Роберт Льюис Стивенсон - The Plays of W. E. Henley and R. L. Stevenson стр 12.

Mary. O Willie, look at him; I think he hears you, and is trying to be glad with us.

Brodie. My son Deacon better man than I was.

Brodie. O for Gods sake, hear him!

Mary. He is quite happy, Will, and so am I.. so am I.

Brodie. Hear me, Mary. This is a big moment in our two lives. I swear to you by the father here between us that it shall not be fault of mine if this thing fails; if this ship founders you have set your hopes in. I swear it by our father; I swear it by Gods judgments.

Mary. I want no oaths, Will.

Brodie. No, but I do. And prayers, Mary, prayers. Pray night and day upon your knees. I must move mountains.

Old Brodie. A wise son maketh maketh

Brodie. A glad father? And does your son, the Deacon, make you glad? O heaven of heavens, if I were a good man.

ACT III

TABLEAU V.

Kings Evidence

The Stage represents a public place in Edinburgh.

(They loiter in L., and stand looking about as for somebody not there. Smith is hat in hand to Jean; Moore as usual.)

Moore. Wot did I tell you? Is he ere, or aint he? Now, then. Slink by name and Slink by nature, thats wots the matter with him.

Jean. Hell no be lang; hes regular enough, if that was a.

Moore. Id regular him; Id break his back.

Smith. Badger, you brute, you hang on to the lessons of your dancing-master. None but the genteel deserves the fair; does they, Duchess?

Moore. O rot! Did I insult the blowen? Wots the matter with me is Slink Ainslie.

Smith. All right, old Crossed-in-love. Give him forty winks, and hell turn up as fresh as clean sawdust and as respectable as a new Bible.

Moore. Thats right enough; but I aint agoing to stand here all day for him. Im for a drop of something short, I am. You tell him I showed you that (showing his doubled fist). Thats wots the matter with him. (He lurches out, R.)

Smith (critically). No, Duchess, he has not good manners.

Jean. Ay, hes an impident man.

Smith. So he is, Jean; and for the matter of that he aint the only one.

Jean. Geordie, I want nae mair o your nonsense, mind.

Smith. Theres our old particular the Deacon, now. Why is he ashamed of a lovely woman? Thats not my idea of the Young Chevalier, Jean. If I had luck, we should be married, and retire to our estates in the country, shouldnt us? and go to church and be happy, like the nobility and gentry.

Jean. Geordie Smith, div ye mean yed mairry me?

Smith. Mean it? What else has ever been the umble petition of your honest but well-meaning friend, Roman, and fellow-countryman? I know the Deacons your man, and I know hes a cut above G. S.; but he wont last, Jean, and I shall.

Jean. Ay, Im muckle taen up wi him; wha could help it?

Smith. Well, and my sort dont grow on apple-trees either.

Jean. Yere a fine, cracky, neebourly body, Geordie, if ye wad just let me be.

Smith. I know I aint a Scotchman born.

Jean. I dinna think sae muckle the waur o ye even for that; if ye would just let me be.

[Hunt (entering behind, aside). Are they thick? Anyhow, its a second chance.]

Smith. But he wont last, Jean, and when he leaves you, you come to me. Is that your taste in pastry? Thats the kind of harticle that I present.

Hunt (surprising them as in Tableau I.). Why, youre the very parties I was looking for!

Jean. Mercy me!

Smith. Damn it, Jerry, this is unkind.

Hunt. [Now this is what I call a picter of good fortune.] Aint it strange I should have dropped across you comfortable and promiscuous like this?

Jean (stolidly). I hope yere middling weel, Mr. Hunt? (Going.) Mr. Smith!

Smith. Mrs. Watt, maam! (Going.)

Hunt. Hold hard, George. Speaking as one ladys man to another, turn abouts fair play. Youve had your confab, and now Im going to have mine. [Not that Ive done with you; you stand by and wait.] Ladies first, George, ladies first; thats the size of it. (To Jean, aside.) Now, Mrs. Watt, I take it you aint a natural fool?

Jean. And thank ye kindly, Mr. Hunt.

Smith (interfering). Jean.. !

Hunt (keeping him off). Half a tick, George. (To Jean.) Mrs. Watt, Ive a warrant in my pocket. One, two, three: will you peach?

Jean. Whaten kind of a wordll that be?

Smith. Mum it is, Jean!

Hunt. When youve done dancing, George! (To Jean.) It aint a pretty expression, my dear, I own it. Will you blow the gaff? is perhaps more tenderer.

Jean. I think yeve a real strange way o expressin yoursel.

Hunt (to Jean). I cant waste time on you, my girl. Its now or never. Will you turn kings evidence?

Jean. I think yell have made a mistake, like.

Hunt. Well, Im..! (Separating them.) [No, not yet; dont push me.] Georges turn now. (To George.) George, Ive a warrant in my pocket.

Smith. As per usual, Jerry?

Hunt. Now I want kings evidence.

Smith. Ah! so you came a cropper with her, Jerry. Pride had a fall.

Hunt. A free pardon and fifty shiners down.

Smith. A free pardon, Jerry?

Hunt. Dont I tell you so?

Smith. And fifty down? fifty?

Hunt. On the nail.

Smith. So you came a cropper with her, and then you tried it on with me?

Hunt. I suppose you mean youre a born idiot?

Smith. What I mean is, Jerry, that youve broke my heart. I used to look up to you like a party might to Julius Cæsar. One more of boyhoods dreams gone pop. (Enter Moore, L.)

Hunt (to both). Come, then, Ill take the pair, and be damned to you. Free pardon to both, fifty down and the Deacon out of the way. I dont care for you commoners, its the Deacon I want.

Jean (looking off stolidly). I think the kirks are scalin. There seems to be mair people in the streets.

Hunt. O thats the way, is it? Do you know that I can hang you, my woman, and your fancy man a well?

Jean. I daur say ye would like fine, Mr. Hunt; and heres my service to you. (Going.)

Hunt. George, dont you be a tomfool, anyway. Think of the blowen here, and have brains for two.

Smith (going). Ah, Jerry, if you knew anything, how different you would talk! (They go together, R.)

Hunt. Half a tick, Badger. Youre a man of parts, you are; youre solid, youre a true-born Englishman; you aint a Jerry-go-Nimble like him. Do you know what your pal the Deacons worth to you? Fifty golden Georges and a free pardon. No questions asked, and no receipts demanded. What do you say? Is it a deal?

Moore (as to himself). Muck. (He goes out, R.)