Complete Works of Robert Louis Stevenson

by Robert Louis Stevenson

  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

  CONTENTS

  PERSONS REPRESENTED

  ACT I.

  ACT II.

  ACT III.

  ACT IV.

  DEDICATED

  WITH AFFECTION AND ESTEEM

  TO ANDREW LANG BY

  THE SURVIVORS OF

  THE WALRUS

  Savannah, this 27th 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 ha
s 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) —