Изображения страниц
PDF
EPUB

jealous friend of mine declares he saw the old copyist buying them this morning; and he is always at Mr. Fletchers elbow. (Takes pen.) Never mind: the insulted majesty of the generous public's favorite must be avenged. I'll refuse the part at once. (About to write; knock R.) who's there? Come in. (Writes. Enter Holder, R.) HOL. (aside). In her presence, alone with her! I never dreamed-never dared hope to be so near; and yet I tremble.

Ah!•

CON. Well! (Looks up.) Ah! I remember your face somewhere.

HOL. At the theatre probably.

CON. If I am not mistaken. I have often seen you as I entered the theatre.

HOL. Possibly, possibly.

CON. (rising). What ails you ? Are you ill?

HOL. No! Oh, dear, no! It's only a-I was not prepared. It's the first time you have spoken to me. CON. And that produces such an effect on you? HOL. Yes, I don't know how it is; but it is nothing. CON. (aside). Poor man! (Aloud.) I shall make it a point of speaking to you whenever I see you now. you to get accustomed to my voice. What have you there? HOL. Your part, which you dropped upon the stage at rehearsal. Mr. Fletcher sent me.

CON. You can take it back. I shall not play it.

I want

HOL. Not play it? Then he will give it to another. CON. (aside). I never thought of that. (Aloud.) You are very much attached to Mr. Fletcher?

HOL.

But for him I should have starved.

CON. Starved! die of hunger in wealthy London!

HOL. It is true though. That day when he found me almost fainting near the stage door of the theatre — What were you doing there?

CON.

HOL. I was waiting.

CON. Waiting for what?

HOL. (quickly). Nothing. I expected nothing. I came here by accident - because I had not strength to go farther. Why, yesterday, he gave me a guinea for copying a comedy, a guinea, - a whole guinea: I had not been so rich for any a day.

CON. Which, you doubtless invested in stocks.
HOL. No, madam; roses.

CON. Roses? (Points to flowers.) Do you know the bouquet?

HOL. The one I purchased this morning.

CON. This bouquet, you purchased it, and sent it to me? HOL. Yes.

CON. These are flowers of great price.

HOL. Yesterday-at the theatre-I was standing behind one of the wings, and I heard you say you loved them. CON. Oh! (Asule.) Decidedly, I have made a conquest here. I entreat of you now;

HOL. Don't be angry with me. don't laugh at me.

CON. I am neither angry with you, nor in the mood to laugh at you. But what would you have me say to you?

HOL. Ah! Cons- madam!

CON. You are doubtless very unhappy. Your sufferings touch me sorely.

HOL. Unhappy! Yes. Twenty years ago I was in trade here in London, a good trade, and I made money. I met a young girl: she was pretty, very pretty. I proposed marriage to her, and was accepted. For three years I was the happiest of men. I was passionately fond of my wife. I had a daughter, whom I adored. My happiness was too great to last. A young man, gay, dashing, handsome, became a frequent customer. On one occasion I observed him speak to my wife in a manner I thought rather strange. I spoke of it to her, and she said I must be mad. I loved her, and was silenced. Next day I went out when I returned my house was empty, my home deserted. My wife had eloped with him, and taken my child with her.

CON. Wretched woman!

HOL. Little by little, my wounded pride effaced the wrongs of the woman I had loved so dearly; but another memory clung to me, my daughter, — the child I had danced upon my knee, that I taught to lisp my name, the babe whose smile was sunshine to me, whose first words were like an angel's whisper in my ear.

CON. How very sad!

HOL. Fifteen years dragged its weary time away, when one day I received a letter. It was from her, my wife. She had doubtless written it on her death-bed. "Pardon me,” she said, "I have been bitterly punished. daughter

As for your

CON. Well, your daughter

-

HOL. It was the greatest blow of all; but it must be told. "As for your daughter, I know not where she is; but you will surely recognize her, if you recall my form and features. Such as I was when you first saw and loved me, such is your child to-day, the same face, the same form, the same voice." I uttered a cry of joy, "My child lives: I shall see her once again!

[ocr errors]

CON. Why, this is stranger than fiction.

HOL. I traversed the town in hope of meeting her, visited every public place. I was repulsed at every door, my inquiries were laughed at. One day I heard a voice, - the voice of my wife; a woman appeared, the form of my wife. The woman turned, -the face of my wife; the voice, —it was the voice of my child.

CON. She!

HOL. Yes; I saw her again next day. Not a day passes without my seeing her.

CON. And you have not thrown yourself into her arms? You have not made yourself known to her?

HOL.

No.

CON. Why not?

HOL. How might she have received my burst of affection? The love of father and child is not instinct. I can endure being unknown to her, console myself by looking at her, and loving her in secret; but to say to her, "I am your father," and not be loved

CON. She would soon learn to love you.

HOL. If I had been a stranger to her for fifteen years, and they had said to me, "Here is your daughter," that would not suffice to make me love her. No, thank Heaven! I have nothing to reproach her with, - poor child! To forgive is to merit forgiveness. Remember, I am poor, old, and without resources. When I should have told her that I was her father, what would she have done? offered me bread as a duty. No, no! I must go far away.

CON. You have suffered deeply. I wish I could help you; perhaps I can. Give me the name of your daughter. I will go to her, tell her your story, and

HOL. No, no! leave all to time.

CON. As you please. Give me the part. I have reconsidered the matter, and will study it. You may tell Mr. Fletcher that your story, and your partiality for him, have induced me to consent.

HOL.

Thanks. I like Mr. Fletcher's piece.

CON. Do you?

HOL. There is one part in particular that affected me to tears, the scene where the father finds his daughter. CON. The very part Mr. Fletcher says I murder. HOL. That scene requires to be well acted. CON. Yes.

HOL.

Well acted by the man, and particularly well acted by the lady.

CON. You are quite right.

HOL. The lady has but one word to say, but one exclamation, "My father!" but the success entirely depends

upon her manner of giving it.

CON.

And that is where I fail.

HOL. But you'll not fail: you will study hard, and triumph.

CON. I will do my best. (Bows, and goes to table.)

HOL. (aside). To part without embracing her! I would give the world for one embrace, and to call her my- But it is impossible. I will go at once. If I look at her again, my courage will fail. And yet I cannot leave her thus. One embrace, one kiss, and I leave her forever, but howAh-the play, the play! (Aloud.) The scene of recognition, I know it by heart. Perhaps I might assist you. CON. You know it by heart?

HOL. Yes; through copying it, it fixed itself in my memory.

CON. What a memory! I studied that surely more than an hour, and I do not feel myself master of it yet. HOL. Will you go through it with me?

CON. With you?

HOL. You object?

[ocr errors]

cer

CON. Well, really this is the oddest circumstance tainly. What are our positions? Oh! you there, sir, I here: presently you cross me.

We commence the scene after

the young girl's story. Begin, sir.

HOL. (rehearsing). "When you arrived in London, repeat that to me again, the servant who accompanied you brought you to an old lady?"

CON. "Yes."

HOL. "The lady at first received you unkindly: is it not so? Soon she would not part with you."

CON. "Yes; but how know you this?"

HOL.
CON.

"I know it."

You are quite affected: you are perfect to a letter, and rehearse it charmingly. You ought to have been an

actor.

"Five years

This

HOL. I could not re-act all parts like this. passed, when one day the old lady called you to her. is your home,' she said.

must depart.'

999

'The moment has arrived when I

CON. "Her very words!"

HOL. "And then she quitted you.

She exhibited no

sign of affection for you: she only announced to you that a man would shortly present himself to you.

This man"

CON. "This man was he to whom I offered my daily Vows, though to me he was unknown. 'That man,' said she, is your father.""

HOL. "I am he."

[blocks in formation]

HOL. "Yes, I, I! My child! yes, at last, at last, my child! Yes; 'tis I! 'tis II"

CON. Stay, that's not it: you forget. There's nothing of that kind in the manuscript.

HOL. What is it, then?

CON. (reading). "My child, my child, yes, I! your father. Not a moment during the twenty years which have separated us, have I ceased to think of the day when I should be enabled to press you to my heart.”

HOL. I beg your pardon, I was mistaken. "Yes, your father, not a minute during the twenty years which" What comes next?

CON. "Have separated us, have I ceased to think."

HOL. Wrong, all wrong! No father on finding his daughter would make use of such an expression. Here is a man who has not seen his daughter for years, who seeks, who finds her, sees her, speaks to her; and the author puts into his mouth a long rigmarole. He could not speak it, impossible! Tears, sobs, that's all. My child, here, come to my heart, let me gaze upon you! Don't speak, my child! How sweet that name! Your-your father, 'tis I! Not a word; you cannot, you cannot know. My child! my

child!

CON. You are faint.

HOL. No: it is nothing. That's more like what I should feel.

« ПредыдущаяПродолжить »