University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

SCENE I.

—A Room in the House of Monsieur de l'Epée.
Enter, from an inner Room, Walsingham and Monsieur de l'Epee.
De l'Epée.
Your progress answers to your practice, sir;
Cause have you none for discontent. Confess,
You play the foil with twice the ease you did
A month ago. Might I be credited,
Not only each new week, but even day,
Puts to the blush the former one, so fast
You catch the mystery of the fair art.

Wal.
Yes; but my fellow-pupil heads me still.

De l'Epée.
His quickness is your master.

Wal.
Yet, 'tis strange!
With all my pains, I toil behind him still,
And he a very stripling!

De l'Epée.
'Tis not strength
That makes the odds, but art. To turn the foil
In practised hand, almost a wheaten straw
Hath stamina enough. The point deceived,
An infant's arm, in distance, lounges home.
The art is strength, and length, and everything.

Wal.
To say the truth, it is a noble art,
On which agility and grace attend,
With proper manhood keeping company,
As on none other;—making lightest ease
To champion force, and, as you say, bear off
The palm from it. In every act and state—
Salute, guard, parry, feint, or pass—it hath
A bearing worthy of the eyes of kings
And their high consorts, when a practised hand
Like yours takes up the foil.

De l'Epée.
You flatter, sir!

Wal.
By my proud honour, no! But, to your pupil—
Who is he?

De l'Epée.
I know not.

Wal.
He is very young.

De l'Epée.
Yes; by his looks he has a teen or twain
To count;—though never scholar study plied
With manlier resolve and constancy.
It often moves my wonder, that so slight
And delicate a frame should undergo
What, to robuster mould, a thousand times
I have mark'd was weariness. Scarce lays he down
The foil, before he takes it up again,
Some parry, feint, or lounge, unmaster'd yet,
To practise;—which he does with zest so keen,
I have thought, at times, that in his fancy's eye
There stood, before his foil, an enemy,
The actor of some unatonéd wrong,
Whose heart each thrust was meant for.—A good morning!
I am waited for.

Wal.
Good morning to you, sir.
[De l'Epee goes out.
A noble fellow that!—a soldier who
A mighty captain follow'd, for the strides
With which he led to glory—nay, for them
Deserted not, when fortune back'd a world,
Marshall'd against her off-cast favourite!
Talk you of scars?—That Frenchman bears on crown,
Body, and limb, his vouchers, palpable,
For many a thicket he has struggled through
Of briery danger—wondering that he
Came off with even life, when right and left
His mates dropp'd thick beside him. A true man!
His rations with his master gone—for he
Was honour's soldier, that ne'er changes sides—
He left his country for a foreign one,
To teach his gallant art, and earn a home.
I know him to be honest, generous,
High-soul'd, and modest; every way a grace
To the fine martial nation whence he sprang!
Eustace enters from Inner Room.
My fellow-pupil! [Aside.]
That was a shrewd guess
The Frenchman made. Are all these pains to pay
An enemy?—then is his case my own.
Would I could gain his confidence! but still,
Oft as I try, he foils me with reserve,
He shows to none beside! One more attempt.—
So, fellow-pupil! You have given o'er at last.
Right well you fenced to-day! You are weary?

Eust.
No.
Good morning, sir.—

Wal.
I' faith, you “sir” not me!
We have been mates too long, methinks, for term,
So niggard, fellow-pupil!—Walsingham
Is my name. I prithee, when thou next accost'st me,
Say Walsingham. Is't not enough, your foil
Keeps me at distance—will not let me in—
Rebukes me! shames me!—will you with your tongue
O'erbear me too? Call me not “sir,” I pray,
But Walsingham.

Eust.
It were to make too free
For mere acquaintanceship.

Wal.
Acquaintanceship!
You have known me for a year. Friendship has grown
In half that time!

Eust.
Friendship grows not by time.

Wal.
In sooth 'twould seem so. Daily have we met
For good a year—nor yet have shaken hands.
Give me thy hand, and let us hence be friends!
What! will you not? I'faith, you should—you shall!
I'll take it spite of you—yea, though you frown,
And call yourself my foe—which would be hard;
To make a foe, striving to make a friend.

Eust.
[After a pause.]
I'll shake hands with you.

Wal.
Ha!—a hearty grasp!
But take it not away so soon again,
Nor where you give your hand, refuse your eye.
Why don't you look at me?

Eust.
Let go my hand!

Wal.
Such haste to take away—so frank to give?

Eust.
Let go my hand!—Well, you may keep it, sir;
You cannot make it like its prison, nor,
When once 'tis free from't, enter it again.

Wal.
Well—call me Walsingham, I'll let it go.
Why must I force you thus to be my friend?

Eust.
Why should you? Force made never yet a friend!

Wal.
For kindness, then! why would you hold me off?
A man repell'd of fortune! See you not,
I am not of the vein of those on whom
She lavishes her smiles—nor do I think
With surfeit of such sweet you bought that cast
Of thoughtfulness, which when I look upon you,
Like to my glass, shows me, methinks, myself!—
I am a man of honour and of heart—
Ah, too much heart! Come, call me Walsingham,
And then I'll let you go.

Eust.
Well—Walsingham!

Wal.
I' faith, most kindly did you sound my name;
Tongue never fell it yet more sweetly from,
Save one!—Save one!

Eust.
Farewell!

Wal.
We'll walk together.

Eust.
Nay.

Wal.
Will you have it so, why have it so;
My love is not that sturdy beggar yet,
But spurning may suffice to stop its craving!
Yet ere you leave me, hear me—and, then, go.
Methinks our fates in something are alike;
To prove it so, or not, I'll tell thee mine.
Give thee my confidence—make thee indeed my friend!
Now, once for all, what say you?

Eust.
Be it so.

Wal.
Thy hand again, then!—Do we go together?

Eust.
We do!—Have with you!

Wal.
Now we are friends, for ever!

[They go out.

SCENE II.

—A Room in Hero's Town House.
Enter Sir William and Emily.
Sir Wil.
At sea again! Blown ever from the port
We'd have her harbour in, by her wild fancies,
And far from land as ever! 'Twas my hope
This suitor would have proved sure anchorage.

Emily.
And so 'twas mine. She'll ne'er be held by suitor,
Long as there bows another—save it be
By a miracle. I say it, though I love her!

Sir Wil.
And yet that lord hath held her.

Emily.
So he hath,
By dint of mere audacity—some art,
He owns, makes other suitors quail, and she,
For vanity, hath still affected him,
As proud to have a vassal in a man
To whom his fellows bow.

Sir Wil.
I am glad so slight
His power. I know him for a profligate,
With broken coffers, to replenish which
He merely follows her.

Emily.
His practice 'twas
Which to this issue led—On some account
I know not—nay, nor guess—he durst not treat
Sir Valentine with overbearing mien,
So took advantage of fair Hero's weakness,
To play upon't, expose, and with disgust
Surfeit the man he fear'd.

Sir Wil.
And he succeeded?

Emily.
Ay, to the full, sir, as I have possess'd you.

Sir Wil.
I am sorry for it. He had begun to love her,
And would have made to her a worthy husband;
Safe guardian to her wealth; and one to make
A proud wife of a higher dame than she!
It crossly hath fallen out. But she is piqued,
You say at his desertion?

Emily.
Much, sir!—Much!
She wept, as I acquainted you.

Sir Wil.
You did,
And matter see I there. Unfeignéd tears—
And such were hers—from deep-laid fountains flow,
Abiding in the heart! The argument
Which draws them thence, as deep must even go.
A curling lip I had not heeded—that
Were simple scorn—but they who weep, for scorn,
Must weep for something more. Sir Valentine
Hath not his peer in England! Trust me, girl,
She's not so blind with folly, as not to see
His paramount desert!—Where is she?

Emily.
Lock'd
In her chamber with her milliner,—so says
Her maid. These three hours have I craved admission,
But all in vain. She has not yet press'd pillow
Sufficient to repair her spirits from
The waste of yesternight.

Sir Wil.
A wayward girl!
New dresses, pleasures, lovers—all things new,
Except herself. Would that would change, as well!
Some mode she studies with her minister
Of novelty, to flog all former folly.
[Knocking.
What sober knock is that?—Such seldom calls
At her fantastic door. Who knocks?

Enter Servant.
Servant.
A man,
Of formal habit and consorting speech,
Usher to one most young and fair; a maid
Who seems to know no use for beauty, but
To mortify it with ungainly guise.
She asks to see the mistress of the house.

Sir Wil.
Admit her!—On what errand can she come?
[Servant goes out, and returns, showing in Clever, followed by Hero, both disguised as Quakers.
Who art thou?

Clever.
Man unto Ruth Mapleson,
Who with the woman of the house would speak.

Sir Wil.
The woman of the house!

Emily.
Ruth Mapleson!

Hero.
Friend, am I right? This house of vanity,
Is't the abode of that unfortunate
They call the City Maid? who, to the use
Of one, perverts what Heaven lavishly
Committed to her, for the good of many!
Is this her house?—and if it is, I pray you
Acquaint her that a sister, pitying
Her hapless state of blindness, ignorance,
Omission and offence, hath come to her
To clear her vision, to inform her mind,
To teach her occupation, and from evil
To turn her steps aside.—Umph!

Clever.
Umph!

Sir Wil.
My breath
Is almost stopp'd with wonder!

Emily.
So is mine.
What can it mean?

Sir Wil.
Some poor fanatic 'tis,
Whose zeal hath warp'd her reason.

Hero.
Sinful man,
Thus is it with the children of the flesh!
What argues wisdom they misconstrue madness!
Though through perverseness rather than conviction.
Tremble!—Look down!—Abase thee to the dust!
Shouldst thou not blush at thy grey hairs, the vouchers
For thriftless years, for profitless experience!
'Tis winter with thee—harvest-time is past—
What hast thou garner'd? Chaff instead of grain!
What doest thou with gauds like these, thy trappings?
Why standest thou beneath this roof of pride,
That shouldst be thinking of the charnel-house
And the attire of its inhabitant?
I know thee uncle to that maid of lightness,
That mistress of this house of emptiness,
And whom I come to chasten and reform!
Umph!

Clever.
Umph!

Emily.
Dear sir! who is't? I grow uneasy!
With sense of the unearthly, and I feel
As though an apparition stood before me,
And wish she were away!

Sir Wil.
And so do I!

Hero.
[To Emily.]
And thou, poor flesh and blood!—illusion!—heirdom
O' the worm! that think'st thyself all soundness, yet
Art all corruption! Why abidest thou in
The lazar-house? Depart from it! Pull off
Its dress, and don the clean and wholesome guise
Of plainness and humility—Umph!

Clever.
Umph!

Sir Wil.
This bold intrusion and address—

Hero.
Peace, Satan!
And yet, perhaps I wrong you! Privily
You may condemn proud Hero's fantasies?

Sir Wil.
I do!

Emily.
And so do I!

Hero.
O do you so?
Then are ye not, as I did reckon you,
O' the children of the Prince of Darkness?

Sir Wil. and Emily.
No!

Hero.
You see that she is miserably vain?

Emily.
We else were blind.

Sir Wil.
Stone blind!

Hero.
Capricious?

Emily.
Yes! As many moods as there's hours in the day.

Sir Wil.
Say minutes, rather!

Hero.
Fond of pleasure?

Emily.
'Tis her constant occupation.

Sir Wil.
'Tis her meat
And drink; rest, business, studies, prayers, and sleep!

Hero.
She hath no constancy in aught—
Lovers especially?

Emily.
She changes them
Continually.

Sir Wil.
As she does her dresses
Show her a new one, she casts off the last,
How new soe'er put on!

Hero.
I pity her.

Emily.
She scarce deserves it.

Sir Wil.
Pity is too good
For such a piece of waywardness, perverseness,
Pride, folly, fantasy and emptiness!

Hero.
So then we are all of the same mind?

Emily.
Exactly.

Sir Wil.
Not a pin's point difference!

Hero.
You would approve that I reform her then?

Emily.
Reform her! can you do so, do it!

Sir Wil.
Do!
Do! Make her anything but what she is.

Emily.
Change cannot fail to better her.

Sir Wil.
No change
Can make her worse!—Reform her, pray!

Hero.
I will.

Sir Wil. and Emily.
When?

Hero.
When you take her for another thing
And find her just the same!—O, uncle, fie!
Fie, Emily! Is this your loyalty?

Sir Wil.
What means this metamorphosis?

Hero.
Defence
Of my sex's rights—assertion of my own!
Instruction to that master-work, call'd man!
Protest and re-establishment of due
Prerogative! reduction of rebellion,
Transform'd from rearéd crest to bended knee!
Pains, penalties, bonds, confiscations, deaths,
To follow thereupon!

Sir Wil.
Why, niece, what wind
Has brought this change of weather?

Hero.
Are you a man?

Sir Wil.
I trust I am!

Hero.
Then if you are, you know
The privileges of a single woman.
We have few, we thank you, when we change the state
Of single blessedness, most rightly dubb'd—
Is't not a single woman's right to rule?

Sir Wil.
It is.

Hero.
To have her will her law?

Sir Wil.
It is.

Hero.
To have as many tastes, moods, fits, as she likes?

Sir Wil.
It is.

Hero.
To come, to go, to smile, to frown,
To please, to pain, to love, to hate, do aught
Without dispute?

Sir Wil.
It is.

Hero.
Is't not enough,
You have leave to look upon her—listen to her—
Stand in her presence—wait upon her? Must
Her 'haviour, speech, be what you like, or what
It likes her sovereign self that they should be?

Sir Wil.
What likes her sovereign self!

Hero.
You are a man!
Would all your sex were like you! Who are not,
Are not for me, believe me! Look you, uncle!
I'll make the saucy traitor feel my power,
Or I will break my heart! He thinks me fair—
I thank him! Well-proportion'd—very much
Beholden to him! Dignified and graceful—
A man of shrewd perception! very!—send him
On expedition of discovery!

Sir Wil.
Whom mean you, Hero?

Hero.
Whom?—Sir Valentine!
He has made his bow! Indeed, a gracious one—
A stately, courtly, condescending one!
Ne'er may I curtsy, if he bow not lower!
I'll bring him to his knees as a spoil'd child
With uplift hands that asketh pardon; then
Command him up, and never see me more!

Sir Wil.
Why, how hath this befallen?

Hero.
I did not dance
To please him! No, sir! He is a connoisseur
In dancing!—hath a notion of his own
Of a step! In carriage, attitude, has taste,
Dainty as palate of an epicure,
Which, if you hit not to a hair, disgust
Takes the place of keenest zest! He is sick of me!
My feet the frolic measure may indulge in,
But not my heart—mine eye, my cheek, my lip,
Must not be cognizant of what I do—
As wood and marble could be brought to dance,
And look like wood and marble! I shall teach him
Another style! Come! I have found you out;
Will you compound for your sedition,
And help me? Come! How say you, little traitress?

Emily.
Content.

Hero.
And you, most reverend rebellion?

Sir Wil.
Command me aught, that I can do in reason.

Hero.
Can do in reason! In what reason? There
Are fifty kinds of reason! There's a fool's reason,
And a wise man's reason, and a knave's reason, and
An honest man's reason, and an infant's reason,
And reason of a grandfather—but there's
A reason 'bove them all, and that alone
Can stand me now in stead—a woman's reason!
Wilt thou be subject unto me in that?

Sir Wil.
I will.
But say where practised you, to act so well
The solemn friend?

Hero.
At school.

Sir Wil.
At school!

Hero.
I learn'd it from one I knew and loved there—a sweet girl
Half, by the sect that uses it, brought up.
But she of thought and will, therewith consorting
The mistress likewise was, most veritable!
Her name was Helen Mowbray—By the arts
Of that same lord to whom I owe the coil
I would unwind me from, and whom, through whim,
Not liking, I have countenanced, 'tis said
She fell—but not in my belief. How is this?
I am growing serious! You will help me?

Sir Wil.
Yes.

Hero.
That's my good uncle! That's a darling uncle!
There ne'er was kinder, nor more sensible!
A good, dear, wise, obedient, docile uncle!
Give me a kiss! Hence, Master Clever! Do
What I directed you—Sir Valentine
Be he at home;—invite him where I advised you—
To the house at Greenwich.

[Clever goes out.
Sir Wil.
What dost thou intend?

Hero.
Order the carriage—no; it must be one
They lend for hire:—and come along with me—
I'll tell you on the way. Emily!—Uncle!
Look you! [Throws her glove down.]
I'll have him, as my glove, that there,
At my feet to lie, till I please to pick him up!
And I will pick him up—but in a way!
There!—give it me again—O, you dear uncle,
To help my plot!—do what I wish!—You ought
To be an uncle! There's another kiss!
And if I do not make him kiss the rod,
I'm ne'er a niece deserving such an uncle!
Come! come!—I did not dance to please him! Come.

[They go out.

SCENE III.

—Sir Valentine's House.
Enter Sir Valentine.
Sir Val.
Oh, pitiable case! so rich a stamp,
And yet the metal base! For what high things
Did nature fashion her!—whose rich intent
Had she but half fulfill'd, no wealth, no state
That earth can furnish, for aggrandizement
Of craving and insatiate ambition,
Conferr'd on her, had given her half her due,
Far less its debtor made her! Misery!
To find the good we hoped, the bane we hate
Hate!—O, perverse and doubtful course of love,
That in the goal, it pants for, finds its grave!
That reaches for a bliss, and clasps a pang!
That thinks it owns a mine, and finds it none!
O beggary most poor, that from the lapse
Of heap'd-up riches grows!

Enter Servant.
Servant.
You are wanted, sir.

Sir Val.
Who wants me?

Servant.
One who brings an errand from
Sir William Sutton, and craves speech with you.

Sir Val.
Admit him.
[Servant goes out.
Enter Clever.
Well?

Clever.
Are you the man they call
Sir Valentine de Grey?

Sir Val.
The man?

Clever.
The man.

Sir Val.
I see!—I am Sir Valentine de Grey.

Clever.
Then, being he, another man they call
Sir William Sutton, sends me here to pray
Thy company this afternoon, to meet
Some friends who dine with him at Greenwich.

Sir Val.
Say,
I cannot come.

Clever.
Art thou engaged, friend?

Sir Val.
No.

Clever.
Then speak'st thou not the truth. Thou canst come.

Sir Val.
Say,
I will not come.

Clever.
He bade me say to thee
Thou must come.

Sir Val.
Must come?

Clever.
Yes; so come along.
For he gave charge to me to bring thee—and
I said I would; and not to bring thee, were
To break my word, and I must keep my word.

Sir Val.
Tell him, I was not in.

Clever.
I will not tell
A lie.

Sir Val.
Art thou his servant?

Clever.
No; but man
To one that's niece to him—that's, in the flesh—
Not in the spirit.

Sir Val.
Wherefore?

Clever.
Know'st thou him,
And know'st thou not he is a man of sin?
Ruth Mapleson is of the faithful!

Sir Val.
Who?

Clever.
Ruth Mapleson.

Sir Val.
I know no niece he hath,
Save one—fair Mistress Sutton.

Clever.
Name her not—
Daughter of darkness!

Sir Val.
Liar!

Clever.
Thou dost lie
To call me so.

Sir Val.
Wretch!

Clever.
Thou dost lie again.
I am a godly and a happy man,
That waits upon Ruth Mapleson, the niece
Of him they call Sir William Sutton; and
Cousin to Hero Sutton, whom in naught
Ruth Mapleson resembles—face and form
Excepted; wherein she might pass for her,
She is so like her!

Sir Val.
Like her! Saidst thou like her?

Clever.
Now that's hypocrisy! Thou heard me say it.
Like her in voice, complexion, feature—so
Put sober Ruth in giddy Hero's dress,
Thee'dst swear—What did I say—Young man, this comes
Of evil communication.

Sir Val.
Well?

Clever.
Thee'dst say,
'Twas giddy Hero's self, though all the while
'Twas sober Ruth thee saw'st.

Sir Val.
Incredible!

Clever.
Young man, thee keepest company that speak
One thing and think another! That's my hand;
I take't away, and show it thee again:
Is it another hand?

Sir Val.
Knave, 'tis the same.

Clever.
Miscall me not, friend! Knave is not my name,
But Obadiah. Use me civilly,
That do instruct thee, who art ignorant.
Not more in verity is that hand the same,
Than is Ruth Mapleson, in perfect likeness
Of feature, figure, voice, complexion, all
That makes the outward woman—just the same,
As Hero Sutton! But, alas, within,
Winter and summer are not less akin!

Sir Val.
How, knave?

Clever.
I told thee not to call me “knave:”
My name is Obadiah.

Sir Val.
Obadiah
I'll call thee then. How are these cousins as
Unlike, as winter is to summer?

Clever.

Thus.—Is winter barren? so is the maiden Hero;—
Is it made up of fogs and rain? so is the maiden Hero, of
vapours and the spleen;—Hath it much cloud and little sun? so
hath the maiden Hero great discontent, small content;—Hath
it long night, and brief day? so hath the maiden Hero lasting
displeasure, short favour;—Is there any depending upon it? no
more is there upon the maiden Hero;—Do you wish it heartily
away? so would you be rid of the maiden Hero.

Sir Val.
I fear thou art a slanderer.

Clever.
I see
Thou lack'st good manners, which is grievous, friend,
In one of thy degree. Thou callest names
As scavengers that quarrel in the streets,
Most unbecomingly!

Sir Val.
Well; now proceed.
What of her cousin?

Clever.
Though a godly man,
Yet am I flesh and blood, and thou dost vex
My spirit, friend, by so misusing me.
I tell thee once again, my name is not
Liar, nor knave, nor slanderer, nor aught
But Obadiah.

Sir Val.
Well—enough of that;
Her cousin? Come! Her cousin?

Clever.
Though I am
A man of peace, I am a valiant man.
I combat not, but yet the elements
Of war are given me, friend! I am full of them,
Save what is in me of the goodly thing
That mortifies the flesh, and keeps them in
Subjection! Yea, I am a warlike man!
Yea, verily, a very warlike man!

Sir Val.
I ask thy pardon.

Clever.
I do grant it thee;
Thou dost a proper thing; and now shalt hear,
Wherein the maiden Ruth, who outwardly,
Is to the maiden Hero what that maiden
Is to herself, is, inwardly, reverse
As summer is to winter.

Sir Val.
Prithee on!

Clever.

Is summer fertile? is summer clear? hath it little
cloud, and much sun; long day, and short night—and that
more like day, than night? is summer constant, and do you
wish it never away? so is the maiden Ruth bounteous; so is
the maiden Ruth cheerful; so hath she twenty smiles for one
frown; lasting favour, brief displeasure—which you would
almost take to be favour; so is she little liable to change; so
would you wish to have her ever with you!

Sir Val.

Where dwells this cousin?

Clever.

In Greenwich, friend, whither thou goest; not in
the same house with him that sends for thee—for light dwelleth
not with darkness—but in another habitation, where her books,
and her flowers, and her own sweet thoughts, which are fairer
and wiser than either, are her only companions.

Sir Val.

I'll go with thee to Greenwich straight! Lead on!

Clever.

Hold, friend!—You must do all things soberly.

[They go out, Clever preceding with extreme gravity.