there deep inside her, what?
Lights and liver? Bones and blood?
No. The body of the Queen of France and there deep inside her the soul: the girl, taking a walk. From the gardens of Schönbrunn to the Grand Canal of Versailles; from the taste of sweet woodruff to the smell of rain and fish. A straight line connecting the two prime coordinates that, if only she'd paid better attention to her studies, she could have used to locate the third, without which her life would always lack dimension.
Every life has a shape. Even the lives of dogs, though they're born embodying theirs, unlike humans. Even Eggplant, his big round eyeballs rolling from side to side under his silky eyelids, snoring and twitching and dreaming at the foot of the bed. Even a sparrow, a trout, a flea.
Of course death is never a coordinate, not for humans at least.
Which is why it's wrong to say that a life gets cut short.
Turgot's Lament
(after Purcell)
Thy will, oh False One, has betrayed me.
My power revoked at thy behest.
More I would, but cannot save thee
From thy cruel extravagance.
Â
"When I am laid in earth
May my words create
Desolation in thy breast.
Forget me, ah! while I enjoy thy fate.
Count Falkenstein
A spring evening,
1777.
Jeanne Bécu Du Barry's estate at Louveciennes. The moon is full and a light breeze is blowing. A perfect evening, in other words, were it not for the fact that the French economy is growing weaker by the minute, war is brewing in the Low Countries, and the King and Queen still haven't managed to consummate their marriage. The Queen's eldest brother, Joseph, recently arrived in Paris, is paying Madame Du Barry a visit. He's traveling incognito (in the guise of "Count Falkenstein"), liking to view himself as a cloak-wrapped stranger who appears from out of nowhere, performs good deeds, and only later is revealed to be Holy Roman Emperor. When the curtain rises Joseph can be seen looking out an open window, stage left, moonlight illuminating the serious expression on his face. He's wearing a toupee, and what's left of his own hair is
in
a long pigtail down his back; his eyes are protuberant, not unlike Eggplant's. Jeanne meanwhile reclines on a striped sofa, center stage. As buxom as her guest is rake-thin, she is bursting from a flowered
dressing gown and has her hands literally full, eating a roast chicken.
Â
J OSEPH : I tried reasoning with him. With both of them. It's like talking to a wall.
J EANNE
, chewing:
What did you say?
J OSEPH : That he has to have the operation. That their lives depend on producing an heir. His moronic brother, Artois, already has two, you know, and a third on the way. Also, she has to stop gambling. Gambling and flirting. Her debts come to almost five hundred thousand
livres.
J EANNE : Does she love him?
J OSEPH: I don't know. Mercy told my mother she's got the King wrapped around her little finger. She's more like a mistress than a wife, he says.
J EANNE : You could do worse, believe me.
J OSEPH : I'm sorry. I didn't meanâ
J EANNE : Please. Sit down. You're making me nervous.
She rings a bell and her page appears, in his pink suit and snow white turban.
Another bottle of champagne, Zamor, but this time it should be a whole lot colder. Ice-cold, my pet. Do you understand what I mean by that?
Z AMOR : Yes, Madame.
He bows and exits, stage right.
J EANNE : He doesn't have a clue, but he's so nice to look at.
Joseph begins pacing back and, forth behind the sofa; Jeanne continues to devour the chicken, thoughtful, licking her fingers.
Â
J EANNE : By the way, I think you're wrong.
J OSEPH : What?
J EANNE : About the operation. Wrong. Even if she loves him, which I don't think she does. Louis doesn't want to be King any more than your sister wants to be Queen. But once they produce an heir that'll be thatâthere'll be no turning back.
J OSEPH : You're joking.
J EANNE : I have no sense of humor, haven't you heard?
J OSEPH : And what do you suggest they do with the
Lights and liver? Bones and blood?
No. The body of the Queen of France and there deep inside her the soul: the girl, taking a walk. From the gardens of Schönbrunn to the Grand Canal of Versailles; from the taste of sweet woodruff to the smell of rain and fish. A straight line connecting the two prime coordinates that, if only she'd paid better attention to her studies, she could have used to locate the third, without which her life would always lack dimension.
Every life has a shape. Even the lives of dogs, though they're born embodying theirs, unlike humans. Even Eggplant, his big round eyeballs rolling from side to side under his silky eyelids, snoring and twitching and dreaming at the foot of the bed. Even a sparrow, a trout, a flea.
Of course death is never a coordinate, not for humans at least.
Which is why it's wrong to say that a life gets cut short.
Turgot's Lament
(after Purcell)
Thy will, oh False One, has betrayed me.
My power revoked at thy behest.
More I would, but cannot save thee
From thy cruel extravagance.
Â
"When I am laid in earth
May my words create
Desolation in thy breast.
Forget me, ah! while I enjoy thy fate.
Count Falkenstein
A spring evening,
1777.
Jeanne Bécu Du Barry's estate at Louveciennes. The moon is full and a light breeze is blowing. A perfect evening, in other words, were it not for the fact that the French economy is growing weaker by the minute, war is brewing in the Low Countries, and the King and Queen still haven't managed to consummate their marriage. The Queen's eldest brother, Joseph, recently arrived in Paris, is paying Madame Du Barry a visit. He's traveling incognito (in the guise of "Count Falkenstein"), liking to view himself as a cloak-wrapped stranger who appears from out of nowhere, performs good deeds, and only later is revealed to be Holy Roman Emperor. When the curtain rises Joseph can be seen looking out an open window, stage left, moonlight illuminating the serious expression on his face. He's wearing a toupee, and what's left of his own hair is
in
a long pigtail down his back; his eyes are protuberant, not unlike Eggplant's. Jeanne meanwhile reclines on a striped sofa, center stage. As buxom as her guest is rake-thin, she is bursting from a flowered
dressing gown and has her hands literally full, eating a roast chicken.
Â
J OSEPH : I tried reasoning with him. With both of them. It's like talking to a wall.
J EANNE
, chewing:
What did you say?
J OSEPH : That he has to have the operation. That their lives depend on producing an heir. His moronic brother, Artois, already has two, you know, and a third on the way. Also, she has to stop gambling. Gambling and flirting. Her debts come to almost five hundred thousand
livres.
J EANNE : Does she love him?
J OSEPH: I don't know. Mercy told my mother she's got the King wrapped around her little finger. She's more like a mistress than a wife, he says.
J EANNE : You could do worse, believe me.
J OSEPH : I'm sorry. I didn't meanâ
J EANNE : Please. Sit down. You're making me nervous.
She rings a bell and her page appears, in his pink suit and snow white turban.
Another bottle of champagne, Zamor, but this time it should be a whole lot colder. Ice-cold, my pet. Do you understand what I mean by that?
Z AMOR : Yes, Madame.
He bows and exits, stage right.
J EANNE : He doesn't have a clue, but he's so nice to look at.
Joseph begins pacing back and, forth behind the sofa; Jeanne continues to devour the chicken, thoughtful, licking her fingers.
Â
J EANNE : By the way, I think you're wrong.
J OSEPH : What?
J EANNE : About the operation. Wrong. Even if she loves him, which I don't think she does. Louis doesn't want to be King any more than your sister wants to be Queen. But once they produce an heir that'll be thatâthere'll be no turning back.
J OSEPH : You're joking.
J EANNE : I have no sense of humor, haven't you heard?
J OSEPH : And what do you suggest they do with the
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