Stephen Archer, and Other Tales

Ger. Don't let them near me, William! They will drive me mad. They think I shall love them. I will not. If she comes one step nearer, I shall strike her. You Diana! Hecate! Hell-cat!—Fire-hearted Chaos is burning me to ashes! My brain is a cinder! Some water, William!

Col. G. Here it is, sir.

Ger. But just look to Psyche there. Ah, she's off! There she goes! melting away in the blue, like a dissolving vapour. Bring me my field-glass, William. I may catch a glimpse of her yet. Make haste.

Col. G. Pray don't talk so, sir. Do be quiet, or you will make yourself very ill. Think what will become of me if—

Ger. What worse would you be, William? You are a soldier. I must talk. You are all wrong about it: it keeps me quiet (holding his head with both hands). I should go raving mad else (wildly). Give me some water. (He drinks eagerly, then looks slowly round the room.) Now they are gone, and I do believe they won't come again! I see everything—and your face, William. You are very good to me—very patient! I should die if it weren't for you.

Col. G. I would die for you, sir.

Ger. Would you? But perhaps you don't care much for your life. Anybody might have my life for the asking. I dare say it's just as good to be dead.—Ah! there is a toad—a toad with a tail! No; it's a toad with a slow-worm after him. Take them away, William!—Thank you.—I used to think life pleasant, but now—somehow there's nothing in it. She told me the truth about it—Constance did. Don't let those women come back. What if I should love them, William!—love and hate them both at once! William! William! (A knock at the door.) See who that is. Mind you don't let them in.

Col. G. Martha is there, sir.

Ger. She's but an old woman; she can't keep them out. They would walk over her. All the goddesses have such long legs! You go and look. You'll easily know them: if they've got no irises to their eyes, don't let them in, for the love of God, William! Real women have irises to their eyes: those have none—those frightful snowy beauties.—And yet snow is very nice! And I'm so hot! There they come again! Exit COL. G.

Enter MRS. CLIFFORD.

Ger. Aunt! aunt! help me! There they come!

Mrs. C. What is it, my Arthur? They shan't hurt you. I am here. I will take care of you.

Ger. Yes, yes, you will! I am not a bit afraid of them now. Do you know them, aunt? I'll tell you a secret: they are Juno and Diana and Venus.—They hate sculptors. But I never wronged them. Three white women—only, between their fingers and behind their knees they are purple—and inside their lips, when they smile—and in the hollows of their eyes—ugh! They want me to love them; and they say you are all—all of you women—no better than they are. I know that is a lie; for they have no eyelids and no irises to their eyes.

Mrs. C. Dear boy, they shan't come near you. Shall I sing to you, and drive them away?

Ger. No, don't. I can't bear birds in my brain.

Mrs. C. How long have you had this headache? (laying her hand on his forehead.)

Ger. Only a year or two—since the white woman came—that woman (pointing to the Psyche). She's been buried for ages, and won't grow brown.

Mrs. C. There's no woman there, Arthur.

Ger. Of course not. It was an old story that bothered me. Oh, my head! my head!—There's my father standing behind the door and won't come in!—He could help me now, if he would. William! show my father in. But he isn't in the story—so he can't.

Mrs. C. Do try to keep yourself quiet, Arthur. The doctor will be here in a few minutes.

Ger. He shan't come here! He would put the white woman out. She does smell earthy, but I won't part with her. (A knock.) What a devil of a noise! Why don't they use the knocker? What's the use of taking a sledge-hammer?

Mrs. C. It's that stupid James!

Enter CONSTANCE. MRS. C. goes to meet her.

Mrs. C. Constance, you go and hurry the doctor. I will stay with Arthur.

Con. Is he very ill, aunt?

Mrs. C. I'm afraid he is.

Ger. (sitting up). Constance! Constance!

Con. Here I am! (running to him).

Ger. Oh, my head! I wish I could find somewhere to lay it!—Sit by me, Constance, and let me lay my head on your shoulder—for one minute—only one minute. It aches so! (She sits down by him. His head sinks on her shoulder. MRS. C. looks annoyed, and exit.)

Con. Thank you, thank you, dear Arthur! (sobbing). You used to like me! I could not believe you hated me now. You have forgiven me? Dear head!

He closes his eyes. Slow plaintive music.

Ger. (half waking). I can't read. When I get to the bottom of the page, I wonder what it was all about. I shall never get to Garibaldi! and if I don't, I shall never get farther. If I could but keep that one line away! It drives me mad, mad. "He took her by the lily-white hand."—I could strangle myself for thinking of such things, but they will come!—I won't go mad. I should never get to Garibaldi, and never be rid of this red-hot ploughshare ploughing up my heart. I will not go mad! I will die like a man.

Con. Arthur! Arthur!

Ger. God in heaven! she is there! And the others are behind her!—Psyche! Psyche! Don't speak to those women! Come alone, and I will tear my heart out and give it you.—It is Psyche herself now, and the rest are gone! Psyche—listen.

Con. It's only me, Arthur! your own little Constance! If aunt would but let me stay and nurse you! But I don't know what's come to her: she's not like herself at all.

Ger. Who's that behind you?

Con. Behind me? (looking round). There's nobody behind me.

Ger. I thought there was somebody behind you. William!—What can have become of William?

Con. I dare say aunt has sent him somewhere.

Ger. Then he's gone! he's gone!

Con. You're not afraid of being left alone with me, Arthur?

Ger. Oh no! of course not?—What can have become of William? Don't you know they sent him—not those women, but the dead people—to look after me? He's a good fellow. He said he would die for me. Ha! ha! ha! Not much in that—is there?

Con. Don't laugh so, dear Arthur.

Ger. Well, I won't. I have something to tell you, Constance. I will try to keep my senses till I've told you.

Con. Do tell me. I hope I haven't done anything more to vex you. Indeed I am sorry. I won't speak to that man again, if you like. I would rather not—if you wish it.

Ger. What right have I to dictate to you, my child?

Con. Every right. I am yours. I belong to you. Nobody owned me when you took me.

Ger. Don't talk like that; you will drive me mad.

Con. Arthur! Arthur!

Ger. Listen to me, Constance. I am going to Garibaldi. He wants soldiers. I must not live an idle life any longer.—We must part, Constance.—Good-bye, my darling!

Con. No, no; not yet; we'll talk about it by-and-by. You see I shall have ever so many things to make for you before you can go! (smiling).

Ger. Garibaldi can't wait, Constance—and I can't wait. I shall die if I stop here.

Con. Oh, Arthur, you are in some trouble, and you won't tell me what it is, so I can't help you!

Ger. I shall be killed, I know. I mean to be. Will you think of me sometimes? Give me one kiss. I may have a last kiss.

Con. (weeping.) My heart will break if you talk like that, Arthur. I will do anything you please. There's something wrong, dreadfully wrong! And it must be my fault!—Oh! there's that man! (starting up.) He shall not come here.

[Runs to the house-door, and stands listening, with her hand on the key.]

END OF ACT I

ACT II

SCENE.—A street in Mayfair. MRS. CLIFFORD'S house. A pastrycook's shop. Boys looking in at the window

Bill. I say, Jim, ain't it a lot o' grub? If I wos a pig now,—

Jack. I likes to hear Bill a supposin' of hisself. Go it, Bill!—There ain't nothink he can't suppose hisself, Jim.—Bein' as you ain't a pig. Bill, you've got yer own trotters, an' yer own tater-trap.

Bill. Vereupon blue Bobby eccosts me with the remark, "I wants you, Bill;" and seein' me too parerlyzed to bolt, he pops me in that 'ere jug vithout e'er a handle.

Jack. Mother kep' a pig once.

Jim. What was he like, Jack?

Jack. As like any other pig as ever he could look; accep' that where other pigs is black he wor white, an' where other pigs is white he wor black.

Jim. Did you have the milk in your tea, Jack?

Jack. Pigs ain't got no milk, Jim, you stupe!

Bill. Pigs has milk, Jack, only they don't give it to coves.—I wish I wos the Lord Mayor!

Jack. Go it again, Bill. He ought ha' been a beak, Bill ought. What 'ud you do, Bill, supposin' as how you wos the Lord Mayor?

Bill. I'd take all the beaks, an' all the peelers, an' put their own bracelets on 'em, an' feed 'em once a day on scraps o' wittles to bring out the hunger: a cove can't be hungry upon nuffin at all.

Jim. He gets what mother calls the squeamishes.

Jack. Well, Bill?

Bill. Well, the worry moment their bellies was as long an' as loose as a o'-clo'-bag of a winter's mornin', I'd bring 'em all up to this 'ere winder, five or six at a time—with the darbies on, mind ye—

Jim. And I'm to be there to see, Bill—ain't I?

Bill. If you're good, Jim, an' don't forget yer prayers.

Jack. My eye! it's as good as a penny gaff! Go it, Bill.

Bill. Then I up an' addresses 'em: "My Lords an' Gen'lemen, 'cos as how ye're all good boys, an' goes to church, an' don't eat too many wittles, an' don't take off your bracelets when you goes to bed, you shall obswerve me eat."

Jim. Go it, Bill! I likes you, Bill.

Bill. No, Jim; I must close. The imagination is a 'ungry gift, as the cock said when he bolted the pebbles. Let's sojourn the meetin'.

Jack. Yes; come along. 'Tain't a comfable corner this yere: the wind cuts round uncommon sharp. Them pies ain't good—leastways not to look at.

Bill. They ain't disgestible. But look ye here, Jack and Jim—hearkee, my kids. (Puts an arm round the neck of each, and whispers first to one and then to the other.)

Enter MATTIE and SUSAN.

Sus. Now, Mattie, we're close to the house, an' I don't want to be seen with you, for she's mad at me.

Mat. You must have made her mad, then, Sue.

Sus. She madded me first: what else when she wouldn't believe a word I said? She'd ha' sworn on the gospel book, we sent the parcel up the spout. But she'll believe you, an' give you something, and then we'll have a chop!

Mat. How can you expect that, Sue, when the work's lost?

Sus. Never mind; you go and see.

Mat. I shan't take it, Susan. I couldn't.

Sus. Stuff and nonsense! I'll wait you round the corner: I don't like the smell o' them pastry things.

Exit. MATTIE walks past the window.

Mat. I don't like going. It makes me feel a thief to be suspected.

Bill. Lor! it's our Mattie! There's our Mattie!—Mattie! Mattie!

Mat. Ah, Bill! you're there—are you?

Bill. Yes, Mattie. It's a tart-show. You walks up and takes yer chice;—leastways, you makes it: somebody else takes it.

Mat. Wouldn't you like to take your choice sometimes, Bill?

Bill. In course I would.

Mat. Then why don't you work, and better yourself a bit?

Bill. Bless you, Mattie! myself is werry comf'able. He never complains.

Mat. You're hungry sometimes,—ain't you?

Bill. Most remarkable 'ungry, Mattie—this werry moment. Odd you should ask now—ain't it?

Mat. You would get plenty to eat if you would work.

Bill. Thank you—I'd rayther not. Them as ain't 'ungry never enj'ys their damaged tarts. If I'm 'appy, vere's the odds? as the cat said to the mouse as wanted to be let off the engagement. Why should I work more'n any other gen'leman?

Mat. A gentleman that don't work is a curse to his neighbours, Bill.

Bill. Bless you, Mattie! I ain't a curse—nohow to nobody. I don't see as you've got any call to say that, Mattie. I don't go fakin' clies, or crackin' cribs—nothin' o' the sort. An' I don't mind doin' of a odd job, if it is a odd one. Don't go for to say that again, Mattie.

Mat. I won't, then, Bill. But just look at yourself!—You're all in rags.

Bill. Rags is the hairier, as the Skye terrier said to the black-an'-tan.—I shouldn't object to a new pair of old trousers, though.

Mat. Why don't you have a pair of real new ones? If you would only sweep a crossing—

Bill. There ain't, a crossin' but what's took. Besides, my legs ain't put together for one place all day long. It ain't to be done, Mattie. They can't do it.

Mat. There's the shoe-black business, then.

Bill. That ain't so bad, acause you can shoulder your box and trudge. But if it's all the same to you, Mattie, I'd rayther enj'y life: they say it's short.

Mat. But it ain't the same to me. It's so bad for you to be idle, Bill!

Bill. Not as I knows on. I'm tollable jolly, so long's I gets the browns for my bed.

Mat. Wouldn't you like a bed with a blanket to it?

Bill. Well, yes—if it was guv to me. But I don't go in for knocking of yourself about, to sleep warm.

Mat. Well, look here, Bill. It's all Susan and I can do to pay for our room, and get a bit of bread and a cup of tea. It ain't enough.—If you were to earn a few pence now—

Bill. Oh golly! I never thought o' that. What a hass I wur, to be sure! I'll go a shoe-blackin' to-morror—I will.

Mat. Did you ever black a shoe, Bill?

Bill. I tried a boot oncet—when Jim wor a blackin' for a day or two. But I made nothink on it—nothink worth mentionin'. The blackin' or som'at was wrong. The gen'leman said it wur coal-dust, an he'd slog me, an' adwised me to go an' learn my trade.

Mat. And what did you say to that?

Bill. Holler'd out "Shine yer boots!" as loud as I could holler.

Mat. You must try my boots next time you come.

Bill. This wery night, Mattie. I'll make 'em shine like plate glass—see then if I don't. But where'll I get a box and brushes?

Mat. You shall have our brushes and my footstool.

Bill. I see! Turn the stool upside down, put the brushes in, and carry it by one leg—as drunken Moll does her kid.—Here you are, sir! Black your boots, sir?—Shine your trotters, sir? (bawling.)

Mat. That'll do; that'll do, Bill! Famous! You needn't do it again (holding her ears). Would you like a tart?

Bill. Just wouldn't I, then!—Shine your boooooots!

Mat. (laughing). Do hold your tongue, Bill. There's a penny for a tart.

Bill. Thank you, Mattie. Thank you.

Exit into the shop.

Jack and Jim (touching their supposed caps). Please, ma'am! Please, ma'am! I likes 'em too. I likes 'em more 'n Bill.

Mat. I'm very sorry, but—(feeling in her pocket) I've got a ha'penny, I believe. No—there's a penny! You must share it, you know. (Gives it to Jack. Knocks at Mrs. Clifford's door.)

Jack and Jim. Thank you, ma'am. Thank you, ma'am.

Exit MATTIE into MRS. CLIFFORD'S.

Jim. Now, Jack, what's it to be?

Jack. I believe I shall spend it in St. Martin's Lane.

Jim. A ha'p'orth on it's mine, you know, Jack.

Jack. Well, you do put the stunners on me!

Jim. She said we wos to divide it—she did.

Jack. 'Taint possible. It beats my ivories. (He pretends to bite it. JIM flies at him in a rage.)

Re-enter BILL, with his mouth full.

Bill. Now what are you two a squabblin' over? Oh! Jack's got a yennep, and Jim's iookin' shirty.

Jim. She told him to divide it, and he won't.

Bill. Who told him?

Jim. Mattie.

Bill. You dare, Jack? Hand over.

Jack. Be hanged if I do.

Bill. Then do and be hanged. (A struggle.) There, Jim! Now you go and buy what you like.

Jim. Am I to give Jack the half?

Bill. Yes, if our Mattie said it.

Jim. All right, Bill. (Goes into the shop.)

Jack. I owe you one for that, Bill.

Bill. Owe it me then, Jack. I do like fair play—always did (eating).

Jack. You ain't a sharin' of your yennep, Bill.

Bill. Mattie didn't say I was to. She knowed one wouldn't break up into three nohow. 'Tain't in natur', Jack.

Jack. You might ha' guv me a bite, anyhow, Bill.

Bill. It ain't desirable, Jack—size o' trap dooly considered. Here comes your share.

Re-enter JIM. Gives a bun to JACK.

Jim. I tell you what, Bill—she ain't your Mattie. She ain't nobody's Mattie; she's a hangel.

Bill. No, Jim, she ain't a hangel; she 'ain't got no wings, leastways outside her clo'es, and she 'ain't got clo'es enough to hide 'em. I wish I wos a hangel!

Jack. At it again, Bill! I do like to hear Bill a wishin' of hisself! Why, Bill?

Bill. Acause they're never 'ungry.

Jack. How do you know they ain't?

Bill. You never sees 'em loafin' about nowheres.

Jim. Is Mattie your sister, Bill?

Bill. No, Jim; I ain't good 'nough to have a sister like she.

Jack. Your sweetheart, Bill? Ha! ha! ha!

Bill. Dry up, Jack.

Jim. Tell me about her, Bill. I didn't jaw you.

Bill. She lives in our court, Jim. Makes shirts and things.

Jack. Oh! ho!

BILL hits JACK. JACK doubles himself up.

Bill. Jim, our Mattie ain't like other gals; I never see her out afore this blessed day—upon my word and honour, Jim, never!

Jack. (wiping his nose with his sleeve). You don't know a joke from a jemmy, Bill.

Bill. I'll joke you!—A hangel tips you a tart, and you plucks her feathers! Get on t'other side of the way, you little dirty devil, or I'll give you another smeller—cheap too. Off with you!

Jack. No, Bill; no, please. I'm wery sorry. I ain't so bad's all that comes to.

Bill. If you wants to go with Jim and me, then behave like a gen'leman.

Jim. I calls our Mattie a brick!

Bill. None o' your jaw, Jim! She ain't your Mattie.

Enter THOMAS.

Tho. Childer, dun yo know th' way to Paradise—Row, or Road, or summat?

Bill. Dunnow, sir. You axes at the Sunday-school.

Tho. Wheer's th' Sunday-school, chylt?

Bill. Second door round the corner, sir.

Tho. Second dur reawnd th' corner! Which corner, my man?

Bill. Round any corner. Second door's all-ways Sunday-school. (Takes a sight. Exeunt boys.)

THOMAS sits down on a door-step.

Tho. Eh, but aw be main weary! Surely th' Lord dunnot be a forsakin' ov mo. There's that abeawt th' lost ship. Oop yon, wheer th' angels keep greight flocks ov 'em, they dunnot like to lose one ov 'em, an' they met well be helpin' ov mo to look for mo lost lamb i' this awful plaze! What has th' shepherd o' th' sheep himsel' to do, God bless him! but go look for th' lost ones and carry 'em whoam! O Lord! gie mo mo Mattie. Aw'm a silly ship mosel, a sarchin' for mo lost lamb. (Boys begin to gather and stare.) She's o' the world to me. O Lord, hear mo, and gie mo mo Mattie. Nea, aw'll geet oop, and go look again. (Rises.)

First Boy. Ain't he a cricket, Tommy?

Second Boy. Spry, ain't he? Prod him, and see him jump. (General insult.)

Tho. Why, childer, what have aw done, that yo cry after mo like a thief?

First Boy. Daddy Longlegs! Daddy Longlegs!

They hustle and crowd him. Re-enter BILL. THOMAS makes a rush.

They run. He seizes BILL. They gather again.

Tho. Han yo getten a mother, lad?

Bill. No, thank ye. 'Ain't got no mother. Come of a haunt, I do.

First Boy. Game!—ain't he?

Tho. Well, aw'll tak yo whoam to yor aunt—aw wull.

Bill. Will you now, old chap? Wery well. (Squats.)

Tho. (holding him up by the collar, and shaking his stick over him). Tell mo wheer's por aunt, or aw'll breyk every bone i' yor body.

Bill (wriggling and howling and rubbing his eyes with alternate sleeves). Let me go, I say. Let me go and I'll tell ye. I will indeed, sir.

Tho. (letting go) Wheer then, mo lad?

Bill (starting up). I' the church-cellar, sir—first bin over the left—feeds musty, and smells strong. Ho! ho! ho! (Takes a sight.)

THOMAS makes a dart. BILL dodges him.

First Boy. Ain't he a cricket now, Tommy?

Second Boy. Got one leg too many for a cricket, Sam.

Third Boy. That's what he jerks hisself with, Tommy.

Tho. Boys, I want to be freens wi' yo. Here's a penny.

One of the boys knocks it out of his hand. A scramble.

Tho. Now, boys, dun yo know wheer's a young woman bi th' name ov Mattie—somewheer abeawt Paradise Row?

First Boy. Yes, old un.

Second Boy. Lots on 'em.

Third Boy. Which on em' do you want, Mr. Cricket?

Fourth Boy. You ain't peticlar, I s'pose, old corner-bones?

First Boy. Don't you fret, old stilts. We'll find you a Mattie. There's plenty on 'em—all nice gals.

Tho. I want mo own Mattie.

First Boy. Why, you'd never tell one from t'other on 'em!

Third Boy. All on 'em wery glad to see old Daddy Longlegs!

Tho. Oh dear! Oh dear! What an awful plaze this Lon'on do be! To see the childer so bad!

Second Boy. Don't cry, gran'pa. She'd chaff you worser 'n us! We're only poor little innocent boys. We don't know nothink, bless you! Oh no!

First Boy. You'd better let her alone, arter all, bag o' nails.

Second Boy. She'll have it out on you now, for woppin' of her when she wor a kid.

First Boy. She's a wopper herself now.

Third Boy. Mighty fine, with your shirt for a great-coat. He! he! he!

Fourth Boy. Mattie never kicks us poor innocent boys—cos we 'ain't got no mothers to take our parts. Boo hoo!

Enter JACK—his hands in his pockets.

Jack. What's the row, Bill?

Bill. Dunnow, Jack. Old chap collared me when I wasn't alludin' to him. He's after some Mattie or other. It can't be our Mattie. She wouldn't never have such a blazin' old parient as that.

Jack. Supposin' it was your Mattie, Bill, would you split, and let Scull-and-cross-bones nab her?

Bill. Would I? Would I 'and over our Mattie to her natural enemy? Did you ax it, Jack?