Mel.Now, lady, hear me.Pauline.Hear thee!Ay, speak—her son! have fiends a parent? speak,That thou mayst silence curses—speak!Mel.No, curse me;Thy curse would blast me less than thy forgiveness.Pauline[laughing wildly].This is thy palace, where "the perfumed lightSteals through the mist of alabaster lamps,And every air is heavy with the sighsOf orange groves and music from sweet lutes,And murmurs of low fountains that gush forthI' the midst of roses!—Dost thou like the picture?"This is my bridal home, and thou my bridegroom!O fool—O dupe—O wretch! I see it all.The by-word and the jeer of every tongueIn Lyons. Hast thou in thy heart one touchOf human kindness? if thou hast, why kill me,And save thy wife from madness. No, it cannot—It cannot be; this is some horrid dream;I shall wake soon. [Touching him.] Art flesh? art man? or butThe shadows seen in sleep? It is too real.What have I done to thee? how sinn'd against thee,That thou shouldst crush me thus?Mel.Pauline, by prideAngels have fallen ere thy time; by pride—That sole alloy of thy most lovely mold—The evil spirit of a bitter love,And a revengeful heart, had power upon thee.From my first years my soul was fill'd with thee;I saw thee midst the flow'rs the lowly boyTended, unmark'd by thee—a spirit of bloom,And joy, and freshness, as if Spring itselfWere made a living thing, and wore thy shape!I saw thee, and the passionate heart of manEnter'd the breast of the wild-dreaming boy.And from that hour I grew—what to the lastI shall be—thine adorer! Well, this love,Vain, frantic, guilty, if thou wilt, becameA fountain of ambition and bright hope;I thought of tales that by the winter hearthOld gossips tell—how maidens, sprung from kings,Have stoop'd from their high sphere; how love, like death,Levels all ranks, and lays the shepherd's crookBeside the scepter.My father died; and I, the peasant born,Was my own lord. Then did I seek to riseOut of the prison of my mean estate;And, with such jewels as the exploring mindBrings from the caves of knowledge, buy my ransomFrom those twin jailers of the daring heart—Low birth and iron fortune. For thee I grewA midnight student o'er the dreams of sages.For thee I sought to borrow from each grace,And every muse, such attributes as lendIdeal charms to love. I thought of thee,And passion taught me poesy—of thee,And on the painter's canvas grew the lifeOf beauty! Art became the shadowOf the dear starlight of thy haunting eyes!Men call'd me vain—some mad—I heeded not;But still toil'd on—hoped on—for it was sweet,If not to win, to feel more worthy thee.Pauline.Why do I cease to hate him!Mel.At last, in one mad hour, I dared to pourThe thoughts that burst their channels into song,And set them to thee—such a tribute, lady,As beauty rarely scorns, even from the meanest.The name—appended by the burning heartThat long'd to show its idol what bright thingsIt had created—yea, the enthusiast's name,That should have been thy triumph, was thy scorn;That very hour—when passion, turn'd to wrath,Resembled hatred most—when thy disdainMade my whole soul a chaos—in that hourThe tempters, found me a revengeful toolFor their revenge! Thou hadst trampled on the worm—It turned and stung thee!Pauline.Love, sir, hath no sting.What was the slight of a poor powerless girlTo the deep wrong of this most vile revenge?Oh, how I loved this man!—a serf—a slave!Mel.Hold, lady! No, not a slave! Despair is free.I will not tell thee of the throes—the struggles—The anguish—the remorse. No, let it pass!And let me come to such most poor atonementYet in my power. Pauline!—Pauline.No, touch me not!I know my fate. You are, by law, my tyrant;And I—O Heaven!—a peasant's wife! I'll work—Toil—drudge—do what thou wilt—but touch me not!Let my wrongs make me sacred!Mel.Do not fear me.Thou dost not know me, madam; at the altarMy vengeance ceased—my guilty oath expired!Henceforth, no image of some marble saint,Niched in cathedral aisles, is hallowed moreFrom the rude hand of sacrilegious wrong.I am thy husband—nay, thou need'st not shudder!—Here, at thy feet, I lay a husband's rights.A marriage thus unholy—unfulfill'd—A bond of fraud—is, by the laws of France,Made void and null. To-night sleep—sleep in peace.To-morrow, pure and virgin as this mornI bore thee, bathed in blushes, from the shrine,Thy father's arms shall take thee to thy home.The law shall do thee justice, and restoreThy right to bless another with thy love.And when them art happy, and hast half forgotHim who so loved—so wrong'd thee, think at leastHeaven left some remnant of the angel stillIn that poor peasant's nature! Ho! my mother!
Mel.Now, lady, hear me.
Mel.
Now, lady, hear me.
Pauline.Hear thee!Ay, speak—her son! have fiends a parent? speak,That thou mayst silence curses—speak!
Pauline.
Hear thee!
Ay, speak—her son! have fiends a parent? speak,
That thou mayst silence curses—speak!
Mel.No, curse me;Thy curse would blast me less than thy forgiveness.
Mel.
No, curse me;
Thy curse would blast me less than thy forgiveness.
Pauline[laughing wildly].This is thy palace, where "the perfumed lightSteals through the mist of alabaster lamps,And every air is heavy with the sighsOf orange groves and music from sweet lutes,And murmurs of low fountains that gush forthI' the midst of roses!—Dost thou like the picture?"This is my bridal home, and thou my bridegroom!O fool—O dupe—O wretch! I see it all.The by-word and the jeer of every tongueIn Lyons. Hast thou in thy heart one touchOf human kindness? if thou hast, why kill me,And save thy wife from madness. No, it cannot—It cannot be; this is some horrid dream;I shall wake soon. [Touching him.] Art flesh? art man? or butThe shadows seen in sleep? It is too real.What have I done to thee? how sinn'd against thee,That thou shouldst crush me thus?
Pauline[laughing wildly].
This is thy palace, where "the perfumed light
Steals through the mist of alabaster lamps,
And every air is heavy with the sighs
Of orange groves and music from sweet lutes,
And murmurs of low fountains that gush forth
I' the midst of roses!—Dost thou like the picture?"
This is my bridal home, and thou my bridegroom!
O fool—O dupe—O wretch! I see it all.
The by-word and the jeer of every tongue
In Lyons. Hast thou in thy heart one touch
Of human kindness? if thou hast, why kill me,
And save thy wife from madness. No, it cannot—
It cannot be; this is some horrid dream;
I shall wake soon. [Touching him.] Art flesh? art man? or but
The shadows seen in sleep? It is too real.
What have I done to thee? how sinn'd against thee,
That thou shouldst crush me thus?
Mel.Pauline, by prideAngels have fallen ere thy time; by pride—That sole alloy of thy most lovely mold—The evil spirit of a bitter love,And a revengeful heart, had power upon thee.From my first years my soul was fill'd with thee;I saw thee midst the flow'rs the lowly boyTended, unmark'd by thee—a spirit of bloom,And joy, and freshness, as if Spring itselfWere made a living thing, and wore thy shape!I saw thee, and the passionate heart of manEnter'd the breast of the wild-dreaming boy.And from that hour I grew—what to the lastI shall be—thine adorer! Well, this love,Vain, frantic, guilty, if thou wilt, becameA fountain of ambition and bright hope;I thought of tales that by the winter hearthOld gossips tell—how maidens, sprung from kings,Have stoop'd from their high sphere; how love, like death,Levels all ranks, and lays the shepherd's crookBeside the scepter.My father died; and I, the peasant born,Was my own lord. Then did I seek to riseOut of the prison of my mean estate;And, with such jewels as the exploring mindBrings from the caves of knowledge, buy my ransomFrom those twin jailers of the daring heart—Low birth and iron fortune. For thee I grewA midnight student o'er the dreams of sages.For thee I sought to borrow from each grace,And every muse, such attributes as lendIdeal charms to love. I thought of thee,And passion taught me poesy—of thee,And on the painter's canvas grew the lifeOf beauty! Art became the shadowOf the dear starlight of thy haunting eyes!Men call'd me vain—some mad—I heeded not;But still toil'd on—hoped on—for it was sweet,If not to win, to feel more worthy thee.
Mel.
Pauline, by pride
Angels have fallen ere thy time; by pride—
That sole alloy of thy most lovely mold—
The evil spirit of a bitter love,
And a revengeful heart, had power upon thee.
From my first years my soul was fill'd with thee;
I saw thee midst the flow'rs the lowly boy
Tended, unmark'd by thee—a spirit of bloom,
And joy, and freshness, as if Spring itself
Were made a living thing, and wore thy shape!
I saw thee, and the passionate heart of man
Enter'd the breast of the wild-dreaming boy.
And from that hour I grew—what to the last
I shall be—thine adorer! Well, this love,
Vain, frantic, guilty, if thou wilt, became
A fountain of ambition and bright hope;
I thought of tales that by the winter hearth
Old gossips tell—how maidens, sprung from kings,
Have stoop'd from their high sphere; how love, like death,
Levels all ranks, and lays the shepherd's crook
Beside the scepter.
My father died; and I, the peasant born,
Was my own lord. Then did I seek to rise
Out of the prison of my mean estate;
And, with such jewels as the exploring mind
Brings from the caves of knowledge, buy my ransom
From those twin jailers of the daring heart—
Low birth and iron fortune. For thee I grew
A midnight student o'er the dreams of sages.
For thee I sought to borrow from each grace,
And every muse, such attributes as lend
Ideal charms to love. I thought of thee,
And passion taught me poesy—of thee,
And on the painter's canvas grew the life
Of beauty! Art became the shadow
Of the dear starlight of thy haunting eyes!
Men call'd me vain—some mad—I heeded not;
But still toil'd on—hoped on—for it was sweet,
If not to win, to feel more worthy thee.
Pauline.Why do I cease to hate him!
Pauline.
Why do I cease to hate him!
Mel.At last, in one mad hour, I dared to pourThe thoughts that burst their channels into song,And set them to thee—such a tribute, lady,As beauty rarely scorns, even from the meanest.The name—appended by the burning heartThat long'd to show its idol what bright thingsIt had created—yea, the enthusiast's name,That should have been thy triumph, was thy scorn;That very hour—when passion, turn'd to wrath,Resembled hatred most—when thy disdainMade my whole soul a chaos—in that hourThe tempters, found me a revengeful toolFor their revenge! Thou hadst trampled on the worm—It turned and stung thee!
Mel.
At last, in one mad hour, I dared to pour
The thoughts that burst their channels into song,
And set them to thee—such a tribute, lady,
As beauty rarely scorns, even from the meanest.
The name—appended by the burning heart
That long'd to show its idol what bright things
It had created—yea, the enthusiast's name,
That should have been thy triumph, was thy scorn;
That very hour—when passion, turn'd to wrath,
Resembled hatred most—when thy disdain
Made my whole soul a chaos—in that hour
The tempters, found me a revengeful tool
For their revenge! Thou hadst trampled on the worm—
It turned and stung thee!
Pauline.Love, sir, hath no sting.What was the slight of a poor powerless girlTo the deep wrong of this most vile revenge?Oh, how I loved this man!—a serf—a slave!
Pauline.
Love, sir, hath no sting.
What was the slight of a poor powerless girl
To the deep wrong of this most vile revenge?
Oh, how I loved this man!—a serf—a slave!
Mel.Hold, lady! No, not a slave! Despair is free.I will not tell thee of the throes—the struggles—The anguish—the remorse. No, let it pass!And let me come to such most poor atonementYet in my power. Pauline!—
Mel.
Hold, lady! No, not a slave! Despair is free.
I will not tell thee of the throes—the struggles—
The anguish—the remorse. No, let it pass!
And let me come to such most poor atonement
Yet in my power. Pauline!—
Pauline.No, touch me not!I know my fate. You are, by law, my tyrant;And I—O Heaven!—a peasant's wife! I'll work—Toil—drudge—do what thou wilt—but touch me not!Let my wrongs make me sacred!
Pauline.
No, touch me not!
I know my fate. You are, by law, my tyrant;
And I—O Heaven!—a peasant's wife! I'll work—
Toil—drudge—do what thou wilt—but touch me not!
Let my wrongs make me sacred!
Mel.Do not fear me.Thou dost not know me, madam; at the altarMy vengeance ceased—my guilty oath expired!Henceforth, no image of some marble saint,Niched in cathedral aisles, is hallowed moreFrom the rude hand of sacrilegious wrong.I am thy husband—nay, thou need'st not shudder!—Here, at thy feet, I lay a husband's rights.A marriage thus unholy—unfulfill'd—A bond of fraud—is, by the laws of France,Made void and null. To-night sleep—sleep in peace.To-morrow, pure and virgin as this mornI bore thee, bathed in blushes, from the shrine,Thy father's arms shall take thee to thy home.The law shall do thee justice, and restoreThy right to bless another with thy love.And when them art happy, and hast half forgotHim who so loved—so wrong'd thee, think at leastHeaven left some remnant of the angel stillIn that poor peasant's nature! Ho! my mother!
Mel.
Do not fear me.
Thou dost not know me, madam; at the altar
My vengeance ceased—my guilty oath expired!
Henceforth, no image of some marble saint,
Niched in cathedral aisles, is hallowed more
From the rude hand of sacrilegious wrong.
I am thy husband—nay, thou need'st not shudder!—
Here, at thy feet, I lay a husband's rights.
A marriage thus unholy—unfulfill'd—
A bond of fraud—is, by the laws of France,
Made void and null. To-night sleep—sleep in peace.
To-morrow, pure and virgin as this morn
I bore thee, bathed in blushes, from the shrine,
Thy father's arms shall take thee to thy home.
The law shall do thee justice, and restore
Thy right to bless another with thy love.
And when them art happy, and hast half forgot
Him who so loved—so wrong'd thee, think at least
Heaven left some remnant of the angel still
In that poor peasant's nature! Ho! my mother!
EnterWidow
Conduct this lady (she is not my wife;She is our guest—our honor'd guest, my mother)To the poor chamber, where the sleep of virtueNever, beneath my father's honest roof,E'en villains dared to mar! Now, lady, nowI think thou wilt believe me.Go, my mother!Widow.She is not thy wife!Mel.Hush, hush! for mercy's sake!Speak not, but go.
Conduct this lady (she is not my wife;She is our guest—our honor'd guest, my mother)To the poor chamber, where the sleep of virtueNever, beneath my father's honest roof,E'en villains dared to mar! Now, lady, nowI think thou wilt believe me.Go, my mother!
Conduct this lady (she is not my wife;
She is our guest—our honor'd guest, my mother)
To the poor chamber, where the sleep of virtue
Never, beneath my father's honest roof,
E'en villains dared to mar! Now, lady, now
I think thou wilt believe me.
Go, my mother!
Widow.She is not thy wife!
Widow.
She is not thy wife!
Mel.Hush, hush! for mercy's sake!Speak not, but go.
Mel.
Hush, hush! for mercy's sake!
Speak not, but go.
[ExitWidow. Paulinefollows, weeping—turns to look back.
All angels bless and guard her!
All angels bless and guard her!
All angels bless and guard her!
Characters: Rip Van Winkle; Derrick Von Beekman, the villain of the play, who endeavors to get Rip drunk, in order to have him sign away his property; Nick Vedder, the village innkeeper.Scene: The village inn; present, Von Beekman, alone.
Characters: Rip Van Winkle; Derrick Von Beekman, the villain of the play, who endeavors to get Rip drunk, in order to have him sign away his property; Nick Vedder, the village innkeeper.
Scene: The village inn; present, Von Beekman, alone.
EnterRip,shaking off the children, who cling about him
Rip[to the children]. Say! hullo, dere, yu Yacob Stein! Let that dog Schneider alone, will you? Dere, I tole you dat all de time, if you don'd let him alone he's goin' to bide you! Why, hullo, Derrick! How you was? Ach, my! Did youhear dem liddle fellers just now? Dey most plague me crazy. Ha, ha, ha! I like to laugh my outsides in every time I tink about it. Just now, as we was comin' along togedder, Schneider and me—I don'd know if you know Schneider myself? Well, he's my dog. Well, dem liddle fellers, dey took Schneider, und—ha, ha, ha!—dey—ha, ha, ha!—dey tied a tin kettle mit his tail! Ha, ha, ha! My gracious! Of you had seen dat dog run! My, how scared he was! Vell, he was a-runnin' an' de kettle was a-bangin' an'—ha, ha, ha! you believe it, dat dog, he run right betwixt me an' my legs! Ha, ha, ha! He spill me und all dem leddle fellers down in de mud togedder. Ha, ha, ha!
Von B.Ah, yes, that's all right, Rip, very funny, very funny; but what do you say to a glass of liquor, Rip?
Rip.Well, now, Derrick, what do I generally say to a glass? I generally say it's a good ting, don'd I? Und I generally say a good deal more to what is in it, dan to de glass.
Von B.Certainly, certainly! Say, hallo, there! Nick Vedder, bring out a bottle of your best!
Rip.Dat's right—fill 'em up. You wouldn't believe, Derrick, but dat is de first one I have had to-day. I guess maybe de reason is, I couldn't got it before. Ah, Derrick, my score is too big! Well, here is your good health und your family's—may dey all live long and prosper. [They drink.] Ach! you may well smack your lips, und go ah, ah! over dat liquor. You don'd give me such liquor like dat every day, Nick Vedder. Well, come on, fill 'em up again. Git out mit dat water, Nick Vedder, I don'd want no water in my liquor. Good liquor und water, Nick Vedder, is just like man and wife, dey don'd agree well togedder—dat's me und my wife, any way. Well, come on again. Here is your good health und your family's, und may dey all live long und prosper!
Nick Vedder.That's right, Rip; drink away, and "drown your sorrows in the flowing bowl."
Rip.Drown my sorrows? Ya, dat's all very well, but she don'd drown. My wife is my sorrow und you can't drown her; she tried it once, but she couldn't do it. What, didn't you hear about dat, de day what Gretchen she like to got drownded? Ach, my; dat's de funniest ting in de world. I'll tell you all about it. It was de same day what we got married. I bet I don'd forget dat day so long what I live. You know dat Hudson River what dey git dem boats over—well, dat's de same place. Well, you know dat boat what Gretchen she was a-goin' to come over in, dat got upsetted—ya, just went righd by der boddom. But she wasn't in de boat. Oh, no; if she had been in de boat, well, den, maybe she might have got drownded. You can't tell anyting at all about a ting like dat!
Von B.Ah, no; but I'm sure, Rip, if Gretchen were to fall into the water now, you would risk your life to save her.
Rip.Would I? Well, I am not so sure about dat myself. When we was first got married? Oh, ya; I know I would have done it den, but I don'd know how it would be now. But it would be a good deal more my duty now as it was den. Don'd you know, Derrick, when a man gits married a long time—mit his wife, he gits a good deal attached mit her, und it would be a good deal more my duty now as it was den. But I don'd know, Derrick. I am afraid if Gretchen should fall in de water now und should say, "Rip, Rip! help me oud"—I should say, "Mrs. Van Winkle, I will just go home and tink about it." Oh, no, Derrick; if Gretchen fall in de water now she's got to swim, I told you dat—ha, ha, ha, ha! Hullo! dat's her a-comin' now; I guess it's bedder I go oud!
[ExitRIP.
Characters: Rip Van Winkle; Gretchen, his wife; Meenie, their little daughter.Scene: The dimly lighted kitchen of Rip's cottage. Shortly after his conversation with Von Beekman, Rip's wife catches him carousing and dancing upon the village green. She drives him away in novery gentle fashion, and he runs away from her only to carouse the more. Returning home after nightfall in a decidedly muddled condition, he puts his head through the open window at the rear, not observing his irate wife, who stands in ambush behind the clothes-bars with her ever-ready broomstick, to give him a warm reception, but seeing only his little daughter Meenie, of whom he is very fond, and who also loves him very tenderly.
Characters: Rip Van Winkle; Gretchen, his wife; Meenie, their little daughter.
Scene: The dimly lighted kitchen of Rip's cottage. Shortly after his conversation with Von Beekman, Rip's wife catches him carousing and dancing upon the village green. She drives him away in novery gentle fashion, and he runs away from her only to carouse the more. Returning home after nightfall in a decidedly muddled condition, he puts his head through the open window at the rear, not observing his irate wife, who stands in ambush behind the clothes-bars with her ever-ready broomstick, to give him a warm reception, but seeing only his little daughter Meenie, of whom he is very fond, and who also loves him very tenderly.
Rip.Meenie! Meenie, my darlin'!
Meenie.Hush-sh-h. [Shaking finger, to indicate the presence of her mother.]
Rip.Eh! what's de matter? I don'd see not'ing, my darlin'.
Meenie.'Sh-sh-sh!
Rip.Eh! what? Say, Meenie, is de ole wild cat home?[Gretchencatches him quickly by the hair.] Oh, oh! say, is dat you, Gretchen? Say, dere, my darlin', my angel, don'd do dat. Let go my head, won'd you? Well, den, hold on to it so long what you like. [Gretchenreleases him.] Dere, now, look at dat, see what you done—you gone pull out a whole handful of hair. What you want to do a ting like dat for? You must want a bald-headed husband, don'd you?
Gretchen.Who was that you called a wild cat?
Rip.Who was dat I called a wild cat? Well, now, let me see, who was dat I called a wild cat? Dat must 'a' been de same time I come in de winder dere, wasn't it? Yes, I know, it was de same time. Well, now, let me see.[Suddenly.]It was de dog Schneider dat I call it.
Gretchen.The dog Schneider? That's a likely story.
Rip.Why, of course it is a likely story—ain't he my dog? Well, den, I call him a wild cat just so much what I like, so dere now. [Gretchen begins to weep.] Oh, well; dere, now, don'd you cry, don'd you cry, Gretchen; you hear what I said? Lisden now. If you don'd cry, I nefer drink anoder drop of liquor in my life.
Gretchen[crying]. Oh, Rip! you have said so many, many times, and you never kept your word yet.
Rip.Well, I say it dis time, and I mean it.
Gretchen. Oh, Rip! if I could only trust you.
Rip. You mustn't suspect me. Can't you see repentance in my eye?
Gretchen. Rip, if you will only keep your word, I shall be the happiest woman in the world.
Rip. You can believe it. I nefer drink anoder drop so long what I live, if you don'd cry.
Gretchen. Oh, Rip, how happy we shall be! And you'll get back all the village, Rip, just as you used to have it; and you'll fix up our little house so nicely; and you and I, and our little darling Meenie, here—how happy we shall be!
Rip. Dere, now! you can be just so happy what you like. Go in de odder room, go along mit you; I come in dere pooty quick. [ExitGretchenandMeenie.] My! I swore off from drinkin' so many, many times, and I never kept my word yet. [Taking out bottle.] I don'd believe dere is more as one good drink in dat bottle, anyway. It's a pity to waste it! You goin' to drink dat? Well, now, if you do, it is de last one, remember dat, old feller. Well, here is your goot held, und—
EnterGretchen,suddenly, who snatches the bottle from him.
Gretchen. Oh, you brute! you paltry thief!
Rip. Hold on dere, my dear, you will spill de liquor.
Gretchen. Yes, I will spill it, you drunken scoundrel. [Throwing away the bottle.] That's the last drop you ever drink under this roof.
Rip[slowly, after a moment's silence, as if stunned by her severity]. Eh! what?
Gretchen. Out, I say! you drink no more here.
Rip. What? Gretchen, are you goin' to drive me away?
Gretchen. Yes! Acre by acre, foot by foot, you have sold everything that ever belonged to you for liquor. Thank Heaven, this house is mine, and you can't sell it.
Rip[rapidly sobering, as he begins to realize the gravity of the situation].Yours? Yours? Ya, you are right—it is yours; I have got no home. [In broken tones, almost sobbing.] But where will I go?
Gretchen. Anywhere! out into the storm, to the mountains. There's the door—never let your face darken it again.
Rip. What, Gretchen! are you goin' to drive me away like a dog on a night like dis?
Gretchen. Yes; out with you! You have no longer a share in me or mine. [Breaking down and sobbing with the intensity of her passion.]
Rip[very slowly and quietly, but with great intensity]. Well, den, I will go; you have drive me away like a dog, Gretchen, and I will go. But remember, Gretchen, after what you have told me here to-night, I can never come back. You have open de door for me to go; you will never open it for me to return. But, Gretchen, you tell me dat I have no longer a chare here. [Points at the child, who kneels crying at his feet.] Good-by [with much emotion], my darlin'. God bless you! Don'd you nefer forgit your fader. Gretchen (with a great sob), I wipe de disgrace from your door. Good-by, good-by!
[ExitRipinto the storm.
FOOTNOTE:[80]Adapted by Mr. A. P. Burbank.
[80]Adapted by Mr. A. P. Burbank.
[80]Adapted by Mr. A. P. Burbank.
Characters: Mrs. Malaprop, with her bad grammar and ludicrous diction; Lydia Languish, in love with Beverley; Sir Anthony Absolute, choleric, but kind-hearted.Scene: A dressing room in Mrs. Malaprop's lodgings.
Characters: Mrs. Malaprop, with her bad grammar and ludicrous diction; Lydia Languish, in love with Beverley; Sir Anthony Absolute, choleric, but kind-hearted.
Scene: A dressing room in Mrs. Malaprop's lodgings.
EnterMrs. Malaprop, Lydia,andSir Anthony
Mrs. Malaprop. There, Sir Anthony, there stands the deliberate simpleton, who wants to disgrace her family and lavish herself on a fellow not worth a shilling.
Lydia. Madam, I thought you once—
Mrs. M. You thought, miss! I don't know any business you have to think at all: thought does not become a young woman. But the point we would request of you is, that you will promise to forget this fellow—to illiterate him, I say, from your memory.
Lyd. Ah, madam! our memories are independent of our wills. It is not so easy to forget.
Mrs. M. But I say it is, miss! there is nothing on earth so easy as to forget, if a person chooses to set about it. I'm sure I have as much forgot your poor dear uncle, as if he had never existed; and I thought it my duty so to do; and let me tell you, Lydia, these violent memories don't become a young woman.
Lyd. What crime, madam, have I committed, to be treated thus?
Mrs. M. Now don't attempt to extirpate yourself from the matter; you know I have proof controvertible of it. But tell me, will you promise me to do as you are bid? Will you take a husband of your friend's choosing?
Lyd. Madam, I must tell you plainly, that, had I no preference for any one else, the choice you have made would be my aversion.
Mrs. M. What business have you, miss, with preference and aversion? They don't become a young woman. But, suppose we were going to give you another choice, will you promise us to give up this Beverley?
Lyd. Could I belie my thoughts so far as to give that promise, my actions would certainly as far belie my words.
Mrs. M. Take yourself to your room! You are fit company for nothing but your own ill humors.
Lyd. Willingly, ma'am; I cannot change for the worse.
Mrs. M. There's a little intricate hussy for you! [Exit.
Sir A. It is not to be wondered at, ma'am; all that is the natural consequence of teaching girls to read. On my wayhither, Mrs. Malaprop, I observed your niece's maid coming forth from a circulating library: from that moment, I guessed how full of duty I should see her mistress!
Mrs. M. Those are vile places, indeed!
Sir A. Madam, a circulating library in a town is as an evergreen tree of diabolical knowledge!
Mrs. M. Fie, fie, Sir Anthony! you surely speak laconically.
Sir A. Why, Mrs. Malaprop, in moderation, now, what would you have a woman know?
Mrs. M. Observe me, Sir Anthony—I would by no means wish a daughter of mine to be a progeny of learning; I don't think so much learning becomes a young woman; for instance, I would never let her meddle with Greek, or Hebrew, or Algebra, or Simony, or Fluxions, or Paradoxes, or such inflammatory branches of learning; nor will it be necessary for her to handle any of your mathematical, astronomical, diabolical instruments; but, Sir Anthony, I would send her, at nine years old, to a boarding-school, in order to learn a little ingenuity and artifice. Then, sir, she should have a supercilious knowledge in accounts; and, as she grew up, I would have her instructed in geometry, that she might know something of the contagious countries; above all, she would be taught orthodoxy. This, Sir Anthony, is what I would have a woman know; and I don't think there is a superstitious article in it.
Sir A. Well, well, Mrs. Malaprop, I will dispute the point no further with you; though I must confess, that you are a truly moderate and polite arguer, for almost every third word you say is on my side of the question.—But to the more important point in debate—you say you have no objection to my proposal?
Mrs. M. None, I assure you. We have never seen your son, Sir Anthony; but I hope no objection on his side.
Sir A. Objection!—let him object, if he dare!—No, no, Mrs. Malaprop; Jack knows that the least demur putsme in a frenzy directly. My process was always very simple—in his younger days, 'twas "Jack, do this,"—if he demurred, I knocked him down; and, if he grumbled at that, I always sent him out of the room.
Mrs. M.Aye, and the properest way, o' my conscience!—Nothing is so conciliating to young people as severity. Well, Sir Anthony, I shall give Mr. Acres his discharge, and prepare Lydia to receive your son's invocations; and I hope you will represent her to the Captain as an object not altogether illegible.
Sir A.Madam, I will handle the subject prudently. I must leave you; and let me beg you, Mrs. Malaprop, to enforce this matter roundly to the girl—take my advice, keep a tight hand—if she rejects this proposal, clap her under lock and key; and if you were just to let the servants forget to bring her dinner for three or four days, you can't conceive how she'd come about.
Mrs. M.Well, at any rate, I shall be glad to get her from under my jurisprudence.
[Exit.
Characters: Sir Anthony Absolute; Captain Absolute, his son.Scene: Captain Absolute's lodgings.
Characters: Sir Anthony Absolute; Captain Absolute, his son.
Scene: Captain Absolute's lodgings.
EnterSir AnthonyandCaptain Absolute
Captain Absolute.Sir, I am delighted to see you here, and looking so well! Your sudden arrival at Bath made me apprehensive for your health.
Sir Anthony.Very apprehensive, I dare say, Jack. What, you are recruiting here, hey?
Capt. A.Yes, sir; I am on duty.
Sir A.Well, Jack, I am glad to see you, though I did not expect it; for I was going to write to you on a little matter of business. Jack, I have been considering that I grow old and infirm, and shall probably not trouble you long.
Capt. A.Pardon me, sir, I never saw you look more strong and hearty; and I pray fervently that you may continue so.
Sir A.I hope your prayers may be heard, with all my heart. Well, then, Jack, I have been considering that I am so strong and hearty, I may continue to plague you a long time. Now, Jack, I am sensible that the income of your commission, and what I have hitherto allowed you, is but a small pittance for a lad of your spirit.
Capt. A.Sir, you are very good.
Sir A.And it is my wish, while yet I live, to have my boy make some figure in the world. I have resolved, therefore, to fix you at once in a noble independence.
Capt. A.Sir, your kindness overpowers me. Such generosity makes the gratitude of reason more lively than the sensations even of filial affection.
Sir A.I am glad you are so sensible of my attention; and you shall be master of a large estate in a few weeks.
Capt. A.Let my future life, sir, speak my gratitude. I cannot express the sense I have of your munificence. Yet, sir, I presume you would not wish me to quit the army.
Sir A.Oh, that shall be as your wife chooses.
Capt. A.My wife, sir!
Sir A.Aye, aye, settle that between you—settle that between you.
Capt. A.A wife, sir, did you say?
Sir A.Aye, a wife—why, did not I mention her before?
Capt. A.Not a word of her, sir.
Sir A.Upon my word, I mustn't forget her, though! Yes, Jack, the independence I was talking of is by a marriage,—the fortune is saddled with a wife; but I suppose that makes no difference?
Capt. A.Sir, sir, you amaze me!
Sir A.What's the matter? Just now you were all gratitude and duty.
Capt. A.I was, sir; you talked to me of independence and a fortune, but not one word of a wife.
Sir A.Why, what difference does that make? Sir, if you have the estate, you must take it with the live stock on it, as it stands.
Capt. A.If my happiness is to be the price, I must beg leave to decline the purchase. Pray, sir, who is the lady?
Sir A.What's that to you, sir? Come, give me your promise to love, and to marry her directly.
Capt. A.Sure, sir, that's not very reasonable, to summon my affections for a lady I know nothing of!
Sir A.I am sure, sir, 'tis more unreasonable in you to object to a lady you know nothing of.
Capt. A.You must excuse me, sir, if I tell you, once for all, that on this point I cannot obey you.
Sir A.Hark you, Jack! I have heard you for some time with patience; I have been cool—quite cool; but take care; you know I am compliance itself, when I am not thwarted; no one more easily led—when I have my own way; but don't put me in a frenzy.
Capt. A.Sir, I must repeat it; in this I cannot obey you.
Sir A.Now, shoot me, if ever I call you Jack again while I live!
Capt. A.Nay, sir, but hear me.
Sir A.Sir, I won't hear a word—not a word!—not one word! So, give me your promise by a nod; and I'll tell you what, Jack,—I mean, you dog,—if you don't—
Capt. A.What, sir, promise to link myself to some mass of ugliness; to—
Sir A.Sir, the lady shall be as ugly as I choose; she shall have a lump on each shoulder; she shall be as crooked as the crescent; her one eye shall roll like the bull's in Cox's mu-se-um; she shall have a skin like a mummy, and thebeard of a Jew; she shall be all this, sir! yet I'll make you ogle her all day, and sit up all night to write sonnets on her beauty!
Capt. A. This is reason and moderation, indeed!
Sir A. None of your sneering, puppy!—no grinning, jackanapes!
Capt. A. Indeed, sir, I never was in a worse humor for mirth in my life.
Sir A. 'Tis false, sir! I know you are laughing in your sleeve; I know you'll grin when I am gone, sir!
Capt. A. Sir, I hope I know my duty better.
Sir A. None of your passion, sir! none of your violence, if you please! It won't do with me, I promise you.
Capt. A. Indeed, sir, I never was cooler in my life.
Sir A. I know you are in a passion in your heart; I know you are, you hypocritical young dog! But it won't do!
Capt. A. Nay, sir, upon my word—
Sir A. So, you will fly out? Can't you be cool, like me? What good can passion do? Passion is of no service, you impudent, insolent, overbearing reprobate! There, you sneer again! Don't provoke me! But you rely upon the mildness of my temper, you do, you dog! You play upon the meekness of my disposition! Yet take care; the patience of a saint may be overcome at last! But, mark! I give you six hours and a half to consider of this: if you then agree, without any condition, to do everything on earth that I choose, why, I may, in time, forgive you. If not, don't enter the same hemisphere with me; don't dare to breathe the same air, or use the same light, with me; but get an atmosphere and a sun of your own! I'll strip you of your commission; I'll lodge a five-and-threepence in the hands of trustees, and you shall live on the interest! I'll disown you, I'll disinherit you! I'll never call you Jack again! [Exit.
Capt. A. Mild, gentle, considerate father! I kiss your hand.
Characters: Sir Anthony Absolute; Captain Absolute.Scene: The North Parade. Captain Absolute has discovered that the lady whom his father so peremptorily commanded him to marry is none other than Lydia Languish with whom he, under the name of Beverley, was plotting an elopement.
Characters: Sir Anthony Absolute; Captain Absolute.
Scene: The North Parade. Captain Absolute has discovered that the lady whom his father so peremptorily commanded him to marry is none other than Lydia Languish with whom he, under the name of Beverley, was plotting an elopement.
EnterCaptain Absolute
Capt. A. 'Tis just as Fag told me, indeed!—Whimsical enough, 'faith! My father wants to force me to marry the very girl I am plotting to run away with! He must not know of my connection with her yet awhile. He has too summary a method of proceeding in these matters; however, I'll read my recantation instantly. My conversion is something sudden, indeed; but I can assure him, it is very sincere.—So, so, here he comes. He looks plaguy gruff! [Steps aside.
EnterSir Anthony
Sir A. No—I'll die sooner than forgive him! Die, did I say? I'll live these fifty years to plague him. At our last meeting, his impudence had almost put me out of temper—an obstinate, passionate, self-willed boy! This is my return for putting him, at twelve years old, into a marching regiment, and allowing him fifty pounds a year, besides his pay, ever since! But I have done with him—he's anybody's son for me—I never will see him more—never—never—never—never.
Capt. A. Now for a penitential face!
[Comes forward.
Sir A. Fellow, get out of my way!
Capt. A. Sir, you see a penitent before you.
Sir A. I see an impudent scoundrel before me.
Capt. A. A sincere penitent. I am come, sir, to acknowledge my error, and to submit entirely to your will.
Sir A. What's that?
Capt. A. I have been revolving, and reflecting, and considering on your past goodness, and kindness, and condescension to me.
Sir A.Well, sir?
Capt. A.I have been likewise weighing and balancing, what you were pleased to mention concerning duty, and obedience, and authority.
Sir A.Why, now you talk sense, absolute sense; I never heard anything more sensible in my life. Confound you, you shall be Jack again!
Capt. A.I am happy in the appellation.
Sir A.Why then, Jack, my dear Jack, I will now inform you who the lady really is. Nothing but your passion and violence, you silly fellow, prevented me telling you at first. Prepare, Jack, for wonder and rapture—prepare! What think you of Miss Lydia Languish?
Capt. A.Languish! What, the Languishes of Worcestershire?
Sir A.Worcestershire! No! Did you never meet Mrs. Malaprop, and her niece, Miss Languish, who came into our country just before you were last ordered to your regiment?
Capt. A.Malaprop! Languish! I don't remember ever to have heard the name before. Yet, stay: I think I do recollect something. Languish, Languish! She squints, don't she? A little red-haired girl?
Sir A.Squints! A red-haired girl! Zounds, no!
Capt. A.Then I must have forgot; it can't be the same person.
Sir A.Jack, Jack! what think you of blooming, love-breathing seventeen?
Capt. A.As to that, sir, I am quite indifferent: if I can please you in the matter, 'tis all I desire.
Sir A.Nay, but, Jack, such eyes! such eyes! so innocently wild! so bashfully irresolute! Not a glance but speaks andkindles some thought of love! Then, Jack, her cheeks! her cheeks, Jack! so deeply blushing at the insinuations of her tell-tale eyes! Then, Jack, her lips! Oh, Jack, lips, smiling at their own discretion! and, if not smiling, more sweetly pouting, more lovely in sullenness! Then, Jack, her neck! Oh! Jack! Jack!
Capt. A.And which is to be mine, sir; the niece, or the aunt?
Sir A.Why, you unfeeling, insensible puppy, I despise you! When I was of your age, such a description would have made me fly like a rocket! The aunt, indeed! Odds life! when I ran away with your mother, I would not have touched anything old or ugly to gain an empire.
Capt. A.Not to please your father, sir?
Sir A.To please my father—zounds! not to please—Oh! my father? Oddso! yes, yes! if my father, indeed, had desired—that's quite another matter. Though he wasn't the indulgent father that I am, Jack.
Capt. A.I dare say not, sir.
Sir A.But, Jack, you are not sorry to find your mistress is so beautiful?
Capt. A.Sir, I repeat it, if I please you in this affair, 'tis all I desire. Not that I think a woman the worse for being handsome; but, sir, if you please to recollect, you before hinted something about a hump or two, one eye, and a few more graces of that kind. Now, without being very nice, I own I should rather choose a wife of mine to have the usual number of limbs, and a limited quantity of back; and though one eye may be very agreeable, yet, as the prejudice has always run in favor of two, I would not wish to affect a singularity in that article.
Sir A.What a phlegmatic sot it is! Why, sirrah, you are an anchorite! a vile, insensible stock! You a soldier! you're a walking block, fit only to dust the company's regimentals on! Odds life, I've a great mind to marry the girl myself!
Capt. A.I am entirely at your disposal, sir; if you shouldthink of addressing Miss Languish yourself, I suppose you would have me marry the aunt; or if you should change your mind, and take the old lady, 'tis the same to me—I'll marry the niece.
Sir A.Upon my word, Jack, thou art either a very great hypocrite, or—but, come, I know your indifference on such a subject must be all a lie—I'm sure it must. Come, now, off with your demure face; come, confess, Jack, you have been lying, ha'nt you? You have been playing the hypocrite, hey? I'll never forgive you, if you ha'nt been lying and playing the hypocrite.
Capt. A.I am sorry, sir, that the respect and duty which I bear to you, should be so mistaken.
Sir A.Hang your respect and duty! But come along with me. I'll write a note to Mrs. Malaprop, and you shall visit the lady directly. Her eyes shall be the Promethean torch to you; come along, I'll never forgive you, if you don't come back stark mad with rapture and impatience; if you don't, 'egad, I'll marry the girl myself!
[Exeunt.
Characters: Mrs. Malaprop; Lydia; Captain Absolute known to Lydia as "Beverley"; Sir Anthony; Servant.
Characters: Mrs. Malaprop; Lydia; Captain Absolute known to Lydia as "Beverley"; Sir Anthony; Servant.
EnterMrs. MalapropandLydia
Mrs M.Why, thou perverse one!—tell me what you can object to in him?—Isn't he a handsome man?—tell me that. A genteel man? a pretty figure of a man?
Lyd.She little thinks whom she is praising. [Aside.] So is Beverley, ma'am.
Mrs. M.No caparisons, miss, if you please. Caparisons don't become a young woman. No! Captain Absolute is indeed a fine gentleman.
Lyd.Ay, the Captain Absolute you have seen. [Aside.
Mrs. M.Then he's so well bred;—so full of alacrity and adulation!—He has so much to say for himself, in such goodlanguage, too. His physiognomy so grammatical; then his presence so noble! I protest, when I saw him, I thought of what Hamlet says in the play:—"Hesperian curls—the front of Job himself! an eye, like March, to threaten at command! a station, like Harry Mercury, new"—Something about kissing—on a hill—however, the similitude struck me directly.
Lyd. How enraged she'll be presently, when she discovers her mistake! [Aside.
EnterServant
Serv. Sir Anthony and Captain Absolute are below, ma'am.
Mrs. M.Show them up here. [ExitServant.] Now, Lydia, I insist on your behaving as becomes a young woman. Show your good breeding, at least, though you have forgot your duty.
Lyd. Madam, I have told you my resolution; I shall not only give him no encouragement, but I won't even speak to, or look at him.
[Flings herself into a chair, with her face from the door.
EnterSir AnthonyandCaptain Absolute
Sir A. Here we are, Mrs. Malaprop; come to mitigate the frowns of unrelenting beauty,—and difficulty enough I had to bring this fellow. I don't know what's the matter, but if I had not held him by force he'd have given me the slip.
Mrs. M. You have infinite trouble, Sir Anthony, in the affair. I am ashamed for the cause! Lydia, Lydia, rise, I beseech you!—pay your respects!
[Aside to her.
Sir A. I hope, madam, that Miss Languish has reflected on the worth of this gentleman, and the regard due to her aunt's choice, and my alliance. Now, Jack, speak to her.
[Aside to him.
Capt. A. What the devil shall I do? [Aside.]—You see, sir, she won't even look at me while you are here. I knew shewouldn't!—I told you so.—Let me entreat you, sir, to leave us together!
Mrs. M. I am sorry to say, Sir Anthony, that my affluence over my niece is very small. Turn round, Lydia, I blush for you!
[Aside to her.
Sir A. Why don't you begin, Jack? Zounds! sirrah! why don't you speak?
[Aside to him.
Capt. A. Hem! hem! Madam—hem! [Captain Absoluteattempts to speak, then returns toSir Anthony.] 'Faith! sir, I am so confounded!—and so—so confused! I told you I should be so, sir,—I knew it. The—the tremor of my passion entirely takes away my presence of mind.
Sir A. But it don't take away your voice, does it? Go up, and speak to her directly!
Capt. A. [draws nearLydia]. [Aside.] Now heaven send she may be too sullen to look round! I must disguise my voice.—Will not Miss Languish lend an ear to the mild accents of true love? Will not—
Sir A. Why don't you speak out?—not stand croaking like a frog in a quinsey!
Capt. A. The—the—excess of my awe, and my—my modesty quite choke me!
Sir A. Ah! your modesty again! Mrs. Malaprop, I wish the lady would favor us with something more than a side-front.
[Mrs. Malapropseems to chideLydia.
Capt. A. So! all will out, I see! [Goes up toLydia,speaks softly.] Be not surprised, my Lydia, suppress all surprise at present.
Lyd. [aside]. Heavens! 'tis Beverley's voice!—[Looks round by degrees, then starts up.] Is this possible!—my Beverley! how can this be?—my Beverley!
Capt. A. Ah! 'tis all over! [Aside.
Sir A. Beverley!—the devil—Beverley! What can the girl mean? This is my son, Jack Absolute.
Mrs. M. For shame! for shame!—your head runs so on that fellow, that you have him always in your eyes! beg Captain Absolute's pardon, directly.
Lyd. I see no Captain Absolute, but my loved Beverley!
Sir A. Zounds, the girl's mad!—her brain's turned by reading!
Mrs. M. O' my conscience, I believe so!—what do you mean by Beverley?—you saw Captain Absolute before to-day, there he is: your husband that shall be.
Lyd. With all my soul, ma'am—when I refuse my Beverley—
Sir A. Oh! she's as mad as Bedlam!—or has this fellow been playing us a rogue's trick? Come here, sirrah, who the devil are you?
Capt. A. 'Faith, sir, I am not quite clear myself; but I'll endeavor to recollect.
Sir A. Are you my son, or not?—answer for your mother, you dog, if you won't for me.
Capt. A. Ye powers of impudence, befriend me!—[Aside.]—Sir Anthony, most assuredly I am your wife's son; Mrs. Malaprop, I am your most respectful admirer, and shall be proud to add affectionate nephew. I need not tell my Lydia that she sees her faithful Beverley, who, knowing the singular generosity of her temper, assumed that name, and a station, which has proved a test of the most disinterested love, which he now hopes to enjoy, in a more elevated character.
Lyd. So!—there will be no elopement after all!
Sir A. Upon my soul, Jack, thou art a very impudent fellow! To do you justice, I think I never saw a piece of more consummate assurance! Well, I am glad you are not the dull insensible varlet you pretend to be, however! I'm glad you have made a fool of your father, you dog—I am. So, this was your penitence, your duty, and obedience! Ah! you dissembling villain! Come, we must leave themtogether, Mrs. Malaprop; they long to fly into each other's arms. I warrant! Come, Mrs. Malaprop, we'll not disturb their tenderness; theirs is the time of life for happiness! [Sings.]Youth's the season made for joy—hey! odds life! I'm in such spirits! Permit me, ma'am.
[Gives his hand toMrs. Malaprop.Exit singing, and handing her off. ExitCaptain AbsolutewithLydiain the opposite direction.
Characters: Beau Brummell, a fastidious aristocrat with luxurious tastes and a depleted fortune; Isidore, his valet; Mr. Fotherby, his aspiring young protégé.Scene: A handsome apartment in Brummell's house, Calais, France. Isidore discovered, in chair, looking over his master's toilette table.
Characters: Beau Brummell, a fastidious aristocrat with luxurious tastes and a depleted fortune; Isidore, his valet; Mr. Fotherby, his aspiring young protégé.
Scene: A handsome apartment in Brummell's house, Calais, France. Isidore discovered, in chair, looking over his master's toilette table.
Isidore. Twenty shirts a week, twenty-four pocket-handkerchiefs, to say nothing of thirty cravats and twelve waistcoats—indeed, for people that cannot pay their servants! Well, he owes me just six thousand three hundred and thirty-seven francs, ten sous. [Picks up paper.] Ah, I see, I'm in the list. It costs something to have the honor of serving Mr. Brummell—to be chamberlain to His Majesty, the King of Calais! But he is a wonderful man! People almost thank him for condescending to be in their debt; still, much as I esteem the honor, I can't afford it any longer, nor can the laundress, nor can the hairdresser. Eight hundred francs a year for washing! Three clean shirts a day, three cravats! Boots blacked, soles and all, and with such varnish! But then he has such exquisite taste! why, he blackballed a friend of his who wanted to enter his club, because the candidate's boots were polished with bad blacking. I wonder whether the king will do anythingfor him? It is Mr. Brummell's dressing hour, and here he comes.
[EnterBrummell,letter in hand.Isidorebusies himself piling cravats upon the side of dressing table, and wheels chair to the mirror.Brummellthrows himself in the chair before the glass, examines the cravats and throws two or three of them away.
Brummell. Isidore, take those dusters away; the chambermaid has forgotten them. [Re-reads the letter.] Strange girl this; the only thing I know against her is that she takes soup twice. It's the old story. Her father wants her to marry a fellow who can keep her, and she wants to have a young fellow who can't. Well, the young fellow who can't is the more interesting of the two. I must ask the father to dinner I suppose—it's a deuced bore; but it will put him under a heavy obligation. I must make excuses to Ballarat and Gill. Isidore, when I'm dressed take my compliments to Mr. Davis, and tell him I shall be happy to see him at dinner to-day.
Isid. Very well, sir. [Aside.] To Davis, a retired fellow from the city! This is a tumble!—I am sorry to trouble you, sir, but——
Brum. I can't talk to you to-day, Isidore. Give me a cravat.
Isid. [handing one]. I am a poor man, and six thousand francs——
Brum. I understand, Isidore. We'll see—we'll see; don't disturb me. Zounds! man, haven't you been long enough with me to know that these are not moments when I can speak or listen? [Bell rings.] If that be Mr. Fotherby, show him in. [ExitIsidore.] I intend to form that young fellow—there's stuff in him. I've noticed that he uses my blacking. [EnterFotherbyfollowed byIsidore.] How d'e do, Fotherby?
Fotherby. This admittance is an honor, indeed, sir!
Brum. My dear fellow, why, what do you call those things upon your feet?
Fother. Things on my feet! Shoes, to be sure!
Brum. Shoes! I thought they were slippers!
Fother. You prefer boots then, sir, doubtless?
Brum. Well, let me see. Humph! Isidore, which do I prefer, boots or shoes?
Isid. The Hessian was always your favorite, sir, in London.
Brum. Right, Isidore—so it was. By-the-bye, I have asked Davis here to-day. It was a great sacrifice; but as you and the young lady want to have the old gentleman melted, I resigned myself. I hope he'll keep his knife out of his mouth.
Fother. We shall be eternally grateful to you, sir. He wanted Helen to become old Armand's wife next week.
Brum. I think he's right; and but for one circumstance, I should be on Armand's side of the question.
Fother. And this circumstance?
Brum. The brute has a toothpick in his waistcoat pocket, or in the thing that serves him for a waistcoat—an instrument that, he says, has been in his family the last fifty years. Conceive, my dear Fotherby, an hereditary toothpick! No, Mr. Davis does not deserve that fate. And now let me give you a bit of advice. Never wear perfumes, but fine linen, plenty of it, and country washing. Look at you now, my good fellow, you are dressed in execrable taste—all black and white, like a magpie. Still, never be remarkable. The severest mortification a gentleman can incur, is to attract observation in the street by his dress. Everything should fit without a fault. You can't tell what this has cost me—but then it is a coat—while that thing you wear—I really don't know what we can call it.
Fother. Still, sir, under your guidance I shall improve. By the way, my mother asked me to invite you to take tea with us in our humble way.
Brum.Really, my good young friend, you surprise me. Don't you know that you take medicine—you take a walk—you take a liberty—but you drink tea! My dear Fotherby, never be bearer of such a dreadful message again. Isidore! has my Paris wig arrived? Any card or letter?
Isid.No cards, sir. The wig arrived by the diligence.
Brun.Is the wig fit to put on?
Isid.I have been examining it, and, as the times go, I think it will do. There is one of the side locks not quite to my taste.
Brum.Ah! a mat, no doubt—a door-mat! [ExitIsidore.ToFotherby.] You see what a gentleman may be reduced to! It's the most fortunate thing in the world that I never fell in love!
Fother.But were you never in love?—never engaged?
Brum.Engaged?—why, yes, something of the kind; but I discovered that the lady positively ate cabbage, and so I broke it off.
Fother.And so, sir, you will persuade the old gentleman to postpone Helen's marriage with Armand—while I——
Brum.My dear young friend, I will tell the old gentleman to do so—you must see that I could not possibly think of persuading a person who grows onions in his garden——
Fother.We shall be eternally grateful——
Brum.For three weeks exactly—from which time you, at all events, will begin to wish that I had confined my attention to my own particular affairs. But the world is ungrateful. I once waved my hand to a saddler's son from White's window. Well, sir, I owed him five hundred pounds, and he had afterwards the assurance to ask me for it.
Fother.You astonish me!
Brum.Positive fact. So be cautious, young man, and in your way through life—if you wave your hand to such a fellow, let it be over a stamped receipt.
Fother.I shall follow your counsel most scrupulously.
Brum.There, sir, never let me see you again in those gloves! These, sir, [showing his] are the only gloves for a gentleman. Pray leave me—I can't bear the sight of them. Meantime, tell your betrothed that I shall do everything in my power to secure your unhappiness. I have already spoken to Lord Ballarat about you. I told him you were the laziest fellow and the best dresser in the town—in fact, cut out by nature to serve the government. Good-bye—I shall ask you to dine with me some of these days—but not yet awhile—you must work up to that. And now, Fotherby, to show you how deep an interest I take in your welfare, you shall give me your arm to the ramparts.
[Exeunt.
Characters: Brummell; Isidore; Fotherby; Nurse; another Old Woman; Landlord; Waiter.Scene: Brummell's lodgings in a miserable apartment house at Caen, France. Eight years have elapsed. With no means of livelihood and pursued by creditors, Brummell is now reduced to abject poverty, broken health, and a deranged mind. He is thrown among people of low rank and is subjected to many indignities; but to the last he clings to his fastidious tastes and is a gentleman among imaginary aristocrats.
Characters: Brummell; Isidore; Fotherby; Nurse; another Old Woman; Landlord; Waiter.
Scene: Brummell's lodgings in a miserable apartment house at Caen, France. Eight years have elapsed. With no means of livelihood and pursued by creditors, Brummell is now reduced to abject poverty, broken health, and a deranged mind. He is thrown among people of low rank and is subjected to many indignities; but to the last he clings to his fastidious tastes and is a gentleman among imaginary aristocrats.
Old Nurse.in high Norman cap, discovered seated in arm chair, mending stockings; anotherWomannear her.
Nurse.Yes, my dear, clean out of his mind—that's what he's gone.
Old Woman.Deary me!
Nurse.Aye, and there be folks as says he was once as neat and tidy as a new sixpence. Now he's as dirty as a George the First halfpenny!
Old W.Deary me!
Nurse.Aye, child, and he knew lords and dooks—and such like—now it's anybody as'll give him a dinner. It's time they did something with him—for put up with his going'son any longer, I cannot! A nuss's is a horrid life, ain't it, child?
Old W.'Orrid—deary me! So this very afternoon that's comin', he's to go?
Nurse.Aye, child—the landlord's goin' to offer to take him for a walk, which'll please him—and then take him off to see if the nuns'll have charity upon him—if not, there's nothing but the street. He wouldn't go if he know'd it—still he hasn't a copper coin—he's as cunning as any fox. Have a little drop of somethin' comfortable, child!
Old W.Deary me!—at this time of day—but I do feel a sinking!
Nurse.It'll do you a world of good. [Getting bottle—a knock.] Lawk! what an awkward hour for people to call! [Knock again.]
Old W.Deary me! Perhaps it's Mr. Brummell.
Nurse.Not it! It's more than he dare do, to knock twice like that. It's his old man-servant, come to take off that there dirty screen. [Opens door.]
EnterBrummell—muddy—supported byIsidore
Brum.Isidore, give me my dressing gown!
Isid.Dressing gown! that's good—why I never put my own on nowadays!
Brum.[talking to himself]. That screen mustn't go—nor the duchess's armchair. [Turning toNurse.] Mind that, nurse, whatever happens to me, this chair and the screen remain. Ha! ha! what would Ballarat say, if——
Nurse.There, never mind them folks. Pull your coat off, and put your dressing gown on, do!
Brum.Dear me! I hope the ices will be better—the punch I've seen to! The duchess shall sit here.
Nurse[toOld Woman]. That's how he goes on nearly every day. The high folks he knew have turned his head.Sometimes he makes one of the waiters announce a lot of folks, as never come, while he, like an old fool, bows to nobody, and hands nothing to that old chair.
Old W.What work it must give you.
Nurse[toBrummell]. There, take that muddy coat off, nobody's coming to-day.
Brum.Leave the room and see that everything is ready.
Nurse.Drat it. [Rings the bell.] I must have the waiter up. He'll soon manage him.
Brum.[rising, totters forward, and arranges his shabby dress]. Well, now I'm ready! Hark! I think I hear the first carriage. Sir Harry, no doubt.
EnterWaiter
Nurse.Just see to this old man—make him change his coat, for I can't.
Waiter.Well, this is the last of it. Master says he may sleep in the streets, but he doesn't stay here another night if he knows it. They won't have him at the asylum without money, and he hasn't a rap.
Nurse.Nor a stick; for there's little enough left to pay my poor wages.
Waiter[toBrummell]. Come, off with the coat!
Brum.My good fellow, leave it me to-night. I've a few friends coming. Hush! there's the first arrival. Pray, my good sir, see to my guests.
Waiter.Well, let's humor the old blade once more—he'll be in the streets to-morrow.
Nurse[toOld Woman]. Just notice this tomfoolery, child.
Old W.Deary me! it almost frightens me. See how pleased he is.
Waiter.Sir Harry Gill!
Brum.[advancing ceremoniously, and holding out his hand, and coming down, as though talking to somebody at his side].My dear Harry, I'm delighted to see you. Were you at the opera last night?
Nurse[toOld Woman]. Did you ever hear the like of it?
Waiter.Here goes again! [Goes as before to door, and throws it open.] Lord Ballarat!
Brum.[advancing as before, and receiving imaginary visitor]. My good fellow, I'm sorry I missed you at the club the other night; but I went into the duchess's box, and——
Waiter.I must stop this. The duchess always comes last, and then he's satisfied. [Throwing open the door, and calling pompously.] Her Highness the Duchess of Canterbury.
Brum.[totters to door, bowing very profoundly, and handing the imaginary duchess to his armchair—leans over the chair, and bows frequently as he talks]. Your highness is too good! This is indeed an honor. Permit me the satisfaction of handing you to your seat. And is the duke well? And little Nutmeg—is his ear better? Poor little fellow! I hope you will allow me to give him a charming little collar I have for him.
Waiter.There, that'll do! [ToBrummell.] Come, now, they're all gone—take your coat off.
Brum.[starting, and falling into chair]. Yes, gone—gone—true—they're gone! [Waiterhelps him to take his coat off.] Give me my cap! [Nurseputs his old velvet cap on.]
Waiter.[going]. Call me up again, nurse, if he won't mind you. Do you hear what I say, Mr. Brummell?
Brum.Yes—yes—I'll be very good, nurse—I'll be very good.
Waiter.Well, it will be a lucky day when we get rid of this business!
[Exit.
Old W.But think of the poor creature turned into the streets! He'd die upon the nighest door-step!
Nurse.Can't be helped—out he goes to-night and no mistake! I'll nuss him no longer—and the landlord wants theroom. The men are comin' to whitewash it at sunrise to-morrow.