Complete Works of Robert Louis Stevenson (Illustrated) (536 page)
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Authors: ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
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 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 leans 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. Oh, 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.
)
SCENE II
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
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