Produced by Kent Cooper
The RIVALS
A Comedy
By Richard Brinsley Sheridan
* * * * * * *
PREFACE
A preface to a play seems generally to be considered as a kind of closet-prologue, in which—if his piece has been successful—the author solicits that indulgence from the reader which he had before experienced from the audience: but as the scope and immediate object of a play is to please a mixed assembly in representation (whose judgment in the theatre at least is decisive,) its degree of reputation is usually as determined as public, before it can be prepared for the cooler tribunal of the study. Thus any farther solicitude on the part of the writer becomes unnecessary at least, if not an intrusion: and if the piece has been condemned in the performance, I fear an address to the closet, like an appeal to posterity, is constantly regarded as the procrastination of a suit, from a consciousness of the weakness of the cause. From these considerations, the following comedy would certainly have been submitted to the reader, without any farther introduction than what it had in the representation, but that its success has probably been founded on a circumstance which the author is informed has not before attended a theatrical trial, and which consequently ought not to pass unnoticed.
I need scarcely add, that the circumstance alluded to was the withdrawing of the piece, to remove those imperfections in the first representation which were too obvious to escape reprehension, and too numerous to admit of a hasty correction. There are few writers, I believe, who, even in the fullest consciousness of error, do not wish to palliate the faults which they acknowledge; and, however trifling the performance, to second their confession of its deficiencies, by whatever plea seems least disgraceful to their ability. In the present instance, it cannot be said to amount either to candour or modesty in me, to acknowledge an extreme inexperience and want of judgment on matters, in which, without guidance from practice, or spur from success, a young man should scarcely boast of being an adept. If it be said, that under such disadvantages no one should attempt to write a play, I must beg leave to dissent from the position, while the first point of experience that I have gained on the subject is, a knowledge of the candour and judgment with which an impartial public distinguishes between the errors of inexperience and incapacity, and the indulgence which it shows even to a disposition to remedy the defects of either.
It were unnecessary to enter into any further extenuation of what was thought exceptionable in this play, but that it has been said, that the managers should have prevented some of the defects before its appearance to the public—and in particular the uncommon length of the piece as represented the first night. It were an ill return for the most liberal and gentlemanly conduct on their side, to suffer any censure to rest where none was deserved. Hurry in writing has long been exploded as an excuse for an author;—however, in the dramatic line, it may happen, that both an author and a manager may wish to fill a chasm in the entertainment of the public with a hastiness not altogether culpable. The season was advanced when I first put the play into Mr. Harris's hands: it was at that time at least double the length of any acting comedy. I profited by his judgment and experience in the curtailing of it—till, I believe, his feeling for the vanity of a young author got the better of his desire for correctness, and he left many excrescences remaining, because he had assisted in pruning so many more. Hence, though I was not uninformed that the acts were still too long, I flattered myself that, after the first trial, I might with safer judgment proceed to remove what should appear to have been most dissatisfactory. Many other errors there were, which might in part have arisen from my being by no means conversant with plays in general, either in reading or at the theatre. Yet I own that, in one respect, I did not regret my ignorance: for as my first wish in attempting a play was to avoid every appearance of plagiary, I thought I should stand a better chance of effecting this from being in a walk which I had not frequented, and where, consequently, the progress of invention was less likely to be interrupted by starts of recollection: for on subjects on which the mind has been much informed, invention is slow of exerting itself. Faded ideas float in the fancy like half-forgotten dreams; and the imagination in its fullest enjoyments becomes suspicious of its offspring, and doubts whether it has created or adopted.
With regard to some particular passages which on the first night's representation seemed generally disliked, I confess, that if I felt any emotion of surprise at the disapprobation, it was not that they were disapproved of, but that I had not before perceived that they deserved it. As some part of the attack on the piece was begun too early to pass for the sentence of judgment, which is ever tardy in condemning, it has been suggested to me, that much of the disapprobation must have arisen from virulence of malice, rather than severity of criticism: but as I was more apprehensive of there being just grounds to excite the latter than conscious of having deserved the former, I continue not to believe that probable, which I am sure must have been unprovoked. However, if it was so, and I could even mark the quarter from whence it came, it would be ungenerous to retort: for no passion suffers more than malice from disappointment. For my own part, I see no reason why the author of a play should not regard a first night's audience as a candid and judicious friend attending, in behalf of the public, at his last rehearsal. If he can dispense with flattery, he is sure at least of sincerity, and even though the annotation be rude, he may rely upon the justness of the comment. Considered in this light, that audience, whose fiat is essential to the poet's claim, whether his object be fame or profit, has surely a right to expect some deference to its opinion, from principles of politeness at least, if not from gratitude.
As for the little puny critics, who scatter their peevish strictures in private circles, and scribble at every author who has the eminence of being unconnected with them, as they are usually spleen-swoln from a vain idea of increasing their consequence, there will always be found a petulance and illiberality in their remarks, which should place them as far beneath the notice of a gentleman, as their original dulness had sunk them from the level of the most unsuccessful author.
It is not without pleasure that I catch at an opportunity of justifying myself from the charge of intending any national reflection in the character of Sir Lucius O'Trigger. If any gentlemen opposed the piece from that idea, I thank them sincerely for their opposition; and if the condemnation of this comedy (however misconceived the provocation) could have added one spark to the decaying flame of national attachment to the country supposed to be reflected on, I should have been happy in its fate, and might with truth have boasted, that it had done more real service in its failure, than the successful morality of a thousand stage-novels will ever effect.
It is usual, I believe, to thank the performers in a new play, for the exertion of their several abilities. But where (as in this instance) their merit has been so striking and uncontroverted, as to call for the warmest and truest applause from a number of judicious audiences, the poet's after-praise comes like the feeble acclamation of a child to close the shouts of a multitude. The conduct, however, of the principals in a theatre cannot be so apparent to the public. I think it therefore but justice to declare, that from this theatre (the only one I can speak of from experience) those writers who wish to try the dramatic line will meet with that candour and liberal attention, which are generally allowed to be better calculated to lead genius into excellence, than either the precepts of judgment, or the guidance of experience.
The AUTHOR
* * * * * * *
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
As originally acted at COVENT GARDEN THEATRE in 1775
Sir ANTHONY ABSOLUTE
CAPTAIN ABSOLUTE
FAULKLAND
ACRES
Sir LUCIUS O'TRIGGER
FAG
DAVID
THOMAS
Mrs. MALAPROP
LYDIA LANGUISH
JULIA
LUCY
Maid, Boy, Servants, &c.
SCENE—Bath.
Time of action—Five hours.
* * * * * * *
PROLOGUE
By the AUTHOR
[Enter SERJEANT-AT-LAW, and ATTORNEY following, and giving a paper.]
SERJEANT
What's here!—a vile cramp hand! I cannot see
Without my spectacles.
ATTORNEY
He means his fee.
Nay, Mr. Serjeant, good sir, try again. [Gives money.]
SERJEANT
The scrawl improves! [more] O come, 'tis pretty plain.
Hey! how's this? Dibble!—sure it cannot be!
A poet's brief! a poet and a fee!
ATTORNEY
Yes, sir! though you without reward, I know,
Would gladly plead the Muse's cause.
SERJEANT
So!—so!
ATTORNEY
And if the fee offends, your wrath should fall
On me.
SERJEANT
Dear Dibble, no offence at all.
ATTORNEY
Some sons of Phoebus in the courts we meet,
SERJEANT
And fifty sons of Phoebus in the Fleet!
ATTORNEY
Nor pleads he worse, who with a decent sprig
Of bays adorns his legal waste of wig.
SERJEANT
Full-bottom'd heroes thus, on signs, unfurl
A leaf of laurel in a grove of curl!
Yet tell your client, that, in adverse days,
This wig is warmer than a bush of bays.
ATTORNEY
Do you, then, sir, my client's place supply,
Profuse of robe, and prodigal of tie—
Do you, with all those blushing powers of face,
And wonted bashful hesitating grace,
Rise in the court, and flourish on the case. [Exit.]
SERJEANT
For practice then suppose—this brief will show it,—
Me, Serjeant Woodward,—counsel for the poet.
Used to the ground, I know 'tis hard to deal
With this dread court, from whence there's no appeal;
No tricking here, to blunt the edge of law,
Or, damn'd in equity, escape by flaw:
But judgment given, your sentence must remain;
No writ of error lies—to Drury Lane:
Yet when so kind you seem, 'tis past dispute
We gain some favour, if not costs of suit.
No spleen is here! I see no hoarded fury;—
I think I never faced a milder jury!
Sad else our plight! where frowns are transportation.
A hiss the gallows, and a groan damnation!
But such the public candour, without fear
My client waives all right of challenge here.
No newsman from our session is dismiss'd,
Nor wit nor critic we scratch off the list;
His faults can never hurt another's ease,
His crime, at worst, a bad attempt to please:
Thus, all respecting, he appeals to all,
And by the general voice will stand or fall.
* * * * * * *
Prologue
By the AUTHOR
SPOKEN ON THE TENTH NIGHT, BY MRS. BULKLEY.
Granted our cause, our suit and trial o'er,
The worthy serjeant need appear no more:
In pleasing I a different client choose,
He served the Poet—I would serve the Muse.
Like him, I'll try to merit your applause,
A female counsel in a female's cause.
Look on this form—where humour, quaint and sly,
Dimples the cheek, and points the beaming eye;
Where gay invention seems to boast its wiles
In amorous hint, and half-triumphant smiles;
While her light mask or covers satire's strokes,
Or hides the conscious blush her wit provokes.
Look on her well—does she seem form'd to teach?
Should you expect to hear this lady preach?
Is grey experience suited to her youth?
Do solemn sentiments become that mouth?
Bid her be grave, those lips should rebel prove
To every theme that slanders mirth or love.
Yet, thus adorn'd with every graceful art
To charm the fancy and yet reach the heart—
Must we displace her? And instead advance
The goddess of the woful countenance—
The sentimental Muse!—Her emblems view,
The Pilgrim's Progress, and a sprig of rue!
View her—too chaste to look like flesh and blood—
Primly portray'd on emblematic wood!
There, fix'd in usurpation, should she stand,
She'll snatch the dagger from her sister's hand:
And having made her votaries weep a flood,
Good heaven! she'll end her comedies in blood—
Bid Harry Woodward break poor Dunstal's crown!
Imprison Quick, and knock Ned Shuter down;
While sad Barsanti, weeping o'er the scene,
Shall stab herself—or poison Mrs. Green.
Such dire encroachments to prevent in time,
Demands the critic's voice—the poet's rhyme.
Can our light scenes add strength to holy laws!
Such puny patronage but hurts the cause:
Fair virtue scorns our feeble aid to ask;
And moral truth disdains the trickster's mask
For here their favourite stands, whose brow severe
And sad, claims youth's respect, and pity's tear;
Who, when oppress'd by foes her worth creates,
Can point a poniard at the guilt she hates.
* * * * * * * * * * *
THE RIVALS
* * * * * * * * * * *
ACT I
* * * * * * *
Scene I.—A street. [Enter THOMAS; he crosses the stage; FAG follows, looking after him.]
FAG
What! Thomas! sure 'tis he?—What! Thomas! Thomas!
THOMAS
Hey!—Odd's life! Mr. Fag!—give us your hand, my old fellow-servant.
FAG Excuse my glove, Thomas:—I'm devilish glad to see you, my lad. Why, my prince of charioteers, you look as hearty!—but who the deuce thought of seeing you in Bath?
THOMAS Sure, master, Madam Julia, Harry, Mrs. Kate, and the postillion, be all come.
FAG
Indeed!
THOMAS Ay, master thought another fit of the gout was coming to make him a visit;—so he'd a mind to gi't the slip, and whip! we were all off at an hour's warning.
FAG
Ay, ay, hasty in every thing, or it would not be Sir Anthony Absolute!
THOMAS But tell us, Mr. Fag, how does young master? Odd! Sir Anthony will stare to see the Captain here!
FAG
I do not serve Captain Absolute now.
THOMAS
Why sure!
FAG
At present I am employed by Ensign Beverley.
THOMAS
I doubt, Mr. Fag, you ha'n't changed for the better.
FAG
I have not changed, Thomas.
THOMAS
No! Why didn't you say you had left young master?
FAG No.—Well, honest Thomas, I must puzzle you no farther:—briefly then—Captain Absolute and Ensign Beverley are one and the same person.
THOMAS
The devil they are!
FAG So it is indeed, Thomas; and the ensign half of my master being on guard at present—the captain has nothing to do with me.
THOMAS So, so!—What, this is some freak, I warrant!—Do tell us, Mr. Fag, the meaning o't—you know I ha' trusted you.
FAG
You'll be secret, Thomas?
THOMAS
As a coach-horse.
FAG Why then the cause of all this is—Love,—Love, Thomas, who (as you may get read to you) has been a masquerader ever since the days of Jupiter.
THOMAS Ay, ay;—I guessed there was a lady in the case:—but pray, why does your master pass only for ensign?—Now if he had shammed general indeed——
FAG Ah! Thomas, there lies the mystery o' the matter. Hark'ee, Thomas, my master is in love with a lady of a very singular taste: a lady who likes him better as a half pay ensign than if she knew he was son and heir to Sir Anthony Absolute, a baronet of three thousand a year.
THOMAS That is an odd taste indeed!—But has she got the stuff, Mr. Fag? Is she rich, hey?
FAG Rich!—Why, I believe she owns half the stocks! Zounds! Thomas, she could pay the national debt as easily as I could my washerwoman! She has a lapdog that eats out of gold,—she feeds her parrot with small pearls,—and all her thread-papers are made of bank-notes!
THOMAS Bravo, faith!—Odd! I warrant she has a set of thousands at least:—but does she draw kindly with the captain?
FAG
As fond as pigeons.
THOMAS
May one hear her name?
FAG Miss Lydia Languish.—But there is an old tough aunt in the way; though, by-the-by, she has never seen my master—for we got acquainted with miss while on a visit in Gloucestershire.
THOMAS
Well—I wish they were once harnessed together in matrimony.—But pray,
Mr. Fag, what kind of a place is this Bath?—I ha' heard a deal of
it—here's a mort o' merrymaking, hey?
FAG Pretty well, Thomas, pretty well—'tis a good lounge; in the morning we go to the pump-room (though neither my master nor I drink the waters); after breakfast we saunter on the parades, or play a game at billiards; at night we dance; but damn the place, I'm tired of it: their regular hours stupify me—not a fiddle nor a card after eleven!—However, Mr. Faulkland's gentleman and I keep it up a little in private parties;—I'll introduce you there, Thomas—you'll like him much.
THOMAS
Sure I know Mr. Du-Peigne—you know his master is to marry Madam Julia.
FAG
I had forgot.—But, Thomas, you must polish a little—indeed you
must.—Here now—this wig!—What the devil do you do with a wig,
Thomas?—None of the London whips of any degree of ton wear wigs now.
THOMAS More's the pity! more's the pity! I say.—Odd's life! when I heard how the lawyers and doctors had took to their own hair, I thought how 'twould go next:—odd rabbit it! when the fashion had got foot on the bar, I guessed 'twould mount to the box!—but 'tis all out of character, believe me, Mr. Fag: and look'ee, I'll never gi' up mine—the lawyers and doctors may do as they will.
FAG
Well, Thomas, we'll not quarrel about that.
THOMAS Why, bless you, the gentlemen of the professions ben't all of a mind—for in our village now, thoff Jack Gauge, the exciseman, has ta'en to his carrots, there's little Dick the farrier swears he'll never forsake his bob, though all the college should appear with their own heads!
FAG
Indeed! well said, Dick!—But hold—mark! mark! Thomas.
THOMAS
Zooks! 'tis the captain.—Is that the Lady with him?
FAG No, no, that is Madam Lucy, my master's mistress's maid. They lodge at that house—but I must after him to tell him the news.
THOMAS
Odd! he's giving her money!—Well, Mr. Fag——
FAG Good-bye, Thomas. I have an appointment in Gyde's porch this evening at eight; meet me there, and we'll make a little party.
[Exeunt severally.]
* * * * * * *
Scene II.—A Dressing-room in Mrs. MALAPROP's Lodgings. [LYDIA sitting on a sofa, with a book in her hand. Lucy, as just returned from a message.]
LUCY Indeed, ma'am, I traversed half the town in search of it: I don't believe there's a circulating library in Bath I ha'n't been at.
LYDIA
And could not you get The Reward of Constancy?
LUCY
No, indeed, ma'am.
LYDIA
Nor The Fatal Connexion?
LUCY
No, indeed, ma'am.
LYDIA
Nor The Mistakes of the Heart?
LUCY Ma'am, as ill luck would have it, Mr. Bull said Miss Sukey Saunter had just fetched it away.
LYDIA
Heigh-ho!—Did you inquire for The Delicate Distress?
LUCY Or, The Memoirs of Lady Woodford? Yes, indeed, ma'am. I asked every where for it; and I might have brought it from Mr. Frederick's, but Lady Slattern Lounger, who had just sent it home, had so soiled and dog's-eared it, it wa'n't fit for a Christian to read.
LYDIA Heigh-ho!—Yes, I always know when Lady Slattern has been before me. She has a most observing thumb; and, I believe, cherishes her nails for the convenience of making marginal notes.—Well, child, what have you brought me?
LUCY Oh! here, ma'am.—[Taking books from under her cloak, and from her pockets.] This is The Gordian Knot,—and this Peregrine Pickle. Here are The Tears of Sensibility, and Humphrey Clinker. This is The Memoirs of a Lady of Quality, written by herself, and here the second volume of The Sentimental Journey.
LYDIA
Heigh-ho!—What are those books by the glass?
LUCY The great one is only The Whole Duty of Man, where I press a few blonds, ma'am.
LYDIA
Very well—give me the sal volatile.
LUCY
Is it in a blue cover, ma'am?
LYDIA
My smelling-bottle, you simpleton!
LUCY
Oh, the drops!—here, ma'am.
LYDIA
Hold!—here's some one coming—quick, see who it is.——
[Exit LUCY.]
Surely I heard my cousin Julia's voice.
[Re-enter LUCY.]
LUCY
Lud! ma'am, here is Miss Melville.
LYDIA
Is it possible!——
[Exit LUCY.]
[Enter JULIA.]
LYDIA My dearest Julia, how delighted am I!—[Embrace.] How unexpected was this happiness!
JULIA True, Lydia—and our pleasure is the greater.—But what has been the matter?—you were denied to me at first!
LYDIA Ah, Julia, I have a thousand things to tell you!—But first inform me what has conjured you to Bath?—Is Sir Anthony here?
JULIA He is—we are arrived within this hour—and I suppose he will be here to wait on Mrs. Malaprop as soon as he is dressed.
LYDIA Then before we are interrupted, let me impart to you some of my distress!—I know your gentle nature will sympathize with me, though your prudence may condemn me! My letters have informed you of my whole connection with Beverley; but I have lost him, Julia! My aunt has discovered our intercourse by a note she intercepted, and has confined me ever since! Yet, would you believe it? she has absolutely fallen in love with a tall Irish baronet she met one night since we have been here, at Lady Macshuffle's rout.
JULIA
You jest, Lydia!
LYDIA No, upon my word.—She really carries on a kind of correspondence with him, under a feigned name though, till she chooses to be known to him:—but it is a Delia or a Celia, I assure you.
JULIA
Then, surely, she is now more indulgent to her niece.
LYDIA Quite the contrary. Since she has discovered her own frailty, she is become more suspicious of mine. Then I must inform you of another plague!—That odious Acres is to be in Bath to-day; so that I protest I shall be teased out of all spirits!
JULIA Come, come, Lydia, hope for the best—Sir Anthony shall use his interest with Mrs. Malaprop.
LYDIA But you have not heard the worst. Unfortunately I had quarrelled with my poor Beverley, just before my aunt made the discovery, and I have not seen him since, to make it up.
JULIA
What was his offence?
LYDIA Nothing at all!—But, I don't know how it was, as often as we had been together, we had never had a quarrel, and, somehow, I was afraid he would never give me an opportunity. So, last Thursday, I wrote a letter to myself, to inform myself that Beverley was at that time paying his addresses to another woman. I signed it your friend unknown, showed it to Beverley, charged him with his falsehood, put myself in a violent passion, and vowed I'd never see him more.
JULIA
And you let him depart so, and have not seen him since?
LYDIA 'Twas the next day my aunt found the matter out. I intended only to have teased him three days and a half, and now I've lost him for ever.
JULIA If he is as deserving and sincere as you have represented him to me, he will never give you up so. Yet consider, Lydia, you tell me he is but an ensign, and you have thirty thousand pounds.
LYDIA But you know I lose most of my fortune if I marry without my aunt's consent, till of age; and that is what I have determined to do, ever since I knew the penalty. Nor could I love the man who would wish to wait a day for the alternative.
JULIA
Nay, this is caprice!
LYDIA What, does Julia tax me with caprice?—I thought her lover Faulkland had inured her to it.
JULIA
I do not love even his faults.
LYDIA
But apropos—you have sent to him, I suppose?
JULIA
Not yet, upon my word—nor has he the least idea of my being in Bath.
Sir Anthony's resolution was so sudden, I could not inform him of it.
LYDIA Well, Julia, you are your own mistress, (though under the protection of Sir Anthony), yet have you, for this long year, been a slave to the caprice, the whim, the jealousy of this ungrateful Faulkland, who will ever delay assuming the right of a husband, while you suffer him to be equally imperious as a lover.
JULIA Nay, you are wrong entirely. We were contracted before my father's death. That, and some consequent embarrassments, have delayed what I know to be my Faulkland's most ardent wish. He is too generous to trifle on such a point:—and for his character, you wrong him there, too. No, Lydia, he is too proud, too noble to be jealous; if he is captious, 'tis without dissembling; if fretful, without rudeness. Unused to the fopperies of love, he is negligent of the little duties expected from a lover—but being unhackneyed in the passion, his affection is ardent and sincere; and as it engrosses his whole soul, he expects every thought and emotion of his mistress to move in unison with his. Yet, though his pride calls for this full return, his humility makes him undervalue those qualities in him which would entitle him to it; and not feeling why he should be loved to the degree he wishes, he still suspects that he is not loved enough. This temper, I must own, has cost me many unhappy hours; but I have learned to think myself his debtor, for those imperfections which arise from the ardour of his attachment.
LYDIA Well, I cannot blame you for defending him. But tell me candidly, Julia, had he never saved your life, do you think you should have been attached to him as you are?—Believe me, the rude blast that overset your boat was a prosperous gale of love to him.
JULIA Gratitude may have strengthened my attachment to Mr. Faulkland, but I loved him before he had preserved me; yet surely that alone were an obligation sufficient.
LYDIA Obligation! why a water spaniel would have done as much!—Well, I should never think of giving my heart to a man because he could swim.
JULIA
Come, Lydia, you are too inconsiderate.
LYDIA
Nay, I do but jest.—What's here?
[Re-enter LUCY in a hurry.]
LUCY
O ma'am, here is Sir Anthony Absolute just come home with your aunt.
LYDIA
They'll not come here.—Lucy, do you watch.
[Exit LUCY.]
JULIA Yet I must go. Sir Anthony does not know I am here, and if we meet, he'll detain me, to show me the town. I'll take another opportunity of paying my respects to Mrs. Malaprop, when she shall treat me, as long as she chooses, with her select words so ingeniously misapplied, without being mispronounced.
[Re-enter LUCY.]
LUCY
O Lud! ma'am, they are both coming up stairs.
LYDIA Well, I'll not detain you, coz.—Adieu, my dear Julia. I'm sure you are in haste to send to Faulkland.—There—through my room you'll find another staircase.
JULIA
Adieu! [Embraces LYDIA, and exit.]
LYDIA Here, my dear Lucy, hide these books. Quick, quick!—Fling Peregrine Pickle under the toilet—throw Roderick Random into the closet—put The Innocent Adultery into The Whole Duty of Man—thrust Lord Aimworth under the sofa—cram Ovid behind the bolster—there—put The Man of Feeling into your pocket—so, so—now lay Mrs. Chapone in sight, and leave Fordyce's Sermons open on the table.
LUCY
O burn it, ma'am! the hair-dresser has torn away as far as Proper
Pride.
LYDIA
Never mind—open at Sobriety.—Fling me Lord Chesterfields
Letters.—Now for 'em.
[Exit LUCY.]
[Enter Mrs. MALAPROP, and Sir ANTHONY ABSOLUTE.]
Mrs. MALAPROP There, Sir Anthony, there sits 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. MALAPROP 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, quite from your memory.
LYDIA Ah, madam! our memories are independent of our wills. It is not so easy to forget.
Mrs. MALAPROP 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.
Sir ANTHONY Why sure she won't pretend to remember what she's ordered not!—ay, this comes of her reading!
LYDIA
What crime, madam, have I committed, to be treated thus?
Mrs. MALAPROP Now don't attempt to extirpate yourself from the matter; you know I have proof controvertible of it.—But tell me, will you promise to do as you're bid? Will you take a husband of your friends' choosing?
LYDIA Madam, I must tell you plainly, that had I no preferment for any one else, the choice you have made would be my aversion.
Mrs. MALAPROP What business have you, miss, with preference and aversion? They don't become a young woman; and you ought to know, that as both always wear off, 'tis safest in matrimony to begin with a little aversion. I am sure I hated your poor dear uncle before marriage as if he'd been a blackamoor—and yet, miss, you are sensible what a wife I made!—and when it pleased Heaven to release me from him, 'tis unknown what tears I shed!—But suppose we were going to give you another choice, will you promise us to give up this Beverley?
LYDIA Could I belie my thoughts so far as to give that promise, my actions would certainly as far belie my words.
Mrs. MALAPROP Take yourself to your room.—You are fit company for nothing but your own ill-humours.
LYDIA
Willingly, ma'am—I cannot change for the worse. [Exit.]
Mrs. MALAPROP
There's a little intricate hussy for you!
Sir ANTHONY
It is not to be wondered at, ma'am,—all this is the natural
consequence of teaching girls to read. Had I a thousand daughters, by
Heaven! I'd as soon have them taught the black art as their alphabet!
Mrs. MALAPROP
Nay, nay, Sir Anthony, you are an absolute misanthropy.
Sir ANTHONY In my way hither, Mrs. Malaprop, I observed your niece's maid coming forth from a circulating library!—She had a book in each hand—they were half-bound volumes, with marble covers!—From that moment I guessed how full of duty I should see her mistress!
Mrs. MALAPROP
Those are vile places, indeed!
Sir ANTHONY Madam, a circulating library in a town is as an evergreen tree of diabolical knowledge! It blossoms through the year!—And depend on it, Mrs. Malaprop, that they who are so fond of handling the leaves, will long for the fruit at last.
Mrs. MALAPROP
Fy, fy, Sir Anthony! you surely speak laconically.
Sir ANTHONY Why, Mrs. Malaprop, in moderation now, what would you have a woman know?
Mrs. MALAPROP 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—neither would 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;—but above all, Sir Anthony, she should be mistress of orthodoxy, that she might not mis-spell, and mis-pronounce words so shamefully as girls usually do; and likewise that she might reprehend the true meaning of what she is saying. This, Sir Anthony, is what I would have a woman know;—and I don't think there is a superstitious article in it.
Sir ANTHONY 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, Mrs. Malaprop, to the more important point in debate—you say you have no objection to my proposal?
Mrs. MALAPROP None, I assure you. I am under no positive engagement with Mr. Acres, and as Lydia is so obstinate against him, perhaps your son may have better success.
Sir ANTHONY
Well, madam, I will write for the boy directly. He knows not a syllable
of this yet, though I have for some time had the proposal in my head.
He is at present with his regiment.
Mrs. MALAPROP We have never seen your son, Sir Anthony; but I hope no objection on his side.
Sir ANTHONY Objection!—let him object if he dare!—No, no, Mrs. Malaprop, Jack knows that the least demur puts me in a frenzy directly. My process was always very simple—in their 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. MALAPROP Ay, 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 ANTHONY Madam, I will handle the subject prudently.—Well, 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. [Exit.]
Mrs. MALAPROP Well, at any rate, I shall be glad to get her from under my intuition. She has somehow discovered my partiality for Sir Lucius O'Trigger—sure, Lucy can't have betrayed me!—No, the girl is such a simpleton, I should have made her confess it.—Lucy!—Lucy!—[Calls.] Had she been one of your artificial ones, I should never have trusted her.
[Re-enter LUCY.]
LUCY
Did you call, ma'am?
Mrs. MALAPROP
Yes, girl.—Did you see Sir Lucius while you was out?
LUCY
No, indeed, ma'am, not a glimpse of him.
Mrs. MALAPROP
You are sure, Lucy, that you never mentioned——
LUCY
Oh gemini! I'd sooner cut my tongue out.
Mrs. MALAPROP
Well, don't let your simplicity be imposed on.
LUCY
No, ma'am.
Mrs. MALAPROP So, come to me presently, and I'll give you another letter to Sir Lucius; but mind, Lucy—if ever you betray what you are entrusted with (unless it be other people's secrets to me), you forfeit my malevolence for ever; and your being a simpleton shall be no excuse for your locality. [Exit.]
LUCY Ha! ha! ha!—So, my dear Simplicity, let me give you a little respite.—[Altering her manner.] Let girls in my station be as fond as they please of appearing expert, and knowing in their trusts; commend me to a mask of silliness, and a pair of sharp eyes for my own interest under it!—Let me see to what account have I turned my simplicity lately.—[Looks at a paper.] For abetting Miss Lydia Languish in a design of running away with an ensign!—in money, sundry times, twelve pound twelve; gowns, five; hats, ruffles, caps, &c., &c., numberless!—From the said ensign, within this last month, six guineas and a half.—About a quarter's pay!—Item, from Mrs. Malaprop, for betraying the young people to her—when I found matters were likely to be discovered—two guineas, and a black paduasoy.—Item, from Mr. Acres, for carrying divers letters—which I never delivered—two guineas, and a pair of buckles.—Item, from Sir Lucius O'Trigger, three crowns, two gold pocket-pieces, and a silver snuff-box!—Well done, Simplicity!—Yet I was forced to make my Hibernian believe, that he was corresponding, not with the aunt, but with the niece; for though not over rich, I found he had too much pride and delicacy to sacrifice the feelings of a gentleman to the necessities of his fortune. [Exit.]
* * * * * * * * * * *
ACT II
* * * * * * *
Scene I.—CAPTAIN ABSOLUTE's Lodgings. [CAPTAIN ABSOLUTE and FAG.]
FAG Sir, while I was there Sir Anthony came in: I told him you had sent me to inquire after his health, and to know if he was at leisure to see you.
ABSOLUTE
And what did he say, on hearing I was at Bath?
FAG Sir, in my life I never saw an elderly gentleman more astonished! He started back two or three paces, rapped out a dozen interjectural oaths, and asked, what the devil had brought you here.
ABSOLUTE
Well, sir, and what did you say?
FAG Oh, I lied, sir—I forgot the precise lie; but you may depend on't, he got no truth from me. Yet, with submission, for fear of blunders in future, I should be glad to fix what has brought us to Bath; in order that we may lie a little consistently. Sir Anthony's servants were curious, sir, very curious indeed.
ABSOLUTE
You have said nothing to them?
FAG Oh, not a word, sir,—not a word! Mr. Thomas, indeed, the coachman (whom I take to be the discreetest of whips)——
ABSOLUTE
'Sdeath!—you rascal! you have not trusted him!
FAG Oh, no, sir—no—no—not a syllable, upon my veracity!—He was, indeed, a little inquisitive; but I was sly, sir—devilish sly! My master (said I), honest Thomas (you know, sir, one says honest to one's inferiors,) is come to Bath to recruit—Yes, sir, I said to recruit—and whether for men, money, or constitution, you know, sir, is nothing to him, nor any one else.
ABSOLUTE
Well, recruit will do—let it be so.
FAG Oh, sir, recruit will do surprisingly—indeed, to give the thing an air, I told Thomas, that your honour had already enlisted five disbanded chairmen, seven minority waiters, and thirteen billiard-markers.
ABSOLUTE
You blockhead, never say more than is necessary.
FAG I beg pardon, sir—I beg pardon—but, with submission, a lie is nothing unless one supports it. Sir, whenever I draw on my invention for a good current lie, I always forge indorsements as well as the bill.
ABSOLUTE Well, take care you don't hurt your credit, by offering too much security.—Is Mr. Faulkland returned?
FAG
He is above, sir, changing his dress.
ABSOLUTE
Can you tell whether he has been informed of Sir Anthony and Miss
Melville's arrival?
FAG
I fancy not, sir; he has seen no one since he came in but his
gentleman, who was with him at Bristol.—I think, sir, I hear Mr.
Faulkland coming down——
ABSOLUTE
Go, tell him I am here.
FAG Yes, sir.—[Going.] I beg pardon, sir, but should Sir Anthony call, you will do me the favour to remember that we are recruiting, if you please.
ABSOLUTE
Well, well.
FAG And, in tenderness to my character, if your honour could bring in the chairmen and waiters, I should esteem it as an obligation; for though I never scruple a lie to serve my master, yet it hurts one's conscience to be found out. [Exit.]
ABSOLUTE Now for my whimsical friend—if he does not know that his mistress is here, I'll tease him a little before I tell him——
[Enter FAULKLAND.]
Faulkland, you're welcome to Bath again; you are punctual in your return.
FAULKLAND Yes; I had nothing to detain me, when I had finished the business I went on. Well, what news since I left you? how stand matters between you and Lydia?
ABSOLUTE Faith, much as they were; I have not seen her since our quarrel; however, I expect to be recalled every hour.
FAULKLAND
Why don't you persuade her to go off with you at once?
ABSOLUTE What, and lose two-thirds of her fortune? you forget that, my friend.—No, no, I could have brought her to that long ago.
FAULKLAND Nay then, you trifle too long—if you are sure of her, propose to the aunt in your own character, and write to Sir Anthony for his consent.
ABSOLUTE Softly, softly; for though I am convinced my little Lydia would elope with me as Ensign Beverley, yet am I by no means certain that she would take me with the impediment of our friends' consent, a regular humdrum wedding, and the reversion of a good fortune on my side: no, no; I must prepare her gradually for the discovery, and make myself necessary to her, before I risk it.—Well, but Faulkland, you'll dine with us to-day at the hotel?
FAULKLAND
Indeed I cannot; I am not in spirits to be of such a party.
ABSOLUTE By heavens! I shall forswear your company. You are the most teasing, captious, incorrigible lover!—Do love like a man.
FAULKLAND
I own I am unfit for company.
ABSOLUTE Am I not a lover; ay, and a romantic one too? Yet do I carry every where with me such a confounded farrago of doubts, fears, hopes, wishes, and all the flimsy furniture of a country miss's brain!
FAULKLAND Ah! Jack, your heart and soul are not, like mine, fixed immutably on one only object. You throw for a large stake, but losing, you could stake and throw again;—but I have set my sum of happiness on this cast, and not to succeed, were to be stripped of all.
ABSOLUTE But, for heaven's sake! what grounds for apprehension can your whimsical brain conjure up at present?
FAULKLAND What grounds for apprehension, did you say? Heavens! are there not a thousand! I fear for her spirits—her health—her life!—My absence may fret her; her anxiety for my return, her fears for me may oppress her gentle temper: and for her health, does not every hour bring me cause to be alarmed? If it rains, some shower may even then have chilled her delicate frame! If the wind be keen, some rude blast may have affected her! The heat of noon, the dews of the evening, may endanger the life of her, for whom only I value mine. O Jack! when delicate and feeling souls are separated, there is not a feature in the sky, not a movement of the elements, not an aspiration of the breeze, but hints some cause for a lover's apprehension!
ABSOLUTE
Ay, but we may choose whether we will take the hint or not.—So, then,
Faulkland, if you were convinced that Julia were well and in spirits,
you would be entirely content?
FAULKLAND
I should be happy beyond measure—I am anxious only for that.
ABSOLUTE Then to cure your anxiety at once—Miss Melville is in perfect health, and is at this moment in Bath.
FAULKLAND
Nay, Jack—don't trifle with me.
ABSOLUTE
She is arrived here with my father within this hour.
FAULKLAND
Can you be serious?
ABSOLUTE I thought you knew Sir Anthony better than to be surprised at a sudden whim of this kind.—Seriously, then, it is as I tell you—upon my honour.
FAULKLAND My dear friend!—Hollo, Du-Peigne! my hat.—My dear Jack—now nothing on earth can give me a moment's uneasiness.
[Re-enter FAG.]
FAG
Sir, Mr. Acres, just arrived, is below.
ABSOLUTE Stay, Faulkland, this Acres lives within a mile of Sir Anthony, and he shall tell you how your mistress has been ever since you left her.—Fag, show this gentleman up.
[Exit FAG.]
FAULKLAND
What, is he much acquainted in the family?
ABSOLUTE Oh, very intimate: I insist on your not going: besides, his character will divert you.
FAULKLAND
Well, I should like to ask him a few questions.
ABSOLUTE He is likewise a rival of mine—that is, of my other self's, for he does not think his friend Captain Absolute ever saw the lady in question; and it is ridiculous enough to hear him complain to me of one Beverley, a concealed skulking rival, who——
FAULKLAND
Hush!—he's here.
[Enter ACRES.]
ACRES Ha! my dear friend, noble captain, and honest Jack, how do'st thou? just arrived, faith, as you see.—Sir, your humble servant.—Warm work on the roads, Jack!—Odds whips and wheels! I've travelled like a comet, with a tail of dust all the way as long as the Mall.
ABSOLUTE
Ah! Bob, you are indeed an eccentric planet, but we know your
attraction hither.—Give me leave to introduce Mr. Faulkland to you; Mr.
Faulkland, Mr. Acres.
ACRES Sir, I am most heartily glad to see you: sir, I solicit your connections.—Hey, Jack—what, this is Mr. Faulkland, who——
ABSOLUTE
Ay, Bob, Miss Melville's Mr. Faulkland.
ACRES Odso! she and your father can be but just arrived before me:—I suppose you have seen them. Ah! Mr. Faulkland, you are indeed a happy man.
FAULKLAND I have not seen Miss Melville yet, sir;—I hope she enjoyed full health and spirits in Devonshire?
ACRES Never knew her better in my life, sir,—never better. Odds blushes and blooms! she has been as healthy as the German Spa.
FAULKLAND
Indeed! I did hear that she had been a little indisposed.
ACRES False, false, sir—only said to vex you: quite the reverse, I assure you.
FAULKLAND There, Jack, you see she has the advantage of me; I had almost fretted myself ill.
ABSOLUTE
Now are you angry with your mistress for not having been sick?
FAULKLAND No, no, you misunderstand me: yet surely a little trifling indisposition is not an unnatural consequence of absence from those we love.—Now confess—isn't there something unkind in this violent, robust, unfeeling health?
ABSOLUTE
Oh, it was very unkind of her to be well in your absence, to be sure!
ACRES
Good apartments, Jack.
FAULKLAND Well, sir, but you was saying that Miss Melville has been so exceedingly well—what then she has been merry and gay, I suppose?—Always in spirits—hey?
ACRES Merry, odds crickets! she has been the belle and spirit of the company wherever she has been—so lively and entertaining! so full of wit and humour!
FAULKLAND There, Jack, there.—Oh, by my soul! there is an innate levity in woman, that nothing can overcome.—What! happy, and I away!
ABSOLUTE Have done.—How foolish this is! just now you were only apprehensive for your mistress' spirits.
FAULKLAND
Why, Jack, have I been the joy and spirit of the company?
ABSOLUTE
No, indeed, you have not.
FAULKLAND
Have I been lively and entertaining?
ABSOLUTE
Oh, upon my word, I acquit you.
FAULKLAND
Have I been full of wit and humour?
ABSOLUTE
No, faith, to do you justice, you have been confoundedly stupid indeed.
ACRES
What's the matter with the gentleman?
ABSOLUTE He is only expressing his great satisfaction at hearing that Julia has been so well and happy—that's all—hey, Faulkland?
FAULKLAND
Oh! I am rejoiced to hear it—yes, yes, she has a happy disposition!
ACRES That she has indeed—then she is so accomplished—so sweet a voice—so expert at her harpsichord—such a mistress of flat and sharp, squallante, rumblante, and quiverante!—There was this time month—odds minims and crotchets! how she did chirrup at Mrs. Piano's concert!
FAULKLAND There again, what say you to this? you see she has been all mirth and song—not a thought of me!
ABSOLUTE
Pho! man, is not music the food of love?
FAULKLAND Well, well, it may be so.—Pray, Mr.—, what's his damned name?—Do you remember what songs Miss Melville sung?
ACRES
Not I indeed.
ABSOLUTE Stay, now, they were some pretty melancholy purling-stream airs, I warrant; perhaps you may recollect;—did she sing, When absent from my soul's delight?
ACRES
No, that wa'n't it.
ABSOLUTE
Or, Go, gentle gales! [Sings.]
ACRES Oh, no! nothing like it. Odds! now I recollect one of them—My heart's my own, my will is free. [Sings.]
FAULKLAND Fool! fool that I am! to fix all my happiness on such a trifler! 'Sdeath! to make herself the pipe and ballad-monger of a circle! to soothe her light heart with catches and glees!—What can you say to this, sir?
ABSOLUTE
Why, that I should be glad to hear my mistress had been so merry, sir.
FAULKLAND Nay, nay, nay—I'm not sorry that she has been happy—no, no, I am glad of that—I would not have had her sad or sick—yet surely a sympathetic heart would have shown itself even in the choice of a song—she might have been temperately healthy, and somehow, plaintively gay;—but she has been dancing too, I doubt not!
ACRES
What does the gentleman say about dancing?
ABSOLUTE
He says the lady we speak of dances as well as she sings.
ACRES
Ay, truly, does she—there was at our last race ball——
FAULKLAND Hell and the devil! There!—there—I told you so! I told you so! Oh! she thrives in my absence!—Dancing! but her whole feelings have been in opposition with mine;—I have been anxious, silent, pensive, sedentary—my days have been hours of care, my nights of watchfulness.—She has been all health! spirit! laugh! song! dance!—Oh! damned, damned levity!
ABSOLUTE For Heaven's sake, Faulkland, don't expose yourself so!—Suppose she has danced, what then?—does not the ceremony of society often oblige ——