CHARACTERS: Mrs. Malaprop; Lydia; Captain Absolute known to Lydia
as "Beverley"; Sir Anthony; Servant.
_Enter_ MRS. MALAPROP _and_ LYDIA
MRS M. Why, thou perverse one!--tell me what you can object to in
him?--Isn't he a handsome man?--tell me that. A genteel man? a pretty
figure of a man?
LYD. She little thinks whom she is praising. [_Aside_.] So is Beverley,
ma'am.
MRS. M. No caparisons, miss, if you please. Caparisons don't become a
young woman. No! Captain Absolute is indeed a fine gentleman.
LYD. Ay, the Captain Absolute you have seen. [_Aside_.
MRS. M. Then he's so well bred;--so full of alacrity and adulation!--He
has so much to say for himself, in such good language, too. His
physiognomy so grammatical; then his presence so noble! I protest, when
I saw him, I thought of what Hamlet says in the play:--"Hesperian
curls--the front of Job himself! an eye, like March, to threaten at
command! a station, like Harry Mercury, new"--Something about
kissing--on a hill--however, the similitude struck me directly.
LYD. How enraged she'll be presently, when she discovers her mistake!
[_Aside_.
_Enter_ SERVANT
SERV. Sir Anthony and Captain Absolute are below, ma'am.
MRS. M. Show them up here. [_Exit_ SERVANT.] Now, Lydia, I insist on
your behaving as becomes a young woman. Show your good breeding, at
least, though you have forgot your duty.
LYD. Madam, I have told you my resolution; I shall not only give him no
encouragement, but I won't even speak to, or look at him.
[_Flings herself into a chair, with her face from the door_.
_Enter_ SIR ANTHONY _and_ CAPTAIN ABSOLUTE
SIR A. Here we are, Mrs. Malaprop; come to mitigate the frowns of
unrelenting beauty,--and difficulty enough I had to bring this fellow. I
don't know what's the matter, but if I had not held him by force he'd
have given me the slip.
MRS. M. You have infinite trouble, Sir Anthony, in the affair. I am
ashamed for the cause! Lydia, Lydia, rise, I beseech you!--pay your
respects! [_Aside to her_.
SIR A. I hope, madam, that Miss Languish has reflected on the worth of
this gentleman, and the regard due to her aunt's choice, and my
alliance. Now, Jack, speak to her.
[_Aside to him_.
CAPT. A. What the devil shall I do? [_Aside_.]--You see, sir, she won't
even look at me while you are here. I knew she wouldn't!--I told you
so.--Let me entreat you, sir, to leave us together!
MRS. M. I am sorry to say, Sir Anthony, that my affluence over my niece
is very small. Turn round, Lydia, I blush for you! [_Aside to her_.
SIR A. Why don't you begin, Jack? Zounds! sirrah! why don't you speak?
[_Aside to him_.
CAPT. A. Hem! hem! Madam--hem! [CAPTAIN ABSOLUTE _attempts to speak,
then returns to_ SIR ANTHONY.] 'Faith! sir, I am so confounded!--and
so--so confused! I told you I should be so, sir,--I knew it. The--the
tremor of my passion entirely takes away my presence of mind.
SIR A. But it don't take away your voice, does it? Go up, and speak to
her directly!
CAPT. A. [_draws near_ LYDIA]. [_Aside_.] Now heaven send she may be too
sullen to look round! I must disguise my voice.--Will not Miss Languish
lend an ear to the mild accents of true love? Will not--
SIR A. Why don't you speak out?--not stand croaking like a frog in a
quinsey!
CAPT. A. The--the--excess of my awe, and my--my modesty quite choke me!
SIR A. Ah! your modesty again! Mrs. Malaprop, I wish the lady would
favor us with something more than a side-front.
[MRS. MALAPROP _seems to chide_ LYDIA.
CAPT. A. So! all will out, I see! [_Goes up to_ LYDIA, _speaks softly_.]
Be not surprised, my Lydia, suppress all surprise at present.
LYD. [_aside_]. Heavens! 'tis Beverley's voice!--[_Looks round by
degrees, then starts up_.] Is this possible!--my Beverley! how can this
be?--my Beverley!
CAPT. A. Ah! 'tis all over! [_Aside._
SIR A. Beverley!--the devil--Beverley! What can the girl mean? This is
my son, Jack Absolute.
MRS. M. For shame! for shame!--your head runs so on that fellow, that
you have him always in your eyes! beg Captain Absolute's pardon,
directly.
LYD. I see no Captain Absolute, but my loved Beverley!
SIR A. Zounds, the girl's mad!--her brain's turned by reading!
MRS. M. O' my conscience, I believe so!--what do you mean by
Beverley?--you saw Captain Absolute before to-day, there he is: your
husband that shall be.
LYD. With all my soul, ma'am--when I refuse my Beverley--
SIR A. Oh! she's as mad as Bedlam!--or has this fellow been playing us a
rogue's trick? Come here, sirrah, who the devil are you?
CAPT. A. 'Faith, sir, I am not quite clear myself; but I'll endeavor to
recollect.
SIR A. Are you my son, or not?--answer for your mother, you dog, if you
won't for me.
CAPT. A. Ye powers of impudence, befriend me!--[_Aside._]--Sir Anthony,
most assuredly I am your wife's son; Mrs. Malaprop, I am your most
respectful admirer, and shall be proud to add affectionate nephew. I
need not tell my Lydia that she sees her faithful Beverley, who, knowing
the singular generosity of her temper, assumed that name, and a station,
which has proved a test of the most disinterested love, which he now
hopes to enjoy, in a more elevated character.
LYD. So!--there will be no elopement after all!
SIR A. Upon my soul, Jack, thou art a very impudent fellow! To do you
justice, I think I never saw a piece of more consummate assurance! Well,
I am glad you are not the dull insensible varlet you pretend to be,
however! I'm glad you have made a fool of your father, you dog--I am.
So, this was your penitence, your duty, and obedience! Ah! you
dissembling villain! Come, we must leave them together, Mrs. Malaprop;
they long to fly into each other's arms. I warrant! Come, Mrs. Malaprop,
we'll not disturb their tenderness; theirs is the time of life for
happiness! [_Sings_.] _Youth's the season made for joy_--hey! odds life!
I'm in such spirits! Permit me, ma'am.
[_Gives his hand to_ MRS. MALAPROP. _Exit singing, and handing her off.
Exit_ CAPTAIN ABSOLUTE _with_ LYDIA _in the opposite direction._
BEAU BRUMMELL
BLANCHARD JERROLD
ACT I, SCENE I
CHARACTERS: Beau Brummell, a fastidious aristocrat with luxurious
tastes and a depleted fortune; Isidore, his valet; Mr. Fotherby,
his aspiring young protégé.
SCENE: A handsome apartment in Brummell's house, Calais, France.
Isidore discovered, in chair, looking over his master's toilette
table.
ISIDORE. Twenty shirts a week, twenty-four pocket-handkerchiefs, to say
nothing of thirty cravats and twelve waistcoats--indeed, for people that
cannot pay their servants! Well, he owes me just six thousand three
hundred and thirty-seven francs, ten sous. [_Picks up paper._] Ah, I
see, I'm in the list. It costs something to have the honor of serving
Mr. Brummell--to be chamberlain to His Majesty, the King of Calais! But
he is a wonderful man! People almost thank him for condescending to be
in their debt; still, much as I esteem the honor, I can't afford it any
longer, nor can the laundress, nor can the hairdresser. Eight hundred
francs a year for washing! Three clean shirts a day, three cravats!
Boots blacked, soles and all, and with such varnish! But then he has
such exquisite taste! why, he blackballed a friend of his who wanted to
enter his club, because the candidate's boots were polished with bad
blacking. I wonder whether the king will do anything for him? It is Mr.
Brummell's dressing hour, and here he comes.
[_Enter_ BRUMMELL, _letter in hand_. ISIDORE _busies himself piling
cravats upon the side of dressing table, and wheels chair to the
mirror_. BRUMMELL _throws himself in the chair before the glass,
examines the cravats and throws two or three of them away_.
BRUMMELL. Isidore, take those dusters away; the chambermaid has
forgotten them. [_Re-reads the letter_.] Strange girl this; the only
thing I know against her is that she takes soup twice. It's the old
story. Her father wants her to marry a fellow who can keep her, and she
wants to have a young fellow who can't. Well, the young fellow who can't
is the more interesting of the two. I must ask the father to dinner I
suppose--it's a deuced bore; but it will put him under a heavy
obligation. I must make excuses to Ballarat and Gill. Isidore, when I'm
dressed take my compliments to Mr. Davis, and tell him I shall be happy
to see him at dinner to-day.
ISID. Very well, sir. [_Aside_.] To Davis, a retired fellow from the
city! This is a tumble!--I am sorry to trouble you, sir, but----
BRUM. I can't talk to you to-day, Isidore. Give me a cravat.
ISID. [_handing one_]. I am a poor man, and six thousand francs----
BRUM. I understand, Isidore. We'll see--we'll see; don't disturb me.
Zounds! man, haven't you been long enough with me to know that these are
not moments when I can speak or listen? [_Bell rings_.] If that be Mr.
Fotherby, show him in. [_Exit_ ISIDORE.] I intend to form that young
fellow--there's stuff in him. I've noticed that he uses my blacking.
[_Enter_ FOTHERBY _followed by_ ISIDORE.] How d'e do, Fotherby?
FOTHERBY. This admittance is an honor, indeed, sir!
BRUM. My dear fellow, why, what do you call those things upon your feet?
FOTHER. Things on my feet! Shoes, to be sure!
BRUM. Shoes! I thought they were slippers!
FOTHER. You prefer boots then, sir, doubtless?
BRUM. Well, let me see. Humph! Isidore, which do I prefer, boots or
shoes?
ISID. The Hessian was always your favorite, sir, in London.
BRUM. Right, Isidore--so it was. By-the-bye, I have asked Davis here
to-day. It was a great sacrifice; but as you and the young lady want to
have the old gentleman melted, I resigned myself. I hope he'll keep his
knife out of his mouth.
FOTHER. We shall be eternally grateful to you, sir. He wanted Helen to
become old Armand's wife next week.
BRUM. I think he's right; and but for one circumstance, I should be on
Armand's side of the question.
FOTHER. And this circumstance?
BRUM. The brute has a toothpick in his waistcoat pocket, or in the thing
that serves him for a waistcoat--an instrument that, he says, has been
in his family the last fifty years. Conceive, my dear Fotherby, an
hereditary toothpick! No, Mr. Davis does not deserve that fate. And now
let me give you a bit of advice. Never wear perfumes, but fine linen,
plenty of it, and country washing. Look at you now, my good fellow, you
are dressed in execrable taste--all black and white, like a magpie.
Still, never be remarkable. The severest mortification a gentleman can
incur, is to attract observation in the street by his dress. Everything
should fit without a fault. You can't tell what this has cost me--but
then it is a coat--while that thing you wear--I really don't know what
we can call it.
FOTHER. Still, sir, under your guidance I shall improve. By the way, my
mother asked me to invite you to take tea with us in our humble way.
BRUM. Really, my good young friend, you surprise me. Don't you know that
you take medicine--you take a walk--you take a liberty--but you drink
tea! My dear Fotherby, never be bearer of such a dreadful message again.
Isidore! has my Paris wig arrived? Any card or letter?
ISID. No cards, sir. The wig arrived by the diligence.
BRUN. Is the wig fit to put on?
ISID. I have been examining it, and, as the times go, I think it will
do. There is one of the side locks not quite to my taste.
BRUM. Ah! a mat, no doubt--a door-mat! [_Exit_ ISIDORE. _To_ FOTHERBY.]
You see what a gentleman may be reduced to! It's the most fortunate
thing in the world that I never fell in love!
FOTHER. But were you never in love?--never engaged?
BRUM. Engaged?--why, yes, something of the kind; but I discovered that
the lady positively ate cabbage, and so I broke it off.
FOTHER. And so, sir, you will persuade the old gentleman to postpone
Helen's marriage with Armand--while I----
BRUM. My dear young friend, I will tell the old gentleman to do so--you
must see that I could not possibly think of persuading a person who
grows onions in his garden----
FOTHER. We shall be eternally grateful----
BRUM. For three weeks exactly--from which time you, at all events, will
begin to wish that I had confined my attention to my own particular
affairs. But the world is ungrateful. I once waved my hand to a
saddler's son from White's window. Well, sir, I owed him five hundred
pounds, and he had afterwards the assurance to ask me for it.
FOTHER. You astonish me!
BRUM. Positive fact. So be cautious, young man, and in your way through
life--if you wave your hand to such a fellow, let it be over a stamped
receipt.
FOTHER. I shall follow your counsel most scrupulously.
BRUM. There, sir, never let me see you again in those gloves! These,
sir, [_showing his_] are the only gloves for a gentleman. Pray leave
me--I can't bear the sight of them. Meantime, tell your betrothed that I
shall do everything in my power to secure your unhappiness. I have
already spoken to Lord Ballarat about you. I told him you were the
laziest fellow and the best dresser in the town--in fact, cut out by
nature to serve the government. Good-bye--I shall ask you to dine with
me some of these days--but not yet awhile--you must work up to that. And
now, Fotherby, to show you how deep an interest I take in your welfare,
you shall give me your arm to the ramparts. [_Exeunt._
ACT II, SCENE III
CHARACTERS: Brummell; Isidore; Fotherby; Nurse; another Old Woman;
Landlord; Waiter.
SCENE: Brummell's lodgings in a miserable apartment house at Caen,
France. Eight years have elapsed. With no means of livelihood and
pursued by creditors, Brummell is now reduced to abject poverty,
broken health, and a deranged mind. He is thrown among people of
low rank and is subjected to many indignities; but to the last he
clings to his fastidious tastes and is a gentleman among imaginary
aristocrats.
OLD NURSE. _in high Norman cap, discovered seated in arm chair, mending
stockings; another_ WOMAN _near her._
NURSE. Yes, my dear, clean out of his mind--that's what he's gone.
OLD WOMAN. Deary me!
NURSE. Aye, and there be folks as says he was once as neat and tidy as a
new sixpence. Now he's as dirty as a George the First halfpenny!
OLD W. Deary me!
NURSE. Aye, child, and he knew lords and dooks--and such like--now it's
anybody as'll give him a dinner. It's time they did something with
him--for put up with his going's on any longer, I cannot! A nuss's is a
horrid life, ain't it, child?
OLD W. 'Orrid--deary me! So this very afternoon that's comin', he's to
go?
NURSE. Aye, child--the landlord's goin' to offer to take him for a walk,
which'll please him--and then take him off to see if the nuns'll have
charity upon him--if not, there's nothing but the street. He wouldn't go
if he know'd it--still he hasn't a copper coin--he's as cunning as any
fox. Have a little drop of somethin' comfortable, child!
OLD W. Deary me!--at this time of day--but I do feel a sinking!
NURSE. It'll do you a world of good. [_Getting bottle_--_a knock._]
Lawk! what an awkward hour for people to call! [_Knock again._]
OLD W. Deary me! Perhaps it's Mr. Brummell.
NURSE. Not it! It's more than he dare do, to knock twice like that. It's
his old man-servant, come to take off that there dirty screen. [_Opens
door._]
_Enter_ BRUMMELL--_muddy_--_supported by_ ISIDORE
BRUM. Isidore, give me my dressing gown!
ISID. Dressing gown! that's good--why I never put my own on nowadays!
BRUM. [_talking to himself_]. That screen mustn't go--nor the duchess's
armchair. [_Turning to_ NURSE.] Mind that, nurse, whatever happens to
me, this chair and the screen remain. Ha! ha! what would Ballarat say,
if----
NURSE. There, never mind them folks. Pull your coat off, and put your
dressing gown on, do!
BRUM. Dear me! I hope the ices will be better--the punch I've seen to!
The duchess shall sit here.
NURSE [_to_ OLD WOMAN]. That's how he goes on nearly every day. The high
folks he knew have turned his head. Sometimes he makes one of the
waiters announce a lot of folks, as never come, while he, like an old
fool, bows to nobody, and hands nothing to that old chair.
OLD W. What work it must give you.
NURSE [_to_ BRUMMELL]. There, take that muddy coat off, nobody's coming
to-day.
BRUM. Leave the room and see that everything is ready.
NURSE. Drat it. [_Rings the bell._] I must have the waiter up. He'll
soon manage him.
BRUM. [_rising, totters forward, and arranges his shabby dress_]. Well,
now I'm ready! Hark! I think I hear the first carriage. Sir Harry, no
doubt.
_Enter_ WAITER
NURSE. Just see to this old man--make him change his coat, for I can't.
WAITER. Well, this is the last of it. Master says he may sleep in the
streets, but he doesn't stay here another night if he knows it. They
won't have him at the asylum without money, and he hasn't a rap.
NURSE. Nor a stick; for there's little enough left to pay my poor wages.
WAITER [_to_ BRUMMELL]. Come, off with the coat!
BRUM. My good fellow, leave it me to-night. I've a few friends coming.
Hush! there's the first arrival. Pray, my good sir, see to my guests.
WAITER. Well, let's humor the old blade once more--he'll be in the
streets to-morrow.
NURSE [_to_ OLD WOMAN]. Just notice this tomfoolery, child.
OLD W. Deary me! it almost frightens me. See how pleased he is.
WAITER. Sir Harry Gill!
BRUM. [_advancing ceremoniously, and holding out his hand, and coming
down, as though talking to somebody at his side_]. My dear Harry, I'm
delighted to see you. Were you at the opera last night?
NURSE [_to_ OLD WOMAN]. Did you ever hear the like of it?
WAITER. Here goes again! [_Goes as before to door, and throws it open._]
Lord Ballarat!
BRUM. [_advancing as before, and receiving imaginary visitor_]. My good
fellow, I'm sorry I missed you at the club the other night; but I went
into the duchess's box, and----
WAITER. I must stop this. The duchess always comes last, and then he's
satisfied. [_Throwing open the door, and calling pompously._] Her
Highness the Duchess of Canterbury.
BRUM. [_totters to door, bowing very profoundly, and handing the
imaginary duchess to his armchair--leans over the chair, and bows
frequently as he talks_]. Your highness is too good! This is indeed an
honor. Permit me the satisfaction of handing you to your seat. And is
the duke well? And little Nutmeg--is his ear better? Poor little fellow!
I hope you will allow me to give him a charming little collar I have for
him.
WAITER. There, that'll do! [_To_ BRUMMELL.] Come, now, they're all
gone--take your coat off.
BRUM. [_starting, and falling into chair_]. Yes,
gone--gone--true--they're gone! [WAITER _helps him to take his coat
off._] Give me my cap! [NURSE _puts his old velvet cap on._]
WAITER. [_going_]. Call me up again, nurse, if he won't mind you. Do you
hear what I say, Mr. Brummell?
BRUM. Yes--yes--I'll be very good, nurse--I'll be very good.
WAITER. Well, it will be a lucky day when we get rid of this business!
[_Exit._
OLD W. But think of the poor creature turned into the streets! He'd die
upon the nighest door-step!
NURSE. Can't be helped--out he goes to-night and no mistake! I'll nuss
him no longer--and the landlord wants the room. The men are comin' to
whitewash it at sunrise to-morrow.
OLD W. Deary me! Well--good-day!
NURSE. Good-day, child. You'll find me at home to-morrow. Good-bye!
[_Exit_ OLD WOMAN.
BRUM. [_tottering to an old bureau, sits before it_]. Dinner at four.
Nurse, nurse! my glass and razors--come!
NURSE. Drat the old man! [_Gives him glass, etc._]
_Enter_ LANDLORD, _followed by_ WAITER
Now he's completely done up!
BRUM. [_politely to_ LANDLORD]. Good morning, monsieur, delighted to
see----
LANDLORD. Hang your compliments--I want no more of them.
BRUM. My good sir, you surprise me!
LAND. [_to_ WAITER]. Get his rubbish together--for out he goes, and no
mistake. [_To_ BRUMMELL.] Now, Mr. Brummell, can you pay me--or can't
you--or won't you?
BRUM. Dear, dear me! We'll talk about it.
LAND. No, we won't. I'll have it--or out you bundle this minute.
BRUM. [_rising_]. Sir, I am a gentleman--a poor one, it is true; and
this hand, fleshless as it is--is strong enough to chastise a man who
forgets it! [BRUMMELL _falls back in chair exhausted._]
LAND. [_to_ WAITER]. Now for it--out with him! [LANDLORD _and_ WAITER
_rush forward, and are about to seize_ BRUMMELL.]
_Enter_ FOTHERBY
FOTHER. [_pushing back_ LANDLORD _and_ WAITER]. Put your hands on the
old man at your peril.
LAND. Do you know that you are in my house, sir?--stand back!
FOTHER. Do you know that you are in my rooms, sir? [_Throws paper to
him_.] I think you will find that regular. Leave the room.
NURSE [_aside_]. Wonders'll never cease. But the old fool'll spile all
again--you'll see.
LAND. [_aside to Waiter_]. He's paid missus the rent--there's luck!
[_Exit_.
WAITER. A pretty bit of business I've done for myself. Not a sou for the
waiter, I'll bet. [_Exit_.
FOTHER. [_advancing to_ BRUMMELL]. My dear Mr. Brummell.
BRUM. Really, you have the advantage of me.
FOTHER. You surely remember me, Mr. Brummell. [_To_ NURSE.] The good
sisters will take care of him for the rest of his days. I must take him
to them. Is he always so, my good woman?
NURSE. Poor dear, good, kind old gentleman, not allays. He takes on so
at times.
BRUM. Don't know you in the least. [_Imagines he sees Ballarat_.]
Ballarat! dear old boy! Tut! tut! Ballarat! Well, this is kind. But I
can't be seen in this state.
FOTHER. No. Here you are among friends, my good sir. [_Leading him
out_.] This way, Mr. Brummell, I come from Lord Ballarat.
BRUM. Well--be it so. Ballarat--mind--when you return to England let
them know that, even in this squalor--to his last hour in the
world--Brummell--poor Brummell was a gentleman still. I am ready--I am
ready.
[_Exit_ FOTHERBY, _leading_ BRUMMELL, _the_ NURSE _following_.
THE SET OF TURQUOISE
THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH
ACT I, SCENE I
CHARACTERS: Count of Lara, a poor nobleman; Beatrice, his wife
Miriam, a maid, who personates a page.
SCENE: Count of Lara's villa. A balcony overlooking the garden.
LARA. The third moon of our marriage, Beatrice!
It hangs in the still twilight, large and full,
Like a ripe orange.
BEATRICE. Like an orange? yes,
But not so red, Count. Then it has no stem.
Now, as 'tis hidden by those drifts of cloud,
With one thin edge just glimmering through the dark,
'Tis like some strange, rich jewel of the east,
In the cleft side of a mountain.
And that reminds me--speaking of jewels--love,
There is a set of turquoise at Malan's,
Ear-drops and bracelets and a necklace--ah!
If they were mine.
LARA. And so they should be, dear,
Were I Aladdin, and had slaves o' the lamp
To fetch me ingots. Why, then, Beatrice,
All Persia's turquoise-quarries should be yours,
Although your hand is heavy now with gems
That tear my lips when I would kiss its whiteness.
Oh! so you pout! Why make that full-blown rose
Into a bud again?
BEATRICE. You love me not.
LARA. A coquette's song.
BEATRICE. I sing it.
LARA. A poor song.
BEATRICE. You love me not, or love me over-much,
Which makes you jealous of the gems I wear!
You do not deck me as becomes our state,
For fear my grandeur should besiege the eyes
Of Monte, Clari, Marcus, and the rest--
A precious set! You're jealous, sir!
LARA. Not I.
I love you.
BEATRICE. Why, that is as easy said
As any three short words; takes no more breath
To say, "I hate you." What, sir, have I lived
Three times four weeks your wedded loyal wife,
And do not know your follies? I will wager
(If I could trap his countship into this!)
The rarest kisses I know how to give
Against the turquoise, that within a month
You'll grow so jealous--and without a cause,
Or with a reason thin as window glass--
That you will ache to kill me!
LARA. Will you so?
And I--let us clasp hands and kiss on it.
BEATRICE. Clasp hands, Sir Trustful; but not kiss--nay, nay!
I will not pay my forfeit till I lose.
LARA. And I'll not lose the forfeit.
BEATRICE. We shall see.
[_Exit_ BEATRICE.
LARA. She has as many fancies as the wind
Which now, like slumber, lies 'mong spicy isles,
Then suddenly blows white furrows in the sea!
Lovely and dangerous is my leopardess.
To-day, low-lying at my feet; to-morrow,
With great eyes flashing, threatening doleful death--
With strokes like velvet! She's no common clay,
But fire and dew and marble. I'll not throw
So rare a wonder in the lap o' the world!
Jealous? I am not jealous--though they say
Some sorts of love breed jealousy. And yet,
I would I had not wagered; it implies
Doubt. If I doubted? Pshaw! I'll walk awhile
And let the cool air fan me. 'Twas not wise.
'Tis only Folly with its cap and bells
Can jest with sad things. She seemed earnest, too.
What if, to pique me, she should overstep
The pale of modesty, and give bold eyes
(I could not bear that, nay, not even that!)
To Marc or Claudian? Why, such things have been
And no sin dreamed of. I will watch her close.
There, now, I wrong her.
Yet if she,
To win the turquoise of me, if she should--
O cursèd jewels! Would that they were hung
About the glistening neck of some mermaid
A thousand fathoms underneath the sea!
[A PAGE _crosses the garden_.
That page again! 'Tis twice within the week
The supple-waisted, pretty-ankled knave
Has crossed my garden at this self-same hour,
Trolling a canzonetta with an air
As if he owned the villa. Why, the fop!
He might have doffed his bonnet as he passed.
I'll teach him better if he comes again.
What does he at the villa? O! perchance
He comes in the evening when his master's out,
To lisp soft romance in the ready ear
Of Beatrice's dressing-maid; but then
She has one lover. Now I think she's two:
This gaudy popinjay would make the third,
And that's too many for an honest girl!
I'll ask the Countess--no, I'll not do that;
She'd laugh at me; and vow by the Madonna
This varlet was some noble in disguise,
Seeking her favor. Then I'd let the light
Of heaven through his doublet--I would--yes,
That is, I would, were I a jealous man:
But then I'm not.
When he comes out again
I'll stop him, question him, and know the truth.
I cannot sit in the garden of a night
But he glides by me in his jaunty dress,
Like a fantastic phantom!--never looks
To the right nor left, but passes gayly on,
As if I were a statue. Soft, he comes!
I'll make him speak, or kill him; then, indeed,
It were unreasonable to ask it. Soh!
I'll speak him gently at the first, and then--
_The_ PAGE _enters by a gate in the villa-garden, and walks past the_
COUNT.
Ho! pretty page, who owns you?
PAGE. No one now.
Once Signor Juan, but I am his no more.
LARA. What, then, you stole from him?
PAGE. O! no, sir, no.
He had so many intrigues on his hands,
There was no sleep for me nor night nor day.
Such carrying of love-favors and pink notes!
He's gone abroad now, to break other hearts
And so I left him.
LARA. A frank knave.
PAGE. To-night
I've done his latest bidding--
LARA. As you should--
PAGE. A duty wed with pleasure--'twas to take
A message to a countess all forlorn,
In yonder villa.
LARA. [_aside_]. Why! that villa's mine!
A message to a countess all forlorn?
In yonder villa?
PAGE. Ay, sir. You can see
The portico among the mulberries,
Just to the left, there.
LARA. Ay, I see, I see.
A pretty villa. And the lady's name?
PAGE. The lady's name, sir?
LARA. Ay, the lady's name.
PAGE. O! that's a secret which I cannot tell.
LARA. No? but you shall, though, or I'll strangle you!
In my strong hands your slender neck would snap
Like a fragile pipe-stem.
PAGE. You are choking me!
O! loose your grasp, sir!
LARA. Then the name! the name!
PAGE. Countess of Lara.
LARA. Not her dressing-maid?
PAGE. No, no, I said the mistress, not the maid.
LARA. And then you lied. I never saw two eyes
So wide and frank but they'd a pliant tongue
To shape a lie for them. Say you are false!
Tell me you lie, and I will make you rich,
I'll stuff your cap with ducats twice a year.
PAGE. Well, then--I lie.
LARA. Ay, now you lie, indeed!
I see it in the cunning of your eyes;
Night cannot hide the Satan leering there.
Only a little lingering fear of heaven
Holds me from dirking you between the ribs!
PAGE. What would you have? I will say nothing, then.
LARA. Say everything, and end it! Here is gold.
You brought a billet to the Countess--well?
What said the billet?
PAGE. Take away your hand.
And, by St. Mary, I will tell you all.
There, now, I breathe. You will not harm me, sir?
Stand six yards off, or I will not a word.
It seems the Countess promised Signor Juan
A set of turquoise--
LARA. Turquoise? Ha! that's well.
PAGE. Just so--wherewith my master was to pay
Some gaming debts; but yester-night the cards
Tumbled a golden mountain at his feet;
And ere he sailed, this morning, Signor Juan
Gave me a perfumed, amber-tinted note,
For Countess Lara, which, with some adieus,
Craved her remembrance morning, noon, and night;
Her prayers while gone, her smiles when he returned;
Then told his sudden fortune with the cards,
And bade her keep the jewels. That is all.
LARA. All? Is that all? 'T has only cracked my heart!
A heart, I know, of little, little worth--
An ill-cut ruby, scarred and scratched before,
But now quite broken! I have no heart, then;
Men should not have, when they are wronged like this.
Out of my sight, thou demon of bad news!
[_Exit_ LARA.
PAGE. I did not think 't would work on him like that.
How pale he grew! Alack! I fear some ill
Will come of this. I'll to the Countess now,
And warn her of his madness.
[_Exit_ PAGE.
ACT I, SCENE II
SCENE: Beatrice's chamber. Beatrice sits on a fauteuil in the
attitude of listening.
BEATRICE. Hist! that's his step. Miriam, place the lights
Farther away; keep you behind the screen,
Breathing no louder than a lily does;
For if you stir or laugh 'twill ruin all.
MIRIAM. Laugh! I am faint with terror.
BEATRICE. Then be still.
Move not for worlds until I touch the bell,
Then do the thing I told you. Hush! his step
Sounds in the corridor, and I'm asleep!
LARA _enters. He approaches within a few yards of_ BEATRICE, _pauses,
and looks at her._
LARA. Asleep!--and guilt can slumber! Guilt can lie
Down-lidded and soft-breathed like innocence!
Hath dreams as sweet as childhood's--who can tell?
Were I an artist, and did wish to paint
A devil to perfection, I'd not limn
A hornèd monster, with a leprous skin,
Red-hot from Pandemonium--not I.
But with my delicatest tints, I'd paint
A woman in the glamour of her youth,
All garmented with loveliness and mystery!
How fair she is! Her beauty glides between
Me and my purpose, like a pleading angel.
[BEATRICE _sighs_.
Her dream's broke, like a bubble, in a sigh.
She'll waken soon, and that--that must not be!
I could not kill her if she looked at me.
I loved her, loved her, by the saints, I did--
I trust she prayed before she fell asleep!
BEATRICE [_springing up_]. So, you are come--your dagger in
your hand?
Your lips compressed and blanchèd, and your hair
Tumbled wildly all about your eyes,
Like a river-god's? O love, you frighten me!
And you are trembling. Tell me what this means.
LARA. Oh! nothing, nothing--I did think to write
A note to Juan, to Signor Juan, my friend
(Your cousin and my honorable friend);
But finding neither ink nor paper here,
I thought to scratch it with my dagger's point
Upon your bosom, Madam! That is all.
BEATRICE. You've lost your senses!
LARA. Madam, no, I've found 'em!
BEATRICE. Then lose them quickly, and be what you were.
LARA. I was a fool, a dupe--a happy dupe.
You should have kept me in my ignorance;
For wisdom makes us wretched, king and clown.
Countess of Lara, you are false to me!
BEATRICE. Now, by the saints--
LARA. Now, by the saints, you are!
BEATRICE. Upon my honor--
LARA. On your honor? fie!
Swear by the ocean's feathery froth, for that
Is not so light a substance.
BEATRICE. Hear me, love!
LARA. Lie to that marble Io! I am sick
To the heart with lying.
BEATRICE. You've the ear-ache, sir,
Got with too much believing.
LARA. Beatrice,
I came to kill you.
BEATRICE. Kiss me, Count, you mean!
LARA. If killing you be kissing you, why yes.
BEATRICE. Ho! come not near me with such threatening looks,
Stand back there, if you love me, or have loved!
[_As_ LARA _advances_, BEATRICE _retreats to the table and rings a small
hand-bell._ MIRIAM, _in the dress of a page, enters from behind the
screen and steps between them_.
LARA [_starting back_]. The Page? now, curse him! What? no! Miriam?
Hold! 'twas at twilight, in the villa-garden,
At dusk, too, on the road to Mantua;
But here the light falls on you, man or maid!
Stop now; my brain's bewildered. Stand you there,
And let me touch you with incredulous hands!
Wait till I come, nor vanish like a ghost.
If this be Juan's page, why, where is Miriam?
If this be Miriam, where's--by all the saints,
I have been tricked!
MIRIAM [_laughing_]. By two saints, with your leave!
LARA. The happiest fool in Italy, for my age!
And all the damning tales you fed me with,
You Sprite of Twilight, Imp of the old Moon!--
MIRIAM [_bowing_]. Were arrant lies as ever woman told;
And though not mine, I claim the price for them--
This cap stuffed full of ducats twice a year!
LARA. A trap! a trap that only caught a fool!
So thin a plot, I might have seen through it.
I've lost my reason!
MIRIAM. And your ducats!
BEATRICE. And
A certain set of turquoise at Malan's!
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER
OLIVER GOLDSMITH
ACT II, SCENE I
CHARACTERS: Hardcastle, hospitable and urbane, with a touch of
humor in his nature; Marlow and Hastings who come from London to
visit the Hardcastles; servants.
SCENE: Hardcastle's house. Young Marlow and Hastings have journeyed
from London to the home of Mr. Hardcastle, an old family friend
whom they have never seen. They are deceived into believing they
are many miles from their destination when they really have
arrived. They are told that Mr. Hardcastle's house is a public inn.
This leads to much confusion. The genial Hardcastle is drilling his
servants.
_Enter_ HARDCASTLE, _followed by_ DIGGORY _and three or four awkward_
SERVANTS
MR. H. Well, I hope you're perfect in the table exercise I have been
teaching you these three days. You all know your posts and your places,
and can show that you have been used to good company, without stirring
from home?
ALL. Ay! ay!
MR. H. When company comes, you are not to pop out and stare, and then
run in again, like frightened rabbits in a warren.
ALL. No! no!
MR. H. You, Diggory, whom I have taken from the barn, are to make a show
at the side table; and you, Roger, whom I have advanced from the plough,
are to place yourself behind my chair. But you're not to stand so, with
your hands in your pockets. Take your hands from your pockets, Roger;
and from your head, you blockhead you! See how Diggory carries his
hands. They're a little too stiff, indeed, but that's no great matter.
DIGGORY. Ay, mind how I hold them. I learned to hold my hands this way,
when I was upon drill for the militia. And so being upon drill----
MR. H. You must not be so talkative, Diggory; you must be all attention
to the guests. You must hear us talk, and not think of talking; you must
see us drink, and not think of drinking; you must see us eat, and not
think of eating.
DIG. By the laws, your worship, that's perfectly unpossible.
[_Exeunt._
_Enter_ SERVANTS, _showing in_ MARLOW _and_ HASTINGS
SERV. Welcome, gentlemen, very welcome. This way.
HAST. After the disappointments of the day, welcome once more, Charles,
to the comforts of a clean room, and a good fire. Upon my word, a very
well-looking house; antique, but creditable.
MAR. The usual fate of a large mansion. Having first ruined the master
by good housekeeping, it at last comes to levy contributions as an inn.
HAST. As you say, we passengers are to be taxed to pay all these
fineries. I have often seen a good side-board, or a marble
chimney-piece, though not actually put in the bill, inflame the bill
confoundedly.
MAR. Travelers, George, must pay in all places. The only difference is,
that in good inns you pay dearly for luxuries; in bad inns you are
fleeced and starved.
_Enter_ HARDCASTLE
MR. H. Gentlemen, once more you are heartily welcome. Which is Mr.
Marlow? Sir, you're heartily welcome. It's not my way, you see, to
receive my friends with my back to the fire. I like to give them a
hearty reception in the old style at my gate. I like to see their horses
and trunks taken care of.
MAR. [_aside_]. He has got our names from the servants already. [_To_
HARDCASTLE.] We approve your caution and hospitality. [_To_ HASTINGS.] I
have been thinking, George, of changing our traveling dresses in the
morning, I am grown confoundedly ashamed of mine.
MR. H. [_putting chairs and tables in order in background_]. I beg, Mr.
Marlow, you'll use no ceremony in this house.
HAST. I fancy, George, you're right; the first blow is half the battle.
I intend opening the campaign with the white and gold.
MR. H. Mr. Marlow--Mr. Hastings--gentlemen--pray be under no restraint
in this house. This is Liberty Hall, gentlemen. You may do just as you
please here.
MAR. Yet, George, if we open the campaign too fiercely at first, we may
want ammunition before it is over. I think to reserve the embroidery to
secure a retreat.
MR. H. Your talking of a retreat, Mr. Marlow, puts me in mind of the
Duke of Marlborough, when he went to besiege Denain. He first summoned
the garrison--
MAR. Aye, and we'll summon your garrison, old boy.
MR. H. He first summoned the garrison, which might consist of about five
thousand men--
HAST. What a strange fellow is this!
MR. H. I say, gentlemen, as I was telling you, he summoned the garrison,
which might consist of about five thousand men--
MAR. Well, but suppose--
MR. H. Which might consist of about five thousand men, well appointed
with stores, ammunition, and other implements of war. Now, says the Duke
of Marlborough to George Brooks, that stood next to him--you must have
heard of George Brooks--I'll pawn my dukedom, says he, but I take that
garrison without spilling a drop of blood. So--
MAR. What, my good friend, if you give us a glass of punch in the
meantime, it would help us to carry on the siege with vigor.
MR. H. Punch, sir?
MAR. Yes, sir, punch. A glass of warm punch, after our journey, will be
comfortable. This is Liberty Hall, you know.
MR. H. Here's a cup, sir.
MAR. [_aside_]. So this fellow, in his Liberty Hall, will only let us
have just what he pleases.
MR. H. I hope you'll find it to your mind. I have prepared it with my
own hands, and I believe you'll own the ingredients are tolerable. Will
you be so good as to pledge me, sir? Here, Mr. Marlow, here is to our
better acquaintance. [_Drinks_.]
MAR. [_aside_]. A very impudent fellow, this! but he's a character, and
I'll humor him a little. [_Aloud_.] Sir, my service to you. [_Drinks_.]
HAST. [_aside_]. I see this fellow wants to give us his company, and
forgets that he's an inn-keeper before he has learned to be a
gentleman.
MAR. From the excellence of your cup, my old friend, I suppose you have
a good deal of business in this part of the country. Warm work, now and
then, at elections, I suppose?
MR. H. No, sir; I have long given that work over.
HAST. So, then, you have no turn for politics, I find?
MR. H. Why, no, sir; there was a time, indeed, when I fretted myself
about the mistakes of government, like other people; but finding myself
every day grow more angry, and the government no better, I left it to
mend itself. Sir, my service to you. [_Drinks._]
HAST. So that, with eating above stairs, and drinking below, with
receiving your friends within, amusing them without, you lead a good,
pleasant, bustling life of it.
MR. H. I do stir about a great deal, that's certain. Half the
differences of the parish are adjusted in this very parlor.
MAR. And you have an argument in your cup, old gentleman, better than
any in Westminster Hall.
MR. H. Aye, young gentleman, that, and a little philosophy.
MAR. [_aside_]. Well, this is the first time I ever heard of an
inn-keeper's philosophy.
HAST. So, then, like an experienced general, you attack them on every
quarter. If you find their reason manageable you attack it with your
philosophy; if you find they have no reason, you attack them with this.
Here's your health, my philosopher.
MR. H. Good, very good, thank you; ha! ha! Your generalship puts me in
mind of Prince Eugene, when he fought the Turks at the battle of
Belgrade. You shall hear.
MAR. Instead of the battle of Belgrade, I think it's almost time to talk
about supper. What has your philosophy got in the house for supper?
MR. H. For supper, sir? Was ever such a request made to a man in his own
house?
MAR. Yes, sir, supper, sir; I begin to feel an appetite. I shall make
devilish work to-night in the larder, I promise you.
MR. H. Such a brazen dog sure never my eyes beheld. Why, really, sir, as
for supper, I can't well tell. My Dorothy and the cook-maid settle these
things between them. I leave these kind of things entirely to them.
MAR. You do, do you?
MR. H. Entirely. By-the-bye, I believe they are in actual consultation
upon what's for supper this moment in the kitchen.
MAR. Then I beg they'll admit me as one of their privy council. It's a
way I have got. When I travel, I always choose to regulate my own
supper. Let the cook be called. No offense, I hope, sir.
MR. H. O, no, sir, none in the least; yet I don't know how; our Bridget,
the cook-maid, is not very communicative upon these occasions. Should we
send for her she might scold us all out of the house.
HAST. Let's see the list of the larder, then. I ask it as a favor. I
always match my appetite to my bill of fare.
MAR. Sir, he's very right, and it's my way too.
MR. H. Sir, you have a right to command here. Here, Roger, bring us the
bill of fare for to-night's supper--I believe it's drawn out. Your
manner, Mr. Hastings, puts me in mind of my uncle, Colonel Gunthorp. It
was a saying of his, that no man was sure of his supper till he had
eaten it.
_Enter_ ROGER, _with a bill of fare_
HAST. [_aside_]. All upon the high ropes! His uncle a colonel--we shall
soon hear of his mother being a justice of the peace. But let's hear the
bill of fare. [_Exit_ ROGER.
MAR. What's here? For the first course, for the second course, for the
dessert! The devil, sir! do you think we have brought down the whole
joiner's company, or the corporation of Bedford? two or three little
things, clean and comfortable, will do.
HAST. But let's hear it.
MAR. "For the first course at the top, a pig's face and prune sauce."
HAST. Out with your pig, I say.
MAR. Out with your prune sauce, say I.
MR. H. And yet, gentlemen, to men that are hungry, pig, with prune
sauce, is very good eating. But, gentlemen, you are my guests, make what
alterations you please. Is there anything else you wish to retrench or
alter, gentlemen?
MAR. Why, really, sir, your bill of fare is so exquisite, that any one
part of it is full as good as another. Send us what you please. So much
for supper. And now to see that our beds are aired, and luggage properly
taken care of.
MR. H. I entreat you'll leave all that to me. You shall not stir a step.
MAR. Leave that to you? I protest, sir. You must excuse me, I always
look to these things myself.
MR. H. I must insist, sir, you'll make yourself easy on that head.
MAR. You see I'm resolved on it. [_Aside_.] A very troublesome fellow
this as ever I met with.
MR. H. Well, sir, I'm resolved at least to attend you.
[_Exeunt_ MARLOW _and_ HASTINGS.
[_Aside_.] This may be modern modesty, but I never saw anything look so
like old-fashioned impudence. What could my old friend Sir Charles
Marlow mean by recommending his son as the modestest young man in town!
To me he appears the most impudent piece of brass that ever spoke with a
tongue!
[_Exit_ HARDCASTLE.
PYGMALION AND GALATEA
W. S. GILBERT
ACT I, SCENE I
CHARACTERS: Pygmalion, an Athenian sculptor; Cynisca, his wife;
Galatea, an animated statue.
SCENE: Pygmalion's studio; several classical statues are placed
about the room; at the back a cabinet containing a statue of
Galatea, before which curtains are drawn concealing the statue.
PYG. It all but breathes--therefore it talks aloud!
It all but moves--therefore it walks and runs!
It all but lives, and therefore it is life!
No, no, my love, the thing is cold, dull stone,
Shaped to a certain form, but still dull stone,
The lifeless, senseless mockery of life.
The gods make life, I can make only death!
Why, my Cynisca, though I stand so well,
The merest cut-throat, when he plies his trade,
Makes better death than I with all my skill!
CYN. Hush, my Pygmalion! the gods are good,
And they have made thee nearer unto them
Than other men; this is ingratitude!
PYG. Not so; has not a monarch's second son
More cause for anger that he lacks a throne
Than he whose lot is cast in slavery?
CYN. Not much more cause, perhaps, but more excuse.
Now I must go.
PYG. So soon, and for so long?
CYN. One day, 'twill quickly pass away!
PYG. With those who measure time, by almanacs, no doubt,
But not with him who knows no days save those
Born of the sunlight of Cynisca's eyes;
It will be night with me till she returns.
CYN. Then sleep it through, Pygmalion! But stay,
Thou shalt not pass the weary hours alone;
Now mark thou this--while I'm away from thee,
There stands my only representative; [_Withdrawing curtains._
She is my proxy, and I charge you, sir,
Be faithful unto her as unto me!
Into her quietly attentive ear
Pour all thy treasures of hyperbole,
And give thy nimble tongue full license, lest
Disuse should rust its glib machinery; [_Advancing._
If thoughts of love should haply crowd on thee,
There stands my other self, tell them to her,
She'll listen well; nay, that's ungenerous,
For she is I, yet lovelier than I,
And hath no temper, sir, and hath no tongue;
Thou hast thy license--make good use of it.
Already I'm half jealous--there!
[_Draws curtain concealing statue._
It's gone.
The thing is but a statue after all,
And I am safe in leaving thee with her;
Farewell, Pygmalion, till I return. [_Exit._
PYG. "The thing is but a statue after all!"
Cynisca little thought that in those words
She touched the key-note of my discontent.
True, I have powers denied to other men;
Give me a block of senseless marble--Well,
I'm a magician, and it rests with me
To say what kernel lies within its shell;
It shall contain a man, a woman, a child,
A dozen men and women if I will.
So far the gods and I run neck and neck,
Nay, so far I can beat them at their trade;
I am no bungler--all the men I make
Are straight limbed fellows, each magnificent
In the perfection of his manly grace;
I make no crook-backs; all my men are gods,
My women, goddesses, in outward form.
But there's my tether--I can go so far,
And go no farther--at that point I stop,
To curse the bonds that hold me sternly back.
To curse the arrogance of those proud gods,
Who say, "Thou shalt be greatest among men,
And yet infinitesimally small!"
GALATEA [_from behind curtain_]. Pygmalion!
PYG. Who called?
GAL. Pygmalion!
[PYGMALION _tears away curtain and, discovers_ GALATEA _alive_.
PYG. Ye gods! It lives!
GAL. Pygmalion!
PYG. It speaks!
I have my prayer! my Galatea breathes!
GAL. Where am I? Let me speak, Pygmalion;
Give me thy hand--both hands--how soft and warm!
Whence came I? [_Descends._
PYG. Why, from yonder pedestal.
GAL. That pedestal! Ah, yes, I recollect.
There was a time when it was part of me.
PYG. That time has passed forever, thou art now
A living, breathing woman, excellent
In every attribute of womankind.
GAL. Where am I, then?
PYG. Why, born into the world
By miracle.
GAL. Is this the world?
PYG. It is.
GAL. This room?
PYG. This room is portion of a house;
The house stands in a grove, the grove itself
Is one of many, many thousand groves
In Athens.
GAL. And is Athens then the world?
PYG. To an Athenian--Yes--
GAL. And I am one?
PYG. By birth and parentage, not by descent.
GAL. But how came I to be?
PYG. Well--let me see.
Oh--you were quarried in Pentelicus;
I modeled you in clay--my artisans
Then roughed you out in marble--I, in turn,
Brought my artistic skill to bear on you,
And made you what you are--in all but life--
The gods completed what I had begun,
And gave the only gift I could not give.
GAL. Then is this life?
PYG. It is.
GAL. And not long since
I was a cold, dull stone. I recollect
That by some means I knew that I was stone,
That was the first dull gleam of conscience;
I became conscious of a chilly self,
A cold immovable identity,
I knew that I was stone, and knew no more;
Then, by an imperceptible advance,
Came the dim evidence of outer things,
Seen--darkly and imperfectly--yet seen--
The walls surrounded me, and I, alone,
That pedestal--that curtain--then a voice
That called on Galatea! At that word,
Which seemed to shake my marble to the core,
That which was dim before, came evident.
Sounds, that had hummed around me, indistinct,
Vague, meaningless--seemed to resolve themselves
Into a language I could understand;
I felt my frame pervaded with a glow
That seemed to thaw my marble into flesh;
Its cold hard substance throbbed with active life,
My limbs grew supple, and I moved--I lived!
Lived in the ecstasy of new born life;
Lived in the love of him that fashioned me;
Lived in a thousand tangled thoughts of hope,
Love, gratitude, thoughts that resolved themselves
Into one word, that word, Pygmalion! [_Kneels._
PYG. I have no words to tell thee of my joy,
O woman--perfect in thy loveliness.
GAL. What is that word? Am I a woman?
PYG. Yes.
GAL. Art thou a woman?
PYG. No, I am a man.
GAL. What is a man?
PYG. A being strongly framed,
To wait on woman, and protect her from
All ills that strength and courage can avert;
To work and toil for her, that she may rest;
To weep and mourn for her, that she may laugh;
To fight and die for her, that she might live!
GAL. I'm glad I am a woman. [_He leads her down._
PYG. So am I.
GAL. That I escape the pains thou hast to bear?
PYG. That I may undergo those pains for thee.
GAL. With whom then wouldst thou fight?
PYG. With any man
Whose word or deed gave Galatea pain.
GAL. Then there are other men in this strange world?
PYG. There are indeed.
GAL. And other women?
PYG. Yes;
Though for the moment I'd forgotten it;
Yes, other women.
GAL. And for all of these
Men work, and toil, and mourn, and weep and fight?
PYG. It is man's duty, if he's called upon,
To fight for all; he works for those he loves.
GAL. Then by thy works I know thou lovest me.
PYG. Indeed, I love thee!
GAL. With what kind of love?
PYG. I love thee as a sculptor does his work!
[_Aside._] There is diplomacy in that reply.
GAL. My love is different in kind to thine;
I am no sculptor, and I've done no work,
Yet I do love thee; say--what love is mine?
PYG. Tell me its symptoms--then I'll answer thee.
GAL. Its symptoms? Let me call them as they come.
A sense that I am made by thee for thee,
That I've no will that is not wholly thine,
That I've no thought, no hope, no enterprise,
That does not own thee as its sovereign;
That I have life, that I may live for thee,
That I am thine--that thou and I are one!
What kind of love is that?
PYG. A kind of love
That I shall run some risk in dealing with.
GAL. And why, Pygmalion?
PYG. Such love as thine
A man may not receive, except indeed
From one who is, or is to be, his wife.
GAL. Then I will be thy wife.
PYG. That may not be;
I have a wife--the gods allow but one.
GAL. Why did the gods then send me here to thee?
PYG. I cannot say--unless to punish me
For unreflecting and presumptuous prayer!
I prayed that thou shouldst live. I have my prayer,
And now I see the fearful consequence
That must attend it!
GAL. Yet thou lovest me?
PYG. Who could look on that face and stifle love?
GAL. Then I am beautiful?
PYG. Indeed thou art.
GAL. I wish that I could look upon myself,
But that's impossible.
PYG. Not so indeed,
This mirror will reflect thy face. Behold!
GAL. How beautiful! I am very glad to know
That both our tastes agree so perfectly;
Why, my Pygmalion, I did not think
That aught could be more beautiful than thou,
Till I behold myself. Believe me, love,
I could look in this mirror all day long.
So I'm a woman.
PYG. There's no doubt of that!
GAL. Oh happy maid to be so passing fair!
And happier still Pygmalion, who can gaze,
At will, upon so beautiful a face.
PYG. Hush! Galatea--in thine innocence
Thou sayest things that others would reprove.
GAL. Indeed, Pygmalion; then it is wrong
To think that one is exquisitely fair?
PYG. Well, Galatea, it's a sentiment
That every woman shares with thee;
They think it--but they keep it to themselves.
GAL. And is thy wife as beautiful as I?
PYG. No, Galatea, for in forming thee
I took her features--lovely in themselves--
And in the marble made them lovelier still.
GAL. Oh! then I'm not original?
PYG. Well--no--
That is--thou hast indeed a prototype,
But though in stone thou didst resemble her,
In life, the difference is manifest.
GAL. I'm very glad that I am lovelier than she.
And am I better?
PYG. That I do not know.
GAL. Then she has faults.
PYG. Very few indeed;
Mere trivial blemishes, that serve to show
That she and I are of one common kin.
I love her all the better for such faults.
GAL. Tell me some faults and I'll commit them now.
PYG. There is no hurry; they will come in time;
Though for that matter, it's a grievous sin
To sit as lovingly as we sit now.
GAL. Is sin so pleasant? If to sit and talk
As we are sitting, be indeed a sin,
Why I could sin all day. But tell me, love,
Is this great fault that I'm committing now
The kind of fault that only serves to show
That thou and I are of one common kin?
PYG. Indeed, I'm very much afraid it is.
GAL. And dost thou love me better for such fault?
PYG. Where is the mortal that could answer "no"?
GAL. Why, then I'm satisfied, Pygmalion;
Thy wife and I can start on equal terms.
She loves thee?
PYG. Very much.
GAL. I'm glad of that.
I like thy wife.
PYG. And why?
GAL. Our tastes agree.
We love Pygmalion well, and what is more,
Pygmalion loves us both. I like thy wife;
I'm sure we shall agree.
PYG. [_aside._] I doubt it much.
GAL. Is she within?
PYG. No, she is not within.
GAL. But she'll come back?
PYG. Oh, yes, she will come back.
GAL. How pleased she'll be to know when she returns,
That there was some one here to fill her place.
PYG. Yes, I should say she'd be extremely pleased.
GAL. Why, there is something in thy voice which says
That thou art jesting. Is it possible
To say one thing and mean another?
PYG. Yes,
It's sometimes done.
GAL. How very wonderful!
So clever!
PYG. And so very useful.
GAL. Yes.
Teach me the art.
PYG. The art will come in time.
My wife will not be pleased; there--that's the truth.
GAL. I do not think that I shall like thy wife.
Tell me more of her.
PYG. Well--
GAL. What did she say
When last she left thee?
PYG. Humph! Well, let me see;
Oh! true, she gave thee to me as my wife,--
Her solitary representative;
She feared I should be lonely till she came.
And counseled me, if thoughts of love should come,
To speak those thoughts to thee, as I am wont
To speak to her.
GAL. That's right.
PYG. But when she spoke
Thou wast a stone, now thou art flesh and blood,
Which makes a difference.
GAL. It's a strange world;
A woman loves her husband very much,
And cannot brook that I should love him too;
She fears he will be lonely till she comes,
And will not let me cheer his loneliness;
She bids him breathe his love to senseless stone,
And when that stone is brought to life--be dumb!
It's a strange world, I cannot fathom it.
PYG. [_aside_]. Let me be brave and put an end to this.
Come Galatea--till my wife returns,
My sister shall provide thee with a home;
Her house is close at hand.
GAL. Send me not hence
Pygmalion; let me stay.
PYG. It may not be.
Come, Galatea, we shall meet again.
GAL. Do with me as thou wilt, Pygmalion!
But we shall meet again?--and very soon?
PYG. Yes, very soon.
GAL. And when thy wife returns,
She'll let me stay with thee?
PYG. I do not know.
[_Aside_]. Why should I hide the truth from her [_aloud_] alas!
I may not see thee then.
GAL. Pygmalion!
What fearful words are these?
PYG. The bitter truth.
I may not love thee; I must send thee hence.
GAL. Recall those words, Pygmalion, my love!
Was it for this that heaven gave me life?
Pygmalion, have mercy on me; see,
I am thy work, thou hast created me;
The gods have sent me to thee. I am thine!
Thine! only, and unalterably thine!
This is the thought with which my soul is charged.
Thou tellest me of one who claims thy love,
That thou hast love for her alone. Alas!
I do not know these things; I only know
That heaven has sent me here to be with thee.
Thou tellest me of duty to thy wife,
Of vows that thou wilt love but her. Alas!
I do not know these things; I only know
That heaven, who sent me here, has given me
One all absorbing duty to discharge--
To love thee, and to make thee love again.
[PYGMALION _takes her in his arms, and embraces her passionately._]
ACT III, SCENE I
CHARACTERS: Pygmalion; Myrine, his sister; Cynisca, his wife;
Galatea.
SCENE: Pygmalion's studio.
_Enter_ MYRINE
MYR. Pygmalion's heard that he must lose his wife,
And swears, by all the gods that reign above,
He will not live if she deserts him now!
What--what is to be done?
_Enter_ GALATEA
GAL. Myrine here!
Where is Pygmalion?
MYR. Oh, wretched girl!
Art thou not satisfied with all the ill
Thy heedlessness has worked, that thou art come
To gaze upon thy victim's misery?
Well, thou hast come in time!
GAL. What dost thou mean?
MYR. Why, this is what I mean; he will not live,
Now that Cynisca has deserted him.
O, girl, his blood will be upon thy head!
GAL. Pygmalion will not live! Pygmalion die!
And I, alas, the miserable cause!
Oh, what is to be done?
MYR. I do not know.
And yet there is one chance, but one alone;
I'll see Cynisca, and prevail on her
To meet Pygmalion but once again.
GAL. But should she come too late? He may not live
Till she returns.
MYR. I'll send him now to thee,
And tell him that his wife awaits him here.
He'll take thee for Cynisca; when he speaks
Answer thou him as if thou wast his wife.
GAL. Yes, yes, I understand.
MYR. Then I'll be gone.
The gods assist thee in this artifice! [_Exit_ MYRINE.
GAL. The gods will help me, for the gods are good.
[_Kneels._] Oh, heaven, in this great grief I turn to thee,
Teach me to speak to him, as, ere I lived,
Cynisca spake to him. Oh, let my voice
Be to Pygmalion as Cynisca's voice,
And he will live--for her and not for me--
Yet he will live. I am the fountain head
_Enter_ PYGMALION, _unobserved, led in by_ MYRINE
Of all the horrors that surround him now,
And it is fit that I should suffer this;
Grant this, my first appeal--I do not ask
Pygmalion's love; I ask Pygmalion's life.
[PYGMALION _utters an exclamation of joy. She rushes to him and seizes
his hand_.
Pygmalion!
PYG. I have no words in which
To tell the joy with which I heard that prayer.
Oh, take me to thine arms, my dearly loved!
And teach me once again how much I risked
In risking such a heaven-sent love as thine.
GAL. [_believing that he refers to her_]. Pygmalion! my love!
Pygmalion!
Once more those words! again! say them again!
Tell me that thou forgivest me the ill
That I unwittingly have worked on thee!
PYG. Forgive thee? Why, my wife, I did not dare
To ask thy pardon, and thou askest mine.
The compact with thy mistress, Artemis,
Gave thee a heaven-sent right to punish me.
I've learnt to take whate'er the gods may send.
[GALATEA, _at first delighted, learns in the course of this speech that_
PYGMALION _takes her for_ CYNISCA, _and expresses extreme horror_.
GAL. [_with an effort_]. But then, this woman, Galatea--
PYG. Well?
GAL. Thy love for her is dead?
PYG. I had no love. A miracle
Did crown my handiwork, and brought to life
The fair creation of my sculptor's skill,
I yielded to her god-sent influence,
For I had worshiped her before she lived
Because she called Cynisca's face to me;
But when she lived--that love died--word by word.
GAL. That is well said; thou dost not love her then?
She is no more to thee than senseless stone?
PYG. Speak not of her, Cynisca, for I swear
_Enter_ CYNISCA, _unobserved_
The unhewn marble of Pentelicus
Hath charms for me, which she, in all her glow
Of womanly perfection, could not match.
GAL. I'm very glad to hear that this is so.
Thou art forgiven!
PYG. Thou hast pardoned me,
And though the law of Artemis declared
Thy pardon should restore to me the light
Thine anger took away, I would be blind,
I would not have mine eyes lest they should rest
On her who caused me all this bitterness!
GAL. Indeed, Pygmalion, 'twere better thus;
If thou couldst look on Galatea now,
Thy love for her, perchance, might come again.
PYG. No, no.
GAL. They say that she endureth pains
That mock the power of words.
PYG. It should be so.
GAL. Hast thou no pity for her? [CYNISCA _comes down_.
PYG. No, not I.
The ill that she hath worked on thee, on me,
And on Myrine, surely were enough
To make us curse the hour that gave her life.
She is not fit to live upon this world!
GAL. Upon this worthy world, thou sayest well.
The woman shall be seen of thee no more.
[_Takes_ CYNISCA'S _hand and leads her to_ PYGMALION.]
What wouldst thou with her now? Thou hast thy wife!
[_She substitutes_ CYNISCA _in her place, and retires, weeping_. CYNISCA
_takes him to her arms and kisses him. He recovers his sight_.
PYG. Cynisca! see! the light of day is mine!
Once more I look upon thy well loved face!
_Enter_ GALATEA
MYR. Pygmalion!
See--Galatea's here! [GALATEA _kneels_.
PYG. Away from me,
Woman or statue! Thou the only blight
That ever fell upon my love--begone,
[CYNISCA _comforts her_.
For thou hast been the curse of all who fell
Within the compass of thy waywardness!
CYN. No, no; recall those words, Pygmalion,
Thou knowest not all.
GAL. Nay, let me go from him;
That curse--his curse still ringing in mine ears,
For life is bitterer to me than death. [_She mounts the pedestal_.
Farewell, Pygmalion, I am not fit
To live upon this world--this worthy world.
Farewell, Pygmalion. Farewell, farewell!
[_The curtains conceal her_.
CYN. Thou art unjust to her as I to thee!
Hers was the voice that pardoned thee--not mine.
I knew no pity till she taught it me.
I heard the words she spoke, and little thought
That they would find an echo in my heart;
But so it was. I took them for mine own,
And asking for thy pardon, pardoned thee!
PYG. Cynisca! Is this so?
CYN. In truth it is.
GAL. [_behind curtain_]: Farewell, Pygmalion! Farewell--farewell!
[PYGMALION _tears away the curtain, discovering_ GALATEA _as a statue._
INDEX OF AUTHORS
Aldrich, Thomas Bailey, 478.
Angell, James B., 220.
Anonymous, 89, 92, 349, 353, 354, 380, 386, 395, 404.
Arnold, Edwin, 110.
Barham, R. H., 54.
Beecher, Henry Ward, 208, 215.
Bell, H. G., 431.
Beveridge, Albert J., 217.
Blaine, James Gillespie, 237.
Bossuet, Jacques Bénigne, 169.
Bright, John, 218, 222.
Brooks, Katherine R., 125.
Browning, Robert, 21.
Bryan, William Jennings, 231.
Bryant, William Cullen, 132.
Burke, Edmund, 175, 178, 182.
Burns, Robert, 129.
Burroughs, John, 53.
Byron, Lord, 147.
Cable, George W., 77.
Campbell, Thomas, 157.
Carlyle, Thomas, 156.
Castelar, Emilio, 258.
Channing, William E., 302.
Chatham, William Pitt, Earl of, 171, 173.
Chrysostom, Saint-John, 165, 167.
Cicero, Marcus Tullius, 162.
Cockran, Bourke, 314.
Cooke, Edmund Vance, 52.
Coolidge, Susan, 42.
Corwin, Thomas, 278.
Crawford, F. Marion, 139.
Curtis, George William, 273, 275.
Delano, Myra S., 37.
Demosthenes, 159.
Dickens, Charles, 15, 103.
Dunbar, Paul Laurence, 325, 327, 389.
Dunne, Finley Peter, 337.
Edwards, Harry Stillwell, 340.
Emerson, Ralph Waldo, 148.
Everett, Edward, 312.
Field, Eugene, 76.
Flagg, Edmund, 304.
Garfield, James A., 260.
Gilbert, W. S., 493.
Gillilan, S. W., 137, 343.
Gladstone, William E., 222, 255.
Goldsmith, Oliver, 486.
Grady, Henry W., 249, 283, 284.
Graves, John Temple, 246.
Hamilton, Alexander, 196.
Harris, Joel Chandler, 335, 370.
Hay, John, 59, 124, 261, 362.
Hemans, Felicia, 151.
Henry, Daniel, 12, 130.
Henry, Patrick, 193, 292.
Hoar, George F., 309.
Holmes, Oliver W., 145.
Howe, Julia Ward, 225.
Hugo, Victor, 345, 400.
Hunt, Leigh, 57.
Ingalls, John J., 235.
Ingelow, Jean, 47, 101.
Ingersoll, Robert G., 279, 315.
Irving, Washington, 449.
Jenkins, Lucy Dean, 366.
Jerome, Jerome K., 354.
Jerrold, Blanchard, 468.
King, Ben F., 357, 379.
Kingsley, Charles, 102.
Kipling, Rudyard, 155, 368.
Kossuth, Louis, 250, 313.
Le Fanu, Joseph S., 113.
Lincoln, Abraham, 206, 241, 305, 307.
Lippard, George, 98.
Lodge, Henry Cabot, 226.
Longfellow, H. W., 8, 61.
Lover, Samuel, 364.
Lowell, James Russell, 152.
Lytton, Edward Bulwer, 25, 80.
Lytton, Robert Bulwer, 8, 423, 441.
McKinley, William, 251.
Mead, Edwin D., 294, 299, 318.
Mitchell, Agnes E., 391.
Moore, Thomas, 41.
Nadaud, Gustav, 13.
Phelps, Elizabeth Stuart, 330.
Phillips, Charles, 321.
Phillips, Wendell, 202, 239, 290, 296, 297.
Pierce, Etta W., 133.
Poe, Edgar Allan, 426.
Quincy, Josiah, 284.
Richards, Laura E., 414.
Riley, James Whitcomb, 323, 324, 359.
Robbins, R. D. C., 118.
Roosevelt, Theodore, 264, 280.
Savonarola, Girolamo, 228.
Saxe, John G., 384.
Scott, Walter, 123.
Sheridan, Richard Brinsley, 454.
Sienkiewicz, Henryk, 1.
Smith, F. Hopkinson, 375.
Stephens, Alexander H., 243.
Streeter, R. M., 387.
Sumner, Charles, 212, 248.
Taylor, Benjamin F., 373.
Tennyson, Alfred, Lord, 32, 67, 94, 146.
Thompson, Maurice, 138.
Togo, Admiral Heihaichiro, 242, 271.
Van Dyke, Henry, 72.
Verne, Jules, 408.
Weatherly, F. E., 328.
Webster, Daniel, 185, 188, 191, 199.
Whitman, Walt, 88.
Whittier, John G., 144, 149.
Wilcox, Ella Wheeler, 117.
Williams, Henry L., 437.
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