plays [79]
are fortune in the
vapour: these are ideas. What are ideas? the protoplasm of
wealth. To your head - which, by the way, is a solid, Bertrand -
what are they but foul air? To mine, to my prehensile and
constructive intellects, see, as I grasp and work them, to what
lineaments of the future they transform themselves: a palace, a
barouche, a pair of luminous footmen, plate, wine, respect, and
to be honest!
BERTRAND. But what's the sense in honesty?
MACAIRE. The sense? You see me: Macaire: elegant, immoral,
invincible in cunning; well, Bertrand, much as it may surprise
you, I am simply damned by my dishonesty.
BERTRAND. No!
MACAIRE. The honest man, Bertrand, that God's noblest work. He
carries the bag, my boy. Would you have me define honesty? the
strategic point for theft. Bertrand, if I'd three hundred a
year, I'd be honest to-morrow.
BERTRAND. Ah! Don't you wish you may get it!
MACAIRE. Bertrand, I will bet you my head against your own - the
longest odds I can imagine - that with honesty for my
spring-board, I leap through history like a paper hoop, and come
out among posterity heroic and immortal.
SCENE II
To these, all the former characters, less the NOTARY. The
fiddles are heard without, playing dolefully. Air: 'O dear,
what can the matter be?' in time to which the procession enters.
MACAIRE. Well, friends, what cheer?
ALINE. No wedding, no wedding! }
GORIOT. I told 'ee he can't and he can't. }
DUMONT. Dear, dear me! } TOGETHER.
ERNESTINE. They won't let us marry. }
CHARLES. No wife, no father, no nothing! }
CURATE. The facts have justified the worst anticipations of our
absent friend, the Notary.
MACAIRE. I perceive I must reveal myself.
DUMONT. God bless me, no!
MACAIRE. My friends, I had meant to preserve a strict incognito,
for I was ashamed (I own it!) of this poor accoutrement; but when
I see a face that I can render happy, say, my old Dumont, should
I hesitate to work the change? Hear me, then, and you (TO THE
OTHERS) prepare a smiling countenance. (REPEATING.) 'Preserve
this letter secretly; its terms are only known to you and me;
hence when the time comes, I shall repeat them, and my son will
recognise his father. - Your Unknown Benefactor.'
DUMONT. The words! the letter! Charles, alas! it is your
father!
CHARLES. Good Lord! (GENERAL CONSTERNATION.)
BERTRAND (ASIDE: SMILING HIS BROW). I see it now; sublime!
CURATE. A highly singular eventuality.
GORIOT. Him? O well, then, I wun't. (GOES UP.)
MACAIRE. Charles, to my arms! (BUSINESS.) Ernestine, your
second father waits to welcome you. (BUSINESS.) Goriot, noble
old man, I grasp your hand. (HE DOESN'T.) And you, Dumont, how
shall your unknown benefactor thank you for your kindness to his
boy? (A DEAD PAUSE.) Charles, to my arms!
CHARLES. My father, you are still something of a stranger. I
hope - er - in the course of time - I hope that may be somewhat
mended. But I confess that I have so long regarded Mr. Dumont -
MACAIRE. Love him still, dear boy, love him still. I have not
returned to be a burden on your heart, nor much, comparatively,
on your pocket. A place by the fire, dear boy, a crust for my
friend, Bertrand. (A DEAD PAUSE.) Ah, well, this is a different
home-coming from that I fancied when I left the letter: I
dreamed to grow rich. Charles, you remind me of your sainted
mother.
CHARLES. I trust, sir, you do not think yourself less welcome
for your poverty.
MACAIRE. Nay, nay - more welcome, more welcome. O, I know your
- (BUSINESS) backs! Besides, my poverty is noble. Political .
. . . Dumont, what are your politics?
DUMONT. A plain old republican, my lord.
MACAIRE. And yours, my good Goriot?
GORIOT. I be a royalist, I be, and so be my daater.
MACAIRE. How strange is the coincidence! The party that I
sought to found combined the peculiarities of both: a patriotic
enterprise in which I fell. This
vapour: these are ideas. What are ideas? the protoplasm of
wealth. To your head - which, by the way, is a solid, Bertrand -
what are they but foul air? To mine, to my prehensile and
constructive intellects, see, as I grasp and work them, to what
lineaments of the future they transform themselves: a palace, a
barouche, a pair of luminous footmen, plate, wine, respect, and
to be honest!
BERTRAND. But what's the sense in honesty?
MACAIRE. The sense? You see me: Macaire: elegant, immoral,
invincible in cunning; well, Bertrand, much as it may surprise
you, I am simply damned by my dishonesty.
BERTRAND. No!
MACAIRE. The honest man, Bertrand, that God's noblest work. He
carries the bag, my boy. Would you have me define honesty? the
strategic point for theft. Bertrand, if I'd three hundred a
year, I'd be honest to-morrow.
BERTRAND. Ah! Don't you wish you may get it!
MACAIRE. Bertrand, I will bet you my head against your own - the
longest odds I can imagine - that with honesty for my
spring-board, I leap through history like a paper hoop, and come
out among posterity heroic and immortal.
SCENE II
To these, all the former characters, less the NOTARY. The
fiddles are heard without, playing dolefully. Air: 'O dear,
what can the matter be?' in time to which the procession enters.
MACAIRE. Well, friends, what cheer?
ALINE. No wedding, no wedding! }
GORIOT. I told 'ee he can't and he can't. }
DUMONT. Dear, dear me! } TOGETHER.
ERNESTINE. They won't let us marry. }
CHARLES. No wife, no father, no nothing! }
CURATE. The facts have justified the worst anticipations of our
absent friend, the Notary.
MACAIRE. I perceive I must reveal myself.
DUMONT. God bless me, no!
MACAIRE. My friends, I had meant to preserve a strict incognito,
for I was ashamed (I own it!) of this poor accoutrement; but when
I see a face that I can render happy, say, my old Dumont, should
I hesitate to work the change? Hear me, then, and you (TO THE
OTHERS) prepare a smiling countenance. (REPEATING.) 'Preserve
this letter secretly; its terms are only known to you and me;
hence when the time comes, I shall repeat them, and my son will
recognise his father. - Your Unknown Benefactor.'
DUMONT. The words! the letter! Charles, alas! it is your
father!
CHARLES. Good Lord! (GENERAL CONSTERNATION.)
BERTRAND (ASIDE: SMILING HIS BROW). I see it now; sublime!
CURATE. A highly singular eventuality.
GORIOT. Him? O well, then, I wun't. (GOES UP.)
MACAIRE. Charles, to my arms! (BUSINESS.) Ernestine, your
second father waits to welcome you. (BUSINESS.) Goriot, noble
old man, I grasp your hand. (HE DOESN'T.) And you, Dumont, how
shall your unknown benefactor thank you for your kindness to his
boy? (A DEAD PAUSE.) Charles, to my arms!
CHARLES. My father, you are still something of a stranger. I
hope - er - in the course of time - I hope that may be somewhat
mended. But I confess that I have so long regarded Mr. Dumont -
MACAIRE. Love him still, dear boy, love him still. I have not
returned to be a burden on your heart, nor much, comparatively,
on your pocket. A place by the fire, dear boy, a crust for my
friend, Bertrand. (A DEAD PAUSE.) Ah, well, this is a different
home-coming from that I fancied when I left the letter: I
dreamed to grow rich. Charles, you remind me of your sainted
mother.
CHARLES. I trust, sir, you do not think yourself less welcome
for your poverty.
MACAIRE. Nay, nay - more welcome, more welcome. O, I know your
- (BUSINESS) backs! Besides, my poverty is noble. Political .
. . . Dumont, what are your politics?
DUMONT. A plain old republican, my lord.
MACAIRE. And yours, my good Goriot?
GORIOT. I be a royalist, I be, and so be my daater.
MACAIRE. How strange is the coincidence! The party that I
sought to found combined the peculiarities of both: a patriotic
enterprise in which I fell. This