Delphi Complete Works of Richard Brinsley Sheridan

by Richard Brinsley Sheridan

  Don Ant. Ha! ha! ha! you are indeed!

  Isaac. Roguish, you’ll say, but keen, eh? devilish keen?

  Don Ant. So you are indeed — keen — very keen.

  Isaac. And what a laugh we shall have at Don Jerome’s when the truth comes out I hey?

  Don. Louisa. Yes, I’ll answer for it, we shall have a good laugh, when the truth comes out, Ha! ha! ha!

  Re-enter DON CARLOS.

  Don Car. Here are the dancers come to practise the fandango you intended to have honoured Donna Louisa with.

  Isaac. Oh, I shan’t want them; but, as I must pay them, I’ll see a caper for my money. Will you excuse me?

  Don. Louisa. Willingly.

  Isaac. Here’s my friend, whom you may command for any service. Madam, our most obedient — Antonio, I wish you all happiness. — [Aside.] Oh, the easy blockhead! what a tool I have made of him! — This was a masterpiece! [Exit.]

  Don. Louisa. Carlos, will you be my guard again, and convey me to the convent of St. Catherine?

  Don Ant. Why, Louisa — why should you go there?

  Don. Louisa. I have my reasons, and you must not be seen to go with me; I shall write from thence to my father; perhaps, when he finds what he has driven me to, he may relent.

  Don Ant. I have no hope from him. O Louisa! in these arms should be your sanctuary.

  Don. Louisa. Be patient but for a little while — my father cannot force me from thence. But let me see you there before evening, and I will explain myself.

  Don Ant. I shall obey.

  Don. Louisa. Come, friend. Antonio, Carlos has been a lover himself.

  Don Ant. Then he knows the value of his trust.

  Don Car. You shall not find me unfaithful.

  TRIO.

  Soft pity never leaves the gentle breast

  Where love has been received a welcome guest;

  As wandering saints poor huts have sacred made,

  He hallows every heart he once has sway’d,

  And, when his presence we no longer share,

  Still leaves compassion as a relic there. [Exeunt.]

  ACT III.

  SCENE I.

  A Library in DON JEROME’S House.

  Enter DON JEROME and SERVANT.

  Don Jer. Why, I never was so amazed in my life! Louisa gone off with Isaac Mendoza! What! steal away with the very man whom I wanted her to marry — elope with her own husband, as it were — it is impossible!

  Ser. Her maid says, sir, they had your leave to walk in the garden, while you were abroad. The door by the shrubbery was found open, and they have not been heard of since. [Exit.]

  Don Jer. Well, it is the most unaccountable affair! ‘sdeath! there is certainly some infernal mystery in it I can’t comprehend!

  Enter SECOND SERVANT, with a letter.

  Ser. Here is a letter, sir, from Signor Isaac. [Exit.]

  Don Jer. So, so, this will explain — ay, Isaac Mendoza — let me see — [Reads.]

  Dearest Sir,

  You must, doubtless, be much surprised at my flight with your daughter! — yes, ‘faith, and well I may — I had the happiness to gain her heart at our first interview — The devil you had! — But, she having unfortunately made a vow not to receive a husband from your hands, I was obliged to comply with her whim! — So, so! — We shall shortly throw ourselves at your feet, and I hope you will have a blessing ready for one, who will then be your son-in-law. ISAAC MENDOZA.

  A whim, hey? Why, the devil’s in the girl, I think! This morning, she would die sooner than have him, and before evening she runs away with him! Well, well, my will’s accomplished — let the motive be what it will — and the Portuguese, sure, will never deny to fulfil the rest of the article.

  Re-enter SERVANT, with another letter.

  Ser. Sir, here’s a man below, who says he brought this from my young lady, Donna Louisa. [Exit.]

  Don Jer. How! yes, it’s my daughter’s hand, indeed! Lord, there was no occasion for them both to write; well, let’s see what she says — [Reads.]

  My dearest father,

  How shall I entreat your pardon for the rash step I have taken — how confess the motive? — Pish! hasn’t Isaac just told me the motive? — one would think they weren’t together when they wrote. — If I have a spirit too resentful of ill usage, I have also a heart as easily affected by kindness. — So, so, here the whole matter comes out; her resentment for Antonio’s ill usage has made her sensible of Isaac’s kindness — yes, yes, it is all plain enough. Well. I am not married yet, though with a man who, I am convinced, adores me. — Yes, yes, I dare say Isaac is very fond of her. But I shall anxiously expect your answer, in which, should I be so fortunate as to receive your consent, you will make completely happy your ever affectionate daughter, LOUISA.

  My consent! to be sure she shall have it! Egad, I was never better pleased — I have fulfilled my resolution — I knew I should. Oh, there’s nothing like obstinacy! Lewis! [Calls.]

  Re-enter SERVANT.

  Let the man who brought the last letter, wait; and get me a pen and ink below. — [Exit SERVANT.] I am impatient to set poor Louisa’s heart at rest. [Calls.]Holloa! Lewis! Sancho!

  Enter SERVANTS.

  See that there be a noble supper provided in the saloon to-night; serve up my best wines, and let me have music, d’ye hear?

  Ser. Yes, sir.

  Don Jer. And order all my doors to be thrown open; admit all guests, with masks or without masks. — [Exeunt SERVANTS.] I’faith, we’ll have a night of it! and I’ll let them see how merry an old man can be.

  SONG.

  Oh, the days when I was young.

  When I laugh’d in fortune’s spite;

  Talk’d of love the whole day long,

  And with nectar crown’d the night!

  Then it was, old Father Care,

  Little reck’d I of thy frown;

  Half thy malice youth could bear,

  And the rest a bumper drown.

  Truth, they say, lies in a well,

  Why, I vow I ne’er could see;

  Let the water-drinkers tell,

  There it always lay for me.

  For when sparkling wine went round,

  Never saw I falsehood’s mask;

  But still honest truth I found

  In the bottom of each flask.

  True, at length my vigour’s flown,

  I have years to bring decay;

  Few the locks that now I own,

  And the few I have are grey.

  Yet, old Jerome, thou mayst boast,

  While thy spirits do not tire;

  Still beneath thy age’s frost

  Glows a spark of youthful fire. [Exit.]

  SCENE II.

  The New Piazza.

  Enter DON FERDINAND and LOPEZ.

  Don Ferd. What, could you gather no tidings of her? nor guess where she was gone? O Clara! Clara!

  Lop. In truth, sir, I could not. That she was run away from her father, was in everybody’s mouth; and that Don Guzman was in pursuit of her, was also a very common report. Where she was gone, or what was become of her, no one could take upon them to say.

  Don Ferd. ‘Sdeath and fury, you blockhead! she can’t be out of Seville.

  Lop. So I said to myself, sir. ‘Sdeath and fury, you blockhead, says I, she can’t be out of Seville. Then some said, she had hanged herself for love; and others have it, Don Antonio had carried her off.

  Don Ferd. ’Tis false, scoundrel! no one said that.

  Lop. Then I misunderstood them, sir.

  Don Ferd. Go, fool, get home! and never let me see you again till you bring me news of her. — [Exit LOPEZ.] Oh, how my fondness for this ungrateful girl has hurt my disposition.

  Enter ISAAC.

  Isaac. So, I have her safe, and have only to find a priest to marry us. Antonio now may marry Clara, or not, if he pleases.

  Don Ferd. What! what was that you said of Clara?

  Isaac. Oh, Ferdinand! my brother-in-law that shall be, who
thought of meeting you?

  Don Ferd. But what of Clara?

  Isaac. I’faith, you shall hear. This morning, as I was coming down, I met a pretty damsel, who told me her name was Clara d’Almanza, and begged my protection.

  Don Ferd. How!

  Isaac. She said she had eloped from her father, Don Guzman, but that love for a young gentleman in Seville was the cause.

  Don Ferd. Oh, Heavens! did she confess it?

  Isaac. Oh, yes, she confessed at once. But then, says she, my lover is not informed of my flight, nor suspects my intention.

  Don Ferd. [Aside.] Dear creature! no more I did indeed! Oh, I am the happiest fellow! — [Aloud.] Well, Isaac?

  Isaac. Why then she entreated me to find him out for her, and bring him to her.

  Don Ferd. Good Heavens, how lucky! Well, come along, let’s lose no time. [Pulling him.]

  Isaac. Zooks! where are we to go?

  Don Ferd. Why, did anything more pass?

  Isaac. Anything more! yes; the end on’t was, that I was moved with her speeches, and complied with her desires.

  Don Ferd. Well and where is she?

  Isaac. Where is she? why, don’t I tell you? I complied with her request, and left her safe in the arms of her lover.

  Don Ferd. ‘Sdeath, you trifle with me! — I have never seen her.

  Isaac. You! O Lud no! how the devil should you? ’Twas Antonio she wanted; and with Antonio I left her.

  Don Ferd. [Aside.] Hell and madness! — [Aloud.] What, Antonio d’Ercilla?

  Isaac. Ay, ay, the very man; and the best part of it was, he was shy of taking her at first. He talked a good deal about honour, and conscience, and deceiving some dear friend; but, Lord, we soon overruled that!

  Don Ferd. You did!

  Isaac. Oh, yes, presently. — Such deceit! says he. — Pish! says the lady, tricking is all fair in love. But then, my friend, says he. — Psha! damn your friend, says I. So, poor wretch, he has no chance. — No, no; he may hang himself as soon as he pleases.

  Don Ferd. [Aside.] I must go, or I shall betray myself.

  Isaac. But stay, Ferdinand, you han’t heard the best of the joke.

  Don Ferd. Curse on your joke!

  Isaac. Good lack! what’s the matter now? I thought to have diverted you.

  Don Ferd. Be racked! tortured! damned!

  Isaac. Why, sure you are not the poor devil of a lover, are you? — I’faith, as sure as can be, he is! This is a better joke than t’other. Ha! ha! ha!

  Don Ferd. What! do you laugh? you vile, mischievous varlet! — [Collars him.] But that you’re beneath my anger, I’d tear your heart out! [Throws him from him.]

  Isaac. O mercy! here’s usage for a brother-in-law!

  Don Ferd. But, hark ye, rascal! tell me directly where these false friends are gone, or, by my soul —— [Draws.]

  Isaac. For Heaven’s sake, now, my dear brother-in-law, don’t be in a rage! I’ll recollect as well as I can.

  Don Ferd. Be quick, then!

  Isaac. I will, I will! — but people’s memories differ; some have a treacherous memory: now mine is a cowardly memory — it takes to its heels at sight of a drawn sword — it does i’faith; and I could as soon fight as recollect.

  Don Ferd. Zounds! tell me the truth, and I won’t hurt you.

  Isaac. No, no, I know you won’t, my dear brother-in-law; but that ill-looking thing there ——

  Don Ferd. What, then, you won’t tell me?

  Isaac. Yes, yes, I will; I’ll tell you all, upon my soul! — but why need you listen, sword in hand?

  Don Ferd. Why, there. — [Puts up.] Now.

  Isaac. Why, then, I believe they are gone to — that is, my friend Carlos told me he had left Donna Clara — dear Ferdinand, keep your hands off — at the convent of St. Catherine.

  Don Ferd. St. Catherine!

  Isaac. Yes; and that Antonio was to come to her there.

  Don Ferd. Is this the truth?

  Isaac. It is indeed; and all I know, as I hope for life!

  Don Ferd. Well, coward, take your life; ’tis that false, dishonourable Antonio, who shall feel my vengeance.

  Isaac. Ay, ay, kill him; cut his throat, and welcome.

  Don Ferd. But, for Clara! infamy on her! she is not worth my resentment.

  Isaac. No more she is, my dear brother-in-law. I’faith I would not be angry about her; she is not worth it, indeed.

  Don Ferd. ’Tis false! she is worth the enmity of princes!

  Isaac. True, true, so she is; and I pity you exceedingly for having lost her.

  Don Ferd. ‘Sdeath, you rascal! how durst you talk of pitying me?

  Isaac. Oh, dear brother-in-law, I beg pardon! I don’t pity you in the least, upon my soul!

  Don Ferd. Get hence, fool, and provoke me no further; nothing but your insignificance saves you!

  Isaac. [Aside.] I’faith, then, my insignificance is the best friend I have. — [Aloud.] I’m going, dear Ferdinand. — [Aside.] What a curst hot hot-headed bully it is! [Exeunt severally.]

  SCENE III.

  The Garden of the Convent.

  Enter DONNA LOUISA and DONNA CLARA.

  Don. Louisa. And you really wish my brother may not find you out?

  Don. Clara. Why else have I concealed myself under this disguise?

  Don. Louisa. Why, perhaps because the dress becomes you: for you certainly don’t intend to be a nun for life.

  Don. Clara. If, indeed, Ferdinand had not offended me so last night —

  Don. Louisa. Come, come, it was his fear of losing you made him so rash.

  Don. Clara. Well, you may think me cruel, but I swear, if he were here this instant, I believe I should forgive him.

  SONG.

  By him we love offended,

  How soon our anger flies!

  One day apart, ’tis ended;

  Behold him, and it dies.

  Last night, your roving brother,

  Enraged, I bade depart;

  And sure his rude presumption

  Deserved to lose my heart.

  Yet, were he now before met

  In spite of injured pride,

  I fear my eyes would pardon

  Before my tongue could chide.

  Don. Louisa. I protest, Clara, I shall begin to think you are seriously resolved to enter on your probation.

  Don. Clara. And, seriously, I very much doubt whether the character of a nun would not become me best.

  Don. Louisa. Why, to be sure, the character of a nun is a very becoming one at a masquerade: but no pretty woman, in her senses, ever thought of taking the veil for above a night.

  Don. Clara. Yonder I see your Antonio is returned — I shall only interrupt you; ah, Louisa, with what happy eagerness you turn to look for him! [Exit.]

  Enter DON ANTONIO.

  Don Ant. Well, my Louisa, any news since I left you?

  Don. Louisa. None. The messenger is not yet returned from my father.

  Don Ant. Well, I confess, I do not perceive what we are to expect from him.

  Don. Louisa. I shall be easier, however, in having made the trial: I do not doubt your sincerity, Antonio; but there is a chilling air around poverty, that often kills affection, that was not nursed in it. If we would make love our household god, we had best secure him a comfortable roof.

  SONG. — Don Antonio.

  How oft, Louisa, hast thou told,

  (Nor wilt thou the fond boast disown,)

  Thou wouldst not lose Antonio’s love

  To reign the partner of a throne!

  And by those lips that spoke so kind,

  And by that hand I’ve press’d to mine,

  To be the lord of wealth and power,

  By heavens, I would not part with thine!

  Then how, my soul, can we be poor,

  Who own what kingdoms could not buy?

  Of this true heart thou shalt be queen,

  In serving thee, a monarch I.

  Thus uncontroll’d, in mutual bliss,

&n
bsp; I rich in love’s exhaustless mine,

  Do thou snatch treasures from my lips,

  And I’ll take kingdoms back from thine!

  Enter MAID with a letter.

  Don. Louisa. My father’s answer, I suppose.

  Don Ant. My dearest Louisa, you may be assured that it contains nothing but threats and reproaches.

  Don. Louisa. Let us see, however. — [Reads.] Dearest daughter, make your lover happy: you have my full consent to marry as your whim has chosen, but be sure come home and sup with your affectionate father.

  Don Ant. You jest, Louisa!

  Don. Louisa. [Gives him the letter..] Read! read!

  Don Ant. ’Tis so, by heavens! Sure there must be some mistake; but that’s none of our business. — Now, Louisa, you have no excuse for delay.

  Don. Louisa. Shall we not then return and thank my father?

  Don Ant. But first let the priest put it out of his power to recall his word. — I’ll fly to procure one.

  Don. Louisa. Nay, if you part with me again, perhaps you may lose me.

  Don Ant. Come, then — there is a friar of a neighbouring convent is my friend; you have already been diverted by the manners of a nunnery; let us see whether there is less hypocrisy among the holy fathers.

  Don. Louisa. I’m afraid not, Antonio — for in religion, as in friendship, they who profess most are the least sincere. [Exeunt.]

  Re-enter DONNA CLARA.

  Don. Clara, So, yonder they go, as happy as a mutual and confessed affection can make them, while I am left in solitude. Heigho! love may perhaps excuse the rashness of an elopement from one’s friend, but I am sure nothing but the presence of the man we love can support it. Ha! what do I see! Ferdinand, as I live! How could he gain admission? By potent gold, I suppose, as Antonio did. How eager and disturbed he seems! He shall not know me as yet. [Lets down her veil.]

  Enter DON FERDINAND.

  Don Ferd. Yes, those were certainly they — my information was right. [Going.]

  Don. Clara. [Stops him.] Pray, signor, what is your business here?

  Don Ferd. No matter — no matter! Oh! they stop. — [Looks out.] Yes, that is the perfidious Clara indeed!

  Don. Clara. So, a jealous error — I’m glad to see him so moved. [Aside.]