 | The Fatal Marriage : or, the Innocent Adultery |  |
Act IV.
Scene I.
The Monastery Burying-place, Fernando's Tomb; Jaqueline, with others, Dress'd for Procession.Enter Fabian, with Carlos, Julia, Frederick, and Victoria.
Fab.
Be satisfied, and expect the consequence.
If I don't answer your expectations,
Never rely upon me for a Miracle again.
Jul.
O, but this is carrying the jest too far; he has beaten
him like a Dog.
VVhere have you buried him?
Fab.
This is his Tomb.
Carl.
Then here lies an honest Fellow, who (if his VVife
VVould have heard reason) might have been
A Cuckold, and consequently gone to Heaven.
Jul.
But now he's buried, 'tis too late, you know,
To think of sending him that way.
Carl.
O Virtue! Virtue! what an Enemy art thou to a
Womans good Inclinations!
Jul.
A troublesome Companion indeed, if one knew how
to be honestly rid on't: Can you advise me?
Carl.
Nay, take your own way; you are past advising, it
seems ; for a Woman to play the Hypocrite, and counterfeit
Virtue, when she has it not, is a very common thing—
Jul.
But to play the Hypocrite, the wrong way!
Car.
To pretend to be a Woman of pleasure, and not have
the benefit of the Character—
Jul.
Is what, it seems, you are not acquainted with. But
for the future, Sir, you may helieve there are Women, who
won't be provoked to injure their Husbands.
Serv.
Sir, there's a Letter for you at home.
[Enter a Servant.
The Messenger will deliver it to no body, but your self.
Car.
How, I must look about me then, I'le go with you.
[Excit with the Servant.
Jaq.
Sir, Sir, I think I hear him stir in the Tomb.
[A noise in the Tomb.
Fab.
We'll be within call, Jaquelin, begin as soon as you please.
[Jaqueline with others singing in procession.
[Fernando pushes off the Tomb Stone, and stares about.
Fer.
Heigh ho! where am I now! who are you? what
wou'd you have with me? ha!
Jaq.
Bless us! what do I see! appropinquote in nomine—
Fer.
O good Sir! have a care of your hard words; you
may raise the Devil before you'r aware of it; I have had too
much of his company already.
Jaq.
Avaunt, speak I conjure thee, if thou art the Devil—
Fer.
O, no, Sir, I am none of the Devil; though I have
seem him very lately.
What art thou?
Fer.
Truly that's a very hard question at present; when I
was in the land of the living, my name was Fernando, an old
Jealous, Covetous Fellow; but what I am in this Country,
whether I am Fernando, or no—
Jaq.
Fernando! save thee Fernando! what coming out of thy
grave!
Fer.
From whence I am coming, or whither I am going, I
can't tell you; but I have been in very bad Company I remember;
I have seen the Devil.
Jaq.
Our prayers are heard; we have been fasting, and
praying thee out of Purgatory, ever since thou wert buried.
Fer.
Buried! have I been buried too?
Jaq.
And now coming by thy grave in procession, what a
Miracle is wrought for thee, to bring thee to life again!
Fer.
Nay, if I am alive again, 'tis a Miracle, that's certain;
but are you sure I am alive?
Jaq.
Why, don't you find you are alive?
Fer.
Alas! Sir, I have been so often mistaken of late, I
don't know what to say to't; I thought I was alive in Purgatory;
and stood in't a good while; but there's no contending
with the Devil in his own Dominions you know; I was forc't
to confess my self, at last, as dead as a Herring.
Jaq.
O Fernando! be thankful for a good Wife and Son;
They have shewn themselves so, in their sorrow
For you, ever since you were buried.
Fer.
Ay, ay, I heard of 'em;
How have they done since I left 'em?
Jaq.
They have made a hard shift; their sorrow is pretty well
Over now; but 'twas a great while before they
Were to be comforted; a great while indeed
Before they could be persuaded to forget you;
But we must live by the living, you know.
Fer.
That's very true.
Jaq.
Your Son Fabian, upon your death, was releas'd
Out of the Monastery; It had been a pity, you know,
That a good Estate should have wanted an Heir.
Fer.
Ay, so it had indeed.
Yours was a very good one, I hear.
Fer.
So so, conpetent, and enough for me; as it is,
I shall be glad to enjoy it a little longer
I believe; I thank you, Sir, for bringing me to it again.
But my Wife, is my dear Wife well? You know her too?
Jaq.
She has had a great many good offers; since your death:
And truly 'twas very much for a young Widow
To refuse 'em but she resolves never to Marry again.
Fer.
A lack a day! I am beholden to her—
Jaq.
They say you were jealous of her—
Fer.
Indeed I am, very much beholden to her.
Jaq.
That you were extreamly jealous.
Fer.
Alas! alas! I do confess it; I was an old Fool;
And she was too good for me:
But if I ever see her again—
Jaq.
Here they come, your Virtuous Wife,
And Son; pray learn to value 'em.
Enter Fabian, Julia, Frederick, and Victoria.
Fab.
I'st possible!
Jul.
VVhat! risen from the dead!
Fab.
May I believe my Eyes?
Fer.
Ay, ay, you may believe your Eyes.
Jul.
The very Shrowd my Husband was buried in!
Fer.
The very same, the very same; pray help me
Out on't, as soon as you can, for I look but odly, I believe.
Fab.
VVell enough truly Sir, for a Man, that has been buried.
You look well enough, but you smell a little of the place,
you come from, that I must own to you.
[Fernando smells himself.
Fer.
Nay like enough, though I don't perceive it my self.
But have I been buried long enough to stink then?
Fab.
Fie, Sir, stink! You don't positively stink;
You have only an earthly favour, or so, with lying
In the Grave without eating; that's all, I believe.
Fer.
Nay, when I was alive, my Breath was none
Of the best, especially from an empty Stomach.
Fab.
A day or two more had made it intollerable.
Fer.
Ah, VVise! I have suffered a great deal upon your account—
Alas! upon my account!
Fer.
Upon the account of my Jealousie; but I deserv'd it:
Jealousie is a damnable Sin there,
I shall never be Jealous more.
Jul.
'Tis well it has wrought that cure upon you.
Fer.
Nay, You shall henceforward, go when, and where
You please; come when, and how you please;
Say what, and to whom, you please; and in fine,
If you have a mind to be reveng'd of me,
You shall make me what you please:
And that, I'm sure, will please you.
Jul.
Leave that to me Husband.
Fern.
Fabian you look Melancholly; Don't be sorry that I
am alive again: You have some Friends in the other World,
that put me in mind of you: I'll settle half my Estate upon
you in present; and when I die—Who's that Frederick?
You Marry'd my Daughter I remember.—
Vict.
Indeed, Sir, I had more Grace, than to dispose of
my self without your consent; and more respect for your Family,
than to Marry any Man without a Portion.
Fred.
If you please to give a Blessing to our Endeavours,
We have agreed upon the point to make you a Grandfather.
Fer.
Why that's well said: You have my consent; Marry
her, and I'll give her a Portion; but be sure you are as good
as your word.
Fred.
In what, Sir?
Fern.
In making me a Grandfather: I am so over-joy'd
that I am alive again, I care not how many Children I have
to provide for.
Vict.
You see the fruits of Jealousie.
Fred.
I'll keep out of Purgatory I warrant you.
Fer.
O don't name it good Son-in-Law:
I shall never get it out of my mind; that's certain.
Come my dear Wife, and Children, I owe my deliverance
to your Intercession, and Piety: since you have brought me
to Life again: You shall have no cause, for the future, to
wish me Dead: Some Fifty Years hence, I may be contented
to go to Heaven; without calling by the way.
May find in Jealousie their Purgatory.
[Exeunt.
SCENE II.
The Street.Biron, and Bellford just arrived.
Bir.
The longest Day will have an end:
We are got home at last.
Bell.
We have got our Legs at Liberty;
And Liberty is Home, where'er we go:
Thô mine lies most in England.
Bir.
Pray let me call this yours:
For what I can command in Bruxelles, you
Shall find your own. I have a Father here,
Who, perhaps, after Seven Years absence,
And costing him nothing in my Travels,
may be glad to see me. You know my Story—
[Knocks at the Door.]
How does my Beard become me?
Bell.
Just as you would have it,
'Tis Natural, and not your own.
Bir.
To Morrow you shall be sure to find me here,
As Early, as you please. This is the House;
You have observ'd the Street.
Bell.
I warrant you; I han't many Visits
To make, before I come to you.
Bir.
To Night I have some affairs,
That will oblige me to be private.
Bell.
A good Bed is the privatest Affair,
That I desire to be engaged in, to Night:
Your directions will carry me to my Lodgings.
[Exit.
Biron knocks again. Sampson enters to him.
Samp.
Who's there? What would you have?
Bir.
Is your Lady at home, Friend?
Samp.
Why, truly Friend, it is my employment to answer
impertinent Questions. But for my Ladies being at home, or
no, that's just as my Lady pleases.
But how shall I know, whether it pleases her or no?
Samp.
Why, if you'll take my word for it, you may carry
your Errand back again: She never pleases to see any body,
at this time of Night, that she does not know; and, by the
length of your Beard, you may be grown out of her remembrance.
Bir.
But I have business; and you don't know how that
may please her.
Samp.
Nay, if you have business, she is the best Judge,
Whether your business will please her or no:
Therefore I will proceed in my Office,
And know of my Lady, whether or no
She is pleas'd to be at home, or no—
[Going.
Nurse enters to them.
Nurse.
Who's that you are so busie withal? methinks
You might have found out an answer in fewer words:
But Sampson, you love to hear your self prate sometimes,
As well as your betters, that I must say for you.
Let me come to him; who wou'd you speak with?
Bir.
With you, Mistress, if you can help me to speak to
your Lady.
Nurse.
Yes, Sir, I can help you, in a civil way: But can
no body do your business but my Lady?
Bir.
Not so well: But if you'll carry her this Ring,
She'll know my business better.
Nurse.
There's no Love-Letter in it, I hope:
You look like a civil Gentleman:
In an honest way I may bring you an answer.
[Exit Nurse.
Bir.
My old Nurse, only a little older!
They say the Tongue grows always: Mercy on me!
Then hers is seven years longer, since I left her.
Yet there's something in these Servants folly
Pleases me: The cautious conduct of the Family
Appears, and speaks in their impertinence.
Well, Mistress—
[Nurse returns.
Nurse.
I have deliver'd your Ring, Sir, pray Heav'n
You bring no bad News along with you.
Bir.
Quite contrary, I hope.
Nay, I hope so too; but my Lady was very much
surpriz'd when I gave it her. Sir, I am but a Servant, as a
body may say, but if you'll walk in, that I may shut the
Doors, for we keep very orderly hours, I can show you into
the Parlour, and help you to an answer, perhaps, as soon as
those that are wiser.
[Exeunt.
SCENE III.
A Bed-Chamber.A Woman Servant spreading a Table.
Isabella Enters.
Isa.
I've heard of Witches, Magick Spells, and Charms,
that have made Nature start from her old course: The Sun
has been Eclips'd, the Moon drawn down from her career, still
paler, and subdu'd to the abuses of this under World: Now
I believe all possible. This Ring, this little Ring, with Necromantick
force, has rais'd the Ghost of Pleasure to my fears;
Conjur'd the sense of Honour, and of Love, into such Shapes,
they fright me from my self: I dare not think of them—
[Servant goes out.
I'll call you when I want you.
Nurse Enters.
Nurse.
Madam, the Gentleman's below.
Isa.
I had forgot, pray let me speak with him.
[Exit Nurse.
This Ring was the first Present of my Love, to Biron, my
first Husband: I must blush to think I have a second: Biron
Dy'd (still to my loss) at Candy; there's my hope. O! Do
I live to hope that he Dy'd there! It must be so: He's Dead;
and this Ring left by his last breath, to some known, faithful
Friend, to bring me back again.
That's all I have to trust to—
My fears were Womans: I have view'd him all: And let me,
let me say it to my self, I live again, and rise but from his
Tomb.
Bir.
Have you forgot me quite?
Isa.
Forgot you!
Then farewel my Disguise, and my Misfortunes.
My Isabella!
[He goes to her, she shrieks, and falls into a swoon.
Isa.
Ha!
Bir.
O! come again: Thy Biron summons thee to Life and
Love; once I had Charms to wake thee.
Thy once lov'd, ever loving Husband calls:
Thy Biron speaks to thee.
Isa.
My Husband! Biron!
Bir.
Excess of Love, and Joy, for my return,
Has over-power'd her—I was to blame
To take thy Sexes softness unprepar'd:
But sinking thus, thus Dying in my Arms,
This extasie has made my welcom more
Than words cou'd say: Words may be Counterfeit,
False Coyn'd, and Current only from the Tongue,
Without the Mind; but Passion's in the Soul,
And always speaks the Heart.
Isa.
Where have I been? Why do you keep him from me?
I know his Voice: My Life, upon the Wing,
Hears the soft lure that brings me back again.
'Tis he himself, my Biron, the dear Man!
My true lov'd Husband! Do I hold you fast,
Never to part again? Can I believe it?
Nothing, but you, could work so great a change.
There's more than Life it self in Dying here:
If I must fall, 'tis welcom in these Arms.
Bir.
Live ever in these Arms.
Isa.
But pardon me,
Excuse the wild disorder of my Soul:
The strange, surprizing Joy of seeing you,
Of seeing you again; Distracted me—
Bir.
Thou Everlasting Goodness!
Isa.
Answer me:
What hand of Providence has brought you back
To your own Home again? O satisfie
Th'impatience of my Heart: I long to know
The Story of your Sufferings. You wou'd think
Your Pleasures sufferings, so long remov'd
For every thought confounds me.
Bir.
My best life! at leisure, all.
Isa.
We thought you Dead; kill'd at the Siege of Candy.
Bir.
There I fell, among the Dead:
But hopes of Life reviving from my Wounds,
I was preserv'd, but to be made a Slave
I often writ to my hard Father, but never had
An Answer. I writ to thee too—
Isa.
What a world of Woe
Had been prevented, but in hearing from you!
Bir.
Alas! thou could'st not help me.
Isa.
You do not know how much I cou'd ha' done;
At least, I'm sure I cou'd have suffer'd all:
I wou'd have sold my self to Slavery,
Without Redemption; giv'n up my Child,
The dearest part of me, to basest wants—
Bir.
My little Boy!
Isa.
My Life, but to have heard
You were alive—which now too late I find.
[Aside.
Bir.
No more, my Love! complaining of the past,
We lose the present Joy: 'Tis over Price,
Of al my pains, that thus we meet again.
I have a thousand things to say to thee—
Isa.
Wou'd I were past the Hearing.
[Aside.
Bir.
How does my Child, my Boy? My Father too,
I hear, is living still.
Isa.
Well, both, both well:
And may he prove a Father to your hopes;
Tho' we have found him none.
Bir.
Come, no more Tears.
Isa.
Seven long years of sorrow for your loss,
Have mourn'd with me—
Bir.
And all my days behind
Shall be employed in a kind recompense
For thy afflictions—Can't I see my Boy?
Isa.
He's gone to Bed: I'le have him brought to you.
To morrow I shall see him; I want rest
My self, after my weary Pilgrimage.
Isa.
Alas! What shall I get for you?
Bir.
Nothing but rest, my Love! to night I would not
Be known, if possible, to your Family;
I see my Nurse is with you; her welcome
Would be tedious at this time;
To morrow will do better.
Isa.
I'le dispose of her, and order every thing
As you would have it.
[Exit.
Bir.
Grant me but Life, good Heav'n, and give the means
To make this wondrous Goodness some amends;
And let me then forget her, if I can!
O! she deserves of me much more, than I
Can lose for her, though I again cou'd venture
A Father, and his Fortune, for her Love.
You wretched Fathers! blind as fortune all!
Not to perceive that such a Womans worth
Weighs down the Portions, you provide your Sons.
What has she, in my absence, undergone?
I must not think of that; it drives me back
Upon my self, the fated cause of all.
Isabella returns.
Isa.
I have obeyed your pleasure;
Every thing is ready for you.
Bir.
I can want nothing here; possessing thee,
All my desires have carry'd to their aim
Of happiness; there's no room for a wish,
But to continue still this blessing to me.
I know the way, my Love; I shall sleep sound.
Isa.
Shall I help to undress you?
Bir.
By no means;
I've been so long a slave to others pride,
To learn, at least, to wait upon my self;
You'l make haste after—
[Goes in.
Isa.
I'le but say my Prayers, and follow you—
My Prayers! no, I must never Pray again.
Prayers have their Blessings to reward our Hopes;
What Heaven cou'd give, I have enjoy'd; but now
The baseful Planet rises on my fate,
And what's to come, is a long line of woe;
Yet I may shorten it—
I promis'd him to follow—him!
Is he without a name? Biron, my Husband:
To follow him to Bed—my Husband! ha!
What then is Villeroy? but yesterday
That very Bed receiv'd him for its Lord;
Yet a warm witness of my broken vows,
To send another to usurp his room.
O Biron! had'st thou come but one day sooner,
I wou'd have follow'd thee through beggary;
Through all the chances of this very Life,
Wandred the many ways of wretchedness
With thee, to find a hospitable grave.
For that's the only bed, that's left me now.
[Weeping.
—What's to be done—for something must be done.
Two Husbands! yet not one! by both enjoy'd,
And yet a Wife to neither! hold my Brain—
This is to live in common; very Beasts,
That welcome all they meet, make just such Wives.
My reputation! O, 'twas all was left me;
The vertuous pride of an uncensur'd life;
Which, the dividing Tongues of Biron's wrongs,
And Villeroy's resentments tear asunder,
To gorge the Throats of the Blaspheming Rabble.
This is the best of what can come to morrow.
Besides old Baldwin's triumph in my ruine.
I cannot bear it—
Therefore no morrow. Ha! a lucky thought
Works the right way to rid me of 'em all,
All the reproaches, infamies, and scorns,
That every Tongue, and Finger will find for me.
Let the just horror of my apprehensions
But keep me warm—no matter what can come.
'Tis but a blow—if it should miss my Heart
Yet I will see him first—
Have a last look to heighten my despair,
And then to rest for ever—
[Going.
[Biron meets her.
Bir.
Despair! and rest for ever! Isabella!
These words are far from thy condition;
And be they ever so. I heard thy voice;
And cou'd not bear thy absence; come, my Love!
You have stay'd long; there's nothing, nothing sure
Now to despair of in succeeding fate.
Isa.
I am contented to be miserable,
But not this way; I've been too long abus'd,
And can believe no more;
Let me sleep on, to be deceiv'd no more.
Bir.
Look up, my Love, I never did deceive thee,
Nor ever can; believe thy self, thy Eyes,
That first enflam'd, and lit me to thy Love,
Those Stars, that still must guide me to my Joys.
Isa.
And me to my undoing I look round,
And find no path, but leading to the Grave.
Bir.
I cannot understand thee.
Isa.
My good Friends above,
I thank 'em, have at last found out a way,
To make my fortune perfect; having you,
I need no more; my Fate is finished here.
Bir.
Both our ill Fates I hope.
Isa.
Hope is a lying, fawning Flatterer,
That shews the fair side only of our fortunes,
To cheat us easier into our fall;
A trusted Friend, who only can betray you;
Never believe him more. If Marriages
Are made in Heaven, they should be happier.
Why was I made this Wretch?
Bir.
His Marriage made thee wretched?
Isa.
Miserable beyond the reach of comfort.
Bir.
Do I live to hear thee say so?
Isa.
Why! What did I say?
That I have made thee miserable.
Isa.
No: You are my only Earthly Happiness.
And my false Tongue bely'd my honest Heart,
If it said otherwise.
Bir.
And yet you said,
Your Marriage made you Miserable.
Isa.
I know not what I said:
I've said too much, unless I could speak all.
Bir.
Thy words are wild; my Eyes, my Ears, my Heart
Were all so full of thee, so much employ'd
In wonder of thy Charms, I could not find it:
Now I perceive it plain.—
Isa.
You'l tell no body—
[Distractedly.
Bir.
Thou art not well.
Isa.
Indeed I am not: I knew that before,
But where's the remedy?
Bir.
Rest will relieve thy Cares: Come, come, no more;
I'll Banish sorrow from thee.
Isa.
Banish first the cause.
Bir.
Heav'n knows how willingly.
Isa.
You are the only cause.
Bir.
Am I the cause? The cause of thy Misfortunes?
Isa.
The Fatal Innocent cause of all my Woes.
Bir.
Is this my welcome Home? This the reward
Of all my Miseries, long Labours, Pains,
And pining wants of Wretched Slavery,
Which I have out-liv'd, only in hopes of thee?
Am I thus paid at last for Deathless Love?
And call'd the Cause of thy Misfortunes now?
Isa.
Enquire no more; 'twill be explain'd too soon.
Bir.
What! Can'st thou leave me too?
She is going. He stays her.
Isa.
Pray let me go:
For both our sakes permit me.—
Bir.
Rack me not with Imaginations
Of things impossible:—Thou can'st not mean
What thou hast said—Yet something she must mean,
—'Twas Madness all—Compose thy self, my Love!
The fit is past; all may be well again.
Let us to Bed.
To Bed! You've rais'd the storm
Will sever us for ever. O my Biron!
While I have life, still I must call you mine:
I know I am, and always was unworthy
To be the happy partner of your love:
And now must never, never share it more.
But, oh! if ever I was dear to you,
As sometimes you have thought me; on my Knees,
(The last time I shall care to be believ'd)
I beg you, beg to think me innocent,
Clear of all Crimes, that thus can banish me
From this Worlds comforts, in my losing you.
Bir.
Where will this end?
Isa.
The rugged hand of Fate has got between
Our meeting Hearts, and thrusts 'em from their Joys.
Since we must part—
Bir.
Nothing shall ever part us.
Isa.
Partings the least that is set down for me:
Heaven has decreed, and we must suffer all.
Bir.
I know thee Innocent; I know my self so.
Indeed we both have been Unfortunate:
But sure Misfortunes ne'er were faults in Love.
Isa.
Oh! There's a Fatal Story to be told;
Be deaf to that, as Heaven has been to me!
And rot the Tongue that shall reveal my Shame
When thou shalt hear how much thou hast been wrong'd,
How wilt thou Curse thy fond believing Heart,
Tear me from the warm bosom of thy Love,
And throw me like a pois'nous Weed away.
Can I bear that? Bear to be curst and torn,
And thrown out from thy Family and Name,
Like a Disease? Can I bear this from thee?
I never can; No, all things have their end.
When I am dead, forgive, and pity me.
[Exit.
Bir.
Yet stay, if the sad News at last must come,
Thou art my Fate, and best may speak my Doom.
[Exit after her.
| The Fatal Marriage : or, the Innocent Adultery | |