MRS. BONCOUR. Then I am in the wrong; a wife is always in the wrong, certainly; it is impossible for a wife to be in the right in any thing.
MR. BONCOUR. My dear, I never said so.
MRS. BONCOUR. That is as much as to say, I don’t tell truth: I desire you will treat me with good manners at least; that I think I may expect. A woman of virtue, who brought you a fortune may expect that.
MR. BONCOUR. Madam, I esteem you for your virtue, and am grateful to you for your fortune; I should blush if you could upbraid me with lavishing it on my own pleasures, or ever denying you the enjoyment of it.
MRS. BONCOUR. How! have I a coach at my command? you keep one, indeed, but I am sure I have no command of it.
MR. BONCOUR. Indeed you wrong me.
MRS. BONCOUR. Why, have you not lent it this very morning without my knowledge?
MR. BONCOUR. My dear, I thought the chariot would have served.
MRS. BONCOUR. How can that serve when I am to take three other ladies with me?
MR. BONCOUR. Who’s there?
Enter SERVANT.
Bid John take the chariot to my cousin, and let the coach attend my wife — I ask your pardon, child; I own I should have told you of it, but business really put it out of my head.
MRS. BONCOUR. Well, and suppose I should find but one of the ladies at home, must I drag about a heavy coach all over the town, like an alderman’s or a country justice of peace’s lady?
MR. BONCOUR. Nay, since you are so unresolved — the promise was not absolute; you shall not be uneasy on any account — Tell the fellow he need not go to my cousin at all — [Exit Servant]. Now, my dear, you may have your choice, and I hope you will lie easy.
MRS. BONCOUR. Easy! yes; I have a great deal of reason to be easy, truly; now your relations, if they have not the coach will lay the whole blame upon me; sure, never was so unfortunate a creature as I am! — no, let them have both, and then they will be satisfied; I dare say I shall find a coach amongst my acquaintance, though you deny me yours.
[Exit.
MR. BONCOUR. SO! this comes of meddling with matters out of my sphere; but I deserve it, who know her temper so well.
Enter SIR GEORGE BONCOUR.
SIR GEORGE BONCOUR. Brother, good-morrow, I hope no accident hath happened, for I met my sister in a violent hurry at the door.
MR. BONCOUR. No, nothing extraordinary: wives will have their humours, you know.
SIR GEORGE BONCOUR. Ay, wives who have such husbands.
MR. BONCOUR. I hope I give her no occasion to be uneasy.
SIR GEORGE BONCOUR. Indeed you do — You are a very wicked man, brother.
MR. BONCOUR. HOW!
SIR GEORGE BONCOUR. For you have spoilt a very good sort of a woman; you have many an uneasy hour, many a heart-ache, many a sigh, and many a tear to answer for, which you have been the occasion of to my poor sister.
MR. BONCOUR. I don’t remember I ever denied her any thing.
SIR GEORGE BONCOUR. That is the very reason; for what can a poor woman be obliged to consult so unsteady as her own inclinations? If you would contradict her a little, it would prevent her contradicting herself. A man pretends to be a good husband, and yet imposes continually that hard task upon his wife to know what she has a mind to.
MR. BONCOUR. Brother, I admit raillery, but I should contemn myself, if I refused any thing to a woman who brought me so immense a fortune, to which my circumstances were so very unequal: I do not think with the world, that I make a woman amends for robbing her of her fortune by taking her person into the bargain.
SIR GEORGE BONCOUR. I would not have you rob her; I would only have you keep her from robbing herself. Ah! I should have made an excellent husband, if I could ever have been persuaded to marry.
MR. BONCOUR. Doubtless your wife would have agreed rarely with this doctrine. Sir GEORGE BONCOUR. She must have been a most unreasonable woman else; for I should have desired no more of her than only to do whatever I would have her. I am not that person you would make me appear; for, except a few diversions which I have an antipathy to, such as music, balls, cards, plays, operas, assemblies, visits, and entertainments, I should scarce ever deny her any thing.
MR. BONCOUR. Your exceptions put me in mind of some general pardons, where every thing is forgiven except crimes.
SIR GEORGE BONCOUR. I suppose you would have me suffer her to keep an assembly and rendezvous of all such idle people as can’t stay at home; that is, have nothing to do any where else.
MR. BONCOUR. Perhaps I love an assembly no more than you.
SIR GEORGE BONCOUR. Why do you keep one then?
MR. BONCOUR. For the same reason that I do many other things not very agreeable to me, to gratify my wife.
SIR GEORGE BONCOUR. But, brother, pray for what purpose do you think the law gives you a power to restrain her?
MR. BONCOUR. Brother, the law gives us many powers which an honest man would scorn to make use of.
SIR GEORGE BONCOUR. So the advantage you receive from your wife’s fortune, is to be her steward, while she lays it out in her own pleasures.
MR. BONCOUR. And that no inconsiderable one.
SIR GEORGE BONCOUR. NO!
MR. BONCOUR. No; for the greatest pleasure I can enjoy is that of contributing to hers.
SIR GEORGE BONCOUR. You are a good deal too good for this world, indeed you are; and really, considering how good you are, you are tolerably lucky; for were I half so good, I should expect, whenever I returned home, to catch my wife in an intrigue; my servants robbing my house; my son married to a chambermaid; and my daughter run away with a footman.
MR. BONCOUR. These would be ill returns to your goodness.
SIR GEORGE BONCOUR. That’s true; but they are very common ones for all that; and I wish somewhat worse does not happen to your son; for I must tell you, and I am sorry to tell it you, the town talk of him.
MR. BONCOUR. I hope they can say nothing ill of him.
SIR GEORGE BONCOUR. Nothing ill of him! they say every thing ill of him — O brother, I think myself obliged to discover it to you, this son, this eldest son of yours, the hopes of your family, whom I intended my heir; this profligate rascal, I tell it with tears in my eyes — keeps — keeps — a wench.
MR. BONCOUR. I know it —
SIR GEORGE BONCOUR. [ln a passion.] Know it! — wh — at — that he keeps a wench?
MR. BONCOUR. I am sorry for it.
SIR GEORGE BONCOUR. If he was a son of mine, I’d skin him — I’d flay him — I’d starve him. He shall never have a groat — a farthing of mine: I’ll marry to-morrow, and if I haven’t an heir, I’ll endow an hospital, or give my money to the Sinking Fund.
MR. BONCOUR. Come, brother, I am in hopes to reclaim him yet.
SIR GEORGE BONCOUR. His vices are all owing to you.
MR. BONCOUR. I never gave him instructions in that way.
SIR GEORGE BONCOUR. You have given him money, that is giving him instructions: whoever gives his son money is answerable for all the ill uses he puts it to.
MR. BONCOUR. Rather, whoever denies his son a reasonable allowance is answerable for all the ill methods he is forced into to get money.
SIR GEORGE BONCOUR. Reasonable! brother: why there is our dispute; I am not so rigid as some fathers; I am not for totally curbing a young man; I would not have him without a shilling or two in his pocket, to appear scandalous at a coffee-house — no —
MR. BONCOUR. Sir George, instead of disputing longer on this subject, will you go with me and visit my son? — suppose we should find him at his studies?
SIR GEORGE BONCOUR. I as soon expect to find him at his prayers — Well, I will go, as I have no other business; though I know the world better than to expect either to convince myself or you.
MR. BONCOUR. I am ready to wait on you; my coach is at the door.
SIR GEORGE BONCOUR. — If I should break the rascal’s head, you’ll forgive me — Keep — I’d keep him, if he was a son of mine. [Exeunt.
; SCENE — At YOUNG BONCOUR’S.
YOUNG BONCOUR, MISS BONCOUR, MISS VALENCE, come forward.
YOUNG BONCOUR. Dear sister, how could you let this inundation of nonsense in upon us?
MISS BONCOUR. Nay, don’t blame me.
MISS VALENCE. Oh! I was a witness to what passed; however, now they are gone, I must remind you of your promise to let me hear that song. I think both the words and air admirable.
MISS BONCOUR. You will make George proud if you praise his poetry.
YOUNG BONCOUR. Love or poverty makes most poets; and I hope I shall never want at least one of those motives — as Mr. Warbler is gone, I will attempt it myself.
SONG.
I.
While the sweet blushing spring glowing fresh in her prime,
All nature with smiles doth adorn;
Snatch at each golden joy — check the ravage of time,
And pluck every bud from the thorn.
In the May-morn of life, while gladsome and gay,
Each moment, each pleasure improve,
For life we shall find is at best but a day,
And the sunshine that gilds it is love. ii.
The rose now so blooming, of nature the grace,
In a moment is shrunk and decayed,
And the glow which now tinges a beautiful face,
Must soon, alas! wither and fade.
In the May-morn of life then, while gladsome and gay,
Each moment, each pleasure improve,
For life we shall find is at best but a day,
And the sunshine that gilds it is love.
Enter MR. BONCOUR and SIR GEORGE BONCOUR.
YOUNG BONCOUR. My father! and uncle too — so, so!
MR. BONCOUR. Dear George, don’t let us interrupt your entertainment; your uncle and myself called only to see how you did, as we went by. If I had known you had had company, we should not have come up — Pray go on with your music.
YOUNG BONCOUR. Sir; you are always the kindest and most condescending — but from you, sir, this is an unexpected honour.
SIR GEORGE BONCOUR. Dear sir, most obliging, and most gracious sir, — you do me an infinite deal of honour — indeed — You see he is at his studies, brother.
MR. BONCOUR. Pray, George, don’t let us interrupt your entertainment.
SIR GEORGE BONCOUR. Upon my word, my nephew shows an exceeding good taste in his morning diversions.
YOUNG BONCOUR. Yes, sir, these ladies have been so good as to hear a silly trifle of my own writing.
SIR GEORGE BONCOUR. I am sorry we came too late, for I think nonsense is never so agreeable as when set to music.
MISS BONCOUR. The music my brother designed for me and this lady; and I doubt not, if he had had any expectation of your company, my dear uncle, he would have provided some more serious entertainment.
SIR GEORGE BONCOUR. Upon my word, sir, you have a very pretty house here, completely finished and furnished — when I was a young fellow we had not half so good a taste.
YOUNG BONCOUR. No, sir, the age is improved since that time — when a knight of the shire used to jog to town with a brace of geldings, and a single liveryman; and very prudently take a first floor in the Strand, when, if you asked in the shop for Sir Thomas, a dirty fellow behind the counter called out, Maid, is Sir Thomas above? — I dare swear, uncle, in your time, many a tradesman hath had half a dozen men of fashion in his house.
SIR GEORGE BONCOUR. If he had nine men of fashion in his house, he had fewer in his books, I believe.
MISS BONCOUR. And once in seven years came up madam in the stage-coach, to see one comedy, one tragedy, go once to the opera, and rig out herself and family till the next general election — ha! ha! ha! —
SIR GEORGE BONCOUR. Well, Miss Malapert, and what do you think you have said now? why, nothing more than that your grandmothers had ten times as much prudence as yourselves.
Enter SERVANT hastily.
SERVANT. Sir, I ask pardon. I thought your honour had been gone.
MR. BONCOUR. Speak out, sir.
SERVANT. Sir, there be below Monsieur de Pannier, with a new suit; and Monsieur de la Mouton Maigre, with some embroidery for your honour.
SIR GEORGE BONCOUR. There is another virtue of the age! If you will be extravagant, can’t you let your own tradesmen reap the benefit of it? is it not enough to send your money out of your own family, but you must send it out of your own country too?
YOUNG BONCOUR. I consider nothing farther than who serves me the best.
MR. BONCOUR. I must join your uncle here, George, — I am afraid it is fashion rather that guides you to the choice; but were it otherwise, every man ought to have some partiality for his own country; it is a laudable prejudice, without which no people ever were or can be great.
SIR GEORGE BONCOUR. It ever was the characteristic of this nation — but now a passion for French dress and fopperies is as prevailing as the use of their frippery tongue — Ah! there was a time, when we found the way to be understood in France without the help of their language — [looks on his watch], but I have trifled away more time than I could well afford; shall I carry you any where, brother, or will you stay here?
MR. BONCOUR. Have you any engagement, George?
YOUNG BONCOUR. None at present.
MR. BONCOUR. Then, brother, I wish you a good morning. I have some business with my son.
SIR GEORGE BONCOUR. Good-morrow to you, brother — Pray, sir, will you order some of your domestics to show me out of these noble apartments, for there are so many doors to them, I may possibly miss my way.
YOUNG BONCOUR. I will do myself that honour, sir.
SIR GEORGE BONCOUR. Upon my soul, sir, you are so full of complaisance you confound me; nay, sir, pray walk first, I insist upon it.
YOUNG BONCOUR. Sir, it is my duty to obey. [Exit.
SIR GEORGE BONCOUR. Extravagant rascal! if I had such a son, I would make a little free with his coxcombical pate. [Exit.
MR. BONCOUR. I wish, child, you would take that young lady away, for I have something to say to your brother.
MISS BONCOUR. La, papa, you are always so full of secrets!
MR. BONCOUR. You know, dear Harriet, how fond I am of your company.
MISS BONCOUR. Yes; eternally sending me away is a proof of it.
MR. BONCOUR. This is a disobedience which I ought to love you for, instead of chiding you; and I will break an appointment to enjoy this evening with you and your brother.
MISS BONCOUR. Nay, I can’t promise to be at home this evening, for I shall be engaged to go to the play, and if I should not happen to go to the play, I shall be engaged to a party at cards.
MISS VALENCE. Miss Boncour, you must remember your promise to set me down at home; my time is out, and I dare not stay one minute beyond it.
MISS BONCOUR. Dare not? ha! ha! ha!
MISS VALENCE. NO; my father will never forgive me if I should.
Enter YOUNG BONCOUR.
YOUNG BONCOUR. I have got my uncle into his chariot at last; but he was so full of ceremony I thought I never should; he has made fifty bows to my servants; I never saw him in such a humour.
MR. BONCOUR. You know his temper, George, and may easily guess at the reason of it.
MISS BONCOUR. Well, if you are so positive —
MISS VALENCE. Don’t call me positive — I act against my inclination.
YOUNG BONCOUR. Are you going already, madam, — you will do me the honour — [Exit, leading her out.
MR. BONCOUR. [Alone.] How wretched is that animal, whose whole happiness centres in himself; who cannot feel any satisfaction, but in the indulgence of his own appetite. I feel my children still a part of me; they are, as it were, additional senses, which let in daily a thousand pleasures to me; my enjoyments are not confined to those which nature hath adapted to my own years, but I can in my son’s fruition taste those of another age — nor am I charitable, but luxurious, when I bestow on them the instruments of their pleasures. [Enter Young Boncour.] So, George, y
ou have soon quitted the young lady.
YOUNG BONCOUR. I was going to make that excuse for leaving you so long.
MR. BONCOUR. You have been a good husband this quarter.
YOUNG BONCOUR. Sir; you are always so good as to prevent my necessities, and almost my wishes; for indeed I should have been obliged —
MR. BONCOUR. I thought a hundred would not be burthensome. [Giving him a note.
YOUNG BONCOUR. [Bowing respectfully, with a smile.] A hundred! Gad, it is but a hundred.
MR. BONCOUR. What are you considering, George?
Complete Fictional Works of Henry Fielding Page 363
