Complete Works of Robert Louis Stevenson

by Robert Louis Stevenson

  CURTAIN

  MACAIRE

  A MELODRAMATIC FARCE IN THREE ACTS

  CONTENTS

  PERSONS REPRESENTED

  ACT I.

  ACT II.

  ACT III

  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.

  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 thi
s 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 (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.

  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 (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.