Complete Works of Thomas Otway
Page 58
Come storm thee out, and show thee what’s thy bargain.
Cast. Hold there, I charge thee!
Pol. Is she not a —
Cast. Whore?
Pol. Ay, whore; I think that word needs no explaining.
Cast. Alas! I can forgive even this to thee:
But let me tell thee, Polydore, I’m grieved
To find thee guilty of such low revenge,
To wrong that virtue which thou couldst not ruin.
Pol. It seems I lie then?
Cast. Should the bravest man
That e’er wore conquering sword but dare to whisper
What thou proclaim’st, he were the worst of liars:
My friend may be mistaken.
Pol. Damn the evasion!
Thou mean’st the worst; and he’s a base-born villain
That said I lied.
Cast. Do, draw thy sword, and thrust it through my heart;
There is no joy in life, if thou art lost.
A base-born villain!
Pol. Yes, thou never camest
From old Acasto’s loins; the midwife put
A cheat upon my mother, and, instead
Of a true brother, in the cradle by me
Placed some coarse peasant’s cub, and thou art he.
Cast. Thou art my brother still.
Pol. Thou liest.
Cast. Nay then: [He draws.
Yet I am calm.
Pol. A coward’s always so.
Cast. Ah — ah — that stings home: coward!
Pol. Ay, base-born coward, villain.
Cast. This to thy heart then, though my mother bore thee.
[They fight; Polydore drops his sword, and runs on Castalio’s.
Pol. Now my Castalio is again my friend.
Cast. What have I done? my sword is in thy breast!
Pol. So I would have it be, thou best of men,
Thou kindest brother, and thou truest friend.
Cast. Ye gods, we’re taught that all your works are justice;
You’re painted merciful, and friends to innocence:
If so, then why these plagues upon my head?
Pol. Blame not the Heavens; here lies thy fate, Castalio.
They’re not the gods, ’tis Polydore has wronged thee;
I’ve stained thy bed; thy spotless marriage-joys
Have been polluted by thy brother’s lust.
Cast. By thee!
Pol. By me: last night the horrid deed
Was done, when all things slept, but rage and incest.
Cast. Now where’s Monimia? Oh!
Re-enter Monimia.
Mon. I’m here; who calls me?
Methought I heard a voice
Sweet as the shepherd’s pipe upon the mountains,
When all his little flock’s at feed before him.
But what means this? here’s blood!
Cast. Ay, brother’s blood.
Art thou prepared for everlasting pains?
Pol. Oh, let me charge thee by the eternal justice,
Hurt not her tender life!
Cast. Not kill her! Rack me,
Ye powers above, with all your choicest torments,
Horror of mind, and pains yet uninvented,
If I not practise cruelty upon her,
And wreak revenge some way yet never known!
Mon. That task myself have finished: I shall die
Before we part; I’ve drunk a healing draught
For all my cares, and never more shall wrong thee.
Pol. Oh, she is innocent.
Cast. Tell me that story,
And thou wilt make a wretch of me indeed.
Pol. Hadst thou, Castalio, used me like a friend,
This ne’er had happened; hadst thou let me know
Thy marriage, we had all now met in joy:
But, ignorant of that,
Hearing the appointment made, enraged to think
Thou hadst outdone me in successful love,
I, in the dark, went and supplied thy place;
Whilst all the night, ‘midst our triumphant joys,
The trembling, tender, kind, deceived Monimia
Embraced, caressed, and called me her Castalio.
Cast. And all this is the work of my own fortune!
None but myself could e’er have been so curst.
My fatal love, alas! has ruined thee,
Thou fairest, goodliest frame the gods e’er made,
Or ever human eyes and heart adored!
I’ve murdered too my brother.
Why wouldst thou study ways to damn me further,
And force the sin of parricide upon me?
Pol. ’Twas my own fault, and thou art innocent.
Forgive the barbarous trespass of my tongue;
’Twas a hard violence; I could have died
With love of thee, even when I used thee worst;
Nay, at each word that my distraction uttered,
My heart recoiled, and ’twas half death to speak them.
Mon. Now, my Castalio, the most dear of men,
Wilt thou receive pollution to thy bosom,
And close the eyes of one that has betrayed thee?
Cast. Oh, I’m the unhappy wretch whose cursèd fate
Has weighed thee down into destruction with him;
Why then thus kind to me?
Mon. When I’m laid low i’ the grave, and quite forgotten,
Mayst thou be happy in a fairer bride!
But none can ever love thee like Monimia.
When I am dead, — as presently I shall be,
For the grim tyrant grasps my heart already, —
Speak well of me; and if thou find ill tongues
Too busy with my fame, don’t hear me wronged;
‘Twill be a noble justice to the memory
Of a poor wretch once honoured with thy love.
How my head swims!— ’tis very dark. Good-night! [Dies.
Cast. If I survive thee! what a thought was that!
Thank Heaven, I go prepared against that curse!
Enter Chamont, disarmed, and held by Acasto and Servants.
Cham. Gape, hell, and swallow me to quick damnation,
If I forgive your house, if I not live
An everlasting plague to thee, Acasto,
And all thy race! You’ve overpowered me now;
But hear me, Heaven! — Ah! here’s the scene of death.
My sister, my Monimia! breathless! — Now,
Ye powers above, if ye have justice, strike,
Strike bolts through me, and through the cursed Castalio!
Acast. My Polydore!
Pol. Who calls?
Acast. How camest thou wounded?
Cast. Stand off, thou hot-brained, boisterous, noisy ruffian,
And leave me to my sorrows.
Cham. By the love
I bore her living, I will ne’er forsake her!
But here remain till my heart burst with sobbing.
Cast. Vanish, I charge thee, or — [Draws a dagger.
Cham. Thou canst not kill me;
That would be kindness, and against thy nature.
Acast. What means Castalio? Sure thou wilt not pull
More sorrows on thy agèd father’s head.
Tell me, I beg you, tell me the sad cause
Of all this ruin.
Pol. That must be my task:
But ’tis too long for one in pains to tell;
You’ll in my closet find the story written
Of all our woes. Castalio’s innocent,
And so’s Monimia; only I’m to blame:
Inquire no farther.
Cast. Thou, unkind Chamont,
Unjustly hast pursued me with thy hate,
And sought the life of him that never wronged thee:
Now, if thou wilt embrace a noble vengeance,
Come join with me and curse.
Cham. What?
Cast. First thyself,
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As I do, and the hour that gave thee birth.
Confusion and disorder seize the world,
To spoil all trust and converse amongst men;
‘Twixt families engender endless feuds,
In countries needless fears, in cities factions,
In states rebellion, and in churches schism;
Till all things move against the course of nature;
Till form’s dissolved, the chain of causes broken,
And the originals of being lost!
Acast. Have patience.
Cast. Patience! preach it to the winds,
To roaring seas, or raging fires! The knaves
That teach it laugh at ye when ye believe them.
Strip me of all the common needs of life,
Scald me with leprosy, let friends forsake me,
I’ll bear it all; but, cursed to the degree
That I am now, ’tis this must give me patience:
Thus I find rest, and shall complain no more. [Stabs himself.
[Dies.
Pol. Castalio! Oh!
Cast. I come.
Chamont, to thee my birthright I bequeath:
Comfort my mourning father, heal his griefs,
[Acasto faints into the arms of a Servant.
For I perceive they fall with weight upon him;
And for Monimia’s sake, whom thou wilt find
I never wronged, be kind to poor Serina.
Now all I beg is, lay me in one grave
Thus with my love. Farewell! I now am — nothing. [Dies.
Cham. Take care of good Acasto, whilst I go
To search the means by which the fates have plagued us.
’Tis thus that Heaven its empire does maintain;
It may afflict, but man must not complain. [Exeunt.
EPILOGUE.
Spoken by Serina.
You’ve seen one Orphan ruined here; and I
May be the next, if old Acasto die.
Should it prove so, I’d fain amongst you find
Who ’tis would to the fatherless be kind.
To whose protection might I safely go?
Is there amongst you no good-nature? No.
What should I do? Should I the godly seek,
And go a conventicling twice a week;
Quit the lewd stage, and its profane pollution,
Affect each form and saint-like institution;
So draw the brethren all to contribution?
Or shall I (as I guess the poet may
Within these three days) fairly run away?
No; to some city-lodgings I’ll retire;
Seem very grave, and privacy desire;
Till I am thought some heiress rich in lands,
Fled to escape a cruel guardian’s hands:
Which may produce a story worth the telling,
Of the next sparks that go a fortune-stealing.
The Soldier’s Fortune
CONTENTS
THE SOLDIER’S FORTUNE.
TO MR. BENTLEY.
PROLOGUE.
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
ACT THE FIRST.
ACT THE SECOND.
ACT THE THIRD.
ACT THE FOURTH.
ACT THE FIFTH.
EPILOGUE
THE SOLDIER’S FORTUNE.
Quem recitas, meus est, O Fidentine, libellus;
Sed male quum recitas, incipit esse tuus. —
Martial, Lib. I., E.
This Play is neither more nor less indecent than Otway’s other comedies, but less uninteresting, on account of its autobiographical allusions to the writer’s own adventures in Flanders, and the disbandment without their pay of the troops he was sent to join. Like most of the old comedies, this one throws light upon the manners, customs, and costumes of the period represented. Its distinctive quality is a certain rollicking vein of fun and mere buffoonery, together with a rapidity of movement and variety of incident, that vindicate the work from any charge of absolute dulness — nay, it is undeniably amusing to those whose stomach is strong enough not to be nauseated with the dirt. The play is not a mere jumble of bustling incidents, as many of the contemporary comedies are, written by one who “faggoted his notions as they fell.” At least the main intrigue is regular and connected, and the characters speak naturally.
Otway wrote hastily, and “lived to please,” since he must “please to live.” The Soldier’s Fortune is the kind of thing that pleased very much. For Downes tells us that the play was extraordinarily successful, bringing both profit and reputation to the theatre. Betterton acted the part of Beaugard, and Mrs. Barry played Lady Dunce. The dedication to Bentley, the publisher, is unique and curious, while the Epilogue shows the gloomy and bitter feelings to which the writer was now frequently a prey. Langbaine and Thornton have respectively drawn attention to the many different sources from which much of the plot and material of the play seems to have been taken. Thus Lady Dunce’s scheme for conveying the ring and letter to her lover may be found in several earlier plays, and Otway probably derived it from Molière’s L’Ecole des Maris; the story comes originally from Boccaccio.
The Soldier’s Fortune was acted in 1681 and printed in 4to in the same year. In 1748 a farce, founded upon it, was brought out at Covent Garden, but was never printed.
TO MR. BENTLEY.
I have often (during this play’s being in the press) been importuned for a preface; which you, I suppose, would have speak something in vindication of the comedy: now, to please you, Mr. Bentley, I will, as briefly as I can, speak my mind upon that occasion, which you may be pleased to accept of, both as a dedication to yourself, and next as a preface to the book.
And I am not a little proud that it has happened into my thoughts to be the first who in these latter years has made an epistle dedicatory to his stationer: it is a compliment as reasonable as it is just. For, Mr. Bentley, you pay honestly for the copy; and an epistle to you is a sort of an acquittance, and may be probably welcome; when to a person of higher rank and order, it looks like an obligation for praises, which he knows he does not deserve, and therefore is very unwilling to part with ready money for.
As to the vindication of this comedy, between friends and acquaintance, I believe it is possible that as much may be said in its behalf as heretofore has been for a great many others. But of all the apish qualities about me, I have not that of being fond of my own issue; nay, I must confess myself a very unnatural parent, for when it is once brought into the world, e’en let the brat shift for itself, I say.
The objections made against the merit of this poor play, I must confess, are very grievous —
First, says a lady, that shall be nameless because the world may think civilly of her: “Faugh! Oh, sherreu! ’tis so filthy, so bawdy, no modest woman ought to be seen at it: let me die, it has made me sick!” When the world lies, Mr. Bentley, if that very lady has not easily digested a much ranker morsel in a little ale-house towards Paddington, and never made a face at it. But your true jilt is a creature that can extract bawdy out of the chastest sense, as easily as a spider can poison out of a rose; they know true bawdy, let it be never so much concealed, as perfectly as Falstaff did the true prince by instinct; they will separate the true metal from the alloy, let us temper it as well as we can. Some women are the touchstones of filthiness: though I have heard a lady (that has more modesty than any of those she-critics, and I am sure more wit) say, she wondered at the impudence of any of her sex, that would pretend to understand the thing called bawdy. So, Mr. Bentley, for aught I perceive, my play may be innocent yet, and the lady mistaken in pretending to the knowledge of a mystery above her; though to speak honestly, she has had, besides her wit, a liberal education; and if we may credit the world, has not buried her talent neither.
This is, Mr. Bentley, all I can say in behalf of my play: wherefore I throw it into your arms; make the best of it you can; praise it to your customers; sell ten thousand of them, if possible, and then you will complete the wishes
of
Your Friend and Servant,
THO. OTWAY.
PROLOGUE.
By Lord Falkland.
Forsaken dames with less concern reflect
On their inconstant hero’s cold neglect
Than we (provoked by this ungrateful age)
Bear the hard fate of our abandoned stage.
With grief we see you ravished from our arms,
And curse the feeble virtue of our charms:
Curse your false hearts, for none so false as they,
And curse the eyes that stole those hearts away.
Remember, faithless friends, there was a time,
(But oh the sad remembrance of our prime!)
When to our arms with eager joys ye flew,
And we believed your treach’rous hearts as true
As e’er was nymph of ours to one of you.
But a more powerful Saint enjoys ye now;
Fraught with sweet sins, and absolutions too:
To her are all your pious vows addressed;
She’s both your love’s and your religion’s test,
The fairest prelate of her time, and best.
We own her more deserving far than we,
A just excuse for your inconstancy.
Yet ’twas unkindly done to leave us so;
First to betray with love, and then undo,
A horrid crime you’re all addicted to.
Too soon, alas! your appetites are cloyed,
And Phillis rules no more when once enjoyed.
But all rash oaths of love and constancy
With the too short, forgotten pleasures die;
Whilst she, poor soul, robbed of her dearest ease,
Still drudges on with vain desire to please;
And restless follows you from place to place,
For tributes due to her autumnal face.
Deserted thus by such ungrateful men,
How can we hope you’ll e’er return again?
Here’s no new charm to tempt ye as before,
Wit now’s our only treasure left in store,
And that’s a coin will pass with you no more.
You who such dreadful bullies would appear, —
True bullies! quiet when there’s danger near, —
Show your great souls in damning poets here.
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
Captain Beaugard.
Courtine.
Sir Davy Dunce.
Sir Jolly Jumble.