Goriot. I shan’t, and what’s more I wun’t. (Charles and Ernestine lead him up stage, protesting. All rise, except Notary.)
Dumont (front R., shaking hands with Macaire). Sir, you have a noble nature. (Macaire picks his pocket.) Dear me, dear me, and you are rich.
Macaire. I own, sir, I deceived you: I feared some wounding offer, and my pride replied. But to be quite frank with you, you behold me here, the Baron Henri-Frédéric de Latour de Main de la Tonnerre de Brest, and between my simple manhood and the infinite these rags are all.
Dumont. Dear me, and with this noble pride, my gratitude is useless. For I, too, have delicacy: I understand you could not stoop to take a gift.
Macaire. A gift? a small one? never!
Dumont. And I will never wound you by the offer.
Macaire (aside). Bitten.
Bertrand (aside). Sold again.
Goriot (taking the stage). But, look’ee here, he can’t marry.
(All speak together . . .
Macaire. Hey?
Dumont. Ah!
Aline. Hey day!
Curate. Wherefore?
Ernestine. Oh!
Charles. Ah!
. . . )
Goriot. Not without his veyther’s consent! And he hasn’t got it; and what’s more, he can’t get it: and what’s more, he hasn’t got a veyther to get it from. It’s the law of France.
Aline. Then the law of France ought to be ashamed of itself.
Ernestine. O, couldn’t we ask the Notary again?
Curate. Indubitably you may ask him.
(All speak together . . .
Macaire. Can’t they marry?
Dumont. Can’t he marry?
Aline. Can’t she marry?
Ernestine. Can’t we marry?
Charles. Can’t I marry?
Goriot. Bain’t I right?
. . . )
Notary. Constracting parties.
Curate. Possibly to-morrow at an early hour he may be more perspicuous.
Goriot. Ay, before he’ve time to get at it.
Notary. Unoffending jurisconsult overtaken by sorrow. Possibly by applying justice of peace might afford relief.
(All speak together . . .
Macaire. Bravo!
Dumont. Excellent!
Charles. Let’s go at once!
Aline. The very thing!
. . . )
Ernestine. Yes, this minute!
Goriot. I’ll go. I don’t mind getting advice, but I wun’t take it.
Macaire. My friends, one word: I perceive by your downcast looks that you have not recognised the true nature of your responsibility as citizens of time. What is care? impiety. Joy? the whole duty of man. Here is an opportunity of duty it were sinful to forego. With a word, I could lighten your hearts; but I prefer to quicken your heels, and send you forth on your ingenuous errand with happy faces and smiling thoughts, the physicians of your own recovery. Fiddlers, to your catgut! Up, Bertrand, and show them how one foots it in society; forward, girls, and choose me every one the lad she loves; Dumont, benign old man, lead forth our blushing Curate; and you, O bride, embrace the uniform of your beloved, and help us dance in your wedding-day. (Dance, in the course of which Macaire picks Dumont’s pocket of his keys, selects the key of the cash-box, and returns the others to his pocket. In the end, all dance out: the wedding-party, headed by Fiddlers, L. C.; the Maids and Aline into the inn, R. U. E. Manet Bertrand and Macaire.)
SCENE VIII
Macaire, Bertrand, who instantly takes a bottle from the wedding-table, and sits with it, L.
Macaire. Bertrand, there’s a devil of a want of a father here.
Bertrand. Ay, if we only knew where to find him.
Macaire. Bertrand, look at me: I am Macaire; I am that father.
Bertrand. You, Macaire? you a father?
Macaire. Not yet, but in five minutes. I am capable of anything. (Producing key.) What think you of this?
Bertrand. That? Is it a key?
Macaire. Ay, boy, and what besides? my diploma of respectability, my patent of fatherhood. I prigged it — in the ardour of the dance I prigged it; I change it beyond recognition, thus (twists the handle of the key); and now . . .? Where is my long-lost child? produce my young policeman! show me my gallant boy!
Bertrand. I don’t understand.
Macaire. Dear innocence, how should you? Your brains are in your fists. Go and keep watch. (He goes into the office and returns with the cash-box.) Keep watch, I say.
Bertrand. Where?
Macaire. Everywhere. (He opens box.)
Bertrand. Gold.
Macaire. Hands off! Keep watch. (Bertrand at back of stage.) Beat slower, my paternal heart! The third compartment; let me see.
Bertrand. S’st! (Macaire shuts box.) No; false alarm.
Macaire. The third compartment. Ay, here t —
Bertrand. S’st! (Same business.) No: fire away.
Macaire. The third compartment: it must be this.
Bertrand. S’st! (Macaire, keeps box open, watching Bertrand.) All serene; it’s the wind.
Macaire. Now, see here! (He darts his knife into the stage.) I will either be backed as a man should be, or from this minute out I’ll work alone. Do you understand? I said alone.
Bertrand. For the Lord’s sake, Macaire! —
Macaire. Ay, here it is. (Reading letter). ‘Preserve this letter secretly; its terms are known only to you and me: hence when the time comes, I shall repeat them, and my son will recognise his father.’ Signed: ‘Your Unknown Benefactor.’ (He turns it over twice and replaces it. Then, fingering the gold) Gold! The yellow enchantress, happiness ready-made and laughing in my face! Gold: what is gold? The world; the term of ills; the empery of all; the multitudinous babble of the change, the sailing from all ports of freighted argosies; music, wine, a palace; the doors of the bright theatre, the key of consciences, and love — love’s whistle! All this below my itching fingers; and to set this by, turn a deaf ear upon the siren present, and condescend once more, naked, into the ring with fortune — Macaire, how few would do it! But you, Macaire, you are compacted of more subtile clay. No cheap immediate pilfering: no retail trade of petty larceny; but swoop at the heart of the position, and clutch all!
Bertrand (at his shoulder). Halves!
Macaire. Halves? (He locks the box.) Bertrand, I am a father. (Replaces box in office.)
Bertrand (looking after him). Well, I — am — damned!
Drop.
ACT II.
When the curtain rises, the night has come. A hanging cluster of lighted lamps over each table, R. and L. Macaire, R., smoking a cigarette; Bertrand, L., with a church-warden: each with bottle and glass
SCENE I
Macaire, Bertrand
Macaire. Bertrand, I am content: a child might play with me. Does your pipe draw well?
Bertrand. Like a factory chimney. This is my notion of life: liquor, a chair, a table to put my feet on, a fine clean pipe, and no police.
Macaire. Bertrand, do you see these changing exhalations? do you see these blue rings and spirals, weaving their dance, like a round of fairies, on the footless air?
Bertrand. I see ’em right enough.
Macaire. Man of little vision, expound me these meteors! what do they signify, O wooden-head? Clod, of what do they consist?
Bertrand. Damned bad tobacco.
Macaire. I will give you a little course of science. Everything, Bertrand (much as it may surprise you), has three states: a vapour, a liquid, a solid. These are fortune in the vapour: these are ideas. What are ideas? the protoplasm of wealth. To your head — which, by the way, is a solid, Bertrand — what are they but foul air? To mine, to my prehensile and constructive intellects, see, as I grasp and work them, to what lineaments of the future they transform themselves: a palace, a barouche, a pair of luminous footmen, plate, wine, respect, and to be honest!
Bertrand. But what’s the sense in honesty?
Macaire. The sense?
You see me: Macaire: elegant, immoral, invincible in cunning; well, Bertrand, much as it may surprise you, I am simply damned by my dishonesty.
Bertrand. No!
Macaire. The honest man, Bertrand, that God’s noblest work. He carries the bag, my boy. Would you have me define honesty? the strategic point for theft. Bertrand, if I’d three hundred a year, I’d be honest to-morrow.
Bertrand. Ah! Don’t you wish you may get it!
Macaire. Bertrand, I will bet you my head against your own — the longest odds I can imagine — that with honesty for my spring-board, I leap through history like a paper hoop, and come out among posterity heroic and immortal.
SCENE II
To these, all the former characters, less the Notary. The fiddles are heard without, playing dolefully. Air: ‘O dear, what can the matter be?’ in time to which the procession enters
Macaire. Well, friends, what cheer?
(All speak together . . .
Aline. No wedding, no wedding!
Goriot. I told ‘ee he can’t and he can’t.
Dumont. Dear, dear me!
Ernestine. They won’t let us marry.
Charles. No wife, no father, no nothing!
. . . )
Curate. The facts have justified the worst anticipations of our absent friend, the Notary.
Macaire. I perceive I must reveal myself.
Dumont. God bless me, no!
Macaire. My friends, I had meant to preserve a strict incognito, for I was ashamed (I own it!) of this poor accoutrement; but when I see a face that I can render happy, say, my old Dumont, should I hesitate to work the change? Hear me, then, and you (to the others) prepare a smiling countenance. (Repeating.) ‘Preserve this letter secretly; its terms are only known to you and me; hence when the time comes, I shall repeat them, and my son will recognise his father. — Your Unknown Benefactor.’
Dumont. The words! the letter! Charles, alas! it is your father!
Charles. Good Lord! (General consternation.)
Bertrand (aside: smiling his brow). I see it now; sublime!
Curate. A highly singular eventuality.
Goriot. Him? O well, then, I wun’t. (Goes up.)
Macaire. Charles, to my arms! (Business.) Ernestine, your second father waits to welcome you. (Business.) Goriot, noble old man, I grasp your hand. (He doesn’t.) And you, Dumont, how shall your unknown benefactor thank you for your kindness to his boy? (A dead Pause.) Charles, to my arms!
Charles. My father, you are still something of a stranger. I hope — er — in the course of time — I hope that may be somewhat mended. But I confess that I have so long regarded Mr. Dumont —
Macaire. Love him still, dear boy, love him still. I have not returned to be a burden on your heart, nor much, comparatively, on your pocket. A place by the fire, dear boy, a crust for my friend, Bertrand. (A dead pause.) Ah, well, this is a different home-coming from that I fancied when I left the letter: I dreamed to grow rich. Charles, you remind me of your sainted mother.
Charles. I trust, sir, you do not think yourself less welcome for your poverty.
Macaire. Nay, nay — more welcome, more welcome. O, I know your — (business) backs! Besides, my poverty is noble. Political . . . Dumont, what are your politics?
Dumont. A plain old republican, my lord.
Macaire. And yours, my good Goriot?
Goriot. I be a royalist, I be, and so be my daater.
Macaire. How strange is the coincidence! The party that I sought to found combined the peculiarities of both: a patriotic enterprise in which I fell. This humble fellow . . . have I introduced him? You behold in us the embodiment of aristocracy and democracy. Bertrand, shake hands with my family. (Bertrand is rebuffed by one and the other in dead silence.)
Bertrand. Sold again!
Macaire. Charles, to my arms! (Business.)
Ernestine. Well, but now that he has a father of some kind, cannot the marriage go on?
Macaire. Angel, this very night: I burn to take my grandchild on my knees.
Goriot. Be you that young man’s veyther?
Macaire. Ay, and what a father!
Goriot. Then all I’ve got to say is, I shan’t and I wun’t.
Macaire. Ah, friends, friends, what a satisfaction it is, what a sight is virtue! I came among you in this poor attire to test you; how nobly have you borne the test! But my disguise begins to irk me: who will lend me a good suit? (Business.)
SCENE III
To these, the Marquis, L. C.
Marquis. Is this the house of John Paul Dumont, once of Lyons?
Dumont. It is, sir, and I am he, at your disposal.
Marquis. I am the Marquis Villers-Cotterêts de la Cherté de Médoc. (Sensation.)
Macaire. Marquis, delighted, I am sure.
Marquis (to Dumont). I come, as you perceive, unfollowed; my errand, therefore, is discreet. I come (producing notes from breast-pocket) equipped with thirty thousand francs; my errand, therefore, must be generous. Can you not guess?
Dumont. Not I, my lord.
Marquis (repeating). ‘Preserve this letter,’ etc.
Macaire. Bitten.
Bertrand. Sold again (aside). (A pause.)
Aline. Well, I never did!
Dumont. Two fathers!
Marquis. Two? Impossible.
Dumont. Not at all. This is the other.
Marquis. This man?
Macaire. This is the man, my lord; here stands the father; Charles, to my arms! (Charles backs.)
Dumont. He knew the letter.
Marquis. Well, but so did I.
Curate. The judgment of Solomon.
Goriot. What did I tell ‘ee? he can’t marry.
Ernestine. Couldn’t they both consent?
Marquis. But he’s my living image.
Macaire. Mine, Marquis, mine.
Marquis. My figure, I think?
Macaire. Ah, Charles, Charles!
Curate. We used to think his physiognomy resembled Dumont’s.
Dumont. Come to look at him, he’s really like Goriot.
Ernestine. O papa, I hope he’s not my brother.
Goriot. What be talking of? I tell ‘ee, he’s like our Curate.
Charles. Gentlemen, my head aches.
Marquis. I have it: the involuntary voice of nature. Look at me, my son.
Macaire. Nay, Charles, but look at me.
Charles. Gentlemen, I am unconscious of the smallest natural inclination for either.
Marquis. Another thought: what was his mother’s name?
Macaire. What was the name of his mother by you?
Marquis. Sir, you are silenced.
Macaire. Silenced by honour. I had rather lose my boy than compromise his sainted mother.
Marquis. A thought: twins might explain it: had you not two foundlings?
Dumont. Nay, sir, one only; and judging by the miseries of this evening, I should say, thank God!
Macaire. My friends, leave me alone with the Marquis. It is only a father that can understand a father’s heart. Bertrand, follow the members of my family. (They troop out, L. U. E. and R. U. E., the fiddlers playing. Air: ‘O dear, what can the matter be?’)
SCENE IV
Macaire, Marquis
Marquis. Well, sir?
Macaire. My lord, I feel for you. (Business. They sit, R.)
Marquis. And now, sir?
Macaire. The bond that joins us is remarkable and touching.
Marquis. Well, sir?
Macaire (touching him on the breast). You have there thirty thousand francs.
Marquis. Well, sir?
Macaire. I was but thinking of the inequalities of life, my lord: that I who, for all you know, may be the father of your son, should have nothing; and that you who, for all I know, may be the father of mine, should be literally bulging with bank notes. . . . Where do you keep them at night?
Marquis. Under my pillow. I think it rather ingenious.
Macaire. Admirably so! I applaud the devic
e.
Marquis. Well, sir?
Macaire. Do you snuff, my lord?
Marquis. No, sir, I do not.
Macaire. My lord, I am a poor man.
Marquis. Well, sir? and what of that?
Macaire. The affections, my lord, are priceless. Money will not buy them; or, at least, it takes a great deal.
Marquis. Sir, your sentiments do you honour.
Macaire. My lord, you are rich.
Marquis. Well, sir?
Macaire. Now follow me, I beseech you. Here am I, my lord; and there, if I may so express myself, are you. Each has the father’s heart, and there we are equal; each claims yon interesting lad, and there again we are on a par. But, my lord — and here we come to the inequality, and what I consider the unfairness of the thing — you have thirty thousand francs, and I, my lord, have not a rap. You mark me? not a rap, my lord! My lord, put yourself in my position: consider what must be my feelings, my desires; and — hey?
Marquis. I fail to grasp . . .
Macaire (with irritation). My dear man, there is the door of the house; here am I; there (touching, Marquis on the breast) are thirty thousand francs. Well, now?
Marquis. I give you my word of honour, sir, I gather nothing; my mind is quite unused to such prolonged exertion. If the boy be yours, he is not mine; if he be mine, he is not yours; and if he is neither of ours, or both of ours . . . in short, my mind . . .
Macaire. My lord, will you lay those thirty thousand francs upon the table?
Marquis. I fail to grasp . . . but if it will in any way oblige you . . . (Does so.)
Complete Works of Robert Louis Stevenson Page 413