Voltaire and Catherine the Great discuss American democracy …

Wim’s new play Wiser than the Night is a witty and sweeping drama of ideas that asks a trenchant question about democracy: “What went wrong?”

Set in 1980 in the wake of Ronald Reagan’s election, Wiser than the Night brings together events of the Bolshevik Revolution, Stalinist tyranny, Russian folklore, and American history and politics. It includes the historical figures Catherine the Great, Peter III, Potemkin, and Voltaire. In one scene, Voltaire pays Catherine the Great a visit from the afterlife to discuss the future of American democracy. Their chat becomes more than a little prescient.

VOLTAIRE: What have I missed since I’ve been dead? How are those upstart American colonies doing, now that they’ve declared their independence? How fares their war against Britain?

CATHERINE: They might just win.

VOLTAIRE: Have they chosen a king yet?

CATHERINE: It doesn’t appear that they want one.

VOLTAIRE: Ha. Dr. Franklin said so when we met. I thought he was joking.

CATHERINE: They aim to become a republic of sorts. Don’t you approve?

VOLTAIRE: The question is, are they ready? I doubt it very much. An enlightened monarch is what they need.

CATHERINE: Where would they look to find one?

VOLTAIRE: To the noble houses of Europe, naturally. There are plenty of dynastic pretenders to choose from. What about your son? Might he be looking for something to keep him busy? A sort of—hobby, maybe?

CATHERINE: Aside from trying to murder his dear mother? I’m not that lucky. Anyway, I don’t think America would have him.

VOLTAIRE: Surely they don’t fancy choosing somebody from their own population—a common bourgeois merchant or planter or blacksmith or some backwoods trapper. What would they even call him? A chairman, a foreman, an overseer, a boss, a—president?

CATHERINE: Maybe they can do without one altogether.

VOLTAIRE: Oh, really—

CATHERINE: How can anybody know till it’s been tried? No more of this—this breeding of monarchs as livestock and pretending God picks and chooses. Surely the world has had enough of that. Perhaps the people of America can learn to govern themselves.

VOLTAIRE: Now you’re scaring me. A government must certainly be for the people—that’s what “consent of the governed” means. But a government by the people, and purely of the people? You’re talking about anarchy, my friend—no, something worse, democracy.

CATHERINE: Why not? It worked in ancient Athens.

VOLTAIRE: Yes, in a cozy little city state where everybody knew everybody else, but not in a bustling frontier teetering on the brink of savagery. Oh, this “all men are created equal” business is well and good, but just between you and me, there’s plenty of evidence against it. And anyway, it would take a powerful king to make this equality thing really work. A philosopher king isn’t out of the question—they do turn up now and again. Look at you, you’ve got an excellent head on your shoulders. But a whole nation of philosopher citizens? Don’t put money on it. Here’s a thought. What about pure democracy tempered by absolute despotism? No, don’t sneer at the idea. That sniveling sentimentalist Rousseau got one thing right. People must sometimes be forced to be free.

CATHERINE: But forced by whom? That seems to be the problem of America itself.

VOLTAIRE: Indeed, and it’s likely to continue so. They’ll have to get rid of slavery somehow, but what happens then? After a couple of centuries of strife and striving, lurching between the giddiness of progress and stomach-churning failure, I fear Americans will tire of the fight and surrender to their own basest instincts and become a nation of puppets. And the puppeteer they choose for their leader will be nothing but a puppet himself, a hollow automaton with neither mind nor will nor purpose, a demagogic fool ranting through his teeth and flailing his limbs and yanking his subjects’ strings in random idiotic fury.

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A complete PDF of Wiser than the Night can be downloaded HERE.

“The Mad Scene” — prologue to Wim’s award-winning play

Here is the prologue to my full-length play The Mad Scene, which has been aptly described as “an Our Town about the French Reign of Terror.” It was developed during 2020-21 as part of the Theatre at St. John’s Cyber Salon, hosted by Mark Erson. The parts were read by Jenne Vath, Sally Plass, Maude Burke, Shane Baker, and the late Everett Quinton; Daniel Neiden directed. The Mad Scene has yet to be produced.

The Mad Scene was awarded First Place in the Script category of the 91st Annual Writer’s Digest Writing Competition. It was chosen for the Second Round in the Stage Play category of the 2024 Austin Film Festival’s Script Competition.

The entire text of The Mad Scene is available by clicking right here.

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PROLOGUE

Characters:

Marie Grosholtz/Madame Tussaud
Marie Antoinette

The scene is the Madeleine Cemetery, Paris, the night of October 16, 1793.

MARIE ANTOINETTE’s head lies in the lap of MARIE GROSHOLTZ, who will later become known as Madame Tussaud. MARIE works by the light of a lantern. At first, ANTOINETTE’s eyes are closed; then they snap open.

ANTOINETTE. There is no sky.

MARIE. Madame, can you hear me?

ANTOINETTE. I never noticed it before.

MARIE. I must take your face.

ANTOINETTE. Carolina, look for yourself. You’ll see it’s true.

MARIE. I’m not Carolina.

ANTOINETTE. There is no sky. There are only stars. Oh, and a slender curved scimitar of a moon, hanging by … an invisible thread, I suppose. But tied to what? There’s nothing to tie it to, nothing to hang it from. There is no sky. (wincing) Don’t. Carolina, why are you touching my face like that?

MARIE. I’m not your sister. I’ve got to make a cast of your face.

ANTOINETTE. What are you smearing on my skin?

MARIE. Oil, so the plaster won’t stick.

ANTOINETTE. What a silly thing to do on such a night, with a moon and so many stars and no sky at all to gaze at. Look.

MARIE. I’m looking.

MA-Lebrun

Marie Antoinette, by Élisabeth Vigée Le Brun.

ANTOINETTE. No, you’re not. You’re looking down at me. You’re in the way of my view. But where are we? Oh, we fell asleep in the gardens again, didn’t we? I was counting clouds and you were giving them names and it got dark without us knowing it. Our dresses must be soaked through with dew. Odd, I feel so … dry. We’ve got to get back to the palace. The countess must be angry. Or beside herself with worry. Poor old thing, we’re so much trouble to her.

MARIE. We’re not in your garden in Vienna.

ANTOINETTE. Of course we are.

MARIE. No. This is the Madeleine Cemetery. In Paris

ANTOINETTE. What are we doing in Paris? Don’t touch my eyes.

MARIE. I’m only closing them.

ANTOINETTE. Why?

MARIE. Because they’re not glass. I’m covering them with plaster.

ANTOINETTE. I don’t understand.

MARIE. It’s best not to talk.

ANTOINETTE. Why not?

MARIE. The dead are usually quiet. Or at least they’re supposed to be.

Exécution_de_Marie-Antoinette,_Musée_de_la_Révolution_française_-_Vizille

Execution of Marie Antoinette, Museum of the French Revolution. Licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 4.0 International license: creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/deed.en

ANTOINETTE. I’m not dead.

MARIE. Madame, you have been beheaded. You are certainly dead. Tomorrow you will be buried. It really would be best to keep quiet. You’ll upset yourself.

ANTOINETTE. You’re not Carolina.

MARIE. So I’ve been telling you.

ANTOINETTE. I’ve not been beheaded.

MARIE. You have, and it was hard to find you among so many dead, all thrown about every which way, so it’s hard to tell whose head belongs to whose body. Don’t you smell the stench?

ANTOINETTE. No.

MARIE. Death has its blessings then. I never guessed how blood and flesh could stink. It’s always such a chore, this scrounging through stench and open graves, looking for just a certain head. Your husband was even harder to find than you, and to make things worse, he was already dissolving in quicklime.

ANTOINETTE. My husband?

MARIE. But I found you. I recognized the white morning dress you wore on the scaffold, even though it was stained and caked with blood and dirt. Then your head was easy to spot, plopped right between your knees. But your face looks strange now—so thin and drawn, with a scalp of short white hair. When did your hair turn white? Oh, I hear it was after you were caught trying to escape—you and the king and your children. I can fix all this when I make your new face.

ANTOINETTE. Who are you?

MARIE. I hoped you’d remember me, madame. My name is Marie Grosholtz. I lived at Versailles nine years. I tutored Madame Elizabeth in molding wax, and I lived in her apartments and kept her company. You were very kind to me in those days, madame.

ANTOINETTE. Versailles? Madame Elizabeth?

MARIE. The king’s sister. You don’t remember. You’re confused. But don’t worry. The plaster will set, and we’ll be finished soon, and it won’t matter whether you remember or not. I needn’t tell you to keep still. You’re doing that anyway.

ANTOINETTE. There is no sky.

MARIE. I’m sure you are correct, madame.

ANTOINETTE. Oh, yes. Versailles. They tell me I’m going there. They tell me I am to become the Dauphine of France.

MARIE. If you say so, madame.

ANTOINETTE. I am to marry the Dauphin, they tell me—Louis-Auguste, some cousin I’ve never met. They say he is a clumsy boy, rather stupid, and he’s sure to grow fat, and he can’t dance at all. But then, I’m just a girl myself, and people say I am silly and I laugh more than I should and I like to dance too much. No, don’t deny it, I know that’s what they say. But he’s a boy, just a boy. I wish I could marry a man, someone wiser, someone I could trust to know …
… how to …
But it’s not up to me, is it? Nothing is up to me. And not only must I stop being an archduchess, they tell me I must stop being Austrian, and I must say goodbye to everyone I’ve ever known—even to you, Carolina, and also to Mutti—and I must forget how to speak German and speak French perfectly for the rest of my life. And when I go to France, before I meet the Dauphin in the Forest of Compiègne, I must be stripped of every scrap of my Austrian dress and be clothed anew in the manner of a French princess. Of course there will be people watching me change. It’s always been like that. I’ve never been naked alone. But in France there will be more people than ever, watching my every waking moment, and while I’m sleeping as well. I will put on my rouge in front of the whole world. It will never stop.

MARIE. There. The plaster is set. I’m almost finished.

ANTOINETTE. That pinches.

MARIE. Yes, but only for a moment, while I remove the cast.

(MARIE pulls the cast away.)

MARIE. I must leave you now.

ANTOINETTE. Where are you going?

MARIE. To where I work.

ANTOINETTE. You can’t leave me.

MARIE. I must. I’m sorry.

ANTOINETTE. I am your queen.

MARIE. France has no queen.

ANTOINETTE. Obey me.

MARIE. I must obey the National Assembly. I wish it weren’t so.

ANTOINETTE. Take me with you.

MARIE. I can’t take your head, madame. I’ll lose my own if I try. Adieu.

Madame_Tussaud,_age_42

Marie Tussaud, by John Theodore Tussaud.

ANTOINETTE. Wait! I remember! Your name is Marie! You make likenesses from wax! Elizabeth adores you! She came running to me a little while ago to show me a Virgin you taught her how to make. “Look, sister!” she said. “Look at my little wax Mother of God! I made her look just like you without meaning to, I couldn’t help it! Was that blasphemous of me, sister? Must I confess it to the abbé?” “No, sister,” I said. “No blasphemy at all …”

MARIE. Adieu, madame.

ANTOINETTE. But what will happen to me after you go?

MARIE. I don’t know.

ANTOINETTE. Oh, but you do. I’ll vanish. I’ll die. Please, I beg you. It is only by the grace and bounty of your madness that I still live. Don’t let me die.

MARIE. You’ll live again in wax.

ANTOINETTE. But will I remember … ?

MARIE. I don’t know what you’ll remember.

ANTOINETTE. Will I still be myself?

MARIE. I don’t know.

ANTOINETTE. Am I myself even now?

MARIE. I said I don’t know.

ANTOINETTE. Please stay!

MARIE. Dawn is nearing.

ANTOINETTE. We’ll watch it together!

MARIE. I must go.

ANTOINETTE. We’ll skip barefoot in the dew, watch morning burst into blossoms of light, bathe ourselves in mad mists of swirling color! We’ll worship the sun and laugh and dance like Incan priestesses!

MARIE. Adieu.

(MARIE exits, carrying her lantern.)

ANTOINETTE (dying). There … is … no … sky …

BLACKOUT.

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Le triomphe de la guillotine, Nicolas-Antoine Taunay

The Cave of Euripides on Salamis Island (poem)

written for the dedication
of the William S.E. Coleman Studio Theatre,
June 18, 2016

But were you ever really here?
Did you sit here brooding upon this cave’s sullen lip
gazing over the bay of doves,
a shrouded exile from lies and war and treachery,
holding your worlds within?
Did you come away from Athens to this dead heart,
its throbbing chambers long since stilled and petrified,
its arteries and veins drained of their wine?
And were you ever really here?

This clay shard with letters of your name proves nothing.
Your acolytes came here seeking you;
finding nothing but an empty cave,
they wrote your name upon a bowl
and drank from it in prayer
and sang your verses to these deaf damp walls.
Your acolytes were fools
not to pass on through these walls of fog
into joys deeper than woe and higher than thought;
for there is no firmament above our heads;
the starry void goes on forever;
our lives do not.

Let’s go away
and carry our riches to an empty room
with your name above its door,
a space that’s rough, immediate, and holy,
where dreamers walk and dance
and sing their dreams awake to one another,
where sacred lies and probabilities abound,
where stories are told and worlds transfigured,
where stone chambers of the heart turn flesh again
pulsing with the sweet wine of eternity,
most terrible and gentle to us all.

—Wim

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A Playwright’s Predicament

“Who are you writing for?”

A respected friend of mine asked me that after reading my new play, Wiser than the Night. As it happened, Pat and I were discussing that very question over breakfast that morning. It’s a good question, I suppose. Maybe even the only question. I’ve always believed that writers must always write for themselves, then hope for the grace of kindred spirits for readers, however few those readers might be—or in the case of a play, however small the audience.

As I worked on this play, I found myself remembering what Simone de Beauvoir wrote about Sartre’s The Flies (a play I’m pretty obsessed with):

“The real function of the theater, Sartre thought at the time, is to appeal to those who share a common predicament with the playwright.”

Sartre’s “predicament” was that of a patriotic resistance fighter in Vichy France. My predicament is that of a 72-year-old man who has lived through enough of this split second we presume to call “human history” to be puzzled by its fruits, staring down the barrel of an awful future for humanity.

The action of Wiser than the Night ranges from the 18th-century Enlightenment to the election of President Ronald Reagan. Its characters include an elderly Russian dancer who survived the Russian Revolution, and also Catherine the Great and the French philosophe Voltaire.

“Why Voltaire?” I’ve been asked.

I was raised to revere the influence of Enlightenment thinkers on the world of ideas, especially our civic values and our systems of governance—and Voltaire is the Enlightenment personified. Like a character in my play, I find myself wanting to ask Voltaire, “What went wrong?” How did an epoch that began with the United States Constitution and the French Déclaration des droits de l’Homme et du citoyen bring us to the ascendency of Viktor Orbán, Vladimir Putin, and Donald Trump?

I don’t have an answer to that question, but in my own mind, it’s what Wiser than the Night is all about. And it’s a question that must be asked.

If only I can find an audience, however small, that shares my “predicament” …

—Wim

Download a PDF of the play Wiser than the Night HERE.

Illustration for “Wassilissa the Beautiful” (Vasilisa the Beautiful), a Russian folktale.

Casanova, Constanze Mozart, and the shape of life …

Engraving of Constanze Mozart at 19 or 20. Artist: Joseph Lange, brother-in-law of Mozart. Date: 1783.

“My husband makes things that live forever.”
“Then he must be a fool.”

I’ve been doing a bit of work on my new play “The Rake’s Visit: A One-Act Capriccio on a Theme from Don Giovanni,” about a fictional meeting between Giacomo Casanova and Constanze Mozart (downloadable here). These new lines come right after a playful improvisation in which Giacomo and Constanze create a little “opera” set in an imaginary place where people live truly free and creative lives:

GIACOMO.
But you are crying.

CONSTANZE.
It’s nothing.

GIACOMO.
Tell me.

CONSTANZE.
Am I dreaming—or am I dying?
It must be one or the other.
Here we are, the two of us together,
and I don’t believe I’ve ever felt so lost—
or so lonely.

GIACOMO.
Have you never felt it before—
this loneliness that must be shared by two?
It is the bitterest loneliness of all—
and also the loveliest.

CONSTANZE.
It’s sad—so sad.
Soon we’ll forget—all this ever happened—
this—this warmth of the brandy in our throats,
this yeasty aroma of fresh-baked stories,
the taste and—and tempo of our words—
this moment will die.

GIACOMO.
As all moments must and shall.
That is what moments are for,
to abide and then to perish,
and thank God for it.
We breathe, and then surrender every breath.
We light a candle, and we snuff it with a pinch of dampened fingers.
So it is with our lives, yours and mine and everybody’s.
A life without death would not be worth living.
Death is what gives life meaning, gives it …

CONSTANZE.
Shape?

GIACOMO.
The very thing.
Death is the boundary that holds us back
from formlessness and void.

CONSTANZE.
My husband makes things that live forever.

GIACOMO.
Then he must be a fool.
I myself am writing my own life story,
from beginning to end—
my joys and sorrows,
masterstrokes and blunders,
triumphs and debacles,
feats of magic, feats of fraud,
mortifications manifold and glories ever-fleeting,
and, oh yes, ladies, ladies, ladies—
in dozens of volumes, thousands of pages, millions of words—
and my greatest fear is that I’ll die
before I get the chance to burn them all,
every last scrap of ink on paper,
unread by any living soul …

—Wim