Kitabı oku: «The Octoroon», sayfa 2

Zoe. Terrebonne for sale!

Mrs. P. Terrebonne for sale, and you, sir, will doubtless become its purchaser.

M'Closky. Well, ma'am, I spose there's no law agin my bidding for it. The more bidders, the better for you. You'll take care, I guess, it don't go too cheap.

Mrs. P. O, sir, I don't value the place for its price, but for the many happy days I've spent here; that landscape, flat and uninteresting though it may be, is full of charm for me; those poor people, born around me, growing up about my heart, have bounded my view of life; and now to lose that homely scene, lose their black, ungainly faces; O, sir, perhaps you should be as old as I am, to feel as I do, when my past life is torn away from me.

M'Closky. I'd be darned glad if somebody would tear my past life away from me. Sorry I can't help you, but the fact is, you're in such an all-fired mess that you couldn't be pulled out without a derrick.

Mrs. P. Yes, there is a hope left yet, and I cling to it. The house of Mason Brothers, of Liverpool, failed some twenty years ago in my husband's debt.

M'Closky. They owed him over fifty thousand dollars.

Mrs. P. I cannot find the entry in my husband's accounts; but you, Mr. M'Closky, can doubtless detect it. Zoe, bring here the judge's old desk; it is in the library.

[Exit Zoe to house.

M'Closky. You don't expect to recover any of this old debt, do you?

Mrs. P. Yes; the firm has recovered itself, and I received a notice two months ago that some settlement might be anticipated.

Sunny. Why, with principal and interest this debt has been more than doubled in twenty years.

Mrs. P. But it may be years yet before it will be paid off, if ever.

Sunny. If there's a chance of it, there's not a planter round here who wouldn't lend you the whole cash, to keep your name and blood amongst us. Come, cheer up, old friend.

Mrs. P. Ah! Sunnyside, how good you are; so like my poor Peyton.

[Exit Mrs. Peyton and Sunnyside to house.

M'Closky. Curse their old families – they cut me – a bilious, conceited, thin lot of dried up aristocracy. I hate 'em. Just because my grandfather wasn't some broken-down Virginia transplant, or a stingy old Creole, I ain't fit to sit down with the same meat with them. It makes my blood so hot I feel my heart hiss. I'll sweep these Peytons from this section of the country. Their presence keeps alive the reproach against me that I ruined them; yet, if this money should come. Bah! There's no chance of it. Then, if they go, they'll take Zoe – she'll follow them. Darn that girl; she makes me quiver when I think of her; she's took me for all I'm worth.

Enter Zoe from house, L., with the desk

O, here, do you know what annuity the old judge left you is worth to-day? Not a picayune.

Zoe. It's surely worth the love that dictated it; here are the papers and accounts. [Putting it on the table, R. C.]

M'Closky. Stop, Zoe; come here! How would you like to rule the house of the richest planter on Atchafalaya – eh? or say the word, and I'll buy this old barrack, and you shall be mistress of Terrebonne.

Zoe. O, sir, do not speak so to me!

M'Closky. Why not! look here, these Peytons are bust; cut 'em; I am rich, jine me; I'll set you up grand, and we'll give these first families here our dust, until you'll see their white skins shrivel up with hate and rage; what d'ye say?

Zoe. Let me pass! O, pray, let me go!

M'Closky. What, you won't, won't ye? If young George Peyton was to make you the same offer, you'd jump at it, pretty darned quick, I guess. Come, Zoe, don't be a fool; I'd marry you if I could, but you know I can't; so just say what you want. Here then, I'll put back these Peytons in Terrebonne, and they shall know you done it; yes, they'll have you to thank for saving them from ruin.

Zoe. Do you think they would live here on such terms?

M'Closky, Why not? We'll hire out our slaves, and live on their wages.

Zoe. But I'm not a slave.

M'Closky. No; if you were I'd buy you, if you cost all I'm worth.

Zoe. Let me pass!

M'Closky. Stop.

Enter Scudder, R

Scud. Let her pass.

M'Closky. Eh?

Scud. Let her pass! [Takes out his knife.]

[Exit Zoe to house.

M'Closky. Is that you, Mr. Overseer? [Examines paper.]

Scud. Yes, I'm here, somewhere, interferin'.

M'Closky. [Sitting, R. C.] A pretty mess you've got this estate in —

Scud. Yes – me and Co. – we done it; but, as you were senior partner in the concern, I reckon you got the big lick.

M'Closky. What d'ye mean.

Scud. Let me proceed by illustration. [Sits, R.] Look thar! [Points with knife off, R.] D'ye see that tree? – it's called a live oak, and is a native here; beside it grows a creeper; year after year that creeper twines its long arms round and round the tree – sucking the earth dry all about its roots – living on its life – overrunning its branches, until at last the live oak withers and dies out. Do you know what the niggers round here call that sight? they call it the Yankee hugging the Creole. [Sits.]

M'Closky. Mr. Scudder, I've listened to a great many of your insinuations, and now I'd like to come to an understanding what they mean. If you want a quarrel —

Scudder. No, I'm the skurriest crittur at a fight you ever see; my legs have been too well brought up to stand and see my body abused; I take good care of myself, I can tell you.

M'Closky. Because I heard that you had traduced my character.

Scud. Traduced! Whoever said so lied. I always said you were the darndest thief that ever escaped a white jail to misrepresent the North to the South.

M'Closky. [Raises hand to back of his neck.] What!

Scud. Take your hand down – take it down. [M'Closky lowers his hand.] Whenever I gets into company like yours, I always start with the advantage on my side.

M'Closky. What d'ye mean?

Scud. I mean that before you could draw that bowie-knife, you wear down your back, I'd cut you into shingles. Keep quiet, and let's talk sense. You wanted to come to an understanding, and I'm coming thar as quick as I can. Now, Jacob M'Closky, you despise me because you think I'm a fool; I despise you because I know you to be a knave. Between us we've ruined these Peytons; you fired the judge, and I finished off the widow. Now, I feel bad about my share in the business. I'd give half the balance of my life to wipe out my part of the work. Many a night I've laid awake and thought how to pull them through, till I've cried like a child over the sum I couldn't do; and you know how darned hard 'tis to make a Yankee cry.

M'Closky. Well, what's that to me?

Scud. Hold on, Jacob, I'm coming to that – I tell ye, I'm such a fool – I can't bear the feeling, it keeps at me like a skin complaint, and if this family is sold up —

M'Closky. What then?

Scud. [Rising.] I'd cut my throat – or yours – yours I'd prefer.

M'Closky. Would you now? why don't you do it?

Scud. 'Cos I's skeered to try! I never killed a man in my life – and civilization is so strong in me I guess I couldn't do it – I'd like to, though!

M'Closky. And all for the sake of that old woman and that young puppy – eh? No other cause to hate – to envy me – to be jealous of me – eh?

Scud. Jealous! what for?

M'Closky. Ask the color in your face; d'ye think I can't read you, like a book? With your New England hypocrisy, you would persuade yourself it was this family alone you cared for; it ain't – you know it ain't – 'tis the "Octoroon;" and you love her as I do; and you hate me because I'm your rival – that's where the tears come from, Salem Scudder, if you ever shed any – that's where the shoe pinches.

Scud. Wal, I do like the gal; she's a —

M'Closky. She's in love with young Peyton; it made me curse, whar it made you cry, as it does now; I see the tears on your cheeks now.

Scud. Look at 'em, Jacob, for they are honest water from the well of truth. I ain't ashamed of it – I do love the gal; but I ain't jealous of you, because I believe the only sincere feeling about you is your love for Zoe, and it does your heart good to have her image thar; but I believe you put it thar to spile. By fair means I don't think you can get her, and don't you try foul with her, 'cause if you do, Jacob, civilization be darned. I'm on you like a painter, and when I'm drawed out I'm pizin.

[Exit Scudder to house, L.

M'Closky. Fair or foul, I'll have her – take that home with you! [Opens desk.] What's here – judgments? yes, plenty of 'em; bill of costs; account with Citizens' Bank – what's this? "Judgment, 40,000, 'Thibodeaux against Peyton,'" – surely, that is the judgment under which this estate is now advertised for sale – [takes up paper and examines it]; yes, "Thibodeaux against Peyton, 1838." Hold on! whew! this is worth taking to – in this desk the judge used to keep one paper I want – this should be it. [Reads.] "The free papers of my daughter, Zoe, registered February 4th, 1841." Why, judge, wasn't you lawyer enough to know that while a judgment stood against you it was a lien on your slaves? Zoe is your child by a quadroon slave, and you didn't free her; blood! if this is so, she's mine! this old Liverpool debt – that may cross me – if it only arrive too late – if it don't come by this mail – Hold on! this letter the old lady expects – that's it; let me only head off that letter, and Terrebonne will be sold before they can recover it. That boy and the Indian have gone down to the landing for the post-bags; they'll idle on the way as usual; my mare will take me across the swamp, and before they can reach the shed, I'll have purified them bags – ne'er a letter shall show this mail. Ha, ha! – [Calls.] Pete, you old turkey-buzzard, saddle my mare. Then, if I sink every dollar I'm worth in her purchase, I'll own that Octoroon. [Stands with his hand extended towards the house, and tableau.]

END OF THE FIRST ACT

ACT II

The Wharf – goods, boxes, and bales scattered about – a camera on stand, R.

Scudder, R., Dora, L., George and Paul discovered; Dora being photographed by Scudder, who is arranging photographic apparatus, George and Paul looking on at back.

Scud. Just turn your face a leetle this way – fix your – let's see – look here.

Dora. So?

Scud. That's right. [Puts his head under the darkening apron.] It's such a long time since I did this sort of thing, and this old machine has got so dirty and stiff, I'm afraid it won't operate. That's about right. Now don't stir.

Paul. Ugh! she look as though she war gwine to have a tooth drawed!

Scud. I've got four plates ready, in case we miss the first shot. One of them is prepared with a self-developing liquid that I've invented. I hope it will turn out better than most of my notions. Now fix yourself. Are you ready?

Dora. Ready!

Scud. Fire! – one, two, three. [Scudder takes out watch.]

Paul. Now it's cooking, laws mussey, I feel it all inside, as if it was at a lottery.

Scud. So! [Throws down apron.] That's enough. [With-draws slide, turns and sees Paul.] What! what are you doing there, you young varmint! Ain't you took them bags to the house yet?

Paul. Now, it ain't no use trying to get mad, Mas'r Scudder. I'm gwine! I only come back to find Wahnotee; whar is dat ign'ant Ingiun?

Scud. You'll find him scenting round the rum store, hitched up by the nose.

[Exit into room, R.

Paul. [Calling at door.] Say, Mas'r Scudder, take me in dat telescope?

Scud. [Inside room.] Get out, you cub! clar out!

Paul. You got four of dem dishes ready. Gosh, wouldn't I like to hab myself took! What's de charge, Mas'r Scudder?

[Runs off, R. U. E.

Enter Scudder, from room, R

Scud. Job had none of them critters on his plantation, else he'd never ha' stood through so many chapters. Well, that has come out clear, ain't it? [Shows plate.]

Dora. O, beautiful! Look, Mr. Peyton.

George. [Looking.] Yes, very fine!

Scud. The apparatus can't mistake. When I travelled round with this machine, the homely folks used to sing out, "Hillo, mister, this ain't like me!" "Ma'am," says I, "the apparatus can't mistake." "But, mister, that ain't my nose." "Ma'am, your nose drawed it. The machine can't err – you may mistake your phiz but the apparatus don't." "But, sir, it ain't agreeable." "No, ma'am, the truth seldom is."

Enter Pete, L. U. E., puffing

Pete. Mas'r Scudder! Mas'r Scudder!

Scud. Hillo! what are you blowing about like a steamboat with one wheel for?

Pete. You blow, Mas'r Scudder, when I tole you; dere's a man from Noo Aleens just arriv' at de house, and he's stuck up two papers on de gates; "For sale – dis yer property," and a heap of oder tings – and he seen missus, and arter he shown some papers she burst out crying – I yelled; den de corious of little niggers dey set up, den de hull plantation children – de live stock reared up and created a purpiration of lamentation as did de ole heart good to har.

Dora. What's the matter?

Scud. He's come.

Pete. Dass it – I saw'm!

Scud. The sheriff from New Orleans has taken possession – Terrebonne is in the hands of the law.

Enter Zoe, L. U. E

Zoe. O, Mr. Scudder! Dora! Mr. Peyton! come home – there are strangers in the house.

Dora. Stay, Mr. Peyton; Zoe, a word! [Leads her forward – aside.] Zoe, the more I see of George Peyton the better I like him; but he is too modest – that is a very impertinent virtue in a man.

Zoe. I'm no judge, dear.

Dora. Of course not, you little fool; no one ever made love to you, and you can't understand; I mean, that George knows I am an heiress; my fortune would release this estate from debt.

Zoe. O, I see!

Dora. If he would only propose to marry me I would accept him, but he don't know that, and he will go on fooling, in his slow European way, until it is too late.

Zoe. What's to be done?

Dora. You tell him.

Zoe. What? that he isn't to go on fooling in his slow —

Dora. No, you goose! twit him on his silence and abstraction – I'm sure it's plain enough, for he has not spoken two words to me all the day; then joke round the subject, and at last speak out.

Scud. Pete, as you came here, did you pass Paul and the Indian with the letter-bags?

Pete. No, sar; but dem vagabonds neber take de 'specable straight road, dey goes by de swamp.

[Exit up path, L. U. E.

Scud. Come, sir!

Dora. [To Zoe.] Now's your time. – [Aloud.] Mr. Scudder, take us with you – Mr. Peyton is so slow, there's no getting him, on.

[Exit Doraand Scudder, L. U. E.

Zoe. They are gone! – [Glancing at George.] Poor fellow, he has lost all.

George. Poor child! how sad she looks now she has no resource.

Zoe. How shall I ask him to stay?

George. Zoe, will you remain here? I wish to speak to you.

Zoe. [Aside.] Well, that saves trouble.

George. By our ruin, you lose all.

Zoe. O, I'm nothing; think of yourself.

George. I can think of nothing but the image that remains face to face with me: so beautiful, so simple, so confiding, that I dare not express the feelings that have grown up so rapidly in my heart.

Zoe. [Aside.] He means Dora.

George. If I dared to speak!

Zoe. That's just what you must do, and do it at once, or it will be too late.

George. Has my love been divined?

Zoe. It has been more than suspected.

George. Zoe, listen to me, then. I shall see this estate pass from me without a sigh, for it possesses no charm for me; the wealth I covet is the love of those around me – eyes that are rich in fond looks, lips that breathe endearing words; the only estate I value is the heart of one true woman, and the slaves I'd have are her thoughts.

Zoe. George, George, your words take away my breath!

George. The world, Zoe, the free struggle of minds and hands, if before me; the education bestowed on me by my dear uncle is a noble heritage which no sheriff can seize; with that I can build up a fortune, spread a roof over the heads I love, and place before them the food I have earned; I will work —

Zoe. Work! I thought none but colored people worked.

George. Work, Zoe, is the salt that gives savor to life.

Zoe. Dora said you were slow; if she could hear you now —

George. Zoe, you are young; your mirror must have told you that you are beautiful. Is your heart free?

Zoe. Free? of course it is!

George. We have known each other but a few days, but to me those days have been worth all the rest of my life. Zoe, you have suspected the feeling that now commands an utterance – you have seen that I love you.

Zoe. Me! you love me?