SCENE I
Macaire, Bertrand
Macaire. Bertrand, I am content: a child might play with me. Does your pipe draw well?
Bertrand. Like a factory chimney. This is my notion of life: liquor, a chair, a table to put my feet on, a fine clean pipe, and no police.
Macaire. Bertrand, do you see these changing exhalations do you see these blue rings and spirals, weaving their dance, like a round of fairies, on the footless air?
Bertrand. I see ‘em right enough.
Macaire. Man of little vision, expound me these meteors! What do they signify, O wooden-head? Clod, of what do they consist?
Bertrand. Damned bad tobacco.
Macaire. I will give you a little course of science. Everything, Bertrand (much as it may surprise you), has three states: a vapour, a liquid, a solid. These are fortune in the vapour: these are ideas. What are ideas? the protoplasm of wealth. To your head — which, by the way, is solid, Bertrand — what are they but foul air? To mine, to my prehensile and constructive intellects, see, as I grasp and work them, to what lineaments of the future they transform themselves: a palace, a barouche, a pair of luminous footmen, plate, wine, respect, and to be honest!
Bertrand. But what’s the sense in honesty?
Macaire. The sense? You see me: Macaire: elegant, immoral, invincible in cunning; well, Bertrand, much as it may surprise you, I am simply damned by my dishonesty.
Bertrand. No!
Macaire. The honest man, Bertrand, that’s God’s noblest work. He carries the bag, my boy. Would you have me define honesty? the strategic point for theft. Bertrand, if I’d three hundred a year, I’d be honest to-morrow.
Bertrand. Ah! don’t you wish you may get it!
Macaire. Bertrand, I will bet you my head against your own — the longest odds I can imagine — that with honesty for my spring-board, I leap through history like a paper hoop, and come out among posterity heroic and immortal.
SCENE II
To these, all the former characters, less the Notary. The fiddles are heard without playing dolefully. Air: “O dear, what can the matter be?” in time to which the procession enters
Macaire. Well, friends, what cheer?
Aline. No wedding, no wedding!
Goriot. I told ‘ee he can’t, and ‘ee can’t.
Dumont. Dear, dear me!
Ernestine. They won’t let us marry.
Charles. No wife, no father, no nothing!
}
Together.
Curate. The facts have justified the worst anticipations of our absent friend, the Notary.
Macaire. I perceive I must reveal myself.
Dumont. God bless me, no!
Macaire. My friends, I had meant to preserve a strict incognito, for I was ashamed (I own it!) of this poor accoutrement; but when I see a face that I can render happy, say, my old Dumont, should I hesitate to work the change? Hear me, then, and you (to the others) prepare a smiling countenance. (Repeating.) “Preserve this letter secretly; its terms are known only to you and me: hence when the time comes, I shall repeat them, and my son will recognise his father. — Your Unknown Benefactor.”
Dumont. The words! the letter! Charles, alas! it is your father!
Charles. Good Lord! (General consternation.)
Bertrand (aside; smiting his brow). I see it now; sublime!
Curate. A highly singular eventuality.
Goriot. Him? O well, then, I wun’t. (Goes up.)
Macaire. Charles, to my arms! (Business.) Ernestine, your second father waits to welcome you. (Business.) Goriot, noble old man, I grasp your hand. (He doesn’t.) And you, Dumont, how shall your unknown benefactor thank you for your kindness to his boy? (A dead pause.) Charles, to my arms!
Charles. My father, you are still something of a stranger. I hope — er — in the course of time — I hope that may be somewhat mended. But I confess that I have so long regarded Mr. Dumont — —
Macaire. Love him still, dear boy, love him still. I have not returned to be a burden on your heart, nor much, comparatively, on your pocket. A place by the fire, dear boy, a crust for my friend, Bertrand. (A dead pause.) Ah, well, this is a different home-coming from that I fancied when I left the letter: I dreamed to grow rich. Charles, you remind me of your sainted mother.
Charles. I trust, sir, you do not think yourself less welcome for your poverty.
Macaire. Nay, nay — more welcome, more welcome. O, I know your — (business) backs! Besides, my poverty is noble. Political.... Dumont, what are your politics?
Dumont. A plain old republican, my lord.
Macaire. And yours, my good Goriot?
Goriot. I be a royalist, I be, and so be my daater.
Macaire. How strange is the coincidence! The party that I sought to found combined the peculiarities of both; a patriotic enterprise in which I fell. This humble fellow ... have I introduced him? You behold in us the embodiment of aristocracy and democracy. Bertrand, shake hands with my family. (Bertrand is rebuffed by one and the other in dead silence.)
Bertrand. Sold again!
Macaire. Charles, to my arms! (Business.)
Ernestine. Well, but now that he has a father of some kind, cannot the marriage go on?
Macaire. Angel, this very night: I burn to take my grandchild on my knees.
Goriot. Be you that young man’s veyther?
Macaire. Ay, and what a father!
Goriot. Then all I’ve got to say is, I shan’t and I wun’t.
Macaire. Ah, friends, friends, what a satisfaction it is, what a sight is virtue! I came among you in this poor attire to test you; how nobly have you borne the test! But my disguise begins to irk me: who will lend me a good suit? (Business.)
SCENE III
To these, the Marquis, L.C.
Marquis. Is this the house of John Paul Dumont, once of Lyons?
Dumont. It is, sir, and I am he, at your disposal.
Marquis. I am the Marquis Villers-Cotterets de la Cherté de Médoc. (Sensation.)
Marcaire. Marquis, delighted, I am sure.
Marquis (to Dumont). I come, as you perceive, unfollowed; my errand, therefore, is discreet. I come (producing notes from breast-pocket) equipped with thirty thousand francs; my errand, therefore, must be generous. Can you not guess?
Dumont. Not I, my lord.
Marquis (repeating). “Preserve this letter,” etc.
Marcaire. Bitten!
Bertrand. Sold again! (Aside.) (A pause.)
Aline. Well, I never did!
Dumont. Two fathers!
Marquis. Two? Impossible.
Dumont. Not at all. This is the other.
Marquis. This man?
Marcaire. This is the man, my lord; here stands the father. Charles, to my arms! (Charles backs.)
Dumont. He knew the letter.
Marquis. Well, so did I.
Curate. The judgment of Solomon.
Goriot. What did I tell ‘ee? he can’t marry.
Ernestine. Couldn’t they both consent?
Marquis. But he’s my living image.
Marcaire. Mine, Marquis, mine.
Marquis. My figure, I think?
Marcaire. Ah, Charles, Charles!
Curate. We used to think his physiognomy resembled Dumont’s.
Dumont. Come to look at him, he’s really like Goriot.
Ernestine. O papa, I hope he’s not my brother.
Goriot. What be talking of? I tell ‘ee, he’s like our Curate.
Charles. Gentlemen, my head aches.
Marquis. I have it: the involuntary voice of nature, at me, my son.
Macaire. Nay, Charles, but look at me.
Charles. Gentlemen, I am unconscious of the smallest natural inclination for either.
Marquis. Another thought: what was his mother’s name?
Macaire. What was the name of his mother by you?
Marquis. Sir, you are silenced.
Macaire. Silenced by honour. I had rather lose my boy than compromise
his sainted mother.
Marquis. A thought; twins might explain it: had you not two foundlings?
Dumont. Nay, sir, one only; and, judging by the miseries of this evening, I should say, thank God!
Macaire. My friends, leave me alone with the Marquis. It is only a father that can understand a father’s heart. Bertrand, follow the members of my family. (They troop out, L.U.E. and R.U.E., the fiddlers playing. Air: “O dear, what can the matter be?”)
SCENE IV
Macaire, Marquis
Marquis. Well, sir?
Macaire. My lord, I feel for you. (Business. They sit, R.)
Marquis. And now, sir?
Macaire. The bond that joins us is remarkable and touching.
Marquis. Well, sir?
Macaire (touching him on the breast). You have there thirty thousand francs.
Marquis. Well, sir?
Macaire. I was but thinking of the inequalities of life, my lord: that I, who, for all you know, may be the father of your son, should have nothing; and that you, who, for all I know, may be the father of mine, should be literally bulging with bank notes.... Where do you keep them at night?
Marquis. Under my pillow. I think it rather ingenious.
Macaire. Admirably so. I applaud the device.
Marquis. Well, sir?
Macaire. Do you snuff, my lord?
Marquis. No, sir, I do not.
Macaire. My lord, I am a poor man.
Marquis. Well, sir? and what of that?
Macaire. The affections, my lord, are priceless. Money will not buy them; or, at least, it takes a great deal.
Marquis. Sir, your sentiments do you honour.
Macaire. My lord, you are rich.
Marquis. Well, sir?
Macaire. Now follow me, I beseech you. Here am I, my lord; and there, if I may so express myself, are you. Each has a father’s heart, and there we are equal; each claims yon interesting lad, and there again we are on a par. But, my lord — and here we come to the inequality, and what I consider the unfairness of the thing — you have thirty thousand francs, and I, my lord, have not a rap. You mark me! not a rap, my lord! My lord, put yourself in my position; consider what must be my feelings, my desires; and — hey?
Marquis. I fail to grasp....
Macaire (with irritation). My dear man, there is the door of the house; here am I; there (touching Marquis on the breast) are thirty thousand francs. Well, now?
Marquis. I give you my word of honour, sir, I gather nothing; my mind is quite unused to such prolonged exertion. If the boy be yours, he is not mine; if he be mine, he is not yours; and if he is neither of ours, or both of ours ... in short, my mind....
Macaire. My lord, will you lay those thirty thousand francs upon the table?
Marquis. I fail to grasp ... but if it will in any way oblige you.... (Does so.)
Marcaire. Now, my lord, follow me: I take them up; you see? I put them in my pocket; you follow me? This is my hat; here is my stick; and here is my — my friend’s bundle.
Marquis. But that is my cloak.
Marcaire. Precisely. Now, my lord, one more effort of your lordship’s mind. If I were to go out of that door, with the full intention — follow me close — the full intention of never being heard of more, what would you do?
Marquis. I! — send for the police.
Marcaire. Take your money! (Dashing down the notes.) Man, if I met you in a lane! (He drops his head upon the table.)
Marquis. The poor soul is insane. The other man, whom I suppose to be his keeper, is very much to blame.
Marcaire (raising his head). I have a light! (To Marquis.) With invincible oafishness, my lord, I cannot struggle. I pass you by; I leave you gaping by the wayside; I blush to have a share in the progeny of such an owl. Off, off, and send the tapster!
Marquis. Poor fellow! (Exit.)
SCENE V
Marcaire, to whom Bertrand. Afterwards Dumont
Bertrand. Well?
Marcaire. Bitten!
Bertrand. Sold again!
Marcaire. Had he the wit of a lucifer-match! But what can gods or men against stupidity? Still, I have a trick. Where is that damned old man?
Dumont (entering). I hear you want me.
Marcaire. Ah, my good old Dumont, this is very sad.
Dumont. Dear me, what is wrong?
Marcaire. Dumont, you had a dowry for my son?
Dumont. I had; I have: ten thousand francs.
Marcaire. It’s a poor thing, but it must do. Dumont, I bury my old hopes, my old paternal tenderness.
Dumont. What? is he not your son?
Marcaire. Pardon me, my friend. The Marquis claims my boy. I will not seek to deny that he attempted to corrupt me, or that I spurned his gold. It was thirty thousand.
Dumont. Noble soul!
Marcaire. One has a heart.... He spoke, Dumont, that proud noble spoke, of the advantages to our beloved Charles; and in my father’s heart a voice arose, louder than thunder. Dumont, was I unselfish? The voice said no; the voice, Dumont, up and told me to begone.
Dumont. To begone? to go?
Marcaire. To begone, Dumont, and to go. Both, Dumont. To leave my son to marry, and be rich and happy as the son of another; to creep forth myself, old, penniless, broken-hearted, exposed to the inclemencies of heaven and the rebuffs of the police.
Dumont. This is what I had looked for at your hands. Noble, noble man!
Marcaire. One has a heart ... and yet, Dumont, it can hardly have escaped your penetration that if I were to shift from this hostelry without a farthing and leave my offspring to wallow — literally — among millions, I should play the part of little better than an ass.
Dumont. But I had thought ... I had fancied....
Marcaire. No, Dumont, you had not; do not seek to impose upon my simplicity. What you did think was this, Dumont: for the sake of this noble father, for the sake of this son whom he denies for his own interest — I mean, for his interest — no, I mean, for his own — well, anyway, in order to keep up the general atmosphere of sacrifice and nobility, I must hand over this dowry to the Baron Henri-Frédéric de Latour de Main de la Tonnerre de Brest.
Dumont. Noble, O noble!
Bertrand. Beautiful, O beautiful!
}
Together: each shaking him by the hand.
Dumont. Now Charles is rich he needs it not. For whom could it more fittingly be set aside than for his noble father? I will give it you at once.
Bertrand. At once, at once!
Macaire (aside to Bertrand). Hang on. (Aloud.) Charles, Charles, my lost boy! (He falls weeping at L. table. Dumont enters the office and brings down cash-box to table R. He feels in all his pockets: Bertrand from behind him making signs to Macaire, which the latter does not see.)
Dumont. That’s strange. I can’t find the key. It’s a patent key.
Bertrand (behind Dumont, making signs to Macaire). The key, he can’t find the key.
Macaire. O, yes, I remember. I heard it drop. (Drops key.) And here it is before my eyes.
Dumont. That? That’s yours. I saw it drop.
Macaire. I give you my word of honour I heard it fall five minutes back.
Dumont. But I saw it.
Macaire. Impossible. It must be yours.
Dumont. It is like mine, indeed. How came it in your pocket?
Macaire. Bitten! (Aside.)
Bertrand. Sold again! (Aside) ... You forget, Baron, it’s the key of my valise; I gave it you to keep in consequence of the hole in my pocket.
Macaire. True, true; and that explains.
Dumont. O, that explains. Now, all we have to do is to find mine. It’s a patent key. You heard it drop.
Complete Works of Robert Louis Stevenson (Illustrated) Page 415
