MR. BONCOUR. I am ready to wait on you.
SIR GREGORY KENNEL. Wait on me! pr’ythee get out and show me the way; a plague of ceremony. [Exeunt.
ACT V.
SCENE I.
A Room in OLD VALENCE’S House.
Enter YOUNG BONCOUR and Miss VALENCE.
MISS VALENCE. And so you have promised to resign your right of inheritance in the estate to your father?
YOUNG BONCOUR. I have, madam.
MISS VALENCE. Then you have done like a fool; and deserve to be pointed at as such.
YOUNG BONCOUR. How, madam? would you have me insensibly and quietly sit down, and see my father ruined?
MISS VALENCE. Ay, fifty fathers, rather than part with my prospect of a fortune.
YOUNG BONCOUR. Does this agree with those professions of filial duty I have heard from Miss Valence?
MISS VALENCE. Professed! ha, ha, ha! to my father! when I never dared to do otherwise. I may rather say, this foolish generosity is little of a piece with your frequent professions of disobedience.
YOUNG BONCOUR. Well, no more of this, dear Sophia. Tell me when you will make me happy?
MISS VALENCE. I don’t know what you mean —
YOUNG BONCOUR. HOW!
MISS VALENCE. Sure, you can’t imagine, when you parted with the right of your estate, but that you parted with your right to your mistress. Do you think I would do so imprudent a thing as marry a beggar?
YOUNG BONCOUR. Did you not tell me to-day, nay scarce an hour ago, that neither the misfortunes of my father, nor the commands of your own, should prevent our happiness?
MISS VALENCE. NOT do they. ‘Tis your own folly you are to thank; a folly, which had you loved me, you could not have been guilty of — (Besides, I did not know then, that I had a lover at my command). [Aside.
YOUNG BONCOUR. Sure my eyes or my ears deceive me! these words cannot come from the generous Miss Valence.
MISS VALENCE. Indeed, I am as generous as a prudent woman ought to be, or ever will be; I hope you do not expect me to have the romantic ideas of a girl of fifteen, to dream of woods and deserts; you would not have me live in a cottage on love?
YOUNG BONCOUR. I find I have been in an error, the grossest, wildest, and most monstrous of errors; I have thought a woman faithful, just, and generous.
MISS VALENCE. Why truly that is a mistake, something extraordinary in so great a man; but if you have any thing of importance, I beg you would communicate it, for my mantua-maker waits for me in the next room, and I expect a lady every moment, to carry me into the city, where I am to give her my judgment on a fan-mount. So, Mr. Boncour, you will excuse me at present, and do me the favour to give my compliments to your sister. [Exit Miss Valence.
YOUNG BONCOUR. [Stands some time silent.] I have been deceived with a vengeance. Thou art indeed another creature than the object of my affection was; where is she then? why, no where. This is the real creature, and the object of my love was the phantom. Vanish then, my love, with that, for how can a building stand, when the foundation is gone! [Exit Young Boncour.
SCENE II.
Enter YOUNG VALENCE and Miss VALENCE (laughing).
MISS VALENCE. I assure you, brother, I take it ill of you to overhear my privacies.
YOUNG VALENCE. Nay never be ashamed of your merit; I shall esteem you always for your resolution. I own I scarce believed any woman could so easily have resigned her lover.
MISS VALENCE. Oh, ‘tis a terrible thing for a woman to resign her lover when she is under fifteen, or above fifty; that is, for a girl to part with what she calls her first love, or an old woman with what she fears will be her last. But at one-and-twenty, when one has seen a little of the world, the changing of one lover for another is as changing one’s clothes.
YOUNG VALENCE. Well, since you are so frank with me, I’ll be as communicative with you. My passion for Miss Boncour is a little more ungovernable than yours for her brother; and since it is inconvenient to have her for a wife, I have determined to have her for a mistress.
MISS VALENCE. And do you think you shall be able to accomplish your point?
YOUNG VALENCE. Yes, and you will think so too, I believe, when you know all — In short, I attacked her this very morning, depreciated marriage with violence, and pressed her with all the eagerness of a man whose appetites were too impatient to endure the tedious ceremony of saying grace before he satisfies them.
MISS VALENCE. And how did she receive you?
YOUNG VALENCE. Much better than I expected. However, at last she rallied her spirits, and with some passion commanded me to leave her; I was scarce at home before I received this letter.
MISS VALENCE. Any letter after such a proposal was an acceptance of it. [Reads.] “As you cannot wonder at my being a little surprised at what past this morning between us, you will easily be able to account for my behaviour on that occasion. If you desire me to say I am sorry for so peremptorily putting an end to your visit, you may think I have said so. However, I desire to see you this evening punctually at eight, and that you would, if possible, avoid being seen by any of the family, but yours.”
YOUNG VALENCE. What are you considering about?
MISS VALENCE. Only whether it is her hand.
YOUNG VALENCE. That I am sure it is.
MISS VALENCE. Then I am sure you have nothing to do but to keep your appointment.
Enter OLD VALENCE and YOUNG KENNEL.
OLD VALENCE. Since you are so very desirous, sir, to see my daughter, I don’t see how I can refuse the son of my good friend Sir Gregory; refusing indeed is not my talent — I own I cannot guess what earnest business you can have with her.
YOUNG KENNEL. Upon my honour, sir, it is not of any disservice to the young lady, nay, I believe I may trust you with it.
OLD VALENCE. No, no, no, I will be trusted with nothing. — I see nothing, I hear nothing, I know nothing. But pray, young gentleman, are you sure now (I only ask for an impertinent curiosity), are you sure that Sir Gregory can’t cut off the entail of his estate?
YOUNG KENNEL. Why, if you won’t believe, you may ask the lawyers that my tutor consulted about it.
OLD VALENCE. Nay, nay, it is nothing to me, it is no business of mine — Oh, here is my daughter. Child, Mr. Kennel, eldest son of Sir Gregory Kennel, desires me to introduce him to your acquaintance — [They salute] — Well,
MR. Kennel, you must pardon me, I must leave you on business of consequence: Son, you must come along with me, I ask pardon for only leaving my daughter to keep you company.
YOUNG VALENCE. Sir, I wait on you. [Exit Old Valence and Young Valence.
YOUNG KENNEL. Pray, madam, was you ever at Paris?
MISS VALENCE. No, sir, I have never been out of my own country.
YOUNG KENNEL. That is a great misfortune to you, madam; for I would not give a fig for any thing that had not made the tour of Europe.
MISS VALENCE. I thought, sir, travelling had been a necessary qualification only to you gentlemen. I need not ask, sir, if you have been at Paris.
YOUNG KENNEL. No, I hope not, madam; I hope no one will imagine these clothes to be the handiwork of any English tailor: Paris, indeed! why, madam, I have made the tour of Europe.
MISS VALENCE. Upon my word, this is extraordinary in one so young; I suppose, sir, you went abroad very soon after you left school?
YOUNG KENNEL. School! ha, ha, ha! why, madam, I was never at school at all; I lived with the old witch my grandmother till I was seventeen, and then my father stole me away from her, and sent me abroad, where I wish I had stayed for ever — for, ah! madam —
MISS VALENCE. Now he begins (he is just what I would choose for a husband) — [Aside.
YOUNG KENNEL. Can you not read in my eyes that I have lost my heart?
MISS VALENCE. Avez-vous donc laisser votre cœur a Paris, Monsieur?
YOUNG KENNEL. What the devil is that, madam?
MISS VALENCE. Don’t you understand French, sir?
YOUNG KENNEL. Not a syllable,
upon my soul, except an oath or two.
MISS VALENCE. I suppose, I say, sir, you have left your heart at Paris?
YOUNG KENNEL. No, madam, you cannot suppose that: you saw, you must have seen at the play in what corner of the world my heart was.
MISS VALENCE. I have no time to play the coquette. [Aside.] High-ho! — [Sighs.
YOUNG KENNEL. Ha! sure that sigh betokens pity.
MISS VALENCE. How do you know you want it? Have you declared your passion?
YOUNG KENNEL. Not unless my eyes have done it.
MISS VALENCE. Perhaps she who hath your heart, may have returned you her own?
YOUNG KENNEL. That would make me happier than the King of France, the Doge of Venice, or any prince I have ever seen; but if she hath, sure you must know it, and it is in your power —
MISS VALENCE. I, sir? — O bless me — My power! — What have you said?
YOUNG KENNEL. Oh, take pity of the most unhappy man that ever was at Versailles.
MISS VALENCE. I am so frightened, so confounded — Could I have imagined that I had made this impression on your heart!
YOUNG KENNEL. No, madam, no, no, no; not you; the other lady that was with you.
MISS VALENCE. How, sir!
YOUNG KENNEL. I am only soliciting you to let me know where I may find that dear, adorable, divine creature, who was with you at the play the night before last; I lost you both in the crowd by a cursed accident, and by the most fortunate one have met with you once again to direct me to my love.
MISS VALENCE. Unheard-of impudence — and am I to be a go-between?
YOUNG KENNEL. Can you refuse me?
MISS VALENCE. Refuse you! Go, oaf! Go, find your slut, your trollop, your beggar, for so she is.
YOUNG KENNEL. Were she the meanest beggar upon earth, could I find her, I should be happy.
MISS VALENCE. I could tear my fan — my hair — my flesh — I’ll to my closet, and vent myself in private. [Exit Miss Valence.
YOUNG KENNEL. Hey-day! what can have put the woman in such a passion? — But though she won’t tell me, now I have found her out, I shall surely find out her acquaintance; I will watch her closely, for I will discover my angel, though I make the tour of the whole world after her. [Exit.
SCENE III
MR. BONCOUR’S Apartment.
Enter MR. BONCOUR and MRS. BONCOUR.
MRS. BONCOUR. But why keep a secret from me? why am I not worthy to know secrets?
MR. BONCOUR. I have given you what should be a satisfactory reason. — I had promised not to tell it you.
MRS. BONCOUR. No, to be sure! A wife is not a proper person to be trusted with any thing.
MR. BONCOUR. You have no reason to arraign my want of confidence in you.
MRS. BONCOUR. Well then, do tell me the reason why you keep this a secret from me?
MR. BONCOUR. That would be to have no confidence in myself: come, my dear, leave this vain solicitation; you know I seldom resolve to contradict you in any thing: but when I do, I have never been wheedled, or cried, or bullied out of my resolution.
MRS. BONCOUR. What can I think of this?
MR. BONCOUR. Why, you are to think that you owe my condescension to my tenderness, and not my folly. Pray, my dear, lay aside this caprice of temper, which may work your own misery, but shall not mine; my gratitude to you will prevent my contributing to your uneasiness, but shall never make the quiet of my own life dependent on any other.
MRS. BONCOUE. It is a pretty compliment, truly, to assure me that your happiness does not depend on me.
MR. BONCOUR. I scorn to compliment you, nor did I ever speak to you but from my heart. I challenge you in any one instance of my whole course of behaviour to blame my conduct, unless you join the world and condemn me for too much easiness of disposition; but I must leave you a little while.
MRS. BONCOUR. But I desire you will not leave me.
MR. BONCOUR. I am obliged, I am guilty of rudeness every moment I stay. I assure you it is regard to decency only, and not to pleasure, calls me from you.
MRS. BONCOUR. Why will you go then?
MR. BONCOUR. Because I will always do what I think right, without regard to my own pleasure, or that of others.
MRS. BONCOUR. You shall stay.
MR. BONCOUR. I will not.
MRS. BONCOUR. I will come and disturb your company.
MR. BONCOUR. You would make me miserable if you did, by forcing me to the last of evils.
MRS. BONCOUR. What is that, pray?
MR. BONCOUR. That of using violence to you. [Exit Mr. Boncour.
MRS. BONCOUR. What does the man mean? he never uttered any thing like this before! I must turn over a new leaf, and exert more spirit than I have lately done. I will go this instant and break up his company — but suppose he should use violence; he seemed very resolute. Ha! I will not provoke him so far — but the secret I will hear — or — he shall never sleep again, that I am resolved. [Exit.
SCENE IV
Another Room in MR. BONCOUR’S House.
SIR GEORGE BONCOUR, SIR GREGORY KENNEL, and MR. BONCOUR, discovered drinking.
SIR GEORGE BONCOUR. SIR Gregory, it is your glass.
SIR GREGORY KENNEL. Well, and it shall be my glass then — here’s success to the war; and I hope we shall shortly have French pointers in England as plenty as curs.
SIR GEORGE BONCOUR. Well said, Sir Gregory, spoke like a true Englishman.
SIR GREGORY KENNEL. Ay, like an Englishman that will drink, as long as he can stand, for the good of his country. — Odso, here comes my son.
Enter Young Kennel.
MR. BONCOUR. Sir George, this is young Mr. Kennel.
[They salute.
SIR GEORGE BONCOUR. Is this your son, Sir Gregory?
SIR GREGORY KENNEL. Ay, I think so.
SIR GEORGE BONCOUR. A hopeful youth, truly. [Aside.
SIR GREGORY KENNEL. So, rascal, how have you the assurance to look me in the face? how have you the impudence to come into my presence, sirrah, after running away from me?
YOUNG KENNEL. Nay, if you come to that, you ran away from me.
SIR GREGORY KENNEL. That’s a lie, and would be a pretty story if it was true, to be outwalked by your father.
YOUNG KENNEL. Hold there, not so fast, sir; I don’t allow you can outwalk me neither.
SIR GREGORY KENNEL. Don’t you? why then I will see whether I can outdrink you, I believe I can do that yet: Mr. Boncour, let us have a quart glass, for the rascal shall start fair, we won’t give him a bottle scope.
YOUNG KENNEL. A quart glass! why, sir, you don’t intend to make me drunk?
SIR GREGORY KENNEL. Yes I do, sir, but I hope a quart won’t do it; you are not such a milksop as that. Harkye, sirrah, it is all over, I have done your business for you; this gentleman and I have agreed that he shall be your father-in-law, so nothing remains but for you to see the wench, marry, and to bed, and then down to Dirty Park.
YOUNG KENNEL. TWO words to that bargain, sir, for I am engaged.
MR. BONCOUR. Nay, Sir Gregory, then —
Enter Young Boncour and takes his father aside.
YOUNG BONCOUR. Sir, I have something to say to you in private from my sister.
SIR GREGORY KENNEL. You are engaged!
YOUNG Kennel. Even so, sir.
SIR GREGORY KENNEL. Why then, sir, my estate is engaged too; I will disinherit you, sirrah: I won’t leave you money enough to pay the tailor for such another fool’s cover as you have on now.
YOUNG KENNEL. Ha, ha, ha!
SIR GREGORY KENNEL. Do you laugh at me, you dog?
YOUNG KENNEL. Only at your disinheriting me; my tutor has let me into that secret.
SIR GREGORY KENNEL. Oh, ho, he has. I will thank him for that the first time I see him: and in the mean time, sirrah, do as I would have you, or — [Lifts up his stick.
SIR GEORGE BONCOUR. Why, Sir Gregory, do you think this is the way to prevail with your son? it may be a knockdown argument, I grant you, but I am much mista
ken if it will ever prove a convincing one.
YOUNG KENNEL. If he could disinherit me, as I know he can’t, I will never marry unless it be the woman I love. Kay. don’t shake your stick about, I know a little of quarter-staff as well as you.
SIR GREGORY KENNEL. Sirrah — I’ll — I’ll —
Complete Fictional Works of Henry Fielding Page 369
