Mary. Dearest!... Husband! You forgive him? O, you forgive him?
Leslie. He is my brother now. Let me take you to our father. Come.
SCENE IV
After a pause, Brodie through the window
Brodie. Saved! And the alibi! Man, but you’ve been near it this time — near the rope, near the rope. Ah, boy, it was your neck, your neck you fought for. They were closing hell-doors upon me, swift as the wind, when I slipped through and shot for heaven! Saved! The dog that sold me, I settled him; and the other dogs are staunch. Man, but your alibi will stand! Is the window fast? The neighbours must not see the Deacon, the poor, sick Deacon, up and stirring at this time o’ night. Ay, the good old room in the good, cosy old house ... and the rat a dead rat, and all saved. (He lights the candles.) Your hand shakes, sir? Fie! And you saved, and snug and sick in your bed, and it but a dead rat after all? (He takes off his hanger and lays it on the table.) Ay, it was a near touch. Will it come to the dock? If it does! You’ve a tongue and you’ve a head, and you’ve an alibi; and your alibi will stand. (He takes off his coat, takes out the dagger, and with a gesture of striking.) Home! He fell without a sob. “He breaketh them against the bosses of His buckler!” (Lays the dagger on the table.) Your alibi ... ah, Deacon, that’s your life!... your alibi, your alibi. (He takes up a candle and turns towards the door.) O!... Open, open, open! Judgment of God, the door is open!
SCENE V
Brodie, Mary
Brodie. Did you open the door?
Mary. I did.
Brodie. You ... you opened the door?
Mary. I did open it.
Brodie. Were you ... alone?
Mary. I was not. The servant was with me; and the doctor.
Brodie. O ... the servant ... and the doctor. Very true. Then it’s all over the town by now. The servant and the doctor. The doctor? What doctor? Why the doctor?
Mary. My father is dead. O Will, where have you been?
Brodie. Your father is dead. O yes! He’s dead, is he? Dead. Quite right. Quite right.... How did you open the door? It’s strange. I bolted it.
Mary. We could not help it, Will, now could we? The doctor forced it. He had to, had he not?
Brodie. The doctor forced it? The doctor? Was he here? He forced it? He?
Mary. We did it for the best; it was I who did it ... I, your own sister. And O Will, my Willie, where have you been? You have not been in any harm, any danger?
Brodie. Danger? O, my young lady, you have taken care of that. It’s not danger now, it’s death. Death? Ah! Death! Death! Death! (Clutching the table. Then recovering as from a dream.) Death? Did you say my father was dead? My father? O my God, my poor old father! Is he dead, Mary? Have I lost him? is he gone? O, Mary dear, and to think of where his son was!
Mary. Dearest, he is in heaven.
Brodie. Did he suffer?
Mary. He died like a child. Your name ... it was his last.
Brodie. My name? Mine? O Mary, if he had known! He knows now. He knows; he sees us now ... sees me! Ay, and sees you left — how lonely!
Mary. Not so, dear; not while you live. Wherever you are, I shall not be alone, so you live.
Brodie. While I live? I? The old house is ruined, and the old master dead, and I!... O Mary, try and believe I did not mean that it should come to this; try and believe that I was only weak at first. At first? And now! The good old man dead, the kind sister ruined, the innocent boy fallen, fallen.... You will be quite alone; all your old friends, all the old faces, gone into darkness. The night (with a gesture) ... it waits for me. You will be quite alone.
Mary. The night!
Brodie. Mary, you must hear. How am I to tell her, and the old man just dead! Mary, I was the boy you knew; I loved pleasure, I was weak; I have fallen ... low ... lower than you think. A beginning is so small a thing! I never dreamed it would come to this ... this hideous last night.
Mary. Willie, you must tell me, dear. I must have the truth ... the kind truth ... at once ... in pity.
Brodie. Crime. I have fallen. Crime.
Mary. Crime?
Brodie. Don’t shrink from me. Miserable dog that I am, selfish hound that has dragged you to this misery ... you and all that loved him ... think only of my torments, think only of my penitence, don’t shrink from me.
Mary. I do not care to hear, I do not wish, I do not mind; you are my brother. What do I care? How can I help you?
Brodie. Help? help me? You would not speak of it, not wish it, if you knew. My kind good sister, my little playmate, my sweet friend! Was I ever unkind to you till yesterday? Not openly unkind? You’ll say that when I am gone.
Mary. If you have done wrong, what do I care? If you have failed, does it change my twenty years of love and worship? Never!
Brodie. Yet I must make her understand...!
Mary. I am your true sister, dear. I cannot fail, I will never leave you, I will never blame you. Come! (Goes to embrace.)
Brodie (recoiling). No, don’t touch me, not a finger, not that, anything but that!
Mary. Willie, Willie!
Brodie (taking the bloody dagger from the table). See, do you understand that?
Mary. Ah! What, what is it!
Brodie. Blood. I have killed a man.
Mary. You?...
Brodie. I am a murderer; I was a thief before. Your brother ... the old man’s only son!
Mary. Walter, Walter, come to me!
Brodie. Now you see that I must die; now you see that I stand upon the grave’s edge, all my lost life behind me, like a horror to think upon, like a frenzy, like a dream that is past. And you, you are alone. Father, brother, they are gone from you; one to heaven, one...!
Mary. Hush, dear, hush! Kneel, pray; it is not too late to repent. Think of our father, dear; repent. (She weeps, straining to his bosom.) O Willie, my darling boy, repent and join us.
SCENE VI
To these, Lawson, Leslie, Jean
Lawson. She kens a’, thank the guid Lord!
Brodie (to Mary). I know you forgive me now; I ask no more. That is a good man. (To Leslie.) Will you take her from my hands? (Leslie takes Mary.) Jean, are ye here to see the end?
Jean. Eh man, can ye no’ fly? Could ye no’ say that it was me?
Brodie. No, Jean, this is where it ends. Uncle, this is where it ends. And to think that not an hour ago I still had hopes! Hopes! Ay, not an hour ago I thought of a new life. You were not forgotten, Jean. Leslie, you must try to forgive me ... you too!
Leslie. You are her brother.
Brodie (to Lawson). And you.
Lawson. My name-child and my sister’s bairn.
Brodie. You won’t forget Jean, will you? nor the child?
Lawson. That I will not.
Mary. O Willie, nor I.
SCENE VII
To these, Hunt
Hunt. The game’s up, Deacon. I’ll trouble you to come along with me.
Brodie (behind the table). One moment, officer: I have a word to say before witnesses ere I go. In all this there is but one man guilty; and that man is I. None else has sinned; none else must suffer. This poor woman (pointing to Jean) I have used; she never understood. Mr. Procurator-Fiscal, that is my dying confession. (He snatches his hanger from the table, and rushes upon Hunt, who parries, and runs him through. He reels across the stage and falls.) The new life ... the new life! (He dies.)
CURTAIN
BEAU AUSTIN
DEDICATED
WITH
ADMIRATION AND RESPECT
TO
GEORGE MEREDITH
BOURNEMOUTH,
1st October, 1884
CONTENTS
PERSONS REPRESENTED
PROLOGUE
ACT I
SCENE I
SCENE II
SCENE III
SCENE IV
ACT II
SCENE I
SCENE II
SCENE III
SCENE IV
SCENE V
SCENE VI
ACT III
SCENE I
SCENE II
SCENE III
SCENE IV
SCENE V
SCENE VI
SCENE VII
SCENE VIII
ACT IV
SCENE I
SCENE II
SCENE III
SCENE IV
SCENE V
PERSONS REPRESENTED
George Frederick Austin, called “Beau Austin”Ætat. 50
John Fenwick, of Allonby Shaw “ 26
Anthony Musgrave, Cornet in the Prince’s Own “21
Menteith, the Beau’s Valet “ 55
A Royal Duke. (Dumb show.)
Dorothy Musgrave, Anthony’s Sister “25
Miss Evelina Foster, her Aunt “45
Barbara Ridley, her Maid “20
Visitors to the Wells
The Time is 1820. The Scene is laid at Tunbridge Wells. The Action occupies a space of ten hours.
PROLOGUE
“To all and singular,” as Dryden says,
We bring a fancy of those Georgian days,
Whose style still breathed a faint and fine perfume
Of old-world courtliness and old-world bloom:
When speech was elegant and talk was fit,
For slang had not been canonised as wit;
When manners reigned, when breeding had the wall,
And Women — yes! — were ladies first of all;
When Grace was conscious of its gracefulness,
And man — though Man! — was not ashamed to dress.
A brave formality, a measured ease,
Were his — and hers — whose effort was to please.
And to excel in pleasing was to reign,
And, if you sighed, never to sigh in vain.
But then, as now — it may be, something more —
Woman and man were human to the core.
The hearts that throbbed behind that quaint attire
Burned with a plenitude of essential fire.
They too could risk, they also could rebel.
They could love wisely — they could love too well.
In that great duel of Sex, that ancient strife
Which is the very central fact of life,
They could — and did — engage it breath for breath,
They could — and did — get wounded unto death.
As at all times since time for us began
Woman was truly woman, man was man.
And joy and sorrow were as much at home
In trifling Tunbridge as in mighty Rome.
Dead — dead and done with! Swift from shine to shade
The roaring generations flit and fade.
To this one, fading, flitting, like the rest,
We come to proffer — be it worst or best —
A sketch, a shadow, of one brave old time;
A hint of what it might have held sublime;
A dream, an idyll, call it what you will,
Of man still Man, and woman — Woman still!
W. E. H.
BEAU AUSTIN
Musical Induction: “Lascia ch’io pianga” (Rinaldo), Handel
ACT I
The Stage represents Miss Foster’s apartments at the Wells. Doors, L. and C.; a window, L.C., looking on the street; a table, R., laid for breakfast
SCENE I
Barbara; to her, Miss Foster
Barbara (out of window). Mr. Menteith! Mr. Menteith! Mr. Menteith! — Drat his old head! Will nothing make him hear? — Mr. Menteith!
Miss Foster (entering). Barbara! this is incredible: after all my lessons, to be leaning from the window, and calling (for unless my ears deceived me, you were positively calling!) into the street.
Barbara. Well, madam, just wait until you hear who it was. I declare it was much more for Miss Dorothy and yourself than for me; and if it was a little countrified, I had a good excuse.
Miss Foster. Nonsense, child! At least, who was it?
Barbara. Miss Evelina, I was sure you would ask. Well, what do you think? I was looking out of the window at the barber’s opposite — —
Miss Foster. Of which I entirely disapprove — —
Barbara. And first there came out two of the most beautiful — the Royal livery, madam!
Miss Foster. Of course, of course: the Duke of York arrived last night. I trust you did not hail the Duke’s footmen?
Barbara. O no, madam, it was after they were gone. Then, who should come out — but you’ll never guess!
Miss Foster. I shall certainly not try.
Barbara. Mr. Menteith himself!
Miss Foster. Why, child, I never heard of him.
Barbara. O madam, not the Beau’s own gentleman?
Miss Foster. Mr. Austin’s servant. No? Is it possible? By that, George Austin must be here.
Barbara. No doubt of that, madam; they’re never far apart. He came out feeling his chin, madam, so; and a packet of letters under his arm, so; and he had the Beau’s own walk to that degree you couldn’t tell his back from his master’s.
Miss Foster. My dear Barbara, you too frequently forget yourself. A young woman in your position must beware of levity.
Barbara. Madam, I know it; but la, what are you to make of me? Look at the time and trouble dear Miss Dorothy was always taking — she that trained up everybody — and see what’s come of it: Barbara Ridley I was, and Barbara Ridley I am; and I don’t do with fashionable ways — I can’t do with them; and indeed, Miss Evelina, I do sometimes wish we were all back again on Edenside, and Mr. Anthony a boy again, and dear Miss Dorothy her old self, galloping the bay mare along the moor, and taking care of all of us as if she was our mother, bless her heart!
Miss Foster. Miss Dorothy herself, child? Well, now you mention it, Tunbridge of late has scarcely seemed to suit her constitution. She falls away, has not a word to throw at a dog, and is ridiculously pale. Well, now Mr. Austin has returned, after six months of infidelity, to the dear Wells, we shall all, I hope, be brightened up. Has the mail come?
Barbara. That it has, madam, and the sight of Mr. Menteith put it clean out of my head. (With letters.) Four for you, Miss Evelina, two for me, and only one for Miss Dorothy. Miss Dorothy seems quite neglected, does she not? Six months ago, it was a different story.
Miss Foster. Well, and that’s true, Barbara, and I had not remarked it. I must take her seriously to task. No young lady in her position should neglect her correspondence. (Opening a letter.) Here’s from that dear ridiculous boy, the Cornet, announcing his arrival for to-day.
Barbara. O madam, will he come in his red coat?
Miss Foster. I could not conceive him missing such a chance. Youth, child, is always vain, and Mr. Anthony is unusually young.
Barbara. La, madam, he can’t help that.
Miss Foster. My child, I am not so sure. Mr. Anthony is a great concern to me. He was orphaned, to be sure, at ten years old; and ever since he has been only as it were his sister’s son. Dorothy did everything for him: more indeed than I thought quite ladylike, but I suppose I begin to be old-fashioned. See how she worked and slaved — yes, slaved! — for him: teaching him herself, with what pains and patience she only could reveal, and learning that she might be able; and see what he is now: a gentleman, of course, but, to be frank, a very commonplace one: not what I had hoped of Dorothy’s brother; not what I had dreamed of the heir of two families — Musgrave and Foster, child! Well, he may now meet Mr. Austin. He requires a Mr. Austin to embellish and correct his manners. (Opening another letter.) Why, Barbara, Mr. John Scrope and Miss Kate Dacre are to be married!
Barbara. La, madam, how nice!
Miss Foster. They are: as I’m a sinful woman. And when will you be married, Barbara? and when dear Dorothy? I hate to see old maids a-making.
Barbara. La, Miss Evelina, there’s no harm in an old maid.
Miss Foster. You speak like a fool, child: sour grapes are all very well, but it’s a woman’s busi
ness to be married. As for Dorothy, she is five-and-twenty, and she breaks my heart. Such a match, too! Ten thousand to her fortune, the best blood in the north, a most advantageous person, all the graces, the finest sensibility, excellent judgment, the Foster walk; and all these go positively a-begging! The men seem stricken with blindness. Why, child, when I came out (and I was the dear girl’s image!) I had more swains at my feet in a fortnight than our Dorothy in — — O, I cannot fathom it: it must be the girl’s own fault.
Barbara. Why, madam, I did think it was a case with Mr. Austin.
Miss Foster. With Mr. Austin? why, how very rustic! The attentions of a gentleman like Mr. Austin, child, are not supposed to lead to matrimony. He is a feature of society: an ornament: a personage: a private gentleman by birth, but a kind of king by habit and reputation. What woman could he marry? Those to whom he might properly aspire are all too far below him. I have known George Austin too long, child, and I understand that the very greatness of his success condemns him to remain unmarried.
Barbara. Sure, madam, that must be tiresome for him.
Miss Foster. Some day, child, you will know better than to think so. George Austin, as I conceive him, and as he is regarded by the world, is one of the triumphs of the other sex. I walked my first minuet with him: I wouldn’t tell you the year, child, for worlds; but it was soon after his famous encounter with Colonel Villiers. He had killed his man, he wore pink and silver, was most elegantly pale, and the most ravishing creature!
Barbara. Well, madam, I believe that: he is the most beautiful gentleman still.
SCENE II
To these, Dorothy, L.
Dorothy (entering). Good-morning, aunt! Is there anything for me? (She goes eagerly to table and looks at letters.)
Miss Foster. Good-morrow, niece. Breakfast, Barbara.
Complete Works of Robert Louis Stevenson (Illustrated) Page 404