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

Lawson. I’m no muckle afraid for your puir clay, as ye ca’t. But hark i’ your ear: ye’re likely, joking apart, to be gey and sune in partnership wi’ Mr. Leslie. He and Mary are gey and pack, a’body can see that.

Brodie. “Daffin, and want o’ wit” – you know the rest.

Lawson. Vidi, scivi, et audivi, as we say in a Sasine, William.) Man, because my wig’s pouthered do you think I havena a green heart? I was aince a lad mysel’, and I ken fine by the glint o’ the e’e when a lad’s fain and a lassie’s willing. And, man, it’s the town’s talk; communis error fit jus, ye ken.

Old Brodie. Oh!

Lawson. See, ye’re hurting your faither’s hand.

Brodie. Dear dad, it is not good to have an ill-tempered son.

Lawson. What the deevil ails ye at the match? ’Od man, he has a nice bit divot o’ Fife corn-land, I can tell ye, and some Bordeaux wine in his cellar! But I needna speak o’ the Bordeaux; ye’ll ken the smack o’t as weel’s I do mysel’; onyway it’s grand wine. Tantum et tale. I tell ye the pro’s, find you the con.’s, if ye’re able.

Brodie. (I am sorry, Procurator, but I must be short with you.) You are talking in the air, as lawyers will. I prefer to drop the subject (and it will displease me if you return to it in my hearing).

Leslie. At four o’clock to-morrow? At my house? (To Mary.)

Mary. As soon as church is done. (Exit Mary.)

Lawson. Ye needna be sae high and mighty, onyway.

Brodie. I ask your pardon, Procurator. But we Brodies – you know our failings! (A bad temper and a humour of privacy.)

Lawson. Weel, I maun be about my business. But I could tak’ a doch-an-dorach, William; superflua non nocent, as we say; an extra dram hurts naebody, Mr. Leslie.

Brodie (with bottle and glasses). Here’s your old friend, Procurator. Help yourself, Leslie. O no, thank you, not any for me. You strong people have the advantage of me there. With my attacks, you know, I must always live a bit of a hermit’s life.

Lawson. ’Od, man, that’s fine; that’s health o’ mind and body. Mr. Leslie, here’s to you, sir. ’Od, it’s harder to end than to begin with stuff like that.

SCENE III

To these, Smith and Jean, C

Smith. Is the king of the castle in, please?

Lawson (aside). Lord’s sake, it’s Smith!

Brodie (to Smith). I beg your pardon?

Smith. I beg yours, sir. If you please, sir, is Mr. Brodie at home, sir?

Brodie. What do you want with him, my man?

Smith. I’ve a message for him, sir; a job of work, sir.

Brodie (to Smith; referring to Jean). And who is this?

Jean. I am here for the Procurator, about my rent. There’s nae offence, I hope, sir.

Lawson. It’s just an honest wife I let a flat to in Libberton’s Wynd. It’ll be for the rent?

Jean. Just that, sir.

Lawson. Weel, ye can just bide here a wee, and I’ll step down the road to my office wi’ ye. (Exeunt Brodie, Lawson, Leslie, C.)

SCENE IV

Smith, Jean Watt, Old Brodie

Smith (bowing them out). Your humble and most devoted servant, George Smith, Esquire. And so this is the garding, is it? And this is the style of horticulture? Ha, it is! (At the mirror.) In that case George’s mother bids him bind his hair. (Kisses his hand.) My dearest Duchess – (To Jean.) I say, Jean, there’s a good deal of difference between this sort of thing and the way we does it in Libberton’s Wynd.

Jean. I daursay. And what wad ye expeck?

Smith. Ah, Jean, if you’d cast affection’s glance on this poor but honest soger! George Lord S. is not the nobleman to cut the object of his flame before the giddy throng; nor to keep her boxed up in an old mouse-trap, while he himself is revelling in purple splendours like these. He didn’t know you, Jean: he was afraid to. Do you call that a man? Try a man that is.

Jean. Geordie Smith, ye ken vera weel I’ll tak’ nane o’ that sort o’ talk frae you. And what kind o’ a man are you to even yoursel’ to the likes o’ him? He’s a gentleman.

Smith. Ah, ain’t he, just! And don’t he live up to it? I say, Jean, feel of this chair.

Jean. My! look at yon bed!

Smith. The carpet too! Axminster, by the bones of Oliver Cromwell!

Jean. What a expense!

Smith. Hey, brandy! The deuce of the grape! Have a toothful, Mrs. Watt. (Sings—

“Says Bacchus to Venus:
There’s brandy between us,
And the cradle of love is the bowl, the bowl!”)

Jean. Nane for me, I thank ye, Mr. Smith.

Smith. What brings the man from stuff like this to rotgut and spittoons at Mother Clarke’s? But ah, George, you was born for a higher spear! And so was you, Mrs. Watt, though I say it that shouldn’t. (Seeing Old Brodie for the first time.) Hullo! it’s a man!

Jean. Thonder in the chair. (They go to look at him, their backs to the door.)

Smith. Is he alive?

Jean. I think there’s something wrong with him.

Smith. And how was you to-morrow, my valued old gentleman, eh?

Jean. Dinna mak’ a mock o’ him, Geordie.

Old Brodie. My son – the Deacon – Deacon of his trade.

Jean. He’ll be his feyther. (Hunt appears at door C., and stands looking on.)