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

Aline. Poor lamb!

Curate. Silence, my friend; you will expose yourself to misconstruction.

Macaire (taking the stage). As an entire stranger in this painful scene, will you permit a gentleman and a traveller to interject one word? There sits the young man, full, I am sure, of pleasing qualities; here the young maiden, by her own confession bashfully consenting to the match; there sits that dear old gentleman, a lover of bright faces like myself, his own now dimmed with sorrow; and here – (may I be allowed to add?) – here sits this noble Roman, a father like myself, and like myself the slave of duty. Last you have me – Baron Henri-Frédéric de Latour de Main de la Tonnerre de Brest, the man of the world and the man of delicacy. I find you all – permit me the expression – gravelled. A marriage and an obstacle. Now, what is marriage? The union of two souls, and, what is possibly more romantic, the fusion of two dowries. What is an obstacle? the devil. And this obstacle? to me, as a man of family, the obstacle seems grave; but to me, as a man and a brother, what is it but a word? O my friend (to Goriot), you whom I single out as the victim of the same noble failings with myself – of pride of birth, of pride of honesty – O my friend, reflect. Go now apart with your dishevelled daughter, your tearful son-in-law, and let their plaints constrain you. Believe me, when you come to die, you will recall with pride this amiable weakness.

Goriot. I shan’t, and what’s more I wun’t. (Charles and Ernestine lead him up stage, protesting. All rise, except Notary.)

Dumont (front R., shaking hands with Macaire). Sir, you have a noble nature. (Macaire picks his pocket.) Dear me, dear me, and you are rich.

Macaire. I own, sir, I deceived you: I feared some wounding offer, and my pride replied. But to be quite frank with you, you behold me here, the Baron Henri-Frédéric de Latour de Main de la Tonnerre de Brest, and between my simple manhood and the infinite these rags are all.

Dumont. Dear me, and with this noble pride, my gratitude is useless. For I, too, have delicacy: I understand you could not stoop to take a gift.

Macaire. A gift? a small one? never!

Dumont. And I will never wound you by the offer.

Macaire (aside). Bitten.

Bertrand (aside). Sold again.

Goriot (taking the stage). But, look’ee here, he can’t marry.

(All speak together.

Macaire. Hey?

Dumont. Ah!

Aline. Hey day!

Curate. Wherefore?

Ernestine. Oh!

Charles. Ah!

.. )

Goriot. Not without his veyther’s consent! And he hasn’t got it; and what’s more, he can’t get it: and what’s more, he hasn’t got a veyther to get it from. It’s the law of France.

Aline. Then the law of France ought to be ashamed of itself.

Ernestine. O, couldn’t we ask the Notary again?

Curate. Indubitably you may ask him.

(All speak together.

Macaire. Can’t they marry?

Dumont. Can’t he marry?

Aline. Can’t she marry?

Ernestine. Can’t we marry?

Charles. Can’t I marry?

Goriot. Bain’t I right?

.. )

Notary. Constracting parties.

Curate. Possibly to-morrow at an early hour he may be more perspicuous.

Goriot. Ay, before he’ve time to get at it.

Notary. Unoffending jurisconsult overtaken by sorrow. Possibly by applying justice of peace might afford relief.

(All speak together.

Macaire. Bravo!

Dumont. Excellent!

Charles. Let’s go at once!

Aline. The very thing!

.. )

Ernestine. Yes, this minute!

Goriot. I’ll go. I don’t mind getting advice, but I wun’t take it.

Macaire. My friends, one word: I perceive by your downcast looks that you have not recognised the true nature of your responsibility as citizens of time. What is care? impiety. Joy? the whole duty of man. Here is an opportunity of duty it were sinful to forego. With a word, I could lighten your hearts; but I prefer to quicken your heels, and send you forth on your ingenuous errand with happy faces and smiling thoughts, the physicians of your own recovery. Fiddlers, to your catgut! Up, Bertrand, and show them how one foots it in society; forward, girls, and choose me every one the lad she loves; Dumont, benign old man, lead forth our blushing Curate; and you, O bride, embrace the uniform of your beloved, and help us dance in your wedding-day. (Dance, in the course of which Macaire picks Dumont’s pocket of his keys, selects the key of the cash-box, and returns the others to his pocket. In the end, all dance out: the wedding-party, headed by Fiddlers, L. C.; the Maids and Aline into the inn, R. U. E.Manet Bertrand and Macaire.)

SCENE VIII

Macaire, Bertrand, who instantly takes a bottle from the wedding-table, and sits with it, L.

Macaire. Bertrand, there’s a devil of a want of a father here.

Bertrand. Ay, if we only knew where to find him.

Macaire. Bertrand, look at me: I am Macaire; I am that father.