The Octoroon

ACT II

The Wharf – goods, boxes, and bales scattered about – a camera on stand, R.

Scudder, R., Dora, L., George and Paul discovered; Dora being photographed by Scudder, who is arranging photographic apparatus, George and Paul looking on at back.

Scud. Just turn your face a leetle this way – fix your – let's see – look here.

Dora. So?

Scud. That's right. [Puts his head under the darkening apron.] It's such a long time since I did this sort of thing, and this old machine has got so dirty and stiff, I'm afraid it won't operate. That's about right. Now don't stir.

Paul. Ugh! she look as though she war gwine to have a tooth drawed!

Scud. I've got four plates ready, in case we miss the first shot. One of them is prepared with a self-developing liquid that I've invented. I hope it will turn out better than most of my notions. Now fix yourself. Are you ready?

Dora. Ready!

Scud. Fire! – one, two, three. [Scudder takes out watch.]

Paul. Now it's cooking, laws mussey, I feel it all inside, as if it was at a lottery.

Scud. So! [Throws down apron.] That's enough. [With-draws slide, turns and sees Paul.] What! what are you doing there, you young varmint! Ain't you took them bags to the house yet?

Paul. Now, it ain't no use trying to get mad, Mas'r Scudder. I'm gwine! I only come back to find Wahnotee; whar is dat ign'ant Ingiun?

Scud. You'll find him scenting round the rum store, hitched up by the nose.

Paul. [Calling at door.] Say, Mas'r Scudder, take me in dat telescope?

Scud. [Inside room.] Get out, you cub! clar out!

Paul. You got four of dem dishes ready. Gosh, wouldn't I like to hab myself took! What's de charge, Mas'r Scudder?

Scud. Job had none of them critters on his plantation, else he'd never ha' stood through so many chapters. Well, that has come out clear, ain't it? [Shows plate.]

Dora. O, beautiful! Look, Mr. Peyton.

George. [Looking.] Yes, very fine!

Scud. The apparatus can't mistake. When I travelled round with this machine, the homely folks used to sing out, "Hillo, mister, this ain't like me!" "Ma'am," says I, "the apparatus can't mistake." "But, mister, that ain't my nose." "Ma'am, your nose drawed it. The machine can't err – you may mistake your phiz but the apparatus don't." "But, sir, it ain't agreeable." "No, ma'am, the truth seldom is."

Pete. Mas'r Scudder! Mas'r Scudder!

Scud. Hillo! what are you blowing about like a steamboat with one wheel for?

Pete. You blow, Mas'r Scudder, when I tole you; dere's a man from Noo Aleens just arriv' at de house, and he's stuck up two papers on de gates; "For sale – dis yer property," and a heap of oder tings – and he seen missus, and arter he shown some papers she burst out crying – I yelled; den de corious of little niggers dey set up, den de hull plantation children – de live stock reared up and created a purpiration of lamentation as did de ole heart good to har.

Dora. What's the matter?

Scud. He's come.

Pete. Dass it – I saw'm!

Scud. The sheriff from New Orleans has taken possession – Terrebonne is in the hands of the law.

Zoe. O, Mr. Scudder! Dora! Mr. Peyton! come home – there are strangers in the house.

Dora. Stay, Mr. Peyton; Zoe, a word! [Leads her forward – aside.] Zoe, the more I see of George Peyton the better I like him; but he is too modest – that is a very impertinent virtue in a man.

Zoe. I'm no judge, dear.

Dora. Of course not, you little fool; no one ever made love to you, and you can't understand; I mean, that George knows I am an heiress; my fortune would release this estate from debt.

Zoe. O, I see!

Dora. If he would only propose to marry me I would accept him, but he don't know that, and he will go on fooling, in his slow European way, until it is too late.

Zoe. What's to be done?

Dora. You tell him.

Zoe. What? that he isn't to go on fooling in his slow —

Dora. No, you goose! twit him on his silence and abstraction – I'm sure it's plain enough, for he has not spoken two words to me all the day; then joke round the subject, and at last speak out.

Scud. Pete, as you came here, did you pass Paul and the Indian with the letter-bags?

Pete. No, sar; but dem vagabonds neber take de 'specable straight road, dey goes by de swamp.

Scud. Come, sir!

Dora. [To Zoe.] Now's your time. – [Aloud.] Mr. Scudder, take us with you – Mr. Peyton is so slow, there's no getting him, on.

Zoe. They are gone! – [Glancing at George.] Poor fellow, he has lost all.

George. Poor child! how sad she looks now she has no resource.

Zoe. How shall I ask him to stay?

George. Zoe, will you remain here? I wish to speak to you.

Zoe. [Aside.] Well, that saves trouble.

George. By our ruin, you lose all.

Zoe. O, I'm nothing; think of yourself.

George. I can think of nothing but the image that remains face to face with me: so beautiful, so simple, so confiding, that I dare not express the feelings that have grown up so rapidly in my heart.

Zoe. [Aside.] He means Dora.

George. If I dared to speak!

Zoe. That's just what you must do, and do it at once, or it will be too late.

George. Has my love been divined?

Zoe. It has been more than suspected.

George. Zoe, listen to me, then. I shall see this estate pass from me without a sigh, for it possesses no charm for me; the wealth I covet is the love of those around me – eyes that are rich in fond looks, lips that breathe endearing words; the only estate I value is the heart of one true woman, and the slaves I'd have are her thoughts.

Zoe. George, George, your words take away my breath!

George. The world, Zoe, the free struggle of minds and hands, if before me; the education bestowed on me by my dear uncle is a noble heritage which no sheriff can seize; with that I can build up a fortune, spread a roof over the heads I love, and place before them the food I have earned; I will work —

Zoe. Work! I thought none but colored people worked.

George. Work, Zoe, is the salt that gives savor to life.

Zoe. Dora said you were slow; if she could hear you now —

George. Zoe, you are young; your mirror must have told you that you are beautiful. Is your heart free?

Zoe. Free? of course it is!

George. We have known each other but a few days, but to me those days have been worth all the rest of my life. Zoe, you have suspected the feeling that now commands an utterance – you have seen that I love you.

Zoe. Me! you love me?

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!

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.]

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.

[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.]

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.

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

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.

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.

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.