The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson – Swanston Edition. Volume 15

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. 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, you 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!”

Musical Induction: The “Minuet” from Don Giovanni

ACT III

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!