Complete Works of Robert Louis Stevenson (Illustrated) (530 page)
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Authors: ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
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 these, 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.”
)
ADMIRAL GUINEA
DEDICATED
WITH AFFECTION AND ESTEEM TO
ANDREW LANG
BY THE SURVIVORS OF
THE
WALRUS
CONTENTS
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 0. The Action
occupies part of a day and night
ADMIRAL GUINEA
ACT I
The Stage represents a room in 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 windows 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 letters 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 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.
)
