 | The Honey Moon |  |
ACT II.
SCENE I.
—A Cottage.Enter the Duke, leading in Juliana.
Duke.
You are welcome home.
Juliana.
Home! you are merry; this retired spot
Would be a palace for an owl!
Duke.
'Tis ours.—
Juliana.
Ay, for the time we stay in it.—
Duke.
By Heav'n,
This is the noble mansion that I spoke of!
Juliana.
This!—you are not in earnest, tho' you bear it
With such a sober brow.—Come, come, you jest.
Duke.
Indeed I jest not; were it ours in jest,
We should have none, wife.
Juliana.
Are you serious, sir?
Duke.
I swear, as I'm your husband, and no Duke.
Juliana.
No Duke!
Duke.
But of my own creation, lady.
Juliana.
Am I betray'd?—Nay, do not play the fool!
It is too keen a joke.
Duke.
You'll find it true.
Juliana.
You are no Duke, then?
Duke.
None.
Juliana.
Have I been cozen'd? (Aside.)
And have you no estate, sir?
No palaces, nor houses?
Duke.
None but this:
A small snug dwelling, and in good repair.
Nor money, nor effects?
Duke.
None, that I know of.
Juliana.
And the attendants who have waited on us—
Duke.
They were my friends; who, having done my business,
Are gone about their own.
Juliana.
Why then 'tis clear.— (Aside.)
That I was ever born!—What are you, sir?
Duke.
I am an honest man—that may content you:
Young, nor ill-favoured. Should not that content you,
I am your husband, and that must content you.
Juliana.
I will go home! (Going.)
Duke.
You are at home already. (Staying her.)
Juliana.
I'll not endure it!—But, remember this—
Duke or no Duke, I'll be a Duchess, sir!
Duke.
A Duchess! you shall be a Queen,—to all
Who, by the courtesy, will call you so.
Juliana.
And I will have attendance!
Duke.
So you shall,
When you have learnt to wait upon yourself.
Juliana.
To wait upon myself! must I bear this?
I could tear out my eyes that bade you woo me,
And bite my tongue in two for saying, yes!
Duke.
And if you should, 'twould grow again.—
I think, to be an honest yeoman's wife
(For such, my would-be Duchess, you will find me),
You were cut out by nature.
Juliana.
You will find, then,
That education, sir, has spoilt me for it:
Why! Do you think I'll work?
Duke.
I think 'twill happen, wife.
Juliana.
What! rub and scrub
Your noble palace clean?
Duke.
Those taper fingers
Will do it daintily.
Juliana.
And dress your victuals
(If there be any)? Oh! I could go mad!
And mend my hose, and darn my night-caps neatly;
Wait, like an echo, till you're spoken to—
Juliana.
Or, like a clock, talk only once an hour?
Duke.
Or like a dial; for that quietly
Performs its work, and never speaks at all.
Juliana.
To feed your poultry and your hogs!—oh, monstrous!
And when I stir abroad, on great occasions,
Carry a squeaking tythe pig to the vicar;
Or jolt with higglers' wives the market trot,
To sell your eggs and butter!
Duke.
Excellent!
How well you sum the duties of a wife!
Why, what a blessing I shall have in you!
Juliana.
A blessing!
Duke.
When they talk of you and me,
Darby and Joan shall be no more remembered;—
We shall be happy!
Juliana.
Shall we?
Duke.
Wond'rous happy!
Oh! you will make an admirable wife!
Juliana.
I'll make a devil.
Duke.
What?
Juliana.
A very devil.
Duke.
Oh, no! we'll have no devils.
Juliana.
I'll not bear it!
I'll to my father's.
Duke.
Gently: you forget
You are a perfect stranger to the road.
Juliana.
My wrongs will find a way, or make one.
Duke.
Softly!—
You stir not hence, except to take the air;
And then I'll breathe it with you.
Juliana.
What! confine me?
Duke.
'Twould be unsafe to trust you yet abroad.
Juliana.
Am I a truant school-boy?
Nay, not so;
But you must keep your bounds.
Juliana.
And if I break them
Perhaps you'll beat me.—
Duke.
No; I'll talk to you,
The man that lays his hand upon a woman,
Save in the way of kindness, is a wretch
Whom 'twere gross flattery to name a coward.—
Juliana.
Well, if I may not travel to my father,
I may write to him, surely!—and I will—
If I can meet within your spacious dukedom
Three such unhop'd-for miracles at once
As pens, and ink, and paper.—
Duke.
You will find them
In the next room.—A word, before you go.—
You are my wife, by ev'ry tie that's sacred;
The partner of my fortune and my bed—
Juliana.
Your fortune!
Duke.
Peace!—no fooling, idle woman!
Beneath th' attesting eye of Heav'n I've sworn
To love, to honour herish, and protect you.
No human power can part us. What remains, then?
To fret, and worry, and torment each other,
And give a keener edge to our hard fate
By sharp upbraidings and perpetual jars?
Or, like a loving and a patient pair
(Wak'd from a dream of grandeur to depend
Upon their daily labour for support),
To sooth the taste of fortune's lowliness
With sweet consent and mutual fond endearment?—
Now to your chamber—write whate'er you please;
But pause before you stain the spotless paper
With words that may inflame, but cannot heal!
Juliana.
Why, what a patient worm you take me for!
Duke.
I took you for a wife;—and, ere I've done,
I'll know you for a good one.
Juliana.
You shall know me
Who, when she suffers wrong, will speak her anger;
Who feels her own prerogative, and scorns
By the proud reason of superior man
To be taught patience, when her swelling heart
Cries out revenge!
[Exit.
Duke
(solus.)
Why, let the flood rage on!
There is no tide in woman's wildest passion
But hath an ebb.—I've broke the ice, however.—
Write to her father!—She may write a folio—
But if she send it!—'Twill divert her spleen.—
The flow of ink may save her blood-letting.
Perchance she may have fits!—They're seldom mortal,
Save when the doctor's sent for.—
Tho' I have heard some husbands say, and wisely,
A woman's honour is her safest guard,
Yet there's some virtue in a lock and key.—
(Locks the door.)
So, thus begins our honey moon.—'Tis well!
For the first fortnight, ruder than March winds,
She'll blow a hurricane. The next, perhaps,
Like April, she may wear a changeful face
Of storm and sunshine:—and, when that is past,
She will break glorious as unclouded May;
And where the thorns grew bare, the spreading blossoms
Meet with no lagging frost to kill their sweetness.—
Whilst others, for a month's delirious joy,
Buy a dull age of penance; we, more wisely,
Taste first the wholesome bitter of the cup,
That after to the very lees shall relish;
And to the close of this frail life prolong
The pure delights of a well-govern'd marriage.
[Exit.
SCENE III.
—Balthazar's House.Enter Balthazar, followed by the Count disguised as a Friar.
Balthazar.
These things premis'd, you have my full consent
To try my daughter's humour:—to that end
I have sent for her. But observe me, sir!—
I will use no compulsion with my child;
Though of a merry spirit, I have found her
In weighty matters of so ripe a judgment,
That she shall choose a husband for herself.
If I had tendered thus her sister Zamora,
I should not now have mourn'd a daughter lost!
Enter Volante.
Volante.
What is your pleasure?
Balthazar.
Know this holy man;
(introducing the Count to her.)
It is the father Confessor I spoke of.
Though he looks young, in all things which respect
His sacred function, he is deeply learn'd.
Volante.
It is the Count! (aside.)
Balthazar.
I leave you to his guidance:
And do not with that wild wing you are wont
Fly from his questions;—act as may befit
The sober purpose of his visit here;
And, without diminution or concealment,
Commit your actions and your private thoughts
To his examination and free censure.
Volante.
I shall observe, sir.—
[Exit Balthazar.
Nay, 'tis he, I'll swear! (aside.)
Count.
Pray Heaven she don't suspect me!—Well,
young Lady, you have heard your father's commands?
Volante.
Yes: and now he has left us alone, what
are we to do?
Count.
I am to listen, and you are to confess.
What! and then you are to confess, and
I am to listen?—I'll take care you shall do penance
though!—
(aside.)
Count.
Pshaw!
Volante.
Well; but what am I to confess?
Count.
Your sins, daughter; your sins.
Volante.
What! all of them?
Count.
Only the great ones.
Volante.
The great ones! Oh, you must learn those
of my neighbours, whose business it is, like yours,
to confess every body's sins but their own. If now
you would be content with a few trifling peccadilloes,
I would own them to you with all the frankness of an
author, who gives his reader the paltry errata of the
press, but leaves him to find out all the capital blunders
of the work himself.
Count.
Nay, Lady, this is trifling:—I am in
haste.
Volante.
In haste!—then suppose I confess my virtues?
you shall have the catalogue of them in a single
breath.
Count.
Nay, then, I must call your father.
Volante.
Why, then, to be serious:—If you will tell
me of any very enormous offences which I may have
lately committed, I shall have no objection in the
world to acknowledge them to you.
Count.
It is publicly reported, daughter, you are in love.
Volante.
So! so! are you there!
(aside.)
That I am
in love?
Count.
With a man—
Volante.
Why, what should a woman be in love
with?
Count.
You interrupt me, Lady.—A young man.
Volante.
I'm not in love with an old one, certainly.—
But is love a crime, father?
Count.
Heaven forbid!
Volante.
Why, then, you have nothing to do with it.
Ay, but the concealing it is a crime.
Volante.
Oh, the concealing it is a crime?
Count.
Of the first magnitude.
Volante.
Why, then, I confess—
Count.
Well, what?
Volante.
That the Count Montalban—
Count.
Go on!
Volante.
Is—
Count.
Proceed!
Volante.
Desperately in love with me:—
Count.
Pshaw! that's not to the point!
Volante.
Well, well, I'm coming to it:—and not
being able in his own person to learn the state of my
affections, has taken the benefit of clergy, and assumed
the disguise of a friar.
Count.
Discovered!
Volante.
Ha, ha, ha!—You are but a young masquerader,
or you wouldn't have left your vizor at
home. Come, come, Count, pull off your lion's apparel,
and confess yourself an ass.
Count.
Nay, Volante, hear me!
Volante.
Not a step nearer!—The snake is still
dangerous, though he has cast his skin. I believe
you're the first lover on record that ever attempted
to gain the affections of his mistress by discovering her
faults. Now, if you had found out more virtues in
my mind than there will ever be room for, and more
charms in my person than even my looking-glass can
create, why then indeed—
Count.
What then?
Volante.
Then I might have confess'd what it's now
impossible I can ever confess: and so farewell, my
noble Count confessor!
[Exit.
Count, solus.
Count.
Farewell!
And when I've hit upon the longitude,
I'll make another venture for thy love.—
Here comes her father.—I'll be fool'd no longer!
Enter Balthazar.
Balthazar.
Well, sir, how thrive you?
Count.
E'en as I deserve:
Your daughter has discovered, mock'd, and left me.
Balthazar.
Yet I've another scheme.
Count.
What is't?
Balthazar.
My daughter,
Being a lover of my art, of late
Has vehemently urg'd to see your portrait;
Which, now 'tis finish'd, I stand pledg'd, she shall.
Go to the picture-room—stand there conceal'd:
Here is the key. I'll send my daughter straight.
And if, as we suspect, her heart leans tow'rds you,
In some unguarded gesture, speech, or action,
Her love will suddenly break out.—Away!
I hear her coming.
Count.
There's some hope in this.
Balthazar.
It shall do wonders. Hence!
[Exit Count.
I'll tax her home.
Enter Volante.
Volante.
What, is he gone, sir?
Balthazar.
Gone!—d'ye think the man is made of
marble?—Yes, he is gone.
Volante.
For ever?
Balthazar.
Ay, for ever.
Volante.
Alas, poor Count!—Or has he only left you
To study some new character? Pray, tell me!
What will he next appear in?
Balthazar.
This is folly.
'Tis time to call your wanton spirits home;—
You are too wild of speech.
My thoughts are free, sir;
And those I utter.
Balthazar.
Far too quickly, girl:
Your shrewdness is a scare-crow to your beauty.
Volante.
It will fright none but fools, sir: men of
sense must naturally admire in us the quality they
most value in themselves; a blockhead only protests
against the wit of a woman, because he can't answer
her drafts upon his understanding. But now we talk
of the Count, don't you remember your promise,
sir?
Balthazar.
Umph!
(aside.)
What promise, girl?
Volante.
That I should see your picture of him.
Balthazar.
So you shall, when you can treat the
original with a little more respect.
Volante.
Nay, sir, a promise!
Balthzar.
Well, you'll find the door open:—but,
before you go, tell me honestly how do you like the
Count, his person, and understanding?
Volante.
Why, as to his person, I don't think he's
handsome enough to pine himself to death for his
own shadow, like the youth in the fountain—nor yet
so ugly as to be frightened to dissolution, if he should
look at himself in a glass. Then, as to his understanding,
he has hardly wit enough to pass for a
madman, nor yet so little as to be taken for a fool.
In short, sir, I think the Count is very well worth any
young woman's serious contemplation—when she has
no other earthly thing to think about.
[Runs off.
Balthazar solus.
Balthazar.
So the glad bird, that flutters from the net,
Grown wanton with the thought of his escape,
Flies to the limed bush, and there is caught.
I'll steal and watch their progress.
[Exit.
SCENE III.
—The Picture-Room.The Count concealed behind his Portrait.
Enter Volante.
Volante.
Confess that I love the Count!—A woman
may do a more foolish thing than fall in love with
such a man, and a wiser one than to tell him of it.—
(Looks at the picture.)
'Tis very like him;—the hair
is a shade too dark,—and rather too much complexion
for a despairing inamorato. Confess that I love
him?—Now there is only his picture, I'll see if I can't
pray the confessor a little better than he did.—
“Daughter, they tell me you are in love?”—“Well,
father, there is no harm in speaking the truth.”—
“With the Count Montalban, daughter?”—“Father,
you are not a confessor but a conjuror!”—“They add,
moreover, that you have nam'd the day for your marriage?”
—“There, father, you are misinformed; for,
like a discreet maiden, I have left that for him to do.”
—Then he should throw off his disguise—I should gaze
at him with astonishment—he should open his arms,
whilst I sunk gently into them.—
(The Count catches
her in his arms.)
—The Count!
(Balthazar comes
forward.)
My father, too! Nay, then, I am fairly
hunted into the toil. There, take my hand, Count!
while I am free to give it!—
A Servant enters with a Letter.
Servant,
A letter, sir.
[Exit.
Balthazar.
From Juliana! (Opens the letter.)
Volante.
Well, what says she, sir?
Count.
This will spoil all. (Aside.)
Volante.
It bears untoward news:—
Is she not well, sir?
Balthazar.
'Tis not that!
Volante.
What then, sir?—
See how he knits his brow!
Here must be throats cut.
Volante.
What moves you thus, sir?
Balthazar.
That, would stir a statue!—
Your friend's a villain, sir! (To the Count.)
Read, read it out.—
And you, if I mistake not, are another!
Volante.
What can this mean?
Balthazar.
Peace! Hear him read the letter.
Count.
(Reads.)
“Dearest father! I am deceived, betrayed, insulted!
The man whom I have married is no Duke!—”
Volante.
No Duke!
Balthazar.
I'll be revenged!—Read, sir, read.
Count.
(Reads.)
—“He has neither fortune, family, nor friends—”
Balthazar.
You must have known all this, sir.—But proceed!
Count.
(Reads.)
—“He keeps me prisoner here, in
a miserable hovel; from whence, unless I am speedily
rescued by your interference, you may never hear
more of your forlorn, abused
“Juliana.”
Balthazar.
What answer you to this, sir?
Count.
Nothing.
Volante.
How!
Balthazar.
'Tis plain you are a partner in the trick
That robb'd a doating father of his child.
Count.
Suspend your anger but a few short days,
And you shall find, though now a mystery
Involves my friend—
Balthazar.
A mystery! What mystery?
There are no mysteries in honest men:
What mystery, I say, can salve this conduct?
Is he a Duke?
Count.
I cannot answer that.
Balthazar.
Then he's a villain!
Count.
Nay, upon my soul,
He means you fairly, honourably, nobly.
I will away to-night.—Olmedo! Perez!
Perhaps your Countship means me fairly too,
Nobly and honourably!— (Enter Servants)
—Get my horses! (Exeunt.)
You have some mystery! but, ere I set
My sole surviving hope on such an hazard,
I'll look into your Countship's pedigree:
And for your noble, honourable duke,
I'll travel night and day until I reach him!
And he shall find I am not yet so old
But that my blood will flame at such an insult,
And my sword leap into my grasp. Believe me,
I will have full revenge!
Count.
You shall.
Balthazar.
I will, sir!
And speedily!
Count.
Proceed, then, on your journey.
With your good leave, I'll bear you company:
And as the traveller, perplex'd awhile
In the benighting mazes of a forest,
Breaks on a champain country, smooth and level,
And sees the sun shine glorious; so shall you, sir,
Behold a bright close, and a golden end,
To this now dark adventure.
Volante.
Go, my father!
Balthazar.
You speak in riddles, sir; yet you speak fairly.
Count.
And, if I speak not truly, may my hope
In this fair treasure be extinct for ever!
Balthazar.
Then quickly meet us here, prepar'd for travel.
If, from the cloud that overhangs us now,
Such light should break as you have boldly promised,
My daughter and my blessing still are yours, sir.
Count.
Blest in that word, I quit you.—
[Exit.
Manent Balthazar and Volante.
Balthazar.
Come, girl!
You must remain a fresh ungather'd flow'r.
Volante.
Well, sir; I am not yet so overblown
But I may hang some time upon the tree,
And still be worth the plucking.
Balthazar.
True, my girl.
And better 'twere to wither on thy stem,
And scatter on the earth thy maiden blowings,
Than graft thee where thy sweetnees and thy beauty
Would all be wasted.—Come, we must prepare.
[Exeunt.
SCENE.
—The Cottage.
Enter the Duke, in a Peasant's Dress.
Duke.
She hath compos'd a letter; and, what's worse,
Contriv'd to send it by a village boy
That pass'd the window. Yet she now appears
Profoundly penitent. It cannot be;
'Tis a conversion too miraculous.
Her cold disdain yields with too free a spirit;
Like ice, which, melted by unnatural heat—
Not by the gradual and kindly thaw
Of the resolving elements—give it air,
Will straight congeal again.—She comes—I'll try her.
Enter Juliana.
Why, what's the matter now?
Juliana.
That foolish letter!
Duke.
What! you repent of having written it?
Juliana.
I do, indeed. I could cut off my fingers
For being partners in the act.
Duke.
No matter.
You may indite one in a milder spirit,
That shall pluck out its sting.
I will, if 'tis your pleasure.
Duke.
Well replied!
I now see plainly you have found your wits,
And are a sober, metamorphos'd woman.
Juliana.
I am, indeed.
Duke.
I know it; I can read you.
There is a true contrition in your looks:—
Yours is no penitence in masquerade.—
You are not playing on me?
Juliana.
Playing, sir!
Duke.
You have found out the vanity of those things
For which you lately sigh'd so deep?
Juliana.
I have, sir.
Duke.
A dukedom!—pshaw!—it is an idle thing.
Juliana.
I have begun to think so.
Duke.
That's a lie.— (Aside.)
Is not this tranquil and retired spot
More rich in real pleasures than a palace?
Juliana.
I like it infinitely.
Duke.
That's another!— (Aside.)
The mansion's small, 'tis true, but very snug.
Juliana.
Exceeding snug!
Duke.
The furniture not splendid,
But then all useful.
Juliana.
All exceeding useful;
There's not a piece on't but serves twenty purposes.
(Aside.)
Duke.
And, tho' we're seldom plagu'd by visitors,
We have the best of company—ourselves.—
Nor, whilst our limbs are full of active youth,
Need we loll in a carriage to provoke
A lazy circulation of the blood;
When walking is a nobler exercise.
Juliana.
More wholesome, too.
Duke.
And far less dangerous.
Juliana.
That's certain!
Duke.
Then for servants, all agree,
They are the greatest plagues on earth.
No doubt on't!
Duke.
Who, then, that has a taste for happiness,
Would live in a large mansion, only fit
To be an habitation for the winds;—
Keep gilded ornaments for dust and spiders;
See every body, care for nobody;
Lose the free use of limbs by being mew'd up
In a close carriage, next to being bed-rid,
As if, like mummies, we should fall to pieces
By taking air; and, above all, be pester'd
With those voracious vermin call'd attendants;—
When they could live as we do?
Juliana.
Who, indeed!
Duke.
Here we want nothing.
Juliana.
Nothing!—Yes, one thing.
Duke.
Indeed! what's that?
Juliana.
You will be angry.
Duke.
Nay.—
Not, if it be a reasonable thing.
Juliana.
What wants the bird who, from his wiry prison,
Sings to the passing travellers of air
A wistful note—that she were with them, sir?
Duke.
Umph! What, your liberty? I see it now.
(Aside.)
Juliana.
T'were pity that in such a Paradise
I should be cag'd!
Duke.
Why, whither would you, wife?
Juliana.
Only to taste the freshness of the air,
That breathes a wholesome spirit from without;
And weave a chaplet for you, of those flow'rs
That throw their perfume through my window bars,
And then I will return, sir.
Duke.
You are free;
But use your freedom wisely.
Juliana.
Doubt me not, sir!—
I'll use it quickly, too. (Aside, and Exit.)
Duke.
But I do doubt you.—
There is a lurking devil in her eye
That plays at bopeep there, in spite of her.—
Her anger is but smother'd—not burnt out—
And ready, give it vent, to blaze again!—
You have your liberty:—but, like a cat,
Who gives short respite to a captive mouse,
I'll watch your gambols, lady.
[Exit.
| The Honey Moon | |