The Plays of W. E. Henley and R. L. Stevenson. Роберт Стивенсон
you’ve drunk, and who has babbled of woman across your own mahogany – that lock, sir, were entirely sacred. Sacred as the Kirk of Scotland; sacred as King George upon his throne; sacred as the memory of Bruce and Bannockburn.
Moore. Oh, rot! I ain’t a parson, I ain’t; I never had no college education. Business is business. That’s wot’s the matter with me.
Brodie. Ay, so we said when you lost that fight with Newcastle Jemmy, and sent us all home poor men. That was a nick above you.
Moore. Newcastle Jemmy! Muck: that’s my opinion of him: muck. I’ll mop the floor up with him any day, if so be as you or any on ’em ’ll make it worth my while. If not, muck! That’s my motto. Wot I now ses is, about that ’ere crib at Leslie’s, wos I right, I ses? or wos I wrong? That’s wot’s the matter with you.
Brodie. You are both right and wrong. You dared me to do it. I was drunk; I was upon my mettle; and I as good as did it. More than that, black-guardly as it was, I enjoyed the doing. He is my friend. He had dined with me that day, and I felt like a man in a story. I climbed his wall, I crawled along his pantry roof, I mounted his window-sill. That one turn of my wrist – you know it I – and the casement was open. It was as dark as the pit, and I thought I’d won my wager, when, phewt! down went something inside, and down went somebody with it. I made one leap, and was off like a rocket. It was my poor friend in person; and if he’d caught and passed me on to the watchman under the window, I should have felt no viler rogue than I feel just now.
Moore. I s’pose he knows you pretty well by this time?
Brodie. ’Tis the worst of friendship. Here, Kirsty, fill these glasses. Moore, here’s better luck – and a more honourable plant! – next time.
Moore. Deacon, I looks towards you. But it looks thundering like rotten eggs, don’t it?
Brodie. I think not. I was masked, for one thing, and for another I was as quick as lightning. He suspects me so little that he dined with me this very afternoon.
Moore. Anyway, you ain’t game to try it on again, I’ll lay odds on that. Once bit, twice shy. That’s your motto.
Brodie. Right again. I’ll put my alibi to a better use. And, Badger, one word in your ear: there’s no Newcastle Jemmy about me. Drop the subject, and for good, or I shall drop you. (He rises, and walks backwards and forwards, a little unsteadily. Then returns, and sits L., as before.)
He is disguised as a ‘flying stationer’ with a patch over his eye. He sits at table opposite Brodie’s and is served with bread and cheese and beer.
Hamilton (from behind). The deevil tak’ the cairts!
Ainslie. Hoot, man, dinna blame the cairts.
Moore. Look here, Deacon, I mean business, I do. (Hunt looks up at the name of ‘Deacon.’)
Brodie. Gad, Badger, I never meet you that you do not. [You have a set of the most commercial intentions!] You make me blush.
Moore. That’s all blazing fine, that is! But wot I ses is, wot about the chips? That’s what I ses. I’m after that thundering old Excise Office, I am. That’s my motto.
Brodie. ’Tis a very good motto, and at your lips, Badger, it kind of warms my heart. But it’s not mine.
Moore. Muck! why not?
Brodie. ’Tis too big and too dangerous. I shirk King George; he has a fat pocket, but he has a long arm. [You pilfer sixpence from him, and it’s three hundred reward for you, and a hue and cry from Tophet to the stars.] It ceases to be business; it turns politics, and I’m not a politician, Mr. Moore. (Rising.) I’m only Deacon Brodie.
Moore. All right. I can wait.
Brodie (seeing Hunt). Ha, a new face, – and with a patch! [There’s nothing under heaven I like so dearly as a new face with a patch.] Who the devil, sir, are you that own it? And where did you get it? And how much will you take for it second-hand?
Hunt. Well, sir, to tell you the truth (Brodie bows) it’s not for sale. But it’s my own, and I’ll drink your honour’s health in anything.
Brodie. An Englishman, too! Badger, behold a countryman. What are you, and what part of southern Scotland do you come from?
Hunt. Well, your honour, to tell you the honest truth —
[Brodie (bowing). Your obleeged!]
Hunt. I knows a gentleman when I sees him, your honour [and, to tell your honour the truth —
Brodie. Je vous baise les mains! (Bowing.)]
Hunt. A gentleman as is a gentleman, your honour [is always a gentleman, and to tell you the honest truth] —
Brodie. Great heavens! answer in three words, and be hanged to you! What are you, and where are you from?
Hunt. A patter-cove from Seven Dials.
Brodie. Is it possible? All my life long have I been pining to meet with a patter-cove from Seven Dials! Embrace me, at a distance. [A patter-cove from Seven Dials!] Go, fill yourself as drunk as you dare, at my expense. Anything he likes, Mrs. Clarke. He’s a patter-cove from Seven Dials. Hillo! what’s all this?
Ainslie. Dod, I’m for nae mair! (At back, and rising.)
Players. Sit down, Ainslie. – Sit down, Andra. – Ma revenge!
Ainslie. Na, na, I’m for canny goin’. (Coming forward with bottle.) Deacon, let’s see your gless.
Brodie. Not an inch of it.
Moore. No rotten shirking, Deacon!
[Ainslie. I’m sayin’, man, let’s see your gless.
Brodie. Go to the deuce!]
Ainslie. But I’m sayin’ —
Brodie. Haven’t I to play to-night?
Ainslie. But, man, ye’ll drink to bonnie Jean Watt?
Brodie. Ay, I’ll follow you there. A la reine de mes amours! (Drinks.) What fiend put this in your way, you hound? You’ve filled me with raw stuff. By the muckle deil! —
Moore. Don’t hit him, Deacon; tell his mother.
Hunt (aside). Oho!
Smith. Where’s my beloved? Deakin, my beauty, where are you? Come to the arms of George, and let him introduce you. Capting Starlight Rivers! Capting, the Deakin: Deakin, the Capting. An English nobleman on the grand tour, to open his mind, by the Lard!
Rivers. Stupendiously pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Deakin, split me!
[Brodie. We don’t often see England’s heroes our way, Captain, but when we do, we make them infernally welcome.
Rivers. Prettily put, sink me! A demned genteel sentiment, stap my vitals!]
Brodie. Oh Captain! you flatter me. [We Scotsmen have our qualities, I suppose, but we are but rough and ready at the best. There’s nothing like your Englishman for genuine distinction. He is nearer France than we are, and smells of his neighbourhood. That d – d thing, the je ne sais quoi, too! Lard, Lard, split me! stap my vitals! O such manners are pure, pure, pure. They are, by the shade of Claude Duval!]
Rivers. Mr. Deakin, Mr. Deakin [this is passatively too much]. What will you sip? Give it the hanar of a neam.
Brodie. By these most hanarable hands now, Captain, you shall not. On such an occasion I could play host with Lucifer himself. Here, Clarke, Mother Midnight! Down with you, Captain! (forcing him boisterously into a chair.) I don’t know if you can lie, but, sink me! you shall sit. (Drinking, etc., in dumb-show.)
Moore (aside to Smith). We’ve nobbled him, Geordie!
Smith (aside to