CHARACTERS.
| Festus, | a rejected suitor. |
| Stella, | the cruel rejecter. |
Scene.—A handsomely furnished apartment in the house of Stella. Table, C., with rich cover, books, flowers, &c. Tête-à-tête, R. C., armchairs, R. and L. of table, C. Entrances, R., L., and C. Enter Festus, L., in evening costume.
Festus. “Thus far into the bowels of the land have we marched on without impediment.” Here am I once more in the place from which, but one short week ago, I made an unceremonious exit as the rejected suitor of a young, lovely, and talented lady. Rejected suitor!—those words slip very smoothly from the lips, as pleasantly as though they were associated with some high-sounding title of nobility. There is nothing in the sound of them to conjure up the miserable, mean, contemptible, kicked-out feeling which a man experiences who has received at the hands of lovely woman that specimen of feminine handicraft,—the mitten. All my own fault too! I’m a bashful man. Modesty, the virtue which is said to have been “the ruination of Ireland,” is the rock against which my soaring ambition has dashed itself. I have sat in this room, evening after evening, upon the edge of a chair, twirling my thumbs, and saying—nothing. I couldn’t help it. I have brought scores of compliments to the door, and left them in the hall with my hat. I wanted to speak; I kept up “a deuse of a thinking;” but somehow, when I had an agreeable speech ready to pop out of my mouth, it seemed to be frightened at the sight of the fair object against whom it was to be launched, and tumbled back again. It’s no use: when a man is in love, the more he loves, the more silent he becomes; at least it was so in my case. And when I did manage, after much stammering and blushing, to “pop the question,” the first word from the lady set me shivering; and the conclusion of her remarks set me running from the house utterly demoralized,—“I shall always be happy to see you as a friend, your conversation is so agreeable.” Here was a damper, after six weeks of unremitting though silent attention. But she likes me, I’m sure of that. It is my silence which has frightened her. I only need a little more variety in my style of conversation to make myself agreeable to her. I have an original idea; and I advise all bashful men to take warning from my past experience, and profit by my future. I will borrow language in which to speak my passion. There’s nothing very original in borrowing, financially speaking; but to borrow another man’s ideas by which to make love, I call original. And, as luck would have it, I have an excellent opportunity to test my new idea. Lounging in the sanctum of my friend Quill, the editor of “The Postscript,” a few days ago, he called my attention to an advertisement which had just been presented for insertion. It ran thus: “Wanted, a reader,—a gentleman who has studied poetic and dramatic compositions with a view to delivery, who has a good voice, and who would be willing to give one evening a week to the entertaining of an invalid. Address, with references, ‘Stella,’ Postscript Office.” I recognized the handwriting as that of the lady to whom I had been paying attentions, the signature as the nom de plume under which she had written several poetic contributions for the press; and I had no trouble in guessing the meaning of the advertisement, knowing she has an invalid uncle. “There is a tide in the affairs of men, which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune.” I felt that it was high tide with me, and boldly launched my canoe; answered the advertisement under the assumed name of “Festus,” and waited for a reply. It came: “Stella is satisfied with the references of Festus, and will give him an opportunity to test his ability as a reader Tuesday evening next,”[4] &c. You will naturally conclude that my heart bounded with rapture on receiving this favorable answer. It did nothing of the sort: on the contrary, the rebound almost took away my breath. I began to shiver and shake, and felt inclined to retreat. But “love conquers all things.” I determined to persevere; and here I am, by appointment, to test the practicability of my original idea. The lady is a fine reader. I am well acquainted with her favorite authors; and, if I can but interest her in this novel suit, may at least pass a pleasant evening if I am not unspeakably happy. I was told to wait for Stella. (Takes a book from table, and sits L. of table, with his back to R.) Shakspeare, ah! Let me draw a little courage from the perusal of this. (Enter Stella, R., in evening costume, with flowers in her hair.)
Stella. My maid said Festus was in this room. Ah! there he is, deep in a book: that’s so like these literary gentry! No sooner are their roving eyes fastened on a book than it is seized with the avidity with which a starving man grasps a loaf of bread. He seems happy: I will not disturb him. (Sits on tête-à-tête.) What a strange idea! Here am I to pass the evening listening to the voice of one whom I never saw before. This is one of my uncle’s whims: he fears I am working too hard to entertain him with readings from his favorite authors, and so determines to employ a reader to relieve me. Dear uncle, with all his pain and suffering he has a sharp eye: he notices my want of spirit, and thinks it is caused by weariness. He little knows that the true cause is that stupid lover of mine, who sat here evening after evening as dumb as an oyster, until, out of spite, I started him off. What could have ailed the man? Nothing could he say but “Yes, ma’am,” “No, ma’am,” “Fine evening,” “Good-night.” I never was so plagued in all my life, for I should have liked the fellow if he had only tried to make himself agreeable; but he was as silent and stupid as—Festus here. (Festus rises, gesticulating with his hand, his eyes fastened on the book.) What can the man be about?
Festus. (Reading.) “Is this a dagger which I see before me? the handle towards my hand? Come, let me clutch thee! I have thee not, and yet I see”— (Turns and sees Stella. Drops book, and runs behind chair very confused.)
Stella. Good gracious! you here again?
Festus. I beg your pardon. You are—I am—
Stella. I thought, sir, I was to have no more of your agreeable society.
Festus. I beg your pardon, madam: you seem to be in error. I am Festus,—Festus.
Stella. You Festus?
Festus. Oh, yes: I’m Festus! I came here by appointment.
Stella. What do you mean, sir? I expected a gentleman here to read.
Festus. Exactly! Pray, are you the invalid?
Stella. Sir, you are insulting! You will be kind enough to leave this room at once. I thought the last time you were here—
Festus. Excuse me for interrupting; but you evidently mistake me for some other person. I never was in this house before.
Stella. Is the man crazy? Do you mean to say you did not make a proposal of marriage to me in this very room a week ago?
Festus. Madam, you surprise me. To the best of my knowledge and belief, I never saw you before.
Stella. Was there ever such assurance? Is not your name—
Festus. Festus; and yours Stella. Am I not right?
Stella. Sir, this is very provoking; but, if you are Festus, what is your object in calling here?
Festus. To entertain you.
Stella. To entertain me! With what, pray? Sitting on the edge of a chair, and twirling your thumbs?
Festus. (Aside.) That’s a hard hit. (Aloud.) With readings, if you please.
Stella. Readings! Pray, what do you read? Ovid’s “Art of Love”?
Festus. Madam, I answered your advertisement, being desirous of securing the situation of reader to an invalid.
Stella. You won’t suit.
Festus. You haven’t heard me.
Stella. No, but I’ve seen you; and your silence cannot be excelled by your reading.
Festus. Will you hear me read?
Stella. No: you will not suit.
Festus. Very well: then I claim the trial. Remember your promise,—“Stella is satisfied with the references of ‘Festus,’ and will give him an opportunity to test his ability as a reader Tuesday evening,” &c., &c.
Stella. Oh, very well! If you insist upon making yourself ridiculous, proceed. (Sits in chair, R. of table, and turns her back on Festus.)
Festus. But will you not listen to me? I cannot read to you while you sit in that position.
Stella. I told you I did not wish to hear you read: you insist. Proceed: I am not interested.
Festus. Oh, very well! My first selection shall be from the writings of one well known to fame,—a lady whose compositions have electrified the world; whose poetic effusions have lulled to sleep the cross and peevish infant, stilled the noisy nursery, and exerted an influence upon mankind of great and lasting power; one whose works are memorable for their antiquity,—the gift of genius to the budding greatness of the nineteenth century. (Producing a book from his pocket.) I will read from Mother Goose.
Stella. (Starting up.) Mother Goose!
Festus. Yes: are you acquainted with the lady?
Stella. (Sarcastically.) I have heard of her.
Festus. (Reads in very melodramatic style.)
“‘We are three brethren out of Spain,
Come to court your daughter Jane.’
‘My daughter Jane she is too young:
She is not skilled in flattering tongue.’
‘Be she young, or be she old,
’Tis for her gold she must be sold.
So fare you well, my lady gay:
We will return another day.’”
How do you like that?
Stella. (Fiercely.) I don’t like it.
Festus. No? Perhaps you prefer some other style of delivery. (Reads with a drawl.)
“‘We awe thwe bwethwen aw-out of Spain,
Come to court-aw your dawtaw Jane-aw.’”
Stella. Oh, do read some thing else!
Festus. Certainly.
“Hi diddel diddel! the cat and the fiddle!
The cow jumped over the moon”—
Stella. (Jumps up.) Pray, sir, do you intend to read that nonsense the whole evening?
Festus. Oh, no! I think I can get through the book in about an hour.
Stella. Sir, you have forced yourself here, an unwelcome visitor: you insist upon my hearing such nonsense as Mother-Goose melodies for an hour. Do you call that gentlemanly?
Festus. Madam, you advertised for a reader. I have applied, with your permission, for the situation. Under the circumstances, I naturally expected to have your attention during the reading of such selections as I should offer; instead of which, you turn your back upon me, and very coolly bid me proceed. Do you call that ladylike?
Stella. Frankly, no. You have asked the trial: you shall have it. For an hour I will hear you; and, though I strongly suspect the situation of reader is not the object of your visit, you shall have no reason to complain of my inattention. Is that satisfactory?
Festus. Pray go a step farther. You are said to have fine elocutionary powers. May I not hope to have the pleasure of hearing your voice? Grant me your assistance, and my hour’s trial may perhaps be made agreeable to both.
Stella. Oh! not quite certain of your ability, Mr. Festus?
Festus. Not in the presence of so fine a reader.
Stella. A compliment! Well, I agree.
Festus. Let me hear you read: that will give me courage to make the attempt myself.
Stella. Oh, very well! Remembering your partiality for juvenile literature, you will pardon me if I read a very short but sweet poem. (Produces a printed handkerchief from her pocket.)
Festus. Ah, a pocket edition!
Stella. (Reads from the handkerchief.)
“Who sat and watched my infant head
When sleeping on my cradle-bed,
And tears of sweet affection shed?
My mother.
When sleep forsook my open eye,
Who was it sang sweet lullaby,
And rocked me that I should not cry?
My mother.
When pain and sickness made me cry,
Who gazed upon my heavy eye,
And wept for fear that I should die?
My mother.”
There, sir! what do you say to that?
Festus. It’s very sweet. But that child had too many mothers. Now, I prefer Tom Hood’s parody. (Reads “A Lay of Real Life,” by Thomas Hood.)
A LAY OF REAL LIFE.
Who ruined me ere I was born,
Sold every acre, grass or corn,
And left the next heir all forlorn?
My Grandfather.
Who said my mother was no nurse,
And physicked me, and made me worse,
Till infancy became a curse?
My Grandmother.
Who left me in my seventh year,
A comfort to my mother dear,
And Mr. Pope the overseer?
My Father.
Who let me starve to buy her gin,
Till all my bones came through my skin,
Then called me “ugly little sin”?
My Mother.
Who said my mother was a Turk,
And took me home, and made me work,
But managed half my meals to shirk?
My Aunt.
Who “of all earthly things” would boast,
“He hated others’ brats the most,”
And therefore made me feel my post?
My Uncle.
Who got in scrapes, an endless score,
And always laid them at my door,
Till many a bitter bang I bore?
My Cousin.
Who took me home when mother died,
Again with father to reside,
Black shoes, clean knives, run far and wide?
My Stepmother.
Who marred my stealthy urchin joys,
And, when I played, cried “What a noise!”—
Girls always hector over boys—
My Sister.
Who used to share in what was mine,
Or took it all, did he incline,
’Cause I was eight, and he was nine?
My Brother.
Who stroked my head, and said, “Good lad,”
And gave me sixpence, “all he had;”
But at the stall the coin was bad?
My Godfather.
Who, gratis, shared my social glass,
But, when misfortune came to pass,
Referred me to the pump? Alas!
My Friend.
Through all this weary world, in brief,
Who ever sympathized with grief,
Or shared my joy, my sole relief?
Myself.
Stella. That is very amusing; but, Mr. Festus, if this is the extent of your elocutionary acquirements—
Festus. Oh, I beg your pardon! By no means! With your permission, I will read something a little more sombre,—Edgar Poe’s “Raven.”
Stella. That is certainly more sombre. Proceed.
Reading. “The Raven,” by Edgar A. Poe. Festus.
Stella. Excellent! Mr. Festus, you are certainly a good reader. But this seems to affect you.
Festus. It does, it does; for I, too, have lost one—
Stella. A raven?
Festus. Pshaw! Come, madam, I believe you are to read now, and I to listen.
Stella. Certainly. I will read, with your permission, Whittier’s “Maud Muller.”
Festus. I should be delighted to hear it.
Reading. “Maud Muller.” Stella.
Festus. Beautiful, beautiful! Madam, this, too, affects me.
Stella. How?
Festus. When I think “it might have been.”
Stella. Then I wouldn’t think of it, if I were you. What shall we have now?
Festus. Suppose we read together.
Stella. Together?
Festus. Yes, a scene from some play. There’s “The Marble Heart.”
Stella. Oh, there’s nothing in that but love-scenes!
Festus. It’s a favorite play with me; and I have been thinking, while you were reading, that the character of “Marco” is one in which you might excel.
Stella. Indeed! I have studied the character.
Festus. (Aside.) I should think so. (Aloud.) Let us attempt a scene. Come, you shall have your choice.
Stella. Thank you. Then I will choose “the rejection scene.”
Festus. (Aside.) Of course you would! (Aloud.) Very well.
Stella. Do you know, Mr. Festus, I think there is something very odd in your attempting a love-scene?
Festus. Do you? I have attempted them, and with success too.
Stella. Ah! I remember there was one attempted here.
Festus. Indeed!
Stella. Yes; but the gentleman’s name was not Festus.
Festus. Shall we try the scene?
Stella. You must prompt me if I fail.
Festus. Fail! “In the bright lexicon of youth, there’s no such word as fail.”
Stella. Ah! but, in attempts at acting, there are many failures.
Festus. True; but yours will not be one of them.
Stella. (Aside.) Another compliment! I begin to like the fellow.
Festus. Now, then, the scene! (Stella takes a bouquet from the table, sits on tête-à-tête, R.)
SCENE FROM “THE MARBLE HEART.”
(Arranged for this piece.)
Marco, Stella. Raphael, Festus.
Raph. I have endured the sarcasms of Monsieur de Veaudore, the disavowal of your love, the reproaches and anger of my only friend, who insulted me in my last adieu: for your sake, I have become a coward, a crawling, abject wretch, without heart, without mind, without shame. (Throws himself into chair, L., and covers his face with his hands. A pause. Marco pulls the bouquet to pieces. Raphael raises his head, looks at her, and endeavors to speak with firmness.) What did that man say to you? I have a right to ask.
Marco. (Smiling in derision.) Right!
Raph. Yes, Marco, the right of a man, who, knowing he is to die, would learn the time and manner of his death. He told you he loved you?
Marco. (Carelessly.) Perhaps he did: what then?
Raph. (Violently.) You accepted his love?
Marco. I will not answer you.
Raph. But you must, you shall!
Marco. (Disdainfully.) Shall!
Raph. He offered you his hand? (A pause.) Speak, Marco, speak: in mercy let me know the worst.
Marco. He did.
Raph. And you accepted?
Marco. (Coldly.) Yes.
Raph. (Greatly agitated.) O Marco, Marco! (Violently, rising.) You shall not marry him!
Marco. (With contempt.) Who shall prevent me?
Raph. (With a burst of fury.) The man you have wronged! (Suddenly losing all command over himself, and throwing himself at her feet in an agony of grief.) No, no! Pity, pity for the wretched maniac who cannot live without you—humanity—remorse—
Marco. (Taking away her hand, and rising, with contempt and rage.) Remorse! I am weary of this persecution, these clamors, these maledictions. You think me a monster of falsehood, inconstant as the wind, perfidious as the ocean, the incarnation of caprice, selfishness, and cruelty? And why? Because I am too wise to rush headlong to ruin, and too proud to be pitied.
Raph. Pitied, Marco!
Marco. Yes (vehemently), pitied, insulted, and despised. Look at me now, surrounded with every luxury that art can invent and gold can purchase. Everybody bows to me. I am a queen. Divest me of these gilded claims to the world’s respect, and what am I? (Bitterly.) The dust—the friends who now follow my carriage, and fight for my smiles, will mock me, spurn me, and trample upon me.
Raph. Marco, Marco! in mercy—
Marco. I have known poverty, and have suffered such tortures in its hideous grasp that my heart sickens and my soul shudders at facing it again. You will perhaps laugh at my fear, and say there is happiness in poverty. (Laughing in scorn.) Yes, for those who are born to it; but to have known better days, and fall! Oh the misery, the heart-desolation, the despair! My father was rich and proud, the descendant of a noble family. He lived in splendor, and brought me up to despise every thing but wealth. He showed me its power: it surrounded him with friends and flatterers, and made life a perpetual summer. An evil day arrived: he speculated, and was reduced to his last crown. Where were his friends? (Laughing in scorn, and speaking in a hoarse voice.) They passed him in the street without recognition, they maligned, they despised, they forgot him. (Sinks into a chair, sobbing, and wiping her eyes.)
Raph. Forbear, Marco, forbear!
Marco. Ten years (oh, how long the days and months!) we lived in poverty,—abject, squalid, starving poverty. I saw my father in the prime of his life grow old, decrepit, and insane. In his ravings he had but one thought, “Money, money, money!” “Cling to it, my child,” he would say to me with glaring eyes and grinding teeth,—“cling to it, Marco, as you would to a raft in shipwreck: it is the all in all of our existence. See what the loss of it has brought to me. Let your heart be marble to every thing but gold, gold, gold!”
Raph. O misery!
Marco. My father died, and I was left dependent on the charity of my relations. (With savage scorn.) Charity! I wore their cast clothes, waited on their will,—their servant, their encumbrance, their hopeless slave. One happy day, Providence came to my relief: I was left a small fortune. (Rising.) From that moment I became a statue. The recollection of my days of misery extinguished the glowing impulses of my youth; and I lived on the surface of the world, mixing in all its gay pleasures, caressed and fêted, the idol of the hour, hating and despising the smiling monster, and devising means to secure my independence. A wealthy marriage was the only course; and for that I have devoted myself, heart and mind; for that I have been cruel, false, and pitiless; for that I am deaf to reproaches, dead to remorse. (Sits.)
Raph. (In amazement.) I hear you, Marco, and disbelieve my ears: I see you, and doubt my eyes. Those fearful words, those evil looks,—is it possible such hideousness can dwell in such a heavenly shrine? (Growing gradually frantic.) But I am glad, very glad, you have at last been candid with me: it relieves me from a world of sorrow, it rescues me from despair. Yet I hoped you had some regard for me, some little regret for—Ah, well! it was my accursed vanity. How could I ever hope to?— (Laughing hysterically, and speaking in a hoarse whisper.) I, too, am a deception: I have pretended to devote to you my heart, my life, my soul—no such thing! I, too, wore a mask—ha, ha, ha! When my eyes looked fondest, my heart was plotting treachery; when I swore you were my happiness, I felt you were my curse; when I vowed I could not live without you, I was devising means to break with you—ha, ha, ha! We owe each other nothing; we are both demons: but the comedy is over now, and the actors have returned to their every-day costumes and natures. I wish to be a gentleman, like Monsieur Veaudore. Mademoiselle Marco, I ask pardon for having annoyed you so long. I leave you to your pleasures. (He endeavors to kiss her hand; but she recoils, alarmed by the wildness of his tone and looks.) What do you fear? (With a burst of maniac laughter.) There is no venom on my lips: it is in my heart! (Kisses her hand.)
Marco. (Alarmed, trying to pacify him.) Come, come, Raphael, let us be friends.
Raph. (With a vacant stare.) Friends!—oh, yes! delighted! (Bowing with cold politeness, in the manner of his first introduction.) Mademoiselle Marco, I believe—beautiful, very beautiful, but (shaking his head mournfully) false, false, fatally false. (Sighing, and putting his hand to his head.) Ah, yes! and now we are friends (shaking both her hands, and looking at her earnestly),—yes, yes, real friends; for we no longer love, no longer deceive each other.
Marco. Raphael!
Raph. We thought we were happy. (Laughing.) Vain delusion! we were breaking our hearts. (With a sudden alteration of tone and countenance conveying that the recollection of his home had suddenly come to his mind.) Yes, yes (with a tremulous voice), breaking our hearts; but we were not the only sufferers. No, no: there were other hearts breaking, others (in an agony of suppressed grief) I had forgotten. But my absence is desired, and some older friends claim my politeness. Adieu! (Going.)
Marco. You will call and see me sometimes in Paris?
Raph. (Gayly bowing with affected politeness.) You are very kind; but I fear I shall not often be able to profit by your politeness, for my work—you understand—it is necessary that I should repair the time I have lost; and besides, when I and the persons who reside with me have recovered our happiness, it would be indiscreet to revive recollections that might jeopardize it.
Marco. (Coldly.) Well, then, at least you’ll try? (Sits on sofa.)
Raph. (Suffocating with suppressed emotion.) Yes, yes: I will try. (Puts his hand hastily to his heart with an exclamation of acute pain.)
Marco. (Alarmed.) Raphael!
Raph. (After a violent effort to calm himself.) ’Tis nothing, ’tis nothing! (Staggering to go off, L.)
Marco. Are you going to Paris?
Raph. Yes, yes, oh, yes! Don’t you know—they are waiting for me.
Marco. Take my carriage.
Raph. (With scorn.) No, no (with a maniac smile): I shall walk, walk. (Bitterly.) Poverty should walk: the weather is superb (endeavoring to be gay)—and (his forces nearly abandoning him)—my heart—is so light—I—I (staggering to table, and taking his hat)—Adieu, Mademoiselle Marco, adieu (faintly)—adieu, adieu! (Staggers off, L.)
Marco. (Rising from sofa, and looking after him with deep emotion.) O Raphael, Raphael! my heart is not quite marble; no, no, not quite! (Falls back on sofa, covers her face with her handkerchief, and weeps.)
Re-enter Raphael.
Marco. (With a smile, holding out her hand.) Thank you for returning; thank you for not taking my follies in earnest: this goodness endears you to me more than ever. (Raphael stands fixed, looking at her with a cold, immovable countenance.) You love me still? (Trying to draw him to her.) Yes, yes: I see you do; and you will pardon me! (She is about to put her arm round his neck: he looks sternly at her, and repels her by extending his arms with an action of disdain.) Oh! do not look at me thus: you frighten me—
Raph. (With terrible calmness.) Give me my portrait. (Pointing to it on her neck.)
Marco. Nay, I am sure—
Raph. (Sternly.) Give it me! (Marco gives it him.) Don’t be alarmed, it is only the painting I reclaim. (Taking it from the frame.) I leave you the diamonds. (Gives back the frame and chain.)
Marco. Raphael!
Raph. Marco, shall I tell you why for a moment you have love on your lips and in your eyes? ’Tis because you have learned that in recalling me you could break another heart: the feeling which guided you was not the happiness of Raphael, but the despair of Marie. (Marco starts.) Now, adieu. But first give me your wreath.
Marco. My wreath?
Raph. (Approaching.) I would have it.
Marco. (Recoiling alarmed.) Are you mad?
Raph. (Wildly.) Take it off, take it off! White roses are the symbols of purity; they make you hideous: they are only for the brows of innocence and truth. (Tears the crown from her head, and dashes it on the ground.)
END OF PART I.