The Plays of W. E. Henley and R. L. Stevenson

Arethusa. I thought the time dragged long and weary when I knew that Kit was homeward bound, all the white sails a-blowing out towards England, and my Kit’s face turned this way? (She begins to dust.) Sure, if my mother were here, she would understand and help us; she would understand a young maid’s heart, though her own had never an ache; and she would love my Kit. (Putting back the telescope.) To think she died: husband and child – and so much love – she was taken from them all. Ah, there is no parting but the grave! And Kit and I both live, and both love each other; and here am I cast down? O, Arethusa, shame! And your love home from the deep seas, and loving you still; and the sun shining; and the world all full of hope? O, hope, you’re a good word!

SCENE VI

Gaunt

Arethusa; to her, Pew

Pew (singing without) —

‘Time for us to go!
Time for us to go!
And we’ll keep the brig three pints away,
For it’s time for us to go.’

Arethusa. Who comes here? a seaman by his song, and father out! (She tries the air) ‘Time for us to go!’ It sounds a wild kind of song. (Tap-tap; Pew passes the window.) O, what a face – and blind!

Pew (entering). Kind Christian friends, take pity on a poor blind mariner, as lost his precious sight in the defence of his native country, England, and God bless King George!

Arethusa. What can I do for you, sailor?

Pew. Good Christian lady, help a poor blind mariner to a mouthful of meat. I’ve served His Majesty in every quarter of the globe; I’ve spoke with ’Awke and glorious Anson, as I might with you; and I’ve tramped it all night long, upon my sinful feet, and with a empty belly.

Arethusa. You shall not ask bread and be denied by a sailor’s daughter and a sailor’s sweetheart; and when my father returns he shall give you something to set you on your road.

Pew. Kind and lovely lady, do you tell me that you are in a manner of speaking alone? or do my ears deceive a poor blind seaman?

Arethusa. I live here with my father, and my father is abroad.

Pew. Dear, beautiful, Christian lady, tell a poor blind man your honoured name, that he may remember it in his poor blind prayers.

Arethusa. Sailor, I am Arethusa Gaunt.

Pew. Sweet lady, answer a poor blind man one other question: are you in a manner of speaking related to Cap’n John Gaunt? Cap’n John as in the ebony trade were known as Admiral Guinea?

Arethusa. Captain John Gaunt is my father.

Pew (dropping the blind man’s whine). Lord, think of that now! They told me this was where he lived, and so it is. And here’s old Pew, old David Pew, as was the Admiral’s own bo’sun, colloguing in his old commander’s parlour, with his old commander’s gal (seizes Arethusa). Ah, and a bouncer you are, and no mistake.

Arethusa. Let me go! how dare you?

Pew. Lord love you, don’t you struggle, now, don’t you. (She escapes into front R. corner, where he keeps her imprisoned.) Ah, well, we’ll get you again, my lovely woman. What a arm you’ve got – great god of love – and a face like a peach! I’m a judge, I am. (She tries to escape; he stops her.) No, you don’t; O, I can hear a flea jump! [But it’s here where I miss my deadlights. Poor old Pew; him as the ladies always would have for their fancy man and take no denial; here you are with your commander’s daughter close aboard, and you can’t so much as guess the colour of her lovely eyes. (Singing) —

‘Be they black like ebony;
Or be they blue like to the sky.’

Black like the Admiral’s? or blue like his poor dear wife’s? Ah, I was fond of that there woman, I was: the Admiral was jealous of me.] Arethusa, my dear, – my heart, what a ’and and arm you have got; I’ll dream o’ that ’and and arm, I will! – but as I was a-saying, does the Admiral ever in a manner of speaking refer to his old bo’sun David Pew? him as he fell out with about the black woman at Lagos, and almost slashed the shoulder off of him one morning before breakfast?

Arethusa. You leave this house.

Pew. Hey? (he crosses and seizes her again) Don’t you fight, my lovely one: now don’t make old blind Pew forget his manners before a female. What! you will? Stop that, or I’ll have the arm right out of your body. (He gives her arm a wrench.)

Arethusa. O! help, help!

Pew. Stash your patter, damn you. (Arethusa gives in.) Ah, I thought it: Pew’s way, Pew’s way. Now, look you here, my lovely woman. If you sling in another word that isn’t in answer to my questions, I’ll pull your j’ints out one by one. Where’s the Commander?

Arethusa. I have said: he is abroad.

Pew. When’s he coming aboard again?

Arethusa. At any moment.

Pew. Does he keep his strength?

Arethusa. You’ll see when he returns. (He wrenches her arm again.) Ah!

Pew. Is he still on piety?

Arethusa. O, he is a Christian man!

Pew. A Christian man, is he? Where does he keep his rum?

Arethusa. Nay, you shall steal nothing by my help.

Pew. No more I shall (becoming amorous). You’re a lovely woman, that’s what you are; how would you like old Pew for a sweetheart, hey? He’s blind, is Pew, but strong as a lion; and the sex is his ’ole delight. Ah, them beautiful, beautiful lips! A kiss! Come!

Arethusa. Leave go, leave go!

Pew. Hey? you would?

Arethusa. Ah! (She thrusts him down, and escapes to door, R.)

SCENE VII

Pew (picking himself up). Ah, she’s a bouncer, she is! Where’s my stick? That’s the sort of female for David Pew. Didn’t she fight? and didn’t she struggle? and shouldn’t I like to twist her lovely neck for her? Pew’s way with ’em all: the prettier they was, the uglier he were to ’em. Pew’s way: a way he had with him; and a damned good way too. (Listens at L. door.) That’s her bedroom, I reckon; and she’s double-locked herself in. Good again: it’s a crying mercy the Admiral didn’t come in. But you always loses your ’ed, Pew, with a female: that’s what charms ’em. Now for business. The front door. No bar; only a big lock (trying keys from his pocket). Key one; no go. Key two; no go. Key three; ah, that does it. Ah! (feeling key) him with the three wards and the little ’un: good again! Now if I could only find a mate in this rotten country ’amlick: one to be eyes to me; I can steer, but I can’t conn myself, worse luck! If I could only find a mate! And to-night, about three bells in the middle watch, old Pew will take a little cruise, and lay aboard his ancient friend the Admiral; or, barring that, the Admiral’s old sea-chest – the chest he kept the shiners in aboard the brig. Where is it, I wonder? in his berth, or in the cabin here? It’s big enough, and the brass bands is plain to feel by. (Searching about with stick.) Dresser – chair – (knocking his head on the cupboard.) Ah! – O, corner cupboard. Admiral’s chair – Admiral’s table – Admiral’s – hey! what’s this? – a book – sheepskin – smells like a ’oly Bible. Chair (his stick just avoids the chest). No sea-chest. I must have a mate to see for me, to see for old Pew: him as had eyes like a eagle! Meanwhile, rum. Corner cupboard, of course (tap-tapping). Rum – rum – rum. Hey? (He listens.) Footsteps. Is it the Admiral? (With the whine.) Kind Christian friends —

SCENE VIII

Pew; to him Gaunt

Gaunt. What brings you here?

Pew. Cap’n, do my ears deceive me? or is this my old commander?

Gaunt. My name is John Gaunt. Who are you, my man, and what’s your business?

Pew. Here’s the facks, so help me. A lovely female in this house was Christian enough to pity the poor blind; and lo and belold! who should she turn out to be but my old commander’s daughter! ‘My dear,’ says I to her, ‘I was the Admiral’s own particular bo’sun.’ – ‘La, sailor,’ she says to me, ‘how glad he’ll be to see you!’ – ‘Ah,’ says I, ‘won’t he just – that’s all.’ – ‘I’ll go and fetch him,’ she says; ‘you make yourself at ’ome.’ And off she went; and, Commander, here I am.

Gaunt (sitting down). Well?