Читать книгу: «The Octoroon», страница 3

George. As my wife, – the sharer of my hopes, my ambitions, and my sorrows; under the shelter of your love I could watch the storms of fortune pass unheeded by.

Zoe. My love! My love? George, you know not what you say. I the sharer of your sorrows – your wife. Do you know what I am?

George. Your birth – I know it. Has not my dear aunt forgotten it – she who had the most right to remember it? You are illegitimate, but love knows no prejudice.

Zoe. [Aside.] Alas! he does not know, he does not know! and will despise me, spurn me, loathe me, when he learns who, what, he has so loved. – [Aloud.] George, O, forgive me! Yes, I love you – I did not know it until your words showed me what has been in my heart; each of them awoke a new sense, and now I know how unhappy – how very unhappy I am.

George. Zoe, what have I said to wound you?

Zoe. Nothing; but you must learn what I thought you already knew. George, you cannot marry me; the laws forbid it!

George. Forbid it?

Zoe. There is a gulf between us, as wide as your love, as deep as my despair; but, O, tell me, say you will pity me! that you will not throw me from you like a poisoned thing!

George. Zoe, explain yourself – your language fills me with shapeless fears.

Zoe. And what shall I say? I – my mother was – no, no – not her! Why should I refer the blame to her? George, do you see that hand you hold? look at these fingers; do you see the nails are of a bluish tinge?

George. Yes, near the quick there is a faint blue mark.

Zoe. Look in my eyes; is not the same color in the white?

George. It is their beauty.

Zoe. Could you see the roots of my hair you would see the same dark, fatal mark. Do you know what that is?

George. No.

Zoe. That is the ineffaceable curse of Cain. Of the blood that feeds my heart, one drop in eight is black – bright red as the rest may be, that one drop poisons all the flood; those seven bright drops give me love like yours – hope like yours – ambition like yours – Life hung with passions like dew-drops on the morning flowers; but the one black drop gives me despair, for I'm an unclean thing – forbidden by the laws – I'm an Octoroon!

George. Zoe, I love you none the less; this knowledge brings no revolt to my heart, and I can overcome the obstacle.

Zoe. But I cannot.

George. We can leave this country, and go far away where none can know.

Zoe. And our mother, she who from infancy treated me with such fondness, she who, as you said, had most reason to spurn me, can she forget what I am? Will she gladly see you wedded to the child of her husband's slave? No! she would revolt from it, as all but you would; and if I consented to hear the cries of my heart, if I did not crush out my infant love, what would she say to the poor girl on whom she had bestowed so much? No, no!

George. Zoe, must we immolate our lives on her prejudice?

Zoe. Yes, for I'd rather be black than ungrateful! Ah, George, our race has at least one virtue – it knows how to suffer!

George. Each word you utter makes my love sink deeper into my heart.

Zoe. And I remained here to induce you to offer that heart to Dora!

George. If you bid me do so I will obey you —

Zoe. No, no! if you cannot be mine, O, let me not blush when I think of you.

George. Dearest Zoe!

[Exit George and Zoe, L. U. E.

As they exit, M'Closky rises from behind rock, R., and looks after them

M'Olosky. She loves him! I felt it – and how she can love! [Advances.] That one black drop of blood burns in her veins and lights up her heart like a foggy sun. O, how I lapped up her words, like a thirsty bloodhound! I'll have her, if it costs me my life! Yonder the boy still lurks with those mail-bags; the devil still keeps him here to tempt me, darn his yellow skin. I arrived just too late, he had grabbed the prize as I came up. Hillo! he's coming this way, fighting with his Injiun. [Conceals himself.]

Enter Paul, wrestling with Wahnotee, R. 3. E

Paul. It ain't no use now; you got to gib it up!

Wahno. Ugh!

Paul. It won't do! You got dat bottle of rum hid under your blanket – gib it up now, you – Yar! [Wrenches it from him.] You nasty, lying Injiun! It's no use you putting on airs; I ain't gwine to sit up wid you all night and you drunk. Hillo! war's de crowd gone? And dar's de 'paratus – O, gosh, if I could take a likeness ob dis child! Uh – uh, let's have a peep. [Looks through camera] O, golly! yar, you Wahnotee! you stan' dar, I see you Ta demine usti. [Goes R., and looks at Wahnotee, L., through the camera; Wahnotee springs back with an expression of alarm.]

Wahno. No tue Wahnotee.

Paul. Ha, ha! he tinks it's a gun. You ign'ant Injiun, it can't hurt you! Stop, here's dem dishes – plates – dat's what he call 'em, all fix: I see Mas'r Scudder do it often – tink I can take likeness – stay dere, Wahnotee.

Wahno. No, carabine tue.

Paul. I must operate and take my own likeness too – how debbel I do dat? Can't be ober dar an' here too – I ain't twins. Ugh' ach! 'Top; you look, you Wahnotee; you see dis rag, eh? Well when I say go, den lift dis rag like dis, see! den run to dat pine tree up dar [points, L. U. E.] and back agin, and den pull down de rag so, d'ye see?

Wahno. Hugh!

Paul. Den you hab glass ob rum.

Wahno. Rum!

Paul. Dat wakes him up. Coute Wahnotee in omenee dit go Wahnotee, poina la fa, comb a pine tree, la revieut sala, la fa.

Wahno. Fire-water!

Paul. Yes, den a glass ob fire-water; now den. [Throws mail bags down and sits on them, L. C.] Pret, now den go. [Wahnotee raises apron and runs off, L. U. E. Paul sits for his picture —M'Closky appears from R. U. E.]

M'Closky. Where are they? Ah. yonder goes the Indian!

Paul. De time he gone just 'bout enough to cook dat dish plate.

M'Closky. Yonder is the boy – now is my time! What's he doing; is he asleep? [Advances.] He is sitting on on my prize! darn his carcass! I'll clear him off there – he'll never know what stunned him. [Takes Indian's tomahawk and steals to Paul.]

Paul. Dam dat Injiun! is dat him creeping dar? I daren't move fear to spile myself. [M'Closky strikes him on the head – he falls dead.]

M'Closky. Hooraw! the bags are mine – now for it! – [Opens mail-bags.] What's here? Sunnyside, Pointdexter, Jackson, Peyton; here it is – the Liverpool post-mark, sure enough! – [Opens letter – reads.] "Madam, we are instructed by the firm of Mason and Co., to inform you that a dividend of forty per cent, is payable on the 1st proximo, this amount in consideration of position, they send herewith, and you will find enclosed by draft to your order, on the Bank of Louisiana, which please acknowledge – the balance will be paid in full, with interest, in three, six, and nine months – your drafts on Mason Brothers at those dates will be accepted by La Palisse and Compagnie, N. O., so that you may command immediate use of the whole amount at once, if required. Yours, &c, James Brown." What a find! this infernal letter would have saved all. [During the reading of letter he remains nearly motionless under the focus of the camera.] But now I guess it will arrive too late – these darned U. S. mails are to blame. The injiun! he must not see me.

[Exit rapidly, L.

[Wahnotee runs on, pulls down apron – sees Paul, lying on ground – speaks to him – thinks he's shamming sleep – gesticulates and jabbers – goes to him – moves him with feet, then kneels down to rouse him – to his horror finds him dead – expresses great grief – raises his eyes – they fall upon the camera – rises with savage growl, seizes tomahawk and smashes camera to pieces, then goes to Paul– expresses grief, sorrow, and fondness, and takes him in his arms to carry him away. – Tableau.]

END OF THE SECOND ACT

ACT III

A Room in Mrs. Peyton's house; entrances, R. U. E. and L. U. E.– An Auction Bill stuck up, L.– chairs, C., and tables, R. and L.

Solon and Grace discovered

Pete. [Outside, R. U. E.] Dis way – dis way.

Enter Pete, Pointdexter, Jackson, Lafouche, and Caillou, R. U. E

Pete. Dis way, gen'l'men; now Solon – Grace – dey's hot and tirsty – sangaree, brandy, rum.

Jackson. Well, what d'ye say, Lafouche – d'ye smile?

Enter Thibodeaux and Sunnyside, R. U. E.

Thibo. I hope we don't intrude on the family.

Pete. You see dat hole in dar, sar. [R. U. E.] I was raised on dis yar plantation – neber see no door in it – always open, sar, for stranger to walk in.

Sunny. And for substance to walk out.

Enter Ratts, R. U. E

Ratts. Fine southern style that, eh!

Lafouche. [Reading bill.] "A fine, well-built old family mansion, replete with every comfort."

Ratts. There's one name on the list of slaves scratched, I see.

Lafouche. Yes; No. 49, Paul, a quadroon boy, aged thirteen.

Sunny. He's missing.

Point. Run away, I suppose.

Pete. [Indignantly.] No, sar; nigger nebber cut stick on Terrebonne; dat boy's dead, sure.

Ratts. What, Picayune Paul, as we called, him, that used to come aboard my boat? – poor little darkey, I Hope not; many a picayune he picked up for his dance and nigger-songs, and he supplied our table with fish and game from the Bayous.

Pete. Nebber supply no more, sar – nebber dance again. Mas'r Ratts, you hard him sing about de place where de good niggers go, de last time.

Ratts. Well!

Pete. Well, he gone dar hisself; why, I tink so – 'cause we missed Paul for some days, but nebber tout nothin' till one night dat Injiun Wahnotee suddenly stood right dar 'mongst us – was in his war paint, and mighty cold and grave – he sit down by de fire. "Whar's Paul?" I say – he smoke and smoke, but nebber look out ob de fire; well knowing dem critters, I wait a long time – den he say, "Wahnotee, great chief;" den I say nothing – smoke anoder time – last, rising to go, he turn round at door, and say berry low – O, like a woman's voice, he say, "Omenee Pangeuk," – dat is, Paul is dead – nebber see him since.

Ratts. That red-skin killed him.

Sunny. So we believe; and so mad are the folks around, if they catch the red-skin they'll lynch him sure.

Ratts. Lynch him! Darn his copper carcass, I've got a set of Irish deck-hands aboard that just loved that child; and after I tell them this, let them get a sight of the red-skin, I believe they would eat him, tomahawk and all. Poor little Paul!

Thibo. What was he worth?

Ratts. Well, near on five hundred dollars.

Pete. [Scandalized.] What, sar! You p'tend to be sorry for Paul, and prize him like dat. Five hundred dollars! – [To Thibodeaux.] Tousand dollars, Massa Thibodeaux.

Enter Scudder, L. U. E

Scud. Gentlemen, the sale takes place at three. Good morning, Colonel. It's near that now, and there's still the sugar-houses to be inspected. Good day, Mr. Thibodeaux – shall we drive down that way? Mr. Lafouche, why, how do you do, sir? you're looking well.

Lafouche. Sorry I can't return the compliment.

Ratts. Salem's looking a kinder hollowed out.

Scud. What, Mr. Ratts, are you going to invest in swamps?

Ratts. No: I want a nigger.

Scud. Hush.

Pete. [R.] Eh! wass dat?

Scud. Mr. Sunnyside, I can't do this job of showin' round the folks; my stomach goes agin it. I want Pete here a minute.

Sunny. I'll accompany them certainly.

Scud. [Eagerly.] Will ye? Thank ye; thank ye.

Sunny. We must excuse Scudder, friends. I'll see you round the estate.

Enter George and Mrs. Peyton, L. U. E

Lafouche. Good morning, Mrs. Peyton. [All salute.]

Sunny. This way, gentlemen.

Ratts. [Aside to Sunnyside.] I say, I'd like to say summit soft to the old woman; perhaps it wouldn't go well, would it?

Thibo. No; leave it alone.

Ratts. Darn it, when I see a woman in trouble, I feel like selling the skin off my back.

[Exit Thibodeaux, Sunnyside, Ratts, Pointdexter, Grace, Jackson, Lafouche, Caillou, Solon, R. U. E.

Scud. [Aside to Pete.] Go outside, there; listen to what you hear, then go down to the quarters and tell the boys, for I can't do it. O, get out.

Pete. He said I want a nigger. Laws, mussey! What am goin' to cum ob us!

[Exit slowly, as if concealing himself, R. U. E.

George. [C.] My dear aunt, why do you not move from this painful scene? Go with Dora to Sunnyside.

Mrs. P. [R.] No, George; your uncle said to me with his dying breath, "Nellie, never leave Terrebonne," and I never will leave it, till the law compels me.

Scud. [L.] Mr. George, I'm going to say somethin' that has been chokin' me for some time. I know you'll excuse it. Thar's Miss Dora – that girl's in love with you; yes, sir, her eyes are startin' out of her head with it; now her fortune would redeem a good part of this estate.

Mrs. P. Why, George, I never suspected this!

George. I did, aunt, I confess, but —

Mrs. P. And you hesitated from motives of delicacy?

Scud. No, ma'am; here's the plan of it. Mr. George is in love with Zoe.

George. Scudder!

Mrs. P. George!

Scud. Hold on now! things have got so jammed in on top of us, we ain't got time to put kid gloves on to handle them. He loves Zoe, and has found out that she loves him. [Sighing.] Well, that's all right; but as he can't marry her, and as Miss Dora would jump at him —

Mrs. P. Why didn't you mention this before?

Scud. Why, because I love Zoe, too, and I couldn't take that young feller from her; and she's jist living on the sight of him, as I saw her do; and they so happy in spite of this yer misery around them, and they reproachin' themselves with not feeling as they ought. I've seen it, I tell you; and darn it, ma'am, can't you see that's what's been a hollowing me out so – I beg your pardon.

Mrs. P. O, George, – my son, let me call you, – I do not speak for my own sake, nor for the loss of the estate, but for the poor people here; they will be sold, divided, and taken away – they have been born here. Heaven has denied me children; so all the strings of my heart have grown around and amongst them, like the fibres and roots of an old tree in its native earth. O, let all go, but save them! With them around us, if we have not wealth, we shall at least have the home that they alone can make —

George. My dear mother – Mr. Scudder – you teach me what I ought to do; if Miss Sunnyside will accept me as I am, Terrebonne shall be saved; I will sell myself, but the slaves shall be protected.

Mrs. P. Sell yourself, George! Is not Dora worth any man's —

Scud. Don't say that, ma'am; don't say that to a man that loves another gal. He's going to do an heroic act; don't spile it.

Mrs. P. But Zoe is only an Octoroon.

Scud. She's won this race agin the white, anyhow; it's too late now to start her pedigree.

Enter Dora, L. U. E

Scud. [Seeing Dora.] Come, Mrs. Peyton, take my arm. Hush! here's the other one; she's a little too thoroughbred – too much of the greyhound; but the heart's there, I believe.

[Exit Scudder and Mrs. Peyton, R. U. E.

Dora. Poor Mrs. Peyton.

George. Miss Sunnyside, permit me a word; a feeling of delicacy has suspended upon my lips an avowal, which —

Dora. [Aside.] O, dear, has he suddenly come to his senses?

Enter Zoe, L. U. E., she stops at back

George. In a word, I have seen and admired you!

Dora. [Aside.] He has a strange way of showing it. European, I suppose.

George. If you would pardon the abruptness of the question, I would ask you, Do you think the sincere devotion of my life to make yours happy would succeed?

Dora. [Aside.] Well, he has the oddest way of making love.

George. You are silent?

Dora. Mr. Peyton, I presume you have hesitated to make this avowal because you feared, in the present condition of affairs here, your object might be misconstrued, and that your attention was rather to my fortune than myself. [A pause.] Why don't he speak? – I mean, you feared I might not give you credit for sincere and pure feelings. Well, you wrong me. I don't think you capable of anything else than —

George. No, I hesitated because an attachment I had formed before I had the pleasure of seeing you had not altogether died out.

Dora. [Smiling.] Some of those sirens of Paris, I presume, [Pause.] I shall endeavor not to be jealous of the past; perhaps I have no right to be. [Pause.] But now that vagrant love is – eh? faded – is it not? Why don't you speak, sir?

George. Because, Miss Sunnyside, I have not learned to lie.

Dora. Good gracious – who wants you to?

George. I do, but I can't do it. No, the love I speak of is not such as you suppose, – it is a passion that has grown up here since I arrived; but it is a hopeless, mad, wild feeling, that must perish.