows 1.40. As Latulipe is putting the finishing touches to Sartine's livery, Dubusq appears in the doorway.

SARTINE.
[Making a jump of joy when he sees Dubusq entering with the tin box under his arm; then in a trembling voice of slight apprehension.] Let's see, let's see! [Opening the box, he seizes the much sought-after wig and puts it on his head; then to his manservant.] Well!?

LATULIPE.
It's perfect, my Lord; it does you great honour.

SARTINE.
That reminds me! [To Dubusq.] Has Loiseau been released?

DUBUSQ.
Not yet, my Lord.

SARTINE.
Quicky, quickly, release him; and have him brought here. ...

LOISEAU.
[Exclaiming on entering.] Ah! My Lord, how well it suits you!

SARTINE.
It does, does it not? But it almost cost me dear!

LOISEAU.
Oh! My Lord, one can never pay too much for such a masterpiece.

SARTINE.
Even with one's life? You are modest, M. Loiseau! But it's a quarter to two: and I have to dash. Goodbye, Loiseau.

LOISEAU.
But, my Lord, ... my child? Is he in sacred ground now?

SARTINE.
Not yet, not yet; first things first. But the rites will take place tommorrow, I promise you.

LOISEAU.
I cannot thank you enough, my Lord. [He makes a deep bow, then withdraws.] ...

SARTINE.
What a morning! I'm in sore need of some relaxation before my weekly audience on Sunday with His Majesty, so I intend to visit the Saint-Ovide Fair tomorrow. Would you lay out some suitable clothes?

LATULIPE.
No sooner said than done, my Lord.

SARTINE.
Thank you. ... Are the horses ready?

LATULIPE.
Yes, my Lord; Gros-Jean awaits you.

SARTINE.
Good! ... See you this evening, Latulipe.


SCENE 13. The Rue Royale, near the Hôtel Crillon (the following day). Sartine alights from his coach.

SARTINE.
[To Gros-Jean.] Now, my good... [At this moment, Valentin Haüy is just about to pass by on foot; they recognize one another immediately.] Good afternoon, M. Haüy. [They shake hands, and V. H. bows.] How are you?

VALENTIN HAÜY.
Very well, thank you, my Lord.

SARTINE.
And your brother, the good Father René?

VALENTIN HAÜY.
He's fine too; he'll undoubtedly be at the Botanical Gardens today, since he prefers a little peace and quiet when he is «playing truant». [He smiles.]

SARTINE.
Quite so! [He smiles.] In fact, I must say that I'm most surprised to meet you here at the Fair.

VALENTIN HAÜY.
Er, ... Why so, my Lord?

SARTINE.
Well, I was under the impression that you spent your moments of leisure at the Institution for Deaf-Mutes, lending a helping hand to Father Michel de l'Épée?

VALENTIN HAÜY.
Yes; that is indeed my usual custom. But our most belovèd director decided that I needed some fresh air.

SARTINE.
In Paris!? [His mischievous smile is acknowledged by V.-H.]

VALENTIN HAÜY.
I must admit that the air of this otherwise beautiful city compares unfavourably with my native Picardy: but, as they say, all things are relative.

SARTINE.
Indeed so! ... See you anon, Sir. [His bow is returned by V.-H.; then, after entering the Place Louis XV, they part company.]


SCENE 14. The Saint-Ovide Fair in the Place Louis XV (the present Place de la Concorde). In front of the stage, erected on a 1½ m high dais, there are three tables complete with the accoutrements of light refreshments — to the left and right are two well-dressed couples, and in the centre is Sartine — a number of standing spectators, who change during course of the performance, and this rudimentary poster placed in a conspicuous position.

Deliverance from Frivola Island, An Entertainment, by M. PLAGIATTE. CHARACTERS: DOCTOR RICHARD WALTER, narrator of the tale and chaplain aboard the admiral's flagship Centurion of His Britannic Majesty. ADMIRAL GEORGE ANSON, famous English circumnavigator and commander of the Centurion. CAPTAIN CHARLES SAUNDERS, commander of the sloop Tryal and formerly first lieutenant of the Centurion. LIEUTENANT PHILIP SAUMAREZ, first lieutenant of the Centurion. CAPTAIN MATTHEW MITCHEL, commander of the warship Gloucester. LIEUTENANT PIERCY BRETT, second lieutenant of the Centurion. COLONEL MORDAUNT CRACHERODE, commander of the marines. PASCOE THOMAS, mathematical master. AUGUSTUS KEPPEL, midshipman. CHARLES PROBY, midshipman. JOHN BUNSBY, tar and admiral's manservant. THE GOVERNOR, of the city of Spirit, capital of Frivola Island. THE EMPEROR, monarch of this island. THE EMPRESS, emperor's wife. THE CROWN PRINCE, emperor's son. THE INSPECTOR, chief inspector of fashions. SEVERAL OTHER TARS, from the Centurion. SEVERAL OTHER COURTIERS, from Frivola Island.

Suddenly, there is a loud drum roll, and Plagiatte, holding a letter, appears from behind the curtain, walks to the apron, and claps his hands.

PLAGIATTE.
My dear audience, so as to establish the true context of our entertainment, allow me to read to you this letter from Dr. Richard Walter, an eminent English pastor, to M. Nicolas-Médard Audinot, the director of the Ambigu-Comique at the Temple. [He reads aloud.] «Dear M. Audinot, ... As everyone knows, Admiral Anson circumnavigated the world between the years of Our Lord 1740 & 1744; and I, Doctor Richard Walter, had the honour not only to be chaplain aboard his Centurion, but also the official narrator of his epic voyage. So, you can well imagine that I was very cross when Pascoe Thomas, mathematical master aboard this flagship, published his relation in 1745, three years before mine. Then, barely had my self-esteem been restored, by the widespread approval of my account by the subjects of His Gracious Majesty, than a certain Abbé Coyer saw fit to bring to light in 1751 — under the title of the Découverte de l'isle frivole — an episode from our voyage that I had purposely decided to omit in my aforementioned account & that I had shown him in confidence during the course of one of his regular visits to London. Admittedly, his work is not without merit: on t'other hand, I have felt for some time now that the French deserve a more faithful transaction of this quite extraordinary episode. Accordingly, given your established & thoroughly merited reputation as an actor-director of good taste, I hope that you will have the kindness to adapt faithfully for the stage my original manuscript here enclosed. / Yours faithfully, Richard Walter.» ... ... My belovèd master, M. Audinot, gave me the honour of preparing this adaptation under his supervision; and here is the première of our entertainment entitled Deliverance from Frivola Island, preceded by the overture Duelling Mandolins. [Ad libitum: Each time a piece of harpsichord music is played (off-stage), the camera zooms in on other entertainments or aspects of the fair.]

«APOLOGUE»

[Curtain music: Armand-Louis Couperin's harpsichord piece L'Enjouée.]

SCENE 1. Doctor Walter's study. The room is comfortably furnished: upstage, a chimney between two windows, through the exterior of which may be seen aspects of a country garden; upstage left, a door; to the sides, bookcases; in the middle of the stage, a desk laden with papers, notebooks, and a globe. Dr. Walter, dressed as an English country squire, is seated at the desk. Curtain rises.

NARRATOR.
Ah! Welcome to my humble country abode; Dr. Richard Walter at your service. Pray allow me to present to you an account of the most unusual episode which occurred during the course of our circumnavigation, when we made a brief visit to that wonderland of Frivola Island. Mmm, ... Where shall I start? ... Do excuse me, I must consult my pocketbook of April-May 1741. [He leafs through same.] Ah yes; the early autumn on this island. ... Admiral Anson, having rounded Cape Horn, accompanied by the dangers of the stormiest seas and the most foul weather, then surviving several weeks of further tempests which had separated him from half of his fleet, damaged his sails, masts, and all his rigging, and occupied constantly with plugging leaks which opened from one day to the next, was finally reduced to four ships, all completely infected with scurvy, having thrown more dead overboard than he had patients, with those remaining to him being still too numerous for the provisions that he possessed. Accordingly, never was one in greater need of a place of refreshment. ... He sought Juan Fernández Island off the coast of Chile — the former, enforced dwelling place of the notorious Alexander Selkirk — some 115 leagues to the west of Valparaiso. Alas, a fierce gale drove him to a part of that vast ocean where no land was suspected. We went without knowing where, with enough bread and water to last for no more than two days, when a tar cried out: «Land!» Any land is a blessing to one who is going to perish: and that discovered was 16 leagues to the south-west. This stretch of water was soon covered, the wind abated near the road, and we entered by soundings a bay in the north of the island, where we dropped anchor. We hurried to set foot on land, where our marines immediately erected tents for the patients, under the close supervision of Colonel Cracherode. ... After having assured himself of the relative well-being of the sick, the admiral climbed to a vantage point, from where he espied a maritime city which appeared to him as large as London. Accordingly, he set out immediately, accompanied by Captain Saunders, six tars, and myself. Although our walk was not a long one, we found that our tribulations were not over at its end, because we were arrested at the city's main customs' post, in application of a law stating that no foreigner is received therein without providing proof of some useful talent determined by the governor in person. He introduced himself, accompanied by a troupe of mime artists, who prevented him from being bored whilst he exercised the duties associated with his office. [Curtain falls.]

[Curtain music: François Couperin's harpsichord piece La Pantomime.]

SCENE 2. The city of Spirit's main tollgate. In the presence of a troupe of five mime artistes and several bystanders, the Governor, dressed to the nines, is looking up and down the Admiral, Saunders, Dr. Walter, and six bare-footed tars, all slovenly dressed down to the knees — assortment of check or spotted shirts, neckerchiefs, white trousers, pea jackets, waistcoats; hair in pigtails. Curtain rises.

GOVERNOR.
[Looking at them with pity.] Who are you?

ADMIRAL.
We are subjects of the greatest monarch in Europe.

GOVERNOR.
It would appear that your Europe is very poor; this is not the first time that it has sent us men who are dressed only down to the knees; and badly so at that. [He sniffs somewhat disdainfully.] Good heavens! If my people were so shoddily dressed, I would be hounded from office! ... No matter. ... Now, what do you seek?

ADMIRAL.
The use of your port to refit our vessels and to refresh ourselves.

GOVERNOR.
What are your talents to be allowed into the city of Spirit?

ADMIRAL.
I have on board carpenters who know how to increase a ship's speed by adjustments [The troupe of mimes start laughing.]; mineworkers for whom the earth would not know how to conceal its treasures [They laugh harder.]; surgeons who penetrate the inside of the human body, as you see its surface. [They laugh so hard that the admiral is no longer audible; he turns to Saunders.] Tell me, Mr. Saunders, do you imagine that to get these cheerful souls on our side, we need to cite some superior talents, and more scientists?

SAUNDERS.
Perhaps so, Sir. We have learnèd gentlemen in the squadron who have given up the delights of London so as to ascertain the Earth's features, fix longitudes, and so forth. [The admiral nods his head in agreement.]

ADMIRAL.
[To the governor.] Wise and enlightened people, I also have on my ships geographers who know the Earth, as you know your own city, physicians from whom Nature holds no secrets, mathematicians who know how to measure, weigh, and count all Creation; and I myself can, without leaving this spot, tell you by trigonometry the height of that tower which I observe two thousand paces yonder. [The troupe initially express looks of boredom, then those of contempt; the governor turns his back; and the tollgate closes. Almost immediately thereafter, one of the bystanders addresses the admiral.]

BYSTANDER.
Milord, set aside all those great talents, which will never open to you even the smallest gate. I was received in this city; and I have made my fortune here by singing. ...

ADMIRAL.
[Aside.] Ah! The light dawns! [To the governor.] Sublime governor and luminous mind, I forgot to tell you that our people also excel in dance, music, and cuisine! [The governor retraces his steps; the admiral turns to Walter.] Doctor, a country dance, if you please!

Dr. WALTER.
As you wish, Admiral. [Withdrawing a flute from his frock coat, he plays John Playford's tune Mad Robin, and all the mariners, including the admiral, dance; then, at the end :]

GOVERNOR.
Open the tollgate! [Curtain falls.]

[Curtain music: François Couperin's harpsichord piece La Boufonne.]

SCENE 3. On stage. Dr. Walter, dressed as a country squire, appears from the wings in front of the curtain, and walks to the apron.

NARRATOR.
The governor set forth on foot, and we English followed; one did not expect to see, en route, carriages in the London and Paris taste moving sprightly along. Our walk finished at a vast palace; it was that belonging to the emperor. Before reaching his apartments, there were a dozen courtyards to cross; these were surrounded by edifices which accommodated, in addition to the Crown's officers, ten illustrious persons from all those professions judged to be the most necessary to the State: to wit, embroiderers, varnishers, jewellers, purveyors of perfumes, manufacturers of New Year's gifts, craftsmen in chandeliers and figurines, fashion inspectors and designers, decorators of the city's carriages, novelists and dance teachers. ... Finally, we arrived at the emperor's magnificent apartments. His All-Elegance — for that was the title accorded him — was deliberating with his ministers over a proposition which kept the entire city in suspense: it concerned a decision as to whether the fan-makers should be accommodated in the eleventh courtyard. Yet, although that matter was pressing, it appeared even more urgent to see the foreigners who had been introduced. And, there and then, we were required to give, in the Council's presence, new proofs of the talents which the governor had mentioned on our behalf. And I, with my flute, attempted to surpass myself; and our dancers followed suit. But the culinary prowess that our admiral had vaunted remained to be proven. So, together with his chef, who fortunately was one of our little band, he prepared one of our quintessential puddings, namely plum duff. The monarch and his ministers, forsaking their customary predilection for baguettes, ate this choice morsel; and, immediately thereafter, the order was signed to open the port to our small fleet, which indeed entered there on the morrow — not a moment too soon for our hungry sick; ten more of whom had died during that night alone, as many from need as from sickness. ... There are few people more helpful than the Frivolites of the capital, providing they are well reimbursed. Straight away they brought us all manner of refreshments: but, unsurprisingly, required prompt payment. The Frivolites, who are not acquainted with either silver or gold, use as money pieces of agate, known as agathines; and, at the sight of our guineas and shillings, they packed up again their provisions. Our admiral, sensing the necessity to proceed by way of exchange, remembered that he had lengths of lace and ribbon on board. Subsequently, he set up a sort of theatre, and started with the ribbons. Perceiving a lively impression of pleasure in the eyes of the assembled throng, he cut off a length, so as determine what advantage he could draw. At that precise moment, a baker approached, and threw twenty pounds of bread on the stage; a butcher, a confectioner, and some wine merchants soon followed in turn: such that with ten or so pieces of ribbon, our fleet was sufficiently provisioned for one day. Our admiral then calculated, by proportion, that from his stock of ribbons he could provide for us for one month — during the course of which, several incidents unfolded, including the emperor's visit to our Centurion.

[Curtain music: François Couperin's harpsichord piece L'Evaporée.]

SCENE 4. The Centurion's quarter-deck. The stage is sprinkled with typical naval items, all well-ordered except an open box of ribbons upstage left: upstage, two canons, a flat with a view of the sea, and a few steps leading to an small opening in the ship's side. Well-shod, dressed in courtly clothes, and bewigged in a luxuriant manner, the following form a guard of honour: stage right of the opening, Thomas, Brett, Mitchel, and Saumerez (downstage); stage left of the opening, Walter, Cracherode, Saunders, and the Admiral (downstage). Curtain rises.

ADMIRAL.
Isn't it quiet! [To Saumerez.] Tell me, Mr. Saumerez, where are the rest of the hands?

SAUMEREZ.
[Smiling.] Well, Sir, let's just say they are out of sight: and so out of mind.

ADMIRAL.
Good idea! I would not care to invite further reproaches on the state of our dress, given that we... [At this moment, off-stage, «'Ere they be!»] Bos'n! Please pipe aboard His All-Elegance and entourage. [Off-stage, «Aye-aye, Sir.» and whistles; then, dressed to the nines, the emperor, empress, crown prince, and several courtiers enter from upstage, and disperse themselves ad libitum, except the emperor, who proceeds slowly along the guard of honour.]

EMPEROR.
[Moving from one officer to another, he seeks the admiral's eyes; finally :] Mmm, ... Milord Admiral?

ADMIRAL.
[Bowing deeply.] At your service, Your All-Elegance.

EMPEROR.
Mmm, ... We barely recognise you. Yesterday, you were in those slovenly clothes which are proper to a ship: but not at Court. [He sniffs somewhat disdainfully; then he moves his hands to the admiral's hair, and handles the curls with singular attention; finally, he addresses a courtier.] Honourable Skilful Scribbler, We find on our island neither the graces nor the ensemble of these. So, We... [At this moment, the empress, who, in handling Capt. Mitchel's curls with too much eagerness and roughness, detaches his wig from his head, cries out :]

EMPRESS.
Good grief! I fear I've torn the hide off the poor soul.

EMPEROR.
[To the empress, in a tone of indifference.] Never mind, my gentle kitten; there's no harm done. [To the admiral.] Mmm, ... Given such exquisite taste, We would wish you to curl the Court. [The admiral looks momentarily most disconcerted; then he recomposes himself.]

ADMIRAL.
One moment, please, Your All-Elegance. [He makes a deep bow. Then to Saunders.] Hmph! We're in a fine pickle here!

SAUNDERS.
Perhaps not, Sir. If I remember aright, you have on board at least three servant-barbers that Sir Rufus Anagallis saved from the iniquities of Paris.

ADMIRAL.
[Raising an eyebrow.] You mean that he pressganged them?

SAUNDERS.
[Smiling in a complicit manner.] If you wish, Sir.

ADMIRAL.
It's all one to me, Charles. ... And their names?

SAUNDERS.
Let me see now, ... Carton, Weller, ... oh!, and Bunsby, of course, your own manservant.

ADMIRAL.
Bunsby, you say? [Saunders nods.] My word, wonders will never cease! Thank you, Charles. [Then to the emperor.] Your All-Elegance, I must excuse myself and my officers; for though we possess fully the theory of this art, alas we lack the practice: but we do have on board three curler-stylists who perfected their talents in Paris. So, would you do me the great honour of allowing me to put these artists at the disposal of Your Sublime Majesties? [He makes a deep bow; then makes a sweeping, gracious gesture to the three royal personages.]

EMPEROR.
Mmm, ... So be it. We expect to see those curler-fellows and your good self at our Looking-Glass Salon on the morrow.

ADMIRAL.
Our pleasure, Your All-Elegance. ... Now, may I suggest that I show you my ship, working our way from starboard, that's to say the right side of the ship when facing forward, to larboard, that's to... [The emperor yawns, and his entourage in unison. Then, aside.] But there again, perhaps not! [To the emperor.] Let me see, perhaps just a brief description of a few of the essentials, like the canons, masts, sails, pumps, the wheel, the capstan, and so forth? [The emperor's gaze wanders in a haphazard manner, he yawns again, and his entourage in unison. Then, aside.] This is a losing battle: but patience is of the essence! [To the emperor.] Now, here is the compass. The country from where we come is more than 6,000 leagues distant; and it is this moving iron which helps us steer, because there is a relationship between this magnetized iron and the two poles, north and... [At this moment, the empress espies the box of ribbons that had been left open unwittingly; she eagerly seizes a piece, and cries out :]

EMPRESS.
Oooh! How absolutely delightful!

ADMIRAL.
[Aside.] Self-evidently, I'm speaking to the feather-brained deaf: but not to the blind. No matter; I've the opportunity to pay my court. [To the emperor.] Your All-Elegance, pray allow me to present Your Sublime Majesties with this entire box of ribbons, on behalf of His Gracious Majesty, King George II of Great Britain. [At this moment, a courtier, the inspector, laughs malignantly. The admiral directs a stern look at him, then recomposes himself.]

EMPEROR.
Mmm, ... Great, you say? [The admiral nods firmly.] Thank you, Milord Admiral; our pleasure. [Reserving for himself the bulk, he hands out a few rolls.] Is that all, Milord?

ADMIRAL.
I had more yesterday; but I exchanged them for provisions, since it was the only money that your merchants would accept from us.

EMPEROR.
Mmm, ... Rest assured, Milord, they will have precious little opportunity to enjoy them. [Then to a courtier.] Honourable Skilful Scribbler, We order that our Paymaster-General award 10,000 agathines to Milord Admiral; and also, We enjoin those vendors who have been paid in ribbons to submit these to the Office of Fashions, and this Office be ordered to analyze the ribbon so as to establish a manufacture. [He appears lost in thought for a moment or two; then his eyes make a broad and leisurely sweep of his surroundings; finally :] Hmph! ... It must be said that We find your ships quite hideous, and most disagreeable to the eye. By way of comparison, there is our Navy. [He points rather vaguely in the distance.] As you can see, our launches are immaculately turned-out; with their crimson sails, sterns embedded with mother-of-pearl, and cables of silk.

ADMIRAL.
[Aside.] So, more ornament than use!

EMPEROR.
Mmm, ... That will do. Till the morrow, Milord Admiral.

ADMIRAL.
[Bowing deeply.] I look forward to the occasion, Your All-Elegance. ... Bos'n! [Off-stage, «Aye-aye, Sir.», whistles; then the emperor and his entourage exit upstage.] ...

SAUNDERS.
[To the admiral.] I must say, Sir, that I felt mortally offended when that courtier deigned to laugh at your mention of Great Britain.

ADMIRAL.
As did I, Charles; it was bad form.

SAUNDERS.
Typical of a damned Froggy, in my view.

ADMIRAL.
What! French, you say. Ah! That would explain why their language has spread to the Court. Do you think there are Frenchmen on this island?

SAUNDERS.
I presume so, Sir. But how the devil would they have come here without anything about it having transpired in Europe?

ADMIRAL.
I don't know; ... no, I simply can't imagine. Be that as it may, when I visit the emperor tomorrow, I shall buttonhole that courtier; if there are Frenchmen on the island, he must be one of them. [Curtain falls.]

[Curtain music: François Couperin's harpsichord piece Saillie.]

SCENE 5. The Looking-Glass Salon at the emperor's palace. The room, extravagantly furnished, has very long portrait mirrors on each wall. Carton, Bunsby and Weller are curling the hair of the Empress, Emperor and Prince; these latter are seated in front of the mirrors upstage. Several courtiers are milling about languidly, frequently preening themselves in the mirrors, and twittering about nothing in particular sotto voce. Sitting in two large armchairs near the apron, separated by a table complete with the accoutrements of light refreshments, are the Admiral and the Inspector in conversation. Curtain rises.

ADMIRAL.
Sir, given that the French language has spread to the Court, I presume that there are French people on this island?

INSPECTOR.
[Betraying slight surprise.] Indeed so, Milord.

ADMIRAL.
I see. Would you be so kind as to explain to me the reason for their presence, using yourself as an example perhaps?

INSPECTOR.
Ah! [He smiles in anticipation.] Yes, Milord, with pleasure. In 1719 I was in Paris when everyone changed their gold into paper. I could not follow this fashion, because I had no gold; and, therefore, no merit. And yet I was young in the midst of a city replete with pleasures and expenses. So, I asked myself: what should I do? The notion came to me that I might go and seek this merit in Peru; and I told several of my friends about it, who then had the same ambition. Our little community grew imperceptibly, so that we embarked from La Rochelle numbering about one hundred and sixty. The sailing was without incident until the Le Maire Strait: but it was on leaving this strait, which separates Staten Island from the Tierra del Fuego, that all manner of contrary winds awaited and offered us death at every moment; storms, which would subside only to reappear even more furiously, buffeted and pushed us for seemingly days without end from one abyss to another, so that after twenty days we were of the firm conviction that there was no land in the parallel that we were sailing: and, not surprisingly, having survived so many dreadful events which had led us to this unknown world, we doubted the soundness of our dead reckoning. Nevertheless, wherever it be, this was finally terra firma. First we were faced with a very tall rock, which we climbed so as to have a broad view of this land where fate had cast us. No sooner had we reached the summit, than we saw the ship in the road below us drag her anchors, and we lost sight of the captain and his crew forever; doubtless they found an end to their troubles in the bosom of the ocean. At first, we wandered from one coastal town to another, with no other design than to subsist. Later on, reasoning that the largest towns have more abundant resources, our thoughts turned from the coast to the capital, some 200 leagues distant. My word, what hardships we had to endure in order to reach there: but, happily, consolation was swift in coming.

ADMIRAL.
[Growing restless. Aside.] I do hope so.

INSPECTOR.
Pardon, Milord?

ADMIRAL.
No matter. Pray do continue. [He smiles graciously.]

INSPECTOR.
[He takes a sip of cordial, makes an inconsequential gesture with his hand, then :] The indigenous Frivolites realized how necessary we were to them. They were exactly in that frame of mind where a people seek to leave their barbarism. They still had no chandeliers, no sofas, no jewellery; and the ladies' faces were not yet varnished. But they began to improve the lighting, widen the chairs, cut faceted glass; and the ladies, when they wished to impress, applied a blood-based potion which enlivened their complexions. What is more, the refinement of the cuisine, the embellishments of the table, the quality of the finery, the elegance of the furniture, the variety of the equipages, and the delicacy of the embroidery, all that took shape. They had no experience of fashions: but did agree that it was not possible for a respectable woman to wear a dress throughout a season and, in general, to have the same set of clothes, as one has the same nose. [The admiral coughs discreetly.] Yes, Milord?

ADMIRAL.
[In a deadpan tone.] I presume that these new customs also tended to divest them of their coarseness?

INSPECTOR.
Naturally, Milord. The affected airs, the compliments, good manners, the vapours, the divine suppers, the extravagent expenditures, the shallow friendships, and the fleeting love affairs — all these flowers of sophistication were in bud, merely awaiting a ray of sunshine to bloom. Husbands still did not feel it ridiculous to love their wives: but already found themselves embarrassed to do so. Wives had not yet abandonned their domestic chores for those of the toilette: but an inner voice told them that were born for an agreeable and brilliant rôle. And few lords had the courage to spend beyond their means: and would be some years away from doing so. In a word, Milord, the Frivolites still had no taste; they had merely some taste for taste. But despite this favourable disposition, how difficult it is to develop a people! [He glances in the direction of the curlers, frowns; then :] Excuse me, Milord; I'll only be a moment. [He gets up, bows, moves towards Bunsby, by the emperor's side, and whispers a few words to him.] ...

ADMIRAL.
[Smiling. Aside.] I would much prefer to talk about the laws, virtues, sciences, and arts necessary to carry out such a grand design: but, doubtless, chance would be a fine thing! ... In fact, it's more a question of «Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who is the fairest of them all?» [The inspector returns.] ...

INSPECTOR.
Now, Milord, where was I?

ADMIRAL.
On the threshold of good taste, I believe.

INSPECTOR.
Euh? ... No matter. ... Slowly but surely, they obtained from us those arts which delight the eyes and embellish the passions. We polished their defects: and they adopted our language, which loosened their minds. Fortunately, on our departure of France, each of us had provided ourselves with a pocket library; all books of taste, including delightful novels, sparkling comedies of wit, tragedies of courtly love, and operas of the melted heart. You would not believe with what ingenuity they have imitated their charms; so that these days we count some 600 poets and 2,000 novelists in the capital alone!

ADMIRAL.
My word! Er, ... I presume that your colony has spread in favour of itself?

INSPECTOR.
Yes, Milord. The State has honoured all of us; myself in particular, for whom an office of the Crown was created: you are speaking to the Chief Inspector of Fashions. This place has many flowers: but it also has its thorns. A fashion with these people dates within a fortnight. Ah! If fate had not deprived us of our ship. [He sighs wistfully.]

ADMIRAL.
[In a concerned tone.] Why so, Sir?

INSPECTOR.
Because it was loaded with all those luxuries from France that are so necessary here. What models for this city! For a long time now, that ribbon — which has done you so much honour — has only been imagined here. Although there have been great improvements in manfacturing since our arrival, centuries will be needed to equal Paris; where, doubtless, my former countrymen continue to live in grand style?

ADMIRAL.
Indeed so, Sir; setting aside the enamelled jewellery, the damascened swords, and other trinkets of this type which distinguishes the French people, everyone in society waxes lyrical especially about the tapestries from the Gobelins' manufactory and the lacquer art of the Martin brothers. [The inspector sighs wistfully once again.]

INSPECTOR.
I expected as much, after observing, like one and all, a new taste in the coiffure that you favour. [He casts an admiring glance at the admiral's wig; then adopts a determined look.] Now, Milord, please consider carefully what I'm going to say to you. Either it is your intention to establish yourself in this country: or it is not. If it is not, what matters is that you gain consideration here by showing novelties. On the other hand, if it be so, do take care henceforth not to present these without my approval: otherwise, in consequence of my great standing, woe betide you.

ADMIRAL.
Far from settling here — perish the thought! — I offer to take you back to your country, that you miss no doubt?

INSPECTOR.
[Looking offended.] Far from it! Indeed, I would be most happy to live amongst the Frivolites for the rest of my days. Now, Milord, I must attend to His All-Elegance. I bid you good day. [He gets up, bows, then moves towards the emperor. Curtain falls.]

[Curtain music: François Couperin's harpsichord piece L'Épineuse.]

SCENE 6. On stage. Dr. Walter, dressed as a country squire, appears from the wings in front of the curtain, and walks to the apron.

NARRATOR.
At the time — like your good self no doubt — the admiral was utterly nonplussed by the apparent change in the inspector's attitude. But why, you ask? Well, he hadn't realized that he had been impolite, albeit unwittingly, throughout their conversation. Politeness, indeed, is the very soul of the Frivolites; so much so that it would be better to betray one's close friend than to mangle a compliment. And to be polite, one must scrupulously observe all the titles; so, for example, everyone would be most indignant if an insolent fellow dared to say to a minister of State «You are fool», rather than «Your Enlightened Sage is a fool». ... Be that as it may, we were well and truly in a pickle. To cut wood from the only forest where the trees — by the most singular nature of the soil — were hard and resistant, our admiral needed an order from the emperor; he asked for an audience, which was refused him. He might have obtained it by means of the inspector: but, as we've just seen, confidence was not established between them. Then he solicited the other favourites: but none dared to carry the demand to the feet of the august throne. When favour is lacking, one has to resort to official channels. He presented a petition in person to the prime minister: but all petitions which were suspected of causing even the slightest displeasure to the monarch were suppressed; his had the same fate, alas! ... Although the admiral was made of very stern stuff, he began to complain that on those rare opportunities when he might allow himself to sleep, he was unable to do so. Hence, for a brief time, he was prescribed sleeping draughts, prepared as a herbal tea from poppy seeds, Papaver somniferum; very occasionally, these draughts also led to the side effect of bringing about quite extraordinary dreams.

[Curtain music: François Couperin's harpsichord piece Les Pavots.]

SCENE 7. The admiral's cabin on the Centurion. This is comfortably furnished: upstage, a bow window; upstage left, a door; stage right, a sofa between two cupboards; stage left, a bunk and a bookcase; in the middle of the stage, several chairs alongside a table covered with charts, notebooks, a globe, a telescope, and a lighted oil lamp. Two ghosts, dressed as Elizabethan gentlemen, are sitting and conversing at the head of the table: Sir Francis Bacon, aged 50; and Ben Jonson, aged 39, who is leafing through the Centurion's logbook. Tossing and turning in his sleep, the Admiral is in his bunk. Curtain rises.

«JONSON».
[Sighing.] Mmm, ... I fear that you will need to rely solely on Mr. Strachey's confidential letter about the tempest, the wrecking of the Sea Venture, and life in Bermuda and the Virginia colony; that's to say, the one you have just used to draft your True Declaration on behalf of the Council.

«BACON».
Why so?

«JONSON».
Because I cannot make head nor tail of this logbook; there are certainly no entries concerning any shipwrecks. [He closes this book with a resounding thud.]

«ADMIRAL».
[Suddenly, he sits up straight — although he is still asleep and, in fact, still dreaming.] Bunsby? [He looks hard at the two ghosts.] Apparently not! ... Well, who are you!?

«BACON».
My good friend here is Mr. Ben Jonson, the eminent dramatist and Latin scholar; and my name is Sir Francis Bacon, currently the Solicitor General and the true author of Shake-speares Sonnets: note the hyphen.

«ADMIRAL».
What! [Then, sceptically.] Surely not?

«BACON».
Indeed so. Not sonnets by the actor William Shakspere from Stratford-upon-Avon — that point cannot be too strongly emphasized — but those by Shake-speare.

«ADMIRAL».
Hmph! That remains to be seen, but even so, why are you here!?

«BACON».
To acquire an additional measure of verisimilitude for the opening scenes of my new play, called The Tempest, which involves a shipwreck and its aftermath.

«ADMIRAL».
Well, gentlemen, I must say that you have both undertaken a fool's errand, because all the ships of my little squadron — namely, the warships Centurion and Gloucester, the sloop Tryal and the Anna pink — are safely moored here in Spirit Harbour on Frivola Island.

«BACON».
Frivola Island, you say!? And not Staten Island, near the Tierra del Fuego?

«ADMIRAL».
Goodness me, no! ... That said, we were separated from the rest of my fleet — including the other warships Severn, Pearl, and Wager — whilst we were attempting to round Cape Horn. Be that as it may, I would much prefer that you were anywhere but here!

«BACON».
[To Jonson.] My dear Ariel, I do believe that we have just been given our «flying orders»!

«JONSON».
[To Bacon.] Undoubtedly so, my dear Prospero.

«BACON».
[To the admiral.] As you wish, Sir. However, before we leave, it is incumbent upon me to proffer a piece of advice. Namely, although one has several dreams each night, one only remembers the last one of them — and then only temporarily: accordingly, in order to recall our meeting, you must write down the essentials immediately upon waking up. ... And now, Admiral, we bid you goodnight! [The two ghosts get up, bow, strike the table with their hands, which results in a flash of gunpowder smoke somewhere near the table, then disappear via a trapdoor.]

ADMIRAL.
[Waking up.] Euh, ... Bunsby! ... ... Bunsby!! ...

BUNSBY.
[Bursting in.] 'Ere I be, Sir! What be the matter?

ADMIRAL.
Quickly, go and fetch Doctor Walter!

BUNSBY.
Aye-aye, Sir. [Curtain falls.]

[Curtain music: François Couperin's harpsichord piece La Minerve.]

SCENE 8. The admiral's cabin on the Centurion. The stage is set as in Scene 7, except for the natural lighting; through the exterior of the bow window may be seen the Gloucester moored nearby. Bunsby is rearranging the curls of an old wig sitting atop a straw mannequin. Curtain rises.

ADMIRAL.
[Smiling on entering.] My word, Bunsby, what are you doing!?

BUNSBY.
I be keepin' me hand in with one of yer old moth-eaten wigs, Sir. [Then, rather proudly.] Them people at Court be callin' me the illustrious Bunsby.

ADMIRAL.
Splendid! Congratulations! ... Yet, although it is quite natural for you to want to perfect your talent, I, on the other hand, must not neglect your education: so pass me that book on the end of the top shelf. ...

BUNSBY.
This one, Sir: Robinson Crusoe?

ADMIRAL.
No, Bunsby; that, literally, is far too close for comfort! The other one, if you please. ...

BUNSBY.
[Reading in a broken voice as he passes same.] Syl ... Sylva ... sylv ... sylvar ... Bah! Them's the same words!

ADMIRAL.
Sylva sylvarum : that's Latin for «Forest of Forests».

BUNSBY.
Them's still the same words!

ADMIRAL.
[Smiling.] So it would seem! Now, Bunsby, my good fellow, listen to me carefully please.

BUNSBY.
[World-wearily.] If I must. ... Beggin' yer pardon, Sir, I be continuin' with me curlin' at the same time?

ADMIRAL.
Yes; if you so wish. ... [He reads aloud and adapts freely on the hoof.] «The Wonderful Works of Nature, Chiefly such as Benefit Mankind», from Francis Bacon's The New Atlantis. ... ... Prolonging life; restituting youth to some degree; retarding age. / Curing of diseases considered incurable; mitigating pain; rendering purgings easier and less loathsome. / Increasing activity and strength, including the ability to suffer pain; transforming the temperament and features, including stoutness, leanness and stature; increasing and exalting the intellectual parts and the joyous and well-disposed spirits, including the greater pleasure of the senses. / Transforming bodies into other bodies; making of new species; transplanting of one species into another. / Making rich composts for the earth; producing new foods out of substances not now in use; making new materials, following the examples of threads, paper, glass, artificial minerals, cement and so forth. / Accelerating the processes of extraction, purification, maturation, putrefaction and germination; effecting radical transformations, such as hardening and softening; transforming crude and watery substances into oily and unctuous substances. / Studying the forces of the air, and the raising of tempests; determining the force of imagination on a body or on another; examining natural divinations and deceptions of the senses. / Lastly, [In a resigned tone.] Improving the instruments of destruction. [A clear pause; then he smiles quizzically.] Bunsby, were you listening!?

BUNSBY.
[In a faraway tone.] Course, Sir.

ADMIRAL.
Well then, what do think!?

BUNSBY.
Er, ... Nowt, Sir; 'twas all Chinese to me.

ADMIRAL.
Chinese!? Nay; English! [He smiles mischievously.]

BUNSBY.
[Shrugging.] 'Tis as maybe, Sir, but I be understandin' nowt; me, I be strugglin' still with me sums, and Master Thomas, he be tellin' always them young gentlemen that them maths be the keystone to knowledge.

ADMIRAL.
He says that, does he? To our midshipmen? Mmm? ... That gives one pause for thought. [There is a knock at the door.] Who the ... Ah! Yes; that will be Saint-Preux. [Curtain falls.]

[Curtain music: François Couperin's harpsichord piece Les Pavots.]

SCENE 9. The admiral's cabin on the Centurion. The stage is set as in Scene 7. Two ghosts, dressed as Elizabethan gentlemen, are sitting and conversing at the head of the table: Lord Bacon, aged 61; and Ben Jonson, aged 50. Tossing and turning in his sleep, the Admiral is in his bunk. Curtain rises.

«JONSON».
My Lord, I have the greatest pleasure in informing you that the printers of the Folio, Messrs. Jaggard and Blount, have finally received the fair copies from our nominal editors, Messrs. Hemminge and Condell.

«BACON».
Of all the plays?

«JONSON».
No, my Lord; we were not able to find a fair copy of your Pericles, alas.

«BACON».
No matter, my man John. ... Tell me, as the de facto editor, did you succeed in arranging the preliminary matter to our satisfaction?

«JONSON».
Yes, my Lord, I believe so; be it concerning my short verse «To The Reader», my eulogy «To The Author», the order of the plays, starting with The Tempest, the cipher signatures, or the writings from a respectable number of learnèd gentlemen.

«BACON».
[Nodding appreciatively.] And the engraving for the frontispiece?

«JONSON».
Yes, my Lord. The young Droeshout followed his commission to the letter. Setting aside the finer enigmatic details of the «portrait», the face of the supposèd author is obviously a mask.

«BACON».
My dear John, well done! ... Yes, all things being equal, the Folio and the enlarged Latin edition of my Advancement of Learning should both be published sometime next year. [He claps his hands with glee.]

«ADMIRAL».
[Suddenly, he sits up straight — although he is still asleep and, in fact, still dreaming.] Bunsby? [He looks hard at the two ghosts.] Apparently not! ... Ah! We meet again!

«BACON».
What! Have we met before, Sir?

«ADMIRAL».
Certainly! Last time we met, you informed me that you were writing your new play, called The Tempest. [The ghosts look at one another, then burst out laughing.]

«JONSON».
[To Bacon.] My Lord, I do believe that this poor fellow must have been drinking saltwater.

«BACON».
[To Jonson.] Just so! That can indeed play tricks on the mind. [To the admiral.] Alas, Sir, ... er, to whom do I have the honour of speaking?

«ADMIRAL».
Admiral George Anson!

«BACON».
Delighted to meet you, Admiral. My name is Lord Bacon, Viscount St. Alban, lately Lord Chancellor; and this is... [The admiral interrupts him.]

«ADMIRAL».
Mr. Ben Jonson! [To Jonson.] I recognized you at once, Sir. [Jonson nods courteously.]

«BACON».
Now, as I was just about to tell you, Sir, you are greatly confused; indeed, you must have lost all notion of time, since I wrote The Tempest in 1610 and 1611: and we are presently in the year of Our Lord 1622.

«ADMIRAL».
No; absolutely not! It's 1741. ... And no: I have not been drinking saltwater!

«JONSON».
[To Bacon.] What a conundrum, my Lord.

«BACON».
[To Jonson.] Judging from my own experiences — not to say my foolhardiness — perhaps not. Let's see. [To the admiral.] Tell me, Sir, have you been taking physic, perchance?

«ADMIRAL».
You mean by that, opiates?

«BACON».
Yes, Sir.

«ADMIRAL».
[Looking puzzled.] Er, ... No; only as a sleeping draught, made from poppy seeds, before bed.

«BACON».
Ah! That explains everything! [He accompanies this phrase with a thump on the table, which results in a flash of gunpowder smoke somewhere near the table, and the two ghosts disappear via a trapdoor.]

ADMIRAL.
[Waking up.] How so? [He casts his eyes over the cabin.] How disappointing! ... Bunsby! Bunsby!! ...

BUNSBY.
[Bursting in. Aside.] Not again!? [To the admiral.] 'Ere I be, Sir. I be supposin' you be wantin' me to be fetchin' Dr. Walter again?

ADMIRAL.
Yes, Bunsby. Go on! Quickly!

BUNSBY.
Aye-aye, Sir. [Curtain falls.]

[Curtain music: François Couperin's harpsichord piece L'Épineuse.]

SCENE 10. On stage. Dr. Walter, dressed as a country squire, appears from the wings in front of the curtain, and walks to the apron.

NARRATOR.
Dear spectator, from these dreams alone, you will appreciate why I decided to omit an account of our stay on Frivola Island in my official relation of 1748. At that time, 1747 to be precise, Mr. Garrick had just been appointed actor-manager of the Drury Lane Theatre, with the firm intention of placing Shakespeare at the centre of theatrical life in England. My word, the mere idea of postulating another author for the Shakespearean canon of plays, however true it be, would have been considered as an act of heresy. More importantly, in my opinion, it would also have had the most undesirable effect of distracting the public's attention from Admiral Anson's irrefutable achievements. ... Despite his sleeping problems, he did not neglect his keen sense of duty. Indeed, whilst he waited to see what time or fate might discover in the matter of obtaining the necessary authorization to cut the wood required for the refitting of our ships, he decided to make the most of the enforced delay to accumulate further information on the modus vivendi of the Frivolites; and to this end, several senior members of the squadron were allotted a particular task. Moreover, he granted shore-leave to all the tars; and they acknowledged the admiral's customary goodwill by behaving impeccably.

[Curtain music: François Couperin's harpsichord piece La Commère.]

SCENE 11. The admiral's cabin on the Centurion. The stage is set as in Scene 7. Sitting and conversing around the table covered with wine bottles and dishes of choice morsels: upstage centre, Admiral; stage right, Saumerez, Mitchel, Cracherode, and Keppel (downstage); stage left, Saunders, Brett, Walter, and Proby (downstage). Curtain rises.

ADMIRAL.
Gentlemen, as you know, I have convened this meeting for the purpose of collecting any observations that might be of value to my lords at the Admiralty. Although I'm well aware of your diligence during the last fortnight, I should be very grateful if you would keep to the essentials this evening. [He glances at his notebook.] First, Nature. Mr. Saunders, I believe you found this to be most singular?

SAUNDERS.
Yes, Sir. ... I have observed phenomena unknown elsewhere, perhaps because the soil here is as light as flour. Be that as it may, all the fauna and flora lack substance; that's to say, they only have volume without the proportional weight or force. Moreover, the fruits hanging from many species of tree are little more than chemical efflorescences, similar to those «Trees of Diana». Now... [The admiral interrupts.]

ADMIRAL.
Please forgive the interruption, Charles, but what exactly do you mean by that?

SAUNDERS.
Ah! They are chemical dendrites obtained in a laboratory from a drop of mercury, some sal ammoniac, metals, and the spirit of nitre; if I remember aright, Herr Athanase Kircher was the first alchemist to describe the growth of these so-called «Trees of Diana». [The admiral nods appreciatively.] Now, when birds, like the dodos and the moas — Didus ineptus and Dinornithiformes spp., respectively — peck at this deceptive vegetation, they seem to get very cross indeed at the outrageous charlatanism of Nature: and yet they are deceivers themselves, since they only have the high-pitched warble of our canaries despite having the volume of our pheasants. ... In summary, almost everywhere I went, I found the image of Nature rather than Nature itself. [He nods to the admiral.]

ADMIRAL.
[Smiling.] Would I be correct in assuming that you will not be presenting a scholarly article to the Royal Society on our return to England?

SAUNDERS.
Absolutely correct, Sir; I would be most reluctant to waste those learnèd gentlemen's time.

ADMIRAL.
Indeed so. ... Thank you, Mr. Saunders. [He glances at his notebook.] Architecture. Mr. Saumerez, the floor is yours.

SAUMEREZ.
Thank you, Sir. [He clears his throat in a discreet manner.] The city of Spirit is as big as London; although one million people live there, it would contain two if it didn't contain so many gardens and huge edifices. They no longer build there; and families who live in them are charged exclusively with reciting prayers for those who work. The River Sprite runs through city, on which several bridges have been built; and from where high society prefers to dawdle in the shops selling luxury goods rather than walking along this handsome stretch of water. ... In my opinion, well before the landing of the French colony in 1720, the indigenous Frivolites had already attempted to leave their barbarism; thus, they built not only squares, triumphal gates, and public fountains, but also constructions for the sciences. Nevertheless, they did not make everything: and what they did not make is still to be done. [He shrugs his shoulders.] That's all, Sir.

ADMIRAL.
[Smiling warmly at Saumerez.] Yes; I very much agree. Many thanks. [He glances at his notebook.] The Arts. Mr. Brett, as the artist of our little squadron, did you find something perhaps to catch your eye?

BRETT.
Unfortunately not, Sir. There are, admittedly, few cities in the world where the mechanical arts are so agreeable: however, although the indigenous artists have undoubtedly taken advantage from the lessons of the French colony, this has been a mixed blessing because they exaggerate everything to satisfy the people; as typified by the manufacture of a seemingly endless stream of pretty but short-lived trinkets and other trifles. ... And, in my opinion, there are few cities where the fine arts are so beautiful. That said, their works of art assume brilliant colouring at the expense of both force and expression; whatever depth they contained in bygone days has fallen into oblivion. Similarly, their poetry dares not incite compassion or disquiet, much less inspire those virtues which embolden nation states; and its eloquence is not a torrent which sweeps along but a brook which babbles beneath ornamental flowers. [He nods to the admiral.]

ADMIRAL.
Thank you, Mr. Brett. [He smiles warmly at him, glances at his notebook, then addresses Colonel Cracherode.] Honour. My dear colonel, the focus of your attention, was it not?

CRACHERODE.
Yes indeed, Admiral. ... Let me see, ... the Frivolites do not have the pleasure, but the honour to see you, to speak to you, and to serve you. Similarly, they have tutors of honour for their pupils, bursars of honour in the hospitals, counsellors of honour in the courts, all the women attached to the Court are ladies of honour; and, although the grander professions would blush to charge for their work to the public, they do accept large honorariums. The Nobility in particular excels in honour. A noble Frivolite, who may well be a useless citizen, a poor husband, and a bad father, always remembers honour in recommending his son; and he, like his father, takes great care to keep only his word of honour, to pay only his debts of honour, and to duel for honour. ... Lastly, this honour also concerns the military. Hmph! [He pulls a disdainful face.] It is the city of Spirit which provides the general officers; there, particular care is taken of their education. However, a young lord intended for command must have the most exquisite perfumer, the finest tailor, and the most brilliant and nimble equipage; moreover, he must gamble a lot, dance frequently, attend every entertainment, and give some attention to the uniform of the first troop that is entrusted to him. ...

ADMIRAL.
[Smiling quizzically.] I gather that their military does not come up to your standards?

CRACHERODE.
[Briskly.] Certainly not, Admiral!

ADMIRAL.
No matter. Thank you, Colonel. [He glances at his notebook.] Religion. Ah! My dear chaplain, your forté, I believe? [He smiles mischievously.]

Dr. WALTER.
Yes, Admiral; quite so. ... The religion of the Frivolites has even more ministers than there are traders at the London Stock Exchange; the majority of whom are extremely young, presumably so as not to unsettle those laymen who seek their counsels of wisdom. At first sight, their lives appear to have narrow compasses — being faithful to the appearance of their vestments, singing hymns to the Sun at the designated times, and above all declaring that a beautiful woman is not worthy of love — however, they very much follow their taste in everything else. There are those amongst them who choose to surround themselves with the trappings of wealth, perhaps because they are afraid of falling victim to the people's scorn if they were not to embellish their supposèd virtues. The Frivolites carry their elegance of manners to the bosom of religion. Polite society sometimes goes to the temples to pass the time; it busies itself there with greeting and looking at one another, and judging appearances and fashions until the sermon. Usually, the preacher begins this with a fulsome compliment to the High Priest of the capital, and bows to the congregation; after which he delivers a very flowery speech on the subject of lax virtues that lacks all force. ... Last but not least, it is a major dogma of their faith to condemn all the others. [He nods to the admiral.]

ADMIRAL.
Thank you, Richard. [He glances at his notebook.] Ah yes! The Legal System. Mr. Mitchel, if you please.

MITCHEL.
Yes, Sir. There is an abundance of courts; the High Court itself has its sanctuary in common with the designers and the inspectors of fashions — that's to say, in the eighth courtyard. ... Similarly, the order of judges is decidedly numerous. A candidate is «examined» very seriously: the first question put to him is on the number of agathines that he possesses; if he answers that one satisfactorily, he is sure to satisfy all the others. ... It is customary to be judged in several courts on the same affair: so, one must start it in one's youth if one wants to see the end. ... I greatly pitied a poor wretch who had just won a lawsuit; it was about a field, but the damages awarded were not enough to pay the lawyer who had conducted the case. Accordingly, he lost his field, because it was decided that one square foot of the lawyer's contentious writings — which would have covered the field — was worth more than one square foot of land. ... I suspect that the fortune of a private individual depends more on the colour of the paper than on the contract itself; it would be useless if it was not inscribed on lilac or... [At this moment, there is a cursory knock at the door, and Bunsby bursts in.]

BUNSBY.
[Mopping his brow.] Phew! I be 'ere at last.

ADMIRAL.
Ah! It's you, Bunsby. [Then, with a mischievous smile.] My word, you do look a mite overheated! What's the matter?

BUNSBY.
I be 'ot foot from the Court to 'ere like the wind, Sir, 'cos it be agog.

ADMIRAL.
Why so?

BUNSBY.
Well, Sir, 'is All-Elegance's curlin' be goin' badly: so 'e be very cross, 'cos 'e be bein' late for 'is music.

ADMIRAL.
And?

BUNSBY.
Well, Sir, me thought one of yer wigs be savin' the day.

ADMIRAL.
That's as maybe, [He shrugs his shoulders.] but that's no concern of mine, surely?

BUNSBY.
Savin' yer respect, Sir, me thought you be gainin' credit maybe with 'is All-Elegance: and so with 'is Woodeness for yer timber.

ADMIRAL.
You mean by that, the High Steward of Forests?

BUNSBY.
Course, Sir!

ADMIRAL.
Let me think for a moment. ... ... Ah yes! ... Well done, Bunsby! ... Ask the purser for some extra grog: but do not get three sheets to the wind!

BUNSBY.
Aye-aye, Sir. [He exits.] ...

ADMIRAL.
Gentlemen, thanks to Bunsby, I do believe I have a plan of campaign to obtain our much sought-after lumber; and this requires a preliminary skirmish with «His Modesse», as my man has christened him. But, before my meeting, let's drink to Bunsby's health.

ALL.
[Clinking glasses.] To Bunsby!

ADMIRAL.
[Smiling benevolently.] Pray do continue, gentlemen, I shall return shortly. [Curtain falls.]

[Curtain music: François Couperin's harpsichord piece L'Exquise.]

SCENE 12. The chief inspector of fashions' lounge. The spacious room is tastefully furnished: upstage, an ornate chimney between two tall windows, through the exterior of which may be seen aspects of a river; upstage left, a door; to the sides, sofas and bookcases; in the middle of the stage, several occasional tables partially covered with diverse luxury articles: no desk. The Inspector, standing near a table, is gracefully leafing through a book. Curtain rises.

INSPECTOR.
[On hearing a knock at the door.] Pray enter. [The admiral enters.] Good evening, Milord Admiral.

ADMIRAL.
[Bowing deeply.] Good evening, Your Exquisiteness.

INSPECTOR.
To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit, Milord?

ADMIRAL.
My manservant, the illustrious Bunsby, has just informed me that His All-Elegance has grown impatient under the curling procedure, because a concert awaited him; and this moment of ill-humour has alarmed the Court. My good man reminded His Highness of Captain Mitchel's wig, who immediately asked for one of them.

INSPECTOR.
[Sharply.] A wig! Do you know that amongst the novelties that I reserve for the amusement of these people — who are soon bored by everything — that one holds pride of place!?

ADMIRAL.
[In a conciliatory tone.] Your Exquisiteness, pray put yourself in my situation: it's a matter of our subsistance. Alas, I've no more ribbons or agathines. It's true that my laces remain, but you have expressly forbidden me such resources.

INSPECTOR.
[Calming down.] Laces. I have attempted to give the people those for a long time: but not having any models to show, they have yet to spring forth. Alas, the island's craftsmen do not have the creative spirit; they merely embellish what has been created. Very well; hand the laces over to me, and I will relinquish the glory and profit of the wigs to you.

ADMIRAL.
Your Exquisiteness, pray do allow me a moment's reflection. [Aside.] Ah! When a wig appears on His Highness's feather-brained noggin, he will be sure to establish The School for Wigmakers, so as to satisfy the insistence of polite society on good manners, who will no longer dare show themselves bareheaded in public: and «His Modesse's» standing will be enhanced. [To the inspector.] It goes without saying that Your Exquisiteness's generosity knows no bounds, [He sighs.] but we are in sore need of authorizations from His Highness and the High Steward of Forests to cut down the timber required for our refit. [Then, diffidently.] Now, should we be able to refit, then we shall be in a position to set sail straightaway; and, of course, our glory and profit of the wigs should then revert to a gentleman of exquisite taste, ... like your good self, perhaps? [He casts a meaningful glance.]

INSPECTOR.
Ah! Milord Admiral, pray do allow me a moment's reflection. [Aside.] Mmm? If a wig appears on His Highness's august head, he will be sure to establish The School for Wigmakers, so as to satisfy the insistence of polite society on good manners, who will no longer dare show themselves bareheaded in public: and my standing will be enhanced. [To the admiral.] Say no more, Milord; I quite understand. Pray consider the matter as a fait accompli.

ADMIRAL.
I cannot thank you enough, Your Exquisiteness. [He bows. Curtain falls.]

[Curtain music: François Couperin's harpsichord piece La Commère.]

SCENE 13. The admiral's cabin on the Centurion. The stage is set as in Scene 11, save the table is covered with half-empty bottles and half-eaten dishes. Sitting and conversing around this table: stage right, Saumerez, Mitchel, Cracherode, and Keppel (downstage); stage left, Saunders, Brett, Walter, and Proby (downstage). Curtain rises.

ADMIRAL.
[On opening the door, everyone starts to stand up.] Pray do remain seated, gentlemen. [He sits down, glances at his notebook, smiles, then :] Although much as I expected, alas the fact remains that, thus far, I've not been able to write down so much as a single word that might be of value to my lords at the Admiralty. [Then, in a deadpan tone.] But there is a lively rumour abroad that our two young gentlemen here, [He glances and smiles benevolently at Keppel and Proby.] may well have changed our fortunes?

KEPPEL.
[Most enthusiastically.] Yes, Sir; we have discovered gold! [From a pocket he draws a handkerchief containing a quantity of iridescent bronze-yellow stones.] And here it is!

PROBY.
Yes, Sir! [From a pocket he draws a handkerchief containing a sample of similar but not identical stones.]

ADMIRAL.
My word, what serendipity! [Out of politeness, as well as warm-heartedess, the other officers stifle their laughter, albeit with the greatest difficulty.] Tell me, Mr. Proby, how did you come across these gold mines?

PROBY.
[Proudly.] Well, Sir, finding ourselves one day in a rather deep valley, we noticed some unusual fissures, and when we dug around the rocks, we found these crystallized stones! ... ...

ADMIRAL.
[Bellowing.] Hmph! You two are well and truly a pair of fools! [The two midshipmen blush and look embarrassed.]

KEPPEL.
Er, ... Please, Sir, why is that?

ADMIRAL.
[Bursting out laughing and his officers following suit.] ... Please, do forgive my rudeness; I was merely teasing. ... Now, yours, Mr. Keppel, is a mineral called pyrites; and its resemblance to gold has merited iron pyrites being called «fools' gold». ... Whereas yours, Mr. Proby, is one called marcasite, an unstable form of pyrites; and the only known example of a mineral able to crystallize in a pentagonal dodecahedron — what our Master Thomas undoubtedly calls a regular dodecahedron. [Then, in a warm-hearted tone.] Don't be downhearted; I do assure you that your initiatives are most praiseworthy. Moreover, when we capture that Manila galleon, the Nuestra Señora de Covadonga, you will have the opportunity not only to see but also to keep plenty of the real thing. ... I'm not sure whether this island is a fools' paradise or not: but, [He winks at Keppel and Proby.] I do know that I prefer the company of mine own! [Everyone laughs good-naturedly; then he adopts a serious tone.] Now, we must address ourselves to the matter of refitting, given that I've just succeeded in persuading the inspector to use his good offices to obtain the necessary permission to cut down the timber required. [Murmurings of approval from the rest of the company.] Mr. Saunders and Mr. Brett, may I rely on you to organize the working parties ashore?

SAUNDERS & BRETT.
[In unison.] Yes, Sir.

ADMIRAL.
Thank you. And those aboard, Mr. Saumerez and Mr. Mitchel?

SAUMEREZ & MITCHELL.
[In unison.] Yes, Sir.

ADMIRAL.
Good. Lastly, Colonel, would you be so kind as to ensure that your marines are up to the mark, so to speak?

CRACHERODE.
[Briskly.] My pleasure, Admiral.

ADMIRAL.
Splendid! ... All things being equal, I would expect to have my audience of leave within a fortnight; and, with that in prospect, let's drink to our deliverance.

ALL.
[Clinking glasses.] To our deliverance! [Curtain falls.]

[Curtain music: François Couperin's harpsichord piece L'Insinuante.]

SCENE 14. The admiral's cabin on the Centurion. The stage is set as in Scene 7, except the natural lighting. Sitting and conversing at the head of the table: Admiral, Saumerez, and Mitchel. Curtain rises.

ADMIRAL.
[To Mitchel.] Is the Gloucester ready?

MITCHEL.
Yes, Sir. The last of the provisions were loaded early this morning; we're only waiting for a favourable wind to set sail.

ADMIRAL.
Good. [To Saumerez.] And our Centurion?

SAUMEREZ.
We're ready too, Sir.

ADMIRAL.
Were there any problems with Carton and Weller?

SAUMEREZ.
No, Sir; happily, it didn't take much to persuade them.

ADMIRAL.
Splendid. We must hope that my faithful factotum will be as accommodating! [Saumerez and Mitchel smile.] Otherwise,... [At this moment, there is a knock at the door.] Ah! Here he is. Enter! [Bunsby enters. Saumerez and Mitchel both get up, bow, and retire discreetly.] Ah! Bunsby, my good man. I've just returned from my audience of leave. Because His Highness wishes to accommodate the curler-stylists in the twelfth and last courtyard of his palace, he only agreed to our leaving on one condition: that I leave behind on this island three fellows who will bring the wig and coiffure to perfection. And,... [Bunsby interrupts him.]

BUNSBY.
Nowt doin', Sir! [He makes a turn around the cabin.]

ADMIRAL.
[Smiling.] So you've guessed my suggestion, then?

BUNSBY.
I be deaf.

ADMIRAL.
Oh dear! ... So, there is little point in appealing to your sense of patriotic duty? [Bunsby shakes his head.] ... Or to the prospect of your own room and bed, rather than a shared hammock 'tween decks? [Ibid.] ... Or to the certainty of your well-being on this island, rather than the possibility of dismemberment or even death in battle? [Ibid.] ... Hmph! [He smiles.] Speak to me, please.

BUNSBY.
I be dumb.

ADMIRAL.
Oh dear! ... The illustrious Bunsby has taken a turn for the worse. ... I promise you... [Bunsby interrupts him.]

BUNSBY.
I be incorruptible.

ADMIRAL.
... this purse of agathines.

BUNSBY.
[Looking at the purse. Then, aside.] It be plump!

ADMIRAL.
Accept it, please.

BUNSBY.
In good faith?

ADMIRAL.
Yes; it's yours.

BUNSBY.
[Accepting the purse.] Thankee, Sir.

ADMIRAL.
[Smiling.] Ah! You're not deaf now!

BUNSBY.
Not dumb, neither. ... Er, when you be leavin' me, Sir?

ADMIRAL.
On the morrow, if it's set fair. [Curtain falls.]

[Curtain music: François Couperin's harpsichord piece Les Chinois.]

SCENE 15. Doctor Walter's study. The stage is set as in Scene 1. Dr. Walter, dressed as a country squire, is seated at the desk. Curtain rises.

NARRATOR.
Ah! The following day a favourable wind did blow and we set sail to go and take Payta, a Peruvian city where the Spanish believed themselves to be perfectly safe; one can read about this audacious expedition and others, including the capture of the Manila galleon, in my official relation of our epic circumnavigation. ... Although we left Frivola Island with no regrets, doubtless you will be keen to know whether we English learned anything from our stay with the Frivolites. Well, if the truth be told, precious little, unfortunately: save the singular importance of dressing for the occasion. For example, and in particular, when Admiral Anson had his audience with the august Viceroy of Canton and his Council of Mandarins, two years later in September 1743, all the tars of his barge were dressed in scarlet jackets and blue silk waistcoats, the whole trimmed with silver buttons, and with silver badges on their jackets and caps. [Dreamily.] Ah yes, that was a sight to behold. ... ... Nevertheless, let us remember that... [At this moment, there is a knock at the door.] Excuse me for a moment. [Then, firmly.] Come in. [A girl aged 11, carrying a straw Fortune-Teller doll in her hand, enters in a rather diffident manner.] Ah! It's you, Alice.

ALICE.
Er, ... Yes. Mmm, ... What are you doing, Uncle Richard?

NARRATOR.
Well, my dear goddaugher, I've just finished narrating, for those good people across the Channel, the tale of our stay on Frivola Island.

ALICE.
Oooh! That wonderland! [Then, in a tone of distinct pique.] I'm rather cross that I've missed listening to that again, because I've been so bored this afternoon.

NARRATOR.
Oh dear! What a shame! Let me think for a moment. ... ... Yes! Let's go to the Looking-Glass Library; and there, you can imagine going through the mirror and what you might find on the other side. [He gets up, moves towards Alice, gently clasps one of her hands, then turns round and says to the audience.] Let us remember that one should never judge things by appearances. ... Good day! [Curtain falls. The dramatist Plagiatte and cast immediately file on stage from the wings in front of the curtain, and bow to the audience.]

«EPILOGUE»

SCENE 1. The Saint-Ovide Fair in the Place Louis XV. At the end of this entertainment, Sartine leaves his table and goes for a gentle stroll in order to stretch his legs; he starts to day-dream. Suddenly, two ghosts, both in nightshirts and nightcaps, appear out of thin air about ten steps in front of him; that to the left is of the late Abbé Guyot Desfontaines, and that to the right is of the living Voltaire.

«ABBÉ DESFONTAINES».
M. de Sartine, this author is little more than a plagiarist! Yes; in my New Gulliver, when the envoy of the the emperor of Hunchbacks' Island speaks to John Gulliver, I wrote: «He replied that it was customary among them to bestow honorific titles upon persons, not from the qualities of their minds, but from such as befitted their ranks and dignities. For example, he said, in addressing ministers of State, you will say, your Affability; to military men, you will say, your Humanity; to treasury commissioners, your Disinterestedness; to judges, your Integrity; to Brachmans in the train of the emperor, your Knowledge; to ladies, your Rigour; to young noblemen, your Modesty; and to all courtiers in general, your Sincerity.»

«VOLTAIRE».
And you, Father Desfontaines: you are a damned hypocrite!

«ABBÉ DESFONTAINES».
What!? [Then, scornfully.] M. Sincerity Voltaire.

«VOLTAIRE».
Bah! As you know full well, in Gulliver's Travels, when the king of Brobdingnag Island, supposèdly England, speaks to Grildrig — that's to say, Captain Lemuel Gulliver — Mr. Swift wrote: «I see that men are not ennobled on account of their virtue, that priests are not advanced for their piety or learning, soldiers for their conduct or valour, judges for their integrity, senators for the love of their country, or counsellors for their wisdom.»

«ABBÉ DESFONTAINES».
Well, well! The great Hostoginam, himself; no wonder I made you persona non grata in my island of Foo... [Sartine brusquely interrupts him.]

SARTINE.
Stop squabbling! [The two ghosts look at one another in surprise.] Besides, you're just confusing me! I thought that Frivola Island was an allegory of France: not England?

«ABBÉ DESFONTAINES».
Yes, France; that's correct.

«VOLTAIRE».
Or, strictly speaking, the Île-de-France.

SARTINE.
And, ... the city of Spirit therefore corresponded to Paris?

«ABBÉ DESFONTAINES».
[To Voltaire.] My word, Sir, this grand constable here is not slow on the uptake! [Sartine frowns.]

«VOLTAIRE».
[To the Abbé D.] Just so! Evidently, in his case, practice does indeed make perfect. [Sartine becomes irritated.]

SARTINE.
Be quiet; and mind your manners! Otherwise, I'll send you both to the Bastille, [The ghosts look at one another with amusement; then look at Sartine condescendingly.], and this time, my impudent scoundrels, neither of you will regard your indefinite stay in there as a «badge of honour». ...

«VOLTAIRE».
[Bowing deeply.] Sir, I apologise profusely.

«ABBÉ DESFONTAINES».
[Bowing deeply.] As do I, Sir.

SARTINE.
Excellent. Now, where was I? ... Good grief! I've lost my train of thought. ... No matter. [He shrugs; then says in an offhand manner.] In my judgement, all satires have very limited value.

«ABBÉ DESFONTAINES».
What! ... Why so, Sir?

SARTINE.
Well, ... such works have little or no perceptible effect: firstly, on the relatively small number of people who do understand them; and secondly, on the majority, either because they don't understand them or because they are quite unconcerned about the follies and vices alluded to. ... Furthermore, as my experiences as the senior civil servant of the magistrature and the police constantly show me, the truth has no need of either embroidery or varnish.

«VOLTAIRE».
Well said, M. de Sartine! [He casts a somewhat sententious glance at the Abbé D.]

«ABBÉ DESFONTAINES».
Hmph! It's quite clear that Bastippo didn't knock any sense into you in that winter of '26. So, [He draws his sword.] on guard!

«VOLTAIRE».
[Drawing his sword.] My pleasure!

SARTINE.
Good heavens! ... What recidivists! [Whilst he is shaking his head in mock despair, he bumps into a man in a hurry, and the two ghosts vanish into thin air; he wheels round sharply; then :] Bloody fool! What's the hurry!? [Suddenly recognizing V. H., he heaves a great sigh of relief.] Ah! M. Haüy, here we are again! ... Please do accept my profound apologies.

VALENTIN HAÜY.
I assure you, my Lord, that you have no need to apologize; I wasn't looking where I was going, because I'm beside myself.

SARTINE.
[In a concerned tone.] Why so, Sir?

VALENTIN HAÜY.
Because I've just witnessed a most singular spectacle: one which both saddens and outrages me. ... Look over there! [He points towards towards a 1½ m high dais, where 8 violinists and 1 bassist, decked out in grotesque clothes, coiffured in fool's caps, and wearing large transparent spectacles, are playing discordant music in front of a small but apparently excited crowd, who are jeering at them; a tenth man, dressed similarly, who is standing astride a peacock, beats time.]

SARTINE.
But ... that's merely a burlesque concert.

VALENTIN HAÜY.
No; absolutely not. It's a disgrace to our country! Those men there are blind pensioners from the Hospice for the Three Hundred.

SARTINE.
What! All those disadvantaged men over there have served in our armed forces for the honour of France?

VALENTIN HAÜY.
Yes, my Lord; that's correct. ... From this moment forth, I swear to myself that I will teach the blind to read and write, so as to give them back their dignity. ... Good day, my Lord. [He bows cursorily, then hurries away. Sartine appears lost briefly in thought, then casts a sweep of his surroundings, adopts a determined look, and finally moves towards the Rue Royale.]


SCENE 2. The front courtyard of the Palace of Versailles (Sunday). As Sartine is about to step into his coach, Thierry de Ville-d'Avray, the Dauphin's principal gentleman of the bedchamber, approaches him.

THIERRY.
Ah! My Lord, I'm glad you're still here.

SARTINE.
Why so, my dear Thierry?

THIERRY.
Because my Lord the Dauphin hopes that you would be so kind as to accompany him around the Grand Canal.

SARTINE.
My pleasure, Sir; that will be a great honour for me, as usual. Ah! One moment, please. [Then to Gros-Jean.] You can make yourself scarce: but be sure to keep a weather-eye open for me! [Gros-Jean touches his hat in acknowledgement.] Excellent! [To Thierry.] Now, my dear fellow, tell me, how are you?

THIERRY.
I'm very well, thank you. And yourself?... [The sounds of their conversation progressively fade away as they walk towards the canal.]


SCENE 3. The path around the Grand Canal of Versailles. The Dauphin and Sartine converse together as they stroll in a leisurely manner; a few gentlemen-in-waiting, including Thierry, follow them at a discreet distance.

SARTINE.
[Replying to a question.] Yes, my Lord; as I have just been discussing with M. Thierry, my audience with His Majesty and M. de Saint-Florentin was most fruitful. Setting aside our usual affairs concerning the provisioning of the City and so forth, the main item on the agenda was the verification of our measures for the imminent reorganization of the Watch.

DAUPHIN.
Oh? Why has it been necessary to do that, Sir?

SARTINE.
Well, my Lord, for one reason or another, the previously constituted Watch did not have the necessary competance to fulfil its functions, either at the High Courts or at the prisons of For-L'Évêque and Saint-Martin. Furthermore, ever since that most unfortunate, and very probably avoidable, catastrophe which occurred in the Place Louis XV — some fifteen months ago now [The Dauphin briefly adopts an expression of great sadness.] — as Paris was celebrating your felicitous marriage, the mayor and I have attempted to define more closely our respective responsibilities for the safety of the good people of the City.

DAUPHIN.
And, have you reached an accommodation with M. Bignon?

SARTINE.
I believe so, my Lord. Our new precautionary measures are proving successful, judging by my observations at the Saint-Ovide Fair this week.

DAUPHIN.
In the Place Louis XIV?

SARTINE.
No, my Lord. The Saint-Ovide Fair has made the Place Louis XV its permanent home this year.

DAUPHIN.
Er, ... Did you find anything there to catch your eye?

SARTINE.
[Enigmatically.] Not necessarily, my Lord. [He shrugs his shoulders very slightly.] I did see a somewhat indifferent satire on the mores of France during the '40s, set against the background of an episode which supposèdly occurred in the course of Admiral Anson's circumnavigation.

DAUPHIN.
Ah! I enjoyed reading a relation of his epic voyage, by a certain ... er, ... Doctor Walter, if I remember aright? [Sartine nods in agreement.] But, as a good Frenchman, it goes without saying that I much prefer M. de Bougainville's vivid account of his recent voyage around the world.

SARTINE.
As do I, my Lord.

DAUPHIN.
It would appear to be the veritable book of the moment?

SARTINE.
Indeed it does, my Lord! [They share a smile.]

DAUPHIN.
Do I gather from what you said just now that you were not overly impressed by that satire at the Fair?

SARTINE.
No, my Lord. ... However, to be frank with you, I must admit I found that several passages within it were quite baffling. That said, almost all of its satirical barbs could, in my opinion, be equally applied to England. ...

DAUPHIN.
Mmm, ... You say «almost all»?

SARTINE.
Yes, my Lord. There was admittedly the imputation that our Navy was «more ornament than use», which struck me as having more than a grain of truth.

DAUPHIN.
And why do you say that, Sir?

SARTINE.
Well, my Lord, be they on land or at sea, our servicemen have constantly shown that have never lacked bravery, even when they have been faced with our most inveterate enemy. And... [The Dauphin interrupts him.]

DAUPHIN.
Please forgive my interruption, Sir, but I presume you mean by them, «The Perfidious Albion»?

SARTINE.
Yes, my Lord. Nevertheless, although England may indeed be treacherous — witness her dishonourable conduct in '56, immediately before the start of the Seven Years' War [The Dauphin nods in agreement.] — I doubt very much whether that such an attribute is in itself a sufficient explanation for her hegemony over the seas.

DAUPHIN.
Tell me, Sir, do you interest yourself in maritime affairs?

SARTINE.
No, my Lord; not especially. That said, my late father was extremely knowledgeable about the Navy and commerce of Spain and the Indies; and my father-in-law and former guardian, M. de Colabau, is engaged in affairs of the merchant navy. ... Er, ... A little bird has told me that my Lord is very well informed about many aspects of the marine?

DAUPHIN.
[Laughing gently.] What! Sir, I know for a fact that our Lieutenant General of Police has a thousand «birdies» at his disposal! [Sartine smiles warmly, but with just a hint of embarrassment.] But you are absolutely right. M. Ozanne has instructed me in all the essential maritime terms, as well as the characteristics, the plans, and so forth, of various types of ships. ...

SARTINE.
Er, ... And the practical, my Lord?

DAUPHIN.
To some degree, yes. That's to say, he made use of small craft sailing on the Canal to provide me with some notions of manœuvres and navigation. ... Mmm, small. [He sighs wistfully.] It's a great pity that small-scale models of the great ships no longer glide along the Canal, as in days of yore, because of their very costly upkeep. ... Yes: what a pity!

SARTINE.
I very much share your opinion, my Lord. Ah yes! [Then, dreamily.] Mmm, ... That would have been a sight to behold. [At this juncture, a silence of about three minutes follows, during which time Sartine, but not the Dauphin, imagines the following tableau: the Grand Canal is illuminated; King Louis XIV, aged 48, is seated in a gondola, accompanied by some ladies; several musicians, seated in another boat, play the Overture, Symphonie pour Neptune, and Air de Tritons from the music of the ballet Le Canal de Versailles by André Philidor; the Court follows in several smaller craft; and this entire company glide along the Canal whilst admiring a fireworks' display. Then, after about three minutes :]

DAUPHIN.
[In a mischievous tone.] Sir, am I boring you!?

SARTINE.
[Coming out of his daydream.] Oh! Not in the least, my Lord. I apologise profusely; my mind was elsewhere.

DAUPHIN.
[Smiling quizzically.] And where might that be, Sir, if my question is not too indiscreet?

SARTINE.
Ah! In a spatial sense, my Lord, no more than a stone's throw from here [He points towards the canal.], but in a temporal sense, far away; that's to say, I was imagining one of those musical entertainments on the Grand Canal that your great-great-grandfather gave at the end of the last century.

DAUPHIN.
My word, Sir, you must have a vivid imagination! [He looks thoughtful for a moment, then glances at his pocket-watch and says :] Mmm, ... Be that as it may, I fear alas that we must call a halt to our interesting discussion; my belovèd aunts will be expecting me for supper.

SARTINE.
[Inclining his head respectfully.] Very good, my Lord. [He makes his farewells.]


SCENE 4. Sartine's chambers (the following day); its clock shows 6.15. Sartine, wearing a black robe and a lightly-powdered wig, enters his chambers and walks towards his pride and joy.

SARTINE.
[Opening the looking-glass cupboard, filled with scores of wigs, he admires and handles his collection with visible pleasure for three minutes — background music: Jacques Duphly's harpsichord piece La De Sartine. Then, aloud to himself.] To work! [Sitting down at his desk, he starts to cast a conscientious eye over the mountain of paperwork. He picks up a thick file and reads its title aloud.] «Edict of 16th September 1771: The Reorganization of the Company of the Watch of Paris.» [He smiles contentedly.] ... ...

«AFTERWORD»

[Whilst the closing remarks are spoken by a voice-over, five scenes are projected on a split screen, and a hunting-horn fanfare by the Marquis de Dampierre, Le bonsoir, is played sotto voce.

1° N.-E. quadrant: Louis XV aged 11, lost in wonder, and three of his gentlemen of the bedchamber, who are casting meaningful looks at the uncovered bed, are standing in the king's apartments at the Tuileries (in February 1721); in sub-titles, for the king: During the night I experienced a most agreeable pain that I had never felt before.

2° S.-E. quadrant: Three lackeys are bastinading François-Marie Arouet, known as Voltaire, near the Duc de Sully's townhouse in the Rue Saint-Antoine, where the Chevalier Guy-Auguste de Rohan-Chabot, hanging out of the window of a second coach in this street, is wearing a conceited expression (in January 1726); in sub-titles, for Rohan-Chabot: Don't crack his head; something good may yet emerge from it.

3° S.-W. quadrant: Louis-Yves Aubry and his father, Louis-Rémy, in the audience of Montauban's principal theatre, where a playbill indicates a contemporary performance of Le Franc de Pompignan's Didon, are looking in the direction of a pretty girl aged 15 (in January 1764); in sub-titles, for the father: Yes, my son; that is indeed Mlle Gouze.

4° N.-W. quadrant: Joseph Boulogne, known as the Chevalier de Saint-George, holding his violin, and Captain Choderlos de Laclos, holding his libretto Ernestine and with tears in his eyes, are standing on the stage of the Théâtre de l'Hôtel de Bourgogne, where the audience are directing various expressions of applause towards Saint-George and those of derision towards Laclos (in July 1777); in sub-titles, for Laclos: It's pearls before swine.]

5° Centre: Mme Olympe de Gouges (born Marie Gouze), the Chevalier de Saint-George, his hand ready to unsheathe his sword, and several Girondins are face to face with Jean-Paul Marat and his band of armed sans-culottes, in the lounge of the Talmas' townhouse, Rue Chantereine (in October 1792); in sub-titles, for Mme de Gouges: No, my dear Saint-George; they are merely the worst type of amphibian.]

VOICE-OVER.
Well, ladies and gentlemen, what do you think of «The Affair of the Frivolous Wigs», so to speak? What! Not much yet, do I hear? No matter: as they say, «Patience is a virtue» and «The truth will out»; and, in this regard, it is incumbent upon me to set out certain considerations that are pertinent to those four trifling incidents mentioned at the start. ...

1° King Louis XV's precocious puberty prefigured his quite extraordinary amorous proclivities, which, in turn, resulted in the disproportionate dissipation of his attention and his time, generally to the detriment of France, as these two aspects should exemplify. Firstly: at the beginning of the 18th century, France was Europe's most populous nation, and French had already supplanted Latin as the lingua franca of educated people. So, logic demands that French should have become the lingua franca of the western world. But, his neglect of the affairs of State, and most specifically those of the Navy, led: initially to the loss of Canada, following the end of the Seven Years' War in 1763; and subsequently to the loss of the present-day United States, not without irony, following the victory of the French Navy at Chesapeake Bay in 1781. And one inexorable consequence of these losses has been that, for better or worse, English has become the universal auxiliary language. Secondly: he was serially unfaithful in his vows not only to his wife, ignominious in itself, but also, and of far greater importance, to the good Lord in Heaven — not least because the king of France was supposèdly His divine image on Earth. Accordingly, he bequeathed to his grandson, the future Louis XVI, as well as to France, not merely a poisoned chalice, but one which was cracked, perhaps beyond repair.

2° In essence, the commoner Arouet received his bastinading from the Chevalier de Rohan-Chabot because he chose to depart from the established order, based on the ostensibly «pure blue blood» of the aristocracy. However, it is a moot point whether his drubbing had a salutary effect on History, given that Voltaire, as a celebrated man of letters, would subsequently articulate in effect the same misanthropic and unenlightened perspective, as these two «pearls of wisdom» reveal. First, from 1756: «Only a blind man could doubt that the Whites, the Negroes, the Albinos, the Hottentots, the Lapps, the Chinese, and the indigenous Americans are from entirely different races.» And then, from 1766: «It is apposite that the people be guided: but not educated, for they are not worthy of being so.»

3° Louis-Yves Aubry's lecherous eye led to his union with Olympe de Gouges. Her unhappy experiences within this loveless marriage, coupled to the callous rejection by her biological father, Le Franc de Pompignan, laid down the foundations of her well-developed social conscience: and hence for her divers writings championing the disadvantaged, which culminated with her masterpiece: the Declaration of the Rights of Woman and Female Citizen. Most unfortunately, the very precepts that she articulated in her Declaration delayed the equalization of women, precisely because they are irrefutable; and, as the saying goes, alas, «All truth will not bear telling». On the other hand, in this day and age, a thorough knowledge of her life, together with the unequivocal acceptance of the same precepts, would provide everyone with a caveat to the actions and to the undue selectivity of the accounts of the past: and hence a more robust beacon of hope for the future.

4° Laclos' pique, following the derisive reception of his libretto Ernestine by high society, prompted in part this talented engineer to write his scandalous epistolary novel Dangerous Liaisons. This allegorical work, symbolizing the painfully slow rape of France by the idle rich, was a total failure in the sense of not changing the hearts and minds of his contemporaries: partly because of its necessarily prolix structure; and partly because of its very substance — that's to say, the letters themselves contain no constructive or usable information. Hurriedly glossing over his radical and thought-provoking essay Of Woman and Their Education, the failure of the aforementioned novel prompted Laclos — prior to and at the beginning of the French Revolution — to write propaganda, where neither literary talent nor truth was a requirement for its purpose: indeed, quite the contrary. ...

[Ad libitum: At this point, the original scenes projected on the split screen are replaced by others which illustrate the following aspects.] ...

Now, that's all well and good, you will say: but what about Sartine? Hmph! Strictly speaking, I should not need to say that the facts speak for themselves: on the other hand, a brief summary will definitely not go amiss. Firstly, being scrupulous, assiduous, discreet, versatile, enlightened, and mindful of the disadvantaged, Sartine was, almost certainly, the consummate civil servant par excellence of his era or, indeed, any other: be it in France or elsewhere. Secondly, his sole weakness, as such, although not an Achilles' heel, was his predilection, not to say obsession, for wigs; he spared no pains in acquiring the latest and finest specimen available, and consequently he possessed Europe's greatest collection. Thirdly, the Dauphin and Sartine established close relations following their complementary measures to redress the grave aftermath of a carnival — held in the Place Louis XV, on 30th May 1770, celebrating the marriage of the Dauphin and Marie-Antoinette — where, during a large fireworks' display, a movement in the crowd degenerated into a mad panic, with the accompaniment of great loss of life. Fourthly, from the very moment he was appointed Minister of the Marine, four years later, and notwithstanding his total lack of experience in maritime affairs, Sartine worked in close collaboration with King Louis XVI to reform much of the infrastructure of the French Navy with great success. And finally, as Jacques Michel has perspicaciously written: «... the close collaboration between the Franco-American naval and land forces during the Seige of Yorktown, [near Chesapeake Bay, in 1781], eventually led to a victorious peace, which saw the success of our essential designs: the independence of the United States and the maritime debasement of England. Those felicitous outcomes stemmed largely from the value of the naval forces with which Sartine had known how to equip France opportunely, as well as the appropriate logistics with which he had surrounded them. The Americans shower great praise on Lafayette and a few other Frenchmen, whereas they owe infinitely more to Sartine.» ...

Now, with that summary «done and dusted», I contend that the affair has now come full circle. In fact, all things considered, it becomes fairly evident that there might well be decided advantages in taking a keen interest in wigs. ... However, before you order a brand-new wig for your good self or your belovèd — and why not!? — much less accept willy-nilly the aforementioned thesis — a new received wisdom, so to speak — I urge you to reflect on the following cautionary note. ... The music of the Chevalier de Saint-George passed under silence for nearly two hundred years, because of prejudice: be that musical, or colour, or both. Then, no sooner had his music re-appeared from the shadows, than the Chevalier was accorded the epithet of the «Black Mozart». But, given the chronological precedence of the Chevalier's music, why not that of the «White Saint-George» for Wolfgang Mozart? Or, better still, indeed infinitely so, given that the true quality of the output of any mind is unrelated to either sex or colour, no epithet at all. ...

So, at least one moral of this film? Well, assuredly the following: Cease assailing the minds of the youth — that fragile flower of the future — with received wisdoms, be they from the past or the present, otherwise little or nothing good will emerge from them.

[Finally, the film's closing music: Jean-Frédéric Edelmann's tune known as La Marseillaise, played on a harpsichord.]


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