SERVANT. Ladies, Mr. Valentine, Mr. Wilding, and another gentleman, are below.
LADY LUCY PEDANT. Show them up.
LADY GRAVELY. I’ll not be seen.
LADY LUCY PEDANT. Nay, Lady Gravely.
LADY GRAVELY. I don’t like such company — besides, I have some business in my chamber.
SCENE IX.
VALENTINE, WILDING, VEROMIL, LADY LUCY PEDANT, BELLARIA, CLARISSA.
VALENTINE. Ladies, your humble servant, I beg the honour of introducing a friend of mine — Lady Lucy, Mrs. Bellaria. [They salute,
BELLARIA. O. heavens! — [Aside.
LADY LUCY PEDANT. Was there much company in the Park?
WILDING. All the world, but yourselves; I wonder you could resist the temptation of so fine a day, Lady Lucy.
LADY LUCY PEDANT. O! never be surprised at me, but when you see me walking; for I am the most lazy creature in the world. I would not have walked to my coach this morning to have been empress of the universe. Oh! I adore the eastern way of travelling on men’s shoulders: but walking is so vulgar an exercise, I wonder people of quality give in to it.
VALENTINE. It has only the recommendation of being wholesome and innocent.
LADY LUCY PEDANT. Great recommendations, truly, to some antiquated prude, some poor-spirited animal, who is proud of an innocent face.
WILDING. That is a face which never does the beholders any harm.
LADY LUCY PEDANT. Unless it frightens them — ha, ha, ha!
WILDING. Some women are innocent from their want of beauty, as some men are from their want of courage.
LADY LUCY PEDANT. True. We should all be tyrants if we had power.
WILDING. You will be too late for the auction, Lady Lucy.
LADY LUCY PEDANT. The other lady has disappointed us, so I shall not go. But I have bought a picture since I saw you, which if you don’t admire as much as I do, I shall not admire your judgment.
WILDING. If I do not admire it, I’ll say I do, and that’s the same thing.
SCENE X.
VALENTINE, CLARISSA, VEROMIL, BELLARIA.
VALENTINE. You look very ill to-day, Clarissa.
CLARISSA. You were not obliged to tell me so, methinks.
VALENTINE. Freedom in a husband, is —
CLARISSA. Impertinence — stay till you have the title.
VALENTINE. A day will give it me.
CLARISSA. Perhaps not. This troublesome impertinent freedom makes me believe you not so near your happiness.
VALENTINE. Madam! madam! this turbulency of temper makes me fear I am far too near my misery.
CLARISSA. I don’t understand you.
VALENTINE. I fear you are more difficult to be understood than I am. — Stay till I have a title — He who marries a woman, or pays for an estate, before he is apprised of their real value, will find it then too late to lament. The purchaser, indeed, may sell his estate to another with loss; but the husband, like a loaded ass, must drag on the heavy burthen, till death alone relieves him.
CLARISSA. Intolerable insolence! — I’ll never see you more.
VALENTINE. Pardon me, Bellaria, I must follow her. — To make the quarrel irreconcilable. [Aside.
SCENE XI.
VEROMIL, BELLARIA.
[VEROMIL and BELLARIA, who had stood this while silent, rush into one another’s arms.]
VEROMIL. My Bellaria!
BELLARIA. Are you — can you be my Veromil?
VEROMIL. Let this fond kiss confirm me to be Veromil, and yours.
BELLARIA. And this embrace, which pulls you to my heart, assure you that I know I hold my Veromil: for none but him these arms should e’er encircle.
VEROMIL. My dear, my tender love!
BELLARIA. Oh! tell me what strange, what unexpected chance has brought us once again together.
VEROMIL. A chance so strange; it seems the direction of a providence, which looks with a propitious pleasure on the sincerity of our virtuous loves; for had not the accidental meeting of a friend prevented it, I had to-morrow gone for France, whither I falsely heard you was sent.
BELLARIA. Did you never receive any letter from me?
VEROMIL. And did not my Bellaria then forget me? — Oh! how blest had I been to have seen a line from her.
BELLARIA. Then I have been betrayed; for know, my Veromil, I was forced from my uncle’s house in the middle of the night, and in two days brought hither; where I have been kept the closest prisoner; yet I found means to write to you, and gave the letter to my maid, with a ring from my finger to enforce her faithfulness; and he has a thousand times sworn she sent it you.
VEROMIL. O the false jade!
BELLARIA. Heaven knows what different agonies I have felt! Sometimes I thought you dead. Nay, once I feared you false.
VEROMIL. Oh, my Paradise! no worlds could have tempted me; for, by this sweetest, dearest hand, I swear there’s not an atom in that charming form, which I would change for worlds.
BELLARIA. You know how willingly I believe you. — But hark, if we are overseen, we are ruined.
VEROMIL. Tell me — O tell me, what I shall do.
BELLARIA. I’ll think of it. — Is Valentine your friend?
VEROMIL. Most nearly.
BELLARIA. Then consult with him, if you believe it safe.
VEROMIL. Oh, Bellaria! — ) [Looking fondly on
BELLARIA. Farewell — My heart. ) one another.
VEROMIL. Eternal transports, agonies of joy delight thy soul. Excellent, charming creature! — But ah! a sudden damp chills all my rising joys; for oh! what dragons must be overcome, before I gather that delicious fruit! — I must impart it to Valentine; for on his friendship hangs my sure success.
SCENE XII.
VALENTINE, VEROMIL.
VALENTINE. Alone, and musing, dear Veromil! Are you thinking on your lady in France?
VEROMIL. Valentine! — are you my friend?
VALENTINE. If you doubt it, I am not.
VEROMIL. It is in your power, perhaps, to grant me my utmost wish — will you?
VALENTINE. You know I will.
VEROMIL. Be it whatever —
VALENTINE. Humph! — Faith! unless it should be to go abroad with you to-morrow, for the same reason keeps me at home that sends you away — a woman; and I believe, now you have seen her, you will confess a fine one.
VEROMIL. What do you mean?
VALENTINE. In a word, that lady I left you alone with I dote on to distraction. — You seem disturbed, Veromil! Did I not know you already engaged, and the constancy of your temper, her charms might excuse my suspecting a sudden conquest.
VEROMIL. Be assured it is not in the power of wealth or beauty to change my passion. — And are you to be married to her to-morrow?
VALENTINE. Would I were! To show you I distrust not your friendship. I’ll open my whole breast to you. I had for almost two years pursued that other lady, and, after a long series of importunity, at last obtained her consent, and to-morrow was the appointed day. But, about a month since, the lady whom I told you of in our way from the Park came hither; that I liked her you’ll easily believe; but by frequent conversation the disease possessed my whole mind. My love for her, and aversion for my former mistress, increased daily — till I resolved to break with the old, and pursue the new passion. The one I have accomplished in an irreconcilable quarrel with Clarissa: the first step I will take to the latter shall be, by all means whatsoever, to lessen her value for him she thinks herself engaged to — whom, could I once remove, I easily should supply his place.
VEROMIL. But can you do this with honour?
VALENTINE. Ha, ha, ha! you and I had strange notions of that word when we used to read the moralists at Oxford; but our honour here is as different from that as our dress. In short, it forbids us to receive injuries, but not to do them.
VEROMIL. Fine honour truly! — Just the reverse of Christianity.
VALENTINE. Pshaw! — thou art so unfashionably virtuous!
VEROMIL. Virtue
may indeed be unfashionable in this age; for ignorance and vice will always live together. And sure the world is come to that height of folly and ignorance, posterity may call this the Leaden Age. But virtue loses not its worth by being slighted by the world, more than the pearl, when the foolish cock preferred a barleycorn. Virtue is a diamond, which when the world despises, ‘tis plain that knaves and fools have too much sway therein.
VALENTINE. Ay, virtue and diamonds may be very like one another —— but, faith! they are seldom the ornaments of the same person.
VEROMIL. I am sorry for it.
VALENTINE. Well, now tell me in what I can serve you?
VEROMIL. I must first persuade you into other thoughts: but I hear company. If you please, we’ll walk in the garden.
SCENE XIII.
Lady Gravely, following Sir Avarice Pedant.
LADY GRAVELY. I tell you it’s in every one’s mouth — the whole world says it.
SIR AVARICE PEDANT. Well, and what do I lose by that? Would you have me part with my wife, because the world is pleased to belie her? I’ll as soon sell out of the stocks the next report that is raised about Gibraltar.
LADY GRAVELY. Insensible wretch!
SIR AVARICE PEDANT. Insensible! you are mistaken; I have computed it, and I find it cheaper to maintain my wife at home, than to allow her a separate maintenance. She has great relations, and will consequently have a great allowance.
LADY GRAVELY. Abandoned! would you keep a serpent in your bosom?
SIR AVARICE PEDANT. If she is a serpent, it’s more than I know. If you can prove any thing against her, do it.
LADY GRAVELY. Will you prosecute it, if I do?
SIR AVARICE PEDANT. If her gallant be rich: but if he’s poor, look you, I will have nothing to do with him; for I have resolved never to go to law with a beggar or a lord: the one you will never cast, and the other you will get nothing by casting.
LADY GRAVELY. You’ll get revenge.
SIR AVARICE PEDANT. I am too good a Christian to give money for revenge.
LADY GRAVELY. But not to give up your conscience for money. Will you set up for a Christian without honesty?
SIR AVARICE PEDANT. I’ll have faith at least; and so, sister, I believe my wife honest, and will believe it till you prove the contrary.
LADY GRAVELY. Can a woman be honest who frequents assemblies, auctions, plays, and reads romances?
SIR AVARICE PEDANT. Very innocently, I dare swear.
LADY GRAVELY. Who keeps an assembly herself! whose house is a public rendezvous for idle young fellows! and who is, I am afraid, sometimes alone with one fellow.
SIR AVARICE PEDANT. And very innocently, I dare aver.
LADY GRAVELY. How! innocently alone with a fellow! Brother, I would not be innocently alone with a fellow for the universe.
SIR AVARICE PEDANT. Since you enrage me, you yourself have a worse character than my wife.
LADY GRAVELY. Monster! I an ill character! I, who have lived reputably with two husbands!
SIR AVARICE PEDANT. And buried them both with great satisfaction.
LADY GRAVELY. The world knows how decently I grieved for them both; yes, you see too well I have not worn off the loss of the last to this day.
SIR AVARICE PEDANT. Nor will not, till you have got a third, which I hardly wish you had, that my house might be at ease, and that my poor wife, my poor Penelope, might not be disturbed. For I will no more believe any thing against her than I will believe a stock-jobber on the Exchange, or a lawyer in Westminster Hall.
LADY GRAVELY. The curses of cuckoldom and credulity attend you, till thy horns put out those eyes which cannot see them.
SCENE XIV.
WILDING and LADY GRAVELY.
WILDING. So, now must I transform myself into a shape as foreign to my natural one as ever Proteus did. [Aside. — Hem! hem! — Lady Gravely, your humble servant!
LADY GRAVELY. How got you admittance here, sir? I thought you knew that I receive no visits from men at this hour!
WILDING. AS my visits, madam, are always innocent, I presumed your ladyship might admit me at a time when you deny access to the looser of our sex. I am, indeed, unfortunately, of that part of the species which your ladyship disesteems; but sobriety, I know, recommends even a man to your ladyship’s favour.
LADY GRAVELY. Sobriety! you have, indeed, a great title to sobriety, sir.
WILDING. I own, indeed, the former part of my life has been too freely spent; but love has made me a convert. Love, which has made the sober often gay, has made me sober.
LADY GRAVELY. I am glad a good effect can proceed from a bad cause. Who can she be who has wrought this miracle?
WILDING. Would I durst tell you!
LADY GRAVELY. What do you fear?
WILDING. Your anger.
LADY GRAVELY. Though I disapprove of love — if virtuous, I could forgive it.
WILDING. Then ‘tis yourself, yourself, madam; the object of my thoughts, my dreams, my wishes —
LADY GRAVELY’. In love with me! I hope, sir, my conduct has not given encouragement.
WILDING. O! do not, do not look thus cruel on me. Those eyes should only dart their lightnings on the profligate; but when approached with purity, should be all gentle, mild, propitious. I, madam, despise and hate the world as you. Coquettes are my aversion.
LADY GRAVELY’. That, indeed, shows your sense.
WILDING. Would but my fate so far bless me, that I might have the opportunity of conversing with a woman of your sense, of communicating my censures on the world to you, and approving yours. Nothing can be harmful that passes between such a pair. [Kissing her hand.] Let what will proceed from their amours.
LADY GRAVELY. Odious name!
WILDING. Their virtuous hours. [Kissing it harder.] The world never lays any censure on their conduct.
LADY GRAVELY. The world is not half so censorious as it ought to be on the flirting part of the sex. — Really, I know very few who are not downright naughty.
WILDING. Yes, and openly — it is six times the crime. The manner of doing ill, like the manner of doing well, is chiefly considered — and then the persons too.
LADY GRAVELY. The giggling, ogling, silly, vile creatures.
WILDING. I don’t know a woman, beside yourself, one can converse with.
LADY GRAVELY. Truly, I am at a loss for conversation among my sex.
WILDING. Ah! madam, might one who has the misfortune to be a man —
LADY GRAVELY. Don’t call it a misfortune, since the women are so bad.
WILDING. Can I hope?
LADY GRAVELY. ‘Tis to the men, too, we are obliged for knowing what women are; if they were secret, all women would pass for virtuous.
WILDING. Yet I abhor the want of secrecy. Had I been admitted to familiarities, I would have sooner died than discovered them.
LADY GRAVELY. I cannot deny, indeed, but that secrecy is a manly virtue.
WILDING. Oh! it is the characteristic of a man.
LADY GRAVELY. I am glad to see a young man of such charming principles.
WILDING. Oh, madam!
LADY GRAVELY. Such a just and bad notion of the world.
WILDING. Madam! madam!
LADY GRAVELY. Such a thorough, thorough hatred of bad women.
WILDING. Dear madam!
LADY GRAVELY. And at the same time such a perfect, tender, manly concern for the reputation, of all women.
WILDING. Oh! eternally careful, madam!
LADY GRAVELY. And to show you my approbation, I will venture to walk with you in the garden till dinner. — I will but speak to a servant and follow you. [Exit.
WILDING. Soh! by what I can see, Lady Lucy, you are in a fair way to repent sending me of this errand. Make diversion for you! I shall make diversion for myself, I believe; for nothing but the devil can prevent my success, and I’m sure it’s not his business to prevent it.
ACT III.
SCENE I.
The Antechamber.
LADY LUCY an
d WILDING.
LADY LUCY PEDANT. I have been half dead with impatience to know your success.
WILDING. If ever I am sent on such an errand again —
Complete Fictional Works of Henry Fielding Page 242
