Scene I
—A tavern and a street in front of it. Settles on porch. Sailors smoking and drinking. Enter Captain Butts, singing.
| Butts. | The Margery D. was a trim little ship, The men they could man, and the skipper could skip; She sailed from her haven one fine summer day, And she foundered at sea in the following way,— |
| To-wit: | |
| All. | A-rinkety, clinkety, clink, clank, clank, The liquor they bathed in, the spirits they drank; A sailor at sea with three sheets in the wind Can hardly be called, sirs, quite sober. |
Enter Mother Carey, from Tavern.
Carey. Cap’n! Cap’n Butts! Gen’le gen’lemen! would ye rune a pore widdy woman by a singing of sech filthy tunes? And me up for my license again nex’ Tuesday!
Butts. Peace! Peace, Mother Carey, hear your chickens screech! Come, boys!
[Singing.
| The captain was thirsty, and so was each man, They ladled the grog out by cup and by can, The night it was stormy, they knew not the place, And they sang as they sank the following grace,— | |
| To-wit: | |
| All. | A-sinkety, sinkety, sink, sank, sunk, Our captain is tipsy, our mate is quite drunk, Our widows we leave to the world’s tender care And we don’t give a damn for the Devil! |
Ha! Ha! Ha!
Carey. O, Lord! O, Lord! If the magistrates should hear that song, they’d close my place!
Butts. There, there now. [Chucks her under the chin.] The magistrates are not as quick to hear a sailor sing as thou art to take his orders. Bring us a pint apiece.
Carey. Thou naughty man! [Slaps his jaws.] A pint apiece?
[Exit.
Butts. Aye. Now, lads, bargain out your time; ye’ll not see a petticoat for many a day.
[Lights pipe and sits.
Sailors. Aye, aye, sir.
Citizens cross stage, singly and in groups, all going in the same direction. Enter Mother Carey from house with ale, serves it, looks up and down street as in expectation of some one, then goes in.
Butts. Mother Carey’s lost one of her chicks. Here lads! here’s to the mousey Puritan lassies! They won’t dance, they can’t sing—Ah! well! here’s to them till we come again!
[All drink.
Enter along the street two Councilors.
Arnold. ’Tis very true; but, sir, though many break this law and go unpunished, our godly Company should not wink at known adultery.
Langdon. In other words, we must find scape-goats to bear our sins.
Arnold. Nay, not exactly that. We vindicate God’s laws, and——
[Exeunt Councilors.
Butts. He must be Privy Councilor to the Lord Himself!
Enter a group of WOMEN.
First Woman. Her beauty, say’st thou? Pretty is as pretty does, say I. I’d beauty her! Go to! Who knows the father of her brat; can any tell?
Second Woman. Thou dost not doubt thy goodman?
First Woman. Trust none of them. I know mine own; dost thou know thine? As for her she hath shamed our sex, and I would—
[Exeunt Women.
Butts. God’s-my-life, there’s more poison in their tongues than in a nest of rattlesnakes? What’s all this pother, lads?
Sailor. There’s a trial, sir, on a charge of bastardy.
Butts. Ha! ha! ha! You rogues had better ship elsewhere; if the wind sits in that quarter, you’ll find foul weather here.
Sailors. Ha! ha! ha!
More people cross the stage.
Butts. Cheapside on a holiday!
Re-enter Mother Carey, dressed for walking.
Carey. O, dear! O, dear! I’ll be late; I’m sure I’ll be late. Oh! dear, dear, dear! why will that Ursula still lag?
Butts. What’s the matter, Mother?
Carey. Matter? Matter enough! a gentlewoman tried for adultery and me sure to miss it all! [Looks around.] Why doesn’t Ursula come? O, dear! O, dear!—why, here she is!
Enter Ursula.
What kept thee, Ursula?
Ursula. Such a crowd! Whew! I’m out o’ breath. [Sits; one or two pass over.] The town’s run mad to look upon a gentlewoman shamed. [Citizens still pass.] Ah! there’s no room for me now, but when her labor came God knows there was no press! I had room enough then, not one would lend a hand—fie! they are serpents, all of them; they have double tongues to hiss, but ne’er a hand to help.
Carey. Still talking to herself. Here, Ursula, take the keys and wait upon the gentlemen.
[Hands keys to Ursula and exit up street.
Ursula. Let the gentlemen wait on me awhile.
Butts. Would you have us die of thirst, Ursula?
Ursula. What will you have, Captain?
Butts. Stingo, Ursula, stingo!
[Exit Ursula in tavern.
What say you, lads, shall we see this trial?
Sailor. Aye, aye, sir, the woman’s fair to look upon.
Butts. Then let us get our ballast in, hoist sail and tack away.
Re-enter Ursula with ale.
Who is it, Ursula, they try?
Ursula. A gentle lady, sir. God’s-my-life, had no man tempted her—but, that’s your ways, you tempt us, blame us when we yield, and then make laws to punish us.
Butts. But, what’s her name?
Ursula. What should it be but Hester Prynne?
Butts. Hester Prynne? The gentle Mistress Prynne I brought from Amsterdam three years ago?
Ursula. The same, God bless her.
Butts. My lads, don’t wait for me.
[Exeunt Sailors.
I knew her husband, Ursula; a man
Well versed in all the wisdom of the time;
Somewhat well gone in years, but lovable
Beyond the shallowness of youth, and rich
In mellow charity. Oft hath he sailed
With me from port to port where learning drew him,
And still came richer home. One day he shipped
For Amsterdam and brought his bride, who, like
A hawthorn in its pink of youth that blushes
’Neath the shadow of an ancient elm,
Shed spring-time sweetness round his green old age.
I’ve seen them often in their Holland home,
Where wisdom laid its treasures at the feet
Of love, and beauty crowned the offering.
She was a lovely lady, Ursula,
And when her lord, still bent on learning more,
Resolved to come out to America—
His own affairs then calling him to England—
He placed her in my care, intending soon
To follow her. He did, but curséd fate!
His ship was lost—no one knows where!
Ursula. Alack
The day! She had not sinned had he been here.
Butts. But, didst thou know her, Ursula, as I
Have known her, wisely good and true, thou wouldst
Have wondered more.
Ursula. Know her, sir! I nursed her!
Butts. Thou, Ursula?
Ursula. None but I!
Butts. Where were her friends?
Ursula. Where, but at home! Dear heart,
They shunned her like the plague—though if the truth
Were known, many that shun her now would keep
Her company perforce. None came near
But pious Master Dimsdell, and even he
Came only out of duty to her soul;
He told me so.
Butts. The Reverend Master Dimsdell
And thou her only comforters?
Ursula. Nay,
The little bairn was her greatest comfort, sir.
Butts. How doth she bear her trouble, Ursula?
Ursula. Like a good woman, sir.
Butts. She yet is that!
But have you never learned her lover’s name?
Ursula. Nay, I never have.
Butts. ’Tis strange that she
Should fall; and then endeavor to conceal
Her lover! Noble, wise and beautiful,
No other than a man of mark could win her!
Ursula. A three years widow, baby three months old,
A coward run-a-gate of a lover, sir—
Tell me, is there no exception made
By law for widows?
Butts. None, of which I know.
Ursula. The law is hard indeed!
Butts. I wonder if
A rough sea-dog like me might speak a word
For her?
Ursula. Aye, that you might! Go seek the good
Old Doctor Wilson, mercy dwells with him,
And he will aid you, sir.
Butts. I’ll go at once.
[Exeunt severally, Butts up street, Ursula in tavern.
Enter Roger Prynne, travel stained.
Roger. We are not masters of our paths, although
Our wills do seem to guide our faltering steps:
Ship voyagers are we, and roam at will
Within the narrow confines of the deck,
But neither plot nor steer the destined course.
I may have passed her house—I’ll ask my way
Here at the inn. Long live King Boniface!
What ho! some wine!
Ursula. [Within] Your patience, Captain, I’ll be there anon.
Roger. At your leisure, hostess; I’ve learned to wait.
[Sits.
A bachelor at sixty, I found myself
Encumbered with a ward—nay, not that—
Enriched with female loveliness and grace
Bequeathed unto me by a dying friend.
Volition had no part in that, nor in
My sudden recrudescency of love.
I willed our marriage; but ’twas fate bestowed
The joys I long had fled. Then came our life
In Amsterdam; each day so filled with bliss
It overflowed into the next, and days
Of joy grew into weeks and months of happiness—
Let me have wine, I say!
Ursula. [Within] Coming, sir!
Roger. Anon the traveling itch—was’t fate or will—
Possessed my soul to see America,
And money matters calling me to London,
Where raged the plague, I sent my wife before me
To America with Captain Butts, then bound
For Boston. Ah! well-a-day, the parting!—
I hurried up my business; fled London town;
Shipped for America; was wrecked far South;
Captured by Indians; escaping, wandered North
Until I found the white man’s colonies;
And now footsore and old I’ve reached the place
I first intended. What next, O, Fate?
Enter Ursula.
Good morrow, hostess.
Ursula. Good morrow, sir.
[Surprised.
Roger. Look not
Askance upon my way-worn clothes; there’s gold
To pay my reckoning.
[Throwing money down.
Ursula. Your pardon, sir;
I marveled, sir, so fine a gentleman
Should be so travel-stained. What will you have?
Roger. Bring me a cup of sherris-sack.
Ursula. [Aside] I knew he was a gentleman!
[Exit.
Roger. How will my Hester greet me? Will she know me?
She never saw me with a beard, nor in
Such rags. Perhaps she thinks me dead—
If so, the shock might kill her—Let me see—
Putative widows have before my time
Bought second husbands with their beauty, wealth,
Or wit—and she hath all. ’Tis probable—
And when the long-supposed defunct returned,
He found his amorous relict the bride
Of a bright-eyed youth! What worse, ye harpy fates?
She may be dead! Oh! this is madness!
Sweet Heaven, let her live! and, if I find
Her married, I’ll depart unknown to her
And bury in my heart’s deep sepulchre
My widowed grief. Bah! I’m a fool!
This weakness comes from my long wandering!
Misfortunes, though we think we conquer them,
Ever pursue, hang on our rear, and give
Such rankling wounds as teach our souls to dread
What else may lie in wait invincible.
Re-enter Ursula with wine.
Ursula. I beg your pardon, sir. I could not find the wine at first.
Roger. Why, how was that?
Ursula. I’m not the hostess, sir, she is away; I merely take her place till she comes back.
Roger. You fill it rarely.
Ursula. God bless thee, sir, I’m cook, nurse, or hostess, as people need me. Ursula Cook, Ursula Nurse, or Ursula Goodale, at your service, sir.
Roger. Ah, indeed, Ursula! Then I presume thou knowest many of the citizens?
Ursula. I know them everyone.
Roger. This wine is excellent. [Drinking] Dost know one Roger Prynne?
Ursula. The husband of our Hester Prynne?
Roger. The same. [Aside] Thank God, she lives.
Ursula. He’s dead, sir, rest his soul, a more than thirty months ago.
Roger. Poor fellow! He was a friend of mine. Where did they bury him?
Ursula. His ship was wrecked, he had no burial.
Roger. Here’s to his memory! You know his wife?
Ursula. Alas; I do, sweet lady!
Roger. And why alas? The loss of a husband is no great calamity in a colony. There can be no dearth here of husband-material, I fancy.
Ursula. Whence come you that you know so little of the doings here?
Roger. From the far South, where for two long years and more I’ve lived among the savages. What do you mean?
Ursula. I mean her trial by the magistrates.
Roger. Tried by magistrates? For what?
Ursula. Adultery.
Roger. Tried for adultery?
Ursula. Aye, sir, that she is.
Roger. It is a lie, a damned lie! Tried for adultery! A likely thing! So pure a woman! A purer creature never lived!
Ursula. Sir, you are her friend? You know her?
Roger. I am—I am her husband—her husband’s friend. I knew her in Old England. Adultery! A pretty word! Who doth accuse her? Damned detractors!
Ursula. Her child.
Roger. Her what?
Ursula. Her child.
Roger. Hath Hester Prynne a child? Well, well; that is news indeed! God bless the little thing! it can’t be quite as much as three years old; nay, not so old. Why, such a tot can give no testimony. I’ll go to this trial; I may be able yet to aid her. Adultery! Bah!
Ursula. God bless your heart, sir.
Roger. Is’t a boy or girl, how old?
Ursula. A girl and three months old.
Roger. Three months? Three years you mean.
Ursula. Three months, I said.
Roger. Thou dost not mean that Hester Prynne hath borne a child within the last two years?
Ursula. I do. [Aside] A strange man, truly. This news hath troubled him; but that’s not strange, it troubles all her friends. He seemed glad enough she had a child, but when I said it was a girl it seemed to sting him. Well, well! God help the women; we are unwelcome when we come, abused while we stay, and driven hence with ill-usage.
Roger. Adulteress! That cannot be! There’s some
Mistake, or some deceit in this. Her great
Nobility of heart would take upon
Herself another’s wrong. I’ll take an oath
The babe they say is hers she never bore!
Ursula. ’Tis surely hers, for I delivered her.
Roger. Hester! Hester! O, my God! My Hester!
Woman, didst thou say that she is married?
Ursula. Nay, I said she is a widow, sir.
Roger. Who is her paramour?
Ursula. I do not know.
[Busies herself removing tankards.
Roger. [Aside] Now is my honored name dragged in the dust
By her to whom I did confide its keeping;
And she herself, my cherished wife, upraised
Upon a pedestal of shameful guilt
For filthy mouths to spit their venom at.
Slowly now. Whatever haps I’ll be
Cornelius Tacitus for the nonce, nor brave
My state with that true name which marks me out
As Publius Cornutus. I must have time to think.
[To Ursula] Get me more wine. Prepare a room for me.
Ursula. Aye, sir. [Going.]
Roger. Where is this trial held?
Ursula. Sir, at the Market place, three crossings up
The street and to the left.
Roger. I thank thee. Go.
[Exit Ursula.
Why was the banishment of tyrant fate
Annulled by vigorous will? and why should I,
For whom the jaws of death unhinged themselves,
Escape from shipwreck, war, and pestilence,
And here attain my journey’s end at last,
But that such evil deaths were much too mild
To gratify the fury that pursues me!
I was reserved for this last ignominy
As in despite of human purposes;
Robbed of mine honor where most I placed my trust
And reap this pain where most I sowed for peace.
Was it for this that I did marry her?
Was it for this I sent her here before me?
For this I nursed the holy purposes
Of wedded purity, o’ercame the shocks
Of human destiny, and held in check
The inward passions of the baser man?
For this—to be cornuted in mine age
And die a by-word?
My purposes! My purposes! O, God!
Our purposes are little nine-pins
Which fate’s sure aim bowls down incessantly:
As fast as we can set them up, events
Roll down the narrow alleys of our lives,
Rumbling like distant thunder as they speed,
Till crash! our king-intent is down, and in
His fall share all his puny retinue!
She an adulteress! My Hester, whom
I cherished as my soul! How I loved her!
Forgotten, like the meat of yesterday,
Let it pass!
Henceforth, for me there’s nothing on this side
Of Hell, but study of revenge on him
Who wrought her shame. He must have used foul means;
For she was ever chaste in thought and deed.
Hell fiend! Now, under an assuméd name,
I’ll ferret out her lusty paramour;
Contrive some means to deeply punish him,
And satisfy my fathomless revenge.
[Exit.