Complete Works of Robert Louis Stevenson (Illustrated)
Page 413
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 though 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 on. 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 quarter-deck, 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!
MACAIRE
A MELODRAMATIC FARCE
IN THREE ACTS
CONTENTS
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
ACT I
SCENE I
SCENE II
SCENE III
SCENE IV
SCENE V
SCENE VI
SCENE VII
SCENE VIII
ACT II
SCENE I
SCENE II
SCENE III
SCENE IV
SCENE V
SCENE VI
ACT III
SCENE I
SCENE II
SCENE III
SCENE IV
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
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 1820. 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 the 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 gaol.
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 b
y 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?