 | Uncle Tom's Cabin |  |
ACT III
SCENE I
Chamber. Enter St. Clare, followed by Tom.
(Giving money and papers to Tom.)
There, Tom, are the bills, and
the money to liquidate them.
TOM:
Yes, mas'r.
ST. CLARE:
Well, Tom, what are you waiting for? Isn't all right there?
TOM:
I'm fraid not, mas'r.
ST. CLARE:
Why, Tom, what's the matter? You look as solemn as a judge.
TOM:
I feel very bad, mas'r. I allays have thought that mas'r would be good
to everybody.
ST. CLARE:
Well, Tom, haven't I been? Come, now, what do you want?
There's something you haven't got, I suppose, and this is the preface.
TOM:
Mas'r allays been good to me. I haven't nothing to complain of on
that head; but there is one that mas'r isn't good to.
ST. CLARE:
Why, Tom, what's got into you? Speak out—what do you
mean?
TOM:
Last night, between one and two, I thought so. I studied upon the
matter then—mas'r isn't good to himself.
ST. CLARE:
Ah! now I understand; you allude to the state in which I came
home last night. Well, to tell the truth, I was slightly elevated—a little more
champagne on board than I could comfortably carry. That's all, isn't it?
TOM:
(Deeply affected—clasping his hands and weeping.)
All! Oh! my dear young
mas'r, I'm 'fraid it will be loss of all—all, body and soul. The good book says “it
biteth like a serpent and stingeth like an adder,” my dear mas'r.
ST. CLARE:
You poor, silly fool! I'm not worth crying over.
TOM:
Oh, mas'r! I implore you to think of it before it gets too late.
ST. CLARE:
Well, I won't go to any more of their cursed nonsense, Tom—
on my honor, I won't. I don't know why I haven't stopped long ago; I've always
despised it, and myself for it. So now, Tom, wipe up your eyes and go about
your errands.
TOM:
Bless you, mas'r. I feel much better now. You have taken a load from
poor Tom's heart. Bless you!
ST. CLARE:
Come, come, no blessings; I'm not so wonderfully good, now.
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I'll keep my faith with him, too.
OPHELIA:
(Without.)
Come along, you shiftless mortal!
ST. CLARE:
What new witchcraft has Topsy been brewing? That commo-
tion is of her raising, I'll be bound.
(Enter Ophelia, dragging in Topsy.)
Come here now; I will tell your master.
ST. CLARE:
What's the matter now?
OPHELIA:
The matter is that I cannot be plagued with this girl any longer.
It's past all bearing; flesh and blood cannot endure it. Here I locked her up and
gave her a hymn to study; and what does she do but spy out where I put my key,
and has gone to my bureau, and got a bonnet-trimming and cut it all to pieces to
make dolls' jackets! I never saw anything like it in my life!
ST. CLARE:
What have you done to her?
OPHELIA:
What have I done? What haven't I done? Your wife says I ought
to have her whipped till she couldn't stand.
ST. CLARE:
I don't doubt it. Tell me of the lovely rule of woman. I never
saw above a dozen women that wouldn't half kill a horse or servant, either, if
they had their own way with them—let alone a man.
OPHELIA:
I am sure, St. Clare, I don't know what to do. I've taught and
taught—I've talked till I'm tired; I've whipped her, I've punished her in every
way I could think of, and still she's just what she was at first.
ST. CLARE:
Come here, Tops, you monkey! (Topsy crosses to St. Clare, grin-
ning.)
What makes you behave so?
TOPSY:
'Spects it's my wicked heart—Miss Feely says so.
ST. CLARE:
Don't you see how much Miss Ophelia has done for you? She
says she has done everything she can think of.
TOPSY:
Lord, yes, mas'r! old missis used to say so, too. She whipped me a
heap harder, and used to pull my ha'r, and knock my head agin the door; but it
didn't do me no good. I 'spects if they's to pull every spear of ha'r out o' my
head, it wouldn't do no good neither—I's so wicked! Laws! I's nothin' but a nig-
ger, no ways! (Goes up.)
OPHELIA:
Well, I shall have to give her up; I can't have that trouble any
longer.
ST. CLARE:
I'd like to ask you one question.
OPHELIA:
What is it?
ST. CLARE:
Why, if your doctrine is not strong enough to save one heathen
child, that you can have at home here, all to yourself, what's the use of sending
one or two poor missionaries off with it among thousands of just such? I suppose
this girl is a fair sample of what thousands of your heathen are.
OPHELIA:
I'm sure I don't know; I never saw such a girl as this.
ST. CLARE:
What makes you so bad, Tops? Why won't you try and be
good? Don't you love any one, Topsy?
TOPSY:
(Comes down.)
Dunno nothing 'bout love; I loves candy and sich,
that's all.
OPHELIA:
But, Topsy, if you'd only try to be good, you might.
TOPSY:
Couldn't never be nothing but a nigger, if I was ever so good. If I
could be skinned and come white, I'd try then.
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People can love you, if you are black, Topsy. Miss Ophelia
would love you, if you were good. (Topsy laughs.)
Don't you think so?
TOPSY:
No, she can't b'ar me, 'cause I'm a nigger—she'd's soon have a
toad touch her. There can't nobody love niggers, and niggers can't do nothin'! I
don't car'! (Whistles.)
ST. CLARE:
Silence, you incorrigible imp, and begone!
TOPSY:
He! he! he! didn't get much out of dis chile! (Exit.)
OPHELIA:
I've always had a prejudice against negroes, and it's a fact—I
never could bear to have that child touch me, but I didn't think she knew it.
ST. CLARE:
Trust any child to find that out, there's no keeping it from
them. but I believe all the trying in the world to benefit a child, and all the
substantial favors you can do them, will never excite one emotion of gratitude,
while that feeling of repugnance remains in the heart. It's a queer kind of a fact,
but so it is.
OPHELIA:
I don't know how I can help it—they are disagreeable to me,
this girl in particular. How can I help feeling so?
ST. CLARE:
Eva does, it seems.
OPHELIA:
Well, she's so loving. I wish I was like her. She might teach me a
lesson.
ST. CLARE:
It would not be the first time a little child had been used to
instruct an old disciple, if it were so. Come, let us seek Eva, in her favorite
bower by the lake.
OPHELIA:
Why, the dew is falling, she mustn't be out there. She is unwell,
I know.
ST. CLARE:
Don't be croaking, cousin—I hate it.
OPHELIA:
But she has that cough.
ST. CLARE:
Oh, nonsense, of that cough—it is not anything. She has taken
a little cold, perhaps.
OPHELIA:
Well, that was just the way Eliza Jane was taken—and Ellen—
ST. CLARE:
Oh, stop these hobgoblin, nurse legends. You old hands get so
wise, that a child cannot cough or sneeze, but you see desperation and ruin at
hand. Only take care of the child, keep her from the night air, and don't let her
play too hard, and she'll do well enough. (Exeunt.)
SCENE II
The flat represents the lake. The rays of the setting sun tinge the waters with gold.
A large tree. Beneath this a grassy bank, on which Eva and Tom are seated side by
side. Eva has a Bible open on her lap. Music.
Read dat passage again, please, Miss Eva?
EVA:
(Reading.)
“And I saw a sea of glass, mingled with fire.” (Stopping sud-
denly and pointing to lake.)
Tom, there it is!
TOM:
What, Miss Eva?
EVA:
Don't you see there? There's a “sea of glass mingled with fire.”
TOM:
True enough, Miss Eva. (Sings.)
I'd fly away to Canaan's shore;
Bright angels should convey me home,
To the New Jerusalem.
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Where do you suppose New Jerusalem is, Uncle Tom?
TOM:
Oh, up in the clouds, Miss Eva.
EVA:
Then I think I see it. Look in those clouds, they look like great gates of pearl;
and you can see beyond them—far, far off—it's all gold! Tom, sing about
`spirits bright.'
TOM:
(Sings.)
That taste the glories there;
They are all robed in spotless white,
And conquering palms they bear.
EVA:
Uncle Tom, I've seen them.
TOM:
To be sure you have; you are one of them yourself. You are the brightest
spirit I ever saw.
EVA:
They come to me sometimes in my sleep—those spirits bright—
And conquering palms they bear.
Uncle Tom, I'm going there.
TOM:
Where, Miss Eva?
EVA:
((Pointing to the sky.)
I'm going there, to the spirits bright, Tom; I'm go-
ing before long.
TOM:
It's jest no use tryin' to keep Miss Eva here; I've allays said so. She's
got the Lord's mark in her forehead. She wasn't never like a child that's to
live—there was always something deep in her eyes. (Rises and comes forward.
Eva also comes forward, leaving Bible on bank.)
(Enter St. Clare.)
Ah! my little pussy, you look as blooming as a rose! You are
better now-a-days, are you not?
EVA:
Papa, I've had things I wanted to say to you a great while. I want
to say them now, before I get weaker.
ST. CLARE:
Nay, this is an idle fear, Eva; you know you grow stronger every
day.
EVA:
It's all no use, papa, to keep it to myself any longer. The time is com-
ing that I am going to leave you, I am going, and never to come back.
ST. CLARE:
Oh, now, my dear little Eva! you've got nervous and low
spirited; you mustn't indulge such gloomy thoughts.
EVA:
No, papa, don't deceive yourself, I am not any better; I know it
perfectly well, and I am going before long. I am not nervous—I am not low
spirited. If it were not for you, papa, and my friends, I should be perfectly hap-
py. I want to go—I long to go!
ST. CLARE:
Why, dear child, what has made your poor little heart so sad?
You have everything to make you happy that could be given you.
EVA:
I had rather be in heaven! There are a great many things here that
makes me sad—that seem dreadful to me; I had rather be there; but I don't
want to leave you—it almost breaks my heart!
ST. CLARE:
What makes you sad, and what seems dreadful, Eva?
EVA:
I feel sad for our poor people; they love me dearly, and they are all
good and kind to me. I wish, papa, they were all free!
ST. CLARE:
Why, Eva, child, don't you think they are well enough off now?
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(Not heeding the question.)
Papa, isn't there a way to have slaves made
free? When I am dead, papa, then you will think of me and do it for my sake?
ST. CLARE:
When you are dead, Eva? Oh, child, don't talk to me so. You
are all I have on earth!
EVA:
Papa, these poor creatures love their children as much as you do me.
Tom loves his children. Oh, do something for them!
ST. CLARE:
There, there, darling; only don't distress yourself, and don't
talk of dying, and I will do anything you wish.
EVA:
And promise me, dear father, that Tom shall have his freedom as soon
as—(Hesitating.)
—I am gone!
ST. CLARE:
Yes, dear, I will do anything in the world—anything you could
ask me to. There, Tom, take her to her chamber, this evening air is too chill for
her. (Music. Kisses her. Tom takes Eva in his arms, and exits. Gazing mournful-
ly after Eva.)
Has there ever been a child like Eva? Yes, there has been; but their
names are always on grave-stones, and their sweet smiles, their heavenly eyes,
their singular words and ways, are among the buried treasures of yearning
hearts. It is as if heaven had an especial band of angels, whose office it is to so-
journ for a season here, and endear to them the wayward human heart, that
they might bear it upward with them in their homeward flight. When you see
that deep, spiritual light in the eye when the little soul reveals itself in words
sweeter and wiser than the ordinary words of children, hope not to retain that
child; for the seal of heaven is on it, and the light of immortality looks out from
its eyes! (Music. Exit.)
SCENE III
A corridor. Proscenium doors on. Music. Enter Tom, he listens at door and then lies
down. Enter Ophelia, with candle.
Uncle Tom, what alive have you taken to sleeping anywhere and
everywhere, like a dog, for? I thought you were one of the orderly sort, that lik-
ed to lie in bed in a Christian way.
TOM:
(Rises. Mysteriously.)
I do, Miss Feely, I do, but now—
OPHELIA:
Well, what now?
TOM:
We mustn't speak loud; Mas'r St. Clare won't hear on't; but Miss
Feely, you know there must be somebody watchin' for the bridegroom.
OPHELIA:
What do you mean, Tom?
TOM:
You know it says in Scripture, “At midnight there was a great cry
made, behold, the bridegroom cometh!” That's what I'm spectin' now, every
night, Miss Feely, and I couldn't sleep out of hearing, noways.
OPHELIA:
Why, Uncle Tom, what makes you think so?
TOM:
Miss Eva, she talks to me. The Lord, he sends his messenger in the
soul. I must be thar, Miss Feely; for when that ar blessed child goes into the
kingdom, they'll open the door so wide, we'll all get a look in at the glory!
OPHELIA:
Uncle Tom, did Miss Eva say she felt more unwell than usual to-
night?
TOM:
No; but she telled me she was coming nearer—thar's them that tells
it to the child, Miss Feely. It's the angels—it's the trumpet sound afore the break
o' day!
OPHELIA:
Heaven grant your fears be vain! Come in, Tom (Exeunt.)
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SCENE IV
Eva's Chamber. Eva discovered on a couch. A table stands near the couch with a
lamp on it. The light shines upon Eva's face, which is very pale. Scene half dark.
Uncle Tom is kneeling near the foot of the couch, Ophelia stands at the head, St.
Clare at back. Scene opens to plaintive music. After a strain enter Marie, hastily.
St. Clare! Cousin! Oh! what is the matter now?
ST. CLARE:
(Hoarsely.)
Hush! she is dying!
MARIE:
(Sinking on her knees, beside Tom.)
Dying!
ST. CLARE:
Oh! if she would only wake and speak once more. (Bending over
Eva.)
Eva, darling! (Eva uncloses her eyes, smiles, raises her head and tries to
speak.)
Do you know me, Eva?
EVA:
(Throwing her arms feebly about his neck.)
Dear papa.(Her arms drop and
she sinks back.)
ST. CLARE:
Oh heaven! this is dreadful! Oh! Tom, my boy, it is killing me!
TOM:
Look at her, mas'r.(Points to Eva.)
ST. CLARE:
(A pause.)
She does not hear. Oh Eva! tell us what you see. What
is it?
EVA:
(Feebly smiling.)
Oh! love! joy! peace! (Dies)
TOM:
Oh! bless the Lord! it's over, dear mas'r, it's over.
ST. CLARE:
(Sinking on his knees.)
Farewell, beloved child! the bright eternal
doors have closed after thee. We shall see thy sweet face no more. Oh! woe for
them who watched thy entrance into heaven when they shall wake and find on-
ly the cold, gray sky of daily life and thou gone forever. (Solemn music, slow
curtain.)
| Uncle Tom's Cabin | |