 | Love, Honour And Interest |  |
259
ACT I.
SCENE I.
A Room.Gascogne, packing a trunk, and Marian.
Marian.
May one good morning say to you, Gascogne?
Gas.
Fair Marian, that from you, is ever sweet;
But this good morning is, alas! good night.
Marian.
And must I, Gascogne, bid you then farewell?
Gas.
I grieve to part. O that I but might stay!
Six happy months in your dear comp'ny spent
Have made my heart as 'twere take root with you,
And to depart is tearing it away.
Marian.
No one compels you surely to depart.
Gas.
My master does.
Marian.
Sure others might be found,
And better payers too, in Amsterdam,
Than a penurious, wounded officer.
Gas.
Such sentiments accord not with your beauty.
For many years I have my master serv'd;
His father gave me to him for my honor;
Nor in the wars, where I could prove myself,
Has he e'er found me failing in my duty.
True he is poor, poor in the world's geer,
But rich in heart, the truest wealth of man.
In all his good there is a share for me;
And would you counsel me to quit his service?
Marian.
You speak, Gascogne, like a true-hearted fellow;
But wherefore makes your master all this haste?
Mine, it is true, seems not displeas'd at it,
But much I doubt if Miss be as content.
Gas.
My master, you may see, is deep in love;
He pines in misery, and cannot long
Conceal the flame that feeds upon his heart.
Old Maddervan, who only has one daughter,
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A soldier too, who must live on her dower.
La Gloire is poor, but of a noble soul,
And consecrates the house where he has found
Such free and hospitable entertainment.
Rather than violate your master's friendship,
He has resolv'd to sacrifice his heart—
It is for this that we must go away.
Marian.
Such handsome heroism some may praise,
But few would practise.
Gas.
See, my master comes.
[Exit Marian.
[Enter La Gloire.]
La Gloire.
I am the most unfortunate of men.
Gas.
Sir, all is pack'd.
La Gloire.
O! I am in despair.
Gas.
Alas! sir, what has chanc'd?
La Gloire.
The worst that could.
Gas.
Ah, sir, misfortunes never come alone.
La Gloire.
Mine is a single one, but so immense
That nothing more can happen to distress.—
O I have seen my Beatrice in tears.
Gas.
I thought, sir, that it must be something worse;
That she but little car'd for our departure.
La Gloire.
Plebeian soul, what worse can be imagin'd
Than the reproaches of a heavenly maid
For wanting love, while love is mining down
The strength and virtue of my own esteem?
My wounds, a prisoner, my poverty,
All, all, combine to drive me to despair.
Loving and thus so tenderly belov'd—
Oh! I must fly, or act a scoundrel's part.
Gas.
Consider, sir, you have not been dismiss'd,
Nor by your wounds are for the journey fit.
Old Maddervan will, for so good a reason,
Be none surpris'd that you prolong our stay.
La Gloire.
You counsel well. O fain I would resolve.
Gas.
Then, with permission, I'll unpack the trunk.
(he unpacks.)
La Gloire.
What must he think? for I have taken leave.
If I feign sick, my grief will give it color;
And yet delay will but indulge the flame,
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Death is in going, and in staying, shame,
Love and the devil! what are you about?
Gas.
Unpacking, sir.
La Gloire.
Who bade you to do that?
Gas.
I ask'd for leave, and you gave no denial.
La Gloire.
Stupid! repack. I will, yes, I will go.
Gas.
I have undone so much, sir, and 'tis late.
La Gloire.
Provoke me not, but do as you are bidden.
Gas.
I'll do it all again in time to-night.
La Gloire.
Pack instantly; the horses will be here.
Gas.
But the sad tears of sweet Miss Beatrice.—
La Gloire.
What see you there? O Heav'ns! it is herself.
Gas.
I'll leave the room.
La Gloire.
Stop, stop. O let me not
Again encounter her seducing sorrow.
She seems to hesitate. I will withdraw.
Gas.
You cannot, sir, you cannot be so rude.
I will retire.
La Gloire.
Stay where you are. Ah me!
[Exit Gascogne.
[Enter Beatrice.]
Hear me, Gascogne. Where does the fellow run?
Beat.
What do you want? If Gascogne be not near,
Some other servant will obey your order.
Shall I call one?
La Gloire.
No, thank you; I but wish'd
That he would finish this unhappy packing.
Beat.
Are you so anxious then to go away?
Do you lose time? or does the courier wait?
Or is our air pernicious to your health?
Perhaps this house, or something in't annoys.
La Gloire.
O have compassion, nor afflict me further.
Beat.
What has afflicted you? tell me, I pray.
La Gloire.
You, only you, your fatal, dangerous, self.
Beat.
Have I become so odious, then, to you?
La Gloire.
O Heavens! ever dearer still and dearer.
Beat.
If this were true, why should you haste away?
La Gloire.
Was it your beauty only that I lov'd?
But more than beauty I revere your fame,
That fame so truly to your father dear.
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My heart must sacrifice its fondest feeling.
Beat.
My love for you has never made me blush;
It is a steady and a temperate fire;
If never seen in flaming violence,
It has not been the less intensely warm;
'Tis of a kind that we may safely live
In easy intercourse, as we have done;
But when you go, it will consume my peace.
We are not children that should play the fool.
My father loves me as his only child,
And will not see me long remain distress'd.
'Tis true our marriage yet he won't appove,
But time will aid us, stay and trust to time.
La Gloire.
Ah, how shall I excuse this new delay?
He may suspect, if I could feign relapse,
Where the wound pains that makes me linger here.
Beat.
We must so act as not to give him cause.
La Gloire.
Soldiers, he knows, are beauty's worshippers,
And cannot think me proof against your worth.
Beatrice.
Men like my father easily believe
The hearts of others open as their own.
He gives you the full freedom of his house,
Sure in your honor of a safe protector,
Nor is he without confidence in me.
La Gloire.
You think in time then that he will consent?
Beat.
Yes; but his prejudices must be won.
Were you a merchant, though of humble fortune
And meaner manners, but of steady dealing,
You might have had me long before this time,
And many thousand florins to the bargain.
But you're a Frenchman, and an officer,
Two staple faults in the commodity,
And what to one that loves his child as he does
Is more against our wishes than them both,
You are the scion of an ancient stock,
Beneath whose shade his plant may pine obscur'd.
La Gloire.
But how shall we convert him to our wish?
Beat.
Love kept by patience should be fed by hope.
The English, tir'd of profitless renown,
Have call'd the Duke of Marlborough from the war,
And many-tongued rumor speaks of peace.
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My father's heart is warmer than his head,
And we must only not excite suspicion.
La Gloire.
But how?
Beat.
Find you some other sweetheart.
La Gloire.
I understand you not.
Beat.
I will explain.
Constance comes often to our house of late,
And mourns your wounds too tenderly at times;
My father must be led into that track—
But hark, his tread—Haste!—for the present leave me.
[Exit La Gloire.
I never thought to have been brought to this,
To make solicitation for his stay:
But here my father comes—Would he had not
Found me at this time here.
[Enter Maddervan.]
Mad.
How, daughter, how?
What do you, Beatrice, here in this room?
Beat.
To see the master help the servants packing.
Mad.
Do you know when he means to go away?
Beat.
He did intend this morning; but his wound
Pains him so much, that he begins to fear
Himself as yet unable for the journey.
Mad.
Which wound is it?
Beat.
He had but one you know.
Mad.
He has another than the doctor knows.
Beat.
Indeed?
Mad.
Ay, one that doctors cannot cure.
Beat.
You speak in parable—pray, sir, what mean you?
Mad.
Beatrice, you are both wise and clever,
And know full well what I suspect and say;
Go to, go to—
Beat.
(aside)
His manner frightens me.
Mad.
Your color mends, I think. Perfidious baggage.
Beat.
Sir, you say things that truly make me blush.
I do begin to comprehend your meaning;
But what is the mysterious wound to me?
Mad.
Come, daughter, daughter, let us freely speak:
Monsieur was getting hearty, well, and ruddy;
He was the cheering spirit of my table;
But soon by little he began to droop,
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Was full of sighs and other doleful pauses,
Like th'ahs and ohs and points of admiration,
In a Parisian sentimental tale.
I am in some things a philosopher;
And by my skill, I think Monsieur in love.
Beat.
It may be so; but if his love were here,
He would not be in such a haste to leave us.
Mad.
Yes, even in that philosophy instructs;
For if his love be rich, an only daughter,
Dependant on her father, and that father
Not like to give her to so poor a fellow—
Monsieur's a man of such a gallant spirit,
That he would rather his own passion stifle
Than seek to marry by dishonest means:
And philosophically too, I think,
That Monsieur's sweetheart is just you, my daughter.
Beat.
O dear, excuse me, sir, I must—must laugh.
Am I too dull and languid, pale and sighing?
Mad.
I have two thoughts: and you, I think, have either
Wit to resist, or cunning to conceal.
Beat.
Am I alone of all the captain knows,
The only one that suits the proving tests
Of your divining and philosophy?
Mad.
He went but little out, and knows but few,
Therefore I think his love is in this house.
Beat.
But we have handsome neighbours—
Mad.
Very true.
Are you a party then?
Beat.
If I should be,
It were not fit that you should seek to know.
Mad.
A duteous daughter should obey her father,
And keep no secrets that he asks to learn.
Beat.
Then—but you must not tell—I hope you will not:
Monsieur, poor soul, is pining at the heart,
Alas!
Mad.
For whom?
Beat.
For Constance Vanderclufe.
Mad.
For Constance Vanderclufe!
Beat.
Alack, poor swain!
Mad.
And how is Constance? loves she in return?
Beat.
O yes, sir, with such fond and tender softness!—
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That two such gentle gravitating hearts
Should be so held, in spite of Heaven's kind impulse,
From the blest junction that their nature claims.
Mad.
But what is the impediment?—poor souls!
Beat.
Her father, sir, is rich! O monstrous rich!
And gallant Monsieur—ah, sir, he is poor:
And a rich father never will bestow
His only child, you know, on one so poor.
Mad.
Fine pride forsooth. Who is this Vanderclufe
That he should stand upon such etiquette?
What is he else but a foul-fed contractor?
He must, indeed, advance his rounded paunch
Among our merchants, like a sleeky snail
That climbs into a hive. To such as he,
The marriage of an officer is honor;
Nor can he spend his easy-gather'd gain
To better purpose, than to make this match.
Beat.
Were you like him, you would not then refuse?
Mad.
No, certainly.
Beat.
But as a wealthy merchant,
The case is different?
Mad.
And is it not?
I would have you to know the difference.
Beat.
I thought so, sir.
Mad.
I will exert myself—
Beat.
Sir, to what end?
Mad.
To gain old Vanderclufe.
But where is Monsieur?
Beat.
In the room below.
Mad.
Haste, send him to me; he's an honest fellow,
I like him much—he shall not want a friend.
Beat.
(aside)
O I am in a labyrinth bewilder'd!
[Exit.
Mad.
Rank with the one, and riches with the other,
Should make a merry and a happy union.
[Enter Marian.]
Mar.
I thought my mistress had been with you, sir.
Mad.
No, she is gone.—But where in such a hurry?
Marian.
To seek her, sir.
Mad.
Then you have news to tell?
Marian.
Yes, sir, Miss Constance Vanderclufe has call'd.
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Oho.
Marian.
And coming, sir, at such an hour,
She must have something very strange to tell.
Mad.
Yes, yes, she has; ay, ay, 'tis plain enough:
Go, send Miss Constance instantly to me.
[Exit Marian.
I'll do my best: it is a virtuous work,
And every gen'rous heart will give me praise.
[Enter Constance.]
Cons.
Sir, I attend you—
Mad.
Ha, Miss Constance, ha,
Do you know, Miss, that I rejoice to find
You and my daughter friends and confidents.
Cons.
I love her, sir, indeed, with all my heart.
Mad.
No fibs, Miss Constance; not with all your heart.
Cons.
How! think you, sir, I do not truly love her?
Mad.
Truly, no doubt, but not with all your heart.
Cons.
Why this distinction, sir?
Mad.
If you lov'd her
With all your heart, you could not love another.
Cons.
Dear me, sir, what is it you would be at?
Mad.
Ah, cunning baggage—but I'll to the point.
Cons.
La, sir, what point?
Mad.
Go to; come here—Pshaw! Hark ye:
Put bashfulness aside—
Cons.
Good Heavens! what mean you?
Mad.
Speak to me frankly: Do you seek my daughter?
Cons.
Yes, sir.
Mad.
No, no, 'tis not for her you come.
Learn, Miss, that I am an astrologer;
I have a spirit that obeys my call—
An airy spirit, that with subtile skill
Can pick the secrets from young ladies' bosoms
And bring them to me folded in a sigh.
Know my familiar, Miss, has been with you,
And found the reason of this early visit:
Not for the merry maid that stays behind,
But the poor youth that languishes and flies.
Cons.
(aside)
Surely some wicked imp has blabb'd the truth.
Mad.
Is it not so?—deny, deny—aha!
I see the flame of pretty Cupid's torch
Warming your cheek and glancing in your eye.
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If I perform, sir, what politeness claims,
Sure I deserve not to be so reproach'd.
Mad.
Reproach'd! no, Miss, applauded to the skies!
Cons.
Methinks, sir, you have cause for mirth to-day.
Mad.
And you for sadness—But cheer up, sweetheart,
I'll make you happy in despite of fate.
Cons.
Indeed!
Mad.
In truth.
Cons.
With what?
Mad.
Two little words.
Cons.
They must be words of magic potency.
Mad.
Monsieur stays!
Cons.
Stays!
Mad.
What say you to my spirit?
Cons.
You think me then in love?
Mad.
Dare you say no?
Cons.
I do deny it.
Mad.
Swear.
Cons.
For such a trifle!
Mad.
No, no, the truth is plain enough to me;
I'll do you good, and comfort your poor swain.
Cons.
How! my poor swain!
Mad.
I have found out his love;
And the proud motive that makes him depart.
Your father in the arrogance of wealth,
Will not give his consent—O I know all.
Cons.
Much more than I do, or than I have heard.
Mad.
Tell me the truth now; do you love Monsieur?
Cons.
I will not longer, sir, refuse confession.
Mad.
Then thank your stars that he loves in return.
Cons.
This, sir, I do not know.
Mad.
I know he does,
I tell you, to distraction.
Cons.
Possibly.
But I have seen no verifying signs.
Mad.
I am employed to influence your father.
Cons.
My father knows that I esteem La Gloire.
Mad.
But he must know it more assuredly.
Cons.
Nor has he, sir, once said a word to me.
Mad.
O, to be sure he should debate with you.—
But here comes Monsieur.
Cons.
Give me leave to go.
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Stay where you are.
Cons.
I pray you, give me leave.
[Exit.
[Enter La Gloire.]
La Gloire.
I come, obedient to your summons, sir.
Mad.
Pray, have you seen my daughter?—What a sigh!
You look as wan and drooping as a lily,
Depicted in a hopeless lover's ditty.
I'm sorry, friend, to see you so dejected.
La Gloire.
Alas! sir, wanting health, who can be gay?
It is the sweet that tempers fortune's sour,
And cheers the contrarieties of life.
Mad.
And oft the dimpled cheek of buxom health
Is Cupid's target. Captain, pardon me,
I am a doctor, somewhat skill'd in wounds,
And yours, though deep and sore, I'll try to cure.
La Gloire.
My wound, dear sir, is not my only ail.
Mad.
I know it well; my daughter has inform'd me.
La Gloire.
What! has she had the courage to disclose?
I pray you, sir, then pity my distress.
Mad.
I do, I do.
La Gloire.
I cannot, Sir, remain.
Already as the infant Hercules
Seiz'd the two serpents in his vigorous grasp;
The baby Cupid, cradled in my bosom,
Holds truth and honor struggling with their death.
Mad.
But wherefore should they die?—we must relieve them.
Sir, the girl loves you, she herself has told me;
And your high blood and nobler qualities
Are worth a better price than all her dower,
Though with her father they may lightly weigh.
La Gloire.
Her father! Heav'ns, Sir! Who is her father?
Mad.
What, don't you know him then?
La Gloire.
Ah me, who is he?
Mad.
Old frosty-faced, gruff-speaking, Vanderclufe,
The beef-contractor, who thrives by the war;
A purse-proud fellow of gross appetites,
Who, fed and fatten'd by the laborer's sweat,
Stalks with the state of old nobility.
La Gloire.
O I am lost, bereft of every hope!
Mad.
This Vanderclufe comes seldom to my house,
Therefore I wonder not at your surprise—
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I am your friend, and as a friend command me.
[Exeunt.
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