Austin. Then, sir (with his hand upon the bell), his conversation becomes impossible. You have me at too gross a disadvantage; and, as you are a gentleman and respect another, I would suggest that you retire.
Fenwick. Sir, you speak of disadvantage; think of mine. All my life long, with all the forces of my nature, I have loved this lady. I came here to implore her to be my wife, to be my queen; my saint she had been always! She was too noble to deceive me. She told me what you know. I will not conceal that my first mood was of anger: I would have killed you like a dog. But, Mr. Austin — bear with me awhile — I, on the threshold of my life, who have made no figure in the world, nor ever shall now, who had but one treasure, and have lost it — if I, abandoning revenge, trampling upon jealousy, can supplicate you to complete my misfortune — O Mr. Austin! you who have lived, you whose gallantry is beyond the insolence of a suspicion, you who are a man crowned and acclaimed, who are loved, and loved by such a woman — you who excel me in every point of advantage, will you suffer me to surpass you in generosity?
Austin. You speak from the heart. (Sits.) What do you want with me?
Fenwick. Marry her.
Austin. Mr. Fenwick, I am the older man. I have seen much of life, much 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, y
ou 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.
Complete Works of Robert Louis Stevenson Page 405