Drop
The Stage represents the Admiral’s house, as in Act I. Gaunt seated, is reading aloud; Arethusa sits at his feet. Candles
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.
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!
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,
And when we’d clapped the hatches on,
’Twas time for us to go.’
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.)
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.)
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.)
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
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.)
Arethusa, Gaunt entering L.
Arethusa. Father, Kit is gone . . . He is asleep.
Gaunt. 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.)
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!
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
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.
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.
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.
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.
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!
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 (aside). A pound in his pocket?
Bertrand (aside). Keep for nothing?
Macaire (aside). Bitten!
Bertrand (aside). Sold again!
Dumont. I will send you what we have: poor fare, perhaps, for gentlemen like you.
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.
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?
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 (aside). Bitten!
Bertrand (aside). 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.
(All speak together . . .
Dumont. O dear, O dear!
Aline. What spoil the wedding?
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-Frédéric 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, what 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-Frédéric 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!