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diff --git a/old/tpohs10.txt b/old/tpohs10.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9ce9239 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/tpohs10.txt @@ -0,0 +1,9795 @@ +*****The Project Gutenberg Etext of The Plays of +William Ernest Henley and Robert Louis Stevenson + +#34 in our series of Robert Louis Stevenson's works + + +Henley is best known for this quote from Invictus: + +"I am the master of my fate, +I am the of captain my soul." + + +He also published Hardy, Kipling and Wells when they were unknowns. + + +Copyright laws are changing all over the world, be sure to check +the copyright laws for your country before posting these files! + +Please take a look at the important information in this header. +We encourage you to keep this file on your own disk, keeping an +electronic path open for the next readers. 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Stevenson + +November, 1996 [Etext #719] + + +The Project Gutenberg Etext of The Plays of +William Ernest Henley and Robert Louis Stevenson + +*****This file should be named tpohs10.txt or tpohs10.zip****** +Corrected EDITIONS of our etexts get a new NUMBER, tpohs11.txt. +VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, tpohs10a.txt. + + +This etext was created by David Price +ccx074@coventry.ac.uk + + +We are now trying to release all our books one month in advance +of the official release dates, for time for better editing. + +Please note: neither this list nor its contents are final till +midnight of the last day of the month of any such announcement. +The official release date of all Project Gutenberg Etexts is at +Midnight, Central Time, of the last day of the stated month. A +preliminary version may often be posted for suggestion, comment +and editing by those who wish to do so. 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Hart + + + +INVICTUS + + +Out of the night that covers me, + Black as the pit from pole to pole, +I thank whatever gods may be + for my unconquerable soul. + +In the fell clutch of circumstance + I have not winced nor cried aloud. +Under the bludgeonings of chance + My head is bloody, but unbowed. + +Beyond this place of wrath and tears + Looms but the Horror of the shade, +And yet the menace of the years + Finds and shall find me unafraid. + +It matters not how strait the gate, + How charged with punishments the scroll, +I am the master of my fate: + I am the captain of my soul. + + + + + +The Plays of W. E. Henley and R. L. Stevenson + +Contents + + Deacon Brodie + Beau Austin + Admiral Guinea + Robert Macaire +------------------------------------------------------------- + +Play: DEACON BRODIE - OR THE DOUBLE LIFE. A MELODRAMA IN FIVE +ACTS AND EIGHT TABLEAUX + +PERSONS REPRESENTED + +WILLIAM BRODIE, Deacon of the Wrights, Housebreaker and Master +Carpenter. +OLD BRODIE, the Deacon's Father. +WILLIAM LAWSON, Procurator-Fiscal, the Deacon's Uncle. +ANDREW AINSLIE, } +HUMPHREY MOORE } Robbers in the Deacon's gang. +GEORGE SMITH, } C +APTAIN RIVERS, an English Highwayman. +HUNT, a Bow Street Runner. +A DOCTOR. +WALTER LESLIE. +MARY BRODIE, the Deacon's Sister. +JEAN WATT, the Deacon's Mistress. +VAGABONDS, OFFICERS OF THE WATCH, MEN-SERVANTS. + +The Scene is laid in Edinburgh. The Time is towards the close of +the Eighteenth Century. The Action, some fifty hours long, +begins at eight p.m. on Saturday and ends before midnight on +Monday. + +NOTE. - PASSAGES SUGGESTED FOR OMISSION IN REPRESENTATION ARE +ENCLOSED IN SQUARE BRACKETS, THUS [ ]. + +SYNOPSIS OF ACTS AND TABLEAUX + +ACT I. +TABLEAU I. The Double Life. +TABLEAU II. Hunt the Runner. +TABLEAU III. Mother Clarke's. +ACT II. +TABLEAU IV. Evil and Good. +ACT III. +TABLEAU V. King's Evidence. TABLEAU VI. Unmasked. +ACT IV. +TABLEAU VII. The Robbery. +ACT V. +TABLEAU VIII. The Open Door. + + +LONDON: PRINCE'S THEATRE 2D JULY 1884 + +DEACON BRODIE, MR. E. J. HENLEY. +WALTER LESLIE, MR. CHARLES CARTWRIGHT. +WILLIAM LAWSON, MR. JOHN MACLEAN. +ANDREW AINSLIE, MR. FRED DESMOND. +HUMPHREY MOORE, MR. EDMUND GRACE. +GEORGE SMITH, MR. JULIAN CROSS. +HUNT, MR. HUBERT AKHURST. +OLD BRODIE, MR. A. KNIGHT. +CAPTAIN RIVERS, MR. BRANDON THOMAS. +MARY BRODIE, MISS LIZZIE WILLIAMS. +JEAN WATT, MISS MINNIE BELL. + +MONTREAL 26TH SEPTEMBER 1887 + +DEACON BRODIE, MR. E. J. HENLEY. +WALTER LESLIE, MR. GRAHAM STEWART. +WILLIAM LAWSON, MR. EDMUND LYONS. +ANDREW AINSLIE, MR. FRED DESMOND. +HUMPHREY MOORE, MR. EDMUND GRACE. +GEORGE SMITH, MR. HORATIO SAKER. +HUNT, MR. HENRY VERNON. +CAPTAIN RIVERS, MR. BRUCE PHILIPS. +MARY BRODIE, MISS ANNIE ROBE. +JEAN WATT, MISS CARRIE COOTE. + + +ACT I. + +TABLEAU I. THE DOUBLE LIFE. + +The Stage represents a room in the Deacon's house, furnished +partly as a sitting-, partly as a bed-room, in the style of an +easy burgess of about 1780. C., a door; L. C., a second and +smaller door; R. C., practicable window; L., alcove, supposed to +contain bed; at the back, a clothes-press and a corner cupboard +containing bottles, etc. MARY BRODIE at needlework; OLD BRODIE, +a paralytic, in wheeled chair, at the fireside, L. + +SCENE I + +To these LESLIE, C. + +LESLIE. May I come in, Mary? + +MARY. Why not? + +LESLIE. I scarce knew where to find you. + +MARY. The dad and I must have a corner, must we not? So when my +brother's friends are in the parlour he allows us to sit in his +room. 'Tis a great favour, I can tell you; the place is sacred. + +LESLIE. Are you sure that 'sacred' is strong enough? + +MARY. You are satirical! + +LESLIE. I? And with regard to the Deacon? Believe me, I am not +so ill-advised. You have trained me well, and I feel by him as +solemnly as a true-born Brodie. + +MARY. And now you are impertinent! Do you mean to go any +further? We are a fighting race, we Brodies. Oh, you may laugh, +sir! But 'tis no child's play to jest us on our Deacon, or, for +that matter, on our Deacon's chamber either. It was his father's +before him: he works in it by day and sleeps in it by night; and +scarce anything it contains but is the labour of his hands. Do +you see this table, Walter? He made it while he was yet a +'prentice. I remember how I used to sit and watch him at his +work. It would be grand, I thought, to be able to do as he did, +and handle edge-tools without cutting my fingers, and getting my +ears pulled for a meddlesome minx! He used to give me his mallet +to keep and his nails to hold; and didn't I fly when he called +for them! and wasn't I proud to be ordered about with them! And +then, you know, there is the tall cabinet yonder; that it was +that proved him the first of Edinburgh joiners, and worthy to be +their Deacon and their head. And the father's chair, and the +sister's workbox, and the dear dead mother's footstool - what are +they all but proofs of the Deacon's skill, and tokens of the +Deacon's care for those about him? + +LESLIE. I am all penitence. Forgive me this last time, and I +promise you I never will again. + +MARY. Candidly, now, do you think you deserve forgiveness? + +LESLIE. Candidly, I do not. + +MARY. Then I suppose you must have it. What have you done with +Willie and my uncle? + +LESLIE. I left them talking deeply. The dear old Procurator has +not much thought just now for anything but those mysterious +burglaries - + +MARY. I know! - + +LESLIE. Still, all of him that is not magistrate and official is +politician and citizen; and he has been striving his hardest to +undermine the Deacon's principles, and win the Deacon's vote and +interest. + +MARY. They are worth having, are they not? + +LESLIE. The Procurator seems to think that having them makes the +difference between winning and losing. + +MARY. Did he say so? You may rely upon it that he knows. There +are not many in Edinburgh who can match with our Will. + +LESLIE. There shall be as many as you please, and not one more. + +MARY. How I should like to have heard you! What did uncle say? +Did he speak of the Town Council again? Did he tell Will what a +wonderful Bailie he would make? O why did you come away? + +LESLIE. I could not pretend to listen any longer. The election +is months off yet; and if it were not - if it were tramping +upstairs this moment - drums, flags, cockades, guineas, +candidates, and all! - how should I care for it? What are Whig +and Tory to me? + +MARY. O fie on you! It is for every man to concern himself in +the common weal. Mr. Leslie - Leslie of the Craig! - should know +that much at least. + +LESLIE. And be a politician like the Deacon? All in good time, +but not now. I hearkened while I could, and when I could no more +I slipped out and followed my heart. I hoped I should be +welcome. + +MARY. I suppose you mean to be unkind. + +LESLIE. Tit for tat. Did you not ask me why I came away? And +is it usual for a young lady to say 'Mr.' to the man she means to +marry? + +MARY. That is for the young lady to decide, sir. + +LESLIE. And against that judgment there shall be no appeal? + +MARY. O, if you mean to argue! - + +LESLIE. I do not mean to argue. I am content to love and be +loved. I think I am the happiest man in the world. + +MARY. That is as it should be; for I am the happiest girl. + +LESLIE. Why not say the happiest wife? I have your word, and +you have mine. Is not that enough? + +MARY. Have you so soon forgotten? Did I not tell you how it +must be as my brother wills? I can do only as he bids me. + +LESLIE. Then you have not spoken as you promised? + +MARY. I have been too happy to speak. + +LESLIE. I am his friend. Precious as you are, he will trust you +to me. He has but to know how I love you, Mary, and how your +life is all in your love of me, to give us his blessing with a +full heart. + +MARY. I am sure of him. It is that which makes my happiness +complete. Even to our marriage I should find it hard to say +'Yes' when he said 'No.' + +LESLIE. Your father is trying to speak. I'll wager he echoes +you. + +MARY (TO OLD BRODIE). My poor dearie! Do you want to say +anything to me? No? Is it to Mr. Leslie, then? + +LESLIE. I am listening, Mr. Brodie. + +MARY. What is it, daddie? + +OLD BRODIE. My son - the Deacon - Deacon Brodie - the first at +school. + +LESLIE. I know it, Mr. Brodie. Was I not the last in the same +class? (TO MARY.) But he seems to have forgotten us. + +MARY. O yes! his mind is wellnigh gone. He will sit for hours +as you see him, and never speak nor stir but at the touch of +Will's hand or the sound of Will's name. + +LESLIE. It is so good to sit beside you. By and by it will be +always like this. You will not let me speak to the Deacon? You +are fast set upon speaking yourself? I could be so eloquent, +Mary - I would touch him. I cannot tell you how I fear to trust +my happiness to any one else - even to you! + +MARY. He must hear of my good fortune from none but me. And +besides, you do not understand. We are not like families, we +Brodies. We are so clannish, we hold so close together. + +LESLIE. You Brodies, and your Deacon! + +OLD BRODIE. Deacon of his craft, sir - Deacon of the Wrights - +my son! If his mother - his mother - had but lived to see! + +MARY. You hear how he runs on. A word about my brother and he +catches it. 'Tis as if he were awake in his poor blind way to +all the Deacon's care for him and all the Deacon's kindness to +me. I believe he only lives in the thought of the Deacon. +There, it is not so long since I was one with him. But indeed I +think we are all Deacon-mad, we Brodies. Are we not, daddie +dear? + +BRODIE (WITHOUT, AND ENTERING). You are a mighty magistrate, +Procurator, but you seem to have met your match. + + +SCENE II + +To these, BRODIE and LAWSON. + +MARY (CURTSEYING). So, uncle! you have honoured us at last. + +LAWSON. QUAM PRIMUM, my dear, QUAM PRIMUM. + +BRODIE. Well, father, do you know me? (HE SITS BESIDE HIS +FATHER AND TAKES HIS HAND.) + +[OLD BRODIE. William - ay - Deacon. Greater man - than - his +father. + +BRODIE. You see, Procurator, the news is as fresh to him as it +was five years ago. He was struck down before he got the +Deaconship, and lives his lost life in mine. + +LAWSON. Ay, I mind. He was aye ettling after a bit handle to +his name. He was kind of hurt when first they made me +Procurator.] + +MARY. And what have you been talking of? + +LAWSON. Just o' thae robberies, Mary. Baith as a burgher and a +Crown offeecial, I tak' the maist absorbing interest in thae +robberies. + +LESLIE. Egad, Procurator, and so do I. + +BRODIE (WITH A QUICK LOOK AT LESLIE). A dilettante interest, +doubtless! See what it is to be idle. + +LESLIE. Faith, Brodie, I hardly know how to style it. + +BRODIE. At any rate, 'tis not the interest of a victim, or we +should certainly have known of it before; nor a practical tool- +mongering interest, like my own; nor an interest professional and +official, like the Procurator's. You can answer for that, I +suppose? + +LESLIE. I think I can; if for no more. It's an interest of my +own, you see, and is best described as indescribable, and of no +manner of moment to anybody. [It will take no hurt if we put off +its discussion till a month of Sundays.] + +BRODIE. You are more fortunate than you deserve. What do you +say, Procurator? + +LAWSON. Ay is he! There is no a house in Edinburgh safe. The +law is clean helpless, clean helpless! A week syne it was auld +Andra Simpson's in the Lawnmarket. Then, naething would set the +catamarans but to forgather privily wi' the Provost's ain butler, +and tak' unto themselves the Provost's ain plate. And the day, +information was laid before me offeecially that the limmers had +made infraction, VI ET CLAM, into Leddy Mar'get Dalziel's, and +left her leddyship wi' no sae muckle's a spune to sup her +parritch wi'. It's unbelievable, it's awful, it's +anti-christian! + +MARY. If you only knew them, uncle, what an example you would +make! But tell me, is it not strange that men should dare such +things, in the midst of a city, and nothing, nothing be known of +them - nothing at all? + +LESLIE. Little, indeed! But we do know that there are several +in the gang, and that one at least is an unrivalled workman. + +LAWSON. Ye're right, sir; ye're vera right, Mr. Leslie. It had +been deponed to me offeecially that no a tradesman - no the +Deacon here himsel' - could have made a cleaner job wi' Andra +Simpson's shutters. And as for the lock o' the bank - but that's +an auld sang. + +BRODIE. I think you believe too much, Procurator. Rumour's an +ignorant jade, I tell you. I've had occasion to see some little +of their handiwork - broken cabinets, broken shutters, broken +doors - and I find them bunglers. Why, I could do it better +myself! + +LESLIE. Gad, Brodie, you and I might go into partnership. I +back myself to watch outside, and I suppose you could do the work +of skill within? + +BRODIE. An opposition company? Leslie, your mind is full of +good things. Suppose we begin to-night, and give the +Procurator's house the honours of our innocence? + +MARY. You could do anything, you two! + +LAWSON. Onyway, Deacon, ye'd put your ill-gotten gains to a +right use; they might come by the wind but they wouldna gang wi' +the water; and that's aye A SOLATIUM, as we say. If I am to be +robbit, I would like to be robbit wi' decent folk; and no think +o' my bonnie clean siller dirling among jads and dicers. [Faith, +William, the mair I think on't, the mair I'm o' Mr. Leslie's +mind. Come the night, or come the morn, and I'se gie ye my free +permission, and lend ye a hand in at the window forbye! + +BRODIE. Come, come, Procurator, lead not our poor clay into +temptation. (LESLIE AND MARY TALK APART.) + +LAWSON. I'm no muckle afraid for your puir clay, as ye ca't.] +But hark i' your ear: ye're likely, joking apart, to be gey and +sune in partnership wi' Mr. Leslie. He and Mary are gey and +pack, a body can see that. + +[BRODIE. 'Daffin' and want o' wit' - you know the rest. + +LAWSON. VIDI, SCIVI, ET AUDIVI, as we say in a Sasine, William.] +Man, because my wig's pouthered do ye think I havena a green +heart? I was aince a lad mysel', and I ken fine by the glint o' +the e'e when a lad's fain and a lassie's willing. And, man, it's +the town's talk; COMMUNIS ERROR FIT JUS, ye ken. + +[OLD BRODIE. Oh! + +LAWSON. See, ye're hurting your faither's hand. + +BRODIE. Dear dad, it is not good to have an ill-tempered son. + +LAWSON. What the deevil ails ye at the match? 'Od, man, he has +a nice bit divot o' Fife corn-land, I can tell ye, and some +Bordeaux wine in his cellar! But I needna speak o' the Bordeaux; +ye'll ken the smack o't as weel's I do mysel'; onyway it's grand +wine. TANTUM ET TALE. I tell ye the PRO'S, find you the CON.'S, +if ye're able.] + +BRODIE. [I am sorry, Procurator, but I must be short with you.] +You are talking in the air, as lawyers will. I prefer to drop +the subject [and it will displease me if you return to it in my +hearing]. + +LESLIE. At four o'clock to-morrow? At my house? (TO MARY). + +MARY. As soon as church is done. (EXIT MARY.) + +LAWSON. Ye needna be sae high and mighty, onyway. + +BRODIE. I ask your pardon, Procurator. But we Brodies - you +know our failings! [A bad temper and a humour of privacy.] + +LAWSON. Weel, I maun be about my business. But I could tak' a +doch-an-dorach, William; SUPERFLUA NON NOCENT, as we say; an +extra dram hurts naebody, Mr. Leslie. + +BRODIE (WITH BOTTLE AND GLASSES). Here's your old friend, +Procurator. Help yourself, Leslie. Oh no, thank you, not any +for me. You strong people have the advantage of me there. With +my attacks, you know, I must always live a bit of a hermit's +life. + +LAWSON. 'Od, man, that's fine; that's health o' mind and body. +Mr. Leslie, here's to you, sir. 'Od, it's harder to end than to +begin wi' stuff like that. + + +SCENE III + +To these, SMITH and JEAN, C. + +SMITH. Is the king of the castle in, please? + +LAWSON (ASIDE). Lord's sake, it's Smith! + +BRODIE (TO SMITH). I beg your pardon? + +SMITH. I beg yours, sir. If you please, sir, is Mr. Brodie at +home, sir? + +BRODIE. What do you want with him, my man? + +SMITH. I've a message for him, sir, a job of work, sir! + +BRODIE (TO SMITH; REFERRING TO JEAN). And who is this? + +JEAN. I am here for the Procurator, about my rent. There's nae +offence, I hope, sir. + +LAWSON. It's just an honest wife I let a flat to in Libberton's +Wynd. It'll be for the rent? + +JEAN. Just that, sir. + +LAWSON. Weel, ye can just bide here a wee, and I'll step down +the road to my office wi' ye. (EXEUNT BRODIE, LAWSON, LESLIE, +C.) + + +SCENE IV + +SMITH, JEAN WATT, OLD BRODIE. + +SMITH (BOWING THEM OUT). Your humble and most devoted servant, +George Smith, Esquire. And so this is the garding, is it? And +this is the style of horticulture? Ha, it is! (AT THE MIRROR.) +In that case George's mother bids him bind his hair. (KISSES HIS +HAND.) My dearest Duchess, - (TO JEAN.) I say, Jean, there's a +good deal of difference between this sort of thing and the way we +does it in Libberton's Wynd. + +JEAN. I daursay. And what wad ye expeck? + +SMITH. Ah, Jean, if you'd cast affection's glance on this poor +but honest soger! George Lord S. is not the nobleman to cut the +object of his flame before the giddy throng; nor to keep her +boxed up in an old mouse-trap, while he himself is revelling in +purple splendours like these. He didn't know you, Jean: he was +afraid to. Do you call that a man? Try a man that is. + +JEAN. Geordie Smith, ye ken vera weel I'll tak' nane o' that +sort of talk frae you. And what kind o' a man are you to even +yoursel' to the likes o' him? He's a gentleman. + +SMITH. Ah, ain't he just! And don't he live up to it? I say, +Jean, feel of this chair. + +JEAN. My! look at yon bed! + +SMITH. The carpet too! Axminster, by the bones of Oliver +Cromwell! + +JEAN. What a expense! + +SMITH. Hey, brandy! The deuce of the grape! Have a toothful, +Mrs. Watt. [(SINGS) - + +'Says Bacchus to Venus, +There's brandy between us, +And the cradle of love is the bowl, the bowl!'] + +JEAN. Nane for me, I thank ye, Mr. Smith. + +SMITH. What brings the man from stuff like this to rotgut and +spittoons at Mother Clarke's; but ah, George, you was born for a +higher spear! And so was you, Mrs. Watt, though I say it that +shouldn't. (SEEING OLD BRODIE FOR THE FIRST TIME.) Hullo! it's +a man! + +JEAN. Thonder in the chair. (THEY GO TO LOOK AT HIM, THEIR +BACKS TO THE DOOR.) + +GEORGE. Is he alive? + +JEAN. I think there's something wrong with him. + +GEORGE. And how was you to-morrow, my valued old gentleman, eh? + +JEAN. Dinna mak' a mock o' him, Geordie. + +OLD BRODIE. My son - the Deacon - Deacon of his trade. + +JEAN. He'll be his feyther. (HUNT APPEARS AT DOOR C., AND +STANDS LOOKING ON.) + +SMITH. The Deacon's old man! Well, he couldn't expect to have +his quiver full of sich, could he, Jean? (TO OLD BRODIE.) Ah, +my Christian soldier, if you had, the world would have been more +varigated. Mrs. Deakin (TO JEAN), let me introduce you to your +dear papa. + +JEAN. Think shame to yoursel'! This is the Deacon's house; you +and me shouldna be here by rights; and if we are, it's the least +we can do to behave dacent. [This is no the way ye'll mak' me +like ye.] + +SMITH. All right, Duchess. Don't be angry. + + +SCENE V + +To these, HUNT, C. (He steals down, and claps each one suddenly +on the shoulder.) + +HUNT. Is there a gentleman here by the name of Mr. Procurator- +Fiscal? + +SMITH (PULLING HIMSELF TOGETHER). D-n it, Jerry, what do you +mean by startling an old customer like that? + +HUNT. What, my brave un'? You're the very party I was looking +for! + +SMITH. There's nothing out against me this time? + +HUNT. I'll take odds there is. But it ain't in my hands. (TO +OLD BRODIE.) You'll excuse me, old genelman? + +SMITH. Ah, well, if it's all in the way of friendship! . . . I +say, Jean, [you and me had best be on the toddle.] We shall be +late for church. + +HUNT. Lady, George? + +SMITH. It's a - yes, it's a lady. Come along, Jean. + +HUNT. A Mrs. Deacon, I believe? [That was the name, I think?] +Won't Mrs. Deacon let me have a queer at her phiz? + +JEAN (UNMUFFLING). I've naething to be ashamed of. My name's +Mistress Watt; I'm weel kennt at the Wynd heid; there's naething +again me. + +HUNT. No, to be sure, there ain't; and why clap on the blinkers, +my dear? You that has a face like a rose, and with a cove like +Jerry Hunt that might be your born father? [But all this don't +tell me about Mr. Procurator-Fiscal.] + +GEORGE (IN AN AGONY). Jean, Jean, we shall be late. (GOING WITH + +ATTEMPTED SWAGGER.) Well, ta-ta, Jerry. + + +SCENE VI + +To these, C, BRODIE and LAWSON (greatcoat, muffler, lantern). + +LAWSON (FROM THE DOOR). Come your ways, Mistress Watt. + +JEAN. That's the Fiscal himsel'. + +HUNT. Mr. Procurator-Fiscal, I believe? + +LAWSON. That's me. Who'll you be? + +HUNT. Hunt the Runner, sir; Hunt from Bow Street; English +warrant. + +LAWSON. There's a place for a' things, officer. Come your ways +to my office, with me and this guid wife. + +BRODIE (ASIDE TO JEAN, AS SHE PASSES WITH A CURTSEY). How dare +you be here? (ALOUD TO SMITH.) Wait you here, my man. + +SMITH. If you please, sir. (BRODIE GOES OUT, C.) + + +SCENE VII + +BRODIE, SMITH. + +BRODIE. What the devil brings you here? + +SMITH. CONfound it, Deakin! Not rusty? + +[BRODIE. And not you only: Jean too! Are you mad? + +SMITH. Why, you don't mean to say, Deakin, that you have been +stodged by G. Smith, Esquire? Plummy old George?] + +BRODIE. There was my uncle the Procurator - + +SMITH. The Fiscal? He don't count. + +BRODIE. What d'ye mean? + +SMITH. Well, Deakin, since Fiscal Lawson's Nunkey Lawson, and +it's all in the family way, I don't mind telling you that Nunkey +Lawson's a customer of George's. We give Nunkey Lawson a good +deal of brandy - G. S. and Co.'s celebrated Nantz. + +BRODIE. What! does he buy that smuggled trash of yours? + +SMITH. Well, we don't call it smuggled in the trade, Deakin. +It's a wink, and King George's picter between G. S. and the +Nunks. + +BRODIE. Gad! that's worth knowing. O Procurator, Procurator, is +there no such thing as virtue? [ALLONS! It's enough to cure a +man of vice for this world and the other.] But hark you hither, +Smith; this is all damned well in its way, but it don't explain +what brings you here. + +SMITH. I've trapped a pigeon for you. + +BRODIE. Can't you pluck him yourself? + +SMITH. Not me. He's too flash in the feather for a simple +nobleman like George Lord Smith. It's the great Capting +Starlight, fresh in from York. [He's exercised his noble art all +the way from here to London. 'Stand and deliver, stap my +vitals!'] And the north road is no bad lay, Deakin. + +BRODIE. Flush? + +SMITH (MIMICKING). 'The graziers, split me! A mail, stap my +vitals! and seven demned farmers, by the Lard - ' + +BRODIE. By Gad! + +SMITH. Good for trade, ain't it? And we thought, Deakin, the +Badger and me, that coins being ever on the vanish, and you not +over sweet on them there lovely little locks at Leslie's, and +them there bigger and uglier marine stores at the Excise Office . +. . + +BRODIE (IMPASSIBLE). Go on. + +SMITH. Worse luck! . . . We thought, me and the Badger, you +know, that maybe you'd like to exercise your helbow with our free +and galliant horseman. + +BRODIE. The old move, I presume? the double set of dice? + +SMITH. That's the rig, Deakin. What you drop on the square you +pick up again on the cross. [Just as you did with G. S. and +Co.'s own agent and correspondent, the Admiral from Nantz.] You +always was a neat hand with the bones, Deakin. + +BRODIE. The usual terms, I suppose? + +SMITH. The old discount, Deakin. Ten in the pound for you, and +the rest for your jolly companions every one. [THAT'S the way WE +does it!] + +BRODIE. Who has the dice? + +SMITH. Our mutual friend, the Candleworm. + +BRODIE. You mean Ainslie? - We trust that creature too much, +Geordie. + +SMITH. He's all right, Marquis. He wouldn't lay a finger on his +own mother. Why, he's no more guile in him than a set of sheep's +trotters. + +[BRODIE. You think so? Then see he don't cheat you over the +dice, and give you light for loaded. See to that, George, see to +that; and you may count the Captain as bare as his last grazier. + +SMITH. The Black Flag for ever! George'll trot him round to +Mother Clarke's in two twos.] How long'll you be? + +BRODIE. The time to lock up and go to bed, and I'll be with you. +Can you find your way out? + +SMITH. Bloom on, my Sweet William, in peaceful array. Ta-ta. + + +SCENE VIII + +BRODIE, OLD BRODIE; to whom, MARY + +MARY. O Willie, I am glad you did not go with them. I have +something to tell you. If you knew how happy I am, you would +clap your hands, Will. But come, sit you down there, and be my +good big brother, and I will kneel here and take your hand. We +must keep close to dad, and then he will feel happiness in the +air. The poor old love, if we could only tell him! But I +sometimes think his heart has gone to heaven already, and takes a +part in all our joys and sorrows; and it is only his poor body +that remains here, helpless and ignorant. Come, Will, sit you +down, and ask me questions - or guess - that will be better, +guess. + +BRODIE. Not to-night, Mary; not to-night. I have other fish to +fry, and they won't wait. + +MARY. Not one minute for your sister? One little minute for +your little sister? + +BRODIE. Minutes are precious, Mary. I have to work for all of +us, and the clock is always busy. They are waiting for me even +now. Help me with the dad's chair. And then to bed, and dream +happy things. And to-morrow morning I will hear your news - your +good news; it must be good, you look so proud and glad. But +to-night it cannot be. + +MARY. I hate your business - I hate all business. To think of +chairs, and tables, and foot-rules, all dead and wooden - and +cold pieces of money with the King's ugly head on them; and here +is your sister, your pretty sister, if you please, with something +to tell, which she would not tell you for the world, and would +give the world to have you guess, and you won't? - Not you! For +business! Fie, Deacon Brodie! But I'm too happy to find fault +with you. + +BRODIE. 'And me a Deacon,' as the Procurator would say. + +MARY. No such thing, sir! I am not a bit afraid of you - nor a +bit angry neither. Give me a kiss, and promise me hours and +hours to-morrow morning. + +BRODIE. All day long to-morrow, if you like. + +MARY. Business or none? + +BRODIE. Business or none, little sister! I'll make time, I +promise you; and there's another kiss for surety. Come along. +(THEY PROCEED TO PUSH OUT THE CHAIR, L.C.) The wine and wisdom +of this evening have given me one of my headaches, and I'm in +haste for bed. You'll be good, won't you, and see they make no +noise, and let me sleep my fill to-morrow morning till I wake? + +MARY. Poor Will! How selfish I must have seemed! You should +have told me sooner, and I wouldn't have worried you. Come +along. + +(SHE GOES OUT, PUSHING CHAIR.) + + +SCENE IX + +BRODIE + +(HE CLOSES, LOCKS, AND DOUBLE-BOLTS BOTH DOORS) + +BRODIE. Now for one of the Deacon's headaches! Rogues all, +rogues all! (GOES TO CLOTHES-PRESS, AND PROCEEDS TO CHANGE HIS +COAT.) On with the new coat and into the new life! Down with +the Deacon and up with the robber! (CHANGING NECK-BAND AND +RUFFLES.) Eh God! how still the house is! There's something in +hypocrisy after all. If we were as good as we seem, what would +the world be? [The city has its vizard on, and we - at night we +are our naked selves. Trysts are keeping, bottles cracking, +knives are stripping; and here is Deacon Brodie flaming forth the +man of men he is!] - How still it is! . . . My father and Mary - +Well! the day for them, the night for me; the grimy cynical night +that makes all cats grey, and all honesties of one complexion. +Shall a man not have HALF a life of his own? - not eight hours +out of twenty-four? [Eight shall he have should he dare the pit +of Tophet.] (TAKES OUT MONEY.) Where's the blunt? I must be +cool to-night, or . . . steady, Deacon, you must win; damn you, +you must! You must win back the dowry that you've stolen, and +marry your sister, and pay your debts, and gull the world a +little longer! (AS HE BLOWS OUT THE LIGHTS.) The Deacon's going +to bed - the poor sick Deacon! ALLONS! (THROWS UP THE WINDOW, +AND LOOKS OUT.) Only the stars to see me! (ADDRESSING THE BED.) +Lie there, Deacon! sleep and be well to-morrow. As for me, I'm a +man once more till morning. (GETS OUT OF THE WINDOW.) + + +TABLEAU II. HUNT THE RUNNER + +THE SCENE REPRESENTS THE PROCURATOR'S OFFICE. + +SCENE I + +LAWSON, HUNT + +[LAWSON (ENTERING). Step your ways in, Officer. (AT WING.) Mr. +Carfrae, give a chair to yon decent wife that cam' in wi' me. +Nae news? + +A VOICE WITHOUT. Naething, sir. + +LAWSON (SITTING). Weel, Officer, and what can I do for you?] + +HUNT. Well, sir, as I was saying, I've an English warrant for +the apprehension of one Jemmy Rivers, ALIAS Captain Starlight, +now at large within your jurisdiction. + +LAWSON. That'll be the highwayman? + +HUNT. That same, Mr. Procurator-Fiscal. The Captain's given me +a hard hunt of it this time. I dropped on his marks first at +Huntingdon, but he was away North, and I had to up and after him. +I heard of him all along the York road, for he's a light hand on +the pad, has Jemmy, and leaves his mark. [I missed him at York +by four-and-twenty hours, and lost him for as much more. Then I +picked him up again at Carlisle, and we made a race of it for the +Border; but he'd a better nag, and was best up in the road; so I +had to wait till I ran him to earth in Edinburgh here and could +get a new warrant.] So here I am, sir. They told me you were an +active sort of gentleman, and I'm an active man myself. And Sir +John Fielding, Mr. Procurator-Fiscal, he's an active gentleman, +likewise, though he's blind as a himage, and he desired his +compliments to you, [sir, and said that between us he thought +we'd do the trick]. + +LAWSON. Ay, he'll be a fine man, Sir John. Hand me owre your +papers, Hunt, and you'll have your new warrant QUAM PRIMUM. And +see here, Hunt, ye'll aiblins have a while to yoursel', and an +active man, as ye say ye are, should aye be grinding grist. +We're sair forfeuchen wi' our burglaries. NON CONSTAT DE +PERSONA. We canna get a grip o' the delinquents. Here is the +HUE AND CRY. Ye see there is a guid two hundred pounds for ye. + +HUNT. Well, Mr. Procurator-Fiscal [I ain't a rich man, and two +hundred's two hundred. Thereby, sir], I don't mind telling you +I've had a bit of a worry at it already. You see, Mr. +Procurator-Fiscal, I had to look into a ken to-night about the +Captain, and an old cock always likes to be sure of his walk; so +I got one of your Scotch officers - him as was so polite as to +show me round to Mr. Brodie's - to give me full particulars about +the 'ouse, and the flash companions that use it. In his list I +drop on the names of two old lambs of my own; and I put it to +you, Mr. Procurator-Fiscal, as a genleman as knows the world, if +what's a black sheep in London is likely or not to be keeping +school in Edinburgh? + +LAWSON. COELUM NON ANIMUM. A just observe. + +HUNT. I'll give it a thought, sir, and see if I can't kill two +birds with one stone. Talking of which, Mr. Procurator-Fiscal, +I'd like to have a bit of a confab with that nice young woman as +came to pay her rent. + +LAWSON. Hunt, that's a very decent woman. + +HUNT. And a very decent woman may have mighty queer pals, Mr. +Procurator-Fiscal. Lord love you, sir, I don't know what the +profession would do without 'em! + +LAWSON. Ye're vera richt, Hunt. An active and a watchful +officer. I'll send her in till ye. + + +SCENE II + +HUNT (SOLUS) + +Two hundred pounds reward. Curious thing. One burglary after +another, and these Scotch blockheads without a man to show for +it. Jock runs east, and Sawney cuts west; everything's at a +deadlock; and they go on calling themselves thief-catchers! [By +jingo, I'll show them how we do it down South! Well, I've worn +out a good deal of saddle leather over Jemmy Rivers; but here's +for new breeches if you like.] Let's have another queer at the +list. (READS.) 'Humphrey Moore, otherwise Badger; aged forty, +thick-set, dark, close-cropped; has been a prize-fighter; no +apparent occupation.' Badger's an old friend of mine, 'George +Smith, otherwise the Dook, otherwise Jingling Geordie; red-haired +and curly, slight, flash; an old thimble-rig; has been a +stroller; suspected of smuggling; an associate of loose women.' +G. S., Esquire, is another of my flock. 'Andrew Ainslie, +otherwise Slink Ainslie; aged thirty-five; thin, white-faced, +lank-haired; no occupation; has been in trouble for reset of +theft and subornation of youth; might be useful as king's +evidence.' That's an acquaintance to make. 'Jock Hamilton, +otherwise Sweepie,' and so on. ['Willie M'Glashan,' hum - yes, +and so on, and so on.] Ha! here's the man I want. 'William +Brodie, Deacon of the Wrights, about thirty; tall, slim, dark; +wears his own hair; is often at Clarke's, but seemingly for +purposes of amusement only; [is nephew to the Procurator-Fiscal; +is commercially sound, but has of late (it is supposed) been +short of cash; has lost much at cock-fighting;] is proud, clever, +of good repute, but is fond of adventures and secrecy, and keeps +low company.' Now, here's what I ask myself: here's this list +of the family party that drop into Mother Clarke's; it's been in +the hands of these nincompoops for weeks, and I'm the first to +cry Queer Street! Two well-known cracksmen, Badger and the Dook! +why, there's Jack in the Orchard at once. This here topsawyer +work they talk about, of course that's a chalk above Badger and +the Dook. But how about our Mohock-tradesman? 'Purposes of +amusement!' What next? Deacon of the Wrights? and wright in +their damned lingo means a kind of carpenter, I fancy? Why, +damme, it's the man's trade! I'll look you up, Mr. William +Brodie, Deacon of the Wrights. As sure as my name's Jerry Hunt, +I wouldn't take one-ninety-nine in gold for my chance of that +'ere two hundred! + + +SCENE III + +HUNT; to him JEAN + +HUNT. Well, my dear, and how about your gentleman friend now? +How about Deacon Brodie? + +JEAN. I dinna ken your name, sir, nor yet whae ye are; but this +is a very poor employ for ony gentleman - it sets ill wi' ony +gentleman to cast my shame in my teeth. + +HUNT. Lord love you, my dear, that ain't my line of country. +Suppose you're not married and churched a hundred thousand times, +what odds to Jerry Hunt? Jerry, my Pamela Prue, is a cove as +might be your parent; a cove renowned for the ladies' friend [and +he's dead certain to be on your side]. What I can't get over is +this: here's this Mr. Deacon Brodie doing the genteel at home, +and leaving a nice young 'oman like you - as a cove may say - to +take it out on cold potatoes. That's what I can't get over, Mrs. +Watt. I'm a family man myself; and I can't get over it. + +JEAN. And whae said that to ye? They lee'd whatever. I get +naething but guid by him; and I had nae richt to gang to his +house; and O, I just ken I've been the ruin of him! + +HUNT. Don't you take on, Mrs. Watt. Why, now I hear you piping +up for him, I begin to think a lot of him myself. I like a cove +to be open-handed and free. + +JEAN. Weel, sir, and he's a' that. + +HUNT. Well, that shows what a wicked world this is. Why, they +told me - . Well, well, 'here's the open 'and and the 'appy +'art.' And how much, my dear - speaking as a family man - now, +how much might your gentleman friend stand you in the course of a +year? + +JEAN. What's your wull? + +HUNT. That's a mighty fancy shawl, Mrs. Watt. [I should like to +take its next-door neighbour to Mrs. Hunt in King Street, Common +Garden.] What's about the figure? + +JEAN. It's paid for. Ye can sweir to that. + +HUNT. Yes, my dear, and so is King George's crown; but I don't +know what it cost, and I don't know where the blunt came from to +pay for it. + +JEAN. I'm thinking ye'll be a vera clever gentleman. + +HUNT. So I am, my dear; and I like you none the worse for being +artful yourself. But between friends now, and speaking as a +family man - + +JEAN. I'll be wishin' ye a fine nicht. (CURTSIES AND GOES OUT.) + + +SCENE IV + +HUNT (SOLUS) + +HUNT. Ah! that's it, is it? 'My fancy man's my 'ole delight,' +as we say in Bow Street. But which IS the fancy man? George the +Dock, or William the Deacon? One or both? (HE WINKS SOLEMNLY.) +Well, Jerry, my boy, here's your work cut out for you; but if you +took one-nine-five for that 'ere little two hundred you'd be a +disgrace to the profession. + + +TABLEAU III. MOTHER CLARKE'S + +SCENE I + +The Stage represents a room of coarse and sordid appearance: +settles, spittoons, etc.; sanded floor. A large table at back, +where AINSLIE, HAMILTON, and others are playing cards and +quarrelling. In front, L. and R. smaller tables, at one of which +are BRODIE and MOORE, drinking. MRS. CLARKE and women serving. + +MOORE. You've got the devil's own luck, Deacon, that's what +you've got. + +BRODIE. Luck! Don't talk of luck to a man like me! Why not say +I've the devil's own judgment? Men of my stamp don't risk - they +plan, Badger; they plan, and leave chance to such cattle as you +[and Jingling Geordie. They make opportunities before they take +them]. + +MOORE. You're artful, ain't you? + +BRODIE. Should I be here else? When I leave my house I leave an +ALIBI behind me. I'm ill - ill with a jumping headache, and the +fiend's own temper. I'm sick in bed this minute, and they're all +going about with the fear of death on them lest they should +disturb the poor sick Deacon. [My bedroom door is barred and +bolted like the bank - you remember! - and all the while the +window's open, and the Deacon's over the hills and far away. +What do you think of me?] + +MOORE. I've seen your sort before, I have. + +BRODIE. Not you. As for Leslie's - + +MOORE. That was a nick above you. + +BRODIE. Ay was it. He wellnigh took me red-handed; and that was +better luck than I deserved. If I'd not been drunk, and in my +tantrums, you'd never have got my hand within a thousand years of +such a job. + +MOORE. Why not? You're the King of the Cracksmen, ain't you? + +BRODIE. Why not! He asks me why not! Gods, what a brain it is! +Hark ye, Badger, it's all very well to be King of the Cracksmen, +as you call it; but however respectable he may have the +misfortune to be, one's friend is one's friend, and as such must +be severely let alone. What! shall there be no more honour among +thieves than there is honesty among politicians? Why, man, if +under heaven there were but one poor lock unpicked, and that the +lock of one whose claret you've drunk, and who has babbled of +woman across your own mahogany - that lock, sir, were entirely +sacred. Sacred as the Kirk of Scotland; sacred as King George +upon his throne; sacred as the memory of Bruce and Bannockburn. + +MOORE. Oh, rot! I ain't a parson, I ain't; I never had no +college education. Business is business. That's wot's the +matter with me. + +BRODIE. Ay, so we said when you lost that fight with Newcastle +Jemmy, and sent us all home poor men. That was a nick above YOU. + +MOORE. Newcastle Jemmy! Muck: that's my opinion of him: muck. +I'll mop the floor up with him any day, if so be as you or any on +'em 'll make it worth my while. If not, muck! That's my motto. +Wot I now ses is, about that 'ere crib at Leslie's, wos I right, +I ses? or wos I wrong? That's wot's the matter with you. + +BRODIE. You are both right and wrong. You dared me to do it. I +was drunk; I was upon my mettle; and I as good as did it. More +than that, black-guardly as it was, I enjoyed the doing. He is +my friend. He had dined with me that day, and I felt like a man +in a story. I climbed his wall, I crawled along his pantry roof, +I mounted his window-sill. That one turn of my wrist - you know +it I - and the casement was open. It was as dark as the pit, and +I thought I'd won my wager, when, phewt! down went something +inside, and down went somebody with it. I made one leap, and was +off like a rocket. It was my poor friend in person; and if he'd +caught and passed me on to the watchman under the window, I +should have felt no viler rogue than I feel just now. + +MOORE. I s'pose he knows you pretty well by this time? + +BRODIE. 'Tis the worst of friendship. Here, Kirsty, fill these +glasses. Moore, here's better luck - and a more honourable +plant! - next time. + +MOORE. Deacon, I looks towards you. But it looks thundering +like rotten eggs, don't it? + +BRODIE. I think not. I was masked, for one thing, and for +another I was as quick as lightning. He suspects me so little +that he dined with me this very afternoon. + +MOORE. Anyway, you ain't game to try it on again, I'll lay odds +on that. Once bit, twice shy. That's your motto. + +BRODIE. Right again. I'll put my ALIBI to a better use. And, +Badger, one word in your ear: there's no Newcastle Jemmy about +ME. Drop the subject, and for good, or I shall drop you. (HE +RISES, AND WALKS BACKWARDS AND FORWARDS, A LITTLE UNSTEADILY. +THEN RETURNS, AND SITS L., AS BEFORE.) + + +SCENE II + +To these, HUNT, disguised He is disguised as a 'flying stationer' +with a patch over his eye. He sits at table opposite BRODIE'S +and is served with bread and cheese and beer. + +HAMILTON (FROM BEHIND). The deevil tak' the cairts! + +AINSLIE. Hoot, man, dinna blame the cairts. + +MOORE. Look here, Deacon, I mean business, I do. (HUNT LOOKS UP +AT THE NAME OF 'DEACON.') + +BRODIE. Gad, Badger, I never meet you that you do not. [You +have a set of the most commercial intentions!] You make me +blush. + +MOORE. That's all blazing fine, that is! But wot I ses is, wot +about the chips? That's what I ses. I'm after that thundering +old Excise Office, I am. That's my motto. + +BRODIE. 'Tis a very good motto, and at your lips, Badger, it +kind of warms my heart. But it's not mine. + +MOORE. Muck! why not? + +BRODIE. 'Tis too big and too dangerous. I shirk King George; he +has a fat pocket, but he has a long arm. [You pilfer sixpence +from him, and it's three hundred reward for you, and a hue and +cry from Tophet to the stars.] It ceases to be business; it +turns politics, and I'm not a politician, Mr. Moore. (RISING.) +I'm only Deacon Brodie. + +MOORE. All right. I can wait. + +BRODIE (SEEING HUNT). Ha, a new face, - and with a patch! +[There's nothing under heaven I like so dearly as a new face with +a patch.] Who the devil, sir, are you that own it? And where +did you get it? And how much will you take for it second-hand? + +HUNT. Well, sir, to tell you the truth (BRODIE BOWS) it's not +for sale. But it's my own, and I'll drink your honour's health +in anything. BRODIE. An Englishman, too! Badger, behold a +countryman. What are you, and what part of southern Scotland do +you come from? + +HUNT. Well, your honour, to tell you the honest truth - + +[BRODIE (BOWING). Your obleeged!] + +HUNT. I knows a gentleman when I sees him, your honour [and, to +tell your honour the truth - + +BRODIE. JE VOUS BAISE LES MAINS! (BOWING.)] + +HUNT. A gentleman as is a gentleman, your honour [is always a +gentleman, and to tell you the honest truth] - + +BRODIE. Great heavens! answer in three words, and be hanged to +you! What are you, and where are you from? + +HUNT. A patter-cove from Seven Dials. + +BRODIE. Is it possible? All my life long have I been pining to +meet with a patter-cove from Seven Dials! Embrace me, at a +distance. [A patter-cove from Seven Dials!] Go, fill yourself +as drunk as you dare, at my expense. Anything he likes, Mrs. +Clarke. He's a patter-cove from Seven Dials. Hillo! what's all +this? + +AINSLIE. Dod, I'm for nae mair! (AT BACK, AND RISING.) + +PLAYERS. Sit down, Ainslie. - Sit down, Andra. - Ma revenge! + +AINSLIE. Na, na, I'm for canny goin'. (COMING FORWARD WITH +BOTTLE.) Deacon, let's see your gless. + +BRODIE. Not an inch of it. + +MOORE. No rotten shirking, Deacon! + +[AINSLIE. I'm sayin', man, let's see your gless. + +BRODIE. Go to the deuce!] + +AINSLIE. But I'm sayin' - + +BRODIE. Haven't I to play to-night? + +AINSLIE. But, man, ye'll drink to bonnie Jean Watt? + +BRODIE. Ay, I'll follow you there. A LA REINE DE MES AMOURS! +(DRINKS.) What fiend put this in your way, you hound? You've +filled me with raw stuff. By the muckle deil! - + +MOORE. Don't hit him, Deacon; tell his mother. + +HUNT (ASIDE). Oho! + + +SCENE III + +To these, SMITH, RIVERS + +SMITH. Where's my beloved? Deakin, my beauty, where are you? +Come to the arms of George, and let him introduce you. Capting +Starlight Rivers! Capting, the Deakin: Deakin, the Capting. An +English nobleman on the grand tour, to open his mind, by the +Lard! + +RIVERS. Stupendiously pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. +Deakin, split me! + +[BRODIE. We don't often see England's heroes our way, Captain, +but when we do, we make them infernally welcome. + +RIVERS. Prettily put, sink me! A demned genteel sentiment, stap +my vitals!] + +BRODIE. Oh Captain! you flatter me. [We Scotsmen have our +qualities, I suppose, but we are but rough and ready at the best. +There's nothing like your Englishman for genuine distinction. He +is nearer France than we are, and smells of his neighbourhood. +That d-d thing, the JE NE SAIS QUOI, too! Lard, Lard, split me! +stap my vitals! O such manners are pure, pure, pure. They are, +by the shade of Claude Duval!] + +RIVERS. Mr. Deakin, Mr. Deakin [this is passatively too much]. +What will you sip? Give it the Hanar of a neam. + +BRODIE. By these most Hanarable hands now, Captain, you shall +not. On such an occasion I could play host with Lucifer +himself. Here, Clarke, Mother Midnight! Down with you, Captain! +(FORCING HIM BOISTEROUSLY INTO A CHAIR.) I don't know if you can +lie, but, sink me! you shall sit. (DRINKING, ETC., IN +DUMB-SHOW.) + +MOORE (ASIDE TO SMITH). We've nobbled him, Geordie! + +SMITH (ASIDE TO MOORE). As neat as ninepence! He's taking it +down like mother's milk. But there'll be wigs on the green +to-morrow, Badger! It'll be tuppence and toddle with George +Smith. + +MOORE. O muck! Who's afraid of him? (TO AINSLIE.) Hang on, +Slinkie. + +HUNT (WHO IS FEIGNING DRUNKENNESS, AND HAS OVERHEARD; ASIDE). By +jingo! + +[RIVERS. Will you sneeze, Mr. Deakin, sir? + +BRODIE. Thanks; I have all the vices, Captain. You must send me +some of your rappee. It is passatively perfect.] + +RIVERS. Mr. Deakin, I do myself the Hanar of a sip to you. + +BRODIE. Topsy-turvy with the can! + +MOORE (ASIDE TO SMITH). That made him wink. + +BRODIE. Your high and mighty hand, my Captain! Shall we dice - +dice - dice? (DUMB-SHOW BETWEEN THEM.) + +AINSLIE (ASIDE TO MOORE). I'm sayin' -? + +MOORE. What's up now? + +AINSLIE. I'm no to gie him the coggit dice? + +MOORE. The square ones, rot you! Ain't he got to lose every +brass farden? + +AINSLIE. What'll like be my share? + +MOORE. You mucking well leave that to me. + +RIVERS. Well, Mr. Deakin, if you passatively will have me shake +a Helbow - + +BRODIE. Where are the bones, Ainslie? Where are the dice, Lord +George? (AINSLIE GIVES THE DICE AND DICE-BOX TO BRODIE; AND +PRIVATELY A SECOND PAIR OF DICE.) Old Fortune's counters the +bonnie money-catching, money-breeding bones! Hark to their dry +music! Scotland against England! Sit round, you tame devils, +and put your coins on me! + +SMITH. Easy does it, my lord of high degree! Keep cool. + +BRODIE. Cool's the word, Captain - a cool twenty on the first? + +RIVERS. Done and done. (THEY PLAY.) + +HUNT (ASIDE TO MOORE, A LITTLE DRUNK). Ain't that 'ere Scotch +gentleman, your friend, too drunk to play, sir? + +MOORE. You hold your jaw; that's what's the matter with you. + +AINSLIE. He's waur nor he looks. He's knockit the box aff the +table. + +SMITH (PICKING UP BOX). That's the way we does it. Ten to one +and no takers! + +BRODIE. Deuces again! More liquor, Mother Clarke! + +SMITH. Hooray our side! (POUTING OUT.) George and his pal for +ever! + +BRODIE. Deuces again, by heaven! Another? + +RIVERS. Done! + +BRODIE. Ten more; money's made to go. On with you! + +RIVERS. Sixes. + +BRODIE. Deuce-ace. Death and judgment? Double or quits? + +RIVERS. Drive on! Sixes. + +SMITH. Fire away, brave boys! (TO MOORE) It's Tally-ho-the- +Grinder, Hump! + +BRODIE. Treys! Death and the pit! How much have you got there? + +RIVERS. A cool forty-five. + +BRODIE. I play you thrice the lot. + +RIVERS. Who's afraid? + +SMITH. Stand by, Badger! + +RIVERS. Cinq-ace. + +BRODIE. My turn now. (HE JUGGLES IN AND USES THE SECOND PAIR OF +DICE.) Aces! Aces again! What's this? (PICKING UP DICE.) +Sold! . . . You play false, you hound! + +RIVERS. You lie! + +BRODIE. In your teeth. (OVERTURNS TABLE, AND GOES FOR HIM.) + +MOORE. Here, none o' that. (THEY HOLD HIM BACK. STRUGGLE.) + +SMITH. Hold on, Deacon! + +BRODIE. Let me go. Hands off, I say! I'll not touch him. +(STANDS WEIGHING DICE IN HIS HAND.) But as for that thieving +whinger, Ainslie, I'll cut his throat between this dark and +to-morrow's. To the bone. (ADDRESSING THE COMPANY.) Rogues, +rogues, rogues! (SINGING WITHOUT.) Ha! what's that? + +AINSLIE. It's the psalm-singing up by at the Holy Weaver's. And +O Deacon, if ye're a Christian man - + +THE PSALM WITHOUT:- 'Lord, who shall stand, if Thou, O Lord, +Should'st mark iniquity? But yet with Thee forgiveness is, That +feared Thou may'st be.' + +BRODIE. I think I'll go. 'My son the Deacon was aye regular at +kirk.' If the old man could see his son, the Deacon! I think +I'll - Ay, who SHALL stand? There's the rub! And forgiveness, +too? There's a long word for you! I learnt it all lang syne, +and now . . . hell and ruin are on either hand of me, and the +devil has me by the leg. 'My son, the Deacon . . . !' Eh, God! +but there's no fool like an old fool! (BECOMING CONSCIOUS OF THE +OTHERS.) Rogues! + +SMITH. Take my arm, Deacon. + +BRODIE. Down, dog, down! [Stay and be drunk with your equals.] +Gentlemen and ladies, I have already cursed you pretty heavily. +Let me do myself the pleasure of wishing you - a very - good +evening. (AS HE GOES OUT, HUNT, WHO HAS BEEN STAGGERING ABOUT IN +THE CROWD, FALLS ON A SETTLE, AS ABOUT TO SLEEP.) + +ACT-DROP. + + +ACT II. + +TABLEAU. EVIL AND GOOD + +The Stage represents the Deacon's workshop; benches, shavings, +tools, boards, and so forth. Doors, C. on the street, and L. +into the house. Without, church bells; not a chime, but a slow +brokentocsin. + +SCENE I + +BRODIE (SOLUS). My head! my head! It's the sickness of the +grave. And those bells go on . . . go on! . . . inexorable as +death and judgment. [There they go; the trumpets of +respectability, sounding encouragement to the world to do and +spare not, and not to be found out. Found out! And to those who +are they toll as when a man goes to the gallows.] Turn where I +will are pitfalls hell-deep. Mary and her dowry; Jean and her +child - my child; the dirty scoundrel Moore; my uncle and his +trust; perhaps the man from Bow Street. Debt, vice, cruelty, +dishonour, crime; the whole canting, lying, double-dealing, +beastly business! 'My son the Deacon - Deacon of the Wrights!' +My thoughts sicken at it. [Oh the Deacon, the Deacon! Where's a +hat for the Deacon? where's a hat for the Deacon's headache? +(SEARCHING). This place is a piggery. To be respectable and not +to find one's hat.) + + +SCENE II + +To him, JEAN, a baby in her shawl. C. + +JEAN (WHO HAS ENTERED SILENTLY DURING THE DEACON'S LAST WORDS). +It's me, Wullie. + +BRODIE (TURNING UPON HER). What! You here again? [you again!] + +JEAN. Deacon, I'm unco vexed. + +BRODIE. Do you know what you do? Do you know what you risk? +[Is there nothing - nothing! - will make you spare me this +idiotic, wanton prosecution?] + +JEAN. I was wrong to come yestreen; I ken that fine. But the +day it's different; I but to come the day, Deacon, though I ken +fine it's the Sabbath, and I think shame to be seen upon the +streets. + +BRODIE. See here, Jean. You must go now. I come to you +to-night; I swear that. But now I'm for the road. + +JEAN. No till you've heard me, William Brodie. Do ye think I +came to pleasure mysel', where I'm no wanted? I've a pride o' my +ains. + +BRODIE. Jean, I am going now. If you please to stay on alone, +in this house of mine, where I wish I could say you are welcome, +stay (GOING). + +JEAN. It's the man frae Bow Street. + +BRODIE. Bow Street? + +JEAN. I thocht ye would hear me. Ye think little o' me; but +it's mebbe a braw thing for you that I think sae muckle o' +William Brodie . . . ill as it sets me. + +BRODIE. [You don't know what is on my mind, Jeannie, else you +would forgive me.] Bow Street? + +JEAN. It's the man Hunt: him that was here yestreen for the +Fiscal. + +BRODIE. Hunt? + +JEAN. He kens a hantle. He . . . Ye maunna be angered wi' me, +Wullie! I said what I shouldna. + +BRODIE. Said? Said what? + +JEAN. Just that ye were a guid frien' to me. He made believe he +was awful sorry for me, because ye gied me nae siller; and I +said, 'Wha tellt him that?' and that he lee'd. + +BRODIE. God knows he did! What next? + +JEAN. He was that soft-spoken, butter wouldna melt in his mouth; +and he keept aye harp, harpin'; but after that let out, he got +neither black nor white frae me. Just that ae word and nae mair; +and at the hinder end he just speired straucht out, whaur it was +ye got your siller frae. + +BRODIE. Where I got my siller? + +JEAN. Ay, that was it! 'You ken,' says he. + +BRODIE. Did he? and what said you? + +JEAN. I couldna think on naething, but just that he was a gey +and clever gentleman. + +BRODIE. You should have said I was in trade, and had a good +business. That's what you should have said. That's what you +would have said had you been worth your salt. But it's blunder, +blunder, outside and in [upstairs, downstairs, and in my lady's +chamber]. You women! Did he see Smith? + +JEAN. Ay, and kennt him. + +BRODIE. Damnation! - No, I'm not angry with you. But you see +what I've to endure for you. Don't cry. [Here's the devil at +the door, and we must bar him out as best we can.] + +JEAN. God's truth, ye are nae vexed wi' me? + +BRODIE. God's truth, I am grateful to you. How is the child? +Well? That's right. (PEEPING.) Poor wee laddie! He's like +you, Jean. + +JEAN. I aye thocht he was liker you. + +BRODIE. Is he? Perhaps he is. Ah, Jeannie, you must see and +make him a better man than his father. + +JEAN. Eh man, Deacon, the proud wumman I'll be gin he's only +half sae guid. + +BRODIE. Well, well, if I win through this, we'll see what we can +do for him between us. (LEADING HER OUT, C.) And now, go - go - +go. + +LAWSON (WITHOUT, L.). I ken the way, I ken the way. + +JEAN (STARRING TO DOOR). It's the Fiscal; I'm awa. (BRODIE, +L.). + + +SCENE III + +To these, LAWSON, L. + +LAWSON. A braw day this, William. (SEEING JEAN.) Eh Mistress +Watt? And what'll have brocht you here? + +BRODIE (SEATED ON BENCH). Something, uncle, she lost last night, +and she thinks that something she lost is here. VOILA. + +LAWSON. Why are ye no at the kirk, woman? Do ye gang to the +kirk? + +JEAN. I'm mebbe no what ye would just ca' reg'lar. Ye see, +Fiscal, it's the wean. + +LAWSON. A bairn's an excuse; I ken that fine, Mistress Watt. +But bairn or nane, my woman, ye should be at the kirk. Awa wi' +ye! Hear to the bells; they're ringing in. (JEAN CURTSIES TO +BOTH, AND GOES OUT C. THE BELLS WHICH HAVE BEEN RINGING QUICKER, +CEASE.) + + +SCENE IV + +LAWSON (TO BRODIE, RETURNING C. FROM DOOR). MULIER FORMOSA +SUPERNE, William: a braw lass, and a decent woman forbye. + +BRODIE. I'm no judge, Procurator, but I'll take your word for +it. Is she not a tenant of yours? + +LAWSON. Ay, ay; a bit house on my land in Liberton's Wynd. Her +man's awa, puir body; or they tell me sae; and I'm concerned for +her [she's unco bonnie to be left her lane]. But it sets me +brawly to be finding faut wi' the puir lass, and me an elder, and +should be at the plate. [There'll be twa words about this in the +Kirk Session.] However, it's nane of my business that brings me, +or I should tak' the mair shame to mysel'. Na, sir, it's for +you; it's your business keeps me frae the kirk. + +BRODIE. My business, Procurator? I rejoice to see it in such +excellent hands. + +LAWSON. Ye see, it's this way. I had a crack wi' the laddie, +Leslie, INTER POCULA (he took a stirrup-cup wi' me), and he tells +me he has askit Mary, and she was to speak to ye hersel'. O, ye +needna look sae gash. Did she speak? and what'll you have said +to her? + +BRODIE. She has not spoken; I have said nothing; and I believe I +asked you to avoid the subject. + +LAWSON. Ay, I made a note o' that observation, William [and +assoilzied mysel']. Mary's a guid lass, and I'm her uncle, and +I'm here to be answered. Is it to be ay or no? + +BRODIE. It's to be no. This marriage must be quashed; and hark +ye, Procurator, you must help me. + +LAWSON. Me? ye're daft! And what for why? + +BRODIE. Because I've spent the trust-money, and I can't refund +it. + +LAWSON. Ye reprobate deevil! + +BRODIE. Have a care, Procurator. No wry words! + +LAWSON. Do you say it to my face, sir? Dod, sir, I'm the Crown +Prosecutor. + +BRODIE. Right. The Prosecutor for the Crown. And where did you +get your brandy? + +LAWSON. Eh? + +BRODIE. Your brandy! Your brandy man! Where do you get your +brandy? And you a Crown official and an elder! + +LAWSON. Whaur the deevil did ye hear that? + +BRODIE. Rogues all! Rogues all, Procurator! + +LAWSON. Ay, ay. Lord save us! Guidsake, to think o' that noo! +. . . Can ye give me some o' that Cognac? I'm . . . . . I'm sort +o' shaken, William, I'm sort o' shaken. Thank you, William! +(LOOKING, PITEOUSLY AT GLASS.) NUNC EST BIBENDUM. (DRINKS.) +Troth, I'm set ajee a bit. Wha the deevil tauld ye? + +BRODIE. Ask no questions, brother. We are a pair. + +LAWSON. Pair, indeed! Pair, William Brodie! Upon my saul, sir, +ye're a brazen-faced man that durst say it to my face! Tak' you +care, my bonnie young man, that your craig doesna feel the wecht +o' your hurdies. Keep the plainstanes side o' the gallows. VIA +TRITA, VIA TUTA, William Brodie! + +BRODIE. And the brandy, Procurator? and the brandy? + +LAWSON. Ay . . . weel . . . be't sae! Let the brandy bide, man, +let the brandy bide! But for you and the trust-money . . . +damned! It's felony. TUTOR IN REM SUAM, ye ken, TUTOR IN REM +SUAM. But O man, Deacon, whaur is the siller? + +BRODIE. It's gone - O how the devil should I know? But it'll +never come back. + +LAWSON. Dear, dear! A' gone to the winds o' heaven! Sae ye're +an extravagant dog, too. PRODIGUS ET FURIOSUS! And that puir +lass - eh, Deacon, man, that puir lass! I mind her such a bonny +bairn. + +BRODIE (STOPPING HIS EARS). Brandy, brandy, brandy, brandy, +brandy + +LAWSON. William Brodie, mony's the long day that I've believed +in you; prood, prood was I to be the Deacon's uncle; and a sore +hearing have I had of it the day. That's past; that's past like +Flodden Field; it's an auld sang noo, and I'm an aulder man than +when I crossed your door. But mark ye this - mark ye this, +William Brodie, I may be no sae guid's I should be; but there's +no a saul between the east sea and the wast can lift his een to +God that made him, and say I wranged him as ye wrang that lassie. +I bless God, + +William Brodie - ay, though he was like my brother - I bless God +that he that got ye has the hand of death upon his hearing, and +can win into his grave a happier man than me. And ye speak to +me, sir? Think shame - think shame upon your heart! + +BRODIE. Rogues all! + +LAWSON. You're the son of my sister, William Brodie. Mair than +that I stop not to inquire. If the siller is spent, and the +honour tint - Lord help us, and the honour tint! - sae be it, I +maun bow the head. Ruin shallna come by me. Na, and I'll say +mair, William; we have a' our weary sins upon our backs, and +maybe I have mair than mony. But, man, if ye could bring HALF +the jointure . . . [POTIUS QUAM PEREAS] . . . for your mither's +son? Na? You couldna bring the half? Weel, weel, it's a sair +heart I have this day, a sair heart and a weary. If I were a +better man mysel' . . . but there, there, it's a sair heart that +I have gotten. And the Lord kens I'll help ye if I can. [POTIUS +QUAM PEREAS.] + + +SCENE V + +BRODIE. Sore hearing, does he say? My hand's wet. But it's +victory. Shall it be go? or stay? [I should show them all I +can, or they may pry closer than they ought.] Shall I have it +out and be done with it? To see Mary at once [to carry bastion +after bastion at the charge] - there were the true safety after +all! Hurry - hurry's the road to silence now. Let them once get +tattling in their parlours, and it's death to me. For I'm in a +cruel corner now. I'm down, and I shall get my kicking soon and +soon enough. I began it in the lust of life, in a hey-day of +mystery and adventure. I felt it great to be a bolder, craftier +rogue than the drowsy citizen that called himself my fellow-man. +[It was meat and drink to know him in the hollow of my hand, +hoarding that I and mine might squander, pinching that we might +wax fat.] It was in the laughter of my heart that I tip-toed +into his greasy privacy. I forced the strong-box at his ear +while he sprawled beside his wife. He was my butt, my ape, my +jumping-jack. And now . . . O fool, fool! [Duped by such knaves +as are a shame to knavery, crime's rabble, hell's +tatterdemalions!] Shorn to the quick! Rooked to my vitals! And +I must thieve for my daily bread like any crawling blackguard in +the gutter. And my sister . . . my kind, innocent sister! She +will come smiling to me with her poor little love-story, and I +must break her heart. Broken hearts, broken lives! . . . I +should have died before. + + +SCENE VI + +BRODIE, MARY + +MARY (TAPPING WITHOUT). Can I come in, Will? + +BRODIE. O yes, come in, come in! (MARY ENTERS.) I wanted to be +quiet, but it doesn't matter, I see. You women are all the same. + +MARY. O no, Will, they're not all so happy, and they're not all +Brodies. But I'll be a woman in one thing. For I've come to +claim your promise, dear; and I'm going to be petted and +comforted and made much of, altho' I don't need it, and . . . +Why, Will, what's wrong with you? You look . . . I don't know +what you look like. + +BRODIE. O nothing! A splitting head and an aching heart. Well! +you've come to speak to me. Speak up. What is it? Come, girl! +What is it? Can't you speak? + +MARY. Why, Will, what is the matter? + +BRODIE. I thought you had come to tell me something. Here I am. +For God's sake out with it, and don't stand beating about the +bush. + +MARY. O be kind, be kind to me. + +BRODIE. Kind? I am kind. I'm only ill and worried, can't you +see? Whimpering? I knew it! Sit down, you goose! Where do you +women get your tears? + +MARY. Why are you so cross with me? Oh, Will, you have forgot +your sister! Remember, dear, that I have nobody but you. It's +your own fault, Will, if you've taught me to come to you for +kindness, for I always found it. And I mean you shall be kind to +me again. I know you will, for this is my great need, and the +day I've missed my mother sorest. Just a nice look, dear, and a +soft tone in your voice, to give me courage, for I can tell you +nothing till I know that you're my own brother once again. + +BRODIE. If you'd take a hint, you'd put it off till to-morrow. +But I suppose you won't. On, then, I'm listening. I'm +listening! + +MARY. Mr. Leslie has asked me to be his wife. + +BRODIE. He has, has he? + +MARY. And I have consented. + +BRODIE. And ...? + +MARY. You can say that to me? And that is all you have to say? + +BRODIE. O no, not all. + +MARY. Speak out, sir. I am not afraid. + +BRODIE. I suppose you want my consent? + +MARY. Can you ask? + +BRODIE. I didn't know. You seem to have got on pretty well +without it so far. + +MARY. O shame on you! shame on you! + +BRODIE. Perhaps you may be able to do without it altogether. I +hope so. For you'll never have it. ... Mary! ... I hate to see +you look like that. If I could say anything else, believe me, I +would say it. But I have said all; every word is spoken; there's +the end. + +MARY. It shall not be the end. You owe me explanation; and I'll +have it. + +BRODIE. Isn't my 'No' enough, Mary? + +MARY. It might be enough for me; but it is not, and it cannot +be, enough for him. He has asked me to be his wife; he tells me +his happiness is in my hands - poor hands, but they shall not +fail him, if my poor heart should break! If he has chosen and +set his hopes upon me, of all women in the world, I shall find +courage somewhere to be worthy of the choice. And I dare you to +leave this room until you tell me all your thoughts - until you +prove that this is good and right. + +BRODIE. Good and right? They are strange words, Mary. I mind +the time when it was good and right to be your father's daughter +and your brother's sister . . . Now! . . . + +MARY. Have I changed? Not even in thought. My father, Walter +says, shall live and die with us. He shall only have gained +another son. And you - you know what he thinks of you; you know +what I would do for you. + +BRODIE. Give him up. + +MARY. I have told you: not without a reason. + +BRODIE. You must. + +MARY. I will not. + +BRODIE. What if I told you that you could only compass your +happiness and his at the price of my ruin? + +MARY. Your ruin? + +BRODIE. Even so. + +MARY. Ruin! + +BRODIE. It has an ugly sound, has it not? + +MARY. O Willie, what have you done? What have you done? What +have you done? + +BRODIE. I cannot tell you, Mary. But you may trust me. You +must give up this Leslie . . . and at once. It is to save me. + +MARY. I would die for you, dear, you know that. But I cannot be +false to him. Even for you, I cannot be false to him. + +BRODIE. We shall see. Let me take you to your room. Come. +And, remember, it is for your brother's sake. It is to save me. + +MARY. I am true Brodie. Give me time, and you shall not find me +wanting. But it is all so sudden ... so strange and dreadful! +You will give me time, will you not? I am only a woman, and ... +O my poor Walter! It will break his heart! It will break his +heart! (A KNOCK.) + +BRODIE. You hear! + +MARY. Yes, yes. Forgive me. I am going. I will go. It is to +save you, is it not? To save you. Walter . . . Mr. Leslie ... O +Deacon, Deacon, God forgive you! (SHE GOES OUT.) + +BRODIE. Amen. But will He? + + +SCENE VII + +BRODIE, HUNT + +HUNT (HAT IN HAND). Mr. Deacon Brodie, I believe? + +BRODIE. I am he, Mr. - + +HUNT. Hunt, sir; an officer from Sir John Fielding of Bow +Street. + +BRODIE. There can be no better passport than the name. In what +can I serve you? + +HUNT. You'll excuse me, Mr. Deacon. + +BRODIE. Your duty excuses you, Mr. Hunt. + +HUNT. Your obedient. The fact is, Mr. Deacon [we in the office +see a good deal of the lives of private parties; and I needn't +tell a gentleman of your experience it's part of our duty to hold +our tongues. Now], it's come to my knowledge that you are a +trifle jokieous. Of course I know there ain't any harm in that. +I've been young myself, Mr. Deacon, and speaking - + +BRODIE. O, but pardon me. Mr. Hunt, I am not going to discuss +my private character with you. + +HUNT. To be sure you ain't. [And do I blame you? Not me.] +But, speaking as one man of the world to another, you naturally +see a great deal of bad company. + +BRODIE. Not half so much as you do. But I see what you're +driving at; and if I can illuminate the course of justice, you +may command me. (HE SITS, AND MOTIONS HUNT TO DO LIKEWISE.) + +HUNT. I was dead sure of it; and 'and upon 'art, Mr. Deacon, I +thank you. Now (CONSULTING POCKET-BOOK), did you ever meet a +certain George Smith? + +BRODIE. The fellow they call Jingling Geordie? (HUNT NODS.) +Yes. + +HUNT. Bad character. + +BRODIE. Let us say . . . disreputable. + +HUNT. Any means of livelihood? + +BRODIE. I really cannot pretend to guess, I have met the +creature at cock-fights [which, as you know, are my weakness]. +Perhaps he bets. + +HUNT. [Mr. Deacon, from what I know of the gentleman, I should +say that if he don't - if he ain't open to any mortal thing - he +ain't the man I mean.] He used to be about with a man called +Badger Moore. + +BRODIE. The boxer? + +HUNT. That's him. Know anything of him? + +BRODIE. Not much. I lost five pieces on him in a fight; and I +fear he sold his backers. + +HUNT. Speaking as one admirer of the noble art to another, Mr. +Deacon, the losers always do. I suppose the Badger cockfights +like the rest of us? + +BRODIE. I have met him in the pit. + +HUNT. Well, it's a pretty sport. I'm as partial to a main as +anybody. + +BRODIE. It's not an elegant taste, Mr. Hunt. + +HUNT. It costs as much as though it was. And that reminds me, +speaking as one sportsman to another, Mr. Deacon, I was sorry to +hear that you've been dropping a hatful of money lately. + +BRODIE. You are very good. + +HUNT. Four hundred in three months, they tell me. + +BRODIE. Ah! + +HUNT. So they say, sir. + +BRODIE. They have a perfect right to say so, Mr. Hunt. + +HUNT. And you to do the other thing? Well, I'm a good hand at +keeping close myself. + +BRODIE. I am not consulting you, Mr. Hunt; 'tis you who are +consulting me. And if there is nothing else (RISING) in which I +can pretend to serve you . . . ? + +HUNT (RISING). That's about all, sir, unless you can put me on +to anything good in the way of heckle and spur? I'd try to look +in. + +BRODIE. O, come, Mr. Hunt, if you have nothing to do, frankly +and flatly I have. This is not the day for such a conversation; +and so good-bye to you. (A KNOCKING, C.) + +HUNT. Servant, Mr. Deacon. (SMITH AND MOORE, WITHOUT WAITING TO +BE ANSWERED, OPEN AND ENTER, C. THEY ARE WELL INTO THE ROOM +BEFORE THEY OBSERVE HUNT.) [Talk of the Devil, sir!] + +BRODIE. What brings you here? (SMITH AND MOORE, CONFOUNDED BY +THE OFFICER'S PRESENCE, SLOUCH TOGETHER TO RIGHT OF DOOR. HUNT, +STOPPING AS HE GOES OUT, CONTEMPLATES THE PAIR, SARCASTICALLY. +THIS IS SUPPORTED BY MOORE WITH SULLEN BRAVADO; BY SMITH, WITH +CRINGING AIRINESS.) + +HUNT (DIGGING SMITH IN THE RIBS). Why, you are the very parties +I was looking for! (HE GOES OUT, C.) + + +SCENE VIII + +BRODIE, MOORE, SMITH + +MOORE. Wot was that cove here about? + +BRODIE (WITH FOLDED ARMS, HALF-SITTING ON BENCH). He was here +about you. + +SMITH (STILL QUITE DISCOUNTENANCED). About us? Scissors! And +what did you tell him? + +BRODIE (SAME ATTITUDE). I spoke of you as I have found you. [I +told him you were a disreputable hound, and that Moore had +crossed a fight.] I told him you were a drunken ass, and Moore +an incompetent and dishonest boxer. + +MOORE. Look here, Deacon! Wot's up? Wot I ses is, if a cove's +got any thundering grudge agin a cove, why can't he spit it out, +I ses. + +BRODIE. Here are my answers (PRODUCING PURSE AND DICE). These +are both too light. This purse is empty, these dice are not +loaded. Is it indiscretion to inquire how you share? Equal with +the Captain, I presume? + +SMITH. It's as easy as my eye, Deakin. Slink Ainslie got +letting the merry glass go round, and didn't know the right bones +from the wrong. That's Hall. + +BRODIE. [What clumsy liars you are! + +SMITH. In boyhood's hour, Deakin, he were called Old Truthful. +Little did he think -] + +BRODIE. What is your errand? + +MOORE. Business. + +SMITH. After the melancholy games of last night, Deakin, which +no one deplores so much as George Smith, we thought we'd trot +round - didn't us, Hump? and see how you and your bankers was +a-getting on. + +BRODIE. Will you tell me your errand? + +MOORE. You're dry, ain't you? + +BRODIE. Am I? + +MOORE. We ain't none of us got a stiver, that's wot's the matter +with us. + +BRODIE. Is it? + +MOORE. Ay, strike me, it is! And wot we've got to is to put up +the Excise. + +SMITH. It's the last plant in the shrubbery Deakin, and it's +breaking George the gardener's heart, it is. We really must! + +BRODIE. Must we? + +MOORE. Must's the thundering word. I mean business, I do. + +BRODIE. That's lucky. I don't. + +MOORE. O, you don't, don't you? + +BRODIE. I do not. + +MOORE. Then p'raps you'll tell us wot you thundering well do? + +BRODIE. What do I mean? I mean that you and that merry-andrew +shall walk out of this room and this house. Do you suppose, you +blockheads, that I am blind? I'm the Deacon, am I not? I've +been your king and your commander. I've led you, and fed you, +and thought for you with this head. And you think to steal a +march upon a man like me? I see you through and through [I know +you like the clock]; I read your thoughts like print. Brodie, +you thought, has money, and won't do the job. Therefore, you +thought, we must rook him to the heart. And therefore, you put +up your idiot cockney. And now you come round, and dictate, and +think sure of your Excise? Sure? Are you sure I'll let you pack +with a whole skin? By my soul, but I've a mind to pistol you +like dogs. Out of this! Out, I say, and soil my home no more. + +MOORE (SITTING). Now look 'ere. Mr. bloody Deacon Brodie, you +see this 'ere chair of yours, don't you? Wot I ses to you is, +here I am, I ses, and here I mean to stick. That's my motto. +Who the devil are you to do the high and mighty? You make all +you can out of us, don't you? and when one of your plants get +cross, you order us out of the ken? Muck! That's wot I think of +you. Muck! Don't you get coming the nob over me, Mr. Deacon +Brodie, or I'll smash you. + +BRODIE. You will? + +MOORE. Ay will I. If I thundering well swing for it. And as +for clearing out? Muck! Here I am, and here I stick. Clear +out? You try it on. I'm a man, I am. + +BRODIE. This is plain speaking. + +MOORE. Plain? Wot about your father as can't walk? Wot about +your fine-madam sister? Wot about the stone-jug, and the dock, +and the rope in the open street? Is that plain? If it ain't, +you let me know, and I'll spit it out so as it'll raise the roof +off this 'ere ken. Plain! I'm that cove's master, and I'll make +it plain enough for him. + +BRODIE. What do you want of me? + +MOORE. Wot do I want of you? Now you speak sense. Leslie's is +wot I want of you. The Excise is wot I want of you. Leslie's +to-night and the Excise to-morrow. That's wot I want of you, and +wot I thundering well mean to get. + +BRODIE. Damn you! + +MOORE. Amen. But you've got your orders. + +BRODIE (WITH PISTOL). Orders? hey? orders? + +SMITH (BETWEEN THEM). Deacon, Deacon! - Badger, are you mad? + +MOORE. Muck! That's my motto. Wot I ses is, has he got his +orders or has he not? That's wot's the matter with him. + +SMITH. Deacon, half a tick. Humphrey, I'm only a light weight, +and you fight at twelve stone ten, but I'm damned if I'm going to +stand still and see you hitting a pal when he's down. + +MOORE. Muck! That's wot I think of you. + +SMITH. He's a cut above us, ain't he? He never sold his +backers, did he? We couldn't have done without him, could we? +You dry up about his old man, and his sister; and don't go on +hitting a pal when he's knocked out of time and cannot hit back, +for, damme, I will not stand it. + +MOORE. Amen to you. But I'm cock of this here thundering walk, +and that cove's got his orders. + +BRODIE (PUTTING PISTOL ON BENCH). I give in. I will do your +work for you once more. Leslie's to-night and the Excise +to-morrow. If that is enough, if you have no more . . . orders, +you may count it as done. + +MOORE. Fen larks. No rotten shirking, mind. + +BRODIE. I have passed you my word. And now you have said what +you came to say, you must go. I have business here; but two +hours hence I am at your ... orders. Where shall I await you? + +MOORE. What about that woman's place of yours? + +BRODIE. Your will is my law. + +MOORE. That's good enough. Now, Dock. + +SMITH. Bye-bye, my William. Don't forget. + + +SCENE IX + +BRODIE. Trust me. No man forgets his vice, you dogs, or +forgives it either. It must be done: Leslie's to-night and the +Excise to-morrow. It shall be done. This settles it. They used +to fetch and carry for me, and now . . . I've licked their boots, +have I? I'm their man, their tool, their chattel. It's the +bottom rung of the ladder of shame. I sound with my foot, and +there's nothing underneath but the black emptiness of damnation. +Ah, Deacon, Deacon, and so this is where you've been travelling +all these years; and it's for this that you learned French! The +gallows . . . God help me, it begins to dog me like my shadow. +THERE'S a step to take! And the jerk upon your spine! How's a +man to die with a night-cap on? I've done with this. Over +yonder, across the great ocean, is a new land, with new +characters, and perhaps new lives. The sun shines, and the bells +ring, and it's a place where men live gladly; and the Deacon +himself can walk without terror, and begin again like a new-born +child. It must be good to see day again and not to fear; it must +be good to be one's self with all men. Happy like a child, wise +like a man, free like God's angels . . . should I work these +hands off and eat crusts, there were a life to make me young and +good again. And it's only over the sea! O man, you have been +blind, and now your eyes are opened. It was half a life's +nightmare, and now you are awake. Up, Deacon, up, it's hope +that's at the window! Mary! Mary! Mary! + + +SCENE X + +BRODIE, MARY, OLD BRODIE + +(BRODIE has fallen into a chair, with his face upon the table. +Enter MARY, by the side door pushing her father's chair. She is +supposed to have advanced far enough for stage purposes before +BRODIE is aware of her. He starts up, and runs to her.) + +BRODIE. Look up, my lass, look up, and be a woman! I . . . O +kiss me, Mary I give me a kiss for my good news. + +MARY. Good news, Will? Is it changed? + +BRODIE. Changed? Why, the world's a different colour! It was +night, and now it's broad day and I trust myself again. You must +wait, dear, wait, and I must work and work; and before the week +is out, as sure as God sees me, I'll have made you happy. O you +may think me broken, hounds, but the Deacon's not the man to be +run down; trust him, he shall turn a corner yet, and leave you +snarling! And you, Poll, you. I've done nothing for you yet; +but, please God, I'll make your life a life of gold; and wherever +I am, I'll have a part in your happiness, and you'll know it, by +heaven! and bless me. + +MARY. O Willie, look at him; I think he hears you, and is trying +to be glad with us. + +BRODIE. My son - Deacon - better man than I was. + +BRODIE. O for God's sake, hear him! + +MARY. He is quite happy, Will, and so am I ... so am I. + +BRODIE. Hear me, Mary. This is a big moment in our two lives. +I swear to you by the father here between us that it shall not be +fault of mine if this thing fails; if this ship founders you have +set your hopes in. I swear it by our father; I swear it by God's +judgments. + +MARY. I want no oaths, Will. + +BRODIE. No, but I do. And prayers, Mary, prayers. Pray night +and day upon your knees. I must move mountains. + +OLD BRODIE. A wise son maketh - maketh - + +BRODIE. A glad father? And does your son, the Deacon, make you +glad? O heaven of heavens, if I were a good man. + +ACT-DROP + + +ACT III. + +TABLEAU V. KING'S EVIDENCE + +The Stage represents a public place in Edinburgh. + +SCENE I + +JEAN, SMITH, AND MOORE + +(They loiter in L., and stand looking about as for somebody not +there. SMITH is hat in hand to JEAN; MOORE as usual.) + +MOORE. Wot did I tell you? Is he 'ere, or ain't he? Now, then. +Slink by name and Slink by nature, that's wot's the matter with +him. + +JEAN. He'll no be lang; he's regular enough, if that was a'. + +MOORE. I'd regular him; I'd break his back. + +SMITH. Badger, you brute, you hang on to the lessons of your +dancing-master. None but the genteel deserves the fair; does +they, Duchess? + +MOORE. O rot! Did I insult the blowen? Wot's the matter with +me is Slink Ainslie. + +SMITH. All right, old Crossed-in-love. Give him forty winks, +and he'll turn up as fresh as clean sawdust and as respectable as +a new Bible. + +MOORE. That's right enough; but I ain't agoing to stand here all +day for him. I'm for a drop of something short, I am. You tell +him I showed you that (SHOWING HIS DOUBLED FIST). That's wot's +the matter with him. (HE LURCHES OUT, R.) + + +SCENE II + +SMITH and JEAN, to whom HUNT, and afterwards MOORE + +SMITH (CRITICALLY). No, Duchess, he has not good manners. + +JEAN. Ay, he's an impident man. + +SMITH. So he is, Jean; and for the matter of that he ain't the +only one. + +JEAN. Geordie, I want nae mair o' your nonsense, mind. + +SMITH. There's our old particular the Deacon, now. Why is he +ashamed of a lovely woman? That's not my idea of the Young +Chevalier, Jean. If I had luck, we should be married, and retire +to our estates in the country, shouldn't us? and go to church and +be happy, like the nobility and gentry. + +JEAN. Geordie Smith, div ye mean ye'd mairry me? + +SMITH. Mean it? What else has ever been the 'umble petition of +your honest but well-meaning friend, Roman, and +fellow-countryman? I know the Deacon's your man, and I know he's +a cut above G. S.; but he won't last, Jean, and I shall. + +JEAN. Ay, I'm muckle ta'en up wi' him; wha could help it? + +SMITH. Well, and my sort don't grow on apple-trees either. + +JEAN. Ye're a fine, cracky, neebourly body, Geordie, if ye wad +just let me be. + +SMITH. I know I ain't a Scotchman born. + +JEAN. I dinna think sae muckle the waur o' ye even for that; if +ye would just let me be. + +[HUNT (ENTERING BEHIND, ASIDE). Are they thick? Anyhow, it's a +second chance.] + +SMITH. But he won't last, Jean, and when he leaves you, you come +to me. Is that your taste in pastry? That's the kind of +harticle that I present. + +HUNT (SURPRISING THEM AS IN TABLEAU I.). Why, you're the very +parties I was looking for! + +JEAN. Mercy me! + +SMITH. Damn it, Jerry, this is unkind. + +HUNT. [Now this is what I call a picter of good fortune.] Ain't +it strange I should have dropped across you comfortable and +promiscuous like this? + +JEAN (STOLIDLY). I hope ye're middling weel, Mr. Hunt? (GOING.) +Mr. Smith! + +SMITH. Mrs. Watt, ma'am! (GOING.) + +HUNT. Hold hard, George. Speaking as one lady's man to another, +turn about's fair play. You've had your confab, and now I'm +going to have mine. [Not that I've done with you; you stand by +and wait.] Ladies first, George, ladies first; that's the size +of it. (TO JEAN, ASIDE.) Now, Mrs. Watt, I take it you ain't a +natural fool? + +JEAN. And thank ye kindly, Mr. Hunt. + +SMITH (INTERFERING). Jean . . . ! + +HUNT (KEEPING HIM OFF). Half a tick, George. (TO JEAN.) Mrs. +Watt, I've a warrant in my pocket. One, two, three: will you +peach? + +JEAN. Whaten kind of a word'll that be? + +SMITH. Mum it is, Jean! + +HUNT. WHEN you've done dancing, George! (TO JEAN.) It ain't a +pretty expression, my dear, I own it. 'Will you blow the gaff?' +is perhaps more tenderer. + +JEAN. I think ye've a real strange way o' expressin yoursel'. + +HUNT (TO JEAN). I can't waste time on you, my girl. It's now or +never. Will you turn king's evidence? + +JEAN. I think ye'll have made a mistake, like. + +HUNT. Well, I'm ... ! (SEPARATING THEM.) [No, not yet; don't +push me.] George's turn now. (TO GEORGE.) George, I've a +warrant in my pocket. + +SMITH. As per usual, Jerry? + +HUNT. Now I want king's evidence. + +SMITH. Ah! so you came a cropper with HER, Jerry. Pride had a +fall. + +HUNT. A free pardon and fifty shiners down. + +SMITH. A free pardon, Jerry? + +HUNT. Don't I tell you so? + +SMITH. And fifty down? fifty? + +HUNT. On the nail. + +SMITH. So you came a cropper with her, and then you tried it on +with me? + +HUNT. I suppose you mean you're a born idiot? + +SMITH. What I mean is, Jerry, that you've broke my heart. I +used to look up to you like a party might to Julius Caesar. One +more of boyhood's dreams gone pop. (ENTER MOORE, L.) + +HUNT (TO BOTH). Come, then, I'll take the pair, and be damned to +you. Free pardon to both, fifty down and the Deacon out of the +way. I don't care for you commoners, it's the Deacon I want. + +JEAN (LOOKING OFF STOLIDLY). I think the kirks are scalin'. +There seems to be mair people in the streets. + +HUNT. O that's the way, is it? Do you know that I can hang you, +my woman, and your fancy man a well? + +JEAN. I daur say ye would like fine, Mr. Hunt; and here's my +service to you. (GOING.) + +HUNT. George, don't you be a tomfool, anyway. Think of the +blowen here, and have brains for two. + +SMITH (GOING). Ah, Jerry, if you knew anything, how different +you would talk! (THEY GO TOGETHER, R.) + + +SCENE III + +HUNT, MOORE + +HUNT. Half a tick, Badger. You're a man of parts, you are; +you're solid, you're a true-born Englishman; you ain't a +Jerry-go-Nimble like him. Do you know what your pal the Deacon's +worth to you? Fifty golden Georges and a free pardon. No +questions asked, and no receipts demanded. What do you say? Is +it a deal? + +MOORE (AS TO HIMSELF). Muck. (HE GOES OUT, R.) + + +SCENE IV + +HUNT, TO WHOM AINSLIE + +HUNT (LOOKING AFTER THEM RUEFULLY). And these were the very +parties I was looking for! [Ah, Jerry, Jerry, if they knew this +at the office!] Well, the market price of that 'ere two hundred +is a trifle on the decline and fall. (LOOKING L.) Hullo! +(SLAPPING HIS THIGH). Send me victorious! It's king's evidence +on two legs. (ADVANCING WITH GREAT CORDIALITY TO MEET AINSLIE, +WHO ENTERS L.) And so your name's Andrew Ainslie, is it? As I +was saying, you're the very party I was looking for. Ain't it +strange, now, that I should have dropped across you comfortable +and promiscuous like this? + +AINSLIE. I dinna ken wha ye are, an' I'm ill for my bed. + +HUNT. Let your bed wait, Andrew. I want a little chat with you; +just a quiet little sociable wheeze. Just about our friends, you +know. About Badger Moore, and George the Dook, and Jemmy Rivers, +and Deacon Brodie, Andrew. Particularly Deacon Brodie. + +AINSLIE. They're nae friens o' mine's, mister. I ken naething +an' naebody. An' noo I'll get to my bed, wulln't I? + +HUNT. We're going to have our little talk out first. After that +perhaps I'll let you go, and perhaps I won't. It all depends on +how we get along together. Now, in a general way, Andrew, and +speaking of a man as you find him, I'm all for peace and +quietness myself. That's my usual game, Andrew, but when I do +make a dust I'm considered by my friends to be rather a good hand +at it. So don't you tread upon the worm. + +AINSLIE. But I'm sayin' - + +HUNT. You leave that to me, Andrew. You shall do your pitch +presently. I'm first on the ground, and I lead off. With a +question, Andrew. Did you ever hear in your life of such a +natural curiosity as a Bow Street Runner? + +AINSLIE. Aiblins ay an' aiblins no. + +HUNT. 'Aiblins ay and aiblins no.' Very good indeed, Andrew. +Now, I'll ask you another. Did you ever see a Bow Street Runner, +Andrew? With the naked eye, so to speak? + +AINSLIE. What's your wull? + +HUNT. Artful bird! Now since we're getting on so cosy AND so +free, I'll ask you another, Andrew. Should you like to see a Bow +Street Runner? (PRODUCING STAFF.) 'Cos, if so, you've only got +to cast your eyes on me. Do you queer the red weskit, Andrew? +Pretty colour, ain't it? So nice and warm for the winter too. +(AINSLIE DIVES, HUNT COLLARS HIM.) No, you don't. Not this +time. Run away like that before we've finished our little +conversation? You're a nice young man, you are. Suppose we +introduce our wrists into these here darbies? Now we shall get +along cosier and freer than ever. Want to lie down, do you? All +right! anything to oblige. + +AINSLIE (GROVELLING). It wasna me, it wasna me. It's bad +companions; I've been lost wi' bad companions an' the drink. An' +O mister, ye'll be a kind gentleman to a puir lad, an' me sae +weak, an' fair rotten wi' the drink an' that. Ye've a bonnie +kind heart, my dear, dear gentleman; ye wadna hang sitchan a +thing as me. I'm no fit to hang. They ca' me the Cannleworm! +An' I'll dae somethin' for ye, wulln't I? An' ye'll can hang the +ithers? + +HUNT. I thought I hadn't mistook my man. Now, you look here, +Andrew Ainslie, you're a bad lot. I've evidence to hang you +fifty times over. But the Deacon is my mark. Will you peach, or +wont you? You blow the gaff, and I'll pull you through. You +don't, and I'll scragg you as sure as my name's Jerry Hunt. + +AINSLIE. I'll dae onything. It's the hanging fleys me. I'll +dae onything, onything no to hang. + +HUNT. Don't lie crawling there, but get up and answer me like a +man. Ain't this Deacon Brodie the fine workman that's been doing +all these tip-topping burglaries? + +AINSLIE. It's him, mister; it's him. That's the man. Ye're in +the very bit. Deacon Brodie. I'll can tak' ye to his vera door. + +HUNT. How do you know? + +AINSLIE. I gi'ed him a han' wi' them a'. It was him an' Badger +Moore, and Geordie Smith; an' they gart me gang wi' them whether +or no; I'm that weak, an' whiles I'm donner'd wi' the drink. +But I ken a', an' I'll tell a'. And O kind gentleman, you'll +speak to their lordships for me, an' I'll no be hangit. . . I'll +no be hangit, wull I? + +HUNT. But you shared, didn't you? I wonder what share they +thought you worth. How much did you get for last night's +performance down at Mother Clarke's? + +AINSLIE. Just five pund, mister. Five pund. As sure's deith it +wadna be a penny mair. No but I askit mair: I did that; I'll do +deny it, mister. But Badger kickit me, an' Geordie, he said a +bad sweir, an' made he'd cut the liver out o' me, an' catch fish +wi't. It's been that way frae the first: an aith an' a bawbee +was aye guid eneuch for puir Andra. + +HUNT. Well, and why did they do it? I saw Jemmy dance a +hornpipe on the table, and booze the company all round, when the +Deacon was gone. What made you cross the fight, and play booty +with your own man? + +AINSLIE. Just to make him rob the Excise, mister. They're +wicked, wicked men. + +HUNT. And is he right for it? + +AINSLIE. Ay is he. + +HUNT. By jingo! When's it for? + +AINSLIE. Dear, kind gentleman, I dinna rightly ken: the +Deacon's that sair angered wi' me. I'm to get my orders frae +Geordie the nicht. + +HUNT. O, you're to get your orders from Geordie, are you? Now +look here, Ainslie. You know me. I'm Hunt the Runner; I put +Jemmy Rivers in the jug this morning; I've got you this evening. +I mean to wind up with the Deacon. You understand? All right. +Then just you listen. I'm going to take these here bracelets +off, and send you home to that celebrated bed of yours. Only, as +soon as you've seen the Dook you come straight round to me at Mr. +Procurator-Fiscal's, and let me know the Dook's views. One word, +mind, and ... cl'k! It's a bargain? + +AINSLIE. Never you fear that. I'll tak' my bannet an' come +straucht to ye. Eh God, I'm glad it's nae mair nor that to start +wi'. An' may the Lord bless ye, dear, kind gentleman, for your +kindness. May the Lord bless ye. + +HUNT. You pad the hoof. + +AINSLIE (GOING OUT). An' so I wull, wulln't I not? An' bless, +bless ye while there's breath in my body, wulln't I not? + +HUNT (SOLUS). You're a nice young man, Andrew Ainslie. Jemmy +Rivers and the Deacon in two days! By jingo! (HE DANCES AN +INSTANT GRAVELY, WHISTLING TO HIMSELF.) Jerry, that 'ere little +two hundred of ours is as safe as the bank. + + +TABLEAU VI. UNMASKED + +The Stage represents a room in Leslie's house. A practicable +window, C., through which a band of strong moonlight falls into +the room. Near the window a strong-box. A practicable door in +wing, L. Candlelight. + +SCENE I + +LESLIE, LAWSON, MARY, seated. BRODIE at back, walking between +the windows and strong-box. + +LAWSON. Weel, weel, weel, weel, nae doubt. + +LESLIE. Mr. Lawson, I am perfectly satisfied with Brodie's word; +I will wait gladly. + +LAWSON. I have nothing to say against that. + +BRODIE (BEHIND LAWSON). Nor for it. + +LAWSON. For it? for it, William? Ye're perfectly richt there. +(TO LESLIE.) Just you do what William tells you; ye canna do +better than that. + +MARY. Dear uncle, I see you are vexed; but Will and I are +perfectly agreed on the best course. Walter and I are young. +Oh, we can wait; we can trust each other. + +BRODIE (FROM BEHIND). Leslie, do you think it safe to keep this +strong-box in your room? + +LESLIE. It does not trouble me. + +BRODIE. I would not. 'Tis close to the window. + +LESLIE. It's on the right side of it. + +BRODIE. I give you my advice: I would not. + +LAWSON. He may be right there too, Mr. Leslie. + +BRODIE. I give him fair warning: it's not safe. + +LESLIE. I have a different treasure to concern myself about; if +all goes right with that I shall be well contented. + +MARY. Walter! + +LAWSON. Ay, bairns, ye speak for your age. + +LESLIE. Surely, sir, for every age; the ties of blood, of love, +of friendship, these are life's essence. + +MARY. And for no one is it truer than my uncle. If he live to +be a thousand, he will still be young in heart, full of love, +full of trust. + +LAWSON. All, lassie, it's a wicked world. + +MARY. Yes, you are out of sorts to-day; we know that. + +LESLIE. Admitted that you know more of life, sir; admitted (if +you please) that the world is wicked; yet you do not lose trust +in those you love. + +LAWSON. Weel . . . ye get gliffs, ye ken. + +LESLIE. I suppose so. We can all be shaken for a time; but not, +I think, in our friends. We are not deceived in them; in the few +that we admit into our hearts. + +MARY. Never in these. + +LESLIE. We know these (TO BRODIE), and we think the world of +them. + +BRODIE (AT BACK). We are more acquainted with each other's +tailors, believe me. You, Leslie, are a very pleasant creature. +My uncle Lawson is the Procurator-Fiscal. I - What am I? - I am +the Deacon of the Wrights, my ruffles are generally clean. And +you think the world of me? Bravo! + +LESLIE. Ay, and I think the world of you. + +BRODIE (AT BACK, POINTING TO LAWSON). Ask him. + +LAWSON. Hoot-toot. A wheen nonsense: an honest man's an honest +man, and a randy thief's a randy thief, and neither mair nor +less. Mary, my lamb, it's time you were hame, and had you beauty +sleep. + +MARY. Do you not come with us? + +LAWSON. I gang the ither gate, my lamb. (LESLIE HELPS MARY ON +WITH HER CLOAK, AND THEY SAY FAREWELL AT BACK. BRODIE FOR THE +FIRST TIME COMES FRONT WITH LAWSON.) Sae ye've consented? + +BRODIE. As you see. + +LAWSON. Ye'll can pay it back? + +BRODIE. I will. + +LAWSON. And how? That's what I'm wonderin' to mysel'. + +BRODIE. Ay, God knows that. + +MARY. Come, Will. + + +SCENE II + +LESLIE, LAWSON (wrapping up) + +LESLIE. I wonder what ails Brodie? + +LAWSON. How should I ken? What should I ken that ails him? + +LESLIE. He seemed angry even with you. + +LAWSON (IMPATIENT). Hoot awa'. + +LESLIE. Of course, I know. But you see, on the very day when +our engagement is announced, even the best of men may be +susceptible. You yourself seem not quite pleased. + +LAWSON (WITH GREAT IRRITATION). I'm perfectly pleased. I'm +perfectly delighted. If I werena an auld man, I'd be just beside +mysel' wi' happiness. + +LESLIE. Well, I only fancied. + +LAWSON. Ye had nae possible excuse to fancy. Fancy? Perfect +trash and nonsense. Look at yersel'. Ye look like a ghaist, +ye're white-like, ye're black aboot the een; and do ye find me +deavin' ye wi' fancies? Or William Brodie either? I'll say that +for him. + +LESLIE. 'Tis not sorrow that alters my complexion; I've +something else on hand. Come, I'll tell you, under seal. I've +not been in bed till daylight for a week. + +LAWSON. Weel, there's nae sense in the like o' that. + +LESLIE. Gad, but there is though. Why, Procurator, this is +town's business; this is a municipal affair; I'm a public +character. Why? Ah, here's a nut for the Crown Prosecutor! I'm +a bit of a party to a robbery. + +LAWSON. Guid guide us, man, what d'ye mean? + +LESLIE. You shall hear. A week ago to-night, I was passing +through this very room without a candle on my way to bed, when . +. . what should I see, but a masked man fumbling at that window! +How he did the Lord knows. I suspect, Procurator, it was not the +first he'd tried . . . for he opened it as handily as his own +front door. + +LAWSON. Preserve me! Another of thae robberies! + +LESLIE. That's it. And, of course, I tried to seize him. But +the rascal was too quick. He was down and away in an instant. +You never saw a thing so daring and adroit. + +LAWSON. Is that a'? Ye're a bauld lad, I'll say that for ye. +I'm glad it wasna waur. + +LESLIE. Yes, that's all plain sailing. But here's the hitch. +Why didn't I tell the Procurator-Fiscal? You never thought of +that. + +LAWSON. No, man. Why? + +LESLIE. Aha! There's the riddle. Will you guess? No? . . . I +thought I knew the man. + +LAWSON. What d'ye say? + +LESLIE. I thought I knew him. + +LAWSON. Wha was't? + +LESLIE. Ah, there you go beyond me. That I cannot tell. + +LAWSON. As God sees ye, laddie, are ye speaking truth? + +LESLIE. Well . . . of course! + +LAWSON. The haill truth? + +LESLIE. All of it. Why not? + +LAWSON. Man, I'd a kind o' gliff. + +LESLIE. Why, what were you afraid of? Had you a suspicion? + +LAWSON. Me? Me a suspicion? Ye're daft, sir; and me the Crown +offeecial! . . . Eh man, I'm a' shakin' ... And sae ye thocht ye +kennt him? + +LESLIE. I did that. And what's more, I've sat every night in +case of his return. I promise you, Procurator, he shall not slip +me twice. Meanwhile I'm worried and put out. You understand how +such a fancy will upset a man. I'm uneasy with my friends and on +bad terms with my own conscience. I keep watching, spying, +comparing, putting two and two together, hunting for resemblances +until my head goes round. It's like a puzzle in a dream. Only +yesterday I thought I had him. And who d'you think it was? + +LAWSON. Wha? Wha was't? Speak, Mr. Leslie, speak. I'm an auld +man; dinna forget that. + +LESLIE. I name no names. It would be unjust to him; and, upon +my word, it was so silly it would be unfair to me. However, here +I sit, night after night. I mean him to come back; come back he +shall; and I'll tell you who he was next morning. + +LAWSON. Let sleeping dogs lie, Mr. Leslie; ye dinna ken what ye +micht see. And then, leave him alane, he'll come nae mair. And +sitting up a' nicht . . . it's a FACTUM IMPRESTABILE, as we say: +a thing impossible to man. Gang ye to your bed, like a guid +laddie, and sleep lang and soundly, and bonnie, bonnie dreams to +ye! (WITHOUT.) Let sleeping dogs lie, and gang ye to your bed. + + +SCENE III + +LESLIE + +LESLIE (CALLING). In good time, never fear! (HE CAREFULLY BOLTS + +AND CHAINS THE DOOR.) The old gentleman seems upset. What for, +I wonder? Has he had a masked visitor? Why not? It's the +fashion. Out with the lights. (BLOWS OUT THE CANDLES. THE +STAGE IS ONLY LIGHTED BY THE MOON THROUGH THE WINDOW.) He is +sure to come one night or other. He must come. Right or wrong, +I feel it in the air. Man, but I know you, I know you somewhere. +That trick of the shoulders, the hang of the clothes - whose are +they? Where have I seen them? And then, that single look of the +eye, that one glance about the room as the window opened . . . it +is almost friendly; I have caught it over the glass's rim! If it +should be . . . his? No, his it is not. + +WATCHMAN (WITHOUT). Past ten o'clock, and a fine moonlight +night. + +ANOTHER (FURTHER AWAY). Past ten o'clock, and all's well. + +LESLIE. Past ten? Ah, there's a long night before you and me, +watchmen. Heavens, what a trade! But it will be something to +laugh over with Mary and . . . with him? Damn it, the delusion +is too strong for me. It's a thing to be ashamed of. 'We +Brodies': how she says it! 'We Brodies and our Deacon': what a +pride she takes in it, and how good it sounds to me! 'Deacon of +his craft, sir, Deacon of the . . .! (BRODIE, MASKED, APPEARS +WITHOUT AT THE WINDOW, WHICH HE PROCEEDS TO FORCE.) Ha! I knew +he'd come. I was sure of it. (HE CROUCHES NEAR AND NEARER TO +THE WINDOW, KEEPING IN THE SHADE.) And I know you too. I swear +I know you. + + +SCENE IV + +BRODIE, LESLIE + +BRODIE enters by the window with assurance and ease, closes it +silently, and proceeds to traverse the room. As he moves, LESLIE +leaps upon and grapples him. + +LESLIE. Take off that mask! + +BRODIE. Hands off! + +LESLIE. Take off the mask! + +BRODIE. Leave go, by God, leave go! + +LESLIE. Take it off! + +BRODIE (OVERPOWERED). Leslie .... + +LESLIE. Ah! you know me! (SUCCEEDS IN TEARING OFF THE MASK.) +Brodie! + +BRODIE (IN THE MOONLIGHT). Brodie. + +LESLIE. You . . . you, Brodie, you? + +BRODIE. Brodie, sir, Brodie as you see. + +LESLIE. What does it mean? What does it mean, my God? Were you +here before? Is this the second time? Are you a thief, man? are +you a thief? Speak, speak, or I'll kill you. + +BRODIE. I am a thief. + +LESLIE. And my friend, my own friend, and . . . Mary, Mary! . . +. Deacon, Deacon, for God's sake, no! + +BRODIE. God help me! + +LESLIE. 'We Brodies! We Brodies!' + +BRODIE. Leslie - + +LESLIE. Stand off! Don't touch me! You're a thief! + +BRODIE. Leslie, Leslie + +LESLIE. A thief's sister! Why are you here? why are you here? +Tell me! Why do you not speak? Man, I know you of old. Are you +Brodie, and have nothing to say? + +BRODIE. To say? Not much - God help me - and commonplace, +commonplace like sin. I was honest once; I made a false step; I +couldn't retrace it; and . . . that is all. + +LESLIE. You have forgot the bad companions! + +BRODIE. I did forget them. They were there. + +LESLIE. Commonplace! Commonplace! Do you speak to me, do you +reason with me, do you make excuses? You - a man found out, +shamed, a liar, a thief - a man that's killed me, killed this +heart in my body; and you speak! What am I to do? I hold your +life in my hand; have you thought of that? What am I to do? + +BRODIE. Do what you please; you have me trapped. + +(JEAN WATT IS HEARD SINGING WITHOUT TWO BARS OF 'WANDERIN' +WILLIE,' BY WAY OF SIGNAL.) + +LESLIE. What is that? + +BRODIE. A signal. + +LESLIE. What does it mean? + +BRODIE. Danger to me; there is someone coming. + +LESLIE. Danger to you? + +BRODIE. Some one is coming. What are you going to do with me? +(A KNOCK AT THE DOOR.) + +LESLIE (AFTER A PAUSE). Sit down. (KNOCKING.) + +BRODIE. What are you going to do with me? + +LESLIE. Sit down. (BRODIE SITS IN DARKEST PART OF STAGE. +LESLIE OPENS DOOR, AND ADMITS LAWSON. DOOR OPEN TILL END OF +ACT.) + + +SCENE V + +BRODIE, LAWSON, LESLIE + +LAWSON. This is an unco' time to come to your door; but eh, +laddie, I couldna bear to think o' ye sittin' your lane in the +dark. + +LESLIE. It was very good of you. + +LAWSON. I'm no very fond of playing hidee in the dark mysel'; +and noo that I'm here - + +LESLIE. I will give you a light. (HE LIGHTS THE CANDLES. +LIGHTS UP.) + +LAWSON. God A'michty! William Brodie! + +LESLIE. Yes, Brodie was good enough to watch with me. + +LAWSON. But he gaed awa' . . . I dinna see . . . an' Lord be +guid to us, the window's open! + +LESLIE. A trap we laid for them: a device of Brodie's. + +BRODIE (TO LAWSON). Set a thief to catch a thief. (PASSING TO +LESLIE, ASIDE.) Walter Leslie, God will reward. (JEAN SIGNALS +AGAIN.) + +LAWSON. I dinna like that singin' at siccan a time o' the nicht. + +BRODIE. I must go. + +LAWSON. Not one foot o' ye. I'm ower glad to find ye in guid +hands. Ay, ye dinna ken how glad. + +BRODIE (ASIDE TO LESLIE). Get me out of this. There's a man +there will stick at nothing. + +LESLIE. Mr. Lawson, Brodie has done his shift. Why should we +keep him? (JEAN APPEARS AT THE DOOR, AND SIGNS TO BRODIE.) + +LAWSON. Hoots! this is my trade. That's a bit o' 'Wanderin' +Willie.' I've had it before me in precognitions; that same stave +has been used for a signal by some o' the very warst o' them. + +BRODIE (ASIDE TO LESLIE). Get me out of this. I'll never forget +to-night. (JEAN AT DOOR AGAIN.) + +LESLIE. Well, good-night, Brodie. When shall we meet again? + +LAWSON. Not one foot o' him. (JEAN AT DOOR.) I tell you, Mr. +Leslie - + + +SCENE VI + +To these, JEAN + +JEAN (FROM SHE DOOR). Wullie, Wullie! + +LAWSON. Guid guide us, Mrs. Watt! A dacent wumman like +yoursel'! Whatten a time o' nicht is this to come to folks' +doors? + +JEAN (TO BRODIE). Hawks, Wullie, hawks! + +BRODIE. I suppose you know what you've done, Jean? + +JEAN. I HAD to come, Wullie, he wadna wait another minit. He +wad have come himsel'. + +BRODIE. This is my mistress. + +LAWSON. William, dinna tell me nae mair. + +BRODIE. I have told you so much. You may as well know all. +That good man knows it already. Have you issued a warrant for me +. . . . yet? + +LAWSON. No, no, man: not another word. + +BRODIE, (POINTING TO THE WINDOW). That is my work. I am the +man. Have you drawn the warrant? + +LAWSON (BREAKING DOWN). Your father's son! + +LESLIE (TO LAWSON). My good friend! Brodie, you might have +spared the old man this. + +BRODIE. I might have spared him years ago; and you and my +sister, and myself. I might . . . would God I had! (WEEPING +HIMSELF.) Don't weep, my good old friend; I was lost long since; +don't think of me; don't pity me; don't shame me with your pity! +I began this when I was a boy. I bound the millstone round my +neck; [it is irrevocable now,] and you must all suffer . . . all +suffer for me! . . . [for this suffering remnant of what was once +a man]. O God, that I can have fallen to stand here as I do now. +My friend lying to save me from the gallows; my second father +weeping tears of blood for my disgrace! And all for what? By +what? Because I had an open hand, because I was a selfish dog, +because I loved this woman. + +JEAN. O Wullie, and she lo'ed ye weel! But come near me nae +mair, come near me nae mair, my man; keep wi' your ain folks . . +. your ain dacent folks. + +LAWSON. Mistress Watt, ye shall sit rent free as lang's there's +breath in William Lawson's body. + +LESLIE. You can do one thing still . . . for Mary's sake. You +can save yourself; you must fly. + +BRODIE. It is my purpose; the day after to-morrow. It cannot be +before. Then I will fly; and O, as God sees me, I will strive to +make a new and a better life, and to be worthy of your +friendship, and of your tears . . . your tears. And to be worthy +of you too, Jean; for I see now that the bandage has fallen from +my eyes; I see myself, O how unworthy even of you. + +LESLIE. Why not to-night? + +BRODIE. It cannot be before. There are many considerations. I +must find money. + +JEAN. Leave me, and the wean. Dinna fash yoursel' for us. + +LESLIE (OPENING THE STRONG-BOX, AND POURING GOLD UPON THE TABLE). +Take this and go at once. + +BRODIE. Not that . . . not the money that I came to steal! + +LAWSON. Tak' it, William; I'll pay him. + +BRODIE. It is in vain. I cannot leave till I have said. There +is a man; I must obey him. If I slip my chain till he has done +with me, the hue and cry will blaze about the country; every +outport will be shut; I shall return to the gallows. He is a man +that will stick at nothing. + + +SCENE VII + +To these, MOORE + +MOORE. Are you coming? + +BRODIE. I am coming. + +MOORE (APPEARING IN THE DOOR). Do you want us all to get +thundering well scragged? + +BRODIE (GOING). There is my master. + +ACT-DROP + + +ACT IV. + +TABLEAU VII. THE ROBBERY + +The Stage represents the outside of the Excise Office in +Chessel's Court. At the back, L.C., an archway opening on the +High Street. The door of the Excise in wing, R.; the opposite +side of the stage is lumbered with barrels, packing-cases, etc. +Moonlight; the Excise Office casts a shadow over half the stage. +A clock strikes the hour. A round of the City Guard, with +halberts, lanterns, etc. enters and goes out again by the arch, +after having examined the fastenings of the great door and the +lumber on the left. Cry without in the High Street: 'Ten by the +bell, and a fine clear night.' Then enter cautiously by the +arch, SMITH and MOORE, with AINSLIE loaded with tools. + +SCENE I + +SMITH, MOORE, AINSLIE + +SMITH (ENTERING FIRST). Come on. Coast clear. + +MOORE (AFTER THEY HAVE COME TO THE FRONT.) Ain't he turned up +yet? + +SMITH (TO AINSLIE). Now Maggot! The fishing's a going to begin. + +AINSLIE. Dinna cangle, Geordie. My back's fair broke. + +MOORE. O muck! Hand out them pieces. + +SMITH. All right, Humptious! (TO AINSLIE.) You're a nice old +sort for a rag-and-bone man: can't hold a bag open! (TAKING OUT + +TOOLS.) Here they was. Here are the bunchums, one AND two; and +jolly old keys was they. Here's the picklocks, crow-bars, and +here's Lord George's pet bull's eye, his old and valued friend, +the Cracksman's treasure! + +MOORE. Just like you. Forgot the rotten centrebit. + +SMITH. That's all you know. Here she is, bless her! Portrait +of George as a gay hironmonger. + +MOORE. O rot! Hand it over, and keep yourself out of that there +thundering moonlight. + +SMITH (LIGHTING LANTERN). All right, old mumble-peg. Don't you +get carried away by the fire of old Rome. That's your motto. +Here are the tools; a perfect picter of the sublime and +beautiful; and all I hope is, that our friend and pitcher, the +Deakin, will make a better job of it than he did last night. If +he don't, I shall retire from the business - that's all; and +it'll be George and his little wife and a black footman till +death do us part. + +MOORE. O muck! You're all jaw like a sheep's jimmy. That's my +opinion of you. When did you see him last? + +SMITH. This morning; and he looked as if he was rehearsing for +his own epitaph. I never see such a change in a man. I gave him +the office for to-night; and was he grateful? Did he weep upon +my faithful bosom? No; he smiled upon me like a portrait of the +dear departed. I see his 'art was far away; and it broke my own +to look at him. + +MOORE. Muck! Wot I ses is, if a cove's got that much of the nob +about him, wot's the good of his working single-handed? That's +wot's the matter with him. + +SMITH. Well, old Father Christmas, he ain't single-handed to- +night, is he? + +MOORE. No, he ain't; he's got a man with him to-night. + +SMITH. Pardon me, Romeo; two men, I think? + +MOORE. A man wot means business. If I'd a bin with him last +night, it ain't psalm-singin' would have got us off. Psalm- +singin'? Muck! Let 'em try it on with me. + +AINSLIE. Losh me, I heard a noise. (ALARM; THEY CROUCH INTO THE +SHADOW AND LISTEN.) + +SMITH. All serene. (TO AINSLIE) Am I to cut that liver out of +you? Now, am I? (A WHISTLE.) 'St! here we are. (WHISTLES A +MODULATION, WHICH IS ANSWERED.) + + +SCENE II + +To these BRODIE + +MOORE. Waiting for you, Deacon. + +BRODIE. I see. Everything ready? + +SMITH. All a-growing and a-blowing. + +BRODIE. Give me the light. (BRIEFLY EXAMINES TOOLS AND DOOR WITH + +BULL'S EYE.) You, George, stand by, and hand up the pieces. +Ainslie, take the glim. Moore, out and watch. + +MOORE. I didn't come here to do sentry-go, I didn't. + +BRODIE. You came here to do as I tell you. (MOORE GOES UP +SLOWLY.) Second bunch, George. I know the lock. Steady with +the glim. (AT WORK.) No good. Give me the centrebit. + +SMITH. Right. (WORK CONTINUES. AINSLIE DROPS LANTERN.) + +BRODIE. Curse you! (THROTTLING AND KICKING HIM.) You shake, +and you shake, and you can't even hold a light for your betters. +Hey? + +AINSLIE. Eh Deacon, Deacon . . . + +SMITH. Now Ghost! (WITH LANTERN.) + +BRODIE. 'St, Moore! + +MOORE. Wot's the row? + +BRODIE. Take you the light. + +MOORE (TO AINSLIE). Wo' j' yer shakin' at? (KICKS HIM.) + +BRODIE (TO AINSLIE). Go you, and see if you're good at keeping +watch. Inside the arch. And if you let a footfall pass, I'll +break your back. (AINSLIE RETIRES.) Steady with the light. (AT + +WORK WITH CENTREBIT.) Hand up number four, George. (AT WORK +WITH PICKLOCK.) That has it. + +SMITH. Well done our side. + +BRODIE. Now the crow bar! (AT WORK.) That's it. Put down the +glim, Badger, and help at the wrench. Your whole weight, men! +Put your backs to it! (WHILE THEY WORK AT THE BAR, BRODIE STANDS +BY, DUSTING HIS HANDS WITH A POCKET-HANDKERCHIEF. AS THE DOOR +OPENS.) VOILA! In with you. + +MOORE (ENTERING WITH LIGHT). Mucking fine work too, Deacon! + +BRODIE. Take up the irons, George! + +SMITH. How about the P(h)antom? + +BRODIE. Leave him to me. I'll give him a look. (ENTERS +OFFICE.) + +SMITH (FOLLOWING). Houp-la! + + +SCENE III + +AINSLIE; afterwards BRODIE; afterwards HUNT and OFFICERS + +AINSLIE. Ca' ye that mainners? Ye're grand gentry by your way +o't! Eh sirs, my hench! Ay, that was the Badger. Man, but +ye'll look bonnie hangin'! (A FAINT WHISTLE.) Lord's sake, +what's thon? Ay, it'll be Hunt an' his lads. (WHISTLE +REPEATED.) Losh me, what gars him whustle, whustle? Does he +think me deaf? (GOES UP. BRODIE ENTERS FROM OFFICE, STANDS AN +INSTANT, AND SEES HIM MAKING A SIGNAL THROUGH THE ARCH.) + +BRODIE. Rats! Rats! (HIDES L. AMONG LUMBER. ENTER NOISELESSLY +THROUGH ARCH HUNT AND OFFICERS.) + +HUNT. Birds caught? + +AINSLIE. They're a' ben the house, mister. + +HUNT. All three? + +AINSLIE. The hale set, mister. + +BRODIE. Liar! + +HUNT. Mum, lads, and follow me. (EXIT, WITH HIS MEN, INTO +OFFICE. BRODIE SEEN WITH DAGGER.) + +HUNT. In the King's name! } + +MOORE. Muck! } (WITHIN.) + +SMITH. Go it, Badger. } + +HUNT. Take 'em alive, boys! } + +AINSLIE. Eh, but that's awful. (THE DEACON LEAPS OUT, AND STABS +HIM. HE FALLS WITHOUT A CRY.) + +BRODIE. Saved! (HE GOES OUT BY THE ARCH.) + + +SCENE IV + +HUNT and OFFICERS; with SMITH and MOORE handcuffed. Signs of a +severe struggle + +HUNT (ENTERING). Bring 'em along, lads! (LOOKING AT PRISONERS +WITH LANTERN.) Pleased to see you again, Badger. And you too, +George. But I'd rather have seen your principal. Where's he got +to? + +MOORE. To hell, I hope. + +HUNT. Always the same pretty flow of language, I see, Hump. +(LOOKING AT BURGLARY WITH LANTERN.) A very tidy piece of work, +Dook; very tidy! Much too good for you. Smacks of a fine +tradesman. It WAS the Deacon, I suppose? + +SMITH. You ought to know G. S. better by this time, Jerry. + +HUNT. All right, your Grace: we'll talk it over with the Deacon +himself. Where's the jackal? Here, you, Ainslie! Where are +you? By jingo, I thought as much. Stabbed to the heart and dead +as a herring! + +SMITH. Bravo! + +HUNT. More of the Deacon's work, I guess? Does him credit too, +don't it, Badger? + +MOORE. Muck. Was that the thundering cove that peached? + +HUNT. That was the thundering cove. + +MOORE. And is he corpsed? + +HUNT. I should just about reckon he was. + +MOORE. Then, damme, I don't mind swinging! + +HUNT. We'll talk about that presently. M'Intyre and Stewart, +you get a stretcher, and take that rubbish to the office. Pick +it up; it's only a dead informer. Hand these two gentlemen over +to Mr. Procurator-Fiscal, with Mr. Jerry Hunt's compliments. +Johnstone and Syme, you come along with me. I'll bring the +Deacon round myself. + +ACT-DROP + + +ACT V. + +TABLEAU VIII. THE OPEN DOOR + +The Stage represents the Deacon's room, as in Tableau I. Fire +light. Stage dark. A pause. Then knocking at the door, C. +Cries without of 'WILLIE!' 'MR. BRODIE!' The door is burst open. + +SCENE I + +DOCTOR, MARY, a MAIDSERVANT with lights. + +DOCTOR. The apartment is unoccupied. + +MARY. Dead, and he not here! + +DOCTOR. The bed has not been slept in. The counterpane is not +turned down. + +MARY. It is not true; it cannot be true. + +DOCTOR. My dear young lady, you must have misunderstood your +brother's language. + +MARY. O no; that I did not. That I am sure I did not. + +DOCTOR (LOOKING AT DOOR). The strange thing is . . . the bolt. + +SERVANT. It's unco strange. + +DOCTOR. Well, we have acted for the best. + +SERVANT. Sir, I dinna think this should gang nae further. + +DOCTOR. The secret is in our keeping. Affliction is enough +without scandal. + +MARY. Kind heaven, what does it mean? + +DOCTOR. I think there is no more to be done. + +MARY. I am here alone, Doctor; you pass my uncle's door? + +DOCTOR. The Procurator-Fiscal? I shall make it my devoir. +Expect him soon. (GOES OUT WITH MAID.) + +MARY (HASTILY SEARCHES THE ROOM). No, he is not there. She was +right! O father, you can never know, praise God! + + +SCENE II + +MARY, to whom JEAN and afterwards LESLIE + +JEAN (AT DOOR). Mistress . . . .! + +MARY. Ah! Who is there? Who are you? + +JEAN. Is he no hame yet? I'm aye waitin' on him. + +MARY. Waiting for him? Do you know the Deacon? You? + +JEAN. I maun see him. Eh, lassie, it's life and death. + +MARY. Death . . . O my heart! + +JEAN. I maun see him, bonnie leddie. I'm a puir body, and no +fit to be seen speakin' wi' the likes o' you. But O lass, ye are +the Deacon's sister, and ye hae the Deacon's e'en, and for the +love of the dear kind Lord, let's in and hae a word wi' him ere +it be ower late. I'm bringin' siller. + +MARY. Siller? You? For him? O father, father, if you could +hear! What are you? What are you . . . to him? + +JEAN. I'll be the best frien' 'at ever he had; for, O dear +leddie, I wad gie my bluid to help him. + +MARY. And the . . . . the child? + +JEAN. The bairn? + +MARY. Nothing! O nothing! I am in trouble, and I know not what +I say. And I cannot help you; I cannot help you if I would. He +is not here; and I believed he was; and ill . . . ill; and he is +not - he is . . . . O, I think I shall lose my mind! + +JEAN. Ay, it's unco business. + +MARY. His father is dead within there . . . dead, I tell you . . +. dead! + +JEAN. It's mebbe just as weel. + +MARY. Well? Well? Has it come to this? O Walter, Walter! come +back to me, or I shall die. (LESLIE ENTERS, C.) + +LESLIE. Mary, Mary! I hoped to have spared you this. (TO +JEAN.) What - you? Is he not here? + +JEAN. I'm aye waitin' on him. + +LESLIE. What has become of him? Is he mad? Where is he? + +JEAN. The Lord A'michty kens, Mr. Leslie. But I maun find him; +I maun find him. + + +SCENE III + +MARY, LESLIE + +MARY. O Walter, Walter! What does it mean? + +LESLIE. You have been a brave girl all your life, Mary; you must +lean on me . . . you must trust in me . . . and be a brave girl +till the end. + +MARY. Who is she? What does she want with HIM? And he . . . +where is he? Do you know that my father is dead, and the Deacon +not here? Where has he gone? He may be dead, too. Father, +brother . . . O God, it is more than I can bear! + +LESLIE. Mary, my dear, dear girl . . . when will you be my wife? + +MARY. O, do not speak . . . not speak . . . of it to-night. Not +to-night! O not to-night! + +LESLIE. I know, I know dear heart! And do you think that I whom +you have chosen, I whose whole life is in your love - do you +think that I would press you now if there were not good cause? + +MARY. Good cause! Something has happened. Something has +happened . . . . to him! Walter . . . ! Is he . . . . dead? + +LESLIE. There are worse things in the world than death. There +is O . . . Mary, he is your brother! + +MARY. What? Dishonour! . . . . The Deacon! . . . . My God! + +LESLIE. My wife, my wife! + +MARY. No, no! Keep away from me. Don't touch me. I'm not fit +. . . not fit to be near you. What has he done? I am his +sister. Tell me the worst. Tell me the worst at once. + +LESLIE. That, if God wills, dear, that you shall never know. +Whatever it be, think that I knew it all, and only loved you +better; think that your true husband is with you, and you are not +to bear it alone. + +MARY. My husband? . . . Never. + +LESLIE. Mary . . . ! + +MARY. You forget, you forget what I am. I am his sister. I owe +him a lifetime of happiness and love; I owe him even you. And +whatever his fault, however ruinous his disgrace, he is my +brother - my own brother - and my place is still with him. + +LESLIE. Your place is with me - is with your husband. With me, +with me; and for his sake most of all. What can you do for him +alone? how can you help him alone? It wrings my heart to think +how little. But together is different. Together . . . . I join +my strength, my will, my courage to your own, and together we may +save him. + +MARY. All that is over. Once I was blessed among women. I was +my father's daughter, my brother loved me, I lived to be your +wife. Now . . . . ! My father is dead, my brother is shamed; +and you . . . O how could I face the world, how could I endure +myself, if I preferred my happiness to your honour? + +LESLIE. What is my honour but your happiness? In what else does +it consist? Is it in denying me my heart? is it in visiting +another's sin upon the innocent? Could I do that, and be my +mother's son? Could I do that, and bear my father's name? Could +I do that, and have ever been found worthy of you? + +MARY. It is my duty . . . my duty. Why will you make it so hard +for me? So hard, Walter so hard! + +LESLIE. Do I pursue you only for your good fortune, your beauty, +the credit of your friends, your family's good name? That were +not love, and I love you. I love you, dearest, I love you. +Friend, father, brother, husband . . . I must be all these to +you. I am a man who can love well. + +MARY. Silence . . . in pity! I cannot . . . . O, I cannot bear +it. + +LESLIE. And say it was I who had fallen. Say I had played my +neck and lost it . . . that I were pushed by the law to the last +limits of ignominy and despair. Whose love would sanctify my +jail to me? whose pity would shine upon me in the dock? whose +prayers would accompany me to the gallows? Whose but yours? +Yours! . . . And you would entreat me - me! - to do what you +shrink from even in thought, what you would die ere you attempted +in deed! + +MARY. Walter . . . on my knees . . . no more, no more! + +LESLIE. My wife! my wife! Here on my heart! It is I that must +kneel . . . I that must kneel to you. + +MARY. Dearest! . . . . Husband! You forgive him? O, you +forgive him? + +LESLIE. He is my brother now. Let me take you to our father. +Come. + + +SCENE IV + +After a pause, BRODIE, through the window + +BRODIE. Saved! And the alibi! Man, but you've been near it +this time - near the rope, near the rope. Ah boy, it was your +neck, your neck you fought for. They were closing hell-doors +upon me, swift as the wind, when I slipped through and shot for +heaven! Saved! The dog that sold me, I settled him; and the +other dogs are staunch. Man, but your alibi will stand! Is the +window fast? The neighbours must not see the Deacon, the poor, +sick Deacon, up and stirring at this time o' night. Ay, the good +old room in the good, cozy old house . . . and the rat a dead +rat, and all saved. (HE LIGHTS THE CANDLES.) Your hand shakes, +sir? Fie! And you saved, and you snug and sick in your bed, and +it but a dead rat after all? (HE TAKES OFF HIS HANGER AND LAYS +IT ON THE TABLE.) Ay, it was a near touch. Will it come to the +dock? If it does! You've a tongue, and you've a head, and +you've an alibi; and your alibi will stand. (HE TAKES OFF HIS +COAT, TAKES OUT THE DAGGER, AND WITH A GESTURE OF STRIKING) +Home! He fell without a sob. 'He breaketh them against the +bosses of his buckler!' (LAYS THE DAGGER ON THE TABLE.) Your +alibi . . . ah Deacon, that's your life! . . . your alibi, your +alibi. (HE TAKES UP A CANDLE AND TURNS TOWARDS THE DOOR.) O! +. . . Open, open, open! judgment of God, the door is open! + + +SCENE V + +BRODIE, MARY + +BRODIE. Did you open the door? + +MARY. I did. + +BRODIE. You . . . . you opened the door? + +MARY. I did open it + +BRODIE. Were you . . . alone? + +MARY. I was not. The servant was with me; and the doctor. + +BRODIE. O . . . the servant . . . and the doctor. Very +true. Then it's all over the town by now. The servant and the +doctor. The doctor? What doctor? Why the doctor? + +MARY. My father is dead. O Will, where have you been? + +BRODIE. Your father is dead. O yes! He's dead, is he? Dead. +Quite right. Quite right . . . How did you open the door? It's +strange. I bolted it. + +MARY. We could not help it, Will, now could we? The doctor +forced it. He had to, had he not? + +BRODIE. The doctor forced it? The doctor? Was he here? He +forced it? He? + +MARY. We did it for the best; it was I who did it . . . I, your +own sister. And O Will, my Willie, where have you been? You +have not been in any harm, any danger? + +BRODIE. Danger? O my young lady, you have taken care of that. +It's not danger now, it's death. Death? Ah! Death! Death! +Death! (CLUTCHING THE TABLE. THEN, RECOVERING AS FROM A DREAM.) +Death? Did you say my father was dead? My father? O my God, my +poor old father! Is he dead, Mary? Have I lost him? is he gone? +O, Mary dear, and to think of where his son was! + +MARY. Dearest, he is in heaven. + +BRODIE. Did he suffer? + +MARY. He died like a child. Your name . . . it was his last. + +BRODIE. My name? Mine? O Mary, if he had known! He knows now. +He knows; he sees us now . . . sees me! Ay, and sees you, left +how lonely! + +MARY. Not so, dear; not while you live. Wherever you are, I +shall not be alone, so you live. + +BRODIE. While I live? I? The old house is ruined, and the old +master dead, and I! . . . O Mary, try and believe I did not +mean that it should come to this; try and believe that I was only +weak at first. At first? And now! The good old man dead, the +kind sister ruined, the innocent boy fallen, fallen . . . ! You +will be quite alone; all your old friends, all the old faces, +gone into darkness. The night (WITH A GESTURE) . . . it waits +for me. You will be quite alone. + +MARY. The night! + +BRODIE. Mary, you must hear. How am I to tell her, and the old +man just dead! Mary, I was the boy you knew; I loved pleasure, I +was weak; I have fallen . . . low . . . lower than you think. +A beginning is so small a thing! I never dreamed it would come +to this . . . . this hideous last night. + +MARY. Willie, you must tell me, dear. I must have the truth . +. . the kind truth . . . at once . . . in pity. + +BRODIE. Crime. I have fallen. Crime. + +MARY. Crime? + +BRODIE. Don't shrink from me. Miserable dog that I am, selfish +hound that has dragged you to this misery . . . you and all +that loved him . . . think only of my torments, think only of my +penitence, don't shrink from me. + +MARY. I do not care to hear, I do not wish, I do not mind; you +are my brother. What do I care? How can I help you? + +BRODIE. Help? help ME? You would not speak of it, not wish it, +if you knew. My kind good sister, my little playmate, my sweet +friend! was I ever unkind to you till yesterday? Not openly +unkind? you'll say that when I am gone. + +MARY. If you have done wrong, what do I care? If you have +failed, does it change my twenty years of love and worship? +Never! + +BRODIE. Yet I must make her understand . . . . ! + +MARY. I am your true sister, dear. I cannot fail, I will never +leave you, I will never blame you. Come! (GOES TO EMBRACE.) + +BRODIE (RECOILING). No, don't touch me, not a finger, not that, +anything but that! + +MARY. Willie, Willie! + +BRODIE (TAKING THE BLOODY DAGGER FROM THE TABLE). See, do you +understand that? + +MARY. Ah! What, what is it! + +BRODIE. Blood. I have killed a man. + +MARY. You? . . . . + +BRODIE. I am a murderer; I was a thief before. Your brother . . +. the old man's only son! + +MARY. Walter, Walter, come to me! + +BRODIE. Now you see that I must die; now you see that I stand +upon the grave's edge, all my lost life behind me, like a horror +to think upon, like a frenzy, like a dream that is past. And +you, you are alone. Father, brother, they are gone from you; one +to heaven, one . . . . ! + +MARY. Hush, dear, hush! Kneel, pray; it is not too late to +repent. Think of our father dear; repent. (SHE WEEPS, STRAINING +TO HIS BOSOM.) O Willie, my darling boy, repent and join us. + + +SCENE VI + +To these, LAWSON, LESLIE, JEAN + +LAWSON. She kens a', thank the guid Lord! + +BRODIE (TO MARY). I know you forgive me now; I ask no more. +That is a good man. (TO LESLIE.) Will you take her from my +hands? (LESLIE TAKES MARY.) Jean, are ye here to see the end? + +JEAN. Eh man, can ye no fly? Could ye no say that it was me? + +BRODIE. No, Jean, this is where it ends. Uncle, this is where +it ends. And to think that not an hour ago I still had hopes! +Hopes! Ay, not an hour ago I thought of a new life. You were +not forgotten, Jean. Leslie, you must try to forgive me . . . +you, too! + +LESLIE. You are her brother. + +BRODIE (TO LAWSON). And you? + +LAWSON. My name-child and my sister's bairn! + +BRODIE. You won't forget Jean, will you? nor the child? + +LAWSON. That I will not. + +MARY. O Willie, nor I. + + +SCENE VII + +To these, HUNT + +HUNT. The game's up, Deacon. I'll trouble you to come along +with me. + +BRODIE (BEHIND THE TABLE). One moment, officer: I have a word +to say before witnesses ere I go. In all this there is but one +man guilty; and that man is I. None else has sinned; none else +must suffer. This poor woman (POINTING TO JEAN) I have used; she +never understood. Mr. Procurator-Fiscal, that is my dying +confession. (HE SNATCHES HIS HANGER FROM THE TABLE, AND RUSHES +UPON HUNT, WHO PARRIES, AND RUNS HIM THROUGH. HE REELS ACROSS +THE STAGE AND FALLS.) The new life . . . the new life! (HE +DIES.) + +CURTAIN. + +----------------------------------------------------------- +Play: BEAU AUSTIN + +DEDICATED WITH ADMIRATION AND RESPECT TO GEORGE MEREDITH +BOURNEMOUTH: 1ST OCTOBER 1884. + +PERSONS REPRESENTED + +GEORGE FREDERICK AUSTIN, called 'Beau Austin' AEtat. 50 +JOHN FENWICK, of Allonby Shaw " " 26 +ANTHONY MUSGRAVE, Cornet in the Prince's Own " " 21 +MENTEITH, the Beau's Valet " " 55 +A ROYAL DUKE (Dumb show.) +DOROTHY MUSGRAVE, Anthony's Sister " " 25 +MISS EVELINA FOSTER, her Aunt " " 45 +BARBARA RIDLEY, her Maid " " 20 +VISITORS TO THE WELLS + +The Time is 1820. The Scene is laid at Tunbridge Wells. The +Action occupies a space of ten hours. + +HAYMARKET THEATRE MONDAY, NOVEMBER 3d, 1890 + +CAST + +GEORGE FREDERICK AUSTIN MR. TREE +JOHN FENWICK MR. FRED TERRY +ANTHONY MUSGRAVE MR. EDMUND MAURICE +MENTEITH MR. BROOKFIELD +A ROYAL DUKE MR. ROBB HARWOOD +DOROTHY MUSGRAVE MRS. TREE +MISS EVELINA FOSTER MISS ROSE LECLERCQ +BARBARA RIDLEY MISS AYLWARD +VISITORS TO THE WELLS + + +PROLOGUE + + +SPOKEN BY MR. TREE IN THE CHARACTER OF BEAU AUSTIN + + +'To all and singular,' as Dryden says, +We bring a fancy of those Georgian days, +Whose style still breathed a faint and fine perfume +Of old-world courtliness and old-world bloom: +When speech was elegant and talk was fit +For slang had not been canonised as wit; +When manners reigned, when breeding had the wall, +And Women - yes! - were ladies first of all; +When Grace was conscious of its gracefulness, +And man - though Man! - was not ashamed to dress. +A brave formality, a measured ease, +Were his - and her's - whose effort was to please. +And to excel in pleasing was to reign +And, if you sighed, never to sigh in vain. + +But then, as now - it may be, something more - +Woman and man were human to the core. +The hearts that throbbed behind that quaint attire +Burned with a plenitude of essential fire. +They too could risk, they also could rebel, +They could love wisely - they could love too well. +In that great duel of Sex, that ancient strife +Which is the very central fact of life, +They could - and did - engage it breath for breath, +They could - and did - get wounded unto death. +As at all times since time for us began +Woman was truly woman, man was man, +And joy and sorrow were as much at home +In trifling Tunbridge as in mighty Rome. + +Dead - dead and done with! Swift from shine to shade +The roaring generations flit and fade. +To this one, fading, flitting, like the rest, +We come to proffer - be it worst or best - +A sketch, a shadow, of one brave old time; +A hint of what it might have held sublime; +A dream, an idyll, call it what you will, +Of man still Man, and woman - Woman still! + + +BEAU AUSTIN + +MUSICAL INDUCTION: 'LASCIA CH'IO PIANGA' (RINALDO). HANDEL. + +ACT I. + +The Stage represents Miss Foster's apartments at the Wells. +Doors, L. and C.; a window, L. C., looking on the street; a table +R., laid for breakfast. + + +SCENE I + +BARBARA; to her MISS FOSTER + +BARBARA (OUT OF WINDOW). Mr. Menteith! Mr. Menteith! Mr. +Menteith! - Drat his old head! Will nothing make him hear? - Mr. +Menteith! + +MISS FOSTER (ENTERING). Barbara! this is incredible: after all +my lessons, to be leaning from the window, and calling (for +unless my ears deceived me, you were positively calling!) into +the street. + +BARBARA. Well, madam, just wait until you hear who it was. I +declare it was much more for Miss Dorothy and yourself than for +me; and if it was a little countrified, I had a good excuse. + +MISS FOSTER. Nonsense, child! At least, who was it? + +BARBARA. Miss Evelina, I was sure you would ask. Well, what do +you think? I was looking out of window at the barber's opposite +- + +MISS FOSTER. Of which I entirely disapprove - + +BARBARA. And first there came out two of the most beautiful - +the Royal livery, madam! + +MISS FOSTER. Of course, of course: the Duke of York arrived +last night. I trust you did not hail the Duke's footmen? + +BARBARA. O no, madam, it was after they were gone. Then, who +should come out - but you'll never guess! + +MISS FOSTER. I shall certainly not try. + +BARBARA. Mr. Menteith himself! + +MISS FOSTER. Why, child, I never heard of him. + +BARBARA. O madam, not the Beau's own gentleman? + +MISS FOSTER. Mr. Austin's servant. No? Is it possible? By +that, George Austin must be here. + +BARBARA. No doubt of that, madam; they're never far apart. He +came out feeling his chin, madam, so; and a packet of letters +under his arm, so; and he had the Beau's own walk to that degree +you couldn't tell his back from his master's. + +MISS FOSTER. My dear Barbara, you too frequently forget +yourself. A young woman in your position must beware of levity. + +BARBARA. Madam, I know it; but la, what are you to make of me? +Look at the time and trouble dear Miss Dorothy was always taking +- she that trained up everybody - and see what's come of it: +Barbara Ridley I was, and Barbara Ridley I am; and I don't do +with fashionable ways - I can't do with them; and indeed, Miss +Evelina, I do sometimes wish we were all back again on Edenside, +and Mr. Anthony a boy again, and dear Miss Dorothy her old self, +galloping the bay mare along the moor, and taking care of all of +us as if she was our mother, bless her heart! + +MISS FOSTER. Miss Dorothy herself, child? Well, now you mention +it, Tunbridge of late has scarcely seemed to suit her +constitution. She falls away, has not a word to throw at a dog, +and is ridiculously pale. Well, now Mr. Austin has returned, +after six months of infidelity to the dear Wells, we shall all, I +hope, be brightened up. Has the mail come? + +BARBARA. That it has, madam, and the sight of Mr. Menteith put +it clean out of my head. (WITH LETTERS.) Four for you, Miss +Evelina, two for me, and only one for Miss Dorothy. Miss Dorothy +seems quite neglected, does she not? Six months ago, it was a +different story. + +MISS FOSTER. Well, and that's true, Barbara, and I had not +remarked it. I must take her seriously to task. No young lady +in her position should neglect her correspondence. (OPENING A +LETTER.) Here's from that dear ridiculous boy, the Cornet, +announcing his arrival for to-day. + +BARBARA. O madam, will he come in his red coat? + +MISS FOSTER. I could not conceive him missing such a chance. +Youth, child, is always vain, and Mr. Anthony is unusually young. + +BARBARA. La, madam, he can't help that. + +MISS FOSTER. My child, I am not so sure. Mr. Anthony is a great +concern to me. He was orphaned, to be sure, at ten years old; +and ever since he has been only as it were his sister's son. +Dorothy did everything for him: more indeed than I thought quite +ladylike, but I suppose I begin to be old-fashioned. See how she +worked and slaved - yes, slaved! - for him: teaching him +herself, with what pains and patience she only could reveal, and +learning that she might be able; and see what he is now: a +gentleman, of course, but, to be frank, a very commonplace one: +not what I had hoped of Dorothy's brother; not what I had dreamed +of the heir of two families - Musgrave and Foster, child! Well, +he may now meet Mr.Austin. He requires a Mr. Austin to embellish +and correct his manners. (OPENING ANOTHER LETTER.) Why, +Barbara, Mr. John Scrope and Miss Kate Dacre are to be married! + +BARBARA. La, madam, how nice! + +MISS FOSTER. They are: As I'm a sinful woman. And when will +you be married, Barbara? and when dear Dorothy? I hate to see +old maids a-making. + +BARBARA. La, Miss Evelina, there's no harm in an old maid. + +MISS FOSTER. You speak like a fool, child: sour grapes are all +very well but it's a woman's business to be married. As for +Dorothy, she is five-and-twenty, and she breaks my heart. Such a +match, too! Ten thousand to her fortune, the best blood in the +north, a most advantageous person, all the graces, the finest +sensibility, excellent judgment, the Foster walk; and all these +to go positively a-begging! The men seem stricken with +blindness. Why, child, when I came out (and I was the dear +girl's image!) I had more swains at my feet in a fortnight than +our Dorothy in - O, I cannot fathom it: it must be the girl's +own fault. + +BARBARA. Why, madam, I did think it was a case with Mr. Austin. + +MISS FOSTER. With Mr. Austin? why, how very rustic! The +attentions of a gentleman like Mr. Austin, child, are not +supposed to lead to matrimony. He is a feature of society: an +ornament: a personage: a private gentleman by birth, but a kind +of king by habit and reputation. What woman could he marry? +Those to whom he might properly aspire are all too far below him. +I have known George Austin too long, child, and I understand that +the very greatness of his success condemns him to remain +unmarried. + +BARBARA. Sure, madam, that must be tiresome for him. + +MISS FOSTER. Some day, child, you will know better than to think +so. George Austin, as I conceive him, and as he is regarded by +the world, is one of the triumphs of the other sex. I walked my +first minuet with him: I wouldn't tell you the year, child, for +worlds; but it was soon after his famous rencounter with Colonel +Villiers. He had killed his man, he wore pink and silver, was +most elegantly pale, and the most ravishing creature! + +BARBARA. Well, madam, I believe that: he is the most beautiful +gentleman still. + + +SCENE II + +To these, DOROTHY, L. + +DOROTHY (ENTERING). Good-morning, aunt! Is there anything for +me? (SHE GOES EAGERLY TO TABLE, AND LOOKS AT LETTERS.) + +MISS FOSTER. Good-morrow, niece. Breakfast, Barbara. + +DOROTHY (WITH LETTER UNOPENED). Nothing. + +MISS FOSTER. And what do you call that, my dear? (SITTING.) Is +John Fenwick nobody? + +DOROTHY (LOOKING AT LETTER.) From John? O yes, so it is. (LAYS +DOWN LETTER UNOPENED, AND SITS TO BREAKFAST, BARBARA WAITING.) + +MISS FOSTER (TO BARBARA, WITH PLATE). Thanks, child; now you may +give me some tea. Dolly, I must insist on your eating a good +breakfast: I cannot away with your pale cheeks and that +Patience-on-a Monument kind of look. (Toast, Barbara.) At +Edenside you ate and drank and looked like Hebe. What have you +done with your appetite? + +DOROTHY. I don't know, aunt, I'm sure. + +MISS FOSTER. Then consider, please, and recover it as soon as +you can: to a young lady in your position a good appetite is an +attraction - almost a virtue. Do you know that your brother +arrives this morning? + +DOROTHY. Dear Anthony! Where is his letter, Aunt Evelina? I am +pleased that he should leave London and its perils, if only for a +day. + +MISS FOSTER. My dear, there are moments when you positively +amaze. (Barbara, some PATE, if you please!) I beg you not to be +a prude. All women, of course, are virtuous; but a prude is +something I regard with abhorrence. The Cornet is seeing life, +which is exactly what he wanted. You brought him up surprisingly +well; I have always admired you for it; but let us admit - as +women of the world, my dear - it was no upbringing for a man. +You and that fine solemn fellow, John Fenwick, led a life that +was positively no better than the Middle Ages; and between the +two of you, poor Anthony (who, I am sure, was a most passive +creature!) was so packed with principle and admonition that I vow +and declare he reminded me of Issachar stooping between his two +burdens. It washigh time for him to be done with your +apron-string, my dear: he has all his wild oats to sow; and that +is an occupation which it is unwise to defer too long. By the +bye, have you heard the news? The Duke of York has done us a +service for which I was unprepared. (More tea, Barbara!) George +Austin, bringing the prince in his train, is with us once more. + +DOROTHY. I knew he was coming. + +MISS FOSTER. You knew, child? and did not tell? You are a +public criminal. + +DOROTHY. I did not think it mattered, Aunt Evelina. + +MISS FOSTER. O do not make-believe. I am in love with him +myself, and have been any time since Nelson and the Nile. As for +you, Dolly, since he went away six months ago, you have been +positively in the megrims. I shall date your loss of appetite +from George Austin's vanishing. No, my dear, our family require +entertainment: we must have wit about us, and beauty, and the +BEL AIR. + +BARBARA. Well, Miss Dorothy, perhaps it's out of my place: but +I do hope Mr. Austin will come: I should love to have him see my +necklace on. + +DOROTHY. Necklace? what necklace? Did he give you a necklace? + +BARBARA. Yes, indeed, Miss, that he did: the very same day he +drove you in his curricle to Penshurst. You remember, Miss, I +couldn't go. + +DOROTHY. I remember. + +MISS FOSTER. And so do I. I had a touch of . . . Foster in the +blood: the family gout, dears! . . . And you, you ungrateful +nymph, had him a whole day to yourself, and not a word to tell me +when you returned. + +DOROTHY. I remember. (RISING.) Is that the necklace, Barbara? +It does not suit you. Give it me. + +BARBARA. La, Miss Dorothy, I wouldn't for the world. + +DOROTHY. Come, give it me. I want it. Thank you: you shall +have my birthday pearls instead. + +MISS FOSTER. Why, Dolly, I believe you're jealous of the maid. +Foster, Foster: always a Foster trick to wear the willow in +anger. + +DOROTHY. I do not think, madam, that I am of a jealous habit. + +MISS FOSTER. O, the personage is your excuse! And I can tell +you, child, that when George Austin was playing Florizel to the +Duchess's Perdita, all the maids in England fell a prey to green- +eyed melancholy. It was the TON, you see: not to pine for that +Sylvander was to resign from good society. + +DOROTHY. Aunt Evelina, stop; I cannot endure to hear you. What +is he after all but just Beau Austin? What has he done - with +half a century of good health, what has he done that is either +memorable or worthy? Diced and danced and set fashions; +vanquished in a drawing-room, fought for a word; what else? As +if these were the meaning of life! Do not make me think so +poorly of all of us women. Sure, we can rise to admire a better +kind of man than Mr. Austin. We are not all to be snared with +the eye, dear aunt; and those that are - O! I know not whether I +more hate or pity them. + +MISS FOSTER. You will give me leave, my niece: such talk is +neither becoming in a young lady nor creditable to your +understanding. The world was made a great while before Miss +Dorothy Musgrave; and you will do much better to ripen your +opinions, and in the meantime read your letter, which I perceive +you have not opened. (DOROTHY OPENS AND READS LETTER.) Barbara, +child, you should not listen at table. + +BARBARA. Sure, madam, I hope I know my place. + +MISS FOSTER. Then do not do it again. + +DOROTHY. Poor John Fenwick! he coming here! + +MISS FOSTER. Well, and why not? Dorothy, my darling child, you +give me pain. You never had but one chance, let me tell you +pointedly: and that was John Fenwick. If I were you, I would +not let my vanity so blind me. This is not the way to marry. + +DOROTHY. Dear aunt, I shall never marry. + +MISS FOSTER. A fiddlestick's end! every one must marry. +(RISING.) Are you for the Pantiles? + +DOROTHY. Not to-day, dear, + +MISS FOSTER. Well, well! have your wish, Dolorosa. Barbara, +attend and dress me. + + +SCENE III + +DOROTHY + +DOROTHY. How she tortures me, poor aunt, my poor blind aunt; and +I - I could break her heart with a word. That she should see +nothing, know nothing - there's where it kills. O, it is more +than I can bear . . . and yet, how much less than I deserve! Mad +girl, of what do I complain? that this dear innocent woman still +believes me good, still pierces me to the soul with trustfulness. +Alas, and were it otherwise, were her dear eyes opened to the +truth, what were left me but death? - He, too - she must still be +praising him, and every word is a lash upon my conscience. If I +could die of my secret: if I could cease - but one moment cease +- this living lie; if I could sleep and forget and be at rest! - +Poor John! (READING THE LETTER) he at least is guiltless; and yet +for my fault he too must suffer, he too must bear part in my +shame. Poor John Fenwick! Has he come back with the old story: +with what might have been, perhaps, had we stayed by Edenside? +Eden? yes, my Eden, from which I fell. O my old north country, +my old river - the river of my innocence, the old country of my +hopes - how could I endure to look on you now? And how to meet +John? - John, with the old love on his lips, the old, honest, +innocent, faithful heart! There was a Dorothy once who was not +unfit to ride with him, her heart as light as his, her life as +clear as the bright rivers we forded; he called her his Diana, he +crowned her so with rowan. Where is that Dorothy now? that +Diana? she that was everything to John? For O, I did him good; +I know I did him good; I will still believe I did him good: I +made him honest and kind and a true man; alas, and could not +guide myself! And now, how will he despise me! For he shall +know; if I die, he shall know all; I could not live, and not be +true with him. (SHE TAKES OUT THE NECKLACE AND LOOKS AT IT.) +That he should have bought me from my maid! George, George, that +you should have stooped to this! Basely as you have used me, +this is the basest. Perish the witness! (SHE TREADS THE TRINKET +UNDER FOOT.) Break, break like my heart, break like my hopes, +perish like my good name! + + +SCENE IV + +To her, FENWICK, C. + +FENWICK (AFTER A PAUSE). Is this how you receive me, Dorothy? +Am I not welcome? - Shall I go then? + +DOROTHY (RUNNING TO HIM, WITH HANDS OUTSTRETCHED). O no, John, +not for me. (TURNING, AND POINTING TO THE NECKLACE.) But you +find me changed. + +FENWICK (WITH A MOVEMENT TOWARDS THE NECKLACE). This? + +DOROTHY. No, no, let it lie. That is a trinket - broken. But +the old Dorothy is dead. + +FENWICK. Dead, dear? Not to me. + +DOROTHY. Dead to you - dead to all men. + +FENWICK. Dorothy, I loved you as a boy. There is not a meadow +on Edenside but is dear to me for your sake, not a cottage but +recalls your goodness, not a rock nor a tree but brings back +something of the best and brightest youth man ever had. You were +my teacher and my queen; I walked with you, I talked with you, I +rode with you; I lived in your shadow; I saw with your eyes. You +will never know, dear Dorothy, what you were to the dull boy you +bore with; you will never know with what romance you filled my +life, with what devotion, with what tenderness and honour. At +night I lay awake and worshipped you; in my dreams I saw you, and +you loved me; and you remember, when we told each other stories - +you have not forgotten, dearest - that Princess Hawthorn that was +still the heroine of mine: who was she? I was not bold enough +to tell, but she was you! You, my virgin huntress, my Diana, my +queen. + +DOROTHY. O silence, silence - pity! + +FENWICK. No, dear; neither for your sake nor mine will I be +silenced. I have begun; I must go on and finish, and put fortune +to the touch. It was from you I learned honour, duty, piety, and +love. I am as you made me, and I exist but to reverence and +serve you. Why else have I come here, the length of England, my +heart burning higher every mile, my very horse a clog to me? why, +but to ask you for my wife? Dorothy, you will not deny me. + +DOROTHY. You have not asked me about this broken trinket? + +FENWICK. Why should I ask? I love you. + +DOROTHY. Yet I must tell you. Sit down. (SHE PICKS UP THE +NECKLACE, AND STANDS LOOKING AT IT. THEN, BREAKING DOWN.) O +John, John, it's long since I left home. + +FENWICK. Too long, dear love. The very trees will welcome you. + +DOROTHY. Ay, John, but I no longer love you. The old Dorothy is +dead, God pardon her! + +FENWICK. Dorothy, who is the man? + +DOROTHY. O poor Dorothy! O poor dead Dorothy! John, you found +me breaking this: me, your Diana of the Fells, the Diana of your +old romance by Edenside. Diana - O what a name for me! Do you +see this trinket? It is a chapter in my life. A chapter, do I +say? my whole life, for there is none to follow. John, you must +bear with me, you must help me. I have that to tell - there is a +secret - I have a secret, John - O, for God's sake, understand. +That Diana you revered - O John, John, you must never speak of +love to me again. + +FENWICK. What do you say? How dare you? + +DOROTHY. John, it is the truth. Your Diana, even she, she whom +you so believed in, she who so believed in herself, came out into +the world only to be broken. I met, here at the Wells, a man - +why should I tell you his name? I met him, and I loved him. My +heart was all his own; yet he was not content with that: he must +intrigue to catch me, he must bribe my maid with this. (THROWS +THE NECKLACE ON THE TABLE.) Did he love me? Well, John, he said +he did; and be it so! He loved, he betrayed, and he has left me. + +FENWICK. Betrayed? + +DOROTHY. Ay, even so; I was betrayed. The fault was mine that I +forgot our innocent youth, and your honest love. + +FENWICK. Dorothy, O Dorothy! + +DOROTHY. Yours is the pain; but, O John, think it is for your +good. Think in England how many true maids may be waiting for +your love, how many that can bring you a whole heart, and be a +noble mother to your children, while your poor Diana, at the +first touch, has proved all frailty. Go, go and be happy, and +let me be patient. I have sinned. + +FENWICK. By God, I'll have his blood. + +DOROTHY. Stop! I love him. (BETWEEN FENWICK AND DOOR, C.) + +FENWICK. What do I care? I loved you too. Little he thought of +that, little either of you thought of that. His blood - I'll +have his blood! + +DOROTHY. You shall never know his name. + +FENWICK. Know it? Do you think I cannot guess? Do you think I +had not heard he followed you. Do you think I had not suffered - +O suffered! George Austin is the man. Dear shall he pay it! + +DOROTHY (AT HIS FEET). Pity me; spare me, spare your Dorothy! I +love him - love him - love him! + +FENWICK. Dorothy, you have robbed me of my happiness, and now +you would rob me of my revenge. + +DOROTHY. I know it; and shall I ask, and you not grant? + +FENWICK (RAISING HER). No, Dorothy, you shall ask nothing, +nothing in vain from me. You ask his life; I give it you, as I +would give you my soul; as I would give you my life, if I had any +left. My life is done; you have taken it. Not a hope, not an +end; not even revenge. (HE SITS.) Dorothy, you see your work. + +DOROTHY. O God, forgive me. + +FENWICK. Ay, Dorothy, He will, as I do. + +DOROTHY. As you do? Do you forgive me, John? + +FENWICK. Ay, more than that, poor soul. I said my life was +done, I was wrong; I have still a duty. It is not in vain you +taught me; I shall still prove to you that it was not in vain. +You shall soon find that I am no backward friend. Farewell. + + +MUSICAL INDUCTION: 'THE LASS OF RICHMOND HILL.' + + +ACT II. + +The Stage represents George Austin's dressing-room. Elaborate +toilet-table, R., with chair; a cheval glass so arranged as to +correspond with glass on table. Breakfast-table, L., front. +Door, L. The Beau is discovered at table, in dressing-grown, +trifling with correspondence. MENTEITH is frothing chocolate. + +SCENE I + +AUSTIN, MENTEITH + +MENTEITH. At the barber's, Mr. George, I had the pleasure of +meeting two of the Dook's gentlemen. + +AUSTIN. Well, and was his Royal Highness satisfied with his +quarters? + +MENTEITH. Quite so, Mr. George. Delighted, I believe. + +AUSTIN. I am rejoiced to hear it. I wish I could say I was as +pleased with my journey, Menteith. This is the first time I ever +came to the Wells in another person's carriage; Duke or not, it +shall be the last, Menteith. + +MENTEITH. Ah, Mr. George, no wonder. And how many times have we +made that journey back and forth? + +AUSTIN. Enough to make us older than we look. + +MENTEITH. To be sure, Mr. George, you do wear well. + +AUSTIN. WE wear well, Menteith. + +MENTEITH. I hear, Mr. George, that Miss Musgrave is of the +company. + +AUSTIN. Is she so? Well, well! well, well! + +MENTEITH. I've not seen the young lady myself, Mr. George; but +the barber tells me she's looking poorly. + +AUSTIN. Poorly? + +MENTEITH. Yes, Mr. George, poorly was his word. + +AUSTIN. Well, Menteith, I am truly sorry. She is not the first. + +MENTEITH. Yes, Mr. George. (A BELL. MENTEITH GOES OUT, AND RE- +ENTERS WITH CARD.) + +AUSTIN (WITH CARD). Whom have we here? Anthony Musgrave? + +MENTEITH. A fine young man, Mr. George; and with a look of the +young lady, but not so gentlemanly. + +AUSTIN. You have an eye, you have an eye. Let him in. + + +SCENE II + +AUSTIN, MENTEITH, ANTHONY + +AUSTIN. I am charmed to have this opportunity, Mr. Musgrave. +You belong to my old corps, I think? And how does my good +friend, Sir Frederick? I had his line; but like all my old +comrades, he thinks last about himself, and gives me not of his +news. + +ANTHONY. I protest, sir, this is a very proud moment. Your name +is still remembered in the regiment. (AUSTIN BOWS.) The Colonel +- he keeps his health, sir, considering his age (AUSTIN BOWS +AGAIN, AND LOOKS AT MENTEITH) - tells us young men you were a +devil of a fellow in your time. + +AUSTIN. I believe I was - in my time. Menteith, give Mr. +Musgrave a dish of chocolate. So, sir, we see you at the Wells. + +ANTHONY. I have but just alighted. I had but one thought, sir: +to pay my respects to Mr. Austin. I have not yet kissed my aunt +and sister. + +AUSTIN. In my time - to which you refer - the ladies had come +first. + +ANTHONY. The women? I take you, sir. But then you see, a man's +relatives don't count. And besides, Mr. Austin, between men of +the world, I am fairly running away from the sex: I am +positively in flight. Little Hortense of the Opera; you know; +she sent her love to you. She's mad about me, I think. You +never saw a creature so fond. + +AUSTIN. Well, well, child! you are better here. In my time - to +which you have referred - I knew the lady. Does she wear well? + +ANTHONY. I beg your pardon, sir! + +AUSTIN. No offence, child, no offence. She was a very lively +creature. But you neglect your chocolate I see? + +ANTHONY. We don't patronise it, Mr. Austin; we haven't for some +years: the service has quite changed since your time. You'd be +surprised. + +AUSTIN. Doubtless. I am. + +ANTHONY. I assure you, sir, I and Jack Bosbury of the +Fifty-Second - + +AUSTIN. The Hampshire Bosburys? - + +ANTHONY. I do not know exactly, sir. I believe he is related. + +AUSTIN. Or perhaps - I remember a Mr. Bosbury, a cutter of +coats. I have the vanity to believe I formed his business. + +ANTHONY. I - I hope not, sir. But as I was saying, I and this +Jack Bosbury, and the Brummagem Bantam - a very pretty light- +weight, sir - drank seven bottles of Burgundy to the three of us +inside the eighty minutes. Jack, sir, was a little cut; but me +and the Bantam went out and finished the evening on hot gin. +Life, sir, life! Tom Cribb was with us. He spoke of you, too, +Tom did: said you'd given him a wrinkle for his second fight +with the black man. No, sir, I assure you, you're not forgotten. + +AUSTIN (BOWS). I am pleased to learn it. In my time, I had an +esteem for Mr. Cribb. + +ANTHONY. O come, sir! but your time cannot be said to be over. + +AUSTIN. Menteith, you hear? + +MENTEITH. Yes, Mr. George. + +ANTHONY. The Colonel told me that you liked to shake an elbow. +Your big main, sir, with Lord Wensleydale, is often talked about. +I hope I may have the occasion to sit down with you. I shall +count it an honour, I assure you. + +AUSTIN. But would your aunt, my very good friend, approve? + +ANTHONY. Why, sir, you do not suppose I am in leading-strings? + +AUSTIN. You forget, child: a family must hang together. When I +was young - in my time - I was alone; and what I did concerned +myself. But a youth who has - as I think you have - a family of +ladies to protect, must watch his honour, child, and preserve his +fortune. You have no commands from Sir Frederick? + +ANTHONY. None, sir, none. + +AUSTIN. Shall I find you this noon upon the Pantiles? . . . I +shall be charmed. Commend me to your aunt and your fair sister. +Menteith? + +MENTEITH. Yes, Mr. George. (SHOWS ANTHONY OUT.) + + +SCENE III + +AUSTIN, MENTEITH, RETURNING + +AUSTIN. Was I ever like that, Menteith? + +MENTEITH. No, Mr. George, you was always a gentleman. + +AUSTIN. Youth, my good fellow, youth. + +MENTEITH. Quite so, Mr. George. + +AUSTIN. Well, Menteith, we cannot make no mend. We cannot play +the jockey with Time. Age is the test: of wine, Menteith, and +men. + +MENTEITH. Me and you and the old Hermitage, Mr. George, he-he! + +AUSTIN. And the best of these, the Hermitage. But come: we +lose our day. Help me off with this. (MENTEITH TAKES OFF +AUSTIN'S DRESSING-GOWN; AUSTIN PASSES R. TO DRESSING-TABLE, AND +TAKES UP FIRST CRAVAT.) + +AUSTIN. Will the hair do, Menteith? + +MENTEITH. Never saw it lay better, Mr. George. (AUSTIN PROCEEDS +TO WIND FIRST CRAVAT. A BELL: EXIT MENTEITH. AUSTIN DROPS +FIRST CRAVAT IN BASKET AND TAKES SECOND.) + +AUSTIN (WINDING AND SINGING) - + +'I'd crowns resign To call her mine, Sweet Lass of Richmond +Hill!' + +(SECOND CRAVAT A FAILURE. RE-ENTER MENTEITH WITH CARD.) +Fenwick? of Allonby Shaw? A good family, Menteith, but I don't +know the gentleman. (LAYS DOWN CARD, AND TAKES UP THIRD CRAVAT.) +Send him away with every consideration. + +MENTEITH. To be sure, Mr. George. (HE GOES OUT. THIRD CRAVAT A +SUCCESS. RE-ENTER MENTEITH.) He says, Mr. George, that he has +an errand from Miss Musgrave. + +AUSTIN (WITH WAISTCOAT). Show him in, Menteith, at once. +(SINGING AND FITTING WAISTCOAT AT GLASS) - + +'I'd crowns resign To call her mine, Sweet Lass of Richmond +Hill!' + + +SCENE IV + +AUSTIN, R. TO HIM MENTEITH AND FENWICK + +MENTEITH (ANNOUNCING). Mr. Fenwick, Mr. George. + +AUSTIN. At the name of Miss Musgrave, my doors fly always open. + +FENWICK. I believe, sir, you are acquainted with my cousin, +Richard Gaunt? + +AUSTIN. The county member? An old and good friend. But you +need not go so far afield: I know your good house of Allonby +Shaw since the days of the Black Knight. We are, in fact, and at +a very royal distance, cousins. + +FENWICK. I desired, sir, from the nature of my business, that +you should recognise me for a gentleman. + +AUSTIN. The preliminary, sir, is somewhat grave. + +FENWICK. My business is both grave and delicate. + +AUSTIN. Menteith, my good fellow. (EXIT MENTEITH.) Mr. +Fenwick, honour me so far as to be seated. (THEY SIT.) I await +your pleasure. + +FENWICK. Briefly, sir, I am come, not without hope, to appeal to +your good heart. + +AUSTIN. From Miss Musgrave? + +FENWICK. No, sir, I abused her name, and am here upon my own +authority. Upon me the consequence. + +AUSTIN. Proceed. + +FENWICK. Mr. Austin, Dorothy Musgrave is the oldest and dearest +of my friends, is the lady whom for ten years it has been my hope +to make my wife. She has shown me reason to discard that hope +for another: that I may call her Mrs. Austin. + +AUSTIN. In the best interests of the lady (RISING) I question if +you have been well inspired. You are aware, sir, that from such +interference there is but one issue: to whom shall I address my +friend? + +FENWICK. Mr. Austin, I am here to throw myself upon your mercy. +Strange as my errand is, it will seem yet more strange to you +that I came prepared to accept at your hands any extremity of +dishonour and not fight. The lady whom it is my boast to serve +has honoured me with her commands. These are my law, and by +these your life is sacred. + +AUSTIN. Then, sir (WITH HIS HAND UPON THE BELL), his +conversation becomes impossible. You have me at too gross a +disadvantage; and, as you are a gentleman and respect another, I +would suggest that you retire. + +FENWICK. Sir, you speak of disadvantage; think of mine. All my +life long, with all the forces of my nature, I have loved this +lady. I came here to implore her to be my wife, to be my queen; +my saint she had been always! She was too noble to deceive me. +She told me what you know. I will not conceal that my first mood +wasof anger: I would have killed you like a dog. But, Mr. +Austin - bear with me awhile - I, on the threshold of my life, +who have made no figure in the world, nor ever shall now, who had +but one treasure, and have lost it - if I, abandoning revenge, +trampling upon jealousy, can supplicate you to complete my +misfortune - O Mr. Austin! you who have lived, you whose +gallantry is beyond the insolence of a suspicion, you who are a +man crowned and acclaimed, who are loved, and loved by such a +woman - you who excel me in every point of advantage, will you +suffer me to surpass you in generosity? + +AUSTIN. You speak from the heart. (SITS.) What do you want +with me? + +FENWICK. Marry her. + +AUSTIN. Mr. Fenwick, I am the older man. I have seen much of +life, much of society, much of love. When I was young, it was +expected of a gentleman to be ready with his hat to a lady, ready +with his sword to a man; to honour his word and his king; to be +courteous with his equals, generous to his dependants, helpful +and trusty in friendship. But it was not asked of us to be +quixotic. If I had married every lady by whom it is my fortune - +not my merit - to have been distinguished, the Wells would scarce +be spacious enough for my establishment. You see, sir, that +while I respect your emotion, I am myself conducted by +experience. And besides, Mr. Fenwick, is not love a warfare? has +it not rules? have not our fair antagonists their tactics, their +weapons, their place of arms? and is there not a touch of - +pardon me the word! of silliness in one who, having fought, and +having vanquished, sounds a parley, and capitulates to his own +prisoner? Had the lady chosen, had the fortune of war been +other, 'tis like she had been Mrs. Austin. Now I . . . You know +the world. + +FENWICK. I know, sir, that the world contains much cowardice. +To find Mr. Austin afraid to do the right, this surprises me. + +AUSTIN. Afraid, child? + +FENWICK. Yes, sir, afraid. You know her, you know if she be +worthy; and you answer me with - the world: the world which has +been at your feet: the world which Mr. Austin knows so well how +to value and is so able to rule. + +AUSTIN. I have lived long enough, Mr. Fenwick, to recognise that +the world is a great power. It can make; but it can break. + +FENWICK. Sir, suffer me: you spoke but now of friendship, and +spoke warmly. Have you forgotten Colonel Villiers? + +AUSTIN. Mr. Fenwick, Mr. Fenwick, you forget what I have +suffered. + +FENWICK. O sir, I know you loved him. And yet, for a random +word you quarrelled; friendship was weighed in vain against the +world's code of honour; you fought, and your friend fell. I have +heard from others how he lay long in agony, and how you watched +and nursed him, and it was in your embrace he died. In God's +name have you forgotten that? Was not this sacrifice enough? or +must the world, once again, step between Mr. Austin and his +generous heart? + +AUSTIN. Good God, sir, I believe you are in the right; I +believe, upon my soul I believe, there is something in what you +say. + +FENWICK. Something, Mr. Austin? O credit me, the whole +difference betwixt good and evil. + +AUSTIN. Nay, nay, but there you go too far. There are many +kinds of good: honour is a diamond cut in a thousand facets, and +with the true fire in each. Thus, and with all our differences, +Mr. Fenwick, you and I can still respect, we can still admire +each other. + +FENWICK. Bear with me still, sir, if I ask you what is the end +of life but to excel in generosity? To pity the weak, to comfort +the afflicted, to right where we have wronged, to be brave in +reparation - these noble elements you have; for of what besides +is the fabric of your dealing with Colonel Villiers? That is +man's chivalry to man. Yet to a suffering woman - a woman +feeble, betrayed, unconsoled - you deny your clemency, you refuse +your aid, you proffer injustice for atonement. Nay, you are so +disloyal to yourself that you can choose to be ungenerous and +unkind. Where, sir, is the honour? What facet of the diamond is +that? + +AUSTIN. You forget, sir, you forget. But go on. + +FENWICK. O sir, not I - not I but yourself forgets: George +Austin forgets George Austin. A woman loved by him, betrayed by +him, abandoned by him - that woman suffers; and a point of honour +keeps him from his place at her feet. She has played and lost, +and the world is with him if he deign to exact the stakes. Is +that the Mr. Austin whom Miss Musgrave honoured with her trust? +Then, sir, how miserably was she deceived! + +AUSTIN. Child - child - + +FENWICK. Mr. Austin, still bear with me, still follow me. O +sir, will you not picture that dear lady's life? Her years how +few, her error thus irreparable, what henceforth can be her +portion but remorse, the consciousness of self-abasement, the +shame of knowing that her trust was ill-bestowed? To think of +it: this was a queen among women; and this - this is George +Austin's work! Sir, let me touch your heart: let me prevail +with you to feel that 'tis impossible. + +AUSTIN. I am a gentleman. What do you ask of me? + +FENWICK. To be the man she loved: to be clement where the world +would have you triumph, to be of equal generosity with the +vanquished, to be worthy of her sacrifice and of yourself. + +AUSTIN. Mr. Fenwick, your reproof is harsh - + +FENWICK (INTERRUPTING HIM). O sir, be, just be just! - + +AUSTIN. But it is merited, and I thank you for its utterance. +You tell me that the true victory comes when the fight is won: +that our foe is never so noble nor so dangerous as when she is +fallen, that the crowning triumph is that we celebrate over our +conquering selves. Sir, you are right. Kindness, ay kindness +after all. And with age, to become clement. Yes, ambition +first; then, the rounded vanity - victory still novel; and last, +as you say, the royal mood of the mature man; to abdicate for +others . . . Sir, you touched me hard about my dead friend; still +harder about my living duty; and I am not so young but I can take +a lesson. There is my hand upon it: she shall be my wife. + +FENWICK. Ah, Mr. Austin, I was sure of it. + +AUSTIN. Then, sir, you were vastly mistaken. There is nothing +of Beau Austin here. I have simply, my dear child, sate at the +feet of Mr. Fenwick. + +FENWICK. Ah, sir, your heart was counsellor enough. + +AUSTIN. Pardon me. I am vain enough to be the judge: there are +but two people in the world who could have wrought this change: +yourself and that dear lady. (TOUCHES BELL.) Suffer me to +dismiss you. One instant of toilet, and I follow. Will you do +me the honour to go before, and announce my approach? (ENTER +MENTEITH.) + +FENWICK. Sir, if my admiration - + +AUSTIN. Dear child, the admiration is the other way. (EMBRACES +HIM. MENTEITH SHOWS HIM OUT.) + + +SCENE V + +AUSTIN + +AUSTIN. Upon my word, I think the world is getting better. We +were none of us young men like that - in my time, to quote my +future brother. (HE SITS DOWN BEFORE THE MIRROR.) Well, here +ends Beau Austin. Paris, Rome, Vienna, London - victor +everywhere: and now he must leave his bones in Tunbridge Wells. +(LOOKS AT HIS LEG.) Poor Dolly Musgrave! a good girl after all, +and will make me a good wife; none better. The last - of how +many? - ay, and the best! Walks like Hebe. But still, here ends +Beau Austin. Perhaps it's time. Poor Dolly - was she looking +poorly? She shall have her wish. Well, we grow older, but we +grow no worse. + + +SCENE VI + +AUSTIN, MENTEITH + +AUSTIN. Menteith, I am going to be married. + +MENTEITH. Well, Mr. George, but I am pleased to hear it. Miss +Musgrave is a most elegant lady. + +AUSTIN. Ay, Mr. Menteith? and who told you the lady's name? + +MENTEITH. Mr. George, you was always a gentleman. + +AUSTIN. You mean I wasn't always? Old boy, you are in the +right. This shall be a good change for both you and me. We have +lived too long like a brace of truants: now is the time to draw +about the fire. How much is left of the old Hermitage? + +MENTEITH. Hard upon thirty dozen, Mr. George, and not a bad cork +in the bin. + +AUSTIN. And a mistress, Menteith, that's worthy of that wine. + +MENTEITH. Mr. George, sir, she's worthy of you. + +AUSTIN. Gad, I believe it. (SHAKES HANDS WITH HIM.) + +MENTEITH (BREAKING DOWN). Mr. George, you've been a damned good +master to me, and I've been a damned good servant to you; we've +been proud of each other from the first; but if you'll excuse my +plainness, Mr. George, I never liked you better than to-day. + +AUSTIN. Cheer up, old boy, the best is yet to come. Get out the +tongs, and curl me like a bridegroom. (SITS BEFORE +DRESSING-GLASS; MENTEITH PRODUCES CURLING IRONS AND PLIES THEM. +AUSTIN SINGS) - + +'I'd crowns resign +To call her mine, S +weet Lass of Richmond Hill!' + +DROP + + +MUSICAL INDUCTION: the 'Minuet' from 'DON GIOVANNI' + + +ACT III. + +The stage represents Miss Foster's lodging as in Act I. + +SCENE I + +DOROTHY, R., at tambour; ANTHONY, C., bestriding chair; MISS +FOSTER, L.C. + +ANTHONY. Yes, ma'am, I like my regiment: we are all gentlemen, +from old Fred downwards, and all of a good family. Indeed, so +are all my friends, except one tailor sort of fellow, Bosbury. +But I'm done with him. I assure you, Aunt Evelina, we are +Corinthian to the last degree. I wouldn't shock you ladies for +the world - + +MISS FOSTER. Don't mind me, my dear; go on. + +ANTHONY. Really, ma'am, you must pardon me: I trust I +understand what topics are to be avoided among females - And +before my sister, too! A girl of her age! + +DOROTHY. Why, you dear, silly fellow, I'm old enough to be your +mother. + +ANTHONY. My dear Dolly, you do not understand; you are not a man +of the world. But, as I was going on to say, there is no more +spicy regiment in the service. + +MISS FOSTER. I am not surprised that it maintains its old +reputation. You know, my dear (TO DOROTHY), it was George +Austin's regiment. + +DOROTHY. Was it, aunt? + +ANTHONY. Beau Austin? Yes, it was; and a precious dust they +make about him still - a parcel of old frumps! That's why I went +to see him. But he's quite extinct: he couldn't be Corinthian +if he tried. + +MISS FOSTER. I am afraid that even at your age George Austin +held a very different position from the distinguished Anthony +Musgrave. + +ANTHONY. Come, ma'am, I take that unkindly. Of course I know +what you're at: of course the old put cut no end of a dash with +the Duchess. + +MISS FOSTER. My dear child, I was thinking of no such thing; +THAT was immoral. + +ANTHONY. Then you mean that affair at Brighton: when he cut the +Prince about Perdita Robinson. + +MISS FOSTER. No, I had forgotten it. + +ANTHONY. O, well, I know - that duel! But look here, Aunt +Evelina, I don't think you'd be much gratified after all if I +were to be broke for killing my commanding officer about a +quarrel at cards. + +DOROTHY. Nobody asks you, Anthony, to imitate Mr. Austin. I +trust you will set yourself a better model. But you may choose a +worse. With all his faults, and all his enemies, Mr. Austin is a +pattern gentleman: You would not ask a man to be braver, and +there are few so generous. I cannot bear to hear him called in +fault by one so young. Better judges, dear, are better pleased. + +ANTHONY. Hey-day! what's this? + +MISS FOSTER. Why, Dolly, this is April and May. You surprise +me. + +DOROTHY. I am afraid, indeed, madam, that you have much to +suffer from my caprice. (SHE GOES OUT, L.) + + +SCENE II + +ANTHONY, MISS FOSTER + +ANTHONY. What is the meaning of all this, ma'am? I don't like +it. + +MISS FOSTER. Nothing, child, that I know. You spoke of Mr. +Austin, our dear friend, like a groom; and she, like any lady of +taste, took arms in his defence. + +ANTHONY. No, ma'am, that won't do. I know the sex. You mark my +words, the girl has some confounded nonsense in her head, and +wants looking after. + +MISS FOSTER. In my presence, Anthony, I shall ask you to speak +of Dorothy with greater respect. With your permission, your +sister and I will continue to direct our own affairs. When we +require the interference of so young and confident a champion, +you shall know. (CURTSIES, KISSES HER HAND, AND GOES OUT, L.) + + +SCENE III + +ANTHONY + +ANTHONY. Upon my word, I think Aunt Evelina one of the most +uncivil old women in the world. Nine weeks ago I came of age; +and they still treat me like a boy. I'm a recognised Corinthian, +too: take my liquor with old Fred, and go round with the +Brummagem Bantam and Jack Bosb- . . . O damn Jack Bosbury. If +his father was a tailor, he shall fight me for his ungentlemanly +conduct. However, that's all one. What I want is to make Aunt +Evelina understand that I'm not the man to be put down by an old +maid who's been brought up in a work-basket, begad! I've had +nothing but rebuffs all day. It's very remarkable. There was +that man Austin, to begin with. I'll be hanged if I can stand +him. I hear too much of him; and if I can only get a good excuse +to put him to the door, I believe it would give Dorothy and all +of us a kind of a position. After all, he's not a man to visit +in the house of ladies: not when I'm away, at least. Nothing in +it of course; but is he a man whose visits I can sanction? + + +SCENE IV + +ANTHONY, BARBARA + +BARBARA. Please, Mr. Anthony, Miss Foster said I was to show +your room. + +ANTHONY. Ha! Baby? Now, you come here. You're a girl of +sense, I know. + +BARBARA. La, Mr. Anthony, I hope I'm nothing of the kind. + +ANTHONY. Come, come! that's not the tone I want: I'm serious. +Does this man Austin come much about the house? + +BARBARA. O Mr. Anthony, for shame! Why don't you ask Miss +Foster? + +ANTHONY. Now I wish you to understand: I'm the head of this +family. It's my business to look after my sister's reputation, +and my aunt's too, begad! That's what I'm here for: I'm their +natural protector. And what I want you, Barbara Ridley, to +understand - you whose fathers have served my fathers - is just +simply this: if you've any common gratitude, you're bound to +help me in the work. Now Barbara, you know me, and you know my +Aunt Evelina. She's a good enough woman; I'm the first to say +so. But who is she to take care of a young girl? She's ignorant +of the world to that degree she believes in Beau Austin! Now you +and I, Bab, who are not so high and dry, see through and through +him; we know that a man like that is no fit company for any +inexperienced girl. + +BARBARA. O Mr. Anthony, don't say that. (WEEPING.) + +ANTHONY. Hullo! what's wrong? + +BARBARA. Nothing that I know of. O Mr. Anthony, I don't think +there can be anything. + +ANTHONY. Think? Don't think? What's this? + +BARBARA. O sir! I don't know, and yet I don't like it. Here's +my beautiful necklace all broke to bits: she took it off my very +neck, and gave me her birthday pearls instead; and I found it +afterwards on the table, all smashed to pieces; and all she +wanted it for was to take and break it. Why that? It frightens +me, Mr. Anthony, it frightens me. + +ANTHONY (WITH NECKLACE). This? What has this trumpery to do +with us? + +BARBARA. He gave it me: that's why she broke it. + +ANTHONY. He? who? + +BARBARA. Mr. Austin did; and I do believe I should not have +taken it, Mr. Anthony, but I thought no harm, upon my word of +honour. He was always here: that was six months ago; and +indeed, indeed, I thought they were to marry. How would I think +else with a born lady like Miss Dorothy? + +ANTHONY. Why, Barbara, God help us all, what's this? You don't +mean to say that there was - + +BARBARA. Here it is, as true as true: they were going for a +jaunt; and Miss Foster had her gout; and I was to go with them; +and he told me to make-believe I was ill; and I did; and I stayed +at home; and he gave me that necklace; and they went away +together; and, oh dear! I wish I'd never been born. + +ANTHONY. Together? he and Dolly? Good Lord! my sister! And +since then? + +BARBARA. We haven't seen him from that day to this, the wicked +villain; and, Mr. Anthony, he hasn't so much as written the poor +dear a word. + +ANTHONY. Bab, Bab, Bab, this is a devil of a bad business; this +is a cruel bad business, Baby; cruel upon me, cruel upon all of +us; a family like mine. I'm a young man, Barbara, to have this +delicate affair to manage; but, thank God, I'm Musgrave to the +bone. He bribed a servant-maid, did he? I keep his bribe; it's +mine now; dear bought, by George! He shall have it in his teeth. +Shot Colonel Villiers, did he? we'll see how he faces Anthony +Musgrave. You're a good girl, Barbara; so far you've served the +family. You leave this to me. And, hark ye, dry your eyes and +hold your tongue: I'll have no scandal raised by you. + +BARBARA. I do hope, sir, you won't use me against Miss Dorothy. + +ANTHONY. That's my affair; your business is to hold your tongue. +Miss Dorothy has made her bed and must lie on it. Here's Jack +Fenwick. You can go. + + +SCENE V + +ANTHONY, FENWICK + +ANTHONY. Jack Fenwick, is that you? Come here, my boy. Jack, +you've given me many a thrashing, and I deserved 'em; and I'll +not see you made a fool of now. George Austin is a damned +villain, and Dorothy Musgrave is no girl for you to marry: God +help me that I should have to say it. + +FENWICK. Good God, who told YOU? + +ANTHONY. Ay, Jack; it's hard on me, Jack. But you'll stand my +friend in spite of this, and you'll take my message to the man, +won't you? For it's got to come to blood, Jack: there's no way +out of that. And perhaps your poor friend will fall, Jack; think +of that: like Villiers. And all for an unworthy sister. + +FENWICK. Now, Anthony Musgrave, I give you fair warning; see you +take it: one word more against your sister, and we quarrel. + +ANTHONY. You let it slip yourself, Jack: you know yourself +she's not a virtuous girl. + +FENWICK. What do you know of virtue, whose whole boast is to be +vicious? How dare you draw conclusions? Dolt and puppy! you can +no more comprehend that angel's excellencies than she can stoop +to believe in your vices. And you talk morality? Anthony, I'm a +man who has been somewhat roughly tried: take care. + +ANTHONY. You don't seem able to grasp the situation, Jack. It's +very remarkable; I'm the girl's natural protector; and you should +buckle-to and help, like a friend of the family. And instead of +that, begad! you turn on me like all the rest. + +FENWICK. Now mark me fairly: Mr. Austin follows at my heels; he +comes to offer marriage to your sister - that is all you know, +and all you shall know; and if by any misplaced insolence of +yours this marriage should miscarry, you have to answer, not to +Mr. Austin only, but to me. + +ANTHONY. It's all a most discreditable business, and I don't see +how you propose to better it by cutting my throat. Of course if +he's going to marry her, it's a different thing; but I don't +believe he is, or he'd have asked me. You think me a fool? Well +see they marry, or they'll find me a dangerous fool. + + +SCENE VI + +TO THESE, AUSTIN, BARBARA ANNOUNCING + +BARBARA. Mr. Austin. (SHE SHOWS AUSTIN IN, AND RETIRES.) + +AUSTIN. You will do me the justice to acknowledge, Mr. Fenwick, +that I have been not long delayed by my devotion to the Graces. + +ANTHONY. So, sir, I find you in my house - + +AUSTIN. And charmed to meet you again. It went against my +conscience to separate so soon. Youth, Mr. Musgrave, is to us +older men a perpetual refreshment. + +ANTHONY. You came here, sir, I suppose, upon some errand? + +AUSTIN. My errand, Mr. Musgrave, is to your fair sister. +Beauty, as you know, comes before valour. + +ANTHONY. In my own house, and about my own sister, I presume I +have the right to ask for something more explicit. + +AUSTIN. The right, my dear sir, is beyond question; but it is +one, as you were going on to observe, on which no gentleman +insists. + +FENWICK. Anthony, my good fellow, I think we had better go. + +ANTHONY. I have asked a question. + +AUSTIN. Which I was charmed to answer, but which, on repetition, +might begin to grow distasteful. + +ANTHONY. In my own house - + +FENWICK. For God's sake, Anthony! + +AUSTIN. In your aunt's house, young gentleman, I shall be +careful to refrain from criticism. I am come upon a visit to a +lady: that visit I shall pay; when you desire (if it be possible +that you desire it) to resume this singular conversation, select +some fitter place. Mr. Fenwick, this afternoon, may I present +you to his Royal Highness? + +ANTHONY. Why, sir, I believe you must have misconceived me. I +have no wish to offend: at least at present. + +AUSTIN. Enough, sir. I was persuaded I had heard amiss. I +trust we shall be friends. + +FENWICK. Come, Anthony, come: here is your sister. + +(AS FENWICK AND ANTHONY GO OUT, C., ENTER DOROTHY, L.) + + +SCENE VII + +AUSTIN, DOROTHY + +DOROTHY. I am told, Mr. Austin, that you wish to see me. + +AUSTIN. Madam, can you doubt of that desire? can you question my +sincerity? + +DOROTHY. Sir, between you and me these compliments are worse +than idle: they are unkind. Sure, we are alone! + +AUSTIN. I find you in an hour of cruelty, I fear. Yet you have +condescended to receive this poor offender; and having done so +much, you will not refuse to give him audience. + +DOROTHY. You shall have no cause, sir, to complain of me. I +listen. + +AUSTIN. My fair friend, I have sent myself - a poor ambassador - +to plead for your forgiveness. I have been too long absent; too +long, I would fain hope, madam, for you; too long for my honour +and my love. I am no longer, madam, in my first youth; but I may +say that I am not unknown. My fortune, originally small, has not +suffered from my husbandry. I have excellent health, an +excellent temper, and the purest ardour of affection for your +person. I found not on my merits, but on your indulgence. Miss +Musgrave, will you honour me with your hand in marriage? + +DOROTHY. Mr. Austin, if I thought basely of marriage, I should +perhaps accept your offer. There was a time, indeed, when it +would have made me proudest among women. I was the more +deceived, and have to thank you for a salutary lesson. You chose +to count me as a cipher in your rolls of conquest; for six months +you left me to my fate; and you come here to-day - prompted, I +doubt not, by an honourable impulse - to offer this tardy +reparation. No: it is too late. + +AUSTIN. Do you refuse? + +DOROTHY. Yours is the blame: we are no longer equal. You have +robbed me of the right to marry any one but you; and do you think +me, then, so poor in spirit as to accept a husband on compulsion? + +AUSTIN. Dorothy, you loved me once. + +DOROTHY. Ay, you will never guess how much: you will never live +to understand how ignominious a defeat that conquest was. I +loved and trusted you: I judged you by myself; think, then, of +my humiliation, when, at the touch of trial, all your qualities +proved false, and I beheld you the slave of the meanest vanity - +selfish, untrue, base! Think, sir, what a humbling of my pride +to have been thus deceived: to have taken for my idol such a +commonplace imposture as yourself; to have loved - yes, loved - +such a shadow, such a mockery of man. And now I am unworthy to +be the wife of any gentleman; and you - look me in the face, +George - are you worthy to be my husband? + +AUSTIN. No, Dorothy, I am not. I was a vain fool; I blundered +away the most precious opportunity; and my regret will be +lifelong. Do me the justice to accept this full confession of my +fault. I am here to-day to own and to repair it. + +DOROTHY. Repair it? Sir you condescend too far. + +AUSTIN. I perceive with shame how grievously I had misjudged +you. But now, Dorothy, believe me, my eyes are opened. I plead +with you, not as my equal, but as one in all ways better than +myself. I admire you, not in that trivial sense in which we men +are wont to speak of women, but as God's work: as a wise mind, a +noble soul, and a most generous heart, from whose society I have +all to gain, all to learn. Dorothy, in one word, I love you. + +DOROTHY. And what, sir, has wrought this transformation? You +knew me of old, or thought you knew me? Is it in six months of +selfish absence that your mind has changed? When did that change +begin? A week ago? Sure, you would have written! To-day? Sir, +if this offer be anything more than fresh offence, I have a right +to be enlightened. + +AUSTIN. Madam, I foresaw this question. So be it: I respect, +and I will not deceive you. But give me, first of all, a moment +for defence. There are few men of my habits and position who +would have done as I have done: sate at the feet of a young boy, +accepted his lessons, gone upon his errand: fewer still, who +would thus, at the crisis of a love, risk the whole fortune of +the soul - love, gratitude, even respect. Yet more than that! +For conceive how I respect you, if I, whose lifelong trade has +been flattery, stand before you and make the plain confession of +a truth that must not only lower me, but deeply wound yourself. + +DOROTHY. What means - ? + +AUSTIN. Young Fenwick, my rival for your heart, he it was that +sent me. + +DOROTHY. He? O disgrace! He sent you! That was what he meant? +Am I fallen so low? Am I your common talk among men? Did you +dice for me? Did he kneel? O John, John, how could you! And +you, Mr. Austin, whither have you brought me down? shame heaping +upon shame - to what end! oh, to what end? + +AUSTIN. Madam, you wound me: you look wilfully amiss. Sure, +any lady in the land might well be proud to be loved as you are +loved, with such nobility as Mr. Fenwick's, with such humility as +mine. I came, indeed, in pity, in good-nature, what you will. +(See, dearest lady, with what honesty I speak: if I win you, it +shall be with the unblemished truth.) All that is gone. Pity? +it is myself I pity. I offer you not love - I am not worthy. I +ask, I beseech of you: suffer me to wait upon you like a +servant, to serve you with my rank, my name, the whole devotion +of my life. I am a gentleman - ay, in spite of my fault - an +upright gentleman; and I swear to you that you shall order your +life and mine at your free will. Dorothy, at your feet, in +remorse, in respect, in love - O such love as I have never felt, +such love as I derided - I implore, I conjure you to be mine! + +DOROTHY. Too late! too late. + +AUSTIN. No, no, not too late: not too late for penitence, not +too late for love. + +DOROTHY. Which do you propose? that I should abuse your +compassion, or reward your treachery? George Austin, I have been +your mistress, and I will never be your wife. + +AUSTIN. Child, dear child, I have not told you all: there is +worse still: your brother knows; the boy as good as told me. +Dorothy, this is scandal at the door - O let that move you: for +that, if not for my sake, for that, if not for love, trust me, +trust me again. + +DOROTHY. I am so much the more your victim: that is all, and +shall that change my heart? The sin must have its wages. This, +too, was done long ago: when you stooped to lie to me. The +shame is still mine, the fault still yours. + +AUSTIN. Child, child, you kill me: you will not understand. +Can you not see? the lad will force me to a duel. + +DOROTHY. And you will kill him? Shame after shame, threat upon +threat. Marry me, or you are dishonoured; marry me, or your +brother dies: and this is man's honour! But my honour and my +pride are different. I will encounter all misfortune sooner than +degrade myself by an unfaithful marriage. How should I kneel +before the altar, and vow to reverence as my husband you, you who +deceived me as my lover? + +AUSTIN. Dorothy, you misjudge me cruelly; I have deserved it. +You will not take me for your husband; why should I wonder? You +are right. I have indeed filled your life with calamity: the +wages, ay, the wages, of my sin are heavy upon you. But I have +one more thing to ask of your pity; and O remember, child, who it +is that asks it: a man guilty in your sight, void of excuse, but +old, and very proud, and most unused to supplication. Dorothy +Musgrave, will you forgive George Austin? + +DOROTHY. O, George! + +AUSTIN. It is the old name: that is all I ask, and more than I +deserve. I shall remember, often remember, how and where it was +bestowed upon me for the last time. I thank you, Dorothy, from +my heart; a heart, child, that has been too long silent, but is +not too old, I thank God! not yet too old, to learn a lesson and +to accept a reproof. I will not keep you longer: I will go - I +am so bankrupt in credit that I dare not ask you to believe in +how much sorrow. But, Dorothy, my acts will speak for me with +more persuasion. If it be in my power, you shall suffer no more +through me: I will avoid your brother; I will leave this place, +I will leave England, to-morrow; you shall be no longer tortured +with the neighbourhood of your ungenerous lover. Dorothy, +farewell! + + +SCENE VIII + +DOROTHY; TO WHOM, ANTHONY, L. + +DOROTHY (ON HER KNEES, AND REACHING WITH HER HANDS.) George, +George! (ENTER ANTHONY.) + +ANTHONY. Ha! what are you crying for? + +DOROTHY. Nothing, dear! (RISING.) + +ANTHONY. Is Austin going to marry you? + +DOROTHY. I shall never marry. + +ANTHONY. I thought as much. You should have come to me. + +DOROTHY. I know, dear, I know; but there was nothing to come +about. + +ANTHONY. It's a lie. You have disgraced the family. You went +to John Fenwick: see what he has made of it! But I will have +you righted: it shall be atoned in the man's blood. + +DOROTHY. Anthony! And if I had refused him? + +ANTHONY. You? refuse George Austin? You never had the chance. + +DOROTHY. I have refused him. + +ANTHONY. Dorothy, you lie. You would shield your lover; but +this concerns not you only: it strikes my honour and my father's +honour. + +DOROTHY. I have refused him - refused him, I tell you - refused +him. The blame is mine; are you so mad and wicked that you will +not see? + +ANTHONY. I see this: that man must die. + +DOROTHY. He? never! You forget, you forget whom you defy; you +run upon your death. + +ANTHONY. Ah, my girl, you should have thought of that before. +It is too late now. + +DOROTHY. Anthony, if I beg you - Anthony, I have tried to be a +good sister; I brought you up, dear, nursed you when you were +sick, fought for you, hoped for you, loved you - think of it, +think of the dear past, think of our home and the happy winter +nights, the castles in the fire, the long shining future, the +love that was to forgive and suffer always - O you will spare, +you will spare me this. + +ANTHONY. I will tell you what I will do, Dolly: I will do just +what you taught me - my duty: that, and nothing else. + +DOROTHY. O Anthony, you also, you to strike me! Heavens, shall +I kill them - I - I, that love them, kill them! Miserable, +sinful girl! George, George, thank God, you will be far away! O +go, George, go at once! + +ANTHONY. He goes the coward! Ay, is this more of your +contrivance? Madam, you make me blush. But to-day at least I +know where I can find him. This afternoon, on the Pantiles, he +must dance attendance on the Duke of York. Already he must be +there; and there he is at my mercy. DOROTHY. Thank God, you are +deceived: he will not fight. He promised me that; thank God I +have his promise for that. + +ANTHONY. Promise! Do you see this? (PRODUCING NECKLACE) the +thing he bribed your maid with? I shall dash it in his teeth +before the Duke and before all Tunbridge. Promise, you poor +fool? what promise holds against a blow? Get to your knees and +pray for him; for, by the God above, if he has any blood in his +body, one of us shall die before to-night. (HE GOES OUT.) + +DOROTHY. Anthony, Anthony! . . . O my God, George will kill him. + +MUSIC: 'CHE FARO,' AS THE DROP FALLS. + +DROP. + + +MUSICAL INDUCTION: 'Gavotte;' 'IPHIGENIE EN AULIDE.' GLUCK + + +ACT IV. + +The Stage represents the Pantiles: the alleys fronting the +spectators in parallel lines. At the back, a stand of musicians, +from which the 'Gavotte' is repeated on muted strings. The music +continues nearly through Scene I. Visitors walking to and fro +beneath the lines. A seat in front, L. + +SCENE I + +MISS FOSTER, BARBARA, MENTEITH; VISITORS + +MISS FOSTER (ENTERING; ESCORTED BY MENTEITH, AND FOLLOWED BY +BARBARA). And so, Menteith, here you are once more. And vastly +pleased I am to see you, my good fellow, not only for your own +sake, but because you harbinger the Beau. (SITS, L.; MENTEITH +STANDING OVER HER.) + +MENTEITH. Honoured madam, I have had the pleasure to serve Mr. +George for more than thirty years. This is a privilege - a very +great privilege. I have beheld him in the first societies, +moving among the first rank of personages; and none, madam, none +outshone him. + +BARBARA. I assure you, madam, when Mr. Menteith took me to the +play, he talked so much of Mr. Austin that I couldn't hear a word +of Mr. Kean. + +MISS FOSTER. Well, well, and very right. That was the old +school of service, Barbara, which you would do well to imitate. +This is a child, Menteith, that I am trying to form. + +MENTEITH. Quite so, madam. + +MISS FOSTER. And are we soon to see our princely guest, +Menteith? + +MENTEITH. His Royal Highness, madam? I believe I may say quite +so. Mr. George will receive our gallant prince upon the Pantiles + +(LOOKING AT HIS WATCH) in, I should say, a matter of twelve +minutes from now. Such, madam, is Mr. George's order of the day. + +BARBARA. I beg your pardon, madam, I am sure, but are we really +to see one of His Majesty's own brothers? That will be pure! O +madam, this is better than Carlisle. + +MISS FOSTER. The wood-note wild: a loyal Cumbrian, Menteith. + +MENTEITH. Eh? Quite so, madam. + +MISS FOSTER. When she has seen as much of the Royal Family as +you, my good fellow, she will find it vastly less entertaining. + +MENTEITH. Yes, madam, indeed; In these distinguished circles, +life is but a slavery. None of the best set would relish +Tunbridge without Mr. George; Tunbridge and Mr. George (if you'll +excuse my plainness, madam) are in a manner of speaking +identified; and indeed it was the Dook's desire alone that +brought us here. + +BARBARA. What? the Duke? O dear! was it for that? + +MENTEITH. Though, to be sure, madam, Mr. George would always be +charmed to find himself (BOWING) among so many admired members of +his own set. + +MISS FOSTER. Upon my word, Menteith, Mr. Austin is as fortunate +in his servant as his reputation. + +MENTEITH. Quite so, madam. But let me observe that the +opportunities I have had of acquiring a knowledge of Mr. George's +character have been positively unrivalled. Nobody knows Mr. +George like his old attendant. The goodness of that gentleman - +but, madam, you will soon be equally fortunate, if, as I +understand, it is to be a match. + +MISS FOSTER. I hope, Menteith, you are not taking leave of your +senses. Is it possible you mean my niece? + +MENTEITH. Madam, I have the honour to congratulate you. I put a +second curl in Mr. George's hair on purpose. + + +SCENE II + +TO THESE, AUSTIN. MENTEITH FALLS BACK, AND AUSTIN TAKES HIS +PLACE IN FRONT OF MISS FOSTER, HIS ATTITUDE A COUNTERPART OF +MENTEITH'S. + +AUSTIN. Madam, I hasten to present my homage. + +MISS FOSTER. A truce to compliments! Menteith, your charming +fellow there, has set me positively crazy. Dear George Austin, +is it true? can it be true? + +AUSTIN. Madam, if he has been praising your niece he has been +well inspired. If he was speaking, as I spoke an hour ago +myself, I wish, Miss Foster, that he had held his tongue. I have +indeed offered myself to Miss Dorothy, and she, with the most +excellent reason, has refused me. + +MISS FOSTER. Is it possible? why, my dear George Austin . . . . +then I suppose it is John Fenwick after all! + +AUSTIN. Not one of us is worthy. + +MISS FOSTER. This is the most amazing circumstance. You take my +breath away. My niece refuse George Austin? why, I give you my +word, I thought she had adored you. A perfect scandal: it +positively must not get abroad. + +AUSTIN. Madam, for that young lady I have a singular regard. +Judge me as tenderly as you can, and set it down, if you must, to +an old man's vanity - for, Evelina, we are no longer in the +heyday of our youth - judge me as you will: I should prefer to +have it known. + +MISS FOSTER. Can you? George Austin, you? My youth was +nothing; I was a failure; but for you? no, George, you never can, +you never must be old. You are the triumph of my generation, +George, and of our old friendship too. Think of my first dance +and my first partner. And to have this story - no, I could not +bear to have it told of you. + +AUSTIN. Madam, there are some ladies over whom it is a boast to +have prevailed; there are others whom it is a glory to have +loved. And I am so vain, dear Evelina, that even thus I am proud +to link my name with that of Dorothy Musgrave. + +MISS FOSTER. George, you are changed. I would not know you. + +AUSTIN. I scarce know myself. But pardon me, dear friend +(TAKING HIS WATCH), in less than four minutes our illustrious +guest will descend amongst us; and I observe Mr. Fenwick, with +whom I have a pressing business. Suffer me, dear Evelina! - + + +SCENE III + +To these, FENWICK. MISS FOSTER remains seated, L. AUSTIN goes +R. to FENWICK, whom he salutes with great respect + +AUSTIN. Mr. Fenwick, I have played and lost. That noble lady, +justly incensed at my misconduct, has condemned me. Under the +burden of such a loss, may I console myself with the esteem of +Mr. Fenwick? + +FENWICK. She refused you? Pardon me, sir, but was the fault not +yours? + +AUSTIN. Perhaps to my shame, I am no novice, Mr. Fenwick; but I +have never felt nor striven as to-day. I went upon your errand; +but, you may trust me, sir, before I had done I found it was my +own. Until to-day I never rightly valued her; sure, she is fit +to be a queen. I have a remorse here at my heart to which I am a +stranger. Oh! that was a brave life, that was a great heart that +I have ruined. + +FENWICK. Ay, sir, indeed. + +AUSTIN. But, sir, it is not to lament the irretrievable that I +intrude myself upon your leisure. There is something to be done, +to save, at least to spare, that lady. You did not fail to +observe the brother? + +FENWICK. No, sir, he knows all; and being both intemperate and +ignorant - + +AUSTIN. Surely. I know. I have to ask you then to find what +friends you can among this company; and if you have none, to make +them. Let everybody hear the news. Tell it (if I may offer the +suggestion) with humour: how Mr. Austin, somewhat upon the wane, +but still filled with sufficiency, gloriously presumed and was +most ingloriously set down by a young lady from the north: the +lady's name a secret, which you will permit to be divined. The +laugh - the position of the hero - will make it circulate; - you +perceive I am in earnest; - and in this way I believe our young +friend will find himself forestalled. + +FENWICK. Mr. Austin, I would not have dared to ask so much of +you; I will go further: were the positions changed, I should +fear to follow your example. + +AUSTIN. Child, child, you could not afford it. + + +SCENE IV + +To there, the ROYAL DUKE, C.; then, immediately, ANTHONY, L. +FENWICK crosses to MISS FOSTER, R. AUSTIN accosts the DUKE, C., +in dumb show; the muted strings take up a new air, Mozart's +'Anglaise'; couples passing under the limes, and forming a group +behind AUSTIN and the DUKE. ANTHONY in front, L., watches +AUSTIN, who, as he turns from the DUKE, sees him, and comes +forward with extended hand. + +AUSTIN. Dear child, let me present you to his Royal Highness. + +ANTHONY (WITH NECKLACE). Mr. Austin, do you recognise the bribe +you gave my sister's maid? + +AUSTIN. Hush, sir, hush! you forget the presence of the Duke. + +ANTHONY. Mr. Austin, you are a coward and a scoundrel. + +AUSTIN. My child, you will regret these words: I refuse your +quarrel. + +ANTHONY. You do? Take that. (HE STRIKES AUSTIN ON THE MOUTH. +AT THE MOMENT OF THE BLOW -) + + +SCENE V + +TO THESE, DOROTHY, L. U. E. DOROTHY, UNSEEN BY AUSTIN, SHRIEKS. +SENSATION. MUSIC STOPS. TABLEAU + +AUSTIN (RECOVERING HIS COMPOSURE). Your Royal Highness, suffer +me to excuse the disrespect of this young gentleman. He has so +much apology, and I have, I hope, so good a credit, as incline me +to accept this blow. But I must beg of your Highness, and, +gentlemen, all of you here present, to bear with me while I will +explain what is too capable of misconstruction. I am the +rejected suitor of this young gentleman's sister; of Miss Dorothy +Musgrave: a lady whom I singularly honour and esteem; a word +from whom (if I could hope that word) would fill my life with +happiness. I was not worthy of that lady; when I was defeated in +fair field, I presumed to make advances through her maid. See in +how laughable a manner fate repaid me! The waiting-girl derided, +the mistress denied, and now comes in this very ardent champion +who publicly insults me. My vanity is cured; you will judge it +right, I am persuaded, all of you, that I should accept my proper +punishment in silence; you, my Lord Duke, to pardon this young +gentleman; and you, Mr. Musgrave, to spare me further +provocation, which I am determined to ignore. + +DOROTHY (RUSHING FORWARD, FALLING AT AUSTIN'S KNEES, AND SEIZING +HIS HAND). George, George, it was for me. My hero! take me! +What you will! + +AUSTIN (IN AN AGONY). My dear creature, remember that we are in +public. (RAISING HER.) Your Royal Highness, may I present you +Mrs. George Frederick Austin? (THE CURTAIN FALLS ON A FEW BARS +OF THE 'LASS OF RICHMOND HILL.') + +THE END + +---------------------------------------------------------- + +Play: ADMIRAL GUINEA + +DEDICATED WITH AFFECTION AND ESTEEM TO ANDREW LANG BY THE +SURVIVORS OF THE WALRUS +SAVANNAH, this 27TH day of SEPTEMBER 1884 + + +PERSONS REPRESENTED + +JOHN GAUNT, called 'ADMIRAL GUINEA,' once Captain of the Slaver + ARETHUSA. +ARETHUSA GAUNT, his Daughter. +DAVID PEW, a Blind Beggar, once Boatswain of the ARETHUSA +KIT FRENCH, a Privateersman. +MRS. DRAKE, Landlady of the ADMIRAL BENBOW Inn. + +The Scene is laid in the neighbourhood of Barnstaple. The Time +is about the year 1760. The action occupies part of a day and +night. + +NOTE. - PASSAGES SUGGESTED FOR OMISSION IN REPRESENTATION ARE +ENCLOSED IN SQUARE BRACKETS, THUS [ ]. + +ADMIRAL GUINEA + +ACT I. + +The Stage represents a room in the Admiral Guinea's house: +fireplace, arm-chair, and table with Bible, L., towards the +front; door C., with window on each side, the window on the R., +practicable; doors, R. and L., back; corner cupboard, a brass- +strapped sea-chest fixed to the wall and floor, R.; cutlasses, +telescopes, sextant, quadrant, a calendar, and several maps upon +the wall; a ship clock; three wooden chairs; a dresser against +wall, R. C.; on the chimney-piece the model of a brig and several +shells. The centre bare of furniture. Through the widows and +the door, which is open, green trees and a small field of sea. + +SCENE I + +ARETHUSA IS DISCOVERED, DUSTING + +ARETHUSA. Ten months and a week to-day! Now for a new mark. +Since the last, the sun has set and risen over the fields and the +pleasant trees at home, and on Kit's lone ship and the empty sea. +Perhaps it blew; perhaps rained; (AT THE CHART) perhaps he was +far up here to the nor'ard, where the icebergs sail; perhaps at +anchor among these wild islands of the snakes and buccaneers. O, +you big chart, if I could see him sailing on you! North and +South Atlantic; such a weary sight of water and no land; never an +island for the poor lad to land upon. But still, God's there. +(SHE TAKES DOWN THE TELESCOPE TO DUST IT.) Father's spy-glass +again; and my poor Kit perhaps with such another, sweeping the +great deep! + + +SCENE II + +ARETHUSA; to her, KIT, C. [He enters on tiptoe, and she does not +see or hear him] + +ARETHUSA (DUSTING TELESCOPE). At sea they have less dust at +least: that's so much comfort. + +KIT. Sweetheart, ahoy! + +ARETHUSA. Kit! + +KIT. Arethusa. + +ARETHUSA. My Kit! Home again - O my love! - home again to me! + +KIT. As straight as wind and tide could carry me! + +ARETHUSA. O Kit, my dearest. O Kit - O! O! + +KIT. Hey? Steady, lass: steady, I say. For goodness' sake, +ease it off. + +ARETHUSA. I will, Kit - I will. But you came so sudden. + +KIT. I thought ten months of it about preparation enough. + +ARETHUSA. Ten months and a week: you haven't counted the days +as I have. Another day gone, and one day nearer to Kit: that +has been my almanac. How brown you are! how handsome! + +KIT. A pity you can't see yourself! Well, no, I'll never be +handsome: brown I may be, never handsome. But I'm better than +that, if the proverb's true; for I'm ten hundred thousand fathoms +deep in love. I bring you a faithful sailor. What! you don't +think much of that for a curiosity? Well, that's so: you're +right; the rarity is in the girl that's worth it ten times over. +Faithful? I couldn't help it if I tried! No, sweetheart, and I +fear nothing: I don't know what fear is, but just of losing you. +(STARTING.) Lord, that's not the Admiral? + +ARETHUSA. Aha, Mr. Dreadnought! you see you fear my father. + +KIT. That I do. But, thank goodness, it's nobody. Kiss me: +no, I won't kiss you: kiss ME. I'll give you a present for +that. See! + +ARETHUSA. A wedding-ring! + +KIT. My mother's. Will you take it? + +ARETHUSA. Yes, will I - and give myself for it. + +KIT. Ah, if we could only count upon your father! He's a man +every inch of him; but he can't endure Kit French. + +ARETHUSA. He hasn't learned to know you, Kit, as I have, nor yet +do you know him. He seems hard and violent; at heart he is only +a man overwhelmed with sorrow. Why else, when he looks at me and +does not know that I observe him, should his face change, and +fill with such tenderness, that I could weep to see him? Why, +when he walks in his sleep, as he does almost every night, his +eyes open and beholding nothing, why should he cry so pitifully +on my mother's name? Ah, if you could hear him then, you would +say yourself: here is a man that has loved; here is a man that +will be kind to lovers. + +KIT. Is that so? Ay, it's a hard thing to lose your wife; ay, +that must cut the heart indeed. But for all that, my lass, your +father is keen for the doubloons. + +ARETHUSA. Right, Kit: and small blame to him. There is only +one way to be honest, and the name of that is thrift. + +KIT. Well, and that's my motto. I've left the ship; no more +letter of marque for me. Good-bye to Kit French, privateersman's +mate; and how-d'ye-do to Christopher, the coasting skipper. I've +seen the very boat for me: I've enough to buy her, too; and to +furnish a good house, and keep a shot in the locker for bad luck. +So far, there's nothing to gainsay. So far it's hopeful enough; +but still there's Admiral Guinea, you know - and the plain truth +is that I'm afraid of him. + +ARETHUSA. Admiral Guinea? Now Kit, if you are to be true lover +of mine, you shall not use that name. His name is Captain Gaunt. +As for fearing him, Kit French, you're not the man for me, if you +fear anything but sin. He's a stern man because he's in the +right. + +KIT. He is a man of God; I am what he calls a child of +perdition. I was a privateersman - serving my country, I say; +but he calls it pirate. He is thrifty and sober; he has a +treasure, they say, and it lies so near his heart that he tumbles +up in his sleep to stand watch over it. What has a harum-scarum +dog like me to expect from a man like him? He won't see I'm +starving for a chance to mend; 'Mend,' he'll say; 'I'll be shot +if you mend at the expense of my daughter;' and the worst of it +is, you see, he'll be right. + +ARETHUSA. Kit, if you dare to say that faint-hearted word again, +I'll take my ring off. What are we here for but to grow better +or grow worse? Do you think Arethusa French will be the same as +Arethusa Gaunt? + +KIT. I don't want her better. + +ARETHUSA. Ah, but she shall be! + +KIT. Hark, here he is! By George, it's neck or nothing now. +Stand by to back me up. + + +SCENE III + +TO THESE, GAUNT, C. + +KIT (WITH ARETHUSA'S HAND). Captain Gaunt, I have come to ask +you for your daughter. + +GAUNT. Hum. (HE SITS IN HIS CHAIR, L.) + +KIT. I love her, and she loves me, sir. I've left the +privateering. I've enough to set me up and buy a tidy sloop - +Jack Lee's; you know the boat, Captain; clinker built, not four +years old, eighty tons burthen, steers like a child. I've put my +mother's ring on Arethusa's finger; and if you'll give us your +blessing, I'll engage to turn over a new leaf, and make her a +good husband. + +GAUNT. In whose strength, Christopher French? + +KIT. In the strength of my good, honest love for her: as you +did for her mother, and my father for mine. And you know, +Captain, a man can't command the wind; but (excuse me, sir) he +can always lie the best course possible, and that's what I'll do, +so God help me. + +GAUNT. Arethusa, you at least are the child of many prayers; +your eyes have been unsealed; and to you the world stands naked, +a morning watch for duration, a thing spun of cobwebs for +solidity. In the presence of an angry God, I ask you: have you +heard this man? + +ARETHUSA. Father, I know Kit, and I love him. + +GAUNT. I say it solemnly, this is no Christian union. To you, +Christopher French, I will speak nothing of eternal truths: I +will speak to you the language of this world. You have been +trained among sinners who gloried in their sin: in your whole +life you never saved one farthing; and now, when your pockets are +full, you think you can begin, poor dupe, in your own strength. +You are a roysterer, a jovial companion; you mean no harm - you +are nobody's enemy but your own. No doubt you tell this girl of +mine, and no doubt you tell yourself, that you can change. +Christopher, speaking under correction, I defy you! You ask me +for this child of many supplications, for this brand plucked from +the burning: I look at you; I read you through and through; and +I tell you - no! (STRIKING TABLE WITH HIS FIST.) + +KIT. Captain Gaunt, if you mean that I am not worthy of her, I'm +the first to say so. But, if you'll excuse me, sir, I'm a young +man, and young men are no better'n they ought to be; it's known; +they're all like that; and what's their chance? To be married to +a girl like this! And would you refuse it to me? Why, sir, you +yourself, when you came courting, you were young and rough; and +yet I'll make bold to say that Mrs. Gaunt was a happy woman, and +the saving of yourself into the bargain. Well, now, Captain +Gaunt, will you deny another man, and that man a sailor, the very +salvation that you had yourself? + +GAUNT. Salvation, Christopher French, is from above. + +KIT. Well, sir, that is so; but there's means, too; and what +means so strong as the wife a man has to strive and toil for, and +that bears the punishment whenever he goes wrong? Now, sir, I've +spoke with your old shipmates in the Guinea trade. Hard as +nails, they said, and true as the compass: as rough as a slaver, +but as just as a judge. Well, sir, you hear me plead: I ask you +for my chance; don't you deny it to me. + +GAUNT. You speak of me? In the true balances we both weigh +nothing. But two things I know: the depth of iniquity, how foul +it is; and the agony with which a man repents. Not until seven +devils were cast out of me did I awake; each rent me as it +passed. Ay, that was repentance. Christopher, Christopher, you +have sailed before the wind since first you weighed your anchor, +and now you think to sail upon a bowline? You do not know your +ship, young man: you will go to le'ward like a sheet of paper; I +tell you so that know - I tell you so that have tried, and +failed, and wrestled in the sweat of prayer, and at last, at +last, have tasted grace. But, meanwhile, no flesh and blood of +mine shall lie at the mercy of such a wretch as I was then, or as +you are this day. I could not own the deed before the face of +heaven if I sanctioned this unequal yoke. Arethusa, pluck off +that ring from off your finger. Christopher French, take it, and +go hence. + +KIT. Arethusa, what do you say? + +ARETHUSA. O Kit, you know my heart. But he is alone, and I am +his only comfort; and I owe all to him; and shall I not obey my +father? But, Kit, if you will let me, I will keep your ring. +Go, Kit; go, and prove to my father that he was mistaken; go and +win me. And O, Kit, if ever you should weary, come to me - no, +do not come! but send a word - and I shall know all, and you +shall have your ring. (GAUNT OPENS HIS BIBLE AND BEGINS TO +READ.) + +KIT. Don't say that, don't say such things to me; I sink or swim +with you. (TO GAUNT.) Old man, you've struck me hard; give me a +good word to go with. Name your time; I'll stand the test. Give +me a spark of hope, and I'll fight through for it. Say just this +- 'Prove I was mistaken,' and by George, I'll prove it. + +GAUNT (LOOKING UP). I make no such compacts. Go, and swear not +at all. + +ARETHUSA. Go, Kit! I keep the ring. + + +SCENE IV + +ARETHUSA, GAUNT + +ARETHUSA. Father, what have we done that you should be so cruel? + +GAUNT (LAYING DOWN BIBLE, AND RISING). Do you call me cruel? +You speak after the flesh. I have done you this day a service +that you will live to bless me for upon your knees. + +ARETHUSA. He loves me, and I love him: you can never alter +that; do what you will, father, that can never change. I love +him, I believe in him, I will be true to him. + +GAUNT. Arethusa, you are the sole thing death has left me on +this earth; and I must watch over your carnal happiness and your +eternal weal. You do not know what this implies to me. Your +mother - my Hester - tongue cannot tell, nor heart conceive the +pangs she suffered. If it lies in me, your life shall not be +lost on that same reef of an ungodly husband. (GOES OUT, C.) + + +SCENE V + +ARETHUSA + +ARETHUSA. I thought the time dragged long and weary when I knew +that Kit was homeward bound, all the white sails a-blowing out +towards England, and my Kit's face turned this way? (SHE BEGINS +TO DUST.) Sure, if my mother were here, she would understand and +help us; she would understand a young maid's heart, though her +own had never an ache; and she would love my Kit. (PUTTING BACK +THE TELESCOPE.) To think she died: husband and child - and so +much love - she was taken from them all. Ah, there is no parting +but the grave! And Kit and I both live, and both love each +other; and here am I cast down? O, Arethusa, shame! And your +love home from the deep seas, and loving you still; and the sun +shining; and the world all full of hope? O, hope, you're a good +word! + + +SCENE VI + +ARETHUSA; TO HER, PEW + +PEW (SINGING WITHOUT) - + +'Time for us to go! +Time for us to go! +And we'll keep the brig three pints away, +For it's time for us to go.' + +ARETHUSA. Who comes here? a seaman by his song, and father out! +(SHE TRIES THE AIR) 'Time for us to go!' It sounds a wild kind +of song. (TAP-TAP; PEW PASSES THE WINDOW.) O, what a face - and +blind! + +PEW (ENTERING). Kind Christian friends, take pity on a poor +blind mariner, as lost his precious sight in the defence of his +native country, England, and God bless King George! + +ARETHUSA. What can I do for you, sailor? + +PEW. Good Christian lady, help a poor blind mariner to a +mouthful of meat. I've served His Majesty in every quarter of +the globe; I've spoke with 'Awke and glorious Anson, as I might +with you; and I've tramped it all night long, upon my sinful +feet, and with a empty belly. + +ARETHUSA. You shall not ask bread and be denied by a sailor's +daughter and a sailor's sweetheart; and when my father returns he +shall give you something to set you on your road. + +PEW. Kind and lovely lady, do you tell me that you are in a +manner of speaking alone? or do my ears deceive a poor blind +seaman? + +ARETHUSA. I live here with my father, and my father is abroad. + +PEW. Dear, beautiful, Christian lady, tell a poor blind man your +honoured name, that he may remember it in his poor blind prayers. + +ARETHUSA. Sailor, I am Arethusa Gaunt. + +PEW. Sweet lady, answer a poor blind man one other question: +are you in a manner of speaking related to Cap'n John Gaunt? +Cap'n John as in the ebony trade were known as Admiral Guinea? + +ARETHUSA. Captain John Gaunt is my father. + +PEW (DROPPING THE BLIND MAN'S WHINE). Lord, think of that now! +They told me this was where he lived, and so it is. And here's +old Pew, old David Pew, as was the Admiral's own bo'sun, +colloguing in his old commander's parlour, with his old +commander's gal (SEIZES ARETHUSA). Ah, and a bouncer you are, +and no mistake. + +ARETHUSA. Let me go! how dare you? + +PEW. Lord love you, don't you struggle, now, don't you. (SHE +ESCAPES INTO FRONT R. CORNER, WHERE HE KEEPS HER IMPRISONED.) +Ah, well, we'll get you again, my lovely woman. What a arm +you've got - great god of love - and a face like a peach! I'm a +judge, I am. (SHE TRIES TO ESCAPE; HE STOPS HER.) No, you +don't; O, I can hear a flea jump! [But it's here where I miss my +deadlights. Poor old Pew; him as the ladies always would have +for their fancy man and take no denial; here you are with your +commander's daughter close aboard, and you can't so much as guess +the colour of her lovely eyes. (SINGING) - + +'Be they black like ebony; +Or be they blue like to the sky.' + +Black like the Admiral's? or blue like his poor dear wife's? Ah, +I was fond of that there woman, I was: the Admiral was jealous +of me.] Arethusa, my dear, - my heart, what a 'and and arm you +HAVE got; I'll dream o' that 'and and arm, I will! - but as I was +a-saying, does the Admiral ever in a manner of speaking refer to +his old bo'sun David Pew? him as he fell out with about the black +woman at Lagos, and almost slashed the shoulder off of him one +morning before breakfast? + +ARETHUSA. You leave this house. + +PEW. Hey? (HE CROSSES AND SEIZES HER AGAIN) Don't you fight, my +lovely one: now don't make old blind Pew forget his manners +before a female. What! you will? Stop that, or I'll have the +arm right out of your body. (HE GIVES HER ARM A WRENCH.) + +ARETHUSA. O! help, help! + +PEW. Stash your patter, damn you. (ARETHUSA GIVES IN.) Ah, I +thought it: Pew's way, Pew's way. Now, look you here, my lovely +woman. If you sling in another word that isn't in answer to my +questions, I'll pull your j'ints out one by one. Where's the +Commander? + +ARETHUSA. I have said: he is abroad. + +PEW. When's he coming aboard again? + +ARETHUSA. At any moment. + +PEW. Does he keep his strength? + +ARETHUSA. You'll see when he returns. (HE WRENCHES HER ARM +AGAIN.) Ah! + +PEW. Is he still on piety? + +ARETHUSA. O, he is a Christian man! + +PEW. A Christian man, is he? Where does he keep his rum? + +ARETHUSA. Nay, you shall steal nothing by my help. + +PEW. No more I shall (BECOMING AMOROUS). You're a lovely woman, +that's what you are; how would you like old Pew for a sweetheart, +hey? He's blind, is Pew, but strong as a lion; and the sex is +his 'ole delight. Ah, them beautiful, beautiful lips! A kiss! +Come! + +ARETHUSA. Leave go, leave go! + +PEW. Hey? you would? + +ARETHUSA. Ah! (SHE THRUSTS HIM DOWN, AND ESCAPES TO DOOR, R.) + + +SCENE VII + +PEW (PICKING HIMSELF UP). Ah, she's a bouncer, she is! Where's +my stick? That's the sort of female for David Pew. Didn't she +fight? and didn't she struggle? and shouldn't I like to twist her +lovely neck for her? Pew's way with 'em all: the prettier they +was, the uglier he were to 'em. Pew's way: a way he had with +him; and a damned good way too. (LISTENS AT L. DOOR.) That's +her bedroom, I reckon; and she's double-locked herself in. Good +again: it's a crying mercy the Admiral didn't come in. But you +always loses your 'ed, Pew, with a female: that's what charms +'em. Now for business. The front door. No bar; only a big lock +(TRYING KEYS FROM HIS POCKET). Key one; no go. Key two; no go. +Key three; ah, that does it. Ah! (FEELING KEY) him with the +three wards and the little 'un: good again! Now if I could only +find a mate in this rotten country 'amlick: one to be eyes to +me; I can steer, but I can't conn myself, worse luck! If I could +only find a mate! And to-night, about three bells in the middle +watch, old Pew will take a little cruise, and lay aboard his +ancient friend the Admiral; or, barring that, the Admiral's old +sea-chest - the chest he kept the shiners in aboard the brig. +Where is it, I wonder? in his berth, or in the cabin here? It's +big enough, and the brass bands is plain to feel by. (SEARCHING +ABOUT WITH STICK.) Dresser - chair - (KNOCKING HIS HEAD ON THE +CUPBOARD.) Ah! - O, corner cupboard. Admiral's chair - +Admiral's table - Admiral's - hey! what's this? - a book - +sheepskin - smells like a 'oly Bible. Chair (HIS STICK JUST +AVOIDS THE CHEST). No sea-chest. I must have a mate to see for +me, to see for old Pew: him as had eyes like a eagle! +Meanwhile, rum. Corner cupboard, of course (TAP-TAPPING). Rum - +rum - rum. Hey? (HE LISTENS.) Footsteps. Is it the Admiral? +(WITH THE WHINE.) Kind Christian friends - + + +SCENE VIII + +PEW; to him GAUNT + +GAUNT. What brings you here? + +PEW. Cap'n, do my ears deceive me? or is this my old commander? + +GAUNT. My name is John Gaunt. Who are you, my man, and what's +your business? + +PEW. Here's the facks, so help me. A lovely female in this +house was Christian enough to pity the poor blind; and lo and +belold! who should she turn out to be but my old commander's +daughter! 'My dear,' says I to her, 'I was the Admiral's own +particular bo'sun.' - 'La, sailor,' she says to me, 'how glad +he'll be to see you!' - 'Ah,' says I, 'won't he just - that's +all.' - 'I'll go and fetch him,' she says; 'you make yourself at +'ome.' And off she went; and, Commander, here I am. + +GAUNT (SITTING DOWN). Well? + +PEW. Well, Cap'n? + +GAUNT. What do you want? + +PEW. Well, Admiral, in a general way, what I want in a manner of +speaking is money and rum. (A PAUSE.) + +GAUNT. David Pew, I have known you a long time. + +PEW. And so you have; aboard the old ARETHUSA; and you don't +seem that cheered up as I'd looked for, with an old shipmate +dropping in, one as has been seeking you two years and more - and +blind at that. Don't you remember the old chantie? - + +'Time for us to go, +Time for us to go, +And when we'd clapped the hatches on, +'Twas time for us to go. + +What a note you had to sing, what a swaller for a pannikin of +rum, and what a fist for the shiners! Ah, Cap'n, they didn't +call you Admiral Guinea for nothing. I can see that old +sea-chest of yours - her with the brass bands, where you kept +your gold dust and doubloons: you know! - I can see her as well +this minute as though you and me was still at it playing put on +the lid of her . . . You don't say nothing, Cap'n? . . . Well, +here it is: I want money and I want rum. You don't know what it +is to want rum, you don't: it gets to that p'int, that you would +kill a 'ole ship's company for just one guttle of it. What? +Admiral Guinea, my old Commander, go back on poor old Pew? and +him high and dry? [Not you! When we had words over the negro +lass at Lagos, what did you do? fair dealings was your word: +fair as between man and man; and we had it out with p'int and +edge on Lagos sands. And you're not going back on your word to +me, now I'm old and blind? No, no! belay that, I say. Give me +the old motto: Fair dealings, as between man and man.] + +GAUNT. David Pew, it were better for you that you were sunk in +fifty fathom. I know your life; and first and last, it is one +broadside of wickedness. You were a porter in a school, and beat +a boy to death; you ran for it, turned slaver, and shipped with +me, a green hand. Ay, that was the craft for you: that was the +right craft, and I was the right captain; there was none worse +that sailed to Guinea. Well, what came of that? In five years' +time you made yourself the terror and abhorrence of your +messmates. The worst hands detested you; your captain - that was +me, John Gaunt, the chief of sinners - cast you out for a Jonah. +[Who was it stabbed the Portuguese and made off inland with his +miserable wife? Who, raging drunk on rum, clapped fire to the +baracoons and burned the poor soulless creatures in their +chains?] Ay, you were a scandal to the Guinea coast, from Lagos +down to Calabar? and when at last I sent you ashore, a marooned +man - your shipmates, devils as they were, cheering and rejoicing +to be quit of you - by heaven, it was a ton's weight off the +brig! + +PEW. Cap'n Gaunt, Cap'n Gaunt, these are ugly words. + +GAUNT. What next? You shipped with Flint the Pirate. What you +did then I know not; the deep seas have kept the secret: kept +it, ay, and will keep against the Great Day. God smote you with +blindness, but you heeded not the sign. That was His last mercy; +look for no more. To your knees, man, and repent! Pray for a +new heart; flush out your sins with tears; flee while you may +from the terrors of the wrath to come. + +PEW. Now, I want this clear: Do I understand that you're going +back on me, and you'll see me damned first? + +GAUNT. Of me you shall have neither money nor strong drink: not +a guinea to spend in riot; not a drop to fire your heart with +devilry. + +PEW. Cap'n, do you think it wise to quarrel with me? I put it +to you now, Cap'n, fairly, as between man and man - do you think +it wise? + +GAUNT. I fear nothing. My feet are on the Rock. Begone! (HE +OPENS THE BIBLE AND BEGINS TO READ.) + +PEW (AFTER A PAUSE). Well, Cap'n, you know best, no doubt; and +David Pew's about the last man, though I says it, to up and +thwart an old Commander. You've been 'ard on David Pew, Cap'n: +'ard on the poor blind; but you'll live to regret it - ah, my +Christian friend, you'll live to eat them words up. But there's +no malice here: that ain't Pew's way; here's a sailor's hand +upon it . . . . You don't say nothing? (GAUNT TURNS A PAGE.) +Ah, reading, was you? Reading, by thunder! Well, here's my +respecks (SINGING) - + +'Time for us to go, Time for us to go, When the money's out, and +the liquor's done, Why, it's time for us to go. + +(HE GOES TAPPING UP TO DOOR, TURNS ON THE THRESHOLD, AND LISTENS. +GAUNT TURNS A PAGE. PEW, WITH A GRIMACE, STRIKES HIS HAND UPON +THE POCKET WITH THE KEYS, AND GOES.) + +DROP. + + +ACT II. + +The Stage represents the parlour of the 'Admiral Benbow' inn. +Fire-place, R., with high-backed settles on each side; in front +of these, and facing the audience, R., a small table laid with a +cloth. Tables, L., with glasses, pipes, etc. Broadside ballads +on the wall. Outer door of inn, with the half-door in L., corner +back; door, R., beyond the fire-place; window with red half- +curtains; spittons; candles on both the front tables; night +without. + +SCENE I + +PEW; afterwards MRS. DRAKE, out and in. + +PEW (ENTERING). Kind Christian friends - (LISTENING; THEN +DROPPING THE WHINE.) Hey? nobody! Hey? A grog-shop not two +cable-lengths from the Admiral's back-door, and the Admiral not +there? I never knew a seaman brought so low: he ain't but the +bones of the man he used to be. Bear away for the New Jerusalem, +and this is what you run aground on, is it? Good again; but it +ain't Pew's way; Pew's way is rum. - Sanded floor. Rum is his +word, and rum his motion. - Settle - chimbley - settle again - +spittoon - table rigged for supper. Table-glass. (DRINKS +HEELTAP.) Brandy and water; and not enough of it to wet your eye; +damn all greediness, I say. Pot (DRINKS), small beer - a drink +that I ab'or like bilge! What I want is rum. (CALLING, AND +RAPPING WITH STICK ON TABLE.) Halloa, there! House, ahoy! + +MRS. DRAKE (WITHOUT). Coming, sir, coming. (SHE ENTERS, R.) +What can I do - ? (SEEING PEW.) Well I never did! Now, +beggar-man, what's for you? + +[PEW. Rum, ma'am, rum; and a bit o' supper. + +MRS. DRAKE. And a bed to follow, I shouldn't wonder! + +PEW. AND a bed to follow: IF you please.] + +MRS. DRAKE. This is the 'ADMIRAL BENBOW,' a respectable house, +and receives none but decent company; and I'll ask you to go +somewhere else, for I don't like the looks of you. + +PEW. Turn me away? Why, Lord love you, I'm David Pew - old +David Pew - him as was Benbow's own particular cox'n. You +wouldn't turn away old Pew from the sign of his late commander's +'ed? Ah, my British female, you'd have used me different if +you'd seen me in the fight! [There laid old Benbow, both his +legs shot off, in a basket, and the blessed spy-glass at his eye +to that same hour: a picter, ma'am, of naval daring: when a +round shot come, and took and knocked a bucketful of shivers +right into my poor daylights. 'Damme,' says the Admiral, 'is +that old Pew, MY old Pew?' he says. - 'It's old Pew, sir,' says +the first lootenant, 'worse luck,' he says. - 'Then damme,' says +Admiral Benbow, 'if that's how they serve a lion-'arted seaman, +damme if I care to live,' he says; and, ma'am, he laid down his +spy-glass.] + +MRS. DRAKE. Blind man, I don't fancy you, and that's the truth; +and I'll thank you to take yourself off. + +PEW. Thirty years have I fought for country and king, and now in +my blind old age I'm to be sent packing from a measly +public-'ouse? Mark ye, ma'am, if I go, you take the +consequences. Is this a inn? Or haint it? If it is a inn, then +by act of parleyment, I'm free to sling my 'ammick. Don't you +forget: this is a act of parleyment job, this is. You look out. + +MRS. DRAKE. Why, what's to do with the man and his acts of +parliament? I don't want to fly in the face of an act of +parliament, not I. If what you say is true - + +PEW. True? If there's anything truer than a act of parleyment - +Ah! you ask the beak. True? I've that in my 'art as makes me +wish it wasn't. + +MRS. DRAKE. I don't like to risk it. I don't like your looks, +and you're more sea-lawyer than seaman to my mind. But I'll tell +you what: if you can pay, you can stay. So there. + +PEW. No chink, no drink? That's your motto, is it? Well, +that's sense. Now, look here, ma'am, I ain't beautiful like you; +but I'm good, and I'll give you warrant for it. Get me a noggin +of rum, and suthin' to scoff, and a penny pipe, and a half-a-foot +of baccy; and there's a guinea for the reckoning. There's plenty +more in the locker; so bear a hand, and be smart. I don't like +waiting; it ain't my way. (EXIT MRS. DRAKE, R. PEW SITS AT THE +TABLE, R. THE SETTLE CONCEALS HIM FROM ALL THE UPPER PART OF THE +STAGE.) + +MRS. DRAKE (RE-ENTERING). Here's the rum, sailor. + +PEW (DRINKS). Ah, rum! That's my sheet-anchor: rum and the +blessed Gospel. Don't you forget that, ma'am: rum and the +Gospel is old Pew's sheet-anchor. You can take for another while +you're about it; and, I say, short reckonings make long friends, +hey? Where's my change? + +MRS. DRAKE. I'm counting it now. There, there it is, and thank +you for your custom. (SHE GOES OUT, R.) + +PEW (CALLING AFTER HER). Don't thank me, ma'am; thank the act of +parleyment! Rum, fourpence; two penny pieces and a Willi'm-and- +Mary tizzy makes a shilling; and a spade half-guinea is eleven +and six (RE-ENTER MRS. DRAKE WITH SUPPER, PIPE, ETC.); and a +blessed majesty George the First crown-piece makes sixteen and +six; and two shilling bits is eighteen and six; and a new +half-crown makes - no it don't! O, no! Old Pew's too smart a +hand to be bammed with a soft half-tusheroon. + +MRS. DRAKE (CHANGING PIECE). I'm sure I didn't know it, sailor. + +PEW (TRYING NEW COIN BETWEEN HIS TEETH). In course you didn't, +my dear; but I did, and I thought I'd mention it. Is that my +supper, hey? Do my nose deceive me? (SNIFFING AND FEELING.) +Cold duck? sage and onions? a round of double Gloster? and that +noggin o' rum? Why, I declare if I'd stayed and took pot-luck +with my old commander, Cap'n John Gaunt, he couldn't have beat +this little spread, as I've got by act of parleyment. + +MRS. DRAKE (AT KNITTING). Do you know the captain, sailor? + +PEW. Know him? I was that man's bos'un, ma'am. In the Guinea +trade, we was known as 'Pew's Cap'n,' and 'Gaunt's Bo'sun,' one +for other like. We was like two brothers, ma'am. And a +excellent cold duck, to be sure; and the rum lovely. + +MRS. DRAKE. If you know John Gaunt, you know his daughter +Arethusa. + +PEW. What? Arethusa? Know her, says you? know her? Why, Lord +love you, I was her god-father. ['Pew,' says Jack Gaunt to me, +'Pew,' he says, 'you're a man,' he says; 'I like a man to be a +man,' says he, 'and damme,' he says, 'I like YOU; and sink me,' +says he, 'if you don't promise and vow in the name of that +new-born babe,' he says, 'why damme, Pew,' says he, 'you're not +the man I take you for.'] Yes, ma'am, I named that female; with +my own 'ands I did; Arethusa, I named her; that was the name I +give her; so now you know if I speak true. And if you'll be as +good as get me another noggin of rum, why, we'll drink her 'elth +with three times three. (EXIT MRS. DRAKE: PEW EATING. MRS. +DRAKE RE-ENTERING WITH RUM.) + +[MRS. DRAKE. If what you say be true, sailor (and I don't say it +isn't, mind!), it's strange that Arethusa and that godly man her +father have never so much as spoke your name. + +PEW. Why, that's so! And why, says you? Why, when I dropped in +and paid my respecks this morning, do you think she knew me? No +more'n a babe unborn! Why, ma'am, when I promised and vowed for +her, I was the picter of a man-o'-war's man, I was: eye like a +eagle; walked the deck in a hornpipe, foot up and foot down; +v'ice as mellow as rum; 'and upon 'art, and all the females took +dead aback at the first sight, Lord bless 'em! Know me? Not +likely. And as for me, when I found her such a lovely woman - by +the feel of her 'and and arm! - you might have knocked me down +with a feather. But here's where it is, you see: when you've +been knocking about on blue water for a matter of two-and-forty +year, shipwrecked here, and blown up there, and everywhere out of +luck, and given over for dead by all your messmates and +relations, why, what it amounts to is this: nobody knows you, +and you hardly know yourself, and there you are; and I'll trouble +you for another noggin of rum. + +MRS. DRAKE. I think you've had enough. + +PEW. I don't; so bear a hand. (EXIT MRS. DRAKE; PEW EMPTIES THE +GLASS.) Rum, ah, rum, you're a lovely creature; they haven't +never done you justice. (PROCEEDS TO FILL AND LIGHT PIPE; +RE-ENTER MRS. DRAKE WITH RUM.)] And now, ma'am, since you're so +genteel and amicable-like, what about my old commander? Is he, +in a manner of speaking, on half pay? or is he living on his +fortune, like a gentleman slaver ought? + +MRS. DRAKE. Well, sailor, people talk, you know. + +PEW. I know, ma'am; I'd have been rolling in my coach, if they'd +have held their tongues. + +MRS. DRAKE. And they do say that Captain Gaunt, for so pious a +man, is little better than a miser. + +PEW. Don't say it, ma'am; not to old Pew. Ah, how often have I +up and strove with him! 'Cap'n, live it down,' says I. 'Ah, +Pew,' says he, 'you're a better man than I am,' he says; 'but +dammne,' he says, 'money,' he says, 'is like rum to me.' +(INSINUATING.) And what about a old sea-chest, hey? a old +sea-chest, strapped with brass bands? + +MRS. DRAKE. Why, that'll be the chest in his parlour, where he +has it bolted to the wall, as I've seen with my own eyes; and so +might you, if you had eyes to see with. + +PEW. No, ma'am, that ain't good enough; you don't bam old Pew. +You never was in that parlour in your life. + +MRS. DRAKE. I never was? Well, I declare! + +PEW. Well then, if you was, where's the chest? Beside the +chimbley, hey? (WINKING.) Beside the table with the 'oly Bible? + +MRS. DRAKE. No, sailor, you don't get any information out of me. + +PEW. What, ma'am? Not to old Pew? Why, my god-child showed it +me herself, and I told her where she'd find my name - P, E, W, +Pew - cut out on the starn of it; and sure enough she did. Why, +ma'am, it was his old money-box when he was in the Guinea trade; +and they do say he keeps the rhino in it still. + +MRS. DRAKE. No, sailor, nothing out of me! And if you want to +know, you can ask the Admiral himself! (SHE CROSSES, L.) + +PEW. Hey? Old girl fly? Then I reckon I must have a mate, if +it was the parish bull. + + +SCENE II + +TO THESE, KIT, A LITTLE DRUNK + +KIT (LOOKING IN OVER HALF-DOOR). Mrs. Drake! Mother! Where are +you? Come and welcome the prodigal! + +MRS. DRAKE (COMING FORWARD TO MEET HIM AS HE ENTERS; PEW REMAINS +CONCEALED BY THE SETTLE, SMOKING, DRINKING, AND LISTENING). Lord +bless us and save us, if it ain't my boy! Give us a kiss. + +KIT. That I will, and twenty if you like, old girl. (KISSES +HER.) + +MRS. DRAKE. O Kit, Kit, you've been at those other houses, where +the stuff they give you, my dear, it is poison for a dog. + +[KIT. Round with friends, mother: only round with friends. + +MRS. DRAKE. Well, anyway, you'll take a glass just to settle it, +from me. (SHE BRINGS THE BOTTLE, AND FILLS FOR HIM.) There, +that's pure; that'll do you no harm.] But O, Kit, Kit, I thought +you were done with all this Jack-a-shoring. + +KIT. What cheer, mother? I'm only a sheet in the wind; and +who's the worse for it but me? + +MRS. DRAKE. Ah, and that dear young lady; and her waiting and +keeping single these two years for the love of you! + +KIT. She, mother? she's heart of oak, she's true as steel, and +good as gold; and she has my ring on her finger, too. But +where's the use? The Admiral won't look at me. + +MRS. DRAKE. Why not? You're as good a man as him any day. + +KIT. Am I? He says I'm a devil, and swears that none of his +flesh and blood - that's what he said, mother! - should lie at my +mercy. That's what cuts me. If it wasn't for the good stuff +I've been taking aboard, and the jolly companions I've been +seeing it out with, I'd just go and make a hole in the water, and +be done with it, I would, by George! + +MRS. DRAKE. That's like you men. Ah, we know you, we that keeps +a public-house - we know you, good and bad: you go off on a +frolic and forget; and you never think of the women that sit +crying at home. + +KIT. Crying? Arethusa cry? Why, dame, she's the +bravest-hearted girl in all broad England! Here, fill the glass! +I'll win her yet. I drink to her; here's to her bright eyes, and +here's to the blessed feet she walks upon! + +PEW (LOOKING ROUND THE CORNER OF THE SETTLE). Spoke like a +gallant seaman, every inch. Shipmate, I'm a man as has suffered, +and I'd like to shake your fist, and drink a can of flip with +you. + +KIT (COMING DOWN). Hullo, my hearty! who the devil are you? +Who's this, mother? + +MRS. DRAKE. Nay, I know nothing about him. (SHE GOES OUT, R.) + +PEW. Cap'n, I'm a brother seaman, and my name is Pew, old David +Pew, as you may have heard of in your time, he having sailed +along of 'Awke and glorious Benbow, and a right-'and man to both. + +KIT. Benbow? Steady, mate! D'ye mean to say you went to sea +before you were born? + +PEW. See now! The sign of this here inn was running in my 'ed, +I reckon. Benbow, says you? no, not likely! Anson, I mean; +Anson and Sir Edward 'Awke: that's the pair: I was their +right-'and man. + +KIT. Well, mate, you may be all that, and more; but you're a rum +un to look at, anyhow. + +PEW. Right you are, and so I am. But what is looks? It's the +'art that does it: the 'art is the seaman's star; and here's old +David Pew's, a matter of fifty years at sea, but tough and sound +as the British Constitootion. + +KIT. You're right there, Pew. Shake hands upon it. And you're +a man they're down upon, just like myself, I see. We're a pair +of plain, good-hearted, jolly tars; and all these 'longshore +fellows cock a lip at us, by George. What cheer, mate? + +ARETHUSA (WITHOUT). Mrs. Drake! Mrs. Drake! + +PEW. What, a female? hey? a female? Board her board her, mate! +I'm dark. (HE RETIRES AGAIN BEHIND, TO TABLE, R., BEHIND +SETTLE.) + +ARETHUSA (WITHOUT). Mrs. Drake! + +MRS. DRAKE (RE-ENTERING AND RUNNING TO DOOR). Here I am, my +dear; come in. + + +SCENE III + +TO THESE, ARETHUSA + +ARETHUSA. Ah, Kit, I've found you. I thought you would lodge +with Mrs. Drake. + +KIT. What? are you looking for your consort? Whistle, I'm your +dog; I'll come to you. I've been toasting you fathom deep, my +beauty; and with every glass I love you dearer. + +ARETHUSA. Now Kit, if you want to please my father, this is not +the way. Perhaps he thinks too much of the guineas: well, +gather them - if you think me worth the price. Go you to your +sloop, clinker built, eighty tons burthen - you see I remember, +Skipper Kit! I don't deny I like a man of spirit; but if you +care to please Captain Gaunt, keep out of taverns; and if you +could carry yourself a bit more - more elderly! + +[KIT. Can I? Would I? Ah, just couldn't and just won't I, +then! + +MRS. DRAKE. I hope, madam, you don't refer to my house; a +publican I may be, but tavern is a word that I don't hold with; +and here there's no bad drink, and no loose company; and as for +my blessedest Kit, I declare I love him like my own. + +ARETHUSA. Why, who could help it, Mrs. Drake?] + +KIT. Arethusa, you're an angel. Do I want to please Captain +Gaunt? Why, that's as much as ask whether I love you. [I don't +deny that his words cut me; for they did. But as for wanting to +please him, if he was deep as the blue Atlantic, I would beat it +out. And elderly, too? Aha, you witch, you're wise! Elderly? +You've set the course; you leave me alone to steer it. +Matrimony's my port, and love is my cargo.] That's a likely +question, ain't it, Mrs. Drake? Do I want to please him! +Elderly, says you? Why, see here: Fill up my glass, and I'll +drink to Arethusa on my knees. + +ARETHUSA. Why, you stupid boy, do you think that would please +him? + +KIT. On my knees I'll drink it! (AS HE KNEELS AND DRAINS THE +GLASS, GAUNT ENTERS, AND HE SCRAMBLES TO HIS FEET.) + + +SCENE IV + +TO THESE, GAUNT + +GAUNT. Arethusa, this is no place for you. + +ARETHUSA. No, father. + +GAUNT. I wish you had been spared this sight; but look at him, +child, since you are here; look at God's image, so debased. And +you, young man (TO KIT), you have proved that I was right. Are +you the husband for this innocent maid? + +KIT. Captain Gaunt, I have a word to say to you. Terror is your +last word; you're bitter hard upon poor sinners, bitter hard and +black - you that were a sinner yourself. These are not the true +colours: don't deceive yourself; you're out of your course. + +[GAUNT. Heaven forbid that I should be hard, Christopher. It is +not I; it's God's law that is of iron. Think! if the blow were +to fall now, some cord to snap within you, some enemy to plunge a +knife into your heart; this room, with its poor taper light, to +vanish; this world to disappear like a drowning man into the +great ocean; and you, your brain still whirling, to be snatched +into the presence of the eternal Judge: Christopher French, what +answer would you make? For these gifts wasted, for this rich +mercy scorned, for these high-handed bravings of your better +angel, - what have you to say? + +KIT. Well, sir, I want my word with you, and by your leave I'll +have it out. + +ARETHUSA. Kit, for pity's sake! + +KIT. Arethusa, I don't speak to you, my dear: you've got my +ring, and I know what that means. The man I speak to is Captain +Gaunt. I came to-day as happy a man as ever stepped, and with as +fair a look-out. What did you care? what was your reply? None +of your flesh and blood, you said, should lie at the mercy of a +wretch like me! Am I not flesh and blood that you should trample +on me like that? Is that charity, to stamp the hope out of a +poor soul?] + +GAUNT. You speak wildly; or the devil of drink that is in you +speaks instead. + +KIT. You think me drunk? well, so I am, and whose fault is it +but yours? It was I that drank; but you take your share of it, +Captain Gaunt: you it was that filled the can. + +GAUNT. Christopher French, I spoke but for your good, your good +and hers. 'Woe unto him' - these are the dreadful words - 'by +whom offences shall come: it were better - ' Christopher, I can +but pray for both of us. + +KIT. Prayers? Now I tell you freely, Captain Gaunt, I don't +value your prayers. Deeds are what I ask; kind deeds and words - +that's the true-blue piety: to hope the best and do the best, +and speak the kindest. As for you, you insult me to my face; and +then you'll pray for me? What's that? Insult behind my back is +what I call it! No, sir; you're out of the course; you're no +good man to my view, be you who you may. + +MRS. DRAKE. O Christopher! To Captain Gaunt? + +ARETHUSA. Father, father, come away! + +KIT. Ah, you see? She suffers too; we all suffer. You spoke +just now of a devil; well, I'll tell you the devil you have: the +devil of judging others. And as for me, I'll get as drunk as +Bacchus. + +GAUNT. Come! + + +SCENE V + +PEW, MRS. DRAKE, KIT + +PEW (COMING OUT AND WAVING HIS PIPE). Commander, shake! Hooray +for old England! If there's anything in the world that goes to +old Pew's 'art, it's argyment. Commander, you handled him like a +babby, kept the weather gauge, and hulled him every shot. +Commander, give it a name, and let that name be rum! + +KIT. Ay, rum's the sailor's fancy. Mrs. Drake, a bottle and +clean glasses. + +MRS. DRAKE. Kit French, I wouldn't. Think better of it, there's +a dear! And that sweet girl just gone! + +PEW. Ma'am, I'm not a 'ard man; I'm not the man to up and force +a act of parleyment upon a helpless female. But you see here: +Pew's friends is sacred. Here's my friend here, a perfeck +seaman, and a man with a 'ed upon his shoulders, and a man that, +damme, I admire. He give you a order, ma'am: - march! + +MRS. DRAKE. Kit, don't you listen to that blind man; he's the +devil wrote upon his face. + +PEW. Don't you insinuate against my friend. HE ain't a child, I +hope? HE knows his business? Don't you get trying to go a +lowering of my friend in his own esteem. + +MRS. DRAKE. Well, I'll bring it, Kit; but it's against the +grain. (EXIT.) + +KIT. I say, old boy, come to think of it, why should we? It's +been glasses round with me all day. I've got my cargo. + +PEW. You? and you just argy'd the 'ed off of Admiral Guinea? O +stash that! I stand treat, if it comes to that! + +KIT. What! Do I meet with a blind seaman and not stand him? +That's not the man I am! + +MRS. DRAKE (RE-ENTERING WITH BOTTLE AND GLASSES). There! + +PEW. Easy does it, ma'am. + +KIT. Mrs. Drake, you had better trot. + +MRS. DRAKE. Yes, I'll trot; and I trot with a sick heart, Kit +French, to leave you drinking your wits away with that low blind +man. For a low man you are - a low blind man - and your clothes +they would disgrace a scarecrow. I'll go to my bed, Kit; and O, +dear boy, go soon to yours - the old room, you know; it's ready +for you - and go soon and sleep it off; for you know, dear, they, +one and all, regret it in the morning; thirty years I've kept +this house, and one and all they did regret it, dear. + +PEW. Come now, you walk! + +MRS. DRAKE. O, it's not for your bidding. You a seaman? The +ship for you to sail in is the hangman's cart. - Good-night, Kit +dear, and better company! + + +SCENE VI + +PEW, KIT. They sit at the other table, L. + +PEW. Commander, here's HER 'ealth! + +KIT. Ay, that's the line: HER health! But that old woman there +is a good old woman, Pew. + +PEW. So she is, Commander. But there's no woman understands a +seaman; now you and me, being both bred to it, we splice by +natur'. As for A. G., if argyment can win her, why, she's yours. +If I'd a-had your 'ed for argyment, damme, I'd a-been a Admiral, +I would! And if argyment won't win her, well, see here, you put +your trust in David Pew. + +KIT. David Pew, I don't know who you are, David Pew; I never +heard of you; I don't seem able to clearly see you. Mrs. Drake, +she's a smart old woman, Pew, and she says you've the devil in +your face. + +PEW. Ah, and why, says you? Because I up and put her in her +place, when she forgot herself to you, Commander. + +KIT. Well, Pew, that's so; you stood by me like a man. Shake +hands, Pew; and we'll make a night of it, or we'll know why, old +boy! + +PEW. That's my way. That's Pew's way, that is. That's Pew's +way all over. Commander, excuse the liberty; but when I was your +age, making allowance for a lowlier station and less 'ed for +argyment, I was as like you as two peas. I know it by the v'ice +(SINGS) - + +'We hadn't been three days at sea before we saw a sail, +So we clapped on every stitch would stand, although it blew a +gale, +And we walked along full fourteen knots, for the barkie she did +know +As well as ever a soul on board, 'twas time for us to go.' + +Chorus, Cap'n! + +PEW AND KIT (IN CHORUS) - + +'Time for us to go, +Time for us to go, +As well as ever a soul on board, +'Twas time for us to go.' + +PEW (SINGS) - + +'We carried away the royal yard, and the stunsail boom was gone; +Says the skipper, "They may go or stand, I'm damned if I don't +crack on; +So the weather braces we'll round in, and the trysail set also, +And we'll keep the brig three p'ints away, for it's time for us +to go. + +Give it mouth, Commander! + +PEW AND KIT (IN CHORUS) - + +'Time for us to go, +Time for us to go, +And we'll keep the brig three p'ints away, +For it's time for us to go.' + +PEW. I ain't sung like that since I sang to Admiral 'Awke, the +night before I lost my eyes, I ain't. 'Sink me!' says he, says +Admiral 'Awke, my old commander (TOUCHING HIS HAT), 'sink me!' he +says, 'if that ain't 'art-of-oak,' he says: ''art-of-oak,' says +he, 'and a pipe like a bloody blackbird!' Commander, here's my +respecks, and the devil fly away with Admiral Guinea! + +KIT. I say, Pew, how's this? How do you know about Admiral +Guinea? I say, Pew, I begin to think you know too much. + +PEW. I ax your pardon; but as a man with a 'ed for argyment - +and that's your best p'int o' sailing, Commander; intelleck is +your best p'int - as a man with a 'ed for argyment, how do I make +it out? + +KIT. Aha, you're a sly dog, you're a deep dog, Pew; but you +can't get the weather of Kit French. How do I make it out? I'll +tell you. I make it out like this: Your name's Pew, ain't it? +Very well. And you know Admiral Guinea, and that's his name, eh? +Very well. Then you're Pew; and the Admiral's the Admiral; and +you know the Admiral; and by George, that's all. Hey? Drink +about, boys, drink about! + +PEW. Lord love you, if I'd a-had a 'ed like yours! Why the +Admiral was my first cap'n. I was that man's bo'sun, I was, +aboard the ARETHUSA; and we was like two brothers. Did you never +hear of Guinea-land and the black ivory business? (SINGS) - + +'A quick run to the south we had, and when we made the Bight +We kept the offing all day long and crossed the bar at night. +Six hundred niggers in the hold and seventy we did stow, +And when we'd clapped the hatches on, 'twas time for us to go.' + +Lay forward, lads! + +KIT AND PEW (IN CHORUS) - + +'Time for us to go,' etc. + +KIT. I say, Pew, I like you; you're a damned ugly dog; but I +like you. But look ye here, Pew: fair does it, you know, or we +part company this minute. If you and the Ad - the Admirable were +like brothers on the Guinea coast, why aren't you like brothers +here? + +PEW. Ah, I see you coming. What a 'ed! what a 'ed! Since Pew +is a friend of the family, says you, why didn't he sail in and +bear a hand, says you, when you was knocking the Admiral's ship +about his ears in argyment? + +KIT. Well, Pew, now you put a name to it, why not? + +PEW. Ah, why not? There I recko'nise you. [Well, see here: +argyment's my weakness, in a manner of speaking; I wouldn't +a-borne down and spiled sport, not for gold untold, no, not for +rum, I wouldn't! And besides, Commander, I put it to you, as +between man and man, would it have been seaman-like to let on and +show myself to a old shipmate, when he was yard-arm to yard-arm +with a craft not half his metal, and getting blown out of water +every broadside? Would it have been 'ansome? I put it to you, +as between man and man. + +KIT. Pew, I may have gifts; but I never thought of that. Why, +no: not seaman-like. Pew, you've a heart; that's what I like +you for. + +PEW. Ah, that I have: you'll see. I wanted - now you follow me +- I wanted to keep square with Admiral Guinea.] Why? says you. +Well, put it that I know a fine young fellow when I sees him; and +put it that I wish him well; and put it, for the sake of +argyment, that the father of that lovely female's in my power. +Aha? Pew's Power! Why, in my 'ands he's like this pocket +'andke'cher. Now, brave boy, do you see? + +KIT. No, Pew, my head's gone; I don't see. + +PEW. Why, cheer up, Commander! You want to marry this lovely +female? + +KIT. Ay, that I do; but I'm not fit for her, Pew; I'm a drunken +dog, and I'm not fit for her. + +PEW. Now, Cap'n, you'll allow a old seaman to be judge: one as +sailed with 'Awke and blessed Benb- with 'Awke and noble Anson. +You've been open and above-board with me, and I'll do the same by +you: it being the case that you're hard hit about a lovely +woman, which many a time and oft it has happened to old Pew; and +him with a feeling 'art that bleeds for you, Commander; why look +here: I'm that girl's godfather; promised and vowed for her, I +did; and I like you; and you're the man for her; and, by the +living Jacob, you shall splice! + +KIT. David Pew, do you mean what you say? + +PEW. Do I mean what I say? Does David Pew? Ask Admiral 'Awke! +Ask old Admiral Byng in his coffin, where I laid him with these +lands! Pew does, is what those naval commanders would reply. +Mean it? I reckon so. + +KIT. Then, shake hands. You're an honest man, Pew - old Pew! - +and I'll make your fortune. But there's something else, if I +could keep the run of it. O, ah! But CAN you? That's the +point. Can you; don't you see? + +PEW. Can I? You leave that to me; I'll bring you to your +moorings; I'm the man that can, and I'm him that will. But only, +look here, let's understand each other. You're a bold blade, +ain't you? You won't stick at a trifle for a lovely female? +You'll back me up? You're a man, ain't you? a man, and you'll +see me through and through it, hey? Come; is that so? Are you +fair and square and stick at nothing? + +KIT. Me, Pew? I'll go through fire and water. + +PEW. I'll risk it. - Well, then, see here, my son: another +swallow and we jog. + +KIT. No, not to-night, Pew, not to-night! + +PEW. Commander, in a manner of speaking, wherefore? + +KIT. Wherefore, Pew? 'Cause why, Pew? 'Cause I'm drunk, and be +damned to you! + +PEW. Commander, I ax your pardon; but, saving your presence, +that's a lie. What? drunk? a man with a 'ed for argyment like +that? just you get up, and steady yourself on your two pins, and +you'll be as right as ninepence. + +[KIT. Pew, before we budge, let me shake your flipper again. +You're heart of oak, Pew, sure enough; and if you can bring the +Adam - Admirable about, why, damme, I'll make your fortune! How +you're going to do it, I don't know; but I'll stand by; and I +know you'll do it if anybody can. But I'm drunk, Pew; you can't +deny that: I'm as drunk as a Plymouth fiddler, Pew; and how +you're going to do it is a mystery to me. + +PEW. Ah, you leave that to me. All I want is what I've got: +your promise to stand by and bear a hand (PRODUCING A DARK +LANTERN).] Now, here, you see, is my little glim; it ain't for +me, because I'm blind, worse luck! and the day and night is the +blessed same to David Pew. But you watch. You put the candle +near me. Here's what there ain't mony blind men could do, take +the pick o' them! (LIGHTING A SCREW OF PAPER, AND WITH THAT, THE +LANTERN). Hey? That's it. Hey? Go and pity the poor blind! + +KIT (WHILE PEW BLOWS OUT THE CANDLES). But I say, Pew, what do +you want with it? + +PEW. To see by, my son. (HE SHUTS THE LANTERN AND PUTS IT IN +HIS POCKET. STAGE QUITE DARK. MOONLIGHT AT WINDOW.) All +ship-shape? No sparks about? No? Come, then, lean on me and +heave ahead for the lovely female. (SINGING SOTTO VOCE) - + +'Time for us to go, Time for us to go, And when we'd clapped the +hatches on, 'Twas time for us to go.' + +DROP + + +ACT III. + +The Stage represents the Admiral's house, as in Act I. GAUNT +seated, is reading aloud; ARETHUSA sits at his feet. Candles + +SCENE I + +ARETHUSA, GAUNT + +[GAUNT (READING). 'And Ruth said, Intreat me not to leave thee, +or to return from following after thee: for whither thou goest, +I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy people +shall be my people, and thy God my God: Where thou diest, will I +die, and there will I be buried: the Lord do so to me, and more +also, if aught but death part thee and me.' (HE CLOSES THE +BOOK.) Amen. + +ARETHUSA. Amen. Father, there spoke my heart.] + +GAUNT. Arethusa, the Lord in his mercy has seen right to vex us +with trials of many kinds. It is a little matter to endure the +pangs of the flesh: the smart of wounds, the passion of hunger +and thirst, the heaviness of disease; and in this world I have +learned to take thought for nothing save the quiet of your soul. +It is through our affections that we are smitten with the true +pain, even the pain that kills. + +ARETHUSA. And yet this pain is our natural lot. Father, I fear +to boast, but I know that I can bear it. Let my life, then, flow +like common lives, each pain rewarded with some pleasure, each +pleasure linked with some pain: nothing pure whether for good or +evil: and my husband, like myself and all the rest of us, only a +poor, kind-hearted sinner, striving for the better part. What +more could any woman ask? + +GAUNT. Child, child, your words are like a sword. What would +she ask? Look upon me whom, in the earthly sense, you are +commanded to respect. Look upon me: do I bear a mark? is there +any outward sign to bid a woman avoid and flee from me? + +ARETHUSA. I see nothing but the face I love. + +GAUNT. There is none: nor yet on the young man Christopher, +whose words still haunt and upbraid me. Yes, I am hard; I was +born hard, born a tyrant, born to be what I was, a slaver +captain. But to-night, and to save you, I will pluck my heart +out of my bosom. You shall know what makes me what I am; you +shall hear, out of my own life, why I dread and deprecate this +marriage. Child, do you remember your mother? + +ARETHUSA. Remember her? Ah, if she had been here to-day! + +GAUNT. It is thirteen years since she departed, and took with +her the whole sunshine of my life. Do you remember the manner of +her departure? You were a child, and cannot; but I can and do. +Remember? shall I ever forget? Here or hereafter, ever forget! +Ten years she was my wife, and ten years she lay a-dying. +Arethusa, she was a saint on earth; and it was I that killed her. + +ARETHUSA. Killed her? my mother? You? + +GAUNT. Not with my hand; for I loved her. I would not have hurt +one hair upon her head. But she got her death by me, as sure as +by a blow. + +ARETHUSA. I understand - I can see: you brood on trifles, +misunderstandings, unkindnesses you think them; though my mother +never knew of them, or never gave them a second thought. It is +natural, when death has come between. + +GAUNT. I married her from Falmouth. She was comely as the roe; +I see her still - her dove's eyes and her smile! I was older +than she; and I had a name for hardness, a hard and wicked man; +but she loved me - my Hester! - and she took me as I was. O how +I repaid her trust! Well, our child was born to us; and we named +her after the brig I had built and sailed, the old craft whose +likeness - older than you, girl - stands there above our heads. +And so far, that was happiness. But she yearned for my +salvation; and it was there I thwarted her. My sins were a +burden upon her spirit, a shame to her in this world, her terror +in the world to come. She talked much and often of my leaving +the devil's trade I sailed in. She had a tender and a Christian +heart, and she would weep and pray for the poor heathen creatures +that I bought and sold and shipped into misery, till my +conscience grew hot within me. I've put on my hat, and gone out +and made oath that my next cargo should be my last; but it never +was, that oath was never kept. So I sailed again and again for +the Guinea coast, until the trip came that was to be my last +indeed. Well, it fell out that we had good luck trading, and I +stowed the brig with these poor heathen as full as she would +hold. We had a fair run westward till we were past the line; but +one night the wind rose and there came a hurricane, and for seven +days we were tossed on the deep seas, in the hardest straits, and +every hand on deck. For several days they were battened down: +all that time we heard their cries and lamentations, but worst at +the beginning; and when at last, and near dead myself, I crept +below - O! some they were starved, some smothered, some dead of +broken limbs; and the hold was like a lazar-house in the time of +the anger of the Lord! + +ARETHUSA. O! + +GAUNT. It was two hundred and five that we threw overboard: two +hundred and five lost souls that I had hurried to their doom. I +had many die with me before; but not like that - not such a +massacre as that; and I stood dumb before the sight. For I saw I +was their murderer - body and soul their murderer; and, Arethusa, +my Hester knew it. That was her death-stroke: it felled her. +She had long been dying slowly; but from the hour she heard that +story, the garment of the flesh began to waste and perish, the +fountains of her life dried up; she faded before my face; and in +two months from my landing - O Hester, Hester, would God I had +died for thee! + +ARETHUSA. Mother! O poor soul! O poor father! O father, it +was hard on you. + +GAUNT. The night she died, she lay there, in her bed. She took +my hand. 'I am going,' she said, 'to heaven. For Christ's +sake,' she said, 'come after me, and bring my little maid. I'll +be waiting and wearying till you come;' and she kissed my hand, +the hand that killed her. At that I broke out calling on her to +stop, for it was more than I could bear. But no, she said she +must still tell me of my sins, and how the thought of them had +bowed down her life. 'And O!' she said, 'if I couldn't prevail +on you alive, let my death.' . . . Well, then, she died. What +have I done since then? I've laid my course for Hester. Sin, +temptation, pleasure, all this poor shadow of a world, I saw them +not: I saw my Hester waiting, waiting and wearying. I have made +my election sure; my sins I have cast them out. Hester, Hester, +I will come to you, poor waiting one; and I'll bring your little +maid: ay, dearest soul, I'll bring your little maid safe with +me! + +ARETHUSA. O teach me how! Show me the way! only show me. - O +mother, mother! - If it were paved with fire, show me the way, +and I will walk it bare-foot! + +GAUNT. They call me a miser. They say that in this sea-chest of +mine I hoard my gold. (HE PASSES R. TO CHEST, TAKES OUT KEY, AND +UNLOCKS IT.) They think my treasure and my very soul are locked +up here. They speak after the flesh, but they are right. See! + +ARETHUSA. Her watch? the wedding ring? O father, forgive me! + +GAUNT. Ay, her watch that counted the hours when I was away; +they were few and sorrowful, my Hester's hours; and this poor +contrivance numbered them. The ring - with that I married her. +This chain, it's of Guinea gold; I brought it home for her, the +year before we married, and she wore it to her wedding. It was a +vanity: they are all vanities; but they are the treasure of my +soul. Below here, see, her wedding dress. Ay, the watch has +stopped: dead, dead. And I know that my Hester died of me; and +day and night, asleep and awake, my soul abides in her +remembrance. + +ARETHUSA. And you come in your sleep to look at them. O poor +father! I understand - I understand you now. + +GAUNT. In my sleep? Ay? do I so? My Hester! + +ARETHUSA. And why, why did you not tell me? I thought - I was +like the rest! - I feared you were a miser. O, you should have +told me; I should have been so proud - so proud and happy. I +knew you loved her; but not this, not this. + +GAUNT. Why should I have spoken? It was all between my Hester +and me. + +ARETHUSA. Father, may I speak? May I tell you what my heart +tells me? You do not understand about my mother. You loved her +- O, as few men can love. And she loved you: think how she +loved you! In this world, you know - you have told me - there is +nothing perfect. All we men and women have our sins; and they +are a pain to those that love us, and the deeper the love, the +crueller the pain. That is life; and it is life we ask, not +heaven; and what matter for the pain, if only the love holds on? +Her love held: then she was happy! Her love was immortal; and +when she died, her one grief was to be parted from you, her one +hope to welcome you again. + +GAUNT. And you, Arethusa: I was to bring her little maid. + +ARETHUSA. God bless her, yes, and me! But, father, can you not +see that she was blessed among women? + +GAUNT. Child, child, you speak in ignorance; you touch upon +griefs you cannot fathom. + +ARETHUSA. No, dearest, no. She loved you, loved you and died of +it. Why else do women live? What would I ask but just to love +my Kit and die for him, and look down from heaven, and see him +keep my memory holy and live the nobler for my sake? + +GAUNT. Ay, do you so love him? + +ARETHUSA. Even as my mother loved my father. + +GAUNT. Ay? Then we will see. What right have I - You are your +mother's child: better, tenderer, wiser than I. Let us seek +guidance in prayer. Good-night, my little maid. + +ARETHUSA. O father, I know you at last. + + +SCENE II + +GAUNT and ARETHUSA go out, L., carrying the candles. Stage dark. + +A distant clock chimes the quarters, and strikes one. Then, the +tap-tapping of Pew's stick is hear without; the key is put into +the lock; and enter PEW, C., he pockets key, and is followed by +KIT, with dark lantern + +PEW. Quiet, you lubber! Can't you foot it soft, you that has +daylights and a glim? + +KIT. All right, old boy. How the devil did we get through the +door? Shall I knock him up? + +PEW. Stow your gab (SEIZING HIS WRIST). Under your breath! + +KIT. Avast that! You're a savage dog, aren't you? + +PEW. Turn on that glim. + +KIT. It's as right as a trivet, Pew. What next? By George, +Pew, I'll make your fortune. + +PEW. Here, now, look round this room, and sharp. D'ye see a old +sea-chest? + +KIT. See it, Pew? why, d'ye think I'm blind? + +PEW. Take me across, and let me feel of her. Mum; catch my +hand. Ah, that's her (FEELING THE CHEST), that's the Golden +Mary. Now, see here, my bo, if you've the pluck of a weevil in a +biscuit, this girl is yours; if you hain't, and think to sheer +off, I'm blind, but I'm deadly. + +KIT. You'll keep a civil tongue in your head all the same. I'll +take threats from nobody, blind or not. Let's knock up the +Admiral and be done with it. What I want is to get rid of this +dark lantern. It makes me feel like a housebreaker, by George. + +PEW (SEATED ON CHEST). You follow this. I'm sick of drinking +bilge, when I might be rolling in my coach, and I'm dog-sick of +Jack Gaunt. Who's he to be wallowing in gold, when a better man +is groping crusts in the gutter and spunging for rum? Now, here +in this blasted chest is the gold to make men of us for life: +gold, ay, gobs of it; and writin's too - things that if I had the +proof of 'em I'd hold Jack Gaunt to the grindstone till his face +was flat. I'd have done it single-handed; but I'm blind, worse +luck: I'm all in the damned dark here, poking with a stick - +Lord, burn up with lime the eyes that saw it! That's why I raked +up you. Come, out with your iron, and prise the lid off. You +shall touch your snack, and have the wench for nothing; ay, and +fling her in the street, when done. + +KIT. So you brought me here to steal did you? + +PEW. Ay did I; and you shall. I'm a biter: I bring blood. + +KIT. Now, Pew, you came here on my promise, or I'd kill you like +a rat. As it is, out of that door! One, two, three (DRAWING HIS +CUTLASS), and off! + +PEW (LEAPING AT HIS THROAT, AND WITH A GREAT VOICE). Help! +murder! thieves! + + +SCENE III + +To these, ARETHUSA, GAUNT, with lights. Stage light. PEW has +KIT down, and is throttling him + +PEW. I've got him, Cap'n. What, kill my old commander, and rob +him of his blessed child? Not with old Pew! + +GAUNT. Get up, David: can't you see you're killing him? +Unhand, I say. + +ARETHUSA. In heaven's name, who is it? + +PEW. It's a damned villain, my pretty; and his name, to the best +of my belief, is French. + +ARETHUSA. Kit? Kit French? Never! + +KIT (RISING). He's done for me. (FALLS ON CHEST.) + +[PEW. Don't you take on about him, ducky; he ain't worth it. +Cap'n Gaunt, I took him and I give him up. You was 'ard on me +this morning, Cap'n: this is my way - Pew's way, this is - of +paying of you out. + +ARETHUSA. Father, this is the blind man that came while you were +abroad. Sure you'll not listen to HIM. And you, Kit, you, what +is this? + +KIT. Captain Gaunt, that blind devil has half-throttled me. He +brought me here - I can't speak - he has almost killed me - and +I'd been drinking too. + +GAUNT. And you, David Pew, what do you say?] + +PEW. Cap'n, the rights of it is this. Me and that young man +there was partaking in a friendly drop of rum at the ADMIRAL +BENBOW inn; and I'd just proposed his blessed Majesty, when the +young man he ups and says to me: 'Pew,' he says, 'I like you, +Pew: you're a true seaman,' he says; 'and I'm one as sticks at +nothing; and damme, Pew,' he says, 'I'll make your fortune.' +[Can he deny as them was his words? Look at him, you as has +eyes: no, he cannot. 'Come along of me,' he says, 'and damme, +I'll make your fortune.'] Well, Cap'n, he lights a dark lantern +(which you'll find it somewhere on the floor, I reckon), and out +we goes, me follerin' his lead, as I thought was 'art-of-oak and +a true-blue mariner; and the next I knows is, here we was in +here, and him a-askin' me to 'old the glim, while he prised the +lid off of your old sea-chest with his cutlass. + +GAUNT. The chest? (HE LEAPS, R., AND EXAMINES CHEST.) Ah! + +PEW. Leastways, I was to 'elp him, by his account of it, while +he nailed the rhino, and then took and carried off that lovely +maid of yours; for a lovely maid she is, and one as touched old +Pew's 'art Cap'n, when I 'eard that, my blood biled. 'Young +man,' I says, 'you don't know David Pew,' I says; and with that I +ups and does my dooty by him, cutlass and all, like a lion-'arted +seaman, though blind. [And then in comes you, and I gives him +up: as you know for a fack is true, and I'll subscribe at the +Assizes. And that, if you was to cut me into junks, is the +truth, the 'ole truth, and nothing but the truth, world without +end, so help me, amen; and if you'll 'and me over the 'oly Bible, +me not having such a thing about me at the moment, why, I'll put +a oath upon it like a man.] + +ARETHUSA. Father, have you heard? + +[GAUNT. I know this man, Arethusa, and the truth is not in him. + +ARETHUSA. Well, and why do we wait? We know Kit, do we not? + +KIT. Ay, Captain, you know the pair of us, and you can see his +face and mine.] + +GAUNT. Christopher, the facts are all against you. I find you +here in my house at midnight: you who at least had eyes to see, +and must have known whither you were going. It was this man, not +you, who called me up: and when I came in, it was he who was +uppermost and who gave you up to justice. This unsheathed +cutlass is yours; there hangs the scabbard, empty; and as for the +dark lantern, of what use is light to the blind? and who could +have trimmed and lighted it but you? + +PEW. Ah, Cap'n, what a 'ed for argyment! + +KIT. And now, sir, now that you have spoken, I claim the liberty +to speak on my side. + +GAUNT. Not so. I will first have done with this man. David +Pew, it were too simple to believe your story as you tell it; but +I can find no testimony against you. From whatever reason, +assuredly you have done me service. Here are five guineas to set +you on your way. Begone at once; and while it is yet time, think +upon your repentance. + +PEW. Cap'n, here's my respecks. You've turned a pious man, +Cap'n; it does my 'art good to 'ear you. But you ain't the only +one. O no! I came about and paid off on the other tack before +you, I reckon: you ask the Chaplain of the Fleet else, as called +me on the quarter-deck before old Admiral 'Awke himself (TOUCHING +HIS HAT), my old commander. ['David Pew,' he says, +'five-and-thirty year have I been in this trade, man and boy,' +that chaplain says, 'and damme, Pew,' says he, 'if ever I seen +the seaman that could rattle off his catechism within fifty mile +of you. Here's five guineas out of my own pocket,' he says; 'and +what's more to the pint,' he says, 'I'll speak to my reverend +brother-in-law, the Bishop of Dover,' he says; 'and if ever you +leave the sea, and wants a place as beadle, why damme,' says he, +'you go to him, for you're the man for him, and him for you.' + +GAUNT. David Pew, you never set your foot on a King's ship in +all your life. There lies the road. + +PEW. Ah, you was always a 'ard man, Cap'n, and a 'ard man to +believe, like Didymus the 'Ebrew prophet. But it's time for me +to go, and I'll be going. My service to you, Cap'n: and I kiss +my 'and to that lovely female. + +'Time for us to go, +Time for us to go, A +nd when we'd clapped the hatches on, +'Twas time for us to go.' + + +SCENE IV + +KIT, ARETHUSA, GAUNT + +ARETHUSA. Now, Kit? + +KIT. Well, sir, and now? + +GAUNT. I find you here in my house at this untimely and unseemly +hour; I find you there in company with one who, to my assured +knowledge, should long since have swung in the wind at Execution +Dock. What brought you? Why did you open my door while I slept +to such a companion? Christopher French, I have two treasures. +One (LAYING HIS HAND ON ARETHUSA'S SHOULDER) I know you covet. +Christopher, is this your love? + +KIT. Sir, I have been fooled and trapped. That man declared he +knew you, declared he could make you change your mind about our +marriage. I was drunk, sir, and I believed him: heaven knows I +am sober now, and can see my folly; but I believed him then, and +followed him. He brought me here, he told me your chest was full +of gold that would make men of us for life. At that I saw my +fault, sir, and drew my cutlass; and he, in the wink of an eye, +roared out for help, leaped at my throat like a weasel and had me +rolling on the floor. He was quick, and I, as I tell you, sir, +was off my balance. + +GAUNT. Is this man, Pew, your enemy? + +KIT. No sir; I never saw him till to-night. + +GAUNT. Then, if you must stand the justice of your country, come +to the proof with a better plea. What? lantern and cutlass +yours; you the one that knew the house; you the one that saw; you +the one overtaken and denounced; and you spin me a galley yarn +like that? If that is all your defence, you'll hang, sir, hang. + +ARETHUSA. Ah! Father, I give him up: I will never see him, +never speak to him, never think of him again; I take him from my +heart; I give myself wholly up to you and to my mother; I will +obey you in every point - O, not at a word merely - at a finger +raised! I will do all this; I will do anything - anything you +bid me; I swear it in the face of heaven. Only - Kit! I love +him, father, I love him. Let him go. + +[GAUNT. Go? + +ARETHUSA. You let the other. Open the door again - for my sake, +father - in my mother's name - O, open the door and let him go.] + +KIT. Let me go? My girl, if you had cast me out is morning, +good and well: I would have left you, though it broke my heart. +But it's a changed story now; now I'm down on my luck, and you +come and stab me from behind. I ask no favour, and I'll take +none; I stand here on my innocence, and God helping me I'll clear +my good name, and get your love again, if it's love worth having. +[Now, Captain Gaunt, I've said my say, and you may do your +pleasure. I am my father's son, and I never feared to face the +truth. + +GAUNT. You have spoken like a man, French, and you may go. I +leave you free. + +KIT. Nay, sir, not so: not with my will. I'm accused and +counted guilty; the proofs are against me; the girl I love has +turned upon me. I'll accept no mercy at your hands.] Captain +Gaunt, I am your prisoner. + +ARETHUSA. Kit, dear Kit - + +GAUNT. Silence! Young man, I have offered you liberty without +bond or condition. You refuse. You shall be judged. Meanwhile +(OPENING THE DOOR, R.), you will go in here. I keep your +cutlass. The night brings counsel: to-morrow shall decide. (HE +LOCKS KIT IN, LEAVING THE KEY IN THE DOOR.) + + +SCENE V + +GAUNT, ARETHUSA, afterwards PEW + +ARETHUSA. Father, you believe in him; you do; I know you do. + +GAUNT. Child, I am not given to be hasty. I will pray and sleep +upon this matter. (A KNOCKING AT THE DOOR, C.) Who knocks so +late? (HE OPENS.) + +PEW (ENTERING). Cap'n, shall I fetch the constable? + +GAUNT. No. + +PEW. No? Have ye killed him? + +GAUNT. My man, I'll see you into the road. (HE TAKES PEW BY THE +ARM, AND GOES OUT WITH HIM.) + + +SCENE VI + +ARETHUSA + +ARETHUSA. (LISTENS; THEN RUNNING TO DOOR, R.) Kit - dearest! +wait! I will come to you soon. + +(GAUNT RE-ENTERS, C., AS THE DROP FALLS.) + + +ACT IV. + +The Stage represents the Admiral's house, as in Acts I. and III. +A chair, L., in front. As the curtain rises, the Stage is dark. +Enter ARETHUSA, L., with candle; she lights another; and passes +to door, R., which she unbolts. Stage light + +SCENE I + +ARETHUSA, KIT + +ARETHUSA. Come, dear Kit, come! + +KIT. Well, I'm here. + +ARETHUSA. O Kit, you are not angry with me. + +KIT. Have I reason to be pleased? + +ARETHUSA. Kit, I was wrong. Forgive me. + +KIT. O yes. I forgive you. I suppose you meant it kindly; but +there are some kindnesses a man would rather die than take a gift +of. When a man is accused, Arethusa, it is not that he fears the +gallows - it's the shame that cuts him. At such a time as that, +the way to help was to stand to your belief. You should have +nailed my colours to the mast, not spoke of striking them. If I +were to be hanged to-morrow, and your love there, and a free +pardon and a dukedom on the other side - which would I choose? + +ARETHUSA. Kit, you must judge me fairly. It was not my life +that was at stake, it was yours. Had it been mine - mine, Kit - +what had you done, then? + +KIT. I am a downright fool; I saw it inside out. Why, give you +up, by George! + +ARETHUSA. Ah, you see! Now you understand. It was all pure +love. When he said that word - O! - death and that disgrace! . +. . But I know my father. He fears nothing so much as the +goodness of his heart; and yet it conquers. He would pray, he +said: and to-night, and by the kindness of his voice, I knew he +was convinced already. All that is wanted, is that you should +forgive me. + +KIT. Arethusa, if you looked at me like that I'd forgive you +piracy on the high seas. I was only sulky; I was boxed up there +in the black dark, and couldn't see my hand. It made me pity +that blind man, by George! + +ARETHUSA. O, that blind man! The fiend! He came back, Kit: +did you hear him? he thought we had killed you - you! + +KIT. Well, well, it serves me right for keeping company with +such a swab. + +ARETHUSA. One thing puzzles me: how did you get in? I saw my +father lock the door. + +KIT. Ah, how? That's just it. I was a sheet in the wind, you +see. How did we? He did it somehow. . . . By George, he had a +key! He can get in again. + +ARETHUSA. Again? that man! + +KIT. Ay, can he! Again! When he likes! + +ARETHUSA. Kit, I am afraid. O Kit, he will kill my father. + +KIT. Afraid. I'm glad of that. Now, you'll see I'm worth my +salt at something. Ten to one he's back to Mrs. Drake's. I'll +after, and lay him aboard. + +ARETHUSA. O Kit, he is too strong for you. + +KIT. Arethusa, that's below the belt! Never you fear; I'll give +a good account of him. + +ARETHUSA (TAKING CUTLASS FROM THE WALL). You'll be none the +worse for this, dear. + +KIT. That's so (MAKING CUTS). All the same, I'm half ashamed to +draw on a blind man; it's too much odds. (HE LEAPS SUDDENLY +AGAINST THE TABLE.) Ah! + +ARETHUSA. Kit! Are you ill? + +KIT. My head's like a humming top; it serves me right for +drinking. + +ARETHUSA. O, and the blind man! (SHE RUNS, L., TO THE CORNER +CUPBOARD, BRINGS A BOTTLE AND GLASS, AND FILLS AND OFFERS GLASS.) +Here, lad, drink that. + +KIT. To you! That's better. (BOTTLE AND GLASS REMAIN ON +GAUNT'S TABLE.) + +ARETHUSA. Suppose you miss him? + +KIT. Miss him! The road is straight; and I can hear the tap- +tapping of that stick a mile away. + +ARETHUSA (LISTENING). St! my father stirring in his room! + +KIT. Let me get clear; tell him why when I'm gone. The door - ? + +ARETHUSA. Locked! + +KIT. The window! + +ARETHUSA. Quick, quick! (SHE UNFASTENS R. WINDOW, BY WHICH KIT +GOES OUT.) + + +SCENE II + +ARETHUSA, GAUNT ENTERING L. + +ARETHUSA. Father, Kit is gone . . . . He is asleep. + +AUNT. Waiting, waiting and wearying. The years, they go so +heavily, my Hester still waiting! (HE GOES R. TO CHEST, WHICH HE +OPENS.) That is your chain; it's of Guinea gold; I brought it +you from Guinea. (TAKING OUT CHAIN.) You liked it once; it +pleased you long ago; O, why not now - why will you not be happy +now? . . . I swear this is my last voyage; see, I lay my hand +upon the Holy Book and swear it. One more venture - for the +child's sake, Hester; you don't think upon your little maid. + +ARETHUSA. Ah, for my sake, it was for my sake! + +GAUNT. Ten days out from Lagos. That's a strange sunset, Mr. +Yeo. All hands shorten sail! Lay aloft there, look smart! . . +. What's that? Only the negroes in the hold . . . . . . . Mr. +Yeo, she can't live long at this; I have a wife and child in +Barnstaple. . . . Christ, what a sea! Hold on, for God's sake - +hold on fore and aft! Great God! (AS THOUGHT THE SEA WERE MAKING +A BREACH OVER THE SHIP AT THE MOMENT). + +ARETHUSA. O! + +GAUNT. They seem quieter down below there . . . No water - no +light - no air - seven days battened down, and the seas mountain +high, and the ship labouring hell-deep! Two hundred and five, +two hundred and five, two hundred and five - all to eternal +torture! + +ARETHUSA. O pity him, pity him! Let him sleep, let him forget! +Let her prayers avail in heaven, and let him rest! + +GAUNT. Hester, no, don't smile at me. Rather tears! I have +seen you weep - often, often; two hundred and five times. Two +hundred and five! (WITH RING. Hester, here is your ring (HE +TRIES TO PUT THE RING ON HIS FINGER). How comes it in my hand? +Not fallen off again? O no, impossible! it was made smaller, +dear, it can't have fallen off! Ah, you waste away. You must +live, you must, for the dear child's sake, for mine, Hester, for +mine! Ah, the child. Yes. Who am I to judge? Poor Kit French! +And she, your little maid, she's like you, Hester, and she will +save him! How should a man be saved without a wife? + +ARETHUSA. O father, if you could but hear me thank and bless +you! (THE TAPPING OF PEW'S STICK IS HEARD APPROACHING. GAUNT +PASSES L. FRONT AND SITS.) + +GAUNT (BEGINNING TO COUNT THE TAPS). One - two - two hundred and +five + +ARETHUSA (LISTENING). God help me, the blind man! (SHE RUNS TO +DOOR, C.; THE KEY IS PUT INTO THE LOCK FROM WITHOUT, AND THE DOOR +OPENS.) + +SCENE III + +ARETHUSA (AT BACK OF STAGE BY THE DOOR); GAUNT (FRONT L.); TO +THESE, PEW, C. + +PEW (SOTTO VOCE). All snug. (COMING DOWN.) So that was you, my +young friend Christopher, as shot by me on the road; and so you +was hot foot after old Pew? Christopher, my young friend, I +reckon I'll have the bowels out of that chest, and I reckon +you'll be lagged and scragged for it. (AT THESE WORDS ARETHUSA +LOCKS THE DOOR, AND TAKES THE KEY.) What's that? All still. +There's something wrong about this room. Pew, my 'art of oak, +you're queer to-night; brace up, and carry off. Where's the +tool? (PRODUCING KNIFE.) Ah, here she is; and now for the +chest; and the gold; and rum - rum - rum. What! Open? . . . +old clothes, by God! . . . He's done me; he's been before me; +he's bolted with the swag; that's why he ran: Lord wither and +waste him forty year for it! O Christopher, if I had my fingers +on your throat! Why didn't I strangle the soul out of him? I +heard the breath squeak in his weasand; and Jack Gaunt pulled me +off. Ah, Jack, that's another I owe you. My pious friend, if I +was God Almighty for five minutes! (GAUNT RISES AND BEGINS TO +PACE THE STAGE LIKE A QUARTERDECK, L.) What's that? A man's +walk. He don't see me, thank the blessed dark! But it's time to +slip, my bo. (HE GROPES HIS WAY STEALTHILY TILL HE COMES TO +GAUNT'S TABLE, WHERE HE BURNS HIS HAND IN THE CANDLE.) A candle +- lighted - then it's bright as day! Lord God, doesn't he see +me? It's the horrors come alive. (GAUNT DRAWS NEAR AND TURNS +AWAY.) I'll go mad, mad! (HE GROPES TO THE DOOR, STOPPING AND +STARTING.) Door. (HIS VOICE RISING FOR THE FIRST TIME, SHARP +WITH TERROR.) Locked? Key gone? Trapped! Keep off - keep off +of me - keep away! (SOTTO VOCE AGAIN.) Keep your head, Lord +have mercy, keep your head. I'm wet with sweat. What devil's +den is this? I must out - out! (HE SHAKES THE DOOR VEHEMENTLY.) +No? Knife it is then - knife - knife - knife! (HE MOVES WITH +THE KNIFE RAISED TOWARDS GAUNT, INTENTLY LISTENING, AND CHANGING +HIS DIRECTION AS GAUNT CHANGES HIS POSITION ON THE STAGE.) + +ARETHUSA (RUSHING TO INTERCEPT HIM). Father, father, wake! + +GAUNT. Hester, Hester! (HE TURNS, IN TIME TO SEE ARETHUSA +GRAPPLE PEW IN THE CENTRE OF THE STAGE, AND PEW FORCE HER DOWN.) + +ARETHUSA. Kit! Kit! + +PEW (WITH THE KNIFE RAISED). Pew's way! + + +SCENE IV + +TO THESE, KIT + +(He leaps through window, R., and cuts PEW down. At the same +moment, GAUNT, who has been staring helplessly at his daughter's +peril, fully awakes.) + +GAUNT. Death and blood! (KIT, HELPING ARETHUSA, HAS LET FALL +THE CUTLASS. GAUNT PICKS IT UP AND RUNS ON PEW.) Damned +mutineer, I'll have your heart out! (HE STOPS, STANDS STARING, +DROPS CUTLASS, FALLS UPON HIS KNEES.) God forgive me! Ah, foul +sins, would you blaze forth again? Lord, close your ears! +Hester, Hester, hear me not! Shall all these years and tears be +unavailing? + +ARETHUSA. Father, I am not hurt. + +GAUNT. Ay, daughter, but my soul - my lost soul! + +PEW (RISING ON HIS ELBOW). Rum? You've done me. For God's +sake, rum. (ARETHUSA POURS OUT A GLASS, WHICH KIT GIVES TO HIM.) +Rum? This ain't rum; it's fire! (WITH GREAT EXCITEMENT.) +What's this? I don't like rum? (FEEBLY.) Ay, then, I'm a dead +man, and give me water. + +GAUNT. Now even his sins desert him. + +PEW (DRINKING WATER). Jack Gaunt, you've always been my rock +ahead. It's thanks to you I've got my papers, and this time I'm +shipped for Fiddler's Green. Admiral, we ain't like to meet +again, and I'll give you a toast: Here's Fiddler's Green, and +damn all lubbers! (SEIZING GAUNT'S ARM.) I say - fair dealings, +Jack! - none of that heaven business: Fiddler's Green's my port, +now, ain't it? + +GAUNT. David, you've hove short up, and God forbid that I +deceive you. Pray, man, pray; for in the place to which you are +bound there is no mercy and no hope. + +PEW. Ay, my lass, you're black, but your blood's red, and I'm +all a-muck with it. Pass the rum, and be damned to you. (TRYING +TO SING) - + +'Time for us to go, +Time for us - ' + +(HE DIES.) + +GAUNT. But for the grace of God, there lies John Gaunt! +Christopher, you have saved my child; and I, I, that was blinded +with self-righteousness, have fallen. Take her, Christopher; but +O, walk humbly! + +CURTAIN + +---------------------------------------------------------- + + +Play: MACAIRE - A MELODRAMATIC FARCE IN THREE ACTS + + +PERSONS REPRESENTED + +ROBERT MACAIRE. +BERTRAND. +DUMONT, Landlord of the AUBERGE DES ADRETS. +CHARLES, a Gendarme, Dumont's supposed son. +GORIOT. +THE MARQUIS, Charles's Father. +THE BRIGADIER of Gendarmerie. +THE CURATE. +THE NOTARY. +A WAITER. +ERNESTINE, Goriot's Daughter. +ALINE. +MAIDS, PEASANTS (MALE AND FEMALE), GENDARMES. + +The Scene is laid in the Courtyard of the AUBERGE DES ADRETS, on +the frontier of France and Savoy. The time 1800. The action +occupies an interval of from twelve to fourteen hours: from four +in the afternoon till about five in the morning. + +NOTE. - THE TIME BETWEEN THE ACTS SHOULD BE AS BRIEF AS POSSIBLE, +AND THE PIECE PLAYED, WHERE IT IS MERELY COMIC, IN A VEIN OF +PATTER. + +MACAIRE + + +ACT I. + +The Stage represents the courtyard of the Auberge des Adrets. It +is surrounded by the buildings of the inn, with a gallery on the +first story, approached, C., by a straight flight of stairs. L. +C., the entrance doorway. A little in front of this, a small +grated office, containing business table, brass-bound cabinet, +and portable cash-box. In front, R. and L., tables and benches; +one,L., partially laid for a considerable party. + + +SCENE I + + +ALINE and MAIDS; to whom FIDDLERS; afterwards DUMONT and CHARLES. + + +As the curtain rises, the sound of the violins is heard +approaching. ALINE and the inn servants, who are discovered +laying the table, dance up to door L. C., to meet the FIDDLERS, +who enter likewise dancing to their own music. Air: 'Haste to +the Wedding.' The FIDDLERS exeunt playing into house, R. U. E. +ALINE and MAIDS dance back to table, which they proceed to +arrange. + +ALINE. Well, give me fiddles: fiddles and a wedding feast. It +tickles your heart till your heels make a runaway match of it. I +don't mind extra work, I don't, so long as there's fun about it. +Hand me up that pile of plates. The quinces there, before the +bride. Stick a pink in the Notary's glass: that's the girl he's +courting. + +DUMONT (ENTERING; WITH CHARLES). Good girls, good girls! +Charles, in ten minutes from now what happy faces will smile +around that board! + +CHARLES. Sir, my good fortune is complete; and most of all in +this, that my happiness has made my father happy. + +DUMONT. Your father? Ah, well, upon that point we shall have +more to say. + +CHARLES. What more remains that has not been said already? For +surely, sir, there are few sons more fortunate in their father: +and, since you approve of this marriage, may I not conceive you +to be in that sense fortunate in your son? + +DUMONT. Dear boy, there is always a variety of considerations. +But the moment is ill chosen for dispute; to-night, at least, let +our felicity be unalloyed. (LOOKING OFF L. C.) Our guests +arrive: here is our good Curate, and here our cheerful Notary. + +CHARLES. His old infirmity, I fear. + +DUMONT. But Charles - dear boy! - at your wedding feast! I +should have taken it unneighbourly had he come strictly sober. + + +SCENE II + +To these, by the door L. C., the CURATE and the NOTARY, arm in +arm; the latter owl-like and titubant. + +CURATE. Peace be on this house! + +NOTARY (SINGING). 'Prove an excuse for the glass.' + +DUMONT. Welcome, excellent neighbours! The Church and the Law. + +CURATE. And you, Charles, let me hope your feelings are in +solemn congruence with this momentous step. + +NOTARY (DIGGING CHARLES IN THE RIBS). Married? Lovely bride? +Prove an excuse! + +DUMONT (TO CURATE). I fear our friend? perhaps? as usual? eh? + +CURATE. Possibly: I had not yet observed it. + +DUMONT. Well, well, his heart is good. + +CURATE. He doubtless meant it kindly. + +NOTARY. Where's Aline? + +ALINE. Coming, sir! (NOTARY MAKES FOR HER.) + +CURATE (CAPTURING HIM). You will infallibly expose yourself to +misconstruction. (TO CHARLES.) Where is your commanding +officer? + +CHARLES. Why, sir, we have quite an alert. Information has been +received from Lyons that the notorious malefactor, Robert +Macaire, has broken prison, and the Brigadier is now scouring the +country in his pursuit. I myself am instructed to watch the +visitors to our house. + +DUMONT. That will do, Charles: you may go. (EXIT CHARLES.) +You have considered the case I laid before you? + +NOTARY. Considered a case? + +DUMONT. Yes, yes. Charles, you know, Charles. Can he marry? +under these untoward and peculiar circumstances, can he marry? + +NOTARY. Now, lemme tell you: marriage is a contract to which +there are two constracting parties. That being clear, I am +prepared to argue categorically that your son Charles - who, it +appears, is not your son Charles - I am prepared to argue that +one party to a contract being null and void, the other party to a +contract cannot by law oblige or constrain the first party to +constract or bind himself to any contract, except the other party +be able to see his way clearly to constract himself with him. I +donno if I make myself clear? + +DUMONT. No. + +NOTARY. Now, lemme tell you: by applying justice of peace might +possibly afford relief. + +DUMONT. But how? + +NOTARY. Ay, there's the rub. + +DUMONT. But what am I to do? He's not my son, I tell you: +Charles is not my son. + +NOTARY. I know. + +DUMONT. Perhaps a glass of wine would clear him? + +NOTARY. That's what I want. (THEY GO OUT, L. U. E.) + +ALINE. And now, if you've done deranging my table, to the cellar +for the wine, the whole pack of you. (MANET SOLA, CONSIDERING +TABLE.) There: it's like a garden. If I had as sweet a table +for my wedding, I would marry the Notary. + + +SCENE III + +The Stage remains vacant. Enter, by door L. C., MACAIRE, +followed by BERTRAND with bundle; in the traditional costume. + +MACAIRE. Good! No police. + +BERTRAND (LOOKING OFF, L. C.). Sold again! + +MACAIRE. This is a favoured spot, Bertrand: ten minutes from +the frontier: ten minutes from escape. Blessings on that +frontier line! The criminal hops across, and lo! the reputable +man. (READING) 'AUBERGE DES ADRETS, by John Paul Dumont.' A +table set for company; this is fate: Bertrand, are we the first +arrivals? An office; a cabinet; a cash-box - aha! and a +cash-box, golden within. A money-box is like a Quaker beauty: +demure without, but what a figure of a woman! Outside gallery: +an architectural feature I approve; I count it a convenience both +for love and war: the troubadour - twang-twang; the craftsmen - +(MAKES AS IF TURNING KEY.) The kitchen window: humming with +cookery; truffles, before Jove! I was born for truffles. Cock +your hat: meat, wine, rest, and occupation; men to gull, women +to fool, and still the door open, the great unbolted door of the +frontier! + +BERTRAND. Macaire, I'm hungry. + +MACAIRE. Bertrand, excuse me, you are a sensualist. I should +have left you in the stone-yard at Lyons, and written no +passport but my own. Your soul is incorporate with your +stomach. Am I not hungry, too? My body, thanks to immortal +Jupiter, is but the boy that holds the kite-string; my +aspirations and designs swim like the kite sky-high, and overlook +an empire. + +BERTRAND. If I could get a full meal and a pound in my pocket I +would hold my tongue. + +MACAIRE. Dreams, dreams! We are what we are; and what are we? +Who are you? who cares? Who am I? myself. What do we come from? +an accident. What's a mother? an old woman. A father? the +gentleman who beats her. What is crime? discovery. Virtue? +opportunity. Politics? a pretext. Affection? an affectation. +Morality? an affair of latitude. Punishment? this side the +frontier. Reward? the other. Property? plunder. Business? +other people's money - not mine, by God! and the end of life to +live till we are hanged. + +BERTRAND. Macaire, I came into this place with my tail between +my legs already, and hungry besides; and then you get to +flourishing, and it depresses me worse than the chaplain in the +jail. + +MACAIRE. What is a chaplain? A man they pay to say what you +don't want to hear. + +BERTRAND. And who are you after all? and what right have you to +talk like that? By what I can hear, you've been the best part of +your life in quod; and as for me, since I've followed you, what +sort of luck have I had? Sold again! A boose, a blue fright, +two years' hard, and the police hot-foot after us even now. + +MACAIRE. What is life? A boose and the police. + +BERTRAND. Of course, I know you're clever; I admire you down to +the ground, and I'll starve without you. But I can't stand it, +and I'm off. Good-bye: good luck to you, old man! and if you +want the bundle - + +MACAIRE. I am a gentleman of a mild disposition and, I thank my +maker, elegant manners; but rather than be betrayed by such a +thing as you are, with the courage of a hare, and the manners, by +the Lord Harry, of a jumping-Jack - (HE SHOWS HIS KNIFE.) + +BERTRAND. Put it up, put it up: I'll do what you want. + +MACAIRE. What is obedience? fear. So march straight, or look +for mischief. It's not BON TON, I know, and far from friendly. +But what is friendship? convenience. But we lose time in this +amiable dalliance. Come, now an effort of deportment: the head +thrown back, a jaunty carriage of the leg; crook gracefully the +elbow. Thus. 'Tis better. (CALLING.) House, house here! + +BERTRAND. Are you mad? We haven't a brass farthing. + +MACAIRE. Now! - But before we leave! + + +SCENE IV + +TO THESE, DUMONT + +DUMONT. Gentlemen, what can a plain man do for your service? + +MACAIRE. My good man, in a roadside inn one cannot look for the +impossible. Give one what small wine and what country fare you +can produce. + +DUMONT. Gentlemen, you come here upon a most auspicious day, a +red-letter day for me and my poor house, when all are welcome. +Suffer me, with all delicacy, to inquire if you are not in +somewhat narrow circumstances? + +MACAIRE. My good creature, you are strangely in error; one is +rolling in gold. + +BERTRAND. And very hungry. + +DUMONT. Dear me, and on this happy occasion I had registered a +vow that every poor traveller should have his keep for nothing, +and a pound in his pocket to help him on his journey. + +MACAIRE. A pound in his pocket? } + +BERTRAND. Keep for nothing? } ASIDE. + +MACAIRE. Bitten! } + +BERTRAND. Sold again! } + +DUMONT. I will send you what we have: poor fare, perhaps, for +gentlemen like you. + + +SCENE V + +MACAIRE, BERTRAND; AFTERWARDS CHARLES, WHO APPEARS ON THE +GALLERY, AND COMES DOWN. + +BERTRAND. I told you so. Why will you fly so high? + +MACAIRE. Bertrand, don't crush me. A pound: a fortune! With a +pound to start upon - two pounds, for I'd have borrowed yours - +three months from now I might have been driving in my barouche, +with you behind it, Bertrand, in a tasteful livery. + +BERTRAND (SEEING CHARLES). Lord, a policeman! + +MACAIRE. Steady! What is a policeman? Justice's blind eye. +(TO CHARLES.) I think, sir, you are in the force? + +CHARLES. I am, sir, and it was in that character - + +MACAIRE. Ah, sir, a fine service! + +CHARLES. It is, sir, and if your papers - + +MACAIRE. You become your uniform. Have you a mother? Ah, well, +well! + +CHARLES. My duty, sir - + +MACAIRE. They tell me one Macaire - is not that his name, +Bertrand? - has broken jail at Lyons? + +CHARLES. He has, sir, and it is precisely for that reason - + +MACAIRE. Well, good-bye. (SHAKING CHARLES BY THE HAND AND +LEADING HIM TOWARDS THE DOOR, L. U. E.) Sweet spot, sweet spot. +The scenery is . . . (KISSES HIS FINGER-TIPS. EXIT CHARLES). +And now, what is a policeman? + +BERTRAND. A bobby. + + +SCENE VI + +MACAIRE, BERTRAND; TO WHOM ALINE WITH TRAY; AND AFTERWARDS MAIDS + +ALINE (ENTERING WITH TRAY, AND PROCEEDING TO LAY TABLE, L.) My +men, you are in better luck than usual. It isn't every day you +go shares in a wedding feast. + +MACAIRE. A wedding? Ah, and you're the bride. + +ALINE. What makes you fancy that? + +MACAIRE. Heavens, am I blind? + +ALINE. Well, then, I wish I was. + +MACAIRE. I take you at the word: have me. + +ALINE. You will never be hanged for modesty. + +MACAIRE. Modesty is for the poor: when one is rich and nobly +born, 'tis but a clog. I love you. What is your name? + +ALINE. Guess again, and you'll guess wrong. (ENTER THE OTHER +SERVANTS WITH WINE BASKETS.) Here, set the wine down. No, that +is the old Burgundy for the wedding party. These gentlemen must +put up with a different bin. (SETTING WINE BEFORE MACAIRE AND +BERTRAND, WHO ARE AT TABLE, L.) + +MACAIRE (DRINKING). Vinegar, by the supreme Jove! + +BERTRAND. Sold again! + +MACAIRE. Now, Bertrand, mark me. (BEFORE THE SERVANTS HE +EXCHANGES THE BOTTLE FOR THE ONE IN FRONT OF DUMONT'S PLACE AT +THE HEAD OF THE OTHER TABLE.) Was it well done? + +BERTRAND. Immense. + +MACAIRE (EMPTYING HIS GLASS INTO BERTRAND'S). There, Bertrand, +you may finish that. Ha! music? + + +SCENE VII + +To these, from the inn, L. U. E., DUMONT, CHARLES, the CURATE, +the NOTARY jigging: from the inn, R. U. E., FIDDLERS playing and +dancing; and through door L. C., GORIOT, ERNESTINE, PEASANTS, +dancing likewise. Air: 'Haste to the Wedding.' As the parties +meet, the music ceases. + +DUMONT. Welcome, neighbours! welcome friends! Ernestine, here +is my Charles, no longer mine. A thousand welcomes. O the gay +day! O the auspicious wedding! (CHARLES, ERNESTINE, DUMONT, +GORIOT, CURATE, AND NOTARY SIT TO THE WEDDING FEAST; PEASANTS, +FIDDLERS, AND MAIDS, GROUPED AT BACK, DRINKING FROM THE BARREL.) +O, I must have all happy around me. + +GORIOT. Then help the soup. + +DUMONT. Give me leave: I must have all happy. Shall these poor +gentlemen upon a day like this drink ordinary wine? Not so: I +shall drink it. (TO MACAIRE, WHO IS JUST ABOUT TO FILL HIS +GLASS) Don't touch it, sir! Aline, give me that gentleman's +bottle and take him mine: with old Dumont's compliments. + +MACAIRE. What? + +BERTRAND. Change the bottle? + +MACAIRE. Bitten! } ASIDE. + +BERTRAND. Sold again. } + +DUMONT. Yes, all shall be happy. + +GORIOT. I tell 'ee, help the soup! + +DUMONT (BEGINS TO HELP SOUP. THEN, DROPPING LADLE.) One word: +a matter of detail: Charles is not my son. (ALL EXCLAIM.) O +no, he is not my son. Perhaps I should have mentioned it before. + +CHARLES. I am not your son, sir? + +DUMONT. O no, far from it. + +GORIOT. Then who the devil's son be he? + +DUMONT. O, I don't know. It's an odd tale, a romantic tale: it +may amuse you. It was twenty years ago, when I kept the GOLDEN +HEAD at Lyons: Charles was left upon my doorstep in a covered +basket, with sufficient money to support the child till he should +come of age. There was no mark upon the linen, nor any clue but +one: an unsigned letter from the father of the child, which he +strictly charged me to preserve. It was to prove his identity: +he, of course, would know the contents, and he only; so I keep it +safe in the third compartment of my cash-box, with the ten +thousand francs I've saved for his dowry. Here is the key; it's +a patent key. To-day the poor boy is twenty-one, to-morrow to be +married. I did perhaps hope the father would appear: there was +a Marquis coming; he wrote me for a room; I gave him the best, +Number Thirteen, which you have all heard of: I did hope it +might be he, for a Marquis, you know, is always genteel. But no, +you see. As for me, I take you all to witness I'm as innocent of +him as the babe unborn. + +MACAIRE. Ahem! I think you said the linen bore an M? + +DUMONT. Pardon me: the markings were cut off. + +MACAIRE. True. The basket white, I think? + +DUMONT. Brown, brown. + +MACAIRE. Ah! brown - a whitey-brown. + +GORIOT. I tell 'ee what, Dumont, this is all very well; but in +that case, I'll be danged if he gets my daater. (GENERAL +CONSTERNATION.) + +DUMONT. O Goriot, let's have happy faces! + +GORIOT. Happy faces be danged! I want to marry my daater; I +want your son. But who be this? I don't know, and you don't +know, and he don't know. He may be anybody; by Jarge, he may be +nobody! (EXCLAMATIONS.) + +CURATE. The situation is crepuscular. + +ERNESTINE. Father, and Mr. Dumont (and you too, Charles), I wish +to say one word. You gave us leave to fall in love; we fell in +love; and as for me, my father, I will either marry Charles, or +die a maid. + +CHARLES. And you, sir, would you rob me in one day of both a +father and a wife? + +DUMONT (WEEPING). Happy faces, happy faces! + +GORIOT. I know nothing about robbery; but she cannot marry +without my consent, and that she cannot get. + +DUMONT. O dear, O dear! } + +ALINE. What spoil the wedding? } TOGETHER. + +ERNESTINE. O father! } + +CHARLES. Sir, sir, you would not - } + +GORIOT (EXASPERATED). I wun't, and what's more I shan't. + +NOTARY. I donno if I make myself clear? + +DUMONT. Goriot, do let's have happy faces! + +GORIOT. Fudge! Fudge!! Fudge!!! + +CURATE. Possibly on application to this conscientious jurist, +light may be obtained. + +ALL. The Notary; yes, yes; the Notary! + +DUMONT. Now, how about this marriage? + +NOTARY. Marriage is a contract, to which there are two +constracting parties, John Doe and Richard Roe. I donno if I +make myself clear? + +ALINE. Poor lamb! + +CURATE. Silence, my friend; you will expose yourself to +misconstruction. + +MACAIRE (TAKING THE STAGE). As an entire stranger in this +painful scene, will you permit a gentleman and a traveller to +interject one word? There sits the young man, full, I am sure, +of pleasing qualities; here the young maiden, by her own +confession bashfully consenting to the match; there sits that +dear old gentleman, a lover of bright faces like myself, his own +now dimmed with sorrow; and here - (may I be allowed to add?) - +here sits this noble Roman, a father like myself, and like myself +the slave of duty. Last you have me - Baron Henri-Frederic de +Latour de Main de la Tonnerre de Brest, the man of the world and +the man of delicacy. I find you all - permit me the expression - +gravelled. A marriage and an obstacle. Now, what is marriage? +The union of two souls, and, wha is possibly more romantic, the +fusion of two dowries. What is an obstacle? the devil. And +this obstacle? to me, as a man of family, the obstacle seems +grave; but to me, as a man and a brother, what is it but a word? +O my friend (TO GORIOT), you whom I single out as the victim of +the same noble failings with myself - of pride of birth, of pride +of honesty - O my friend, reflect. Go now apart with your +dishevelled daughter, your tearful son-in-law, and let their +plaints constrain you. Believe me, when you come to die, you +will recall with pride this amiable weakness. + +GORIOT. I shan't, and what's more I wun't. (CHARLES AND +ERNESTINE LEAD HIM UP STAGE, PROTESTING. ALL RISE, EXCEPT +NOTARY.) + +DUMONT (FRONT R., SHAKING HANDS WITH MACAIRE). Sir, you have a +noble nature. (MACAIRE PICKS HIS POCKET.) Dear me, dear me, and +you are rich. + +MACAIRE. I own, sir, I deceived you: I feared some wounding +offer, and my pride replied. But to be quite frank with you, you +behold me here, the Baron Henri-Frederic de Latour de Main de la +Tonnerre de Brest, and between my simple manhood and the infinite +these rags are all. + +DUMONT. Dear me, and with this noble pride, my gratitude is +useless. For I, too, have delicacy: I understand you could not +stoop to take a gift. + +MACAIRE. A gift? a small one? never! + +DUMONT. And I will never wound you by the offer. + +MACAIRE. Bitten. } + +BERTRAND. Sold again. } ASIDE. + +GORIOT (TAKING THE STAGE). But, look'ee here, he can't marry. + +MACAIRE. Hey? } + +DUMONT. Ah! } + +ALINE. Hey day! } + +CURATE. Wherefore? } TOGETHER. + +ERNESTINE. Oh! } + +CHARLES. Ah! } + +GORIOT. Not without his veyther's consent! And he hasn't got +it; and what's more, he can't get it: and what's more, he +hasn't got a veyther to get it from. It's the law of France. + +ALINE. Then the law of France ought to be ashamed of itself. + +ERNESTINE. O, couldn't we ask the Notary again? + +CURATE. Indubitably you may ask him. + +MACAIRE. Can't they marry? } + +DUMONT. Can't he marry? } + +ALINE. Can't she marry? } TOGETHER. + +ERNESTINE. Can't we marry? } + +CHARLES. Can't I marry? } + +GORIOT. Bain't I right? } + +NOTARY. Constracting parties. + +CURATE. Possibly to-morrow at an early hour he may be more +perspicuous. + +GORIOT. Ay, before he've time to get at it. + +NOTARY. Unoffending jurisconsult overtaken by sorrow. Possibly +by applying justice of peace might afford relief. + +MACAIRE. Bravo! } + +DUMONT. Excellent! } TOGETHER. + +CHARLES. Let's go at once! } + +ALINE. The very thing! } + +ERNESTINE. Yes, this minute! + +GORIOT. I'll go. I don't mind getting advice, but I wun't take +it. + +MACAIRE. My friends, one word: I perceive by your downcast +looks that you have not recognised the true nature of your +responsibility as citizens of time. What is care? impiety. +Joy? the whole duty of man. Here is an opportunity of duty it +were sinful to forego. With a word, I could lighten your hearts; +but I prefer to quicken your heels, and send you forth on your +ingenuous errand with happy faces and smiling thoughts, the +physicians of your own recovery. Fiddlers, to your catgut! Up, +Bertrand, and show them how one foots it in society; forward, +girls, and choose me every one the lad she loves; Dumont, benign +old man, lead forth our blushing Curate; and you, O bride, +embrace the uniform of your beloved, and help us dance in your +wedding-day. (DANCE, IN THE COURSE OF WHICH MACAIRE PICKS +DUMONT'S POCKET OF HIS KEYS, SELECTS THE KEY OF THE CASH-BOX, AND +RETURNS THE OTHERS TO HIS POCKET. IN THE END, ALL DANCE OUT: +THE WEDDING-PARTY, HEADED BY FIDDLERS, L. C; THE MAIDS AND ALINE +INTO THE INN, R. U. E. MANET BERTRAND AND MACAIRE.) + + +SCENE VIII + +MACAIRE, BERTRAND, who instantly takes a bottle from the +wedding-table, and sits with it, L. + +MACAIRE. Bertrand, there's a devil of a want of a father here. + +BERTRAND. Ay, if we only knew where to find him. + +MACAIRE. Bertrand, look at me: I am Macaire; I am that father. + +BERTRAND. You, Macaire? you a father? + +MACAIRE. Not yet, but in five minutes. I am capable of +anything. (PRODUCING KEY.) What think you of this? + +BERTRAND. That? Is it a key? + +MACAIRE. Ay, boy, and what besides? my diploma of +respectability, my patent of fatherhood. I prigged it - in the +ardour of the dance I prigged it; I change it beyond recognition, +thus (TWISTS THE HANDLE OF THE KEY); and now . . .? Where is my +long-lost child? produce my young policeman! show me my gallant +boy! + +BERTRAND. I don't understand. + +MACAIRE. Dear innocence, how should you? Your brains are in +your fists. Go and keep watch. (HE GOES INTO THE OFFICE AND +RETURNS WITH THE CASH-BOX.) Keep watch, I say. + +BERTRAND. Where? + +MACAIRE. Everywhere. (HE OPENS BOX.) + +BERTRAND. Gold. + +MACAIRE. Hands off! Keep watch. (BERTRAND AT BACK OF STAGE.) +Beat slower, my paternal heart! The third compartment; let me +see. + +BERTRAND. S'st! (MACAIRE SHUTS BOX.) No; false alarm. + +MACAIRE. The third compartment. Ay, here t- + +BERTRAND. S'st! (SAME BUSINESS.) No: fire away. + +MACAIRE. The third compartment: it must be this. + +BERTRAND. S'st! (MACAIRE, KEEPS BOX OPEN, WATCHING BERTRAND.) +All serene; it's the wind. + +MACAIRE. Now, see here! (HE DARTS HIS KNIFE INTO THE STAGE.) I +will either be backed as a man should be, or from this minute out +I'll work alone. Do you understand? I said alone. + +BERTRAND. For the Lord's sake, Macaire! - + +MACAIRE. Ay, here it is. (READING LETTER). 'Preserve this +letter secretly; its terms are known only to you and me: hence +when the time comes, I shall repeat them, and my son will +recognise his father.' Signed: 'Your Unknown Benefactor.' (HE +TURNS IT OVER TWICE AND REPLACES IT. THEN, FINGERING THE GOLD) +Gold! The yellow enchantress, happiness ready-made and laughing +in my face! Gold: what is gold? The world; the term of ills; +the empery of all; the multitudinous babble of the change, the +sailing from all ports of freighted argosies; music, wine, a +palace; the doors of the bright theatre, the key of consciences, +and love - love's whistle! All this below my itching fingers; +and to set this by, turn a deaf ear upon the siren present, and +condescend once more, naked, into the ring with fortune - +Macaire, how few would do it! But you, Macaire, you are +compacted of more subtile clay. No cheap immediate pilfering: +no retail trade of petty larceny; but swoop at the heart of the +position, and clutch all! + +BERTRAND (AT HIS SHOULDER). Halves! + +MACAIRE. Halves? (HE LOCKS THE BOX.) Bertrand, I am a father. + +(REPLACES BOX IN OFFICE.) + +BERTRAND (LOOKING AFTER HIM). Well, I - am - damned! + +DROP. + + +ACT II. + +When the curtain rises, the night has come. A hanging cluster of +lighted lamps over each table, R. and L. MACAIRE, R., smoking a +cigarette; BERTRAND, L., with a church-warden: each with bottle +and glass. + +SCENE I + +MACAIRE, BERTRAND + +MACAIRE. Bertrand, I am content: a child might play with me. +Does your pipe draw well? + +BERTRAND. Like a factory chimney. This is my notion of life: +liquor, a chair, a table to put my feet on, a fine clean pipe, +and no police. + +MACAIRE. Bertrand, do you see these changing exhalations? do you +see these blue rings and spirals, weaving their dance, like a +round of fairies, on the footless air? + +BERTRAND. I see 'em right enough. + +MACAIRE. Man of little vision, expound me these meteors! what do +they signify, O wooden-head? Clod, of what do they consist? + +BERTRAND. Damned bad tobacco. + +MACAIRE. I will give you a little course of science. +Everything, Bertrand (much as it may surprise you), has three +states: a vapour, a liquid, a solid. These are fortune in the +vapour: these are ideas. What are ideas? the protoplasm of +wealth. To your head - which, by the way, is a solid, Bertrand - +what are they but foul air? To mine, to my prehensile and +constructive intellects, see, as I grasp and work them, to what +lineaments of the future they transform themselves: a palace, a +barouche, a pair of luminous footmen, plate, wine, respect, and +to be honest! + +BERTRAND. But what's the sense in honesty? + +MACAIRE. The sense? You see me: Macaire: elegant, immoral, +invincible in cunning; well, Bertrand, much as it may surprise +you, I am simply damned by my dishonesty. + +BERTRAND. No! + +MACAIRE. The honest man, Bertrand, that God's noblest work. He +carries the bag, my boy. Would you have me define honesty? the +strategic point for theft. Bertrand, if I'd three hundred a +year, I'd be honest to-morrow. + +BERTRAND. Ah! Don't you wish you may get it! + +MACAIRE. Bertrand, I will bet you my head against your own - the +longest odds I can imagine - that with honesty for my +spring-board, I leap through history like a paper hoop, and come +out among posterity heroic and immortal. + + +SCENE II + +To these, all the former characters, less the NOTARY. The +fiddles are heard without, playing dolefully. Air: 'O dear, +what can the matter be?' in time to which the procession enters. + +MACAIRE. Well, friends, what cheer? + +ALINE. No wedding, no wedding! } + +GORIOT. I told 'ee he can't and he can't. } + +DUMONT. Dear, dear me! } TOGETHER. + +ERNESTINE. They won't let us marry. } + +CHARLES. No wife, no father, no nothing! } + +CURATE. The facts have justified the worst anticipations of our +absent friend, the Notary. + +MACAIRE. I perceive I must reveal myself. + +DUMONT. God bless me, no! + +MACAIRE. My friends, I had meant to preserve a strict incognito, +for I was ashamed (I own it!) of this poor accoutrement; but when +I see a face that I can render happy, say, my old Dumont, should +I hesitate to work the change? Hear me, then, and you (TO THE +OTHERS) prepare a smiling countenance. (REPEATING.) 'Preserve +this letter secretly; its terms are only known to you and me; +hence when the time comes, I shall repeat them, and my son will +recognise his father. - Your Unknown Benefactor.' + +DUMONT. The words! the letter! Charles, alas! it is your +father! + +CHARLES. Good Lord! (GENERAL CONSTERNATION.) + +BERTRAND (ASIDE: SMILING HIS BROW). I see it now; sublime! + +CURATE. A highly singular eventuality. + +GORIOT. Him? O well, then, I wun't. (GOES UP.) + +MACAIRE. Charles, to my arms! (BUSINESS.) Ernestine, your +second father waits to welcome you. (BUSINESS.) Goriot, noble +old man, I grasp your hand. (HE DOESN'T.) And you, Dumont, how +shall your unknown benefactor thank you for your kindness to his +boy? (A DEAD PAUSE.) Charles, to my arms! + +CHARLES. My father, you are still something of a stranger. I +hope - er - in the course of time - I hope that may be somewhat +mended. But I confess that I have so long regarded Mr. Dumont - + +MACAIRE. Love him still, dear boy, love him still. I have not +returned to be a burden on your heart, nor much, comparatively, +on your pocket. A place by the fire, dear boy, a crust for my +friend, Bertrand. (A DEAD PAUSE.) Ah, well, this is a different +home-coming from that I fancied when I left the letter: I +dreamed to grow rich. Charles, you remind me of your sainted +mother. + +CHARLES. I trust, sir, you do not think yourself less welcome +for your poverty. + +MACAIRE. Nay, nay - more welcome, more welcome. O, I know your +- (BUSINESS) backs! Besides, my poverty is noble. Political . +. . . Dumont, what are your politics? + +DUMONT. A plain old republican, my lord. + +MACAIRE. And yours, my good Goriot? + +GORIOT. I be a royalist, I be, and so be my daater. + +MACAIRE. How strange is the coincidence! The party that I +sought to found combined the peculiarities of both: a patriotic +enterprise in which I fell. This humble fellow . . . have I +introduced him? You behold in us the embodiment of aristocracy +and democracy. Bertrand, shake hands with my family. (BERTRAND +IS REBUFFED BY ONE AND THE OTHER IN DEAD SILENCE.) + +BERTRAND. Sold again! + +MACAIRE. Charles, to my arms! (BUSINESS.) + +ERNESTINE. Well, but now that he has a father of some kind, +cannot the marriage go on? + +MACAIRE. Angel, this very night: I burn to take my grandchild +on my knees. + +GORIOT. Be you that young man's veyther? + +MACAIRE. Ay, and what a father! + +GORIOT. Then all I've got to say is, I shan't and I wun't. + +MACAIRE. Ah, friends, friends, what a satisfaction it is, what a +sight is virtue! I came among you in this poor attire to test +you; how nobly have you borne the test! But my disguise begins +to irk me: who will lend me a good suit? (BUSINESS.) + + +SCENE III + +To these, the MARQUIS, L. C. + +MARQUIS. Is this the house of John Paul Dumont, once of Lyons? + +DUMONT. It is, sir, and I am he, at your disposal. + +MARQUIS. I am the Marquis Villers-Cotterets de la Cherte de +Medoc. (SENSATION.) + +MACAIRE. Marquis, delighted, I am sure. + +MARQUIS (TO DUMONT). I come, as you perceive, unfollowed; my +errand, therefore, is discreet. I come (PRODUCING NOTES FROM +BREAST-POCKET) equipped with thirty thousand francs; my errand, +therefore, must be generous. Can you not guess? + +DUMONT. Not I, my lord. + +MARQUIS (REPEATING). 'Preserve this letter,' etc. + +MACAIRE. Bitten. + +BERTRAND. Sold again (ASIDE). (A PAUSE.) + +ALINE. Well, I never did! + +DUMONT. Two fathers! + +MARQUIS. Two? Impossible. + +DUMONT. Not at all. This is the other. + +MARQUIS. This man? + +MACAIRE. This is the man, my lord; here stands the father; +Charles, to my arms! (CHARLES BACKS.) + +DUMONT. He knew the letter. + +MARQUIS. Well, but so did I. + +CURATE. The judgment of Solomon. + +GORIOT. What did I tell 'ee? he can't marry. + +ERNESTINE. Couldn't they both consent? + +MARQUIS. But he's my living image. + +MACAIRE. Mine, Marquis, mine. + +MARQUIS. My figure, I think? + +MACAIRE. Ah, Charles, Charles! + +CURATE. We used to think his physiognomy resembled Dumont's. + +DUMONT. Come to look at him, he's really like Goriot. + +ERNESTINE. O papa, I hope he's not my brother. + +GORIOT. What be talking of? I tell 'ee, he's like our Curate. + +CHARLES. Gentlemen, my head aches. + +MARQUIS. I have it: the involuntary voice of nature. Look at +me, my son. + +MACAIRE. Nay, Charles, but look at me. + +CHARLES. Gentlemen, I am unconscious of the smallest natural +inclination for either. + +MARQUIS. Another thought: what was his mother's name? + +MACAIRE. What was the name of his mother by you? + +MARQUIS. Sir, you are silenced. + +MACAIRE. Silenced by honour. I had rather lose my boy than +compromise his sainted mother. + +MARQUIS. A thought: twins might explain it: had you not two +foundlings? + +DUMONT. Nay, sir, one only; and judging by the miseries of this +evening, I should say, thank God! + +MACAIRE. My friends, leave me alone with the Marquis. It is +only a father that can understand a father's heart. Bertrand, +follow the members of my family. (THEY TROOP OUT, L. U. E. AND +R. U. E., THE FIDDLERS PLAYING. AIR: 'O DEAR, WHAT CAN THE +MATTER BE?') + + +SCENE IV + +MACAIRE, MARQUIS + +MARQUIS. Well, sir? + +MACAIRE. My lord, I feel for you. (BUSINESS. THEY SIT, R.) + +MARQUIS. And now, sir? + +MACAIRE. The bond that joins us is remarkable and touching. + +MARQUIS. Well, sir? + +MACAIRE (TOUCHING HIM ON THE BREAST). You have there thirty +thousand francs. + +MARQUIS. Well, sir? + +MACAIRE. I was but thinking of the inequalities of life, my +lord: that I who, for all you know, may be the father of your +son, should have nothing; and that you who, for all I know, may +be the father of mine, should be literally bulging with bank +notes. . . . Where do you keep them at night? + +MARQUIS. Under my pillow. I think it rather ingenious. + +MACAIRE. Admirably so! I applaud the device. + +MARQUIS. Well, sir? + +MACAIRE. Do you snuff, my lord? + +MARQUIS. No, sir, I do not. + +MACAIRE. My lord, I am a poor man. + +MARQUIS. Well, sir? and what of that? + +MACAIRE. The affections, my lord, are priceless. Money will not +buy them; or, at least, it takes a great deal. + +MARQUIS. Sir, your sentiments do you honour. + +MACAIRE. My lord, you are rich. + +MARQUIS. Well, sir? + +MACAIRE. Now follow me, I beseech you. Here am I, my lord; and +there, if I may so express myself, are you. Each has the +father's heart, and there we are equal; each claims yon +interesting lad, and there again we are on a par. But, my lord - +and here we come to the inequality, and what I consider the +unfairness of the thing - you have thirty thousand francs, and I, +my lord, have not a rap. You mark me? not a rap, my lord! My +lord, put yourself in my position: consider what must be my +feelings, my desires; and - hey? + +MARQUIS. I fail to grasp . . . . + +MACAIRE (WITH IRRITATION). My dear man, there is the door of the +house; here am I; there (TOUCHING, MARQUIS ON THE BREAST) are +thirty thousand francs. Well, now? + +MARQUIS. I give you my word of honour, sir, I gather nothing; my +mind is quite unused to such prolonged exertion. If the boy be +yours, he is not mine; if he be mine, he is not yours; and if he +is neither of ours, or both of ours . . . in short, my mind . . +. . + +MACAIRE. My lord, will you lay those thirty thousand francs upon +the table? + +MARQUIS. I fail to grasp . . . but if it will in any way +oblige you . . . . (DOES SO.) + +MACAIRE. Now, my lord, follow me: I take them up; you see? I +put them in my pocket; you follow me? This is my hat; here is my +stick; and here is my - my friend's bundle. + +MARQUIS. But that is my cloak. + +MACAIRE. Precisely. Now, my lord, one more effort of your +lordship's mind. If I were to go out of that door, with the full +intention - follow me close - the full intention of never being +heard of more, what would you do? + +MARQUIS. I! - send for the police. + +MACAIRE. Take your money! (DASHING DOWN THE NOTES.) Man, if I +met you in a lane! (HE DROPS HIS HEAD UPON THE TABLE.) + +MARQUIS. The poor soul is insane. The other man, whom I suppose +to be his keeper, is very much to blame. + +MACAIRE (RAISING HIS HEAD). I have a light! (TO MARQUIS.) With +invincible oafishness, my lord, I cannot struggle. I pass you +by; I leave you gaping by the wayside; I blush to have a share +in the progeny of such an owl. Off, off, and send the tapster! + +MARQUIS. Poor fellow! + + +SCENE V + +MACAIRE, TO WHOM BERTRAND. AFTERWARDS DUMONT + +BERTRAND. Well? + +MACAIRE. Bitten. + +BERTRAND. Sold again. + +MACAIRE. Had he the wit of a lucifer match! But what can gods +or men against stupidity? Still, I have a trick. Where is that +damned old man? + +DUMONT (ENTERING). I hear you want me. + +MACAIRE. Ah, my good old Dumont, this is very sad. + +DUMONT. Dear me, what is wrong? + +MACAIRE. Dumont, you had a dowry for my son? + +DUMONT. I had; I have: ten thousand francs. + +MACAIRE. It's a poor thing, but it must do. Dumont, I bury my +old hopes, my old paternal tenderness. + +DUMONT. What? is he not your son? + +MACAIRE. Pardon me, my friend. The Marquis claims my boy. I +will not seek to deny that he attempted to corrupt me, or that I +spurned his gold. It was thirty thousand. + +DUMONT. Noble soul! + +MACAIRE. One has a heart . . . He spoke, Dumont, that proud +noble spoke, of the advantages to our beloved Charles; and in my +father's heart a voice arose, louder than thunder. Dumont, was I +unselfish? The voice said no; the voice, Dumont, up and told me +to begone. + +DUMONT. To begone? to go? + +MACAIRE. To begone, Dumont, and to go. Both, Dumont. To leave +my son to marry, and be rich and happy as the son of another; to +creep forth myself, old, penniless, broken-hearted, exposed to +the inclemencies of heaven and the rebuffs of the police. + +DUMONT. This is what I had looked for at your hands. Noble, +nobleman! + +MACAIRE. One has a heart . . . and yet, Dumont, it can hardly +have escaped your penetration that if I were to shift from this +hostelry without a farthing, and leave my offspring to wallow - +literally - among millions, I should play the part of little +better than an ass. + +DUMONT. But I had thought . . . I had fancied . . . . + +MACAIRE. No, Dumont, you had not; do not seek to impose upon my +simplicity. What you did think was this, Dumont: for the sake +of this noble father, for the sake of this son whom he denies for +his own interest - I mean, for his interest - no, I mean, for +his own - well, anyway, in order to keep up the general +atmosphere of sacrifice and nobility, I must hand over this dowry +to the Baron Henri-Frederic de Latour de Main de la Tonnerre de +Brest. + +DUMONT. Noble, O noble! } TOGETHER: EACH SHAKING + +BERTRAND. Beautiful, O beautiful! } HIM BY THE HAND. + +DUMONT. Now Charles is rich he needs it not. For whom could it +more fittingly be set aside than for his noble father? I will +give it you at once. + +BERTRAND. At once, at once! + +MACAIRE (ASIDE TO BERTRAND). Hang on. (ALOUD.) Charles, +Charles, my lost boy! (HE FALLS WEEPING AT L. TABLE. DUMONT +ENTERS THE OFFICE, AND BRINGS DOWN CASH-BOX TO TABLE R. HE FEELS +IN ALL HIS POCKETS: BERTRAND FROM BEHIND HIM MAKING SIGNS TO +MACAIRE, WHICH THE LATTER DOES NOT SEE.) + +DUMONT. That's strange. I can't find the key. It's a patent +key. + +BERTRAND (BEHIND DUMONT, MAKING SIGNS TO MACAIRE). The key, he +can't find the key. + +MACAIRE. O yes, I remember. I heard it drop. (DROPS KEY.) And +here it is before my eyes. + +DUMONT. That? That's yours. I saw it drop. + +MACAIRE. I give you my word of honour I heard it fall five +minutes back. + +DUMONT. But I saw it. + +MACAIRE. Impossible. It must be yours. + +DUMONT. It is like mine, indeed. How came it in your pocket? + +MACAIRE. Bitten. (ASIDE.) + +BERTRAND. Sold again (ASIDE) . . . . You forget, Baron, it's the +key of my valise; I gave it you to keep in consequence of the +hole in my pocket. + +MACAIRE. True, true; and that explains. + +DUMONT. O, that explains. Now, all we have to do is to find +mine. It's a patent key. You heard it drop. + +MACAIRE. Distinctly. + +BERTRAND. So I did: distinctly. + +DUMONT. Here, Aline, Babette, Goriot, Curate, Charles, +everybody, come here and look for my key! + + +SCENE VI + +To these with candles, all the former characters, except +FIDDLERS, PEASANTS, and NOTARY. They hunt for the key. + +DUMONT. It's bound to be here. We all heard it drop. + +MARQUIS (WITH BERTRAND's BUNDLE). Is this it? + +ALL (WITH FURY). No. + +BERTRAND. Hands off, that's my luggage. (HUNT RESUMED.) + +DUMONT. I heard it drop, as plain as ever I heard anything. + +MARQUIS. By the way (ALL START UP), what are we looking for? + +ALL (WITH FURY). O!! + +DUMONT. Will you have the kindness to find my key? (HUNT +RESUMED.) + +CURATE. What description of a key - + +DUMONT. A patent, patent, patent, patent key! + +MACAIRE. I have it. Here it is! + +ALL (WITH RELIEF). Ah!! + +DUMONT. That? What do you mean? That's yours. + +MACAIRE. Pardon me. + +DUMONT. It is. + +MACAIRE. It isn't. + +DUMONT. I tell you it is: look at that twisted handle. + +MACAIRE. It can't be mine, and so it must be yours. + +DUMONT. It is not. Feel in your pockets. (TO THE OTHERS.) +Will you have the kindness to find my patent key? + +ALL. Oh!! (HUNT RESUMED.) + +MACAIRE. Ah, well, you're right. (HE SLIPS KEY INTO DUMONT'S +POCKET.) An idea: suppose you felt in your pocket? + +ALL (RISING). Yes! Suppose you did! + +DUMONT. I will not feel in my pockets. How could it be there? +It's a patent key. This is more than any man can bear. First, +Charles is one man's son, and then he's another's, and then he's +nobody's, and be damned to him! And then there's my key lost; +and then there's your key! What is your key? Where is your key? +Where isn't it? And why is it like mine, only mine's a patent? +The long and short of it is this: that I'm going to bed, and +that you're all going to bed, and that I refuse to hear another +word upon the subject or upon any subject. There! + +MACAIRE. Bitten. } + +BERTRAND. Sold again. } Aside + +(ALINE AND MAIDS EXTINGUISH HANGING LAMPS OVER TABLES, R. AND L. +STAGE LIGHTED ONLY BY GUESTS' CANDLES.) + +CHARLES. But, sir, I cannot decently retire to rest till I +embrace my honoured parent. Which is it to be? + +MACAIRE. Charles, to my - + +DUMONT. Embrace neither of them; embrace nobody; there has been +too much of this sickening folly. To bed!!! (EXIT VIOLENTLY R. +U. E. ALL THE CHARACTERS TROOP SLOWLY UPSTAIRS, TALKING IN DUMB +SHOW. BERTRAND AND MACAIRE REMAIN IN FRONT C., WATCHING THEM +GO.) + +BERTRAND. Sold again, captain? + +MACAIRE. Ay, they will have it. + +BERTRAND. It? What? + +MACAIRE. The worst, Bertrand. What is man? a beast of prey. An +hour ago, and I'd have taken a crust, and gone in peace. But no: +they would trick and juggle, curse them; they would wriggle and +cheat! Well, I accept the challenge: war to the knife. + +BERTRAND. Murder? + +MACAIRE. What is murder? A legal term for a man dying. Call it +Fate, and that's philosophy; call me Providence, and you talk +religion. Die? My, that is what man is made for; we are full of +mortal parts; we are all as good as dead already, we hang so +close upon the brink: touch a button, and the strongest falls in +dissolution. Now, see how easy: I take you - (GRAPPLING HIM.) + +BERTRAND. Macaire - O no! + +MACAIRE. Fool! would I harm a fly, when I had nothing to gain? +As the butcher with the sheep, I kill to live; and where is the +difference between man and mutton? pride and a tailor's bill. +Murder? I know who made that name - a man crouching from the +knife! Selfishness made it - the aggregated egotism called +society; but I meet that with a selfishness as great. Has he +money? Have I none - great powers, none? Well, then, I fatten +and manure my life with his. + +BERTRAND. You frighten me. Who is it? + +MACAIRE. Mark well. (THE MARQUIS OPENS THE DOOR OF NUMBER +THIRTEEN, AND THE REST, CLUSTERING ROUND, BID HIM GOOD-NIGHT. AS +THEY BEGIN TO DISPERSE ALONG THE GALLERY HE ENTERS AND SHUTS THE +DOOR.) Out, out, brief candle! That man is doomed. + +DROP + + +ACT III. + +SCENE I + +MACAIRE, BERTRAND + +As the curtain rises, the stage is dark and empty. Enter +MACAIRE, L. U. E., with lantern. He looks about. + +MACAIRE (CALLING OFF). S'st! + +BERTRAND (ENTERING L. U. E.). It's creeping dark. + +MACAIRE. Blinding dark; and a good job. + +BERTRAND. Macaire, I'm cold; my very hair's cold. + +MACAIRE. Work, work will warm you: to your keys. + +BERTRAND. No, Macaire, it's a horror. You not kill him; let's +have no bloodshed. + +MACAIRE. None: it spoils your clothes. Now, see: you have +keys and you have experience; up that stair, and pick me the lock +of that man's door. Pick me the lock of that man's door. + +BERTRAND. May I take the light? + +MACAIRE. You may not. Go. (BERTRAND MOUNTS THE STAIRS, AND IS +SEEN PICKING THE LOCK OF NUMBER THIRTEEN.) The earth spins +eastward, and the day is at the door. Yet half an hour of +covert, and the sun will be afoot, the discoverer, the great +policeman. Yet, half an hour of night, the good, hiding, +practicable night; and lo! at a touch the gas-jet of the +universe turned on; and up with the sun gets the providence of +honest people, puts off his night-cap, throws up his window, +stares out of house - and the rogue must skulk again till dusk. +Yet half an hour and, Macaire, you shall be safe and rich. If +yon fool - my fool - would but miscarry, if the dolt within +would hear and leap upon him, I could intervene, kill both, by +heaven - both! - cry murder with the best, and at one stroke +reap honour and gold. For, Bertrand dead - + +BERTRAND (FROM ABOVE). S'st, Macaire! + +MACAIRE. Is it done, dear boy? Come down. (BERTRAND DESCENDS.) +Sit down beside this light: this is your ring of safety, budge +not beyond - the night is crowded with hobgoblins. See ghosts +and tremble like a jelly if you must; but remember men are my +concern; and at the creak of a man's foot, hist! (SHARPENING +HIS KNIFE UPON HIS SLEEVE.) What is a knife? A plain man's +sword. + +BERTRAND. Not the knife, Macaire; O, not the knife! + +MACAIRE. My name is Self-Defence. (HE GOES UPSTAIRS AND ENTERS +NUMBER THIRTEEN.) + +BERTRAND. He's in. I hear a board creak. What a night, what a +night! Will he hear him? O Lord, my poor Macaire! I hear +nothing, nothing. The night's as empty as a dream: he must hear +him; he cannot help but hear him; and then - O Macaire, Macaire, +come back to me. It's death, and it's death, and it's death. +Red, red: a corpse. Macaire to kill, Macaire to die? I'd +rather starve, I'd rather perish, than either: I'm not fit, I'm +not fit, for either! Why, how's this? I want to cry. (A +STROKE, AND GROAN FROM ABOVE.) God Almighty, one of them's +gone! (HE FALLS WITH HIS HEAD ON TABLE, R. MACAIRE APPEARS AT +THE TOP OF THE STAIRS, DESCENDS, COMES AIRILY FORWARD AND TOUCHES +HIM ON THE SHOULDER. BERTRAND, WITH A CRY, TURNS AND FALLS UPON +HIS NECK.) O, O, and I thought I had lost him. (DAY BREAKING.) + +MACAIRE. The contrary, dear boy. (HE PRODUCES NOTES.) + +BERTRAND. What was it like? + +MACAIRE. Like? Nothing. A little blood, a dead man. + +BERTRAND. Blood! . . . Dead! HE FALLS AT TABLE SOBBING. +MACAIRE DIVIDES THE NOTES INTO TWO PARTS; ON THE SMALLER HE WIPES +THE BLOODY KNIFE, AND FOLDING THE STAINS INWARD, THRUSTS THE +NOTES INTO BERTRAND'S FACE.) + +MACAIRE. What is life without the pleasures of the table! + +BERTRAND (TAKING AND POCKETING NOTES). Macaire, I can't get over +it. + +MACAIRE. My mark is the frontier, and at top speed. Don't hang +your jaw at me. Up, up, at the double; pick me that cash-box; +and let's get the damned house fairly cleared. + +BERTRAND. I can't. Did he bleed much? + +MACAIRE. Bleed? Must I bleed you? To work, or I'm dangerous. + +BERTRAND. It's all right, Macaire; I'm going. + +MACAIRE. Better so: an old friend is nearly sacred. (FULL +DAYLIGHT: LIGHTS UP. MACAIRE BLOWS OUT LANTERN.) + +BERTRAND. Where's the key? + +MACAIRE. Key? I tell you to pick it. + +BERTRAND (WITH THE BOX). But it's a patent lock. Where is the +key? You had it. + +MACAIRE. Will you pick that lock? + +BERTRAND. I can't: it's a patent. Where's the key? + +MACAIRE. If you will have it, I put it back in that old ass's +pocket. + +BERTRAND. Bitten, I think. (MACAIRE DANCING MAD.) + + +SCENE II + +To these, DUMONT + +DUMONT. Ah, friends, up so early? Catching the worm, catching +the worm? + +MACAIRE. Good-morning, good-morning! } SITTING ON THE TABLE + +BERTRAND. Early birds, early birds. } DISSEMBLING BOX. + +DUMONT. By the way, very remarkable thing: I found the key. + +MACAIRE. No! + +BERTRAND. O! + +DUMONT. Perhaps a still more remarkable thing: it was my key +that had the twisted handle. + +MACAIRE. I told you so. + +DUMONT. Now, what we have to do is to get the cash-box. Hallo! +what's that your sitting on? + +BERTRAND. Nothing. + +MACAIRE. The table! I beg your pardon. + +DUMONT. Why, it's my cash-box! + +MACAIRE. Why, so it is! + +DUMONT. It's very singular. + +MACAIRE. Diabolishly singular. + +BERTRAND. Early worms, early worms! + +DUMONT (BLOWING IN KEY). Well, I suppose you are still willing +to begone? + +MACAIRE. More than willing, my dear soul: pressed, I may say, +for time; for though it had quite escaped my memory, I have an +appointment in Turin with a lady of title. + +DUMONT (AT BOX). It's very odd. (BLOWS ITS KEY.) It's a +singular thing (BLOWING), key won't turn. It's a patent. Some +one must have tampered with the lock (BLOWING). It's strangely +singular, it's singularly singular! I've shown this key to +commercial gentlemen all the way from Paris: they never saw a +better key! (MORE BUSINESS). Well (GIVING IT UP AND LOOKING +REPROACHFULLY ON KEY), that's pretty singular. + +MACAIRE. Let me try. (HE TRIES, AND FLINGS DOWN THE KEY WITH A +CURSE.) Bitten. + +BERTRAND. Sold again. + +DUMONT (PICKING UP KEY). It's a patent key. + +MACAIRE (TO BERTRAND). The game's up: we must save the swag. +(TO DUMONT.) Sir, since your key, on which I invoke the blight +of Egypt, has once more defaulted, my feelings are unequal to a +repetition of yesterday's distress, and I shall simply pad the +hoof. From Turin you shall receive the address of my banker, and +may prosperity attend your ventures. (TO BERTRAND.) Now, boy! +(TO DUMONT.) Embrace my fatherless child! farewell! (MACAIRE +AND BERTRAND TURN TO GO OFF AND ARE MET IN THE DOOR BY THE +GENDARMES.) + + +SCENE III + +To these, the BRIGADIER and GENDARMES + +BRIGADIER. Let no man leave the house. + +MACAIRE. Bitten. } ASIDE. + +BERTRAND. Sold again. } + +DUMONT. Welcome, old friend! + +BRIGADIER. It is not the friend that comes; it is the Brigadier. +Summon your guests: I must investigate their passports. I am in +pursuit of a notorious malefactor, Robert Macaire. + +DUMONT. But I was led to believe that both Macaire and his +accomplice had been arrested and condemned. + +BRIGADIER. They were, but they have once more escaped for the +moment, and justice is indefatigable. (HE SITS AT TABLE R.) +Dumont, a bottle of white wine. + +MACAIRE (TO DUMONT). My excellent friend, I will discharge your +commission, and return with all speed. (GOING.) + +BRIGADIER. Halt! + +MACAIRE (RETURNING: AS IF HE SAW BRIGADIER FOR THE FIRST TIME). +Ha? a member of the force? Charmed, I'm sure. But you +misconceive me: I return at once, and my friend remains behind +to answer for me. + +BRIGADIER. Justice is insensible to friendship. I shall deal +with you in due time. Dumont, that bottle. + +MACAIRE. Sir, my friend and I, who are students of character, +would grasp the opportunity to share and - may one add? - to pay +the bottle. Dumont, three! + +BERTRAND. For God's sake! (ENTER ALINE AND MAIDS.) + +MACAIRE. My friend is an author: so, in a humbler way, am I. +Your knowledge of the criminal classes naturally tempts one to +pursue so interesting an acquaintance. + +BRIGADIER. Justice is impartial. Gentlemen, your health. + +MACAIRE. Will not these brave fellows join us? + +BRIGADIER. They are on duty; but what matters? + +MACAIRE. My dear sir, what is duty? duty is my eye. + +BRIGADIER (SOLEMNLY). And Betty Martin. (GENDARMES SIT AT +TABLE.) + +MACAIRE (TO BERTRAND). Dear friend, sit down. + +BERTRAND (SITTING DOWN). O Lord! + +BRIGADIER (TO MACAIRE). You seem to be a gentleman of +considerable intelligence. + +MACAIRE. I fear, sir, you flatter. One has lived, one has +loved, and one remembers: that is all. One's LIVES OF +CELEBRATED CRIMINALS has met with a certain success, and one is +ever in quest of fresh material. + +DUMONT. By the way, a singular thing about my patent key. + +BRIGADIER. This gentleman is speaking. + +MACAIRE. Excellent Dumont! he means no harm. This Macaire is +not personally known to you? + +BRIGADIER. Are you connected with justice? + +MACAIRE. Ah, sir, justice is a point above a poor author. + +BRIGADIER (WITH GLASS). Justice is the very devil. + +MACAIRE. My dear sir, my friend and I, I regret to say, have an +appointment in Lyons, or I could spend my life in this society. +Charge your glasses: one hour to madness and to joy! What is +to-morrow? the enemy of to-day. Wine? the bath of life. One +moment: I find I have forgotten my watch. (HE MAKES FOR THE +DOOR.) + +BRIGADIER. Halt! + +MACAIRE. Sir, what is this jest? + +BRIGADIER. Sentry at the door. Your passports. + +MACAIRE. My good man, with all the pleasure in life. (Gives +papers. THE BRIGADIER PUTS ON SPECTACLES, AND EXAMINES THEM.) + +BERTRAND (RISING, AND PASSING ROUND TO MACAIRE'S OTHER SIDE). +It's life and death: they must soon find it. + +MACAIRE (ASIDE). Don't I know? My heart's like fire in my body. + +BRIGADIER. Your name is? + +MACAIRE. It is; one's name is not unknown. + +BRIGADIER. Justice exacts your name. + +MACAIRE. Henri-Frederic de Latour de Main de la Tonnerre de +Brest. + +BRIGADIER. Your profession? + +MACAIRE. Gentleman. + +BRIGADIER. No, but what is your trade? + +MACAIRE. I am an analytical chymist. + +BRIGADIER. Justice is inscrutable. Your papers are in order. +(TO BERTRAND.) Now, sir, and yours? + +BERTRAND. I feel kind of ill. + +MACAIRE. Bertrand, this gentleman addresses you. He is not one +of us; in other scenes, in the gay and giddy world of fashion, +one is his superior. But to-day he represents the majesty of +law; and as a citizen it is one's pride to do him honour. + +BRIGADIER. Those are my sentiments. + +BERTRAND. I beg your pardon, I - (GIVES PAPERS.) + +BRIGADIER. Your name? + +BERTRAND. Napoleon. + +BRIGADIER. What? In your passport it is written Bertrand. + +BERTRAND. It's this way: I was born Bertrand, and then I took +the name of Napoleon, and I mostly always call myself either +Napoleon or Bertrand. + +BRIGADIER. The truth is always best. Your profession? + +BERTRAND. I am an orphan. + +BRIGADIER. What the devil! (TO MACAIRE.) Is your friend an +idiot? + +MACAIRE. Pardon me, he is a poet. + +BRIGADIER. Poetry is a great hindrance to the ends of justice. +Well, take your papers. + +MACAIRE. Then we may go? + + +SCENE IV + +To these, CHARLES, who is seen on the gallery, going to the door +of Number Thirteen. Afterwards all the characters but the +NOTARY and the MARQUIS + +BRIGADIER. One glass more. (BERTRAND TOUCHES MACAIRE, AND +POINTS TO CHARLES, WHO ENTERS NUMBER THIRTEEN). + +MACAIRE. No more, no more, no more. + +BRIGADIER (RISING AND TAKING MACAIRE BY THE ARM). I stipulate! + +MACAIRE. Engagement in Turin! + +BRIGADIER. Turin? + +MACAIRE. Lyons, Lyons! + +BERTRAND. For God's sake. + +BRIGADIER. Well, good-bye! + +MACAIRE. Good-bye, good - + +CHARLES (FROM WITHIN). Murder! Help! (APPEARING.) Help here! +The Marquis is murdered. + +BRIGADIER. Stand to the door. A man up there. (A GENDARME +HURRIES UP STAIRCASE INTO NUMBER THIRTEEN, CHARLES FOLLOWING HIM. + +ENTER ON BOTH SIDES OF GALLERY THE REMAINING CHARACTERS OF THE +PIECE, EXCEPT THE NOTARY AND THE MARQUIS.) + +MACAIRE. Bitten, by God! } ASIDE. + +BERTRAND. Lost! } + +BRIGADIER (TO DUMONT). John Paul Dumont, I arrest you. + +DUMONT. Do your duty, officer. I can answer for myself and my +own people. + +BRIGADIER. Yes, but these strangers? + +DUMONT. They are strangers to me. + +MACAIRE. I am an honest man: I stand upon my rights: search +me; or search this person, of whom I know too little. (SMITING +HIS BROW.) By heaven, I see it all! This morning - (TO +BERTRAND.) How, sir, did you dare to flaunt your booty in my +very face? (TO BRIGADIER.) He showed me notes; he was up ere +day; search him, and you'll find. There stands the murderer. + +BERTRAND. O, Macaire! (HE IS SEIZED AND SEARCHED AND THE NOTES +ARE FOUND.) + +BRIGADIER. There is blood upon the notes. Handcuffs. (MACAIRE +EDGING TOWARDS THE DOOR.) + +BERTRAND. Macaire, you may as well take the bundle. (MACAIRE IS +STOPPED BY SENTRY, AND COMES FRONT, R.) + +CHARLES (RE-APPEARING). Stop, I know the truth. (HE COMES +DOWN.) Brigadier, my father is not dead. He is not even +dangerously hurt. He has spoken. There is the would-be +assassin. + +MACAIRE. Hell! (HE DARTS ACROSS TO THE STAIRCASE, AND TURNS ON +THE SECOND STEP, FLASHING OUT THE KNIFE.) Back, hounds! (HE +SPRINGS UP THE STAIR, AND CONFRONTS THEM FROM THE TOP.) Fools, I +am Robert Macaire! (AS MACAIRE TURNS TO FLEE, HE IS MET BY THE +GENDARME COMING OUT OF NUMBER THIRTEEN; HE STANDS AN INSTANT +CHECKED, IS SHOT FROM THE STAGE, AND FALLS HEADLONG BACKWARD DOWN +THE STAIR. BERTRAND, WITH A CRY, BREAKS FROM THE GENDARMES, +KNEELS AT HIS SIDE, AND RAISES HIS HEAD.) + +BERTRAND. Macaire, Macaire, forgive me. I didn't blab; you know +I didn't blab. + +MACAIRE. Sold again, old boy. Sold for the last time; at least, +the last time this side death. Death - what is death? (HE DIES.) + + +CURTAIN +------------------------------------------------------------- + + + + + +End of The Project Gutenberg Etext of The Plays of +William Ernest Henley and Robert Louis Stevenson diff --git a/old/tpohs10.zip b/old/tpohs10.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..4ce4920 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/tpohs10.zip |