Kitabı oku: «The Duchess of Dublin», sayfa 2

Lucy. Not even one embrace?

Friskey. As a substitute embrace me. (Throws his arms around her.)

Lucy (screams). You horrid wretch! (Runs off, L., followed by Friskey.)

Dr. Aconite appears, R.

Dr. A. Am I awake? My friend, my bosom friend, with his arms about my affianced bride! Pills and powders! pestle and mortar! am I awake? Well, it's my usual luck. Day by day I've seen my stock of provisions sensibly decrease. I have this morning devoured the last fishball that could be manufactured from the slender stock of codfish and potatoes. It has vanished, and so has my love, with the friend of my bosom. There's nothing left for me now but to make a few slender meals of my sugar-coated pills, fricassee the canary, and then slowly but surely starve. (Sinks into chair, L.)

Enter Annie Aconite, R.

Annie. Well, brother, what would you like for dinner?

Dr. A. Dinner? ha, ha! Dinner! Well, what say you to roast turkey with cranberry sauce?

Annie. Brother!

Dr. A. Or roast goose, with guava jelly?

Annie. Brother!

Dr. A. Or roast buffalo, with venison steak, devilled kidneys, and salmon, with oyster sauce on the half shell.

Annie. Adam, are you crazy?

Dr. A. Why not? Our dinner must be an imaginary one, so let's have it as costly and luxurious as possible. There's nothing in the larder. Let's be extravagant, and cook it all.

Annie. Why, how you rave! Is the money all gone?

Dr. A. Every cent.

Annie. But the butcher?

Dr. A. Would carve me with his meat-axe if I asked for credit.

Annie. Then I'll try him. He won't carve me. Now don't be despondent. We have always had a dinner, and, depend upon it, you shall to-day.

Dr. A.

 
"O Woman, in our hours of ease,
Uncertain, coy, and hard to please;
But, when the dinner seems to lag,
You'll have it, if you boil the puddin'-bag."
 

Annie, why don't you marry Frank Friskey?

Annie. Adam, why don't you marry the little milliner?

Dr. A. Because I have no patients.

Annie. And I have patience to wait until you get them before I marry Frank.

Dr. A. But I never shall have a patient. There's a dead set against me. They're determined I shall not cure or kill anybody until I kill myself with waiting.

Annie. Not so bad as that, Adam. Be patient, and wait.

Dr. A. O, humbug! My instruments are all getting rusty, my pills old, my plasters cracking, and my drops drying up. Hang it, I'll go and doctor myself for amusement. (Knock, L.)

Annie. Hush! Perhaps there's a call.

Dr. A. The undertaker, perhaps, in search of a job. Come in.

Enter Dennis, L.

Dennis. The top uv the mornin' to ye's. Is the docther man in – I donno?

Dr. A. Yes, I'm the doctor.

Dennis. Is that so? Yer rivirance, if ye plaze, Squire Croony wants ye's quick. The ould missus's howlin' in the pangs uv insinsibility, the young masther's took wid the jumpin' croup in his skull, and the babby's got the janders – an' it's pisoned they all are intirely.

Dr. A. What, Squire Croony?

Dennis. The same, yer rivirance, onto the hill beyant.

Dr. A. O, you've made a mistake. He wants Dr. Allopath.

Dennis. Niver at all, at all. It's Dr. Ac – Ac – Acraoniting I was to sind.

Dr. A. (jumping up, and pulling off his dressing-gown). My coat – quick! quick! (Annie runs off, R.) Maggie, Maggie, my hat and cane! Here's luck. (Enter Annie, with coat. He jumps into it.) You're sure he sent for me?

Dennis. To be sure I am.

Dr. A. Glory! glory! Rich Squire Croony! I'm a fortunate man. Where's my medicine case? (Runs to table, R., and takes it.) My good man, I'm terribly afraid you've made a mistake.

Dennis. Troth, I'm afraid they'll all git well afore you git there.

Dr. A. That would be fatal – ahem! – to me. I'm off. I'll return at the earliest possible moment. Should anybody call, let them wait. Tell them I am suddenly called to my rich patient, ahem! Squire Croony. (Going off, L.)

Enter Maggie, R., with Dr. Aconite's hat and cane.

Maggie. Sure, docther, you're not going widout yer hat?

Dr. A (returning). That would be a mistake. (Puts on hat.) You're sure, my man —

Dennis. O, bother! Would ye lave them all to die suddenly wid a long illness?

Dr. A. I'm off. Glory! glory! Luck! (Dances to door, L., then suddenly stops, straightens himself, and puts on a serious face). Professional dignity, ahem! (Struts off, L.)

Annie. Maggie, remember, if anybody calls, "The doctor has been called to Squire Croony."

[Exit, R.

Maggie. That I will – the dear docther! The luck's a-coomin'.

Dennis. Ah, ye's the fine gurl! Sure ye's remind me uv Donnybrook fair, in the ould counthry, wid ye's rosy cheeks, and pearly teeth, as white as – as – as – tombstones.

Maggie. Ah, will, will! It's the blarney-stone ye've kissed, sure, in the ould counthry.

Dennis. To be sure I have, colleen. Ah, bliss the ould sod! Sorry's the day I lift it, wid my own purty wife, Molly, who's been dead and gone the year, an' me wid the childers wid their bills open for food loike the little birds —

Maggie. 'Tis a widerer ye's are?

Dennis. A lone widerer, wid a tear in one eye and the other wide open tight for a purty girl to fill the sitivation made vacant by the absince of my Molly.

Maggie. Is it lonesome ye are?

Dennis. Lonesome is it? Begorra! ye may will say that. Sure there's not blankets enough to kape the chill out uv me heart, whin I wake in the night and miss the music uv Molly's snore – for she had a powerful organ, and could pipe "St. Pathrick's Day" through her nose widout missing a note. Could ye's riccommend me?

Maggie. Troth, I don't know what ye mane.

Dennis. To a nice, respectable gurl that wouldn't mind incumbrances in the shape of nine as purty childers as iver built stone huts or made dirt pies, the darlints.

Maggie. Troth, I think ye've give nine good raisins why no smart gurl would loike to take the head uv yer establishment. She'd be loike the ould woman that lived in a shoe.

Dennis. An' ye couldn't be prevailed upon yeself to share my fortunes?

Maggie. What's that, ye loonytic? Away wid ye's. I'll have none uv yer Molly's childers distractin' my shlumbers. So ye can take yer hat, misther, and yer lave to onct.

Dennis. O, now, pity the sorrows of a poor lone, afflicted widower.

Maggie. Git out er that, or I'll break yer skull. Away wid ye's. (Dennis runs off, L. Runs into Oldbuck, who enters.)

Oldbuck. O, murder! my foot! you villain! you scoundrel!

Dennis. I ax yer pardon. Sind me the bill.

[Exit, L.

Oldbuck. Confound you for a blundering fool! Girl, give me a chair. (Maggie sets chair, R. C. Oldbuck, groaning, hobbles to it, and sits.) Now, then, where's the doctor?

Maggie. Sure he's at Squire Croony's.

Oldbuck. Squire Croony's – O, that foot! Why, he must have a pretty good practice.

Maggie. Ye may will say that. He hasn't ate a morsel for three days, nor slipt for a wake.

Oldbuck. Now that's a lie – O, my foot! Bring me a footstool – do you hear? Quick!

Maggie. What's that?

Oldbuck. A footstool, quick, or I'll break this cane —

Maggie (snatching cane from him). Ye'll be civil, so yer will, or out uv this house ye go.

Oldbuck. Give me that cane – O, my foot! You torment.

Maggie. Be aisy now, misther, and till yer business.

Oldbuck. I want the doctor.

Maggie. He's away wid dacint sick folks, that don't howl and break canes, and the loike, ye ould hathen!

Oldbuck. Do you know who I am?

Maggie. I niver set my two eyes on ye's before the day, and I niver want to again.

Oldbuck. You're a saucy jade – O, my foot!

Maggie (poking his foot with the cane). Does it burn.

Oldbuck. O! O! murder! Do you want to kill me?

Maggie. Kape a civil tongue in yer head, and I'll do ye's no harm.

Oldbuck. When will the doctor return?

Maggie. Soon as he's kilt or cured the sick folks at Squire Croony's.

Oldbuck. Has he any patients in the house?

Maggie. Yis, one. (Aside.) Sure, I'm his patient; that's no lie.

Oldbuck. Ah! Male or female?