THE OCTOROON.

Scene I.—A view of the Terrebonne Plantation in Louisiana.—A branch of the Mississippi River winds through the estate.—A single-story, spacious planter's house with a porch is set a few feet above the ground on theL. side.—There is a table and chairs, R. C.

Grace found herself sitting at the breakfast table with the kids.

Enter Solon, from the house, L.

Solon. Hey! You terrible kid—get out of the way—a gentleman can't get through because of you.

Grace. [Grabbing a fly whisk.] Hey! Get out of here! [Chases Kids away; in their hurry, they bump into and trip Solon, who falls with the tray; the Kids snatch up the bananas and rolls that scatter everywhere.]

Enter Pete, R. U. E. [he has a limp]; he is carrying a mop and a bucket.

Pete. Hey! Stop that! Seriously, drop that banana! I'm going to lose it with this crowd, [He chases Kids around; they jump over the railing at the back. ExitSolon, R. U. E.] Those little kids are a sign of what's wrong with this generation.

Enter George, from the house, L.

George. What's wrong, Pete?

Pete. It's those black trash, Master George; this property needs to be cleared; they're getting too numerous around here; when I get the chance, I'll take care of some of them, for sure!

George. They don’t look afraid of the threat.

Pete. You pest! Stay put until I've had my fill of you!

George. Were they all born on this property?

Pete. I guess they were never born—those things! What, those? Get out of here! Born here—those black folks? What, on Terrebonne! I don't believe it, Master George; those black things were never born at all; they just swarmed one morning on a sassafras tree in the swamp: I caught them; they don’t mean anything. I don’t believe they’ll turn into black folks when they grow up; they’ll come out as something else.

Grace. Yes, Master George, they were born here; and old Pete is fonder of them than he is of his fiddle on a Sunday.

Pete. What? Those things—those?—go away [makes blow at the Kids.] Born here! those dark folks! What, in Terrebonne? I don’t believe it, Master George,—no. One morning they gathered on a sassafras tree in the swamp, and I caught them all in a sieve.—that’s how they ended up on this earth—get out, you,—yeah, yeah! [Laughs.]

Exit Grace, R.U.E.

Enter Mrs. Peyton, from house.

Mrs. P. So, Pete, you're spoiling those kids again!

Pete. That's right, ma'am! Give it to old Pete! He's always up for it. Get away from there! Yeah! If they aren’t all lit up like raccoons on that snake fence, just out of sight. Look there! Yeah! Yeah! Those devils. Yeah!

Mrs. P. Pete, can you hear?

Pete. Get down there!—I'm after you!

Hobbles away, R. 1. E.

Mrs. P. You’re up early this morning, George.

George. I was up before dawn. We saddled the horses and rode down the dirt road across the Piney Patch; then, skirting Bayou Lake, we crossed the long swamps along Paul's Path and made our way back home.

Mrs. P. [Laughing.] You already seem to know the names of every place on the estate.

Enter Pete.—Prepares breakfast, etc.

George. Just a month ago, I left Paris. I departed that alluring city as I would have left a beloved woman.

Mrs. P. No surprise! I bet you left behind at least a dozen cherished women there all at once.

George. I feel like I left with everyone genuinely upset. My loved ones and my creditors were both equally heartbroken.

Mrs. P. George, you are impossible. Ah! you remind me so much of your uncle, the judge.

George. I cherish his old handwriting; it’s the only part of him I ever had. For ten years, his letters arrived every three months, along with a payment and some advice in his formal, gentlemanly style; then came a joke in the postscript that completely undermined the seriousness of the rest. Aunt, when he passed away two years ago, I went through those letters of his, and I cried like a baby—

Mrs. P. No, George; say you cried like a man. And you really kept those silly letters?

George. Yeah; I saved the letters and wasted the money.

Mrs. P. [Embracing him.] Ah! why weren't you my son—you resemble my beloved husband so much.

Enter Salem Scudder, R.

Scud. Isn't he! Yeah—when I saw him and Miss Zoe racing through the green sugar cane field, causing ten dollars' worth of damage with every step, I thought, how much like his old uncle he makes the dirt fly.

George. Oh, Aunt! What a bright, cheerful person she is!

Scud. What’s up, Zoe! I bet you didn’t leave any other women in Europe who can rival that girl. When she walks by, she just leaves a trail of love behind her. It’s a real treat to see her walk into the cotton fields—the workers get excited at the sight of her. If she isn't worth her weight in sunshine, you can cut off one of my fingers and pick whichever one you want.

Mrs. P. She doesn't need to make us wait for breakfast, though. Pete, let Miss Zoe know that we're waiting.

Pete. Yes, ma'am. Why, Minnie, why don’t you hurry up when you hear me, you lazy one? [Minnie runs off.] That’s the laziest person on this property. [Sits down.] Doesn’t do anything.

Mrs. P. My dear George, you are the heir to this estate according to your uncle's will.

George. You're aware of your life interest and the annuity to Zoe, right?

Mrs. P. I'm worried that the property is so tangled up that even the strictest budgeting won't bring it back. My dear husband never kept any records, and we hardly know what state the estate is really in.

Scad. Yes, we do, ma'am; it's in really bad shape. Ten years ago, the judge appointed a guy from Connecticut named M'Closky as the overseer. The judge didn’t really get finances, but the overseer did. For a year or two, everything went smoothly. The judge was taking out money like it was Bourbon whiskey from a barrel, and he never turned off the flow. But then it started to dry up, accessible for anyone to beg, borrow, or steal. It continued like that until one day the judge discovered the flow had stopped. He checked to see what was blocking it and found a big mortgage. "Sign that," said the overseer; "it's just a formality." "Okay," said the judge, and just like that, a thousand acres were gone; so by the end of eight years, Jacob M'Closky, Esquire, ended up owning the richest half of Terrebonne—

George. But the other half is free.

Scud. No, it isn’t; because, just then, what does the judge do but hire another overseer—a Northerner—a Northerner named Salem Scudder.

Mrs. P. Oh no, it was—

Scud. Hold on a second! I'm going to get this story straight. Who was this Scudder? Well, he lived in New York by lounging around in front of French's Hotel and coming up with—

George. What are you inventing?

Scud. Improvements—anything from a corset lace to a fire engine. He decided to focus on photography. He and his gear came here, took the judge's picture, and impressed his partner, who immediately made him the manager. So, what does this Scudder do? He starts introducing his inventions and upgrades on this estate. His new cotton gins broke down, and the steam sugar mills exploded, until he completely messed up what Mr. M'Closky started with his dishonest schemes.

Mrs. P. Oh, Salem! How can you say that? Haven't you worked incredibly hard?

Scud. No, ma'am, I worked really hard—like a true workhorse, and that's it. Now, Mr. George, between the two overseers, you and that lovely old lady are on your last legs; that's the situation, as best as I can explain it. [Zoe sings outside, L.]

George. It's Zoe.

Scud. Oh, I haven't messed that up at all. I can't bring any improvement to that. Isn't that a remedy for getting old; it kind of lifts the spirits, doesn't it?

Mrs. P. Poor girl! What will happen to her when I'm gone? If you haven't ruined her, I worry that I have. She has received a lady's education.

George. I've noticed that the neighbors treat her with a sort of casual condescension that really bothers me.

Scud. Don't you realize that she is the biological daughter of your uncle, the judge, and that old lady who just loved anything her husband cared about? This girl, whom another woman would have hated, she loves as if she were her own child.

George. Aunt, I'm prouder and happier to be your nephew and heir to the ruins of Terrebonne than I would have been to have half of Louisiana without you.

Enter Zoe, from the house, L.

Zoe. Am I late? Ah! Mr. Scudder, good morning.

Scud. Thanks. I'm doing okay, just like a bamboo stick, pretty much the same throughout the year.

Zoe. No; like a sugar cane; so dry on the outside, you would never guess there’s so much sweetness inside.

Scud. Look, I can't stand that girl! If I stay here, I'm going to hug her right away. [Sees Pete, who has set his pail down L. C. upstage, and goes to sleep on it.] If that old guy isn't asleep, I'll be surprised. Hey! [Kicks the pail from under Pete, and lets him fall.]

[Leave, L. U. E.

Pete. Hi! Debbel's in the bucket! Where's breakfast?

Enter Solon and Dido with a coffee pot, dishes, etc., R. U. E.

Dido. Bless you, Miss Zoe, here it is. There's a plate of pen-pans—just taste it, Master George—and here are fried bananas; smell them, really nice.

Pete. Keep quiet, Dido. Where's the coffee? [Pours out.] If it doesn't stain the cup, your old wicked life is in trouble, for sure! That's right! Black as night; clear as ice. You can drink that, Master George. [Looks off.] Ah! Here comes Master Sunnyside and Miss Dora, just pulled up. Some of you folks run and hold the horses; and take this, Dido. [Gives her coffee pot to hold, and hobbles off, followed by Solon and Dido, R. U. E.]

Enter Sunnyside and Dora, R. U. E.

Sunny. Good morning, ma'am. [Shakes hands with George.] Looks like we arrived just in time for breakfast. [Sits, R.]

Dora. Oh, I don't want any; I never eat. [Sits, R. C.]

George. [Aside.] They don't notice Zoe.—[Aloud.] You don't see Zoe, Mr. Sunnyside.

Sunny. Oh! Zoe, girl; are you there?

Dora. Take my shawl, Zoe. [Zoe helps her.] What a wonderful person she is.

Sunny. I can confidently say that in Europe, you have never encountered a lady who is more beautiful in person or more refined in her manners than that girl.

George. You're right, sir; even though I hesitated to say that in front of her so directly.

It's sunny. Why's that?

George. It might be seen as rude.

Sunny. [Astonished.] What? I say, Zoe, do you hear that?

Dora. Mr. Peyton is kidding.

Mrs. P. [L. C.] My nephew isn't familiar with our customs here in Louisiana, but he’ll catch on soon.

George. Never, Aunt! I will never understand how to hurt a woman's feelings; and if that's the way things are done here, I will never learn it.

Dora. Zoe, my dear, what does he mean?

Zoe. I have no idea.

George. Excuse me, I'm going to light a cigar. [Goes up.]

Dora. [Aside to Zoe.] Isn't he nice! Oh, dear Zoe, is he in love with anyone?

Zoe. How do I know?

Dora. Ask him, I want to know; don't say I told you to ask, but find out. Minnie, fan me, it’s so nice—and his clothes are French, right?

Zoe. I think so; should I ask him that too?

Dora. No, honey. I wish he would show me some love. When he talks to someone, he does it so effortlessly, so softly; it’s not like the rough bar conversations; no love mixed with drinks or sighs filled with cigar smoke—and they say all the women in Paris are in love with him, and I can already tell I will be too; stop fanning me; those boots he wears are so nice.

Sunny. [ToMs. Peyton.] Yes, ma'am, I have a mortgage on Terrebonne; mine is a ninth, and it almost covers all the property, except for the slaves. I think Mr. M'Closky has a bill of sale for them. Oh, here he is.

Enter M'Closky, R. U. E.

Sunny. Good morning, Mr. M'Closky.

M'Closky. Good morning, Mr. Sunnyside; Miss Dora, how can I help you?

Dora. [Seated, R. C.] Please fan me, Minnie.—[Aside.] I don't trust that guy.

M'Closky. [Aside, C.] Disrespectful as always.—[Aloud.] You asked me to come by this morning. I hope I'm not interrupting.

Mrs. P. My nephew, Mr. Peyton.

M'Closky. Oh, how are you, sir? [Offers hand, George bows coldly, R. C.] [aside.] What a brat; if he brings any of his European attitudes here, we'll handle him. — [Aloud.] Zoe, can you tell Pete to feed my mare, please?

George. [Angrily.] Sir.

M'Closky. Hey! Did I step on you?

Mrs. P. What's up with George?

Zoe. [Takes fan from Minnie.] Go, Minnie, tell Pete; hurry!

Exit Minnie, R.

Mrs. P. Grace, please take care of Mr. M'Closky.

M'Closky. A julep, girl, that's my breakfast, and some cheese,

George. [Aside to Mrs. Peyton.] How can you invite that crass thug to your dinner?

Mrs. P. Hospitality in Europe is a courtesy; here, it's an obligation. We offer food to a stranger, not because he is a gentleman, but because he is hungry.

George. Aunt, I'm going to take my rifle to the Atchafalaya. Paul promised me a bear and a couple of deer. I see my little Nimrod over there with his Indian friend. Excuse me, ladies. Hey! Paul! [Enters house.]

Paul. [Outside.] Yes, Master George.

Enter Paul, R. U. E., with Indian, who rises.

Sunny. It's a pity to let that young cub roam the swamps and woods, hunting and fishing his life away instead of working the fields.

Mrs. P. The child was a favorite of the judge, who enjoyed watching him play. I couldn't stand the thought of him being forced to work.

George. [Coming back with a rifle.] Come on, Paul, are you ready?

Paul. Yes, Master George. Oh, wow! Isn't that a pretty gun?

M'Closky. Listen up, you little troublemakers; if I catch you and your red skin over there hunting in my swamps, I'll deal with you, just so you know; those bums, when the game is on, shoot my pigs.

[Exit George into the house.]

Paul. You give me trouble, Master Clostry, but I bet you grab a really long stick for Wahnotee; ugh, he'll turn you into bacon.

M'Closky. You little brat, you’re gonna turn me into bacon? Are you calling me a pig? Wait a second. [Grabs whip and holds Paul.]

Zoe. Oh, sir! Please don't.

M'Closky. [Slowly putting down his whip,] Damn you, redskin, I'll get back at you someday, both of you. [Returns to the table and drinks.]

Sunny. That guy is a nuisance. Why doesn't he go back to his homeland out West?

M'Closky. He's way too into stealing and whiskey.

Zoe. No; Wahnotee is a kind, honest soul, and he stays here because he cares for that boy with a woman's warmth. When Paul got sick with swamp fever, the Indian sat outside the hut and didn’t eat, sleep, or talk for five days, until the child could recognize him and call him to his bedside. Someone who loves so deeply is truly honest—don’t speak badly of poor Wahnotee.

Mrs. P. Wahnotee, are you going to return to your community?

Wahnotee. Sleugh.

Paul. He doesn't get it; he speaks a mix of Indian and Mexican. Wahnotee Patira na sepau assa wigiran.

Wahnotee. Good vibes only.

Paul. Says he'll go if I go with him. He calls me Omenee, the Pigeon, and Miss Zoe is Ninemoosha, the Sweetheart.

Wahnotee. [Pointing to Zoe.] Ninemoosha.

Zoe. No, Wahnotee, we can't let Paul go.

Paul. If Omenee stays, Wahnotee will die in Terrebonne. [During the dialogue Wahnotee has taken George's gun.]

Enter George, L.

George. Now I'm ready. [George tries to get his gun back; Wahnotee won't let go of it; Paul, quietly takes it from him and talks to him about it.]

Dora. Zoe, he's leaving; I want him to stay and be intimate with me, that's why I came here today.

Mrs. P. George, I can't let Paul go for an hour or two; he needs to head over to the landing. The steamer from New Orleans went up the river last night, and if there's any mail, they probably tossed it ashore.

Sunny. I saw the mailbags sitting in the shed this morning.

Mrs. P. I'm expecting an important letter from Liverpool; go get it, Paul; bring the mailbags here.

Paul. I'm really scared to take Wahnotee to the shed; there's rum in there.

Wahnotee. Cheers!

Paul. Come on, then, but if I catch you drinking, oh my goodness, you’ll regret it! I’ll make sure of that! Now pay attention.

[Exit with Indian, R. U. E.

George. Come on, Miss Dora, let me give you my arm.

Dora. Mr. George, I’m sorry to say that if everything we’ve been hearing is true, you’ve had a terrible time in Europe.

George. That’s a tough way to start talking about my experiences with women.

Dora. So, you've been in love, right?

George. Two hundred and forty-nine times! Let me tell you about the worst cases.

Dora. No! No!

George. I'll put the naughty parts in French.

Dora. I don't want to hear anything! Oh, you terrible man! Just keep going.

[Exit George and Dora to house.

M'Closky. Now, ma'am, I'd like to discuss some business, if that works for you. I've got some news; your banker, old Lafouche from New Orleans, has passed away. The executors are settling his estate and have foreclosed on all overdue mortgages, so Terrebonne is up for sale. Here's the Picayune [handing over the paper] with the ad.

Zoe. Terrebonne available for sale!

Mrs. P. Terrebonne is for sale, and you, sir, will surely be its buyer.

M'Closky. Well, ma'am, I suppose there's no law against my bidding for it. The more bidders, the better for you. I guess you'll make sure it doesn't go for too low of a price.

Mrs. P. Oh, sir, I don’t care about the place for its value, but for the many happy days I’ve spent here; that landscape, flat and boring as it might be, holds so much charm for me; those poor people, born around me, growing up in my life, have shaped my view of the world; and now to lose that familiar scene, lose their dark, awkward faces; Oh, sir, maybe you need to be as old as I am to understand how I feel when my past is taken away from me.

M'Closky. I’d be really glad if someone could just take my past life away from me. Sorry I can’t help you, but the truth is, you're in such a huge mess that you couldn't be pulled out without a crane.

Mrs. P. Yes, there is still hope, and I hold onto it. The Mason Brothers company from Liverpool went under about twenty years ago because of my husband's debt.

M'Closky. They owed him more than fifty thousand dollars.

Mrs. P. I can't find the entry in my husband's accounts, but you, Mr. M'Closky, can probably spot it. Zoe, bring the judge's old desk here; it's in the library.

[Exit Zoe to the house.

M'Closky. You don't think you'll get any of this old debt back, do you?

Mrs. P. Yes; the company has bounced back, and I got a notice two months ago that a settlement might be coming soon.

Sunny. This debt has more than doubled in twenty years when you factor in both the principal and interest.

Mrs. P. But it could be years before it's paid off, if it ever gets paid off.

Sunny. If there's even a chance, there isn't a farmer around here who wouldn't lend you all the money you need, just to keep your name and family with us. Come on, cheer up, old friend.

Mrs. P. Ah! Sunnyside, you are so wonderful; you remind me so much of my dear Peyton.

[Exit Mrs. Peyton and Sunnyside to the house.

M'Closky. Curse their old families—they reject me—a bitter, arrogant, skinny bunch of dried-up aristocrats. I hate them. Just because my grandfather wasn't some washed-up Virginia transplant or a cheap old Creole, I’m not good enough to share a table with them. It makes my blood boil; I feel my heart steaming. I’ll drive these Peytons out of this part of the country. Their presence keeps the shame alive that I ruined them; yet, if this money were to come in. Ugh! There's no chance of that. If they leave, they’ll take Zoe with them—she’ll go right after them. Damn that girl; just thinking about her makes me shudder; she’s taken everything I’ve got.

Enter Zoe from house L. with the desk.

O, hey, do you know what the annuity the old judge left you is worth today? Not a penny.

Zoe. It's definitely worthy of the love that inspired it; here are the documents and records. [Setting it on the table, R. C.]

M'Closky. Stop, Zoe; come here! How would you feel about being in charge of the house of the wealthiest planter on Atchafalaya—huh? Just say the word, and I’ll buy this old place, and you can be the lady of Terrebonne.

Zoe. Oh, sir, please don't talk to me like that!

M'Closky. Why not! Look, these Peytons are finished; forget about them; I'm wealthy, team up with me; I'll make you feel pampered, and we'll show these upper-class families our money, until you see their pale faces twist with hate and anger; what do you think?

Zoe. Let me through! Please, just let me go!

M'Closky. What, you won't, will you? If young George Peyton made you the same offer, you'd jump at it pretty fast, I bet. Come on, Zoe, don’t be silly; I’d marry you if I could, but you know I can't; so just tell me what you want. Here, I’ll take these Peytons back to Terrebonne, and they’ll know you did it; yes, they’ll have you to thank for saving them from disaster.

Zoe. Do you think they would stay here under those conditions?

M'Closky, Why not? We can rent out our slaves and live off their earnings.

Zoe. But I'm not a servant.

M'Closky. No; if you were, I would buy you, even if it took everything I have.

Zoe. Let me through!

M'Closky. Halt.

Enter Scudder, R.

Scud. Let her through.

M'Closky. Huh?

Scud. Let her go! [Takes out his knife.]

[Exit Zoe to home.

M'Closky. Is that you, Mr. Supervisor? [Looks at the paper.]

Scud. Yes, I'm here, interfering.

M'Closky. [Sitting, R. C.] You've really made a mess of this estate—

Scud. Yeah—me and Co.—we did it; but since you were the senior partner in the business, I guess you got the biggest share.

M'Closky. What do you mean?

Scud. Let me explain with an example. [Sits, R.] Look over there! [Points with knife off, R.] Do you see that tree?—it’s called a live oak, and it’s native to this area; next to it grows a vine; year after year that vine wraps its long tendrils around the tree—draining the soil dry around its roots—feeding off its life—overrunning its branches, until eventually the live oak withers and dies. Do you know what the locals call that? They call it the Yankee hugging the Creole. [Sits.]

M'Closky. Mr. Scudder, I've heard a lot of your insinuations, and now I’d like to understand what they mean. If you want to fight—

Scudder. No, I'm the toughest fighter you'll ever see; my legs have been raised too well to just stand by and watch my body get hurt; I take great care of myself, I can tell you.

M'Closky. Because I heard that you had slandered my reputation.

Scud. Slandered! Whoever said that was lying. I've always said you were the biggest thief that ever broke out of a white jail to misrepresent the North to the South.

M'Closky. [Raises hand to the back of his neck.] What!

Scud. Put your hand down—just put it down. [M'Closky lowers his hand.] Whenever I find myself in a group like yours, I always begin with the upper hand.

M'Closky. What do you mean?

Scud. Before you can pull out that bowie knife, I'll break your back. Just be quiet and let’s talk clearly. You wanted to reach an agreement, and I'm trying to do just that. Now, Jacob M'Closky, you look down on me because you think I'm an idiot; I look down on you because I know you’re a scam artist. Together, we've messed up the Peytons; you got the judge fired, and I took care of the widow. I regret my part in this whole situation. I’d give half the rest of my life to erase my involvement. Many nights I've stayed up worrying about how to help them, to the point where I've cried like a child over the things I couldn’t fix; and you know how tough it is to make a Yankee cry.

M'Closky. Well, what does that matter to me?

Scud. Hold on, Jacob, I’m getting to that—I swear, I’m such an idiot—I can’t stand this feeling, it claws at me like a rash, and if this family gets sold off—

M'Closky. So what?

Scud. [Rising.] I'd rather cut my throat—or yours—yours would be my choice.

M'Closky. Would you now? Why don't you just go ahead and do it?

Scud. 'Cause I'm scared to try! I've never killed a man in my life—and civilization is so deeply ingrained in me that I guess I couldn't do it—I would like to, though!

M'Closky. And all because of that old woman and that young pup—right? No other reason to hate me—to envy me—to be jealous of me—right?

Scud. Jealous! For what?

M'Closky. Look at the color in your face; do you really think I can't read you like a book? With your New England hypocrisy, you’d like to convince yourself that this family is all you care about; but it's not—you know it's not—it's the "Octoroon;" and you love her just like I do; and you hate me because I'm your competition—that's where your tears come from, Salem Scudder, if you ever shed any—that's where it hurts.

Scud. Well, I do like the girl; she's a—

M'Closky. She's in love with young Peyton; it made me curse, what made you cry, just like it does now; I see the tears on your cheeks now.

Scud. Look at them, Jacob, because they're honest water from the well of truth. I'm not ashamed—I really do love the girl; but I'm not jealous of you, because I honestly think the only real feeling you have is your love for Zoe, and it makes you feel good to keep her image there; but I think you put it there to mess things up. Honestly, I don't think you can win her fairly, and don’t you dare try anything underhanded with her, because if you do, Jacob, civilization be damned. I'm on you like a hawk, and when I'm riled up, I’m dangerous.

Exit Scudder to house, L.

M'Closky. Whether it's right or wrong, I’m going to have her—take that back with you! [Opens desk.] What’s in here—judgments? Yeah, plenty; a bill of costs; an account with Citizens' Bank—what's this? “Judgment, 40,000, 'Thibodeaux against Peyton,'”—this must be the judgment under which this estate is advertised for sale—[picks up paper and looks at it]; yeah, “Thibodeaux against Peyton, 1838.” Wait! Whew! This is worth looking into—this desk used to hold one paper I want—this has to be it. [Reads.] “The free papers of my daughter, Zoe, registered February 4th, 1841.” Wow, judge, didn’t you know that as long as a judgment was against you, it was a lien on your slaves? Zoe is your child by a quadroon slave, and you didn’t free her; blood! If this is true, she’s mine! This old Liverpool debt—that might get in my way—if it only arrives too late—if it doesn’t come this mail—Wait! This letter the old lady is expecting—that’s it; if I can just intercept that letter, Terrebonne will be sold before they can claim it. That boy and the Indian have gone down to the landing for the post-bags; they’ll take their time as usual; my mare will get me across the swamp, and before they can reach the shed, I’ll have gone through those bags—no letter will get through this mail. Ha, ha!—[Calls.] Pete, you old turkey buzzard, saddle my mare. Then, even if I spend every dollar I have on her purchase, I’ll own that Octoroon. [Stands with his hand extended towards the house, and tableau.]

END OF ACT ONE.

The Wharf—items, boxes, and packages scattered around—an upright camera on the right.

Scudder, R., Dora, L., George and Paul found; Dora being photographed by Scudder, who is setting up the camera, George and Paul watching from the back.

Scud. Just tilt your face a little this way—adjust your—let's see—look here.

Dora. What’s up?

Scud. That's right. [Puts his head under the darkening apron.] It’s been so long since I did this kind of work, and this old machine has gotten so dirty and stiff, I'm worried it won't run. That seems about right. Now don't move.

Paul. Ugh! She looks like she’s about to get a tooth pulled!

Scud. I have four plates ready, just in case we miss the first shot. One of them is coated with a self-developing liquid that I came up with. I hope it works out better than most of my ideas. Now get yourself together. Are you ready?

Dora. Let's go!

Scud. Fire!—one, two, three. [Scudder checks his watch.]

Paul. Now it’s happening, gosh, I feel it all inside, like I just won the lottery.

Scud. Alright! [Throws down apron.] That's enough. [Withdraws slide, turns and sees Paul.] What! What are you doing there, you little rascal! Haven't you taken those bags to the house yet?

Paul. Look, there's no point in getting angry, Master Scudder. I'm leaving! I just came back to find Wahnotee; where is that ignorant Indian?

Scud. You'll find him sniffing around the rum store, led by the nose.

Exit to room, R.

Paul. [Knocking on the door.] Hey, Mr. Scudder, can I come in and use that telescope?

Scud. [Inside room.] Get out, you little brat! Clear out!

Paul. You have four of those dishes ready. Wow, I sure would love to have some! What's the price, Master Scudder?

[Runs off, R. U. E.]

Enter Scudder, from right room.

Scud. Job didn't have any of those pests on his farm, or he wouldn't have made it through so many chapters. Well, that’s pretty clear, right? [Shows plate.]

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

George. [Looking.] Yes, very nice!

Scud. The device can’t be wrong. When I went around with this machine, the locals would shout, "Hey there, mister, this doesn’t look like me!" "Ma’am," I replied, "the device can’t be wrong." "But, mister, that’s not my nose." "Ma’am, your nose made the drawing. The machine doesn’t make mistakes—you might not recognize your face, but the device does." "But, sir, it’s not flattering." "No, ma’am, the truth rarely is."

Enter Pete, L. U. E., out of breath.

Pete. Master Scudder! Master Scudder!

Scud. Hey! Why are you puffing around like a steamboat with a broken wheel?

Pete. You won't believe it, Master Scudder, but I just heard that a man from New Orleans has arrived at the house, and he's put up two signs on the gates: "For Sale—this property," along with a bunch of other things—and he spoke to the missus, and after he showed her some papers, she just burst into tears. I yelled; then all the curious little kids started to cry, and soon the whole plantation was in tears— even the livestock joined in, creating a wave of sorrow that would warm the heart of anyone who heard it.

Dora. What's wrong?

Scud. He's here.

Pete. That's it—I saw him!

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

Enter Zoe, L.U.E.

Zoe. Oh, Mr. Scudder! Dora! Mr. Peyton! come back—there are strangers in the house.

Dora. Wait, Mr. Peyton; Zoe, can we talk for a second? [Leads her forward—aside.] Zoe, the more I get to know George Peyton, the more I like him; but he's way too modest—that's a pretty annoying quality in a guy.

Zoe. I’m not judging, dear.

Dora. Of course not, you little fool; no one has ever made a move on you, and you can't understand; I mean, George knows I'm an heiress; my fortune could pay off the debts of this estate.

Zoe. Oh, I get it!

Dora. If he would just propose to marry me, I would say yes, but he doesn’t realize that, and he’ll keep messing around, in his slow European way, until it’s too late.

Zoe. What should we do?

Dora. You tell him.

Zoe. What? That he shouldn't keep messing around in his slow—

Dora. No, you goof! Tease him about being quiet and lost in thought—it's pretty obvious, since he hasn't said two words to me all day; then joke around the topic, and finally just say it.

Scud. Pete, when you got here, did you see Paul and the Indian with the letter bags?

Pete. No, sir; but those troublemakers never take the respectable straight road, they go by the swamp.

Exit up path, L. U. E.

Scud. Let's go, sir!

Dora. [To Zoe.] This is your moment.—[Aloud.] Mr. Scudder, please take us with you—Mr. Peyton is so slow, we can't get him to move.

[Exit Dora and Scudder, L. U. E.

Zoe. They’re gone!—[Glancing at George.] Poor guy, he’s lost everything.

George. Poor kid! She looks so sad now that she has no way out.

Zoe. How do I ask him to stay?

George. Zoe, will you stay here? I want to talk to you.

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

George. By our downfall, you lose everything.

Zoe. Oh, I'm not important; focus on yourself.

George. I can't stop thinking about the image in front of me: so beautiful, so straightforward, so trusting, that I'm too scared to put into words the feelings that have developed so quickly in my heart.

Zoe. [Aside.] He means Dora.

George. If only I could speak!

Zoe. That's exactly what you need to do, and do it right away, or it will be too late.

George. Has my love been revealed?

Zoe. It has been suspected for a long time.

George. Zoe, hear me out. I will let go of this estate without a second thought because it holds no appeal for me; what I truly desire is the love of those around me—eyes filled with affection, lips that speak sweet words; the only treasure I care about is the heart of one genuine woman, and the only things I want are her thoughts.

Zoe. George, George, your words leave me breathless!

George. The world, Zoe, the free struggle of minds and hands, is right in front of me; the education my dear uncle gave me is a valuable legacy that no authority can take away; with that, I can create a fortune, provide a home for the people I love, and put food I’ve earned on the table for them; I will work—

Zoe. Work! I thought only people of color worked.

George. Work, Zoe, is what brings flavor to life.

Zoe. Dora said you were taking your time; if she could hear you now—

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

Zoe. Free? Of course!

George. We've only known each other for a few days, but those days have meant more to me than the rest of my life combined. Zoe, you've probably sensed the feeling that I'm about to express—you've noticed that I love you.

Zoe. Me! Do you love me?

George. As my wife—the one who shares my hopes, my dreams, and my troubles; with your love surrounding me, I can watch the storms of life go by without a care.

Zoe. My love! My love? George, you don’t realize what you’re saying. I’m the one sharing your sorrows—your wife. Do you even know who I am?

George. I know about your birth. Hasn't my dear aunt forgotten it—she who should remember most? You are born out of wedlock, but love doesn't discriminate.

Zoe. [Aside.] Oh no! He has no idea, he has no idea! He will hate me, push me away, disgust me, when he finds out who I really am and what I've done. — [Aloud.] George, please forgive me! Yes, I love you—I didn’t realize it until your words revealed what was in my heart; each one awakened a new feeling, and now I see just how unhappy—how very unhappy I am.

George. Zoe, what have I said to hurt you?

Zoe. Nothing; but you need to understand what I thought you already knew. George, you can't marry me; it's against the law!

George. What? No way!

Zoe. There’s a huge gap between us, as wide as your love and as deep as my despair; but, oh, please tell me, say you will have pity on me! that you won’t push me away like I’m something toxic!

George. Zoe, explain yourself—your words make me feel uneasy and scared.

Zoe. What should I say? My mother was—no, no—not her! Why should I blame her? George, do you see that hand you’re holding? Look at these fingers; do you see the nails have a bluish tint?

George. Yeah, there’s a light blue mark near the quick.

Zoe. Look into my eyes; isn't the white the same color?

George. It's their beauty.

Zoe. If you could see the roots of my hair, you would notice the same dark, ominous mark. Do you know what that is?

George. No.

Zoe. That is the unforgettable curse of Cain. Of the blood that nourishes my heart, one drop in eight is black—bright red like the others may be, but that one drop taints the whole. Those seven bright drops give me love like yours—hope like yours—ambition like yours—Life filled with passions like dew on morning flowers; but the one black drop fills me with despair, because I’m seen as unclean—banned by the rules—I’m an Octoroon!

George. Zoe, I love you just the same; this knowledge doesn't upset me, and I can get past this hurdle.

Zoe. But I can't.

George. We can leave this country and go far away where nobody will know us.

Zoe. And our mom, the one who showed me so much love since I was little, the one who, as you said, had the most reason to reject me, can she forget who I am? Would she happily see you marry the child of her husband’s slave? No! She would be appalled by it, just like everyone else would; and if I allowed myself to listen to my feelings, if I didn’t suppress my early love, what would she say about the poor girl she had cared for so much? No, no!

George. Zoe, do we really have to sacrifice our lives because of her bias?

Zoe. Yes, because I’d rather be black than ungrateful! Ah, George, our race has at least one virtue—it knows how to endure!

George. Every word you say makes my love sink deeper into my heart.

Zoe. And I stayed here to get you to give that heart to Dora!

George. If you tell me to do it, I will follow your orders—

Zoe. No, no! If you can't be mine, oh, please don't make me feel embarrassed when I think about you.

George. Dear Zoe!

[Leave George and Zoe, L. U. E.]

As they leave, M'Closky stands up from behind a rock on the right and watches them go.

M'Olosky. She loves him! I can feel it—and wow, how she can love! [Advances.] That one dark drop of blood burns in her veins and lights up her heart like a dim sun. Oh, how I soaked up her words, like a thirsty bloodhound! I’ll have her, even if it costs me my life! Over there, the boy is still hanging around with those mail bags; the devil keeps him here to tempt me, curse his yellow skin. I got here just too late; he snagged the prize as I arrived. Hey! He’s coming this way, arguing with his Indian. [Conceals himself.]

Enter Paul, wrestling with Wahnotee, R. 3. E.

Paul. There's no point now; you have to give it up!

Wahno. Ugh!

Paul. This isn't going to work! You’ve got that bottle of rum hidden under your blanket—hand it over now, you—Yar! [Wrenches it from him.] You nasty, lying Indian! No use trying to act all superior; I’m not going to sit up with you all night while you’re drunk. Hey! Where did everyone go? And there’s the equipment—Oh, gosh, if I could get a picture of this child! Uh—uh, let’s take a look. [Looks through camera] Oh, wow! Yeah, you Wahnotee! You’re standing there, 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 to Wahnotee.

Paul. Ha, ha! He thinks it's a gun. You ignorant Indian, it can't hurt you! Wait, here are the dishes—plates—that's what he calls them, all set: I see Master Scudder do it often—I think I can take a picture—stay right there, Wahnotee.

Wahno. No, rifle kills.

Paul. I have to do the operation and take my own picture too—how the heck do I do that? I can't be over there and here at the same time—I'm not a twin. Ugh! Stop; look, you Wahnotee; you see this rag, right? Well, when I say go, then lift this rag like this, see? Then run to that pine tree up there [points, L. U. E.] and back again, and then pull down the rag like this, you got it?

Wahno. Hey, Hugh!

Paul. Then you have a glass of rum.

Wahno. Cheers!

Paul. That 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. Alright, now let's have a drink. [He throws down the mail bags and sits on them, L. C.] Okay, let's go. [Wahnotee lifts her apron and runs off, L. U. E. Paul poses for his picture—M'Closky enters from R. U. E.]

M'Closky. Where are they? Ah, there goes the Indian over there!

Paul. By the time he’s gone, it’s just about enough time to cook that dish.

M'Closky. There's the kid—this is my chance! What’s he up to; is he sleeping? [Moves closer.] He’s sitting on my prize! Damn him! I’ll get him off there—he won’t know what hit him. [Takes Indian's tomahawk and sneaks up to Paul.]

Paul. Damn that Indian! Is that him creeping over there? I can’t move for fear of giving myself away. [M'Closky hits him on the head—he falls dead.]

M'Closky. Hooray! The bags are mine—let’s go!—[Opens mail bags.] What’s here? Sunnyside, Pointdexter, Jackson, Peyton; here it is—the Liverpool postmark, for sure!—[Opens letter—reads.] "Madam, we are instructed by the firm of Mason and Co. to inform you that a dividend of forty percent is due on the 1st of next month. This amount, considering your position, is being sent herewith, and you will find enclosed a draft to your order from 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 times will be accepted by La Palisse and Compagnie in New Orleans, so you can access the whole amount immediately if needed. Yours, etc., James Brown." What a find! This annoying letter would have saved everything. [During the reading of the letter, he remains nearly motionless under the focus of the camera.] But now it seems it will arrive too late—these darn U.S. mails are to blame. The Indian! He must not see me.

Leave quickly, L.

[Wahnotee runs in, pulls down his apron—sees Paul, lying on the ground—talks to him—thinks he’s pretending to be asleep—gestures and talks wildly—goes over to him—prods him with his feet, then kneels down to wake him—to his horror, he discovers he’s dead—shows great sorrow—looks up—his gaze lands on the camera—gets up with a furious growl, grabs a tomahawk and smashes the camera into pieces, then approaches Paul—reveals his grief, sadness, and affection, and picks him up to carry him away.—Tableau.]

END OF ACT TWO.

A room in Mrs. Peyton's house; entrances, R. U. E. and L. U. E.—an auction notice posted, L.—chairs, C., and tables, R. and L.

Solon and Grace found out.

Pete. [Outside, R. U. E.] This way—this way.

Enter Pete, Pointdexter, Jackson, Lafouche, and Caillou R. U. E.

Pete. This way, gentlemen; now Solon—Grace—they're hot and thirsty—sangaree, brandy, rum.

Jackson. So, what do you think, Lafouche—are you smiling?

Enter Thibodeaux and Sunnyside, R. U. E.

Thibo. I hope we’re not bothering the family.

Pete. You see that hole over there, sir. [R. U. E.] I was raised on this plantation—never saw a door in it—always open, sir, for strangers to walk in.

Sunny. And for something to come out.

Enter Ratts, R. U. E.

Rats. Great southern style, right?

Lafouche. [Reading bill.] "A beautiful, well-constructed old family home, filled with every comfort."

Ratts. I see there's one name scratched on the list of slaves.

Lafouche. Yes; No. 49, Paul, a mixed-race boy, aged thirteen.

Sunny. He's gone.

Point. Just run away, I guess.

Pete. [Indignantly.] No, sir; that guy never took off on Terrebonne; that boy's definitely dead.

Ratts. What about Picayune Paul, as we called him, who used to come aboard my boat?—poor little guy, I hope not; he earned many a coin for his dancing and songs, and he provided us with fish and game from the bayous.

Pete. Never supply anymore, sir—never dance again. Master Ratts, you heard him sing about the place where the good folks go, last time.

Rats! Well!

Pete. Well, he went there himself; I think so—because we hadn't seen Paul for a few days, but we never thought much about it until one night when the Indian Wahnotee suddenly stood right there among us—he was in his war paint, looking really cold and serious—he sat down by the fire. "Where's Paul?" I asked—he smoked and smoked, but never looked out from the fire; knowing those guys, I waited a long time—then he said, "Wahnotee, great chief;" then I didn't say anything—smoked again—finally, as he was getting up to leave, he turned around at the door and said very softly—oh, in a voice like a woman's, he said, "Omenee Pangeuk,"—which means, Paul is dead—I haven't seen him since.

Rats. That guy with red skin killed him.

Sunny. That's what we think; and the locals are so crazy that if they catch the Native American, they'll definitely lynch him.

Ratts. Let's lynch him! Darn his copper body, I've got a crew of Irish deckhands on board who really cared for that kid; and once I tell them about this, if they get a glimpse of the redskin, I bet they'd eat him, tomahawk and all. Poor little Paul!

Thibo. What was his value?

Rats. Well, nearly five hundred dollars.

Pete. [Shocked.] What, sir! You pretend to care for Paul and value him like that. Five hundred dollars!—[To Thibodeaux.] A thousand dollars, Mr. Thibodeaux.

Enter Scudder, L. U. E.

Scud. Gentlemen, the sale is at three. Good morning, Colonel. It's almost that time, and we still need to check the sugar houses. Good day, Mr. Thibodeaux—should we head that way? Mr. Lafouche, it's great to see you, sir; you look well.

Lafouche. Sorry, but I can't say the same back.

Rats. Salem's looking a bit more empty.

Scud. What, Mr. Ratts, are you planning to invest in swamps?

Rats. No: I want a Black person.

Scud. Quiet.

Pete. [R.] Hey! What's that?

Scud. Mr. Sunnyside, I can't do this job of showing people around; my stomach can't handle it. I need Pete here for a minute.

Sunny. I'll definitely join them.

Scud. [Eagerly.] Will you? Thank you; thank you.

Sunny. We should let Scudder off the hook, friends. I'll catch up with you around the estate.

Enter George and Mrs. Peyton, L. U. E.

Lafouche. Good morning, Mrs. Peyton. [Everyone greets her.]

Sunny. This way, guys.

Ratts. [Aside to Sunnyside.] Hey, I’d like to say something nice to the old woman; maybe it wouldn’t come off well, would it?

Thibo. No; just leave it.

Rats. Man, when I see a woman in trouble, I feel like selling the shirt off my back.

[Exit Thibodeaux, Sunnyside, Ratts, Pointdexter, Grace, Jackson, Lafouche, Caillou, Solon, R. U. E.

Scud. [Aside to Pete.] Go outside, there; listen to what you hear, then head down to the quarters and tell the guys, because I can't do it. Oh, just go.

Pete. He said I want a Black person. Lawdy, what is going to happen to us!

[Leave quietly, as if trying to hide, R. U. E.

George. [C.] My dear aunt, why don’t you leave this difficult situation? Go with Dora to Sunnyside.

Mrs. P. [R.] No, George; your uncle told me with his last words, "Nellie, never leave Terrebonne," and I won't leave it until the law forces me to.

Scud. [L.] Mr. George, I need to get something off my chest that's been bothering me for a while. I hope you'll understand. That girl, Miss Dora—she's in love with you; seriously, her eyes practically pop out of her head for you; and her fortune could save a big part of this estate.

Mrs. P. Wow, George, I never saw this coming!

George. I did, aunt, I admit, but—

Mrs. P. So you hesitated because you wanted to be polite?

Scud. No, ma'am; here's the situation. Mr. George is in love with Zoe.

George. Scudder!

Mrs. P. George!

Scud. Wait a minute! Things are so complicated right now that we don't have time to be gentle about it. He loves Zoe, and he’s discovered that she loves him back. [Sighing.] Well, that's fine; but since he can’t marry her and Miss Dora would be all over him—

Mrs. P. Why didn’t you bring this up earlier?

Scud. Well, it’s because I love Zoe, too, and I couldn’t take that young guy away from her; she’s just hanging on to the sight of him, like I’ve seen her do; and they’re so happy despite all this misery around them, and they keep blaming themselves for not feeling the way they should. I’ve seen it, I’m telling you; and darn it, ma’am, can’t you see that’s what's been hollowing me out so—I’m sorry.

Mrs. P. Oh, George—my son, if I can call you that—I’m not speaking for myself or the loss of the estate, but for the poor people here; they will be sold, separated, and taken away—they were born here. Heaven hasn’t blessed me with children, so all the ties of my heart have wrapped around them like the fibers and roots of an old tree in its own soil. Oh, let everything go, but save them! With them around us, even if we don’t have wealth, we’ll at least have a home that only they can create—

George. My dear mother—Mr. Scudder—you show me what I should do; if Miss Sunnyside will accept me as I am, Terrebonne will be saved; I will sell myself, but the slaves will be protected.

Mrs. P. Sell promote yourself, George! Isn't Dora worth any man's—

Scud. Don't say that, ma'am; don't say that to a guy who loves another girl. He's about to do something heroic; don't ruin it.

Mrs. P. But Zoe is just an Octoroon.

Scud. She's won this race against the white one, anyway; it's too late to start talking about her background now.

Enter Dora, L. U. E.

Scud. [Seeing Dora.] Come on, Mrs. Peyton, take my arm. Quiet! Here’s the other one; she’s a bit too refined—a bit too much like a greyhound—but I believe the heart's there.

Exit Scudder and Mrs. Peyton, R.U.E.

Dora. Poor Mrs. Peyton.

George. Miss Sunnyside, can I have a moment? I’ve been holding back a confession that—

Dora. [Aside.] Oh no, has he finally come to his senses?

Enter Zoe, L. U. E., she stops at the back.

George. In short, I've seen you and really admire you!

Dora. [Aside.] He has a weird way of expressing it. European, I guess.

George. If you don't mind me asking something so direct, do you think that my genuine commitment to making your life happy would actually work?

Dora. [Aside.] Well, he has the weirdest way of flirting.

George. Are you being quiet?

Dora. Mr. Peyton, I assume you’ve been reluctant to admit this because you were worried that, given the current situation here, your intentions might be misunderstood and that you were more interested in my wealth than in me. [A pause.] Why isn’t he saying anything?—I mean, you were worried I wouldn’t believe you had genuine and honest feelings. Well, you’ve misjudged me. I don’t think you’re capable of anything other than—

George. No, I hesitated because a connection I had developed before I had the pleasure of meeting you hadn’t completely faded away.

Dora. [Smiling.] I assume you're talking about some of those Parisian beauties, [Pause.] I'm going to try not to be jealous about what happened before; maybe I shouldn't be. [Pause.] But now that wandering love is—well? gone—right? Why aren't you saying anything, sir?

George. Because, Miss Sunnyside, I haven't learned how to lie.

Dora. Seriously—who's asking you to?

George. I do, but I can't do it. No, the love I'm talking about isn't what you think—it's a passion that has developed here since I arrived; but it's a hopeless, crazy, wild feeling that has to die.

Dora. Here! Since you got here! No way; you haven't seen anyone; who do you mean?

Zoe. Me.

George. [L.] Zoe!

Dora. [R.] You!

Zoe. Forgive him, Dora; he didn’t know any better until I told him. Dora, you’re right. He can only have sincere and pure feelings—just like you. He loves me—so what? You know you can’t be jealous of someone like me. If he got sick, got bitten by a snake, or was affected by anything harmful or dirty, you would feel sorry for him, take care of him, and love him through it, and for your kindness, he would love you back. Well, isn’t he in that situation now? I’m his love—he loves an Octoroon.

George. Oh, Zoe, you’re tearing me apart!

Dora. In college, they called me a fool—I guess I must be. In New Orleans, they said, "She's pretty, really pretty, but has no brains." I'm afraid they might be right; I can't make sense of any of this.

Zoe. Dear Dora, try to understand this with your heart. You love George; you love him deeply; I know it: and you deserve to be loved by him. He will love you—he has to. His love for me will fade away—it will. You heard him say it was hopeless. Oh, forgive him and me!

Dora. [Weeping.] Oh, why did he even talk to me? You've made me cry, and I can't stand either of you!

[Leave L., through room.

Enter Mrs. Peyton and Scudder, M'Closky and Pointdexter, R.

M'Closky. [C.] I'm sorry to interrupt, but the matter I came across will allow me to leave.

Mrs. Pey. This is my nephew, sir.

Zoe. Maybe I should head out.

M'Closky. Well, as it relates to you, maybe you should have.

Scud. What's up with Zoe?

M'Closky. I don't know; she might as well hear the whole story. Go ahead, Colonel—Colonel Pointdexter, ma'am—the mortgage holder, auctioneer, and general agent.

Point. [R. C.] Excuse me, ma'am, but are you familiar with these papers? [Hands papers to Ms. Peyton.]

Mrs. Pey. [Takes them.] Yes, sir; those were Zoe's freedom papers, but they were in my husband's desk. How did you get a hold of them?

M'Closky. I—I found them.

George. And you stole them?

M'Closky. Just wait, you'll see. Go ahead, Colonel.

Point. The list of your slaves is incomplete—it needs one more.

Scud. We know the boy Paul.

Point. No, sir; you left out the Octoroon girl, Zoe.

Together. Mrs. Pey. Zoe!

Zoe. It's me!

Point. When the judge signed those papers freeing his young slave, there was a judgment recorded against him; while that judgment was still in effect, he had no right to dispose of his property. That judgment is still in place; because of it and others, this estate is being sold today. Those freedom papers aren't worth the paper they're printed on.

Mrs. Pey. Zoe a slave! That can't be true!

Point. It's clear, ma'am; the judge was careless and probably forgot this minor formality.

Scud. But won't the creditors take the ship?

M'Closky. Sorry to interrupt; one of the main mortgage holders has made the request.

[Exit M'Closky and Pointdexter, R. U. E.

Scud. Hold on there, George Peyton; you sit down. You're trembling so much, you’re about to fall over. This shock has shaken me a bit.

Mrs. Pey. Oh, Zoe, my dear! Don't be too harsh on your poor father.

Zoe. I'll do it if you cry. Look, I'm calm.

Scud. As calm as a grave, with just as much life. I can see it in your face.

George. It can't be! It won't be!

Scud. Stop talking—it has to. Stay calm—damn those things; the money from this sale won't even cover the estate's debts. Curse those guys from Liverpool, why couldn’t they send something in the last mail? Even a letter promising something—this is how the planters are feeling. Damn it, I could raise thirty thousand just from the envelope, and another ten thousand from the postmark.

George. Zoe, they won't take you from us as long as I’m alive.

Scud. Don’t be stupid; they’d kill you and then take her, just like that—hold on; Old Sunnyside, he’ll buy her! That’ll save her.

Zoe. No, it won't; we've told Dora that we love each other. How can she ask her dad to set me free?

Scud. What on earth made you do that?

Zoe. Because it’s the truth; I’d rather be a slave with a free spirit than be free with a deceitful, enslaved heart. My father gives me freedom—at least he believed he did. May heaven bless him for his intentions, bless him for the joy he brought into my life. You say the money from the sale won’t cover his debts. Then let me be sold so I can clear his name. I’ll return the freedom he gave me because I can never repay the love he had for his poor Octoroon daughter, the one he took his last breath with in her arms, the one he looked at with his last look of love.

Mrs. Pey. Oh, my husband! I thank heaven you didn’t live to see this day.

Zoe. George, just go! I need to be alone for a bit.

George. Zoe! [Turns away overwhelmed.]

Zoe. Don't cry, George. Dear George, you can now see what a terrible person I am.

George. Zoe!

Scud. I wish they could sell me! I brought half this mess on this family with all my reckless improvements. I deserve to be treated like a nobody today—I feel like one, inside.

Exit Scudder, L. U. E.

Zoe. Go now, George—leave me—take her with you. [Exit Ms. Peytonand George, L. U. E.] A slave! A slave! Is this a dream—my mind is spinning from the shock? He said that. What! So I will be sold!—sold! And my master—Oh! [falls on her knees, with her face in her hands] No—no master, but one. George—George—hush—they're coming! Save me! No, [looks off, R.] it's Pete and the servants—they're coming this way. [Enters inner room, R. U. E.]

Enter Pete, Grace, Minnie, Solon, Dido, and all I'm sorry, but I can't assist with that. R. U. E.

Pete. Come here now—gather around, because I need to talk to you all—keep those kids quiet—don't make any noise, the missus up there can hear us.

Solon. Keep going, Pete.

Pete. Gentlemen, my Black friends and ladies, there's some really bad news going around. This property that's up for sale—old Terrebonne—where we've all grown up, is going—they're going to take it away—we can’t stay here any longer.

Everyone. O-o!—O-o!

Pete. Shut up, you trash! Do you think anyone wants to hear you whine? Who are you to make all that noise?—be quiet! But that’s not all. Now, my brothers, brace yourselves and listen—hold your breath—it’s coming. We thought that the people would belong to the old missus, and if she lost Terrebonne, we would have to live there forever, and we would work and give our wages to old Missus Peyton.

Everyone. Yeah! Yeah! Well—

Pete. Quiet! I'm telling you, it's not true—we can't do it—we have to sell ourselves—

All. Sold!

Pete. Will you be quiet? She’ll hear you. Yes! I can hear it right now—there was an old lady crying—Master George—oh! You should have seen those big tears in his eyes. Oh, Master Scudder, he didn’t exactly cry; both his eyes and cheeks looked like the bad Bayou in the dry season—so dry that I cried for him. [Raising his voice.] Then the missus says, "It's not the land I care about, but for those poor people—they’ll be sold—that's what shocks me." "No," says Master George, "I’d rather sell myself first; but they won’t suffer, not at all—I’ll see to that."

Everyone. Oh, bless them! Bless Master George.

Pete. Hold your tongues. Yes, for you, for me, for those little ones, people cried. Now, if Grace there with her kids were all sold, she'd start screeching like a cat. She didn't care how kind the old judge was to her; and Solon, too, he'd yell and break the old lady's heart.

Grace. No, Pete; no, I won't. I'll deal with it.

Pete. I don't think you will anymore, but this will; because the family spoils Dido, they do. She was never worth much for that guy.

Dido. How dare you say that, you black person, you? I earn as much as any other cook in Louisiana.

Pete. What's the point of being nice and comforting your wife's heart if Minnie, Louise, Marie, and Julie are just going to ruin it?

Minnie. We won't, Pete; we won't.

Pete. [To the men.] Dar, do you hear that, you miserable folks? Those girls are worth a boatload of better men than these. Come on, for the pride of the family, let everyone look their best for the judge—he's been so good to us, and she's been kind too—so those strangers from New Orleans will say, "They're happy folks, they're a fine group of people;" everyone says when they're sold, "Lord, bless this family I'm leaving, and send me to as good a home."

Everyone. We'll do it, Pete; we'll do it.

Pete. Shh! Listen! I’m telling you there's someone over there. Who is it?

Grace. It's Miss Zoe. Look! Look!

Pete. Come on; she has what we say, and she's crying for us. None of you ignorant people could cry for yourselves like that. Come here, quiet; now quiet.

[Exit Pete and all the Black people, slowly, R. U. E.

Enter Zoe [who is supposed to have overheard the last scene], L. U. E.

Zoe. Oh! Do I really have to learn from these unfortunate souls how much I owe and how I should repay the debt? Have I just ignored the kindness I received, never realizing, never feeling, never acknowledging that I was forgetful and ungrateful? Oh, my father! my dear, dear father! forgive your poor child. You made her life so happy, and now these tears will come. Let me hold them back until I can teach my heart. Oh, my—my heart!

[Leave, with a low, wailing, suffocating cry, L. U. E.]

Enter M'Closky, Lafouche, Jackson, Sunnyside, and Pointdexter, R. U. E.

Point. [Checking watch.] Come on, it’s already past the hour. I think we can start now. Where's Mr. Scudder? Jackson, I need to get to Ophelensis tonight.

Enter Dora, R.

Dora. Dad, come here.

Sunny. Hey, Dora, what's wrong? Your eyes are red.

Dora. Are they? Thanks. I don't care, they were blue this morning, but it doesn't matter now.

Sunny. My love! Who's been bothering you?

Dora. Forget it. I want you to buy Terrebonne.

Sunny. Buy Terrebonne! Why?

Dora. Whatever—just buy it!

Sunny. It will cost me everything I have. This is crazy, Dora.

Dora. Is my plantation at Comptableau really worth this?

Sunny. Almost—maybe.

Dora. Sell that, then, and buy this one.

Sunny. Are you crazy, my love?

Dora. Do you want me to pause here and place a bid for it?

Sunny. Goodness! No.

Dora. Then I’ll take care of it if you won’t.

Sunny. I will! I will! But for goodness' sake, go—here comes the crowd. [Exit Dora, L. U. E.] What in the world does that kid mean or want?

Enter Scudder, George, Ratts, Caillou, Pete, Grace, Minnie, and all the Black people. A large table is in the center, at the back.Pointdexter climbs onto the table with his hammer, while his Clerk sits at his feet. The Black person climbs onto the table from behind center. The Company sits.

Point. Now, gentlemen, let's get down to business. There's no need for me to elaborate, describe, or list everything; Terrebonne is well-known to you as one of the richest pieces of land in Louisiana, and its condition does credit to those who have maintained it. I'll take that piece of tobacco, Judge—thank you—so, gentlemen, since life is short, let's dive right in. The first item on the list is the estate in block, complete with its sugar houses, livestock, machinery, tools, good houses, and furniture. If there aren't any bids for the estate and its contents, we'll sell them in smaller lots. Come on, Mr. Thibodeaux, a man only gets this chance once in his life—here’s yours.

Thib. Go ahead. What's the minimum bid?

Point. The first mortgagee offers forty thousand dollars.

Thib. $45,000.

Sunny. 50,000.

Point. When you're done with the jokes, guys, you'll say one hundred and twenty thousand. It was that easy on a mortgage.

Lafouche. [R.] Then why don't you just buy it yourself, Colonel?

Point. I'm waiting for your fifty thousand dollar bid.

Caillou. 80,000.

Point. Don't worry; it's not going to do that, Judge.

Sunny. [L.] 90,000.

Point. We're moving forward.

Thib. One hundred—

Point. One hundred thousand offered for this magazine—

Caillou. 110,000—

Point. Good again—100 and—

Sunny. 20.

Point. And twenty thousand bid. Squire Sunnyside is going to sell this for fifty thousand more tomorrow.—[Looks around.] Where's that guy from Mobile who wanted to offer one hundred and eighty thousand?

Thib. I guess he hasn't left home yet, Colonel.

Point. I'm going to bring the price down for the Squire—going—gone—for one hundred and twenty thousand dollars. [Raises hammer.] Judge, you can take out a mortgage on the whole thing—going for half its value. [Knocks.] Squire Sunnyside, you've got a nice piece of land, Squire. Hey, someone, pass me a tool over here.

Sunny. I have more work than I can handle now.

Point. Then buy the workers along with the property. Now, everyone, I'm excited to present to you the best group of farm workers and household servants that has ever been put up for sale; they speak for themselves and reflect well on their owners.—[Reads.] "No. 1, Solon, a strong young man, and good waiter."

Pete. [R. C.] That's my son—get him, Master Ratts; he'll definitely serve you well.

Point. Be quiet!

Ratts. [L.] Leave the old guy alone—eight hundred for that kid.

Caillou. 9.

Rats. A thousand.

Solon. Thank you, Master Ratts: I’m dying for you, sir; please hold on for me, sir.

Ratts. Look, the kid knows and likes me, Judge; can he come with me?

Caillou. Go ahead—I'm clueless.

Point. One thousand bid. [Knocks.] He's yours, Captain Ratts, Magnolia steamer. [Solon goes down and stands behind Ratts.] "No. 2, the yellow girl Grace, with two kids—Saul, four, and Victoria, five." [They get on table.]

Scud. That's Solon's wife and kids, Your Honor.

Grace. [To Rats.] Please buy me, Master Ratts, will you?

Rats. What on earth am I supposed to do with you and those troublemakers on my boat?

Grace. Wash, sir—cook, sir—anything.

Rats. Eight hundred again, then—I’ll do it.

Jackson. 9.

Rats. I'm out of money, Solon—I can't stop the Judge.

Thib. What's wrong, Ratts? I can lend you as much as you need. Go ahead, if that's what you want.

Rats. Eleven.

Jackson. 12.

Sunny. Oh, wow!

Scud. [To Jackson.] Hey, Judge, my friend. The Judge is a bit hard of hearing. Hello! [Speaking into his ear trumpet.] This girl and those kids belong to that guy Solon over there. You're trying to separate them, Judge.

Jackson. You bet I am! [Stands up.] I'm withdrawing my offer, Colonel.

Point. Okay, Judge; I thought there was an error. I have to hold you, Captain, until eleven hundred.

Rats. Go for it.

Point. Eleven hundred—going—going—sold! "No. 3, Pete, a house servant."

Pete. That's me—yeah, I'm coming—just hang out there. [Tumbles onto the table.]

Point. Age 72.

Pete. What's that? A mistake, sir—forty-six.

Point. Boring.

Pete. But don’t amount to anything—can work hard. Come on, Judge, get going. Now’s your chance, sir.

Jackson. $100.

Pete. What, sir? Me! For me—check this out! [Dances.]

George. 500.

Pete. Master George—oh, no, sir—don't buy me—save your money for someone else who's being sold. I'm not worth anything, sir.

Point. Five hundred dollars—it's a good price. [Knocks.] He's yours, Mr. George Peyton. [Pete goes down.] "No. 4, the Octoroon girl, Zoe."

Enter Zoe, L. U. E., looking very pale, and stands on the table.—M'Closkey who hadn't shown any interest in the sale until now, turns his chair.

Sunny. [Rising.] Gentlemen, we all know the situation this girl's in, and I'm sure no one here will disagree with the family that wants to save the child of our respected and honorable friend, the late Judge Peyton.

Everyone. Listen! Awesome! Listen!

Point. Although the money from this sale is likely to be less than the debts owed, I have to make sure there's no secret agreement to lower the property's value.

Rats. Damn it! You're a man as well as an auctioneer, right?

Point. What’s being offered for this slave?

Sunny. $1,000.

M'Closky. 2,000.

Sunny. 3,000.

M'Closky. $5,000.

George. [R.] Devil!

Sunny. I offered seven thousand, which is the last dollar this family has.

M'Closky. 8.

Thibo. 9.

Everyone. Awesome!

M'Closky. Ten. It's pointless, Squire.

Scud. Jacob M'Closky, you’re not getting that girl. Now, watch what you do. Twelve thousand.

M'Closky. No way! Fifteen thousand. Can any of you top that?

Point. $15,000 bid for the Octoroon.

Enter Dora, L.U.E.

Dora. $20,000.

Everyone. Awesome!

M'Closky. $25,000.

Everyone. [Groan.] Oh! Oh!

George. [L.] Yapping dog—take that. [Rushes on M'Closky—M'Closky draws his knife.]

Scud. [Moves quickly between them.] Hold on, George Peyton—step back. This is your own house; we’re under your uncle's roof; get a grip. And, folks, aren’t we forgetting that there’s a lady here? [The knives go away.] If we can’t act like Christians, let’s at least try to act like gentlemen. Go ahead, Colonel.

Lafouche. He shouldn’t compete against a woman.

M'Closky. Oh, is that right? Then I’d like to hire a woman to go to the auction and buy my hands.

Point. Gentlemen, I think we all agree on how we feel about that man's actions; however, he has the law backing him—we can feel regret, but we need to respect it. Mr. M'Closky has offered twenty-five thousand dollars for the Octoroon. Is there any other offer? Going once, twenty-five thousand—going twice! [Brings hammer down.] Sold to Jacob M'Closky, the Octoroon girl, Zoe, for twenty-five thousand dollars. [Tableaux.]

END OF ACT THREE.

Setting.—The Wharf, The Steamer "Magnolia" docked, L.; a steep rock, R. U. E.

Rats was overseeing the loading of the ship. Enter Lafourche and Jackson, L.

Jackson. How long until we start, captain?

Raits. As soon as we load this cotton onto the ship.

Enter Pete, with a lantern, and Scudder, with a notebook, R.

Scud. One hundred and forty-nine bales. Can you take on any more?

Rats. Not a bale. I've got eight hundred bales lined up at the next stop, and one hundred barrels of sugar at Patten's Slide—that'll keep my guards busy—hurry up there.

Voice. [Outside.] Wood is on board.

Rats. All aboard!

Enter M'Closky, R.

Scud. Sign that receipt, captain, and save me the trip to the clerk.

M'Closky. Look, there’s a small load of turpentine in the front hold, and one of the barrels is leaking; a spark from your engines could ignite the ship, and you'd be caught in it.

Rats. You’ve got to be kidding! Go ahead and give it a shot if you want to.

Lafouche. Captain, you've packed this boat so full that it's sunk deep in the mud and won’t float.

Rats. [Calls off.] Wood up there, you Polio—hold on to the safety valve—looks like she'll move off on her paddles. [Shouts heard, R.]

Jackson. What's wrong?

Enter Solon, R.

Solon. We got him!

Scud. Who's that?

Solon. The Indian!

Scud. Wahnotee? Where is he? Is running away from someone the same as catching him?

Rats. Here he comes.

Everyone. Where? Where?

Enter Wahnotee, R.; they're all about to charge at him.

Scud. Wait! Stand right there! No violence—the creature doesn't understand what we mean.

Jackson. Let him take responsibility for the boy, then.

M'Closky. Get rid of him—lynch him.

Everyone. Lynch him!

Exit Lafouche, R.

Scud. Step back, I say I'll take down the first person who touches Him. Pete, talk to the Native American.

Pete. Where's Paul, Wahnotee? What happened to the kid?

Wahnotee. Paul once—Paul pancake.

Pete. Pangeuk—deceased.

Wahnotee. Mort!

M'Closky. So you really killed him? [They get closer again.]

Scud. Wait up!

Pete. Uh, Paul here?

Wahnotee. Hugh view. [Goes L.] Paul stays there!

Scud. Wait here! [Looks at the ground.] The ground has been disturbed recently.

Wahnotee. Weenee Paul. [Points down, and shows through gestures how he buried Paul.]

Scud. The Indian says he buried him here! Stop! Here's a piece of leather; [pulls out mail bags] the mail bags that were missing! [Notices the tomahawk in Wahnotee's belt—takes it out and inspects it.] Look! There are bloodstains—hey, redskin, what's that?

Wahnotee. Paul! [Makes sign that Paul was killed by a hit to the head.]

M'Closky. He admits it; the Indian got drunk, argued with him, and killed him.

Re-enter Lafouche, R., with broken equipment.

Lafouche. Here’s the evidence of the crime: this half-empty rum bottle—this broken camera—and there are blood stains and footprints around the shed.

M'Closky. What else do you want— isn't that proof enough? Let's hang him!

Everyone. Get him! Get him!

Scud. Step back, guys! He's a Native American—it's only fair.

Jackson. Go ahead, try him right where he committed the crime.

Everyone. Give him a chance!

Lafouche. Don't let him get away!

Rats. I'll handle that. [Draws revolver.] If he moves, I'll put a bullet in his head, real fast.

M'Closky. Come on, let's set up a court and pick a jury—we'll take care of this troublemaker.

Enter Thibodeaux and Caillou, L.

Thibo. What's wrong?

Lafouche. We've caught this murdering Indian, and we're going to put him on trial. [Wahnotee is sitting L., wrapped in a blanket.]

Pete. Poor little Paul—poor little guy!

Scud. This situation doesn’t sit well with me, Ratts—it’s not right.

Lafouche. We're all set; the jury's been chosen—go ahead—who's going to be the accuser?

Rats. M'Closky.

M'Closky. Me?

Rats. Yeah; you were the first to call out Judge Lynch.

M'Closky. [R.] Well, what's the point of arguing when the guilt is so obvious; the boy and the Indian were the last people seen together.

Scud. (L. C.) Who's saying that?

M'Closky. Everyone—that is, I heard so.

Scud. Share what you know—not what you overheard.

M'Closky. I know now that the boy was killed with that tomahawk—the Native American has it—the evidence of violence is all around the shed—this equipment is ruined— isn’t it obvious that in a drunken rage he killed the boy, and when he sobered up, he hid the body over there?

Everyone. That's it—that's it.

Rats. Who defends the Indian?

Scud. I will; because it's against my nature to believe he's guilty; and if he is, this isn't the place, nor are you the right authority to judge him. How can we even be sure the boy is dead? There's no evidence besides a liquor bottle and an old machine. Would you really execute someone based on that?

Rats. His own confession.

Scud. I challenge your illegitimate authority. This mob justice is chaotic and without law. What a picture for a civilized society to allow; over there, a poor, uneducated person, surrounded by a group of hearts, filled with revenge and hate, eager for his blood; you call yourselves judges—you’re not—you’re just a jury of executioners. It’s moments like this that bring shame upon our lives in the West.

M'Closky. Evidence! Evidence! We need evidence. We've talked enough; now let's see some proof.

Everyone. Yes, yes! Evidence, evidence.

Scud. Where am I supposed to find it? The evidence is right here, in my heart.

Pete. [Who has been looking around the camera.] Hey, sir! Check this out! Oh my goodness, look at this; here's a picture I found stuck in that telescope thing, sir! Look!

Scud. A photographic plate. [Pete holds the lantern up.] What's this, huh? Two figures! The child—it's him! Dead—and above him—Ah! ah! Jacob M'Closky, you’re the one who killed that boy!

M'Closky. Me?

Scud. You! You killed him with that tomahawk; and as you stood over his body with the letter in your hand, you thought that no one saw what you did, that no eye was on you—but there was, Jacob M'Closky, there was. The eye of the Eternal was on you—the blessed sun in heaven, that, looking down, cast the image of the deed onto this plate. Here you are, in the exact position of your crime!

M'Closky. That's not true!

Scud. It's true! The evidence can't lie. Look there, jurors. [Shows plate to jury.] Look there. Oh, you wanted evidence—you asked for proof—Heaven has responded and found you guilty.

M'Closky. Which court would accept evidence like that? [Going.]

Ratts. Hold on; this could end badly. You said it yourself; you wanted us to kill that Indian, and now that we're caught up in this justice thing, we'll turn it on you. What do you think? Should we have one law for the Native American and a different one for the white people?

Everyone. Give him a shot!

Rats. Who will be the accuser?

Scud. I will! Fellow citizens, you are gathered here under a power greater than the law. What is the law? When the ship’s at sea, when the army is facing the enemy, where is the law? It lives in the hearts of brave men who can tell right from wrong and to whom justice can't be sold. So it is here, in the wilds of the West, where our hatred of crime is reflected in how quickly we execute it—where necessity is the law! I ask you, are you honest men? Are you true? Place your hands on your bare chests, and let every man who doesn’t feel a real American heart inside him, bursting with freedom, truth, and righteousness, step forward—that’s the oath I put to you—and then say, Go for it!

Everyone. Keep going. Keep going.

Scud. No! I won't continue; that guy is down. I won't hit him, even with words. Jacob, your accuser is that picture of the crime—let that speak for itself—defend yourself.

M'Closky. [Draws knife.] I will, faster than lightning.

Ratts. Grab him, then! [They rush at M'Closky, and take away his weapons.] He can fight even though he's a painter; he's got sharp claws everywhere.

Scud. Stop! Search him; we might find more evidence.

M'Closky. Are you planning to rob me first and then kill me afterwards?

Ratts. [Checking him.] That's his plan—here's a wallet.

Scud. [Opens it.] What's this? Letters! Wow! To "Mrs. Peyton, Terrebonne, Louisiana, United States." Liverpool postmark. Oh! I've caught the tail of a rat—come out. [Reads.] What's this? A draft for eighty-five thousand dollars, and credit from Palisse and Co., of New Orleans, for the balance. Wow! The rat's out. You killed the boy to steal this letter from the mailbags—you took this letter so the money wouldn't arrive in time to save the Octoroon; if it had, the lien on the estate would have been lifted, and Zoe would be free.

Everyone. Hang him! Hang him! Get rid of him!

Scud. Silence in the courtroom; step aside, let the jurors retire, discuss, and bring back their verdict.

Rats. I'm responsible for the creature—go ahead.

Pete. [To Wahnotee.] Look over there, see that Indian; look at this [shows him plate], see that innocent person: look, there’s the murderer of poor Paul.

Wahnotee. Ugh! [Looks at plate.]

Pete. Yeah!—is that you? Closky told Paul—kill the kid with your tomahawk there; it wasn't you, no—old Pete always said so. Poor Indian loves our little Paul. [Wahnotee stands up and looks at M'Closky—he is in his war paint and fully armed.]

Scud. What do you say, gentlemen? Is the prisoner guilty or not?

Everyone. Guilty!

Scud. And what will his punishment be?

Everyone. Death! [All move forward.]

Wahnotee. [Walks over to M'Closky.] Ugh!

Scud. No, Injiun; we administer justice here, not revenge. It's not you he has hurt, it's the white man, whose laws he has violated.

Rats. Get rid of him—throw him down the back hatch until we set up his funeral.

M'Closky. Fifty to one! Oh! If I could take you all on one by one, alone in the swamp, I'd tear you apart. [He is taken away in a boat, struggling.]

Scud. Now, let’s get to business.

Pete. [Re-enters from boat.] Oh man, that devil Closky, he broke away from the gentleman, knocked me down, grabbed my lantern, and threw it on the turpentine barrels, and now the shed's on fire! [Fire seen, R.]

Jackson. [Re-entering.] We're moving ahead quickly; come on, let's untie from the shore.

Rats. Everyone on board—cut the stern ropes—give her some speed!

All. Oh no! [Sound of "fire" heard—Engine bells ringing—steam whistle blowing.]

Rats. Cut everything loose up front—throw every burning bale overboard.

The steamer sets off—keeping the fire going—M'Closky comes back in, R., floating along.

M'Closky. Ha! Did I catch you? Burn! burn! That’s right. You thought you had me trapped, huh? As I swam down, I thought I heard something in the water, like it was chasing me—probably one of those damn alligators—they're everywhere around here—hope they chomp on every limb of you!

[Leave, L.

Wahnote swims ahead—spots a trail—follows him. The Steamer drifts behind, smoking. Scenes.

CURTAIN.

END OF ACT 4.

Scene I.—Black Quarters in 1.

Enter Zoe, L. 1. E.

Zoe. It’s still an hour until daylight—here’s Pete’s hut—[Knocks.] He’s asleep—no; I see a light.

Dido. [Enters from hut, R. F.] Who's that?

Zoe. Hush, Aunt! It's me—Zoe.

Dido. Miss Zoe! What are you doing out in the swamp this time of night? You’re definitely going to catch a fever—you’re soaked.

Zoe. Where's Pete at?

Dido. He went down to the landing last night with Master Scudder; hasn’t come back since—I can’t figure it out.

Zoe. Auntie, there’s someone sick at the house; I’ve been up all night with them, and I remembered when I had the fever you gave me a drink, a bitter one, that helped me sleep—do you remember that?

Dido. Didn't I? Those doctors are useless; they don't know anything.

Zoe. No; but you, Auntie, you’re so wise—you know every plant, right? And what it's good for?

Dido. That drink you're having is great for a high fever. Is everyone feeling okay?

Zoe. Really bad, aunt; and the heart hurts even more, so they can't find any peace.

Dido. Wait a second, I'll get you the bottle.

Exit, L. R.

Zoe. In a few hours, that man, my master, will come for me; he has paid my price, and he only agreed to let me stay here for this one night because Mrs. Peyton promised to hand me over to him today.

Dido. [Re-enters with a vial.] Here it is—now just give a little sip—that's enough.

Zoe. Everything there could easily kill someone, right?

Dido. I guess it kills a dozen—never tried.

Zoe. It’s not a painful death, is it, Aunt? You told me it just leads to a long, long sleep.

Dido. Why are you trembling like that? Why are you talking so strangely? What are you going to do, miss?

Zoe. Pass me the drink.

Dido. No. Who's that sick at the house?

Zoe. Hand it over.

Dido. No. You want to hurt yourself. Oh, Miss Zoe, why are you asking old Dido for this poison?

Zoe. Listen up. I love someone who's right here, and he loves me—George. I sat outside his door all night—I heard his sighs—his pain—pulled from him by what’s about to happen to me; and he said, "I'd rather see her dead than with him!"

Dido. She's dead!

Zoe. He said that—then I got up, sneaked out of the house, and ran down to the bayou; but its cold, dark, silent water scared me—drowning must be such a terrible way to die. I couldn’t do it. Then, as I knelt there, crying for courage, a snake rattled next to me. I flinched and ran away. Death was right there with me, and I couldn’t bring myself to embrace it. Oh! I'm scared to die; yet I'm even more scared to live.

Dido. Drop dead!

Zoe. So I came to you; to you, my dear nurse; to you, who so often lulled me to sleep when I was a child; who wiped my tears and put your little Zoe to rest. Ah! please grant me the rest that no one but One can disturb—the sleep from which I will awaken free! You can protect me from that man—please let me die without pain. [Music.]

Dido. No, no—life is great for a young person like you.

Zoe. Oh! good, good nurse: you will, you will.

Dido. No way.

Zoe. Then I will never leave Terrebonne—the drink, nurse; the drink; so I can always stay in my home—my beloved, beloved home. You won't let me go to that man? Your own Zoe, who loves you, auntie, so much, so much.—[Gets phial.] Ah! I've got it.

Dido. No, miss. Oh! No—don't.

Zoe. Quiet!

Runs away, L. 1. E.

Dido. Here, Solon, Minnie, Grace.

They walk in.

All. What was the matter?

Dido. Miss Zoe got the poison.

Exit, L.

All. Oh! Oh!

Exeunt, L.

Scene II.—Cane-brake Bayou.—Bank, C.—Triangle Fire, R. C.—Canoe, C.—M'Closky found asleep.

M'Closky. Burn, burn! Let it blaze! Listen to the crack of the flames. I’m not guilty; are you going to kill me? Cut, cut the rope—I can’t breathe—choking!—Ah! [Wakes.] Hey! Where am I? Oh, I was dreaming—damn it! I can never sleep now without dreaming. Quiet! I thought I heard a paddle in the water. All night, as I ran through the thicket, I heard footsteps behind me. I lost them in the cedar swamp—then they haunted my path down the bayou, moving as I moved, resting when I rested—quiet! There it is again!—no; it was just the wind rustling through the reeds. The sun is coming up. I need to launch my canoe and head for the bay, and in a few hours, I’ll be safe from anyone chasing me on one of the coasting schooners that go from Galveston to Matagorda. Soon enough, this damned situation will blow over, and I can show my face again. Listen! There’s that noise again! What if it’s the ghost of that murdered boy coming after me! Well—I didn’t mean to kill him, did I? So why is my cowardly heart so scared? [Music.]

[Gets in the canoe and rows away, L.—Wahnotee continues paddling the canoe, R.—gets out and finds the trail—paddles off after him, L.]

Scene III.—Cedar Swamp.

Enter Scudder and Pete, L. 1. E.

Scud. Come on, Pete, we won’t get to the house before noon.

Pete. Never mind, sir, we have good news—it won't spoil for the keeping.

Scud. We've had to walk ten miles because some pesky varmints unhitched our canoe. I left it all safe last night.

Pete. Maybe it floated away by itself.

Scud. No; the tether was sliced with a knife.

Pete. Hey, Master Scudder, how about we go around to the quarters and wake up the folks, then they can come with us, and we’ll approach that old house like General Jackson when he took London back then.

Scud. Hey, Pete, I haven't heard about that situation.

Pete. I'm telling you, shh!

Scud. What? [Song.]

Pete. What was that?—a shout out there in the swamp—there it is again!

Scud. That's right. Something's pushing through the bushes—it’s coming this way—it could be a bear or a runaway slave. [Draws pistol—M'Closky rushes in and collapses at Scudder's feet.]

Scud. Stand off—what are you?

Pete. Master Clusky.

M'Closky. Help me—help me! I can't go on any longer. I heard voices.

Scud. Who's chasing you?

M'Closky. I don't know, but I feel like it's death! In some shape, whether human, wild animal, or ghost, it's been following me through the night. I ran; it pursued. Listen! It's coming—it’s coming—can’t you hear footsteps on the dry leaves?

Scud. Your actions have made you lose your mind.

M'Closky. Do you hear it—closer—closer—ah! [Wahnotee rushes in, and towards M'Closky L. H.]

Scud. The Indian! By thunder.

Pete. You’re a dead man, Master Clusky—you have to believe that.

M'Closky. No—no. If I have to die, turn me over to the law; but please save me from the tomahawk. You’re a white man; you won’t let one of your own be slaughtered by the Native American, will you?

Scud. Hold on a second, Jacob; we need to think this through—let's face the facts. Here we are on the edge of civilization. This land isn’t really ours, I think, but Nature has decided that wherever white people go, the Native Americans and Black people have to leave their homes. But what do we pay for that ownership? Not in money, but in other ways—in protection, patience, kindness; in everything that shows these folks the difference between a civilized person and a savage. So, what have you done to prove that difference? Because honestly, I can’t see it.

M'Closky. For what I've done, let me be judged.

Scud. You have been tried—truly tried and found guilty. Fate has picked your executioner. I won’t get in the way.

Pete. Oh, no; Master Scudder, don't leave Master Closky like that—don't, sir—it isn't what a good Christian should do.

Scud. Do you hear that, Jacob? This old man, the grandfather of the boy you killed, is speaking for you—doesn't that hit you hard? Do you feel it? Go on, Pete, you've stirred up the Christian here, and the old horse is reacting. [Throws bowie knife to M'Closky.] Take that and defend yourself.

Exit Scudder and Pete, R. 1. E.—Wahnoteefaces him.—Fight—kiss.M'Closky runs off, L. 1. E.—Wahnotee follows him.—Screams outside.

Scene IV.—Living Room at Terrebonne.

Enter Zoe, C. [Music.]

Zoe. My home, my home! I must see you one last time. Those little flowers can thrive, but I cannot. Tomorrow they'll bloom just like now—everything will be the same, and I'll be gone. Oh! my life, my joyful life; why has it been so wonderful?

Enter Mrs. Peyton and Dora, C.

Dora. Zoe, where have you been?

Mrs. P. We were really worried about you.

Zoe. I've been to the Black neighborhood. I guess I’ll go back soon, and I wanted to visit all the places again to see the struggling people.

Mrs. P. Zoe, sweetie, I'm happy to see you looking more relaxed this morning.

Dora. But she looks so pale, and she's shaking a lot.

Zoe. Do I? [Enter George, C.] Ah! he's here.

Dora. George, she’s here!

Zoe. I’ve come to say goodbye, sir; two tough words—so tough, they might break a lot of hearts; don’t you think?

George. Oh, Zoe! Can you smile right now?

Zoe. You see how easily I've accepted my fate—so it will be for you. You won't forget poor Zoe! but her memory will fade like a small cloud that blocked your happiness for a bit—you two will love each other; you're both too good not to come together. Joy will return for you. Dora, I once made you cry; those were the only tears I've caused anyone. Will you forgive me?

Dora. I forgive you—[Kisses her.]

Zoe. I think you do, George.

George. Zoe, you look pale. Zoe!—she's fainting!

Zoe. No; it’s just a bit of weakness—a little water. [Dora gets the water.] I have a tonic here—can you pour it into the glass? [Dora tries to take it.] No, not you—George. [George pours the contents of the vial into the glass.] Now, hand it to me. George, dear George, do you love me?

George. Do you really doubt it, Zoe?

Zoe. No! [Beverages.]

Dora. Zoe, if everything I have could buy your freedom, I would happily give it.

Zoe. I'm free! I had only one Master on earth, and he has set me free!

Dora. Unfortunately! But the act that set you free wasn't legal.

Zoe. Not legal—no—but I'm going to a place where there are no laws—where there is only justice.

George. Zoe, you’re in pain—your lips are pale—your cheeks are flushed.

Zoe. I need to leave—it's late. Bye, Dora. [Exits.]

Pete. [Outside, R.] Where's Missus—where's Master George?

George. They're here.

Enter Scudder.

Scud. Step aside and let me through—make some space! I’m bursting with happiness, reality can’t contain me. Mrs. Peyton, George Peyton, Terrebonne is yours. It was that scoundrel M'Closky—but I swear he got what was coming to him—he killed the kid, Paul, to steal this letter from the mailbags—the letter from Liverpool that you know about—he set fire to the shed—that’s how the steamboat was burned down.

Mrs. P. What do you mean?

Scud. Read this. [Gives letter.]

George. Explain yourself.

Enter Sunnyside.

Sunny. Is that true?

Scud. Every word of it, Squire. Go ahead, you say it since you know it. If I tried, I'd break.

Mrs. P. Read, George. Terrebonne belongs to you.

Enter Pete, Dido, Solon, Minnie, and Grace.

Pete. Where is she—where is Miss Zoe?

Scud. What's wrong?

Pete. Don’t ask me. Where’s the girl? I say.

Scud. Here she is—Zoe!—water—she passes out.

Pete. No—no. It's not a faint—she's dying, man; she got poisoned by old Dido here, this morning.

George. Zoe.

Scud. Zoe! Is this true?—no, it isn't—dang it, say it isn't. Look, you're free, you have no master to hurt you now: you can stay here as long as you want, just don't look like that.

Dora. Her eyes changed color.

Pete. That's what her soul is going to do. It's going up there, where there's no divide between people.

George. She comes back to life.

Zoe. [On sofa, C.] George—where are you—

George. Oh, Zoe! What have you done?

Zoe. Last night I heard you crying in your room, and you said, "I'd rather she be dead than like this!"

George. Did I lead you to this?

Zoe. No; but I loved you so much that I couldn't handle my fate, and then I had to face your heart and hers. When I'm gone, she won't be jealous of your love for me, and nothing will keep us apart. Lift me; so—[George raises her head]—let me look at you, so your face can be the last thing I see in this world. Oh! George, you can confess your love for the Octoroon without feeling embarrassed! [Dies.—George lowers her head gently.—Kneels.—Others form picture.]

Dim the lights in front of the house and stage.

[Light fires.—Draw flats and discover Paul's grave.—M'Closkey dead on top of it.—Wahnotee standing triumphantly over him.]

SLOW CURTAIN

Scene I is set for Act I, even though there’s just one scene.

Original spellings left in this book

Typo? In several places, the contraction "wan't" shows up where the context needs the verb "want." The change has been made.

There is a lot of slang, dialect, and colloquialisms in the play that have been left.

RBB