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.
BEAU AUSTIN
CONTENTS
PERSONS REPRESENTED
ACT I.
ACT II.
ACT III.
ACT IV.
DEDICATED
WITH ADMIRATION AND RESPECT
TO
GEORGE MEREDITH
Bournemouth:
1st October 1884.
PERSONS REPRESENTED
George Frederick Austin, called ‘Beau Austin’
Ætat. 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!
ACT I.
Musical Induction: ‘Lascia ch’io pianga’ (Rinaldo).
Handel.
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 Fos
ter
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 pâté, 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 de
clare he reminded me of Issachar stooping between his two burdens. It was high 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.
Complete Works of Robert Louis Stevenson Page 403
