Роберт Льюис Стивенсон
The Plays of W. E. Henley and R. L. Stevenson
SCENE II
Anthony, Miss Foster
Anthony. What is the meaning of all this, ma’am? I don’t like it.
Miss Foster. Nothing, child, that I know. You spoke of Mr. Austin, our dear friend, like a groom; and she, like any lady of taste, took arms in his defence.
Anthony. No, ma’am, that won’t do. I know the sex. You mark my words, the girl has some confounded nonsense in her head, and wants looking after.
Miss Foster. In my presence, Anthony, I shall ask you to speak of Dorothy with greater respect. With your permission, your sister and I will continue to direct our own affairs. When we require the interference of so young and confident a champion, you shall know. (Curtsies, kisses her hand, and goes out, L.)
SCENE III
Anthony
Anthony. Upon my word, I think Aunt Evelina one of the most uncivil old women in the world. Nine weeks ago I came of age; and they still treat me like a boy. I’m a recognised Corinthian, too: take my liquor with old Fred, and go round with the Brummagem Bantam and Jack Bosb – .. O damn Jack Bosbury. If his father was a tailor, he shall fight me for his ungentlemanly conduct. However, that’s all one. What I want is to make Aunt Evelina understand that I’m not the man to be put down by an old maid who’s been brought up in a work-basket, begad! I’ve had nothing but rebuffs all day. It’s very remarkable. There was that man Austin, to begin with. I’ll be hanged if I can stand him. I hear too much of him; and if I can only get a good excuse to put him to the door, I believe it would give Dorothy and all of us a kind of a position. After all, he’s not a man to visit in the house of ladies: not when I’m away, at least. Nothing in it of course; but is he a man whose visits I can sanction?
SCENE IV
Anthony, Barbara
Barbara. Please, Mr. Anthony, Miss Foster said I was to show your room.
Anthony. Ha! Baby? Now, you come here. You’re a girl of sense, I know.
Barbara. La, Mr. Anthony, I hope I’m nothing of the kind.
Anthony. Come, come! that’s not the tone I want: I’m serious. Does this man Austin come much about the house?
Barbara. O Mr. Anthony, for shame! Why don’t you ask Miss Foster?
Anthony. Now I wish you to understand: I’m the head of this family. It’s my business to look after my sister’s reputation, and my aunt’s too, begad! That’s what I’m here for: I’m their natural protector. And what I want you, Barbara Ridley, to understand – you whose fathers have served my fathers – is just simply this: if you’ve any common gratitude, you’re bound to help me in the work. Now Barbara, you know me, and you know my Aunt Evelina. She’s a good enough woman; I’m the first to say so. But who is she to take care of a young girl? She’s ignorant of the world to that degree she believes in Beau Austin! Now you and I, Bab, who are not so high and dry, see through and through him; we know that a man like that is no fit company for any inexperienced girl.
Barbara. O Mr. Anthony, don’t say that. (Weeping.)
Anthony. Hullo! what’s wrong?
Barbara. Nothing that I know of. O Mr. Anthony, I don’t think there can be anything.
Anthony. Think? Don’t think? What’s this?
Barbara. O sir! I don’t know, and yet I don’t like it. Here’s my beautiful necklace all broke to bits: she took it off my very neck, and gave me her birthday pearls instead; and I found it afterwards on the table, all smashed to pieces; and all she wanted it for was to take and break it. Why that? It frightens me, Mr. Anthony, it frightens me.
Anthony (with necklace). This? What has this trumpery to do with us?
Barbara. He gave it me: that’s why she broke it.
Anthony. He? who?
Barbara. Mr. Austin did; and I do believe I should not have taken it, Mr. Anthony, but I thought no harm, upon my word of honour. He was always here: that was six months ago; and indeed, indeed, I thought they were to marry. How would I think else with a born lady like Miss Dorothy?
Anthony. Why, Barbara, God help us all, what’s this? You don’t mean to say that there was —
Barbara. Here it is, as true as true: they were going for a jaunt; and Miss Foster had her gout; and I was to go with them; and he told me to make-believe I was ill; and I did; and I stayed at home; and he gave me that necklace; and they went away together; and, oh dear! I wish I’d never been born.
Anthony. Together? he and Dolly? Good Lord! my sister! And since then?
Barbara. We haven’t seen him from that day to this, the wicked villain; and, Mr. Anthony, he hasn’t so much as written the poor dear a word.
Anthony. Bab, Bab, Bab, this is a devil of a bad business; this is a cruel bad business, Baby; cruel upon me, cruel upon all of us; a family like mine. I’m a young man, Barbara, to have this delicate affair to manage; but, thank God, I’m Musgrave to the bone. He bribed a servant-maid, did he? I keep his bribe; it’s mine now; dear bought, by George! He shall have it in his teeth. Shot Colonel Villiers, did he? we’ll see how he faces Anthony Musgrave. You’re a good girl, Barbara; so far you’ve served the family. You leave this to me. And, hark ye, dry your eyes and hold your tongue: I’ll have no scandal raised by you.
Barbara. I do hope, sir, you won’t use me against Miss Dorothy.
Anthony. That’s my affair; your business is to hold your tongue. Miss Dorothy has made her bed and must lie on it. Here’s Jack Fenwick. You can go.
SCENE V
Anthony, Fenwick
Anthony. Jack Fenwick, is that you? Come here, my boy. Jack, you’ve given me many a thrashing, and I deserved ’em; and I’ll not see you made a fool of now. George Austin is a damned villain, and Dorothy Musgrave is no girl for you to marry: God help me that I should have to say it.
Fenwick. Good God, who told you?
Anthony. Ay, Jack; it’s hard on me, Jack. But you’ll stand my friend in spite of this, and you’ll take my message to the man, won’t you? For it’s got to come to blood, Jack: there’s no way out of that. And perhaps your poor friend will fall, Jack; think of that: like Villiers. And all for an unworthy sister.
Fenwick. Now, Anthony Musgrave, I give you fair warning; see you take it: one word more against your sister, and we quarrel.
Anthony. You let it slip yourself, Jack: you know yourself she’s not a virtuous girl.
Fenwick. What do you know of virtue, whose whole boast is to be vicious? How dare you draw conclusions? Dolt and puppy! you can no more comprehend that angel’s excellencies than she can stoop to believe in your vices. And you talk morality? Anthony, I’m a man who has been somewhat roughly tried: take care.
Anthony. You don’t seem able to grasp the situation, Jack. It’s very remarkable; I’m the girl’s natural protector; and you should buckle-to and help, like a friend of the family. And instead of that, begad! you turn on me like all the rest.
Fenwick. Now mark me fairly: Mr. Austin follows at my heels; he comes to offer marriage to your sister – that is all you know, and all you shall know; and if by any misplaced insolence of yours this marriage should miscarry, you have to answer, not to Mr. Austin only, but to me.
Anthony. It’s all a most discreditable business, and I don’t see how you propose to better it by cutting my throat. Of course if he’s going to marry her, it’s a different thing; but I don’t believe he is, or he’d have asked me. You think me a fool? Well see they marry, or they’ll find me a dangerous fool.
SCENE VI
To these, Austin, Barbara announcing
Barbara. Mr. Austin. (She shows Austin in, and retires.)
Austin. You will do me the justice to acknowledge, Mr. Fenwick, that I have been not long delayed by my devotion to the Graces.
Anthony. So, sir, I find you in my house —
Austin. And charmed to meet you again. It went against my conscience to separate so soon. Youth, Mr. Musgrave, is to us older men a perpetual refreshment.
Anthony. You came here, sir, I suppose, upon some errand?
Austin. My errand, Mr. Musgrave, is to your fair sister. Beauty, as you know, comes before valour.
Anthony. In my own house, and about my own sister, I presume I have the right to ask for something more explicit.
Austin. The right, my dear sir, is beyond question; but it is one, as you were going on to observe, on which no gentleman insists.
Fenwick. Anthony, my good fellow, I think we had better go.
Anthony. I have asked a question.
Austin. Which I was charmed to answer, but which, on repetition, might begin to grow distasteful.
Anthony. In my own house —
Fenwick. For God’s sake, Anthony!
Austin. In your aunt’s house, young gentleman, I shall be careful to refrain from criticism. I am come upon a visit to a lady: that visit I shall pay; when you desire (if it be possible that you desire it) to resume this singular conversation, select some fitter place. Mr. Fenwick, this afternoon, may I present you to his Royal Highness?
Anthony. Why, sir, I believe you must have misconceived me. I have no wish to offend: at least at present.
Austin. Enough, sir. I was persuaded I had heard amiss. I trust we shall be friends.
Fenwick. Come, Anthony, come: here is your sister.
(As Fenwick and Anthony go out, C., enter Dorothy, L.)
SCENE VII
Austin, Dorothy
Dorothy. I am told, Mr. Austin, that you wish to see me.
Austin. Madam, can you doubt of that desire? can you question my sincerity?
Dorothy. Sir, between you and me these compliments are worse than idle: they are unkind. Sure, we are alone!
Austin. I find you in an hour of cruelty, I fear. Yet you have condescended to receive this poor offender; and having done so much, you will not refuse to give him audience.
Dorothy. You shall have no cause, sir, to complain of me. I listen.
Austin. My fair friend, I have sent myself – a poor ambassador – to plead for your forgiveness. I have been too long absent; too long, I would fain hope, madam, for you; too long for my honour and my love. I am no longer, madam, in my first youth; but I may say that I am not unknown. My fortune, originally small, has not suffered from my husbandry. I have excellent health, an excellent temper, and the purest ardour of affection for your person. I found not on my merits, but on your indulgence. Miss Musgrave, will you honour me with your hand in marriage?
Dorothy. Mr. Austin, if I thought basely of marriage, I should perhaps accept your offer. There was a time, indeed, when it would have made me proudest among women. I was the more deceived, and have to thank you for a salutary lesson. You chose to count me as a cipher in your rolls of conquest; for six months you left me to my fate; and you come here to-day – prompted, I doubt not, by an honourable impulse – to offer this tardy reparation. No: it is too late.
Austin. Do you refuse?
Dorothy. Yours is the blame: we are no longer equal. You have robbed me of the right to marry any one but you; and do you think me, then, so poor in spirit as to accept a husband on compulsion?
Austin. Dorothy, you loved me once.
Dorothy. Ay, you will never guess how much: you will never live to understand how ignominious a defeat that conquest was. I loved and trusted you: I judged you by myself; think, then, of my humiliation, when, at the touch of trial, all your qualities proved false, and I beheld you the slave of the meanest vanity – selfish, untrue, base! Think, sir, what a humbling of my pride to have been thus deceived: to have taken for my idol such a commonplace imposture as yourself; to have loved – yes, loved – such a shadow, such a mockery of man. And now I am unworthy to be the wife of any gentleman; and you – look me in the face, George – are you worthy to be my husband?
Austin. No, Dorothy, I am not. I was a vain fool; I blundered away the most precious opportunity; and my regret will be lifelong. Do me the justice to accept this full confession of my fault. I am here to-day to own and to repair it.
Dorothy. Repair it? Sir you condescend too far.
Austin. I perceive with shame how grievously I had misjudged you. But now, Dorothy, believe me, my eyes are opened. I plead with you, not as my equal, but as one in all ways better than myself. I admire you, not in that trivial sense in which we men are wont to speak of women, but as God’s work: as a wise mind, a noble soul, and a most generous heart, from whose society I have all to gain, all to learn. Dorothy, in one word, I love you.
Dorothy. And what, sir, has wrought this transformation? You knew me of old, or thought you knew me? Is it in six months of selfish absence that your mind has changed? When did that change begin? A week ago? Sure, you would have written! To-day? Sir, if this offer be anything more than fresh offence, I have a right to be enlightened.
Austin. Madam, I foresaw this question. So be it: I respect, and I will not deceive you. But give me, first of all, a moment for defence. There are few men of my habits and position who would have done as I have done: sate at the feet of a young boy, accepted his lessons, gone upon his errand: fewer still, who would thus, at the crisis of a love, risk the whole fortune of the soul – love, gratitude, even respect. Yet more than that! For conceive how I respect you, if I, whose lifelong trade has been flattery, stand before you and make the plain confession of a truth that must not only lower me, but deeply wound yourself.
Dorothy. What means – ?
Austin. Young Fenwick, my rival for your heart, he it was that sent me.
Dorothy. He? O disgrace! He sent you! That was what he meant? Am I fallen so low? Am I your common talk among men? Did you dice for me? Did he kneel? O John, John, how could you! And you, Mr. Austin, whither have you brought me down? shame heaping upon shame – to what end! oh, to what end?
Austin. Madam, you wound me: you look wilfully amiss. Sure, any lady in the land might well be proud to be loved as you are loved, with such nobility as Mr. Fenwick’s, with such humility as mine. I came, indeed, in pity, in good-nature, what you will. (See, dearest lady, with what honesty I speak: if I win you, it shall be with the unblemished truth.) All that is gone. Pity? it is myself I pity. I offer you not love – I am not worthy. I ask, I beseech of you: suffer me to wait upon you like a servant, to serve you with my rank, my name, the whole devotion of my life. I am a gentleman – ay, in spite of my fault – an upright gentleman; and I swear to you that you shall order your life and mine at your free will. Dorothy, at your feet, in remorse, in respect, in love – O such love as I have never felt, such love as I derided – I implore, I conjure you to be mine!
Dorothy. Too late! too late.
Austin. No, no, not too late: not too late for penitence, not too late for love.
Dorothy. Which do you propose? that I should abuse your compassion, or reward your treachery? George Austin, I have been your mistress, and I will never be your wife.
Austin. Child, dear child, I have not told you all: there is worse still: your brother knows; the boy as good as told me. Dorothy, this is scandal at the door – O let that move you: for that, if not for my sake, for that, if not for love, trust me, trust me again.
Dorothy. I am so much the more your victim: that is all, and shall that change my heart? The sin must have its wages. This, too, was done long ago: when you stooped to lie to me. The shame is still mine, the fault still yours.
Austin. Child, child, you kill me: you will not understand. Can you not see? the lad will force me to a duel.
Dorothy. And you will kill him? Shame after shame, threat upon threat. Marry me, or you are dishonoured; marry me, or your brother dies: and this is man’s honour! But my honour and my pride are different. I will encounter all misfortune sooner than degrade myself by an unfaithful marriage. How should I kneel before the altar, and vow to reverence as my husband you, you who deceived me as my lover?
Austin. Dorothy, you misjudge me cruelly; I have deserved it. You will not take me for your husband; why should I wonder? You are right. I have indeed filled your life with calamity: the wages, ay, the wages, of my sin are heavy upon you. But I have one more thing to ask of your pity; and O remember, child, who it is that asks it: a man guilty in your sight, void of excuse, but old, and very proud, and most unused to supplication. Dorothy Musgrave, will you forgive George Austin?
Dorothy. O, George!
Austin. It is the old name: that is all I ask, and more than I deserve. I shall remember, often remember, how and where it was bestowed upon me for the last time. I thank you, Dorothy, from my heart; a heart, child, that has been too long silent, but is not too old, I thank God! not yet too old, to learn a lesson and to accept a reproof. I will not keep you longer: I will go – I am so bankrupt in credit that I dare not ask you to believe in how much sorrow. But, Dorothy, my acts will speak for me with more persuasion. If it be in my power, you shall suffer no more through me: I will avoid your brother; I will leave this place, I will leave England, to-morrow; you shall be no longer tortured with the neighbourhood of your ungenerous lover. Dorothy, farewell!
SCENE VIII
Dorothy; to whom, Anthony, L
Dorothy (on her knees, and reaching with her hands.) George, George! (Enter Anthony.)
Anthony. Ha! what are you crying for?
Dorothy. Nothing, dear! (Rising.)
Anthony. Is Austin going to marry you?
Dorothy. I shall never marry.
Anthony. I thought as much. You should have come to me.
Dorothy. I know, dear, I know; but there was nothing to come about.
Anthony. It’s a lie. You have disgraced the family. You went to John Fenwick: see what he has made of it! But I will have you righted: it shall be atoned in the man’s blood.
Dorothy. Anthony! And if I had refused him?
Anthony. You? refuse George Austin? You never had the chance.
Dorothy. I have refused him.
Anthony. Dorothy, you lie. You would shield your lover; but this concerns not you only: it strikes my honour and my father’s honour.
Dorothy. I have refused him – refused him, I tell you – refused him. The blame is mine; are you so mad and wicked that you will not see?
Anthony. I see this: that man must die.
Dorothy. He? never! You forget, you forget whom you defy; you run upon your death.
Anthony. Ah, my girl, you should have thought of that before. It is too late now.
Dorothy. Anthony, if I beg you – Anthony, I have tried to be a good sister; I brought you up, dear, nursed you when you were sick, fought for you, hoped for you, loved you – think of it, think of the dear past, think of our home and the happy winter nights, the castles in the fire, the long shining future, the love that was to forgive and suffer always – O you will spare, you will spare me this.
Anthony. I will tell you what I will do, Dolly: I will do just what you taught me – my duty: that, and nothing else.
Dorothy. O Anthony, you also, you to strike me! Heavens, shall I kill them – I – I, that love them, kill them! Miserable, sinful girl! George, George, thank God, you will be far away! O go, George, go at once!
Anthony. He goes the coward! Ay, is this more of your contrivance? Madam, you make me blush. But to-day at least I know where I can find him. This afternoon, on the Pantiles, he must dance attendance on the Duke of York. Already he must be there; and there he is at my mercy.
Dorothy. Thank God, you are deceived: he will not fight. He promised me that; thank God I have his promise for that.
Anthony. Promise! Do you see this? (producing necklace) the thing he bribed your maid with? I shall dash it in his teeth before the Duke and before all Tunbridge. Promise, you poor fool? what promise holds against a blow? Get to your knees and pray for him; for, by the God above, if he has any blood in his body, one of us shall die before to-night. (He goes out.)
Dorothy. Anthony, Anthony!.. O my God, George will kill him.
Music: ‘Chè farò,’ as the drop falls.
Drop
ACT IV
Musical Induction: ‘Gavotte;’ ‘Iphigénie en Aulide.’
Gluck
The Stage represents the Pantiles: the alleys fronting the spectators in parallel lines. At the back, a stand of musicians, from which the ‘Gavotte’ is repeated on muted strings. The music continues nearly through Scene I. Visitors walking to and fro beneath the lines. A seat in front, L.
