of society, much of love. When I was young, it was expected of a
gentleman to be ready with his hat to a lady, ready with his sword to a
man; to honour his word and his king; to be courteous with his equals,
generous to his dependants, helpful and trusty in friendship. But it was
not asked of us to be quixotic. If I had married every lady by whom it
is my fortune—not my merit—to have been distinguished, the Wells would
scarce be spacious enough for my establishment. You see, sir, that while
I respect your emotion, I am myself conducted by experience. And
besides, Mr. Fenwick, is not love a warfare? has it not rules? have not
our fair antagonists their tactics, their weapons, their place of arms?
and is there not a touch of—pardon me the word! of silliness in one who,
having fought, and having vanquished, sounds a parley, and capitulates to
his own prisoner? Had the lady chosen, had the fortune of war been
other, ’tis like she had been Mrs. Austin. Now I . . . You know the
world.
FENWICK. I know, sir, that the world contains much cowardice. To find
Mr. Austin afraid to do the right, this surprises me.
AUSTIN. Afraid, child?
FENWICK. Yes, sir, afraid. You know her, you know if she be worthy; and
you answer me with—the world: the world which has been at your feet: the
world which Mr. Austin knows so well how to value and is so able to rule.
AUSTIN. I have lived long enough, Mr. Fenwick, to recognise that the
world is a great power. It can make; but it can break.
FENWICK. Sir, suffer me: you spoke but now of friendship, and spoke
warmly. Have you forgotten Colonel Villiers?
AUSTIN. Mr. Fenwick, Mr. Fenwick, you forget what I have suffered.
FENWICK. O sir, I know you loved him. And yet, for a random word you
quarrelled; friendship was weighed in vain against the world’s code of
honour; you fought, and your friend fell. I have heard from others how
he lay long in agony, and how you watched and nursed him, and it was in
your embrace he died. In God’s name have you forgotten that? Was not
this sacrifice enough? or must the world, once again, step between Mr.
Austin and his generous heart?
AUSTIN. Good God, sir, I believe you are in the right; I believe, upon
my soul I believe, there is something in what you say.
FENWICK. Something, Mr. Austin? O credit me, the whole difference
betwixt good and evil.
AUSTIN. Nay, nay, but there you go too far. There are many kinds of
good: honour is a diamond cut in a thousand facets, and with the true
fire in each. Thus, and with all our differences, Mr. Fenwick, you and I
can still respect, we can still admire each other.
FENWICK. Bear with me still, sir, if I ask you what is the end of life
but to excel in generosity? To pity the weak, to comfort the afflicted,
to right where we have wronged, to be brave in reparation—these noble
elements you have; for of what besides is the fabric of your dealing with
Colonel Villiers? That is man’s chivalry to man. Yet to a suffering
woman—a woman feeble, betrayed, unconsoled—you deny your clemency, you
refuse your aid, you proffer injustice for atonement. Nay, you are so
disloyal to yourself that you can choose to be ungenerous and unkind.
Where, sir, is the honour? What facet of the diamond is that?
AUSTIN. You forget, sir, you forget. But go on.
FENWICK. O sir, not I—not I but yourself forgets: George Austin forgets
George Austin. A woman loved by him, betrayed by him, abandoned by
him—that woman suffers; and a point of honour keeps him from his place at
her feet. She has played and lost, and the world is with him if he deign
to exact the stakes. Is that the Mr. Austin whom Miss Musgrave honoured
with her trust? Then, sir, how miserably was she deceived!
AUSTIN. Child—child—
FENWICK. Mr. Austin, still bear with me, still follow me. O sir, will
you not picture that dear lady’s life? Her years how few, her error thus
irreparable, what henceforth can be her portion but remorse, the
consciousness of self-abasement, the shame of knowing that her trust was
ill-bestowed? To think of it: this was a queen among women; and
this—this is George Austin’s work! Sir, let me touch your heart: let me
prevail with you to feel that ’tis impossible.
AUSTIN. I am a gentleman. What do you ask of me?
FENWICK. To be the man she loved: to be clement where the world would
have you triumph, to be of equal generosity with the vanquished, to be
worthy of her sacrifice and of yourself.
AUSTIN. Mr. Fenwick, your reproof is harsh—
FENWICK (_interrupting him_). O sir, be, just be just!—
AUSTIN. But it is merited, and I thank you for its utterance. You tell
me that the true victory comes when the fight is won: that our foe is
never so noble nor so dangerous as when she is fallen, that the crowning
triumph is that we celebrate over our conquering selves. Sir, you are
right. Kindness, ay kindness after all. And with age, to become
clement. Yes, ambition first; then, the rounded vanity—victory still
novel; and last, as you say, the royal mood of the mature man; to
abdicate for others . . . Sir, you touched me hard about my dead friend;
still harder about my living duty; and I am not so young but I can take a
lesson. There is my hand upon it: she shall be my wife.
FENWICK. Ah, Mr. Austin, I was sure of it.
AUSTIN. Then, sir, you were vastly mistaken. There is nothing of Beau
Austin here. I have simply, my dear child, sate at the feet of Mr.
Fenwick.
FENWICK. Ah, sir, your heart was counsellor enough.
AUSTIN. Pardon me. I am vain enough to be the judge: there are but two
people in the world who could have wrought this change: yourself and that
dear lady. (_Touches bell_.) Suffer me to dismiss you. One instant of
toilet, and I follow. Will you do me the honour to go before, and
announce my approach? (_Enter_ MENTEITH.)
FENWICK. Sir, if my admiration—
AUSTIN. Dear child, the admiration is the other way. (_Embraces him_.
MENTEITH _shows him out_.)
SCENE V
AUSTIN
AUSTIN. Upon my word, I think the world is getting better. We were none
of us young men like that—in my time, to quote my future brother. (_He
sits down before the mirror_.) Well, here ends Beau Austin. Paris,
Rome, Vienna, London—victor everywhere: and now he must leave his bones
in Tunbridge Wells. (_Looks at his leg_.) Poor Dolly Musgrave! a good
girl after all, and will make me a good wife; none better. The last—of
how many?—ay, and the best! Walks like Hebe. But still, here ends Beau
Austin. Perhaps it’s time. Poor Dolly—was she looking poorly? She
shall have her wish. Well, we grow older, but we grow no worse.
SCENE VI
AUSTIN, MENTEITH
AUSTIN. Menteith, I am going to be married.
MENTEITH. Well, Mr. George, but I am pleased to hear it. Miss Musgrave
is a most elegant lady.
AUSTIN. Ay, Mr. Menteith? and who told you the lady’s name?
MENTEITH. Mr. George, you was always a gentleman.
AUSTIN. You mean I wasn’t always? Old boy, you are in the right. This
shall be a good change for both you and me. We have lived too long like
a brace of truants: now is the time to draw about the fire. How much is
left of the old Hermitage?
MENTEITH. Hard upon thirty dozen, Mr. George, and not a bad cork in the
bin.
AUSTIN. And a mistress, Menteith, that’s worthy of that wine.
MENTEITH. Mr. George, sir, she’s worthy of you.
AUSTIN. Gad, I believe it. (_Shakes hands with him_.)
MENTEITH (_breaking down_). Mr. George, you’ve been a damned good master
to me, and I’ve been a damned good servant to you; we’ve been proud of
each other from the first; but if you’ll excuse my plainness, Mr. George,
I never liked you better than to-day.
AUSTIN. Cheer up, old boy, the best is yet to come. Get out the tongs,
and curl me like a bridegroom. (_Sits before dressing-glass_; MENTEITH
_produces curling irons and plies them_. AUSTIN _sings_)—
‘I’d crowns resign
To call her mine,
Sweet Lass of Richmond Hill!’
DROP
ACT III.
MUSICAL INDUCTION: the ‘Minuet’ from ‘_Don Giovanni_’
_The stage represents Miss Foster’s lodging as in Act I_.
SCENE I
DOROTHY, R., _at tambour_; ANTHONY, _C._, _bestriding chair_; MISS
FOSTER, _L.C._
ANTHONY. Yes, ma’am, I like my regiment: we are all gentlemen, from old
Fred downwards, and all of a good family. Indeed, so are all my friends,
except one tailor sort of fellow, Bosbury. But I’m done with him. I
assure you, Aunt Evelina, we are Corinthian to the last degree. I
wouldn’t shock you ladies for the world—
MISS FOSTER. Don’t mind me, my dear; go on.
ANTHONY. Really, ma’am, you must pardon me: I trust I understand what
topics are to be avoided among females—And before my sister, too! A girl
of her age!
DOROTHY. Why, you dear, silly fellow, I’m old enough to be your mother.
ANTHONY. My dear Dolly, you do not understand; you are not a man of the
world. But, as I was going on to say, there is no more spicy regiment in
the service.
MISS FOSTER. I am not surprised that it maintains its old reputation.
You know, my dear (_to_ DOROTHY), it was George Austin’s regiment.
DOROTHY. Was it, aunt?
ANTHONY. Beau Austin? Yes, it was; and a precious dust they make about
him still—a parcel of old frumps! That’s why I went to see him. But
he’s quite extinct: he couldn’t be Corinthian if he tried.
MISS FOSTER. I am afraid that even at your age George Austin held a very
different position from the distinguished Anthony Musgrave.
ANTHONY. Come, ma’am, I take that unkindly. Of course I know what
you’re at: of course the old pût cut no end of a dash with the Duchess.
MISS FOSTER. My dear child, I was thinking of no such thing; _that_ was
immoral.
ANTHONY. Then you mean that affair at Brighton: when he cut the Prince
about Perdita Robinson.
MISS FOSTER. No, I had forgotten it.
ANTHONY. O, well, I know—that duel! But look here, Aunt Evelina, I
don’t think you’d be much gratified after all if I were to be broke for
killing my commanding officer about a quarrel at cards.
DOROTHY. Nobody asks you, Anthony, to imitate Mr. Austin. I trust you
will set yourself a better model. But you may choose a worse. With all
his faults, and all his enemies, Mr. Austin is a pattern gentleman: You
would not ask a man to be braver, and there are few so generous. I
cannot bear to hear him called in fault by one so young. Better judges,
dear, are better pleased.
ANTHONY. Hey-day! what’s this?
MISS FOSTER. Why, Dolly, this is April and May. You surprise me.
DOROTHY. I am afraid, indeed, madam, that you have much to suffer from
my caprice. (_She goes out_, _L._)
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._
SCENE I
MISS FOSTER, BARBARA, MENTEITH; _Visitors_
MISS FOSTER (_entering_; _escorted by_ MENTEITH, _and followed by_
BARBARA). And so, Menteith, here you are once more. And vastly pleased
I am to see you, my good fellow, not only for your own sake, but because
you harbinger the Beau. (_Sits_, _L._; MENTEITH _standing over her_.)
MENTEITH. Honoured madam, I have had the pleasure to serve Mr. George
for more than thirty years. This is a privilege—a very great privilege.
I have beheld him in the first societies, moving among the first rank of
personages; and none, madam, none outshone him.
BARBARA. I assure you, madam, when Mr. Menteith took me to the play, he
talked so much of Mr. Austin that I couldn’t hear a word of Mr. Kean.
MISS FOSTER. Well, well, and very right. That was the old school of
service, Barbara, which you would do well to imitate. This is a child,
Menteith, that I am trying to form.
MENTEITH. Quite so, madam.
MISS FOSTER. And are we soon to see our princely guest, Menteith?
MENTEITH. His Royal Highness, madam? I believe I may say quite so. Mr.
George will receive our gallant prince upon the Pantiles (_looking at his
watch_) in, I should say, a matter of twelve minutes from now. Such,
madam, is Mr. George’s order of the day.
BARBARA. I beg your pardon, madam, I am sure, but are we really to see
one of His Majesty’s own brothers? That will be pure! O madam, this is
better than Carlisle.
MISS FOSTER. The wood-note wild: a loyal Cumbrian, Menteith.
MENTEITH. Eh? Quite so, madam.
MISS FOSTER. When she has seen as much of the Royal Family as you, my
good fellow, she will find it vastly less entertaining.
MENTEITH. Yes, madam, indeed; In these distinguished circles, life is
but a slavery. None of the best set would relish Tunbridge without Mr.
George; Tunbridge and Mr. George (if you’ll excuse my plainness, madam)
are in a manner of speaking identified; and indeed it was the Dook’s
desire alone that brought us here.
BARBARA. What? the Duke? O dear! was it for that?
MENTEITH. Though, to be sure, madam, Mr. George would always be charmed
to find himself (_bowing_) among so many admired members of his own set.
MISS FOSTER. Upon my word, Menteith, Mr. Austin is as fortunate in his
servant as his reputation.
MENTEITH. Quite so, madam. But let me observe that the opportunities I
have had of acquiring a knowledge of Mr. George’s character have been
positively unrivalled. Nobody knows Mr. George like his old attendant.
The goodness of that gentleman—but, madam, you will soon be equally
fortunate, if, as I understand, it is to be a match.
MISS FOSTER. I hope, Menteith, you are not taking leave of your senses.
Is it possible you mean my niece?
MENTEITH. Madam, I have the honour to congratulate you. I put a second
curl in Mr. George’s hair on purpose.
SCENE II
_To these_, AUSTIN. MENTEITH _falls back_, _and_ AUSTIN _takes his place
in front of_ MISS FOSTER, _his attitude a counterpart of_ MENTEITH’S.
AUSTIN. Madam, I hasten to present my homage.
MISS FOSTER. A truce to compliments! Menteith, your charming fellow
there, has set me positively crazy. Dear George Austin, is it true? can
it be true?
AUSTIN. Madam, if he has been praising your niece he has been well
inspired. If he was speaking, as I spoke an hour ago myself, I wish,
Miss Foster, that he had held his tongue. I have indeed offered myself
to Miss Dorothy, and she, with the most excellent reason, has refused me.
MISS FOSTER. Is it possible? why, my dear George Austin . . . then I
suppose it is John Fenwick after all!
AUSTIN. Not one of us is worthy.
MISS FOSTER. This is the most amazing circumstance. You take my breath
away. My niece refuse George Austin? why, I give you my word, I thought
she had adored you. A perfect scandal: it positively must not get
abroad.
AUSTIN. Madam, for that young lady I have a singular regard. Judge me
as tenderly as you can, and set it down, if you must, to an old man’s
vanity—for, Evelina, we are no longer in the heyday of our youth—judge me
as you will: I should prefer to have it known.
MISS FOSTER. Can you? George Austin, you? My youth was nothing; I was
a failure; but for you? no, George, you never can, you never must be old.
You are the triumph of my generation, George, and of our old friendship
too. Think of my first dance and my first partner. And to have this
story—no, I could not bear to have it told of you.
AUSTIN. Madam, there are some ladies over whom it is a boast to have
prevailed; there are others whom it is a glory to have loved. And I am
so vain, dear Evelina, that even thus I am proud to link my name with
that of Dorothy Musgrave.
MISS FOSTER. George, you are changed. I would not know you.
AUSTIN. I scarce know myself. But pardon me, dear friend (_taking his
watch_), in less than four minutes our illustrious guest will descend
amongst us; and I observe Mr. Fenwick, with whom I have a pressing
business. Suffer me, dear Evelina!—
SCENE III
_To these_, FENWICK. MISS FOSTER _remains seated_, _L._ AUSTIN _goes R.
to_ FENWICK, _whom he salutes with great respect_
AUSTIN. Mr. Fenwick, I have played and lost. That noble lady, justly
incensed at my misconduct, has condemned me. Under the burden of such a
loss, may I console myself with the esteem of Mr. Fenwick?
FENWICK. She refused you? Pardon me, sir, but was the fault not yours?
AUSTIN. Perhaps to my shame, I am no novice, Mr. Fenwick; but I have
never felt nor striven as to-day. I went upon your errand; but, you may
trust me, sir, before I had done I found it was my own. Until to-day I
never rightly valued her; sure, she is fit to be a queen. I have a
remorse here at my heart to which I am a stranger. Oh! that was a brave
life, that was a great heart that I have ruined.
FENWICK. Ay, sir, indeed.
AUSTIN. But, sir, it is not to lament the irretrievable that I intrude
myself upon your leisure. There is something to be done, to save, at
least to spare, that lady. You did not fail to observe the brother?
FENWICK. No, sir, he knows all; and being both intemperate and ignorant—
AUSTIN. Surely. I know. I have to ask you then to find what friends
you can among this company; and if you have none, to make them. Let
everybody hear the news. Tell it (if I may offer the suggestion) with
humour: how Mr. Austin, somewhat upon the wane, but still filled with
sufficiency, gloriously presumed and was most ingloriously set down by a
young lady from the north: the lady’s name a secret, which you will
permit to be divined. The laugh—the position of the hero—will make it
circulate;—you perceive I am in earnest;—and in this way I believe our
young friend will find himself forestalled.
FENWICK. Mr. Austin, I would not have dared to ask so much of you; I
will go further: were the positions changed, I should fear to follow your
example.
AUSTIN. Child, child, you could not afford it.
SCENE IV
_To there_, _the_ ROYAL DUKE, _C._; _then_, _immediately_, ANTHONY, _L._
FENWICK _crosses to_ MISS FOSTER, _R._ AUSTIN _accosts the_ DUKE, _C._,
_in dumb show_; _the muted strings take up a new air_, _Mozart’s_
‘_Anglaise_’; _couples passing under the limes_, _and forming a group
behind_ AUSTIN _and the_ DUKE. ANTHONY _in front_, _L._, _watches_
AUSTIN, _who_, _as he turns from the_ DUKE, _sees him_, _and comes
forward with extended hand_
AUSTIN. Dear child, let me present you to his Royal Highness.
ANTHONY (_with necklace_). Mr. Austin, do you recognise the bribe you
gave my sister’s maid?
AUSTIN. Hush, sir, hush! you forget the presence of the Duke.
ANTHONY. Mr. Austin, you are a coward and a scoundrel.
AUSTIN. My child, you will regret these words: I refuse your quarrel.
ANTHONY. You do? Take that. (_He strikes_ AUSTIN _on the mouth_. _At
the moment of the blow_—)
SCENE V
_To these_, DOROTHY, _L. U. E._ DOROTHY, _unseen by_ AUSTIN, _shrieks_.
_Sensation_. _Music stops_. _Tableau_
AUSTIN (_recovering his composure_). Your Royal Highness, suffer me to
excuse the disrespect of this young gentleman. He has so much apology,
and I have, I hope, so good a credit, as incline me to accept this blow.
But I must beg of your Highness, and, gentlemen, all of you here present,
to bear with me while I will explain what is too capable of
misconstruction. I am the rejected suitor of this young gentleman’s
sister; of Miss Dorothy Musgrave: a lady whom I singularly honour and
esteem; a word from whom (if I could hope that word) would fill my life
with happiness. I was not worthy of that lady; when I was defeated in
fair field, I presumed to make advances through her maid. See in how
laughable a manner fate repaid me! The waiting-girl derided, the
mistress denied, and now comes in this very ardent champion who publicly
insults me. My vanity is cured; you will judge it right, I am persuaded,
all of you, that I should accept my proper punishment in silence; you, my
Lord Duke, to pardon this young gentleman; and you, Mr. Musgrave, to
spare me further provocation, which I am determined to ignore.
DOROTHY (_rushing forward_, _falling at_ AUSTIN’S _knees_, _and seizing
his hand_). George, George, it was for me. My hero! take me! What you
will!
AUSTIN (_in an agony_). My dear creature, remember that we are in
public. (_Raising her_.) Your Royal Highness, may I present you Mrs.
George Frederick Austin? (_The Curtain falls on a few bars of the_
‘_Lass of Richmond Hill_.’)
* * * * *
THE END
ADMIRAL GUINEA
DEDICATED
WITH AFFECTION AND ESTEEM
TO ANDREW LANG BY
THE SURVIVORS OF
THE _WALRUS_
SAVANNAH, this 27_th_ day of
_September_ 1884
PERSONS REPRESENTED
JOHN GAUNT, called ‘ADMIRAL GUINEA,’ once Captain of the Slaver
_Arethusa_.
ARETHUSA GAUNT, his Daughter.
DAVID PEW, a Blind Beggar, once Boatswain of the _Arethusa_
KIT FRENCH, a Privateersman.
MRS. DRAKE, Landlady of the _Admiral Benbow_ Inn.
* * * * *
The Scene is laid in the neighbourhood of Barnstaple. The Time is about
the year 1760. The action occupies part of a day and night.
* * * * *
NOTE.—_Passages suggested for omission in representation are enclosed in
square brackets_, _thus_ [ ].
ACT I.
_The Stage represents a room in the Admiral Guinea’s house_: _fireplace_,
_arm-chair_, _and table with Bible_, _L._, _towards the front_; _door
C._, _with window on each side_, _the window on the R._, _practicable_;
_doors_, _R. and L._, _back_; _corner cupboard_, _a brass-strapped
sea-chest fixed to the wall and floor_, _R._; _cutlasses_, _telescopes_,
_sextant_, _quadrant_, _a calendar_, _and several maps upon the wall_; _a
ship clock_; _three wooden chairs_; _a dresser against wall_, _R. C._;
_on the chimney-piece the model of a brig and several shells_. _The
centre bare of furniture_. _Through the widows and the door_, _which is
open_, _green trees and a small field of sea_.
SCENE I
ARETHUSA _is discovered_, _dusting_
ARETHUSA. Ten months and a week to-day! Now for a new mark. Since the
last, the sun has set and risen over the fields and the pleasant trees at
home, and on Kit’s lone ship and the empty sea. Perhaps it blew; perhaps
rained; (_at the chart_) perhaps he was far up here to the nor’ard, where
the icebergs sail; perhaps at anchor among these wild islands of the
snakes and buccaneers. O, you big chart, if I could see him sailing on
you! North and South Atlantic; such a weary sight of water and no land;
never an island for the poor lad to land upon. But still, God’s there.
(_She takes down the telescope to dust it_.) Father’s spy-glass again;
and my poor Kit perhaps with such another, sweeping the great deep!
SCENE II
ARETHUSA; _to her_, KIT, _C._ [_He enters on tiptoe_, _and she does not
see or hear him_]
ARETHUSA (_dusting telescope_). At sea they have less dust at least:
that’s so much comfort.
KIT. Sweetheart, ahoy!
ARETHUSA. Kit!
KIT. Arethusa.
ARETHUSA. My Kit! Home again—O my love!—home again to me!
KIT. As straight as wind and tide could carry me!
ARETHUSA. O Kit, my dearest. O Kit—O! O!
KIT. Hey? Steady, lass: steady, I say. For goodness’ sake, ease it
off.
ARETHUSA. I will, Kit—I will. But you came so sudden.
KIT. I thought ten months of it about preparation enough.
ARETHUSA. Ten months and a week: you haven’t counted the days as I have.
Another day gone, and one day nearer to Kit: that has been my almanac.
How brown you are! how handsome!
KIT. A pity you can’t see yourself! Well, no, I’ll never be handsome:
brown I may be, never handsome. But I’m better than that, if the
proverb’s true; for I’m ten hundred thousand fathoms deep in love. I
bring you a faithful sailor. What! you don’t think much of that for a
curiosity? Well, that’s so: you’re right; the rarity is in the girl
that’s worth it ten times over. Faithful? I couldn’t help it if I
tried! No, sweetheart, and I fear nothing: I don’t know what fear is,
but just of losing you. (_Starting_.) Lord, that’s not the Admiral?
ARETHUSA. Aha, Mr. Dreadnought! you see you fear my father.
KIT. That I do. But, thank goodness, it’s nobody. Kiss me: no, I won’t
kiss you: kiss _me_. I’ll give you a present for that. See!
ARETHUSA. A wedding-ring!
KIT. My mother’s. Will you take it?
ARETHUSA. Yes, will I—and give myself for it.
KIT. Ah, if we could only count upon your father! He’s a man every inch
of him; but he can’t endure Kit French.
ARETHUSA. He hasn’t learned to know you, Kit, as I have, nor yet do you
know him. He seems hard and violent; at heart he is only a man
overwhelmed with sorrow. Why else, when he looks at me and does not know
that I observe him, should his face change, and fill with such
tenderness, that I could weep to see him? Why, when he walks in his
sleep, as he does almost every night, his eyes open and beholding
nothing, why should he cry so pitifully on my mother’s name? Ah, if you
could hear him then, you would say yourself: here is a man that has
loved; here is a man that will be kind to lovers.
KIT. Is that so? Ay, it’s a hard thing to lose your wife; ay, that must
cut the heart indeed. But for all that, my lass, your father is keen for
the doubloons.
ARETHUSA. Right, Kit: and small blame to him. There is only one way to
be honest, and the name of that is thrift.
KIT. Well, and that’s my motto. I’ve left the ship; no more letter of
marque for me. Good-bye to Kit French, privateersman’s mate; and
how-d’ye-do to Christopher, the coasting skipper. I’ve seen the very
boat for me: I’ve enough to buy her, too; and to furnish a good house,
and keep a shot in the locker for bad luck. So far, there’s nothing to
gainsay. So far it’s hopeful enough; but still there’s Admiral Guinea,
you know—and the plain truth is that I’m afraid of him.
ARETHUSA. Admiral Guinea? Now Kit, if you are to be true lover of mine,
you shall not use that name. His name is Captain Gaunt. As for fearing
him, Kit French, you’re not the man for me, if you fear anything but sin.
He’s a stern man because he’s in the right.
KIT. He is a man of God; I am what he calls a child of perdition. I was
a privateersman—serving my country, I say; but he calls it pirate. He is
thrifty and sober; he has a treasure, they say, and it lies so near his
heart that he tumbles up in his sleep to stand watch over it. What has a
harum-scarum dog like me to expect from a man like him? He won’t see I’m
starving for a chance to mend; ‘Mend,’ he’ll say; ‘I’ll be shot if you
mend at the expense of my daughter;’ and the worst of it is, you see,
he’ll be right.
ARETHUSA. Kit, if you dare to say that faint-hearted word again, I’ll
take my ring off. What are we here for but to grow better or grow worse?
Do you think Arethusa French will be the same as Arethusa Gaunt?
KIT. I don’t want her better.
ARETHUSA. Ah, but she shall be!
KIT. Hark, here he is! By George, it’s neck or nothing now. Stand by
to back me up.
SCENE III
_To these_, GAUNT, _C._
KIT (_with_ ARETHUSA’S _hand_). Captain Gaunt, I have come to ask you
for your daughter.
GAUNT. Hum. (_He sits in his chair_, _L._)
KIT. I love her, and she loves me, sir. I’ve left the privateering.
I’ve enough to set me up and buy a tidy sloop—Jack Lee’s; you know the
boat, Captain; clinker built, not four years old, eighty tons burthen,
steers like a child. I’ve put my mother’s ring on Arethusa’s finger; and
if you’ll give us your blessing, I’ll engage to turn over a new leaf, and
make her a good husband.
GAUNT. In whose strength, Christopher French?
KIT. In the strength of my good, honest love for her: as you did for her
mother, and my father for mine. And you know, Captain, a man can’t
command the wind; but (excuse me, sir) he can always lie the best course
possible, and that’s what I’ll do, so God help me.
GAUNT. Arethusa, you at least are the child of many prayers; your eyes
have been unsealed; and to you the world stands naked, a morning watch
for duration, a thing spun of cobwebs for solidity. In the presence of
an angry God, I ask you: have you heard this man?
ARETHUSA. Father, I know Kit, and I love him.
GAUNT. I say it solemnly, this is no Christian union. To you,
Christopher French, I will speak nothing of eternal truths: I will speak
to you the language of this world. You have been trained among sinners
who gloried in their sin: in your whole life you never saved one
farthing; and now, when your pockets are full, you think you can begin,
poor dupe, in your own strength. You are a roysterer, a jovial
companion; you mean no harm—you are nobody’s enemy but your own. No
doubt you tell this girl of mine, and no doubt you tell yourself, that
you can change. Christopher, speaking under correction, I defy you! You
ask me for this child of many supplications, for this brand plucked from
the burning: I look at you; I read you through and through; and I tell
you—no! (_Striking table with his fist_.)
KIT. Captain Gaunt, if you mean that I am not worthy of her, I’m the
first to say so. But, if you’ll excuse me, sir, I’m a young man, and
young men are no better’n they ought to be; it’s known; they’re all like
that; and what’s their chance? To be married to a girl like this! And
would you refuse it to me? Why, sir, you yourself, when you came
courting, you were young and rough; and yet I’ll make bold to say that
Mrs. Gaunt was a happy woman, and the saving of yourself into the
bargain. Well, now, Captain Gaunt, will you deny another man, and that
man a sailor, the very salvation that you had yourself?
GAUNT. Salvation, Christopher French, is from above.
KIT. Well, sir, that is so; but there’s means, too; and what means so
strong as the wife a man has to strive and toil for, and that bears the
punishment whenever he goes wrong? Now, sir, I’ve spoke with your old
shipmates in the Guinea trade. Hard as nails, they said, and true as the
compass: as rough as a slaver, but as just as a judge. Well, sir, you
hear me plead: I ask you for my chance; don’t you deny it to me.
GAUNT. You speak of me? In the true balances we both weigh nothing.
But two things I know: the depth of iniquity, how foul it is; and the
agony with which a man repents. Not until seven devils were cast out of
me did I awake; each rent me as it passed. Ay, that was repentance.
Christopher, Christopher, you have sailed before the wind since first you
weighed your anchor, and now you think to sail upon a bowline? You do
not know your ship, young man: you will go to le’ward like a sheet of
paper; I tell you so that know—I tell you so that have tried, and failed,
and wrestled in the sweat of prayer, and at last, at last, have tasted
grace. But, meanwhile, no flesh and blood of mine shall lie at the mercy
of such a wretch as I was then, or as you are this day. I could not own
the deed before the face of heaven if I sanctioned this unequal yoke.
Arethusa, pluck off that ring from off your finger. Christopher French,
take it, and go hence.
KIT. Arethusa, what do you say?
ARETHUSA. O Kit, you know my heart. But he is alone, and I am his only
comfort; and I owe all to him; and shall I not obey my father? But, Kit,
if you will let me, I will keep your ring. Go, Kit; go, and prove to my
father that he was mistaken; go and win me. And O, Kit, if ever you
should weary, come to me—no, do not come! but send a word—and I shall
know all, and you shall have your ring. (GAUNT _opens his Bible and
begins to read_.)
KIT. Don’t say that, don’t say such things to me; I sink or swim with
you. (_To_ GAUNT.) Old man, you’ve struck me hard; give me a good word
to go with. Name your time; I’ll stand the test. Give me a spark of
hope, and I’ll fight through for it. Say just this—‘Prove I was
mistaken,’ and by George, I’ll prove it.
GAUNT (_looking up_). I make no such compacts. Go, and swear not at
all.
ARETHUSA. Go, Kit! I keep the ring.
SCENE IV
ARETHUSA, GAUNT
ARETHUSA. Father, what have we done that you should be so cruel?
GAUNT (_laying down Bible_, _and rising_). Do you call me cruel? You
speak after the flesh. I have done you this day a service that you will
live to bless me for upon your knees.
ARETHUSA. He loves me, and I love him: you can never alter that; do what
you will, father, that can never change. I love him, I believe in him, I
will be true to him.
GAUNT. Arethusa, you are the sole thing death has left me on this earth;
and I must watch over your carnal happiness and your eternal weal. You
do not know what this implies to me. Your mother—my Hester—tongue cannot
tell, nor heart conceive the pangs she suffered. If it lies in me, your
life shall not be lost on that same reef of an ungodly husband. (_Goes
out_, _C._)
SCENE V
ARETHUSA
ARETHUSA. I thought the time dragged long and weary when I knew that Kit
was homeward bound, all the white sails a-blowing out towards England,
and my Kit’s face turned this way? (_She begins to dust_.) Sure, if my
mother were here, she would understand and help us; she would understand
a young maid’s heart, though her own had never an ache; and she would
love my Kit. (_Putting back the telescope_.) To think she died: husband
and child—and so much love—she was taken from them all. Ah, there is no
parting but the grave! And Kit and I both live, and both love each
other; and here am I cast down? O, Arethusa, shame! And your love home
from the deep seas, and loving you still; and the sun shining; and the
world all full of hope? O, hope, you’re a good word!
SCENE VI
GAUNT
ARETHUSA; _to her_, PEW
PEW (_singing without_)—
‘Time for us to go!
Time for us to go!
And we’ll keep the brig three pints away,
For it’s time for us to go.’
ARETHUSA. Who comes here? a seaman by his song, and father out! (_She
tries the air_) ‘Time for us to go!’ It sounds a wild kind of song.
(_Tap-tap_; PEW _passes the window_.) O, what a face—and blind!
PEW (_entering_). Kind Christian friends, take pity on a poor blind
mariner, as lost his precious sight in the defence of his native country,
England, and God bless King George!
ARETHUSA. What can I do for you, sailor?
PEW. Good Christian lady, help a poor blind mariner to a mouthful of
meat. I’ve served His Majesty in every quarter of the globe; I’ve spoke
with ’Awke and glorious Anson, as I might with you; and I’ve tramped it
all night long, upon my sinful feet, and with a empty belly.
ARETHUSA. You shall not ask bread and be denied by a sailor’s daughter
and a sailor’s sweetheart; and when my father returns he shall give you
something to set you on your road.
PEW. Kind and lovely lady, do you tell me that you are in a manner of
speaking alone? or do my ears deceive a poor blind seaman?
ARETHUSA. I live here with my father, and my father is abroad.
PEW. Dear, beautiful, Christian lady, tell a poor blind man your
honoured name, that he may remember it in his poor blind prayers.
ARETHUSA. Sailor, I am Arethusa Gaunt.
PEW. Sweet lady, answer a poor blind man one other question: are you in
a manner of speaking related to Cap’n John Gaunt? Cap’n John as in the
ebony trade were known as Admiral Guinea?
ARETHUSA. Captain John Gaunt is my father.
PEW (_dropping the blind man’s whine_). Lord, think of that now! They
told me this was where he lived, and so it is. And here’s old Pew, old
David Pew, as was the Admiral’s own bo’sun, colloguing in his old
commander’s parlour, with his old commander’s gal (_seizes_ ARETHUSA).
Ah, and a bouncer you are, and no mistake.
ARETHUSA. Let me go! how dare you?
PEW. Lord love you, don’t you struggle, now, don’t you. (_She escapes
into front R. corner_, _where he keeps her imprisoned_.) Ah, well, we’ll
get you again, my lovely woman. What a arm you’ve got—great god of
love—and a face like a peach! I’m a judge, I am. (_She tries to escape;
he stops her_.) No, you don’t; O, I can hear a flea jump! [But it’s
here where I miss my deadlights. Poor old Pew; him as the ladies always
would have for their fancy man and take no denial; here you are with your
commander’s daughter close aboard, and you can’t so much as guess the
colour of her lovely eyes. (_Singing_)—
‘Be they black like ebony;
Or be they blue like to the sky.’
Black like the Admiral’s? or blue like his poor dear wife’s? Ah, I was
fond of that there woman, I was: the Admiral was jealous of me.]
Arethusa, my dear,—my heart, what a ’and and arm you _have_ got; I’ll
dream o’ that ’and and arm, I will!—but as I was a-saying, does the
Admiral ever in a manner of speaking refer to his old bo’sun David Pew?
him as he fell out with about the black woman at Lagos, and almost
slashed the shoulder off of him one morning before breakfast?
ARETHUSA. You leave this house.
PEW. Hey? (_he crosses and seizes her again_) Don’t you fight, my
lovely one: now don’t make old blind Pew forget his manners before a
female. What! you will? Stop that, or I’ll have the arm right out of
your body. (_He gives her arm a wrench_.)
ARETHUSA. O! help, help!
PEW. Stash your patter, damn you. (ARETHUSA _gives in_.) Ah, I thought
it: Pew’s way, Pew’s way. Now, look you here, my lovely woman. If you
sling in another word that isn’t in answer to my questions, I’ll pull
your j’ints out one by one. Where’s the Commander?
ARETHUSA. I have said: he is abroad.
PEW. When’s he coming aboard again?
ARETHUSA. At any moment.
PEW. Does he keep his strength?
ARETHUSA. You’ll see when he returns. (_He wrenches her arm again_.)
Ah!
PEW. Is he still on piety?
ARETHUSA. O, he is a Christian man!
PEW. A Christian man, is he? Where does he keep his rum?
ARETHUSA. Nay, you shall steal nothing by my help.
PEW. No more I shall (_becoming amorous_). You’re a lovely woman,
that’s what you are; how would you like old Pew for a sweetheart, hey?
He’s blind, is Pew, but strong as a lion; and the sex is his ’ole
delight. Ah, them beautiful, beautiful lips! A kiss! Come!
ARETHUSA. Leave go, leave go!
PEW. Hey? you would?
ARETHUSA. Ah! (_She thrusts him down_, _and escapes to door_, _R._)
SCENE VII
PEW (_picking himself up_). Ah, she’s a bouncer, she is! Where’s my
stick? That’s the sort of female for David Pew. Didn’t she fight? and
didn’t she struggle? and shouldn’t I like to twist her lovely neck for
her? Pew’s way with ’em all: the prettier they was, the uglier he were
to ’em. Pew’s way: a way he had with him; and a damned good way too.
(_Listens at L. door_.) That’s her bedroom, I reckon; and she’s
double-locked herself in. Good again: it’s a crying mercy the Admiral
didn’t come in. But you always loses your ’ed, Pew, with a female:
that’s what charms ’em. Now for business. The front door. No bar; only
a big lock (_trying keys from his pocket_). Key one; no go. Key two; no
go. Key three; ah, that does it. Ah! (_feeling key_) him with the three
wards and the little ’un: good again! Now if I could only find a mate in
this rotten country ’amlick: one to be eyes to me; I can steer, but I
can’t conn myself, worse luck! If I could only find a mate! And
to-night, about three bells in the middle watch, old Pew will take a
little cruise, and lay aboard his ancient friend the Admiral; or, barring
that, the Admiral’s old sea-chest—the chest he kept the shiners in aboard
the brig. Where is it, I wonder? in his berth, or in the cabin here?
It’s big enough, and the brass bands is plain to feel by. (_Searching
about with stick_.) Dresser—chair—(_knocking his head on the cupboard_.)
Ah!—O, corner cupboard. Admiral’s chair—Admiral’s table—Admiral’s—hey!
what’s this?—a book—sheepskin—smells like a ’oly Bible. Chair (_his
stick just avoids the chest_). No sea-chest. I must have a mate to see
for me, to see for old Pew: him as had eyes like a eagle! Meanwhile,
rum. Corner cupboard, of course (_tap-tapping_). Rum—rum—rum. Hey?
(_He listens_.) Footsteps. Is it the Admiral? (_With the whine_.)
Kind Christian friends—
SCENE VIII
PEW; to him GAUNT
GAUNT. What brings you here?
PEW. Cap’n, do my ears deceive me? or is this my old commander?
GAUNT. My name is John Gaunt. Who are you, my man, and what’s your
business?
PEW. Here’s the facks, so help me. A lovely female in this house was
Christian enough to pity the poor blind; and lo and belold! who should
she turn out to be but my old commander’s daughter! ‘My dear,’ says I to
her, ‘I was the Admiral’s own particular bo’sun.’—‘La, sailor,’ she says
to me, ‘how glad he’ll be to see you!’—‘Ah,’ says I, ‘won’t he
just—that’s all.’—‘I’ll go and fetch him,’ she says; ‘you make yourself
at ’ome.’ And off she went; and, Commander, here I am.
GAUNT (_sitting down_). Well?
PEW. Well, Cap’n?
GAUNT. What do you want?
PEW. Well, Admiral, in a general way, what I want in a manner of
speaking is money and rum. (_A pause_.)
GAUNT. David Pew, I have known you a long time.
PEW. And so you have; aboard the old _Arethusa_; and you don’t seem that
cheered up as I’d looked for, with an old shipmate dropping in, one as
has been seeking you two years and more—and blind at that. Don’t you
remember the old chantie?—
‘Time for us to go,
Time for us to go,
And when we’d clapped the hatches on,
’Twas time for us to go.
What a note you had to sing, what a swaller for a pannikin of rum, and
what a fist for the shiners! Ah, Cap’n, they didn’t call you Admiral
Guinea for nothing. I can see that old sea-chest of yours—her with the
brass bands, where you kept your gold dust and doubloons: you know!—I can
see her as well this minute as though you and me was still at it playing
pût on the lid of her . . . You don’t say nothing, Cap’n? . . . Well,
here it is: I want money and I want rum. You don’t know what it is to
want rum, you don’t: it gets to that p’int, that you would kill a ’ole
ship’s company for just one guttle of it. What? Admiral Guinea, my old
Commander, go back on poor old Pew? and him high and dry? [Not you!
When we had words over the negro lass at Lagos, what did you do? fair
dealings was your word: fair as between man and man; and we had it out
with p’int and edge on Lagos sands. And you’re not going back on your
word to me, now I’m old and blind? No, no! belay that, I say. Give me
the old motto: Fair dealings, as between man and man.]
GAUNT. David Pew, it were better for you that you were sunk in fifty
fathom. I know your life; and first and last, it is one broadside of
wickedness. You were a porter in a school, and beat a boy to death; you
ran for it, turned slaver, and shipped with me, a green hand. Ay, that
was the craft for you: that was the right craft, and I was the right
captain; there was none worse that sailed to Guinea. Well, what came of
that? In five years’ time you made yourself the terror and abhorrence of
your messmates. The worst hands detested you; your captain—that was me,
John Gaunt, the chief of sinners—cast you out for a Jonah. [Who was it
stabbed the Portuguese and made off inland with his miserable wife? Who,
raging drunk on rum, clapped fire to the baracoons and burned the poor
soulless creatures in their chains?] Ay, you were a scandal to the
Guinea coast, from Lagos down to Calabar? and when at last I sent you
ashore, a marooned man—your shipmates, devils as they were, cheering and
rejoicing to be quit of you—by heaven, it was a ton’s weight off the
brig!
PEW. Cap’n Gaunt, Cap’n Gaunt, these are ugly words.
GAUNT. What next? You shipped with Flint the Pirate. What you did then
I know not; the deep seas have kept the secret: kept it, ay, and will
keep against the Great Day. God smote you with blindness, but you heeded
not the sign. That was His last mercy; look for no more. To your knees,
man, and repent! Pray for a new heart; flush out your sins with tears;
flee while you may from the terrors of the wrath to come.
PEW. Now, I want this clear: Do I understand that you’re going back on
me, and you’ll see me damned first?
GAUNT. Of me you shall have neither money nor strong drink: not a guinea
to spend in riot; not a drop to fire your heart with devilry.
PEW. Cap’n, do you think it wise to quarrel with me? I put it to you
now, Cap’n, fairly, as between man and man—do you think it wise?
GAUNT. I fear nothing. My feet are on the Rock. Begone! (_He opens
the Bible and begins to read_.)
PEW (_after a pause_). Well, Cap’n, you know best, no doubt; and David
Pew’s about the last man, though I says it, to up and thwart an old
Commander. You’ve been ’ard on David Pew, Cap’n: ’ard on the poor blind;
but you’ll live to regret it—ah, my Christian friend, you’ll live to eat
them words up. But there’s no malice here: that ain’t Pew’s way; here’s
a sailor’s hand upon it . . . You don’t say nothing? (GAUNT _turns a
page_.) Ah, reading, was you? Reading, by thunder! Well, here’s my
respecks (_singing_)—
‘Time for us to go,
Time for us to go,
When the money’s out, and the liquor’s done,
Why, it’s time for us to go.
(_He goes tapping up to door_, _turns on the threshold_, _and listens_.
GAUNT _turns a page_. PEW, _with a grimace_, _strikes his hand upon the
pocket with the keys_, _and goes_.)
DROP.
ACT II.
_The Stage represents the parlour of the_ ‘_Admiral Benbow_’ _inn_.
_Fire-place_, _R._, _with high-backed settles on each side_; _in front of
these_, _and facing the audience_, _R._, _a small table laid with a
cloth_. _Tables_, _L._, _with glasses_, _pipes_, _etc._ _Broadside
ballads on the wall_. _Outer door of inn_, _with the half-door in L._,
_corner back_; _door_, _R._, _beyond the fire-place_; _window with red
half-curtains_; _spittons_; _candles on both the front tables_; _night
without_.
SCENE I
PEW; afterwards MRS. DRAKE, out and in
PEW (_entering_). Kind Christian friends—(_listening; then dropping the
whine_.) Hey? nobody! Hey? A grog-shop not two cable-lengths from the
Admiral’s back-door, and the Admiral not there? I never knew a seaman
brought so low: he ain’t but the bones of the man he used to be. Bear
away for the New Jerusalem, and this is what you run aground on, is it?
Good again; but it ain’t Pew’s way; Pew’s way is rum.—Sanded floor. Rum
is his word, and rum his motion.—Settle—chimbley—settle
again—spittoon—table rigged for supper. Table-glass. (_Drinks
heeltap_.) Brandy and water; and not enough of it to wet your eye; damn
all greediness, I say. Pot (_drinks_), small beer—a drink that I ab’or
like bilge! What I want is rum. (_Calling_, _and rapping with stick on
table_.) Halloa, there! House, ahoy!
MRS. DRAKE (_without_). Coming, sir, coming. (_She enters_, _R._) What
can I do—? (_Seeing_ PEW.) Well I never did! Now, beggar-man, what’s
for you?
[PEW. Rum, ma’am, rum; and a bit o’ supper.
MRS. DRAKE. And a bed to follow, I shouldn’t wonder!
PEW. _And_ a bed to follow: _if_ you please.]
MRS. DRAKE. This is the ‘_Admiral Benbow_,’ a respectable house, and
receives none but decent company; and I’ll ask you to go somewhere else,
for I don’t like the looks of you.
PEW. Turn me away? Why, Lord love you, I’m David Pew—old David Pew—him
as was Benbow’s own particular cox’n. You wouldn’t turn away old Pew
from the sign of his late commander’s ’ed? Ah, my British female, you’d
have used me different if you’d seen me in the fight! [There laid old
Benbow, both his legs shot off, in a basket, and the blessed spy-glass at
his eye to that same hour: a picter, ma’am, of naval daring: when a round
shot come, and took and knocked a bucketful of shivers right into my poor
daylights. ‘Damme,’ says the Admiral, ‘is that old Pew, _my_ old Pew?’
he says.—‘It’s old Pew, sir,’ says the first lootenant, ‘worse luck,’ he
says.—‘Then damme,’ says Admiral Benbow, ‘if that’s how they serve a
lion-’arted seaman, damme if I care to live,’ he says; and, ma’am, he
laid down his spy-glass.]
MRS. DRAKE. Blind man, I don’t fancy you, and that’s the truth; and I’ll
thank you to take yourself off.
PEW. Thirty years have I fought for country and king, and now in my
blind old age I’m to be sent packing from a measly public-’ouse? Mark
ye, ma’am, if I go, you take the consequences. Is this a inn? Or haint
it? If it is a inn, then by act of parleyment, I’m free to sling my
’ammick. Don’t you forget: this is a act of parleyment job, this is.
You look out.
MRS. DRAKE. Why, what’s to do with the man and his acts of parliament?
I don’t want to fly in the face of an act of parliament, not I. If what
you say is true—
PEW. True? If there’s anything truer than a act of parleyment—Ah! you
ask the beak. True? I’ve that in my ’art as makes me wish it wasn’t.
MRS. DRAKE. I don’t like to risk it. I don’t like your looks, and
you’re more sea-lawyer than seaman to my mind. But I’ll tell you what:
if you can pay, you can stay. So there.
PEW. No chink, no drink? That’s your motto, is it? Well, that’s sense.
Now, look here, ma’am, I ain’t beautiful like you; but I’m good, and I’ll
give you warrant for it. Get me a noggin of rum, and suthin’ to scoff,
and a penny pipe, and a half-a-foot of baccy; and there’s a guinea for
the reckoning. There’s plenty more in the locker; so bear a hand, and be
smart. I don’t like waiting; it ain’t my way. (_Exit_ MRS. DRAKE, _R._
PEW _sits at the table_, _R._ _The settle conceals him from all the
upper part of the stage_.)
MRS. DRAKE (_re-entering_). Here’s the rum, sailor.
PEW (_drinks_). Ah, rum! That’s my sheet-anchor: rum and the blessed
Gospel. Don’t you forget that, ma’am: rum and the Gospel is old Pew’s
sheet-anchor. You can take for another while you’re about it; and, I
say, short reckonings make long friends, hey? Where’s my change?
MRS. DRAKE. I’m counting it now. There, there it is, and thank you for
your custom. (_She goes out_, _R._)
PEW (_calling after her_). Don’t thank me, ma’am; thank the act of
parleyment! Rum, fourpence; two penny pieces and a Willi’m-and-Mary
tizzy makes a shilling; and a spade half-guinea is eleven and six
(_re-enter_ MRS. DRAKE _with supper_, _pipe_, _etc._); and a blessed
majesty George the First crown-piece makes sixteen and six; and two
shilling bits is eighteen and six; and a new half-crown makes—no it
don’t! O, no! Old Pew’s too smart a hand to be bammed with a soft
half-tusheroon.
MRS. DRAKE (_changing piece_). I’m sure I didn’t know it, sailor.
PEW (_trying new coin between his teeth_). In course you didn’t, my
dear; but I did, and I thought I’d mention it. Is that my supper, hey?
Do my nose deceive me? (_Sniffing and feeling_.) Cold duck? sage and
onions? a round of double Gloster? and that noggin o’ rum? Why, I
declare if I’d stayed and took pot-luck with my old commander, Cap’n John
Gaunt, he couldn’t have beat this little spread, as I’ve got by act of
parleyment.
MRS. DRAKE (_at knitting_). Do you know the captain, sailor?
PEW. Know him? I was that man’s bos’un, ma’am. In the Guinea trade, we
was known as ‘Pew’s Cap’n,’ and ‘Gaunt’s Bo’sun,’ one for other like. We
was like two brothers, ma’am. And a excellent cold duck, to be sure; and
the rum lovely.
MRS. DRAKE. If you know John Gaunt, you know his daughter Arethusa.
PEW. What? Arethusa? Know her, says you? know her? Why, Lord love
you, I was her god-father. [‘Pew,’ says Jack Gaunt to me, ‘Pew,’ he
says, ‘you’re a man,’ he says; ‘I like a man to be a man,’ says he, ‘and
damme,’ he says, ‘I like _you_; and sink me,’ says he, ‘if you don’t
promise and vow in the name of that new-born babe,’ he says, ‘why damme,
Pew,’ says he, ‘you’re not the man I take you for.’] Yes, ma’am, I named
that female; with my own ’ands I did; Arethusa, I named her; that was the
name I give her; so now you know if I speak true. And if you’ll be as
good as get me another noggin of rum, why, we’ll drink her ’elth with
three times three. (_Exit_ MRS. DRAKE: PEW _eating_. MRS. DRAKE
_re-entering with rum_.)
[MRS. DRAKE. If what you say be true, sailor (and I don’t say it isn’t,
mind!), it’s strange that Arethusa and that godly man her father have
never so much as spoke your name.
PEW. Why, that’s so! And why, says you? Why, when I dropped in and
paid my respecks this morning, do you think she knew me? No more’n a
babe unborn! Why, ma’am, when I promised and vowed for her, I was the
picter of a man-o’-war’s man, I was: eye like a eagle; walked the deck in
a hornpipe, foot up and foot down; v’ice as mellow as rum; ’and upon
’art, and all the females took dead aback at the first sight, Lord bless
’em! Know me? Not likely. And as for me, when I found her such a
lovely woman—by the feel of her ’and and arm!—you might have knocked me
down with a feather. But here’s where it is, you see: when you’ve been
knocking about on blue water for a matter of two-and-forty year,
shipwrecked here, and blown up there, and everywhere out of luck, and
given over for dead by all your messmates and relations, why, what it
amounts to is this: nobody knows you, and you hardly know yourself, and
there you are; and I’ll trouble you for another noggin of rum.
MRS. DRAKE. I think you’ve had enough.
PEW. I don’t; so bear a hand. (_Exit_ MRS. DRAKE; PEW _empties the
glass_.) Rum, ah, rum, you’re a lovely creature; they haven’t never done
you justice. (_Proceeds to fill and light pipe_; _re-enter_ MRS. DRAKE
_with rum_.)] And now, ma’am, since you’re so genteel and amicable-like,
what about my old commander? Is he, in a manner of speaking, on half
pay? or is he living on his fortune, like a gentleman slaver ought?
MRS. DRAKE. Well, sailor, people talk, you know.
PEW. I know, ma’am; I’d have been rolling in my coach, if they’d have
held their tongues.
MRS. DRAKE. And they do say that Captain Gaunt, for so pious a man, is
little better than a miser.
PEW. Don’t say it, ma’am; not to old Pew. Ah, how often have I up and
strove with him! ‘Cap’n, live it down,’ says I. ‘Ah, Pew,’ says he,
‘you’re a better man than I am,’ he says; ‘but dammne,’ he says, ‘money,’
he says, ‘is like rum to me.’ (_Insinuating_.) And what about a old
sea-chest, hey? a old sea-chest, strapped with brass bands?
MRS. DRAKE. Why, that’ll be the chest in his parlour, where he has it
bolted to the wall, as I’ve seen with my own eyes; and so might you, if
you had eyes to see with.
PEW. No, ma’am, that ain’t good enough; you don’t bam old Pew. You
never was in that parlour in your life.
MRS. DRAKE. I never was? Well, I declare!
PEW. Well then, if you was, where’s the chest? Beside the chimbley,
hey? (_Winking_.) Beside the table with the ’oly Bible?
MRS. DRAKE. No, sailor, you don’t get any information out of me.
PEW. What, ma’am? Not to old Pew? Why, my god-child showed it me
herself, and I told her where she’d find my name—P, E, W, Pew—cut out on
the starn of it; and sure enough she did. Why, ma’am, it was his old
money-box when he was in the Guinea trade; and they do say he keeps the
rhino in it still.
MRS. DRAKE. No, sailor, nothing out of me! And if you want to know, you
can ask the Admiral himself! (_She crosses_, _L._)
PEW. Hey? Old girl fly? Then I reckon I must have a mate, if it was
the parish bull.
SCENE II
_To these_, KIT, _a little drunk_
KIT (_looking in over half-door_). Mrs. Drake! Mother! Where are you?
Come and welcome the prodigal!
MRS. DRAKE (_coming forward to meet him as he enters_; PEW _remains
concealed by the settle_, _smoking_, _drinking_, _and listening_). Lord
bless us and save us, if it ain’t my boy! Give us a kiss.
KIT. That I will, and twenty if you like, old girl. (_Kisses her_.)
MRS. DRAKE. O Kit, Kit, you’ve been at those other houses, where the
stuff they give you, my dear, it is poison for a dog.
[KIT. Round with friends, mother: only round with friends.
MRS. DRAKE. Well, anyway, you’ll take a glass just to settle it, from
me. (_She brings the bottle_, _and fills for him_.) There, that’s pure;
that’ll do you no harm.] But O, Kit, Kit, I thought you were done with
all this Jack-a-shoring.
KIT. What cheer, mother? I’m only a sheet in the wind; and who’s the
worse for it but me?
MRS. DRAKE. Ah, and that dear young lady; and her waiting and keeping
single these two years for the love of you!
KIT. She, mother? she’s heart of oak, she’s true as steel, and good as
gold; and she has my ring on her finger, too. But where’s the use? The
Admiral won’t look at me.
MRS. DRAKE. Why not? You’re as good a man as him any day.
KIT. Am I? He says I’m a devil, and swears that none of his flesh and
blood—that’s what he said, mother!—should lie at my mercy. That’s what
cuts me. If it wasn’t for the good stuff I’ve been taking aboard, and
the jolly companions I’ve been seeing it out with, I’d just go and make a
hole in the water, and be done with it, I would, by George!
MRS. DRAKE. That’s like you men. Ah, we know you, we that keeps a
public-house—we know you, good and bad: you go off on a frolic and
forget; and you never think of the women that sit crying at home.
KIT. Crying? Arethusa cry? Why, dame, she’s the bravest-hearted girl
in all broad England! Here, fill the glass! I’ll win her yet. I drink
to her; here’s to her bright eyes, and here’s to the blessed feet she
walks upon!
PEW (_looking round the corner of the settle_). Spoke like a gallant
seaman, every inch. Shipmate, I’m a man as has suffered, and I’d like to
shake your fist, and drink a can of flip with you.
KIT (_coming down_). Hullo, my hearty! who the devil are you? Who’s
this, mother?
MRS. DRAKE. Nay, I know nothing about him. (_She goes out_, _R._)
PEW. Cap’n, I’m a brother seaman, and my name is Pew, old David Pew, as
you may have heard of in your time, he having sailed along of ’Awke and
glorious Benbow, and a right-’and man to both.
KIT. Benbow? Steady, mate! D’ye mean to say you went to sea before you
were born?
PEW. See now! The sign of this here inn was running in my ’ed, I
reckon. Benbow, says you? no, not likely! Anson, I mean; Anson and Sir
Edward ’Awke: that’s the pair: I was their right-’and man.
KIT. Well, mate, you may be all that, and more; but you’re a rum un to
look at, anyhow.
PEW. Right you are, and so I am. But what is looks? It’s the ’art that
does it: the ’art is the seaman’s star; and here’s old David Pew’s, a
matter of fifty years at sea, but tough and sound as the British
Constitootion.
KIT. You’re right there, Pew. Shake hands upon it. And you’re a man
they’re down upon, just like myself, I see. We’re a pair of plain,
good-hearted, jolly tars; and all these ’longshore fellows cock a lip at
us, by George. What cheer, mate?
ARETHUSA (_without_). Mrs. Drake! Mrs. Drake!
PEW. What, a female? hey? a female? Board her board her, mate! I’m
dark. (_He retires again behind_, _to table_, _R._, _behind settle_.)
ARETHUSA (_without_). Mrs. Drake!
MRS. DRAKE (_re-entering and running to door_). Here I am, my dear; come
in.
SCENE III
_To these_, ARETHUSA
ARETHUSA. Ah, Kit, I’ve found you. I thought you would lodge with Mrs.
Drake.
KIT. What? are you looking for your consort? Whistle, I’m your dog;
I’ll come to you. I’ve been toasting you fathom deep, my beauty; and
with every glass I love you dearer.
ARETHUSA. Now Kit, if you want to please my father, this is not the way.
Perhaps he thinks too much of the guineas: well, gather them—if you think
me worth the price. Go you to your sloop, clinker built, eighty tons
burthen—you see I remember, Skipper Kit! I don’t deny I like a man of
spirit; but if you care to please Captain Gaunt, keep out of taverns; and
if you could carry yourself a bit more—more elderly!
[KIT. Can I? Would I? Ah, just couldn’t and just won’t I, then!
MRS. DRAKE. I hope, madam, you don’t refer to my house; a publican I may
be, but tavern is a word that I don’t hold with; and here there’s no bad
drink, and no loose company; and as for my blessedest Kit, I declare I
love him like my own.
ARETHUSA. Why, who could help it, Mrs. Drake?]
KIT. Arethusa, you’re an angel. Do I want to please Captain Gaunt?
Why, that’s as much as ask whether I love you. [I don’t deny that his
words cut me; for they did. But as for wanting to please him, if he was
deep as the blue Atlantic, I would beat it out. And elderly, too? Aha,
you witch, you’re wise! Elderly? You’ve set the course; you leave me
alone to steer it. Matrimony’s my port, and love is my cargo.] That’s a
likely question, ain’t it, Mrs. Drake? Do I want to please him!
Elderly, says you? Why, see here: Fill up my glass, and I’ll drink to
Arethusa on my knees.
ARETHUSA. Why, you stupid boy, do you think that would please him?
KIT. On my knees I’ll drink it! (_As he kneels and drains the glass_,
GAUNT _enters_, _and he scrambles to his feet_.)
SCENE IV
_To these_, GAUNT
GAUNT. Arethusa, this is no place for you.
ARETHUSA. No, father.
GAUNT. I wish you had been spared this sight; but look at him, child,
since you are here; look at God’s image, so debased. And you, young man
(_to_ KIT), you have proved that I was right. Are you the husband for
this innocent maid?
KIT. Captain Gaunt, I have a word to say to you. Terror is your last
word; you’re bitter hard upon poor sinners, bitter hard and black—you
that were a sinner yourself. These are not the true colours: don’t
deceive yourself; you’re out of your course.
[GAUNT. Heaven forbid that I should be hard, Christopher. It is not I;
it’s God’s law that is of iron. Think! if the blow were to fall now,
some cord to snap within you, some enemy to plunge a knife into your
heart; this room, with its poor taper light, to vanish; this world to
disappear like a drowning man into the great ocean; and you, your brain
still whirling, to be snatched into the presence of the eternal Judge:
Christopher French, what answer would you make? For these gifts wasted,
for this rich mercy scorned, for these high-handed bravings of your
better angel,—what have you to say?
KIT. Well, sir, I want my word with you, and by your leave I’ll have it
out.
ARETHUSA. Kit, for pity’s sake!
KIT. Arethusa, I don’t speak to you, my dear: you’ve got my ring, and I
know what that means. The man I speak to is Captain Gaunt. I came
to-day as happy a man as ever stepped, and with as fair a look-out. What
did you care? what was your reply? None of your flesh and blood, you
said, should lie at the mercy of a wretch like me! Am I not flesh and
blood that you should trample on me like that? Is that charity, to stamp
the hope out of a poor soul?]
GAUNT. You speak wildly; or the devil of drink that is in you speaks
instead.
KIT. You think me drunk? well, so I am, and whose fault is it but yours?
It was I that drank; but you take your share of it, Captain Gaunt: you it
was that filled the can.
GAUNT. Christopher French, I spoke but for your good, your good and
hers. ‘Woe unto him’—these are the dreadful words—‘by whom offences
shall come: it were better—’ Christopher, I can but pray for both of us.
KIT. Prayers? Now I tell you freely, Captain Gaunt, I don’t value your
prayers. Deeds are what I ask; kind deeds and words—that’s the true-blue
piety: to hope the best and do the best, and speak the kindest. As for
you, you insult me to my face; and then you’ll pray for me? What’s that?
Insult behind my back is what I call it! No, sir; you’re out of the
course; you’re no good man to my view, be you who you may.
MRS. DRAKE. O Christopher! To Captain Gaunt?
ARETHUSA. Father, father, come away!
KIT. Ah, you see? She suffers too; we all suffer. You spoke just now
of a devil; well, I’ll tell you the devil you have: the devil of judging
others. And as for me, I’ll get as drunk as Bacchus.
GAUNT. Come!
SCENE V
PEW, MRS. DRAKE, KIT
PEW (_coming out and waving his pipe_). Commander, shake! Hooray for
old England! If there’s anything in the world that goes to old Pew’s
’art, it’s argyment. Commander, you handled him like a babby, kept the
weather gauge, and hulled him every shot. Commander, give it a name, and
let that name be rum!
KIT. Ay, rum’s the sailor’s fancy. Mrs. Drake, a bottle and clean
glasses.
MRS. DRAKE. Kit French, I wouldn’t. Think better of it, there’s a dear!
And that sweet girl just gone!
PEW. Ma’am, I’m not a ’ard man; I’m not the man to up and force a act of
parleyment upon a helpless female. But you see here: Pew’s friends is
sacred. Here’s my friend here, a perfeck seaman, and a man with a ’ed
upon his shoulders, and a man that, damme, I admire. He give you a
order, ma’am:—march!
MRS. DRAKE. Kit, don’t you listen to that blind man; he’s the devil
wrote upon his face.
PEW. Don’t you insinuate against my friend. _He_ ain’t a child, I hope?
_he_ knows his business? Don’t you get trying to go a lowering of my
friend in his own esteem.
MRS. DRAKE. Well, I’ll bring it, Kit; but it’s against the grain.
(_Exit_.)
KIT. I say, old boy, come to think of it, why should we? It’s been
glasses round with me all day. I’ve got my cargo.
PEW. You? and you just argy’d the ’ed off of Admiral Guinea? O stash
that! _I_ stand treat, if it comes to that!
KIT. What! Do I meet with a blind seaman and not stand him? That’s not
the man I am!
MRS. DRAKE (_re-entering with bottle and glasses_). There!
PEW. Easy does it, ma’am.
KIT. Mrs. Drake, you had better trot.
MRS. DRAKE. Yes, I’ll trot; and I trot with a sick heart, Kit French, to
leave you drinking your wits away with that low blind man. For a low man
you are—a low blind man—and your clothes they would disgrace a scarecrow.
I’ll go to my bed, Kit; and O, dear boy, go soon to yours—the old room,
you know; it’s ready for you—and go soon and sleep it off; for you know,
dear, they, one and all, regret it in the morning; thirty years I’ve kept
this house, and one and all they did regret it, dear.
PEW. Come now, you walk!
MRS. DRAKE. O, it’s not for your bidding. You a seaman? The ship for
you to sail in is the hangman’s cart.—Good-night, Kit dear, and better
company!
SCENE VI
PEW, KIT. They sit at the other table, L.
PEW. Commander, here’s _her_ ’ealth!
KIT. Ay, that’s the line: _her_ health! But that old woman there is a
good old woman, Pew.
PEW. So she is, Commander. But there’s no woman understands a seaman;
now you and me, being both bred to it, we splice by natur’. As for A.
G., if argyment can win her, why, she’s yours. If I’d a-had your ’ed for
argyment, damme, I’d a-been a Admiral, I would! And if argyment won’t
win her, well, see here, you put your trust in David Pew.
KIT. David Pew, I don’t know who you are, David Pew; I never heard of
you; I don’t seem able to clearly see you. Mrs. Drake, she’s a smart old
woman, Pew, and she says you’ve the devil in your face.
PEW. Ah, and why, says you? Because I up and put her in her place, when
she forgot herself to you, Commander.
KIT. Well, Pew, that’s so; you stood by me like a man. Shake hands,
Pew; and we’ll make a night of it, or we’ll know why, old boy!
PEW. That’s my way. That’s Pew’s way, that is. That’s Pew’s way all
over. Commander, excuse the liberty; but when I was your age, making
allowance for a lowlier station and less ’ed for argyment, I was as like
you as two peas. I know it by the v’ice (_sings_)—
‘We hadn’t been three days at sea before we saw a sail,
So we clapped on every stitch would stand, although it blew a gale,
And we walked along full fourteen knots, for the barkie she did know
As well as ever a soul on board, ’twas time for us to go.’
Chorus, Cap’n!
PEW _and_ KIT (_in chorus_)—
‘Time for us to go,
Time for us to go,
As well as ever a soul on board,
’Twas time for us to go.’
PEW (_sings_)—
‘We carried away the royal yard, and the stunsail boom was gone;
Says the skipper, “They may go or stand, I’m damned if I don’t crack
on;”
So the weather braces we’ll round in, and the trysail set also,
And we’ll keep the brig three p’ints away, for it’s time for us to
go.
Give it mouth, Commander!
PEW _and_ KIT (_in chorus_)—
‘Time for us to go,
Time for us to go,
And we’ll keep the brig three p’ints away,
For it’s time for us to go.’
PEW. I ain’t sung like that since I sang to Admiral ’Awke, the night
before I lost my eyes, I ain’t. ‘Sink me!’ says he, says Admiral ’Awke,
my old commander (_touching his hat_), ‘sink me!’ he says, ‘if that ain’t
’art-of-oak,’ he says: ‘’art-of-oak,’ says he, ‘and a pipe like a bloody
blackbird!’ Commander, here’s my respecks, and the devil fly away with
Admiral Guinea!
KIT. I say, Pew, how’s this? How do you know about Admiral Guinea? I
say, Pew, I begin to think you know too much.
PEW. I ax your pardon; but as a man with a ’ed for argyment—and that’s
your best p’int o’ sailing, Commander; intelleck is your best p’int—as a
man with a ’ed for argyment, how do I make it out?
KIT. Aha, you’re a sly dog, you’re a deep dog, Pew; but you can’t get
the weather of Kit French. How do I make it out? I’ll tell you. I make
it out like this: Your name’s Pew, ain’t it? Very well. And you know
Admiral Guinea, and that’s his name, eh? Very well. Then you’re Pew;
and the Admiral’s the Admiral; and you know the Admiral; and by George,
that’s all. Hey? Drink about, boys, drink about!
PEW. Lord love you, if I’d a-had a ’ed like yours! Why the Admiral was
my first cap’n. I was that man’s bo’sun, I was, aboard the _Arethusa_;
and we was like two brothers. Did you never hear of Guinea-land and the
black ivory business? (_sings_)—
‘A quick run to the south we had, and when we made the Bight
We kept the offing all day long and crossed the bar at night.
Six hundred niggers in the hold and seventy we did stow,
And when we’d clapped the hatches on, ’twas time for us to go.’
Lay forward, lads!
KIT _and_ PEW (_in chorus_)—
‘Time for us to go,’ etc.
KIT. I say, Pew, I like you; you’re a damned ugly dog; but I like you.
But look ye here, Pew: fair does it, you know, or we part company this
minute. If you and the Ad—the Admirable were like brothers on the Guinea
coast, why aren’t you like brothers here?
PEW. Ah, _I_ see you coming. What a ’ed! what a ’ed! Since Pew is a
friend of the family, says you, why didn’t he sail in and bear a hand,
says you, when you was knocking the Admiral’s ship about his ears in
argyment?
KIT. Well, Pew, now you put a name to it, why not?
PEW. Ah, why not? There I recko’nise you. [Well, see here: argyment’s
my weakness, in a manner of speaking; I wouldn’t a-borne down and spiled
sport, not for gold untold, no, not for rum, I wouldn’t! And besides,
Commander, I put it to you, as between man and man, would it have been
seaman-like to let on and show myself to a old shipmate, when he was
yard-arm to yard-arm with a craft not half his metal, and getting blown
out of water every broadside? Would it have been ’ansome? I put it to
you, as between man and man.
KIT. Pew, I may have gifts; but I never thought of that. Why, no: not
seaman-like. Pew, you’ve a heart; that’s what I like you for.
PEW. Ah, that I have: you’ll see. I wanted—now you follow me—I wanted
to keep square with Admiral Guinea.] Why? says you. Well, put it that I
know a fine young fellow when I sees him; and put it that I wish him
well; and put it, for the sake of argyment, that the father of that
lovely female’s in my power. Aha? Pew’s Power! Why, in my ’ands he’s
like this pocket ’andke’cher. Now, brave boy, do you see?
KIT. No, Pew, my head’s gone; I don’t see.
PEW. Why, cheer up, Commander! You want to marry this lovely female?
KIT. Ay, that I do; but I’m not fit for her, Pew; I’m a drunken dog, and
I’m not fit for her.
PEW. Now, Cap’n, you’ll allow a old seaman to be judge: one as sailed
with ’Awke and blessed Benb— with ’Awke and noble Anson. You’ve been
open and above-board with me, and I’ll do the same by you: it being the
case that you’re hard hit about a lovely woman, which many a time and oft
it has happened to old Pew; and him with a feeling ’art that bleeds for
you, Commander; why look here: I’m that girl’s godfather; promised and
vowed for her, I did; and I like you; and you’re the man for her; and, by
the living Jacob, you shall splice!
KIT. David Pew, do you mean what you say?
PEW. Do I mean what I say? Does David Pew? Ask Admiral ’Awke! Ask old
Admiral Byng in his coffin, where I laid him with these lands! Pew does,
is what those naval commanders would reply. Mean it? I reckon so.
KIT. Then, shake hands. You’re an honest man, Pew—old Pew!—and I’ll
make your fortune. But there’s something else, if I could keep the run
of it. O, ah! But _can_ you? That’s the point. Can you; don’t you
see?
PEW. Can I? You leave that to me; I’ll bring you to your moorings; I’m
the man that can, and I’m him that will. But only, look here, let’s
understand each other. You’re a bold blade, ain’t you? You won’t stick
at a trifle for a lovely female? You’ll back me up? You’re a man, ain’t
you? a man, and you’ll see me through and through it, hey? Come; is that
so? Are you fair and square and stick at nothing?
KIT. Me, Pew? I’ll go through fire and water.
PEW. I’ll risk it.—Well, then, see here, my son: another swallow and we
jog.
KIT. No, not to-night, Pew, not to-night!
PEW. Commander, in a manner of speaking, wherefore?
KIT. Wherefore, Pew? ’Cause why, Pew? ’Cause I’m drunk, and be damned
to you!
PEW. Commander, I ax your pardon; but, saving your presence, that’s a
lie. What? drunk? a man with a ’ed for argyment like that? just you get
up, and steady yourself on your two pins, and you’ll be as right as
ninepence.
[KIT. Pew, before we budge, let me shake your flipper again. You’re
heart of oak, Pew, sure enough; and if you can bring the Adam—Admirable
about, why, damme, I’ll make your fortune! How you’re going to do it, I
don’t know; but I’ll stand by; and I know you’ll do it if anybody can.
But I’m drunk, Pew; you can’t deny that: I’m as drunk as a Plymouth
fiddler, Pew; and how you’re going to do it is a mystery to me.
PEW. Ah, you leave that to me. All I want is what I’ve got: your
promise to stand by and bear a hand (_producing a dark lantern_).] Now,
here, you see, is my little glim; it ain’t for me, because I’m blind,
worse luck! and the day and night is the blessed same to David Pew. But
you watch. You put the candle near me. Here’s what there ain’t mony
blind men could do, take the pick o’ them! (_lighting a screw of paper_,
_and with that_, _the lantern_). Hey? That’s it. Hey? Go and pity the
poor blind!
KIT (_while_ PEW _blows out the candles_). But I say, Pew, what do you
want with it?
PEW. To see by, my son. (_He shuts the lantern and puts it in his
pocket_. _Stage quite dark_. _Moonlight at window_.) All ship-shape?
No sparks about? No? Come, then, lean on me and heave ahead for the
lovely female. (_Singing sotto voce_)—
‘Time for us to go,
Time for us to go,
And when we’d clapped the hatches on,
’Twas time for us to go.’
* * * * *
DROP
ACT III.
_The Stage represents the Admiral’s house_, _as in Act I_. GAUNT
_seated_, _is reading aloud_; ARETHUSA _sits at his feet_. _Candles_
SCENE I
ARETHUSA, GAUNT
[GAUNT (_reading_). ‘And Ruth said, Intreat me not to leave thee, or to
return from following after thee: for whither thou goest, I will go; and
where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy people shall be my people, and thy
God my God: Where thou diest, will I die, and there will I be buried: the
Lord do so to me, and more also, if aught but death part thee and me.’
(_He closes the book_.) Amen.
ARETHUSA. Amen. Father, there spoke my heart.]
GAUNT. Arethusa, the Lord in his mercy has seen right to vex us with
trials of many kinds. It is a little matter to endure the pangs of the
flesh: the smart of wounds, the passion of hunger and thirst, the
heaviness of disease; and in this world I have learned to take thought
for nothing save the quiet of your soul. It is through our affections
that we are smitten with the true pain, even the pain that kills.
ARETHUSA. And yet this pain is our natural lot. Father, I fear to
boast, but I know that I can bear it. Let my life, then, flow like
common lives, each pain rewarded with some pleasure, each pleasure linked
with some pain: nothing pure whether for good or evil: and my husband,
like myself and all the rest of us, only a poor, kind-hearted sinner,
striving for the better part. What more could any woman ask?
GAUNT. Child, child, your words are like a sword. What would she ask?
Look upon me whom, in the earthly sense, you are commanded to respect.
Look upon me: do I bear a mark? is there any outward sign to bid a woman
avoid and flee from me?
ARETHUSA. I see nothing but the face I love.
GAUNT. There is none: nor yet on the young man Christopher, whose words
still haunt and upbraid me. Yes, I am hard; I was born hard, born a
tyrant, born to be what I was, a slaver captain. But to-night, and to
save you, I will pluck my heart out of my bosom. You shall know what
makes me what I am; you shall hear, out of my own life, why I dread and
deprecate this marriage. Child, do you remember your mother?
ARETHUSA. Remember her? Ah, if she had been here to-day!
GAUNT. It is thirteen years since she departed, and took with her the
whole sunshine of my life. Do you remember the manner of her departure?
You were a child, and cannot; but I can and do. Remember? shall I ever
forget? Here or hereafter, ever forget! Ten years she was my wife, and
ten years she lay a-dying. Arethusa, she was a saint on earth; and it
was I that killed her.
ARETHUSA. Killed her? my mother? You?
GAUNT. Not with my hand; for I loved her. I would not have hurt one
hair upon her head. But she got her death by me, as sure as by a blow.
ARETHUSA. I understand—I can see: you brood on trifles,
misunderstandings, unkindnesses you think them; though my mother never
knew of them, or never gave them a second thought. It is natural, when
death has come between.
GAUNT. I married her from Falmouth. She was comely as the roe; I see
her still—her dove’s eyes and her smile! I was older than she; and I had
a name for hardness, a hard and wicked man; but she loved me—my
Hester!—and she took me as I was. O how I repaid her trust! Well, our
child was born to us; and we named her after the brig I had built and
sailed, the old craft whose likeness—older than you, girl—stands there
above our heads. And so far, that was happiness. But she yearned for my
salvation; and it was there I thwarted her. My sins were a burden upon
her spirit, a shame to her in this world, her terror in the world to
come. She talked much and often of my leaving the devil’s trade I sailed
in. She had a tender and a Christian heart, and she would weep and pray
for the poor heathen creatures that I bought and sold and shipped into
misery, till my conscience grew hot within me. I’ve put on my hat, and
gone out and made oath that my next cargo should be my last; but it never
was, that oath was never kept. So I sailed again and again for the
Guinea coast, until the trip came that was to be my last indeed. Well,
it fell out that we had good luck trading, and I stowed the brig with
these poor heathen as full as she would hold. We had a fair run westward
till we were past the line; but one night the wind rose and there came a
hurricane, and for seven days we were tossed on the deep seas, in the
hardest straits, and every hand on deck. For several days they were
battened down: all that time we heard their cries and lamentations, but
worst at the beginning; and when at last, and near dead myself, I crept
below—O! some they were starved, some smothered, some dead of broken
limbs; and the hold was like a lazar-house in the time of the anger of
the Lord!
ARETHUSA. O!
GAUNT. It was two hundred and five that we threw overboard: two hundred
and five lost souls that I had hurried to their doom. I had many die
with me before; but not like that—not such a massacre as that; and I
stood dumb before the sight. For I saw I was their murderer—body and
soul their murderer; and, Arethusa, my Hester knew it. That was her
death-stroke: it felled her. She had long been dying slowly; but from
the hour she heard that story, the garment of the flesh began to waste
and perish, the fountains of her life dried up; she faded before my face;
and in two months from my landing—O Hester, Hester, would God I had died
for thee!
ARETHUSA. Mother! O poor soul! O poor father! O father, it was hard
on you.
GAUNT. The night she died, she lay there, in her bed. She took my hand.
‘I am going,’ she said, ‘to heaven. For Christ’s sake,’ she said, ‘come
after me, and bring my little maid. I’ll be waiting and wearying till
you come;’ and she kissed my hand, the hand that killed her. At that I
broke out calling on her to stop, for it was more than I could bear. But
no, she said she must still tell me of my sins, and how the thought of
them had bowed down her life. ‘And O!’ she said, ‘if I couldn’t prevail
on you alive, let my death.’ . . . Well, then, she died. What have I
done since then? I’ve laid my course for Hester. Sin, temptation,
pleasure, all this poor shadow of a world, I saw them not: I saw my
Hester waiting, waiting and wearying. I have made my election sure; my
sins I have cast them out. Hester, Hester, I will come to you, poor
waiting one; and I’ll bring your little maid: ay, dearest soul, I’ll
bring your little maid safe with me!
ARETHUSA. O teach me how! Show me the way! only show me.—O mother,
mother!—If it were paved with fire, show me the way, and I will walk it
bare-foot!