Enter SERVANT.
Ser. A letter for your worship.
Just. Who brought it?
Ser. A soldier.
Just. Take it away and burn it.
Mrs. Bri. Stay! — Now you’re in such a hurry — it is some canting scrawl from the lieutenant, I suppose. — [Takes the letter. — Exit SERVANT.] Let me see: — ay, ’tis signed O’Connor.
Just. Well, come read it out.
Mrs. Bri. [Reads.] Revenge is sweet.
Just. It begins so, does it? I’m glad of that; I’ll let the dog know I’m of his opinion.
Mrs. Bri. [Reads.] And though disappointed of my designs upon your daughter, I have still the satisfaction of knowing I am revenged on her unnatural father; for this morning, in your chocolate, I had the pleasure to administer to you a dose of poison! — Mercy on us!
Just. No tricks, Bridget; come, you know it is not so; you know it is a lie.
Mrs. Bri. Read it yourself.
Just. [Reads.] Pleasure to administer a dose of poison! — Oh, horrible! Cut-throat villain! — Bridget!
Mrs. Bri. Lovee, stay, here’s a postscript. — [Reads.] N.B. ’Tis not in the power of medicine to save you.
Just. Odds my life, Bridget! why don’t you call for help? I’ve lost my voice. — My brain is giddy — I shall burst, and no assistance. — John! — Laury! — John!
Mrs. Bri. You see, lovee, what you have brought on yourself.
Re-enter SERVANT.
Ser. Your worship!
Just. Stay, John; did you perceive anything in my chocolate cup this morning?
Ser. Nothing, your worship, unless it was a little grounds.
Just. What colour were they?
Ser. Blackish, your worship.
Just. Ay, arsenic, black arsenic! — Why don’t you run for Dr. Rosy, you rascal?
Ser. Now, sir?
Mrs. Bri. Oh, lovee, you may be sure it is in vain; let him run for the lawyer to witness your will, my life.
Just. Zounds! go for the doctor, you scoundrel. You are all confederate murderers.
Ser. Oh, here he is, your worship. [Exit.]
Just. Now, Bridget, hold your tongue, and let me see if my horrid situation be apparent.
Enter DOCTOR ROSY.
Rosy. I have but just called to inform — hey! bless me, what’s the matter with your worship?
Just. There, he sees it already! — Poison in my face, in capitals! Yes, yes, I’m a sure job for the undertakers indeed!
Mrs. Bri. Oh! oh! alas, doctor!
Just. Peace, Bridget! — Why, doctor, my dear old friend, do you really see any change in me?
Rosy. Change! never was man so altered: how came these black spots on your nose?
Just. Spots on my nose!
Rosy. And that wild stare in your right eye!
Just. In my right eye?
Rosy. Ay, and, alack, alack, how you are swelled!
Just. Swelled!
Rosy. Ay, don’t you think he is, madam?
Mrs. Bri. Oh! ’tis in vain to conceal it! — Indeed, lovee, you are as big again as you were this morning.
Just. Yes, I feel it now — I’m poisoned! — Doctor, help me, for the love of justice! Give me life to see my murderer hanged.
Rosy. What?
Just. I’m poisoned, I say!
Rosy. Speak out!
Just. What! can’t you hear me?
Rosy. Your voice is so low and hollow, as it were, I can’t hear a word you say.
Just. I’m gone then! — Hic jacet, many years one of his majesty’s justices!
Mrs. Bri. Read, doctor! — Ah, lovee, the will! — Consider, my life, how soon you will be dead.
Just. No, Bridget, I shall die by inches.
Rosy. I never heard such monstrous iniquity. — Oh, you are gone indeed, my friend! the mortgage of your little bit of clay is out, and the sexton has nothing to do but to close. We must all go, sooner or later — high and low — Death’s a debt; his mandamus binds all alike — no bail, no demurrer.
Just. Silence, Dr. Croaker! will you cure me or will you not?
Rosy. Alas! my dear friend, it is not in my power; but I’ll certainly see justice done on your murderer.
Just. I thank you, my dear friend, but I had rather see it myself.
Rosy. Ay, but if you recover, the villain will escape.
Mrs. Bri. Will he? then indeed it would be a pity you should recover. I am so enraged against the villain, I can’t bear the thought of his escaping the halter.
Just. That’s very kind in you, my dear; but if it’s the same thing to you, my dear, I had as soon recover, notwithstanding. — What, doctor, no assistance!
Rosy. Efacks, I can do nothing, but there’s the German quack, whom you wanted to send from town; I met him at the next door, and I know he has antidotes for all poisons.
Just. Fetch him, my dear friend, fetch him! I’ll get him a diploma if he cures me.
Rosy. Well, there’s no time to be lost; you continue to swell immensely. [Exit.]
Mrs. Bri. What, my dear, will you submit to be cured by a quack nostrum-monger? For my part, as much as I love you, I had rather follow you to your grave than see you owe your life to any but a regular-bred physician.
Just. I’m sensible of your affection, dearest; and be assured nothing consoles me in my melancholy situation so much as the thoughts of leaving you behind.
Re-enter DOCTOR ROSY, with LIEUTENANT O’CONNOR disguised.
Rosy. Great luck; met him passing by the door.
O’Con. Metto dowsei pulsum.
Rosy. He desires me to feel your pulse.
Just. Can’t he speak English?
Rosy. Not a word.
O’Con. Palio vivem mortem soonem.
Rosy. He says you have not six hours to live.
Just. O mercy! does he know my distemper?
Rosy. I believe not.
Just. Tell him ’tis black arsenic they have given me.
Rosy. Geneable illi arsnecca.
O’Con. Pisonatus.
Just. What does he say?
Rosy. He says you are poisoned.
Just. We know that; but what will be the effect?
Rosy. Quid effectum?
O’Con. Diable tutellum.
Rosy. He says you’ll die presently.
Just. Oh, horrible! What, no antidote?
O’Con. Curum benakere bono fullum.
Just. What, does he say I must row in a boat to Fulham?
Rosy. He says he’ll undertake to cure you for three thousand pounds.
Mrs. Bri. Three thousand pounds! three thousand halters! — No, lovee, you shall never submit to such impositions; die at once, and be a customer to none of them.
Just. I won’t die, Bridget — I don’t like death.
Mrs. Bri. Psha! there is nothing in it: a moment, and it is over.
Just. Ay, but it leaves a numbness behind that lasts a plaguy long time.
Mrs. Bri. O my dear, pray consider the will.
Enter LAURETTA.
Lau. O my father, what is this I hear?
O’Con. Quiddam seomriam deos tollam rosam.
Rosy. The doctor is astonished at the sight of your fair daughter.
Just. How so?
O’Con. Damsellum livivum suvum rislibani.
Rosy. He says that he has lost his heart to her, and that if you will give him leave to pay his addresses to the young lady, and promise your consent to the union, if he should gain her affections, he will, on those conditions, cure you instantly, without fee or reward.
Just. The devil! did he say all that in so few words? What a fine language it is! Well, I agree, if he can prevail on the girl. — [Aside.] And that I am sure he never will.
Rosy. Greal.
O’Con. Writhum bothum.
Rosy. He says you must give this under your hand, while he writes you a miraculous receipt. [Both sit down to write.]
Lau. Do, mamma, tell me the meaning of this.
Mrs. Bri. Don
’t speak to me, girl. — Unnatural parent!
Just. There, doctor; there’s what he requires.
Rosy. And here’s your receipt: read it yourself.
Just. Hey! what’s here? plain English!
Rosy. Read it out; a wondrous nostrum, I’ll answer for it.
Just. [Reads.] In reading this you are cured, by your affectionate son-in-law, O’CONNOR. — Who in the name of Beelzebub, sirrah, who are you?
O’Con. Your affectionate son-in-law, O’Connor, and your very humble servant, Humphrey Hum.
Just. ’Tis false, you dog! you are not my son-in-law; for I’ll be poisoned again, and you shall be hanged. — I’ll die, sirrah, and leave Bridget my estate.
Mrs. Bri. Ay, pray do, my dear, leave me your estate; I’m sure he deserves to be hanged.
Just. He does, you say! — Hark’ee, Bridget, you showed such a tender concern for me when you thought me poisoned, that, for the future, I am resolved never to take your advice again in anything. — [To LIEUTENANT O’CONNOR] So, do you hear, sir, you are an Irishman and a soldier, ain’t you?
O’Con. I am sir, and proud of both.
Just. The two things on earth I most hate; so I tell you what — renounce your country and sell your commission, and I’ll forgive you.
O’Con. Hark’ee, Mr. Justice — if you were not the father of my Lauretta, I would pull your nose for asking the first, and break your bones for desiring the second.
Rosy. Ay, ay, you’re right.
Just. Is he? then I’m sure I must be wrong. — Here, sir, I give my daughter to you, who are the most impudent dog I ever saw in my life.
O’Con. Oh, sir, say what you please; with such a gift as Lauretta, every word is a compliment.
Mrs. Bri. Well, my lovee, I think this will be a good subject for us to quarrel about the rest of our lives.
Just. Why, truly, my dear, — I think so, though we are seldom at a loss for that.
Rosy. This is all as it should be. — My Alexander, I give you joy, and you, my little god-daughter; and now my sincere wish is, that you may make just such a wife as my poor dear Dolly. [Exeunt omnes.]
THE DUENNA
A COMIC OPERA
The Duenna premiered at the Covent Garden Theatre on 21 November 1775. It was performed seventy-five times during its first season and it was considered to be one of the most successful operas produced in England. Sheridan wrote the libretto for the three-act opera, while his father-in-law and brother-in-law, Thomas Linley the elder and Thomas Linley the younger respectively, composed most of the music. After the popularity of The Rivals, Sheridan was keen to produce another commercially successful work to establish himself as an important cultural figure. He decided that writing a ‘comic opera’ would be a sensible financial decision, but lacked the musical knowledge to complete the work on his own, so he turned to his composer father-in-law for assistance. The score was a combination of original compositions and music from other operas that Sheridan incorporated into the play. Quite astonishingly, less than a month prior to the opening night, Linley knew very little of the context for much of his composition and had not heard the voices of all of the performers for whom he was writing.
The Duenna is set in Seville, Spain and centres on the wealthy Don Jerome’s family. His son is in love with Clara, whose father forces her into nunnery and his daughter, Louisa, who wishes to marry Antonio. However, Don Jerome forbids this union and insists she marries Isaac Mendoza, because, unlike Antonio, he is a man that possesses substantial wealth. He is Portuguese and a recent convert to Christianity from Judaism, both of which are asserted as reasons she should not accept him as a husband. The play is steeped in anti-Semitism, as exemplified by Ferdinand’s remarks about Mendoza: ‘the remarkable part of his character is his passion for deceit and tricks of cunning’. It is not enough for Isaac to renounce his country or become a Christian, as he is still deemed to be untrustworthy, unscrupulous and suspect.
Thomas Linley the elder by Thomas Gainsborough, Dulwich Picture Gallery, c. 1760
Illustration for the song ‘Had I a heart for falsehood fram’d’
CONTENTS
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
ACT I.
SCENE I.
SCENE II
SCENE III.
SCENE IV.
SCENE V.
ACT II.
SCENE I.
SCENE II.
SCENE III.
SCENE IV.
ACT III.
SCENE I.
SCENE II.
SCENE III.
SCENE IV.
SCENE V.
SCENE VI.
SCENE VII
1925 edition of the work
An illustration from the 1925 edition by George Sheringham
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
AS ORIGINALLY ACTED AT COVENT-GARDEN THEATRE, NOV. 21, 1775
DON FERDINAND Mr. Mattocks.
DON JEROME Mr. Wilson.
DON ANTONIO Mr. Dubellamy.
DON CARLOS Mr. Leoni.
ISAAC MENDOZA Mr. Quick.
FATHER PAUL Mr. Mahon.
FATHER FRANCIS Mr. Fox.
FATHER AUGUSTINE Mr. Baker.
LOPEZ Mr. Wewitzer.
DONNA LOUISA Mrs. Mattocks.
DONNA CLARA Mrs. Cargill.
THE DUENNA Mrs. Green.
Masqueraders, Friars, Porter, Maid, and Servants.
SCENE — SEVILLE.
ACT I.
SCENE I.
The Street before DON JEROME’S House.
Enter LOPEZ, with a dark lantern.
Lop. Past three o’clock! — Soh! a notable hour for one of my regular disposition, to be strolling like a bravo through the streets of Seville! Well, of all services, to serve a young lover is the hardest. — Not that I am an enemy to love; but my love and my master’s differ strangely. — Don Ferdinand is much too gallant to eat, drink, or sleep: — now my love gives me an appetite — then I am fond of dreaming of my mistress, and I love dearly to toast her. — This cannot be done without good sleep and good liquor: hence my partiality to a feather- bed and a bottle. What a pity, now, that I have not further time, for reflections! but my master expects thee, honest Lopez, to secure his retreat from Donna Clara’s window, as I guess. — [Music without.] Hey! sure, I heard music! So, so! Who have we here? Oh, Don Antonio, my master’s friend, come from the masquerade, to serenade my young mistress, Donna Louisa, I suppose: so! we shall have the old gentleman up presently. — Lest he should miss his son, I had best lose no time in getting to my post. [Exit.]
Enter DON ANTONIO, with MASQUERADERS and music.
SONG. — Don Ant.
Tell me, my lute, can thy soft strain
So gently speak thy master’s pain?
So softly sing, so humbly sigh,
That, though my sleeping love shall know
Who sings — who sighs below,
Her rosy slumbers shall not fly?
Thus, may some vision whisper more
Than ever I dare speak before.
I. Mas. Antonio, your mistress will never wake, while you sing so dolefully; love, like a cradled infant, is lulled by a sad melody.
Don Ant. I do not wish to disturb her rest.
I. Mas. The reason is, because you know she does not regard you enough to appear, if you awaked her.
Don Ant. Nay, then, I’ll convince you. [Sings.]
The breath of morn bids hence the night,
Unveil those beauteous eyes, my fair;
For till the dawn of love is there,
I feel no day, I own no light.
DONNA LOUISA — replies from a window.
Waking, I heard thy numbers chide,
Waking, the dawn did bless my sight;
’Tis Phoebus sure that woos, I cried,
Who speaks in song, who moves in light.
DON JEROME — from a window.
What vagabonds are these I hear,
Fiddling, fluting, rhyming, ranting,
P
iping, scraping, whining, canting?
Fly, scurvy minstrels, fly!
TRIO.
Don. Louisa.
Nay, prithee, father, why so rough?
Don Ant.
An humble lover I.
Don Jer.
How durst you, daughter, lend an ear
To such deceitful stuff?
Quick, from the window fly!
Don. Louisa
Adieu, Antonio!
Don Ant
Must you go?
Don. Louisa. & Don Ant.
We soon, perhaps, may meet again.
For though hard fortune is our foe,
The God of love will fight for us.
Don Jer.
Reach me the blunderbuss.
Don Ant. & Don. Louisa.
The god of love, who knows our pain —
Don Jer.
Hence, or these slugs are through your brain.
[Exeunt severally.]
SCENE II
A Piazza.
Enter DON FERDINAND and LOPEZ.
Lop. Truly, sir, I think that a little sleep once in a week or so —
Don Ferd. Peace, fool! don’t mention sleep to me.
Lop. No, no, sir, I don’t mention your lowbred, vulgar, sound sleep; but I can’t help thinking that a gentle slumber, or half an hour’s dozing, if it were only for the novelty of the thing ——
Don Ferd. Peace, booby, I say! — Oh, Clara dear, cruel disturber of my rest!
Lop. [Aside.] And of mine too.
Don Ferd. ‘Sdeath, to trifle with me at such a juncture as this! — now to stand on punctilios! — Love me! I don’t believe she ever did.
Lop. [Aside.] Nor I either.
Don Ferd. Or is it, that her sex never know their desires for an hour together?
Lop. [Aside.] Ah, they know them oftener than they’ll own them.
Don Ferd. Is there, in the world, so inconsistent a creature as Clara?
Lop. [Aside.] I could name one.
Don Ferd. Yes; the tame fool who submits to her caprice.
Lop. [Aside.]I thought he couldn’t miss it.
Don Ferd. Is she not capricious, teasing, tyrannical, obstinate, perverse, absurd? ay, a wilderness of faults and follies; her looks are scorn, and her very smiles— ‘Sdeath! I wish I hadn’t mentioned her smiles; for she does smile such beaming loveliness, such fascinating brightness — Oh, death and madness! I shall die if I lose her.
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