formerly grave-diggers but now employed with equal appropriateness
as builders, are working on the structure in the extremely
leisurely fashion to be expected of artizans who are not members of
a Trades Union._
1ST CLOWN.
[_In his best Elizabethan manner._] Nay, but hear you, goodman
builder----
2ND CLOWN.
[_In homely vernacular._] Look here, Bill, you can drop that jargon.
There's no one here but ourselves, and I ain't amused by it. It's all
very well to try it on when there's gentlefolk about, but when we're
alone you take a rest.
1ST CLOWN.
[_Puzzled._] Ay, marry!
2ND CLOWN.
[_Throwing down tools._] Stow it, I say, or I'll have to make you.
Marry, indeed! If you mean "Yes," say "Yes." If you mean "No," say "No."
1ST CLOWN.
All right, mate.
2ND CLOWN.
[_Grumbling._] It's bad enough staying up all night building more rooms
on to this confounded castle--I should have thought it was big enough
and ugly enough without _our_ additions--but if I'm to listen to _your_
gab, s'help me----!
1ST CLOWN.
Hush! here comes some one.
[_They make a valiant pretence of work as HORATIO and
FORTINBRAS enter._
HORATIO.
[_Ecstatically, completely deceived by this simple ruse._] _My_
Master-Builders!
FORTINBRAS.
Idle dogs!
1ST CLOWN.
[_Elizabethan again._] Argal, goodman builder, will he nill he, he that
builds not ill builds well, and he that builds not well builds ill.
Therefore, perpend!
HORATIO.
[_Appreciatively._] How absolute the knave is!
FORTINBRAS.
He seems to me to be an absolute fool.
HORATIO.
Not at all. A most intelligent working man. I'll draw him out. [_To 1ST
CLOWN._] When will the house be finished, sirrah?
1ST CLOWN.
When it is done, Sir.
HORATIO.
Ay, fool, and when will that be?
1ST CLOWN.
When it is finished, o' course.
HORATIO.
[_To FORTINBRAS._] There! What do you call _that_? Witty, eh?
FORTINBRAS.
I call it perfectly idiotic, if you ask me.
HORATIO.
Well, well; we'll try again. [_To 1ST CLOWN._] And whose is the house,
fellow?
1ST CLOWN.
[_Fatuously._] Marry, his that owns it. Ask another.
HORATIO.
[_To FORTINBRAS._] Ha! Ha! Good again. By the Lord, Fortinbras, as
Hamlet used to say, the toe of the peasant comes so near the heel of
the courtier, it galls his kibe.
FORTINBRAS.
[_Savagely._] The toe of the courtier is getting so perilously near the
person of the peasant that you'd better get rid of the latter as soon
as possible.
HORATIO.
[_Doubtfully._] Perhaps you're right. And yet I was always taught to
consider that kind of thing awfully entertaining. But, there. Fashions
change in humour as in other things. Send them away.
FORTINBRAS.
[_Giving them money._] Away with you, fellows. Go and get drunk.
[_Exeunt clowns._
HORATIO.
[_Relapses into blank verse on their departure._]
What think you of the New Wing, Fortinbras?
The whole effect is cheerful, is it not?
Good large sash windows, lots of light and air;
No mediæval nonsense.
FORTINBRAS.
[_Who does not admire the building._] So I see!
HORATIO.
No ghosts _here_, eh, to stalk about the rooms
And fade against the crowing of the cock?
FORTINBRAS.
Probably not--and, yet--look there, Horatio;
There's something in the shadow over there,
Moving towards the house. It's going in.
Stop it, Horatio.
HORATIO.
[_Furious._] Here, I can't stand this.
I'll cross it though it blast me. Stay, Illusion!
[_The figure stops._
Are you aware, Sir, that you're trespassing?
This is a private house.
GHOST.
[_In a sepulchral voice._] My private house!
HORATIO.
Oh, come, you know, you can't mean that! _Your_ house?
Considering that I'm building it myself--
Of course, assisted by an architect--
I think you must admit there's some mistake.
GHOST.
[_Turning and advancing towards them._]
Pooh! What do _I_ care for your architect?
It's _mine_, I say, _my_ house, _my_ plot, _my_ play.
_I_ made them all!
HORATIO.
Oh, my prophetic soul!
Shakspeare!
GHOST.
The same.
HORATIO.
I say, confound it all,
Do _you_ propose to haunt the castle too?
GHOST.
Yes, the New Wing.
HORATIO.
It's really much too bad.
You've filled the old part of the house with spectres;
I think you might have left the new to me.
FORTINBRAS.
That seems a reasonable compromise.
GHOST.
I shall stay _here_; make up your mind to that,
But if you like to share the Wing with me
I've no objection.
HORATIO.
[_Stiffly._] Thanks, I'd rather not.
I shall consult with my solicitor,
And if he can't eject you from the place
I'll sell it, ghosts and all! Come, Fortinbras.
[_Exit with dignity._
_Curtain._
Much Ado about Nothing.
_The end of "Much Ado about Nothing" must always leave the sympathetic
playgoer in tears. The future looks black for everybody concerned.
Claudio's jealous disposition will make him a most uncomfortable
husband for the resuscitated Hero, while Benedick and Beatrice are
likely to find that a common taste in badinage is not the most
satisfactory basis for matrimony. When it is added that Don John's
genius for plotting is sure in the end to get him into trouble one
feels that nothing can be gloomier than the prospects of the entire
cast._
MORE ADO ABOUT NOTHING.
SCENE.--_The garden of BENEDICK'S house at Padua. BENEDICK is
sitting on a garden seat, sunning himself indolently. BEATRICE is
beside him, keeping up her reputation for conversational brilliancy
by a series of sprightly witticisms._
BEATRICE.
Very likely I do talk twice as much as I should. But then, if I talk
too much you certainly listen far too little, so we are quits. Do you
hear?
BENEDICK.
[_Opening his eyes slowly._] Eh?
BEATRICE.
I believe you were asleep! But there--'tis a great compliment to my
wit. Like Orpheus, I can put even the savage beasts to sleep with it.
[_BENEDICK'S eyes close again, and he appears to sink into a profound
doze._] But if the beasts go to sleep there's no use in being witty.
I suppose Orpheus never thought of that. Come, wake up, good Signior
Beast. [_Prods him coquettishly with her finger._] Have you forgotten
that the Duke is coming?
BENEDICK.
[_Drowsily._] When will he be here?
BEATRICE.
Ere you have done gaping.
BENEDICK.
[_Terribly bored by this badinage._] My dear, if only you would
occasionally answer a plain question. When do you expect him?
BEATRICE.
[_Skittish to the last._] Plain questions should only be answered by
plain people.
BENEDICK.
[_Yawning heartily._] A pretty question then.
BEATRICE.
Pretty questions should only be asked by pretty people. There! What do
you think of _that_ for wit!
BENEDICK.
Really, my dear, I can hardly trust myself to characterise it
in--er--fitting terms. [_Rings bell. Enter Page._] When is the Duke
expected? PAGE.
In half-an-hour, Sir.
BENEDICK.
Thank you.
[_Exit Page._
BEATRICE.
[_Pouting._] You needn't have rung. I could have told you that.
BENEDICK.
I am sure you could, my dear. But as you wouldn't----
BEATRICE.
I was going to, if you had given me time.
BENEDICK.
Experience has taught me, my dear Beatrice, that it is usually much
quicker to ring! [_Closes his eyes again._]
BEATRICE.
How rude you are!
BENEDICK.
[_Half opening them._] Eh?
BEATRICE.
I said it was very rude of you to go to sleep when I am talking.
BENEDICK.
[_Closing his eyes afresh._] It's perfectly absurd of you to talk when
I am going to sleep.
BEATRICE.
[_Girding herself for fresh witticisms._] Why absurd?
BENEDICK.
Because I don't hear what you say, of course, my love.
BEATRICE.
[_Whose repartees have been scattered for the moment by this adroit
compliment._] Well, well, sleep your fill, Bear. I'll go and bandy
epigrams with Ursula.
[_Exit BEATRICE. BENEDICK looks cautiously round to
see if she is really gone, and then heaves
a sigh of relief._
BENEDICK.
Poor Beatrice! If only she were not so incorrigibly sprightly. She
positively drives one to subterfuge.
[_Produces a book from his pocket, which he reads with
every appearance of being entirely awake._
_Enter DON PEDRO, as from a journey._
_BENEDICK does not see him._
DON PEDRO.
Signior Benedick!
BENEDICK.
[_Starting up on hearing his name._] Ah, my dear Lord. Welcome to Padua.
DON PEDRO.
[_Looks him up and down._] But how's this? You look but poorly, my good
Benedick.
BENEDICK.
I am passing well, my Lord.
DON PEDRO.
And your wife, the fair Beatrice? As witty as ever?
BENEDICK.
[_Grimly._] Quite!
DON PEDRO.
[_Rubbing his hands._] I felt sure of it! _I_ made the match, remember!
_I_ said to old Leonato "She were an excellent match for Benedick" as
soon as I saw her.
BENEDICK.
[_Sighing._] So you did, so you did.
DON PEDRO.
[_Puzzled._] I'm bound to say you don't seem particularly happy.
BENEDICK.
[_Evasively._] Oh, we get on well enough.
DON PEDRO.
Well enough! Why, what's the matter, man? Come, be frank with me.
BENEDICK.
[_Impressively._] My dear Lord, never marry a witty wife! If you do,
you'll repent it. But it's a painful subject. Let's talk of something
else. How's Claudio? I thought we should see him--and Hero--with you.
DON PEDRO.
[_Looking slightly uncomfortable._] Claudio is--er--fairly well.
BENEDICK.
Why, what's the matter with him? _His_ wife isn't developing into a
wit, is she?
DON PEDRO.
No. She's certainly not doing _that_!
BENEDICK.
Happy Claudio! But why aren't they here then?
[Illustration: E. J. Wheeler.
"My dear Lord, never marry a witty wife!"]
DON PEDRO.
[_Coughing nervously._] Well, the truth is, Claudio's marriage hasn't
been exactly one of my successes. You remember I made _that_ match too?
BENEDICK.
I remember. Don't they hit it off?
DON PEDRO.
[_Querulously._] It was all Claudio's suspicious temper. He never would
disabuse his mind of the idea that Hero was making love to somebody
else. You remember he began that even before he was married. First it
was _me_ he suspected. Then it was the mysterious man under her balcony.
BENEDICK.
You suspected him too.
DON PEDRO.
That's true. But that was all my brother John's fault. Anyhow,
I thought when they were once married things would settle down
comfortably.
BENEDICK.
You were curiously sanguine. I should have thought anyone would have
seen that after that scene in the church they would never be happy
together.
DON PEDRO.
Perhaps so. Anyhow, they weren't. Of course, everything was against
them. What with my brother John's absolute genius for hatching
plots, and my utter inability to detect them, not to speak of
Claudio's unfortunate propensity for overhearing conversations and
misunderstanding them, the intervals of harmony between them were
extremely few, and, at last, Hero lost patience and divorced him.
BENEDICK.
So bad as that? How did it happen?
DON PEDRO.
Oh, in the old way. My brother pretended that Hero was unfaithful, and
as he could produce no evidence of the fact whatever, of course Claudio
believed him. So, with his old passion for making scenes, he selected
the moment when I and half-a-dozen others were staying at the house and
denounced her before us all after dinner.
BENEDICK.
The church scene over again?
DON PEDRO.
No. It took place in the drawing-room. Hero behaved with her usual
dignity, declined to discuss Claudio's accusations altogether, put the
matter in the hands of her solicitor, and the decree was made absolute
last week.
BENEDICK.
She was perfectly innocent, of course?
DON PEDRO.
Completely. It was merely another _ruse_ on the part of my amiable
brother. Really, John's behaviour was inexcusable.
BENEDICK.
Was Claudio greatly distressed when he found how he had been deceived?
DON PEDRO.
He was distracted. But Hero declined to have anything more to do with
him. She said she could forgive a man for making a fool of himself
once, but twice was too much of a good thing.
BENEDICK.
[_Frowning._] That sounds rather more epigrammatic than a really _nice_
wife's remarks should be.
DON PEDRO.
She had great provocation.
BENEDICK.
That's true. And one can see her point of view. It was the publicity of
the thing that galled her, no doubt. But poor Claudio had no reticence
whatever. That scene in the church was in the worst possible taste. But
I forgot. _You_ had a share in that.
DON PEDRO.
[_Stiffly._] I don't think we need go into that question.
BENEDICK.
And now to select the hour, after a dinner party, for taxing his wife
with infidelity! How like Claudio! Really, he must be an absolute fool.
DON PEDRO.
Oh, well, _your_ marriage doesn't seem to have been a conspicuous
success, if you come to that.
BENEDICK.
[_Savagely._] That's no great credit to you, is it? _You_ made the
match. You said as much a moment ago.
DON PEDRO.
I know, I know. But seriously, my dear Benedick, what is wrong?
BENEDICK.
[_Snappishly._] Beatrice, of course. You don't suppose _I'm_ wrong, do
you?
DON PEDRO.
Come, that's better. A spark of the old Benedick. Let me call your wife
to you, and we'll have one of your old encounters of wit.
BENEDICK.
[_Seriously alarmed._] For Heaven's sake, no. Ah, my dear Lord, if you
only knew how weary I am of wit, especially Beatrice's wit.
DON PEDRO.
You surprise me. I remember I thought her a most amusing young lady.
BENEDICK.
[_Tersely._] You weren't married to her.
DON PEDRO.
But what is it you complain of?
BENEDICK.
Beatrice _bores me_. It is all very well to listen to sparkling sallies
for ten minutes or so, but Beatrice sparkles for hours together. She is
utterly incapable of answering the simplest question without a blaze
of epigram. When I ask her what time it is, she becomes so insufferably
facetious that all the clocks stop in disgust. And once when I was
thoughtless enough to enquire what there was for dinner, she made so
many jokes on the subject that I had to go down without her. And even
then the soup was cold!
DON PEDRO.
[_Quoting._] "Here you may see Benedick, the married man!"
BENEDICK.
Don't _you_ try to be funny too! One joker in a household is quite
enough, I can tell you. And poor Beatrice's jokes aren't always in the
best of taste either. The other day, when the Vicar came to lunch he
was so shocked at her that he left before the meal was half over and
his wife has never called since.
DON PEDRO.
My poor Benedick, I wish I could advise you. But I really don't know
what to suggest. My brother could have helped you, I'm sure. He was
always so good at intrigue. But unfortunately I had him executed after
his last exploit with Claudio. It's most unlucky. But that's the worst
of making away with a villain. You never know when you may need him.
Poor John could always be depended upon in an emergency of this kind.
BENEDICK.
[_Gloomily._] He is certainly a great loss.
DON PEDRO.
Don't you think you could arrange so that Beatrice should overhear you
making love to someone else? We've tried that sort of thing more than
once in this play.
BENEDICK.
[_Acidly._] As the result has invariably been disastrous, I think we
may dismiss that expedient from our minds. No, there's nothing for it
but to put up with the infliction, and by practising a habit of mental
abstraction, reduce the evil to within bearable limits.
DON PEDRO.
I don't think I quite follow you.
BENEDICK.
In plain English, my dear Lord, I find the only way to go on living
with Beatrice is never to listen to her. As soon as she begins to be
witty I fall into a kind of swoon, and in that comatose condition
I can live through perfect coruscations of brilliancy without
inconvenience.
DON PEDRO.
Does she like that?
BENEDICK.
Candidly, I don't think she does.
DON PEDRO.
Hold! I have an idea.
BENEDICK.
[_Nervously._] I hope not. Your ideas have been singularly unfortunate
hitherto in my affairs.
DON PEDRO.
Ah, but you'll approve of this.
BENEDICK.
What is it?
DON PEDRO.
Leave your wife, and come away with me.
BENEDICK.
[_Doubtfully._] She'd come after us.
DON PEDRO.
Yes, but we should have the start.
BENEDICK.
That's true. By Jove, I'll do it! Let's go at once.
[_Rises hastily._
DON PEDRO.
I think you ought to leave some kind of message for her--just to say
good-bye; you know. It seems more polite.
BENEDICK.
Perhaps so. [_Tears leaf out of pocket-book._] What shall it be, prose
or verse? I remember Claudio burst into poetry when he was taking leave
of Hero. Such bad poetry too!
DON PEDRO.
I think you might make it verse--as you're leaving her for ever. It
seems more in keeping with the solemnity of the occasion.
BENEDICK.
So it does. [_Writes._]
Bored to death by BEATRICE' tongue
Was the hero that lived here----
DON PEDRO.
Hush! Isn't that your wife over there in the arbour?
BENEDICK.
[_Losing his temper._] Dash it all! There's nothing but eaves-dropping
in this play.
DON PEDRO.
Perhaps she doesn't see us. Let's steal off, anyhow, on the chance.
[_They creep off on tip-toe (R) as BEATRICE enters with
similar caution (L)._
BEATRICE.
[_Watching them go._] Bother! I thought I should overhear what they
were saying. I believe Benedick is really running away. It's just
as well. If he hadn't, _I_ should. He had really grown too dull for
anything. [_Sees note which BENEDICK has left._] Ah, so he's left a
message. "Farewell for ever," I suppose. [_Reads it. Stamps her foot._]
Monster! If I ever see him again I'll scratch him!
_Curtain._
The Critic.
_Everybody who has seen "The Critic" must have been filled with
curiosity to read the Press notices on Mr. Puff's tragedy "The Spanish
Armada." The following sequel to Sheridan's comedy embodies some of
these._
THE OTHER CRITICS.
SCENE.--_DANGLE'S house. MR. and MRS. DANGLE, SNEER and SIR FRETFUL
PLAGIARY discovered discussing the first performance of PUFF'S
play, which has taken place a week previously. A table is littered
with Press cuttings dealing with the event, supplied by the
indispensable Romeike._
SIR FRETFUL PLAGIARY.
I give you my word, the duel scene was taken wholly from my comedy _The
Lovers Abandoned_--pilfered, egad!
DANGLE.
Bless my soul! You don't say so?
SIR FRETFUL PLAGIARY.
And _Tilburina's_ speech about the "finches of the grove." 'Twas _I_
first thought of finches, in my tragedy of _Antoninus_!
DANGLE.
But I can't believe my friend Puff can have borrowed deliberately from
_you_, Sir Fretful.
SNEER.
No one could possibly believe _that_!
SIR FRETFUL PLAGIARY.
Eh?
MRS. DANGLE.
It must have been a coincidence.
SIR FRETFUL PLAGIARY.
Coincidence! Egad, Madam, 'twas sheer theft. And that use of the white
handkerchief! Stolen bodily, on my conscience. Coincidence!
DANGLE.
[_Judicially._] It may be so--though he _is_ my friend.
SIR FRETFUL PLAGIARY.
_May_ be so! It _is_ so! Zounds, Dangle, I take it very ill that you
should have any doubt at all about the matter!
DANGLE.
[_Hedging._] The resemblances are certainly very marked--though he _is_
my friend. But will you hear what the critics say about it?
[_Turning nervously to pile of Press cuttings._
[Illustration: E. J. Wheeler.
"But they're very severe on the play."]
SIR FRETFUL PLAGIARY.
Do they say anything about his indebtedness to _me_?
SNEER.
Not a word, I dare be sworn.
SIR FRETFUL PLAGIARY.
Then I don't want to hear them. None of the rogues know their business.
DANGLE.
But they're very severe on the play.
SIR FRETFUL PLAGIARY.
Are they? There's something in the fellows, after all. Pray read us
some of the notices.
DANGLE.
Shall I begin with _The Times_? 'Tis very satirical, and as full of
quotations as a pudding is of plums.
SNEER.
I know the style--a vocabulary recruited from all the dead and living
languages. 'Tis the very Babel of dramatic criticism. Begin, Dangle.
DANGLE.
[_Reading._] "The philosopher who found in thought the proof of
existence, crystallised his theory in the phrase '_Cogito ergo sum_,'
'I think, therefore, I exist.' In this he found the explanation of what
Hugo called the _néant géant_. The theory of the author of _The Spanish
Armada_, on the contrary, seems to be '_Sum, ergo non cogitabo_,' 'I
exist, therefore I need not think'----"
SIR FRETFUL PLAGIARY.
Ha! Ha! Very good, i' faith.
DANGLE.
[_Continuing._] "'_Lasciate ogni speranza_' the audience murmurs with
Dante, as three mortal hours pass and Mr. Puff is still prosing. Nor
has he any dramatic novelty to offer us. The _scène à faire_ is on
conventional lines. The boards are hoar with the _neiges d'antan_.
There is the _anagnorisis_ desiderated by Aristotle, and the unhappy
ending required by the Elizabethans. The inevitable _peripeteia_----"
MRS. DANGLE.
You know, Mr. Dangle, I don't understand a single word you're reading.
SNEER.
Nor I, upon my soul.
SIR FRETFUL PLAGIARY.
It is certainly somewhat difficult.
DANGLE.
Shall I omit a few sentences, and go on again, where the allusions are
less obscure? [_Reads half aloud to himself, knitting his brows in
the effort to understand what it is all about._] "No trace of Heine's
_Weltschmerz_ ... _capo e espada_ ... Nietschze's _Uebermensch_ ...
_ne coram pueros_ ... Petrarch's immortal _Io t'amo_ ... _le canif du
jardinier et celui de mon père_----"
MRS. DANGLE.
Really, Mr. Dangle, if you can find nothing more intelligible to read
than that farrago of jargon, I shall go away. Pray read us something in
_English_, for a change.
DANGLE.
[_Much relieved, selecting another cutting._] Here's the _Daily
Telegraph_--a whole column.
SNEER.
Not much _English_ there, I'll warrant.
DANGLE.
[_Reading._] "Time was when the London playhouses had not been invaded
by the coarse suggestiveness or the veiled indelicacy of the Norwegian
stage, when _Paterfamilias_ could still take his daughters to the
theatre without a blush. Those days are past. The Master--as his
followers call him--like a deadly upas tree, has spread his blighting
influence over our stage. Morality, shocked at the fare that is nightly
set before her, shuns the playhouse, and vice usurps the scene once
occupied by the manly and the true----"
SNEER.
[_Who has been beating time._] Hear! hear!
DANGLE.
"In the good old days, when Macready----"
SIR FRETFUL PLAGIARY.
Zounds, Mr. Dangle, don't you think we might leave Macready out of the
question? I notice that when the _Daily Telegraph_ mentions Macready
the reference never occupies less than a quarter of a column. You might
omit that part, and take up the thread further on.
DANGLE.
Very well. [_Continuing._] "It is impossible not to be astonished
that a writer of Mr. Puff's talents should break away from the
noble traditions of Shakspeare to follow in the footsteps of the
Scandinavian----"
MRS. DANGLE.
Surely, Mr. Dangle, we've had that before.
DANGLE.
[_Testily._] No; not in the same words.
MRS. DANGLE.
But the sense----
DANGLE.
Egad, why will you interrupt! You can't expect a writer for the penny
press to have something new to say in every sentence! How the plague
is a dramatic critic who has nothing to say to fill a column, if he is
never to be allowed to repeat himself?
SNEER.
How, indeed!
SIR FRETFUL PLAGIARY.
Ah, I remember when my play _The Indulgent Husband_ was produced----
SNEER.
[_Yawning._] I think, Dangle, you might leave the _Telegraph_ and try
one of the weekly papers. What does _The World_ say?
DANGLE.
As you will. [_Selecting a new cutting._] "In his new play _The Spanish
Armada_ Mr. Puff has set himself to deal with one of those problems of
feminine psychology with which Ibsen, Hauptmann, and Sudermann, and all
the newer school of continental dramatists have made us familiar. The
problem is briefly this. When filial duty beckons a woman one way and
passion another, which call should she obey? Should she set herself to
'live her life,' in the modern phrase, to realise her individuality
and stand forth glad and free as Gregers Werle says? Or should she
deny her _ego_, bow to the old conventions, accept the old Shibboleths
and surrender her love? Like _Nora_, like _Hedda_, _Tilburina_ is a
personality at war with its environment...."
SIR FRETFUL PLAGIARY.
[_Interrupting._] Pray, Mr. Dangle, did you not tell me the critics
were all unfavourable to Mr. Puff's play?
DANGLE.
Nearly all of them. But if the other critics abuse a play, you will
always find the critic of _The World_ will praise it. 'Tis the nature
of the man.
SIR FRETFUL PLAGIARY.
But how does he know what the other fellows will say?
DANGLE.
Easily. You see, he writes only for a weekly paper, and always reads
what the others have said first. _Then_ he takes the opposite view.
SNEER.
No wonder he's so often right!
DANGLE.
[_Continuing._] "In Whiskerandos we have the man of primary emotions
only. Like Solnes, he climbs no steeples; like Lövborg, he may now and
then be seen with the vine leaves in his hair...."
MRS. DANGLE.
Stop, stop, Mr. Dangle! Surely there must be some mistake. I don't
remember that Whiskerandos had anything in his hair. He wore a helmet
all the time!
DANGLE.
[_Irritably._] Metaphor, madam, metaphor! [_Continuing._] "In Lord
Burleigh we hear something of the epic silence which is so tremendous
in Borkman...."
SIR FRETFUL PLAGIARY.
Egad, Mr. Dangle, doesn't the fellow abuse the play at all?
DANGLE.
[_Looking through the article._] I don't think he does.
SIR FRETFUL PLAGIARY.
Then I'll hear no more of him. What possible pleasure can there be in
hearing criticisms of other people's plays if they are favourable?
SNEER.
None whatever!
[_Enter SERVANT._
SERVANT.
[_Announcing._] Mr. Puff!
DANGLE.
[_Advancing to meet him with a smile of the warmest affability._] Ah,
my dear friend, we were reading the notice of your tragedy in _The
World_. 'Tis extremely friendly. And as Sir Fretful remarked a moment
since, "What pleasure can there be in reading criticisms of people's
plays if they aren't favourable?"
PUFF.
Sir Fretful is most obliging.
SIR FRETFUL PLAGIARY.
The _Telegraph_ was somewhat severe, though, eh, Mr. Puff?
PUFF.
'Tis very like.
DANGLE.
You have not seen it? Let me read it to you.
[_Searches eagerly in pile of cuttings._
PUFF.
[_Indifferently._] I never look at unfavourable criticisms.
SNEER.
A wise precaution, truly!
PUFF.
Very. It saves valuable time. For if a notice is unfavourable, I am
always sure to have it read aloud to me by one d----d good-natured
friend or another!
_Curtain._
The School for Scandal.
_"The School for Scandal" ends, it will be remembered, with the
reconciliation of Sir Peter and Lady Teazle, the complete exposure of
Joseph Surface and the rehabilitation of Charles. But how long did the
Teazle reconciliation last? And if Sir Oliver Surface left all his
fortune to his nephew Charles, how long did that young gentleman take
to run through it?_
THE RELAPSE OF LADY TEAZLE.
SCENE.--_Room in SIR PETER TEAZLE'S house. SIR PETER and LADY
TEAZLE discovered wrangling as in Act II._
SIR PETER.
Lady Teazle, Lady Teazle, I'll not bear it.
LADY TEAZLE.
Sir Peter, Sir Peter, you've told me that a hundred times. This habit
of repeating yourself is most distressing. 'Tis a sure sign of old age.
SIR PETER.
[_In a passion._] Oons, Madam, will you never be tired of flinging my
age in my face?
LADY TEAZLE.
Lud, Sir Peter, 'tis you that fling it in mine. How often have you
said to me [_beating time_] "when an old bachelor marries a _young_
wife----"
SIR PETER.
And if I have, Lady Teazle, you needn't repeat it after me. But you
live only to plague me. And yet 'twas but six months ago you vowed
never to cross me again. Yes, Madam, six months ago, when I found you
concealed behind a screen in Mr. Surface's library, you promised that
if I would forgive you your future conduct should prove the sincerity
of your repentance. I forgave you, Madam, and this is my reward!
LADY TEAZLE.
And am _I_ to blame, Sir Peter, for your ill-humours? Must I always
be making concessions? To please you, I have given up all routs and
assemblies, attend no balls nor quadrilles, talk no scandal, never ogle
nor flirt. I go no more to my Lady Sneerwell's, though I vow hers was
a most delightful house to visit. Such fashion and elegance. Such wit!
Such delicate malice!
SIR PETER.
[_Fretfully._] Just so, Madam; that is what I complain of. All the
while you are longing to return to these follies. You are not happy
when you are alone with me.
LADY TEAZLE.
Great heavens, Sir Peter: you must not ask for miracles. What woman of
fashion is ever happy alone with her husband?
SIR PETER.
There it is, Lady Teazle. You think only of fashion. And yet, when I
married you----
LADY TEAZLE.
[_Yawning._] Lud, Sir Peter, why will you be always returning to that
painful subject?
SIR PETER.
Vastly painful, no doubt, Madam, since it prevents you from marrying
Mr. Surface, behind whose screen I found you.
LADY TEAZLE.
[_Yawning more heartily._] Mr. Surface? But 'twas Charles you used to
suspect.
SIR PETER.
[_Angrily._] And now 'tis Joseph. Zounds, Madam, is a man never to be
allowed to change his mind? [_Raising his voice in fury._] I say 'tis
Joseph! Joseph!! Joseph!!!
[_Enter JOSEPH SURFACE. SIR PETER and LADY TEAZLE are obviously
disconcerted at this inopportune arrival, and say
nothing. JOSEPH has greatly changed in appearance in
the six months which have elapsed between the play and
the sequel. He has lost his sleekness and his air of
conscious virtue, and looks like a careless,
good-humoured man-about-town._
JOSEPH.
[_Obviously enjoying their discomfort._] Sir Peter, your servant. Lady
Teazle, your most obedient [_bows profoundly_].
SIR PETER.
[_Stiffly._] To what, Mr. Surface, do we owe the _honour_ of this visit?
JOSEPH.
[_Blandly, correcting him._] _Pleasure_, Sir Peter.
SIR PETER.
[_Testily._] I said "honour," Sir.
JOSEPH.
[_Easily._] I came at the invitation of Sir Oliver, who is staying in
your house. He desired to see me.
LADY TEAZLE.
[_Viciously, to SIR PETER._] If this gentleman's business is with Sir
Oliver, perhaps he will explain why he has intruded in _this_ room.
JOSEPH.
[_Amused._] With pleasure. My attention was arrested by the sound of
voices raised in dispute. I heard my name mentioned loudly more than
once, and, recognizing one of the voices as that of Lady Teazle [_with
a low bow_], I thought it better to interpose to defend my character at
once.
LADY TEAZLE.
[_Stamping her foot._] Insolent!
SIR PETER.
[_Chuckling._] Ha, ha! Very good. I' faith, Mr. Surface, I could almost
find it in my heart to forgive you for your injuries towards me when
you talk like that.
JOSEPH.
Injuries, Sir Peter? I never did you an injury. That affair of the
screen was the merest misunderstanding. I had no desire at all to
capture the affections of Lady Teazle. On the contrary, 'twould have
been highly inconvenient for me. 'Twas your ward Maria that I wished to
win.
LADY TEAZLE.
Monster!
JOSEPH.
[_Continuing._] Unhappily, Lady Teazle mistook the nature of my
attentions and I, knowing her temper [_bowing to LADY TEAZLE_], feared
to undeceive her lest she should use her influence to prejudice me in
the eyes of your ward. That, Sir Peter, is the true explanation of the
situation in which you found Lady Teazle on that unlucky morning.
LADY TEAZLE.
[_With suppressed fury._] Pray Sir Peter, do you propose to continue to
permit this gentleman to speak of me in this way?
SIR PETER.
Certainly, Madam. Everything that Mr. Surface has said seems to me to
bear the stamp of truth.
LADY TEAZLE.
Ah!
JOSEPH.
So, you see, Sir Peter, you never had any real cause of jealousy
towards me. My conduct was foolish, I admit, but it was never criminal.
SIR PETER.
Joseph, I believe you. Give me your hand. Six months ago I thought you
guilty of the basest treachery towards me. But a year of marriage with
Lady Teazle has convinced me that, in her relations with you as in her
relations with me, it is always Lady Teazle who is in the wrong.
[_They shake hands warmly._
LADY TEAZLE.
I will not stay here to be insulted in this manner. I will go straight
to Lady Sneerwell's, and tear both your characters to tatters.
[_Exit in a violent passion._
SIR PETER.
Oons, what a fury! But when an old bachelor marries a young wife----
JOSEPH.
Come, come, Sir Peter, no sentiments!
SIR PETER.
What, _you_ say that! My dear Joseph, this is indeed a reformation. Had
it been Charles now, I should not have been surprised.
JOSEPH.
Egad, Sir Peter, in the matter of sentiments Charles, for a long time,
had a most unfair advantage of me. For, having no character to lose,
he had no need of sentiments to support it. But now I have as little
character as he, and we start fair. Now I am a free man; I say what
I think, do what I please. Scandal has done its worst with me, and I
no longer fear it. Whereas, when I had a character for morality to
maintain, all my time was wasted in trying to live up to it. I had to
conceal every trifling flirtation, and had finally wrapped myself in
such a web of falsehood that when your hand tore away the veil, I give
you my word, I was almost grateful. Depend upon it, Sir Peter, there's
no possession in the world so troublesome as a good reputation.
SIR PETER.
[_Digging him in the ribs._] Ah, Joseph, you're a sad dog. But here
comes your uncle, Sir Oliver. I'll leave you with him.
[_Exit._
_Enter SIR OLIVER, reading a sheaf of legal documents._
SIR OLIVER.
[_Reading._] Eighty, one hundred and twenty, two hundred and twenty,
three hundred pounds! Gad, the dog will ruin me.
JOSEPH.
Sir Oliver, your servant.
[Illustration: E. J. Wheeler.
"Ah, Joseph, you're a sad dog!"]
SIR OLIVER.
[_Looking up._] Eh? Is that you, Nephew. Yes, I remember. I sent for
you.
JOSEPH.
You are busy this morning, Uncle. I'll wait upon you another day.
SIR OLIVER.
No, no, Joseph. Stay, and hear what I have to tell you. I sent for you
to say that I had decided to pardon your past misconduct and restore
you to favour. Six months of Charles's society have convinced me of the
folly of adopting a reprobate.
JOSEPH.
I thought they would, Uncle.
SIR OLIVER.
Your brother's extravagances pass all bounds. Here are four writs which
were served upon him but yesterday. And the fellow has the assurance to
send them on to me. [_JOSEPH laughs heartily._] Zounds, Nephew, don't
stand chuckling there. And his character has not reformed one whit,
in spite of his promises. His flirtations with my Lady Sneerwell and
others are so excessive that Maria has quite thrown him over, and the
engagement is broken off. Add to this that I have paid his debts three
times, only to find him contracting fresh liabilities, and you may
judge that my patience is exhausted.
JOSEPH.
But these are old stories, Uncle. You knew that Charles was vicious and
extravagant when you made him your heir. He has done nothing fresh to
offend you.
SIR OLIVER.
On the contrary. He has done something which has hurt me deeply.
JOSEPH.
How absurd of him, Uncle, when he knows that he is dependent wholly on
your bounty!
SIR OLIVER.
Wait till you have heard the whole story. A week ago your brother came
to me for money to meet some gambling debt. I refused him. Whereupon,
he returned to his house, had in an auctioneer and sold everything that
it contained.
JOSEPH.
[_Much amused._] And did you play little Premium a second time, Uncle?
SIR OLIVER.
[_Testily._] Certainly not, Sir. On this occasion I left the rogue to
settle matters for himself.
JOSEPH.
But I see no great harm in this. Why should not Charles sell his
furniture?
SIR OLIVER.
[_Angrily._] Deuce take his furniture. He sold my picture!
JOSEPH.
What, "the ill-looking little fellow over the settee"?
SIR OLIVER.
Yes.
JOSEPH.
Ha! ha! ha! Delicious! Sold his Uncle's portrait! Gad, I like his
spirit.
SIR OLIVER.
You seem vastly entertained, Nephew!
JOSEPH.
I confess the humour of the situation appeals to me.
SIR OLIVER.
Happily for you I am less easily amused. No, no; Charles is a heartless
scoundrel, and I'll disown him.
JOSEPH.
No, no, Uncle. He's no worse than other young men.
SIR OLIVER.
But he sold my picture!
JOSEPH.
He was pressed for money.
SIR OLIVER.
[_Exasperated._] But he sold my picture!!
JOSEPH.
He meant no harm, I'll be bound.
SIR OLIVER.
[_Still more enraged._] But he sold my picture!!!
[_Enter SIR PETER hurriedly, looking pale and disordered._
JOSEPH.
My dear Sir Peter, you are ill! You have had bad news?
SIR OLIVER.
Sir Peter, old friend, what is it?
SIR PETER.
[_Gasping._] Lady Teazle----
[_Stops, choked with passion._
SIR OLIVER.
Not dead?
SIR PETER.
Dead! Hell and furies! if it were only that! No; run away with your
profligate nephew Charles!
JOSEPH.
Impossible!
SIR OLIVER.
Is this certain?
SIR PETER.
Ay. Rowley saw them driving together in a post-chaise towards Richmond,
not ten minutes ago.
SIR OLIVER.
Then I disown him. Joseph, you are my heir. But see that you behave
yourself, or I'll disinherit you, too, and leave my money to a
missionary society.
_Curtain._
She Stoops to Conquer.
_Many people must have wondered whether happiness resulted from the
marriage between Charles Marlow, whose shyness with ladies, it will be
remembered, prevented his ever having a word to say to any woman above
the rank of a barmaid, and the vivacious Kate Hardcastle. The following
sequel reveals the painful truth._
STILL STOOPING.