SCENE VI.
WILDING, VEROMIL, VALENTINE.
WILDING. Ha! my dear Veromil, a thousand welcomes to
ENGLAND. When left you that delicious place, Paris?
VEROMIL. Soon after you left it.
WILDING. I thought you intended for Vienna. But I am glad that we enjoy you so much sooner. For I suppose you are now come to town for good?
VALENTINE. Nay, he shall not escape us again.
VEROMIL. My inclinations would bid me spend my whole life with my Valentine; but necessity confines our happiness to this day.
VALENTINE. This day?
VEROMIL. To-morrow night I am to meet a friend at Dover to embark for France. I am glad we meet so soon; for every hour I am with you, though it seems a moment, is worth an age.
WILDING. You are soon weary of your country, Mr. Veromil, which you longed to see so much when we were at Paris.
VEROMIL. Misfortunes have made it disagreeable.
WILDING. Come, come, I see the bottom of this; there is a mistress in the case.
VALENTINE. To France for a mistress! —
WILDING. Ay, or what do all our fine gentlemen there?
VALENTINE. Learn to please an English one. It would be more rational in a Frenchman to come abroad for a dancing-master, than in an Englishman to go abroad for a mistress.
VEROMIL. However, you’ll allow a lover to be partial; you must excuse me if I think France has now the finest woman in the universe. But, to end your amazement, she is our countrywoman.
WILDING. And has some devilish coquette led you a dance to Paris? Never stir after her: if she does not return within ten weeks, I’ll be bound to — fetch her.
VALENTINE. Who can this great uncelebrated beauty be?
VEROMIL. Oh! Valentine! she is one whose charms would delude stoicism into love! the luscious dreams of amorous boys ne’er raised ideas of so fine a form, nor man of sense e’er wished a virtue in his mistress’s mind which, she has not. That modesty! that sweetness! that virtue!
WILDING. Her name, her name?
VALENTINE. Her fortune, her fortune?
VEROMIL. I know, gentlemen, you who have lived so much in the gay world will be surprised to hear me talk so seriously on this affair. But be assured, my whole happiness is in the breast of one woman.
WILDING. I own myself surprised; but our friend here can hardly be so, for he is to-morrow to be happy with one woman.
VEROMIL. How!
VALENTINE. Wilt thou never have done with it? A man can’t appear in public after it’s known that he is to be married, but every one who wants a wife will rally him out of envy.
WILDING. Ay, — and every one who has a wife out of pity.
VALENTINE. ‘Sdeath! I’ll be married to-morrow, and away into the country the next morning.
WILDING. Oh! the country is vastly pleasant during the honeymoon; groves and mountains give one charming ideas in the spring of matrimony. I suppose we shall have you in town again in the winter; at least you’ll be so obliging to send your wife up. A husband would be as public-spirited a man, if he did not run away with his wife, as he who buys a fine picture, and hangs it up in his house for the benefit of all comers. But robbing the public of a fine woman is barbarous; and he who buries his wife is as great a miser as he who buries his gold.
VEROMIL. The public may thank themselves; for no man would do either, had not the world affixed shame to the sounds of poverty and cuckoldom.
VALENTINE. You mention the name as if there was something frightful in it: one would imagine you had lived in the first age and infancy of cuckoldom. Custom alters every thing. A pair of horns (perhaps) once seemed as odd an ornament for the head as a periwig: but now they are both equally in fashion, and a man is no more stared at for the one than for the other.
WILDING. Nay, I rather think cuckoldom is an honour. I wish every cuckold had a statue before his door, erected at the public expense.
VALENTINE. Then the city of London would have as many statues in it as the city of Rome had.
WILDING. The ladies are obliged to you for your opinion.
VALENTINE. I think so. What is yours, pray?
WILDING. Mine! that the poets ought to be hanged for every compliment they have made them.
VEROMIL. Hey day!
WILDING. For that they have not said half enough in their favour — Ah! Charles! there are women in the world — [Hugs Veromil.
VEROMIL. Bravo! women!
WILDING. Dost thou think I confine my narrow thoughts to one woman? No; my heart is already in the possession of five hundred, and there is enough for five hundred more.
VALENTINE. Why, thou hast more women in thy heart than the Grand Turk has in his seraglio.
WILDING. Ay, and if I have not finer women— ‘Sdeath! well recollected. Valentine, I must wait on one of your aunts to an auction this morning.
VEROMIL. Nay, dear honest reprobate, let us dine together.
WILDING. I am engaged at the same place.
VALENTINE. Veromil, if you please, I’ll introduce you. Perhaps you will be entertained with as merry a mixture of characters as you have seen. There is (to give you a short Dramatis Personæ) my worthy uncle, whose whole life and conversation runs on that one topic, gain. His son, whom I believe you remember at the university, who is since, with much labour and without any genius, improved to be a learned blockhead.
VEROMIL. I guess his perfections by the dawnings I observed in him. His learning adorns his genius as the colouring of a great painter would the features of a bad one.
WILDING. Or the colouring of some ladies do the wrinkles of their faces.
VALENTINE. Then I have two aunts as opposite in their inclinations as two opposite points of the globe; and I believe as warm in them as the centre.
WILDING. And point to the same centre too, or I’m mistaken.
VALENTINE. Lastly, two young ladies, one of whom is as romantically in love as yourself, and whom, perhaps, when you have seen, you will not allow the finest woman in the world to be in France.
VEROMIL. I defy the danger. Besides, I desire we may have the afternoon to ourselves. I declare against all cards and parties whatsoever.
VALENTINE. I’ll second your resistance; for I know we shall be asked; and they will be as difficultly refused too as a starving author, who begs your subscription to his next miscellany; and you will get much the same by both compliances, a great deal of nonsense and impertinence for your money — for he who plays at quadrille without being let into the secret, as surely loses, as he would at Newmarket.
WILDING. Ay, but then he is let sometimes into much more charming secrets.
VALENTINE. Faith! very rarely! — Many have succeeded by the contrary practice, which is the reason why sharpers have been so often happy in their favours. Your success would be more forwarded by winning five hundred than by losing five thousand.
WILDING. Why, faith! on a second consideration, I begin to be of your opinion —
For gratitude may to some women fall,
But money, powerful money, charms them all.
ACT II.
SCENE I.
WILDING’S Chambers in the Temple.
PINCET. [Alone.]’Tis a fine thing to have a clear conscience: but a clear purse, and a loaded conscience, is the devil. To have been a rogue, in order to be a gentleman, and then reduced to be a servant again! — What, refuse paying my annuity the second half year, and bid discover if I dare! [Shows a letter.] — Discover if I dare! you shall repent that, my dear brother rogue: for since I can’t live like a gentleman by my roguery. I’ll e’en tell the truth, and stand in the pillory, like one, by my honesty. [Knocking.] So, the duns begin: well, I can say truly my master is not at home now — but, if he were, it would be the same thing.
[Knocking harder.
SCENE II.
SIR HARRY WILDING, PINCET.
PINCET. Hey day! this is some scrivener, or dun of authority.
SIR HARRY WILDING. Here, you, sirra
h, where’s your master?
PINCET. I do not know sir.
SIR HARRY WILDING. What, is not he at home?
PINCET. No, sir.
SIR HARRY WILDING. And when do you expect him home?
PINCET. I can’t tell.
SIR HARRY WILDING. I warrant, gone to Westminster — A diligent rogue — when did your master go out?
PINCET. I don’t know. — (What strange fellow is this?)
SIR HARRY WILDING. [Aside.] I warrant before this rascal was up. — Come, sirrah, show me your master’s library.
PINCET. His library, sir?
SIR HARRY WILDING. His library, sir, his study, his books.
PINCET. My master has no books, sir.
SIR HARRY WILDING. Show me his books, or I’ll crack your skull for you, sir.
PINCET. Sir, he has no books. What would you have with my master, sir?
SIR HARRY WILDING. What’s this? [Taking a book up.] Rochester’s poems? What does he do with poems? — but’ tis better to spend an hour so than in a tavern. — What book is this? — Plays — what, does he read plays too? — Hark ye, sirrah, show me where your master keeps his lawbooks.
PINCET. Sir, he has no law-books: what should he do with law-books?
SIR HARRY WILDING. I’ll tell you, villain!
[Goes to strike him.
[Knocking.
O here, here he comes, I’ll meet my dear boy.
SCENE III.
To them TAILOR.
TAILOR. Mr. Pincet, is your master within? I have brought my bill.
PINCET. You must come another time.
TAILOR. Another time! sir, I must speak with him now. I have been put off this twelvemonth, I can stay no longer.
SIR HARRY WILDING. Give me your bill.
TAILOR. Will you pay it, sir?
SIR HARRY WILDING. Perhaps I will, sir.
TAILOR. Here it is, sir.
SIR HARRY WILDING. Agad! it’s a good long one. “For a suit of laced clothes made your honour last Michaelmas was two years, forty pounds” — What, do your Templars wear laced clothes?
TAILOR. Do they? ha, ha, ha! would they paid for them too. We have gentlemen here, sir, who dress as finely as any beaus of them all.
PIN GET. And pay as finely too, I believe, to your sorrow. [Aside.
SIR HARRY WILDING. “A suit of black velvet, twenty-three pounds.” Agad, the rogue is extravagant.
SCENE IV.
To them MILLINER, PERIWIGMAKER, SHOEMAKER, HOSIER.
MILLINER. Mr. Pincet, is your master within?
PINCET. No, no, no. — You must all come another time.
PERIWIGMAKER. Sir, we shall not come another time; we agreed to come all in a body; and, unless we are paid, we shall take other methods. [Knocking.
SIR HARRY WILDING. Hell and the devil! what have we here? — [Staring as in the greatest confusion.
PINCET. [Without.] He is not at home.
TRICKSY. I tell you he is, and I will see him.
SCENE V.
To them MRS. TRICKSY, she is crossing the stage SIR
HARRY WILDING takes hold on her.
SIR HARRY WILDING. Hark ye, madam, are you acquainted with my son?
TRICKSY. Nor none of the scrubs that belong to you, fellow, I hope.
SIR HARRY WILDING. The gentleman who owns these chambers, madam, is my son.
TRICKSY. Sir, you are an impudent coxcomb; the gentleman who owns these chambers has no such dirty relations.
SIR HARRY WILDING. Very fine, very fine! I see it now. My son is an extravagant rake, and I am imposed upon. But I’ll be revenged on these fop-makers at least.
PERIWIGMAKER. Sir, I will have my money.
SIR HARRY WILDING. I’ll pay you, sir, with a vengeance — Dogs! villains! whores! [Beats them out and returns.
SCENE VI.
SIR HARRY WILDING. [Alone.] A rogue! a rogue! is this his studying law? — Oh! here’s his strong box, we’ll see what’s in thee however. [Breaks it open.] — What’s this? [Reads.
“DR. BUNNY, — I will meet you in the balcony at the Old
Playhouse this evening at six. Dumps is gone into the country. I choose rather to see you abroad than at my own house; for some things lately happened, I fear, have given the cuckold reason for suspicion. Nothing can equal my contempt for him, but my love for you.
“Yours affectionately.
“J. G.”
Oh! the devil! the devil! — Law! — ay, ay, he has studied law with a vengeance. I shall have him suffer the law, instead of practising it. I’ll demolish your fopperies for you, rascal. Dear Bunny [looks on the letter]. I shall see the rogue hanged.
SCENE VII
An Antechamber in SIR AVARICE PEDANT’S House.
LADY LUCY PEDANT, LADY GRAVELY, BELLARIA, CLARISSA.
LADY LUCY PEDANT. Ha, ha, ha! — And have you the assurance to own yourself in love, in an age, when ‘tis as immodest to love before marriage, as ‘tis unfashionable to love after it?
BELLARIA. And when the merit of him I do love is much more a rarity than either. ‘Tis only when we fix our affections unworthily that they are blamable; but, where virtue, sense, reputation, worth, love, and constancy meet in a man, the mistress who is ashamed of her passion must have a soul too mean to distinguish them.
LADY GRAVELY. What will the immodesty of this age come to?
LADY LUCY PEDANT. What will the stupidity of it come to?
LADY GRAVELY. A young woman to declare openly she loves a man!
LADY LUCY PEDANT. A young woman to declare openly she loves one man only? Your wit and beauty, Bellaria, were intended to enslave mankind. Your eyes should first conquer the world, and then weep, like Alexander’s, for more worlds to conquer.
BELLARIA. I rather think he should have wept for those he had conquered. He had no more title to sacrifice the lives of men to his ambition than a woman has their ease. And I assure you, madam, had my eyes that power you speak of, I would only defend my own by them, which is the only warrantable use of power in both sexes.
LADY LUCY PEDANT. Well, for a woman who has seen so much of the world, you talk very strangely.
LADY GRAVELY. It is to her town education, to her seeing the world, as you call it, that she owes these immodest thoughts; had her father confined her in the country, as her uncle did, and as I advised him, she would have scorned fellows as much as I do.
BELLARIA. I hope, madam, I shall never give any of my friends reason to regret my education.
LADY GRAVELY. Yes, madam, I do regret it; — I am sorry I have a relation who has no more virtue than to love a man.
BELLARIA. My father commanded me, madam, to love him.
LADY GRAVELY. Yes, but your uncle has commanded you not.
BELLARIA. It is not in my power to obey him, nor am I obliged to it. I defy you to say I ever gave encouragement to any other: or to him, before I had my father’s leave, his command. He introduced him to me, and bid me think of him as my husband. I obeyed with difficulty, till I discovered such worth, such virtues in his soul, that the reception which I at first gave him out of duty, I afterwards gave him out of love. I placed the dear image in my heart; and you or all the world, shall never tear it thence, or plant another’s there.
LADY GRAVELY. Did you ever hear such a wretch? I could almost cry to hear her.
LADY LUCY PEDANT. I can’t help laughing at her; ha, ha, ha!
LADY GRAVELY. Madam! madam! more gravity would become you.
LADY LUCY PEDANT. More gaiety would become you, dear niece.
BELLARIA. I find, aunts, it’s impossible to please you both, and I’m afraid it will be difficult for me to please either; for indeed, Lady Gravely, I shall never come up to your gravity: nor, I believe, Lady Lucy, to your gaiety.
LADY LUCY PEDANT. Dear creature! you will alter your opinion, when you have the liberty to go to the plays and assemblies.
LADY GRAVELY. Plays! and assemblies! send her to church.
BELLARIA. I dare venture to both �
� I shall never reach that sublime way of thinking, which imputes dulness to that, or levity to this. And if you will give me leave to be free, I think Lady Gravely may go more to the one, and Lady Lucy ought to go more to the other.
SCENE VIII.
To them Servant.
Complete Fictional Works of Henry Fielding Page 241
