ACT II.
Scene.—Market-place in the Village. Rustic houses. In centre a market cross.
Enter Peasants dancing, coupled two and two. An old Man with a young Girl. Then an old Woman with a young Man. Then other ill-assorted couples.
Opening Chorus.
Enter Constance, leading Notary.
Aria.—Constance.
[During this verse Aline and Alexis have entered at back, unobserved.
Aline and Alexis.
Ensemble.
| Aline and Alexis. | Constance. | Notary. |
| Oh, joy! oh, joy! | Oh, bitter joy! | Oh, joy! oh, joy! |
| The charm works well, | No words can tell | No words can tell |
| And all are now | How my poor heart | My state of mind |
| united. | is blighted! | delighted. |
| The blind young boy | They’ll soon employ | They’ll soon employ |
| Obeys the spell, | A marriage bell, | A marriage bell, |
| Their troth they all | To say that we’re | To say that we’re |
| have plighted. | united. | united. |
| True happiness | I do confess | True happiness |
| Reigns everywhere, | A sorrow rare | Reigns everywhere, |
| And dwells with | My humbled spirit | And dwells with |
| both the sexes, | vexes, | both the sexes, |
| And all will bless | And none will bless | And all will bless |
| The thoughtful care | Example rare | Example rare |
| Of their beloved | Of their beloved | Of their beloved |
| Alexis! | Alexis! | Alexis! |
[All, except Alexis and Aline, dance off to symphony.
Ali. How joyful they all seem in their new-found happiness! The whole village has paired off in the happiest manner. And yet not a match has been made that the hollow world would not consider ill-advised!
Alex. But we are wiser—far wiser—than the world. Observe the good that will become of these ill-assorted unions. The miserly wife will check the reckless expenditure of her too frivolous consort, the wealthy husband will shower innumerable bonnets on his penniless bride, and the young and lively spouse will cheer the declining days of her aged partner with comic songs unceasing!
Ali. What a delightful prospect for him!
Alex. But one thing remains to be done, that my happiness may be complete. We must drink the philtre ourselves, that I may be assured of your love for ever and ever.
Ali. Oh, Alexis, do you doubt me? Is it necessary that such love as ours should be secured by artificial means? Oh no, no, no!
Alex. My dear Aline, time works terrible changes, and I want to place our love beyond the chance of change.
Ali. Alexis, it is already far beyond that chance. Have faith in me, for my love can never, never change!
Alex. Then you absolutely refuse?
Ali. I do. If you cannot trust me, you have no right to love me—no right to be loved by me.
Alex. Enough, Aline; I shall know how to interpret this refusal.
Ballad.—Alexis.
Enter Dr. Daly.
Dr. D. (musing). It is singular—it is very singular. It has overthrown all my calculations. It is distinctly opposed to the doctrine of averages. I cannot understand it.
Ali. Dear Dr. Daly, what has puzzled you?
Dr. D. My dear, this village has not hitherto been addicted to marrying and giving in marriage. Hitherto the youths of this village have not been enterprising, and the maidens have been distinctly coy. Judge then of my surprise when I tell you that the whole village came to me in a body just now, and implored me to join them in matrimony with as little delay as possible. Even your excellent father has hinted to me that before very long it is not unlikely that he, also, may change his condition.
Ali. Oh, Alexis—do you hear that? Are you not delighted?
Alex. Yes. I confess that a union between your mother and my father would be a happy circumstance indeed. (Crossing to Dr. Daly.) My dear sir, the news that you bring us is very gratifying.
Dr. D. Yes—still, in my eyes, it has its melancholy side. This universal marrying recalls the happy days—now, alas! gone for ever—when I myself might have—but tush! I am puling. I am too old to marry—and yet, within the last half-hour, I have greatly yearned for companionship. I never remarked it before, but the young maidens of this village are very comely. So likewise are the middle-aged. Also the elderly. All are comely—and (with a deep sigh) all are engaged!
Ali. Here comes your father.
Enter Sir Marmaduke with Mrs. Partlet, arm-in-arm.
Ali. and Alex. (aside). Mrs. Partlet!
Sir M. Dr. Daly, give me joy. Alexis, my dear boy, you will, I am sure, be pleased to hear that my declining days are not unlikely to be solaced by the companionship of this good, virtuous, and amiable woman.
Alex. (rather taken aback). My dear father, this is not altogether what I expected. I am certainly taken somewhat by surprise. Still it can hardly be necessary to assure you that any wife of yours is a mother of mine. (Aside to Aline.) It is not quite what I could have wished.
Mrs. P. (crossing to Alexis). Oh, sir, I entreat your forgiveness. I am aware that socially I am not everything that could be desired, nor am I blessed with an abundance of worldly goods, but I can at least confer on your estimable father the great and priceless dowry of a true, tender, and loving heart.
Alex. (coldly). I do not question it. After all, a faithful love is the true source of every earthly joy.
Sir M. I knew that my boy would not blame his poor father for acting on the impulse of a heart that has never yet misled him. Zorah is not, perhaps, what the world call beautiful——
Dr. D. Still she is comely—distinctly comely! (Sighs.)
Ali. Zorah is very good, and very clean and honest, and quite sober in her habits; and that is worth far more than beauty, dear Sir Marmaduke.
Dr. D. Yes; beauty will fade and perish, but personal cleanliness is practically undying, for it can be renewed whenever it discovers symptoms of decay. My dear Sir Marmaduke, I heartily congratulate you. (Sighs.)
Quintette.
Alexis, Aline, Sir Marmaduke, Zorah, and Dr. Daly.
[Exeunt Sir Marmaduke and Mrs. Partlet, Aline and Alexis. Dr. Daly looks after them sentimentally, then exit with a sigh. Mr. Wells, who has overheard part of this Quintette, and who has remained concealed behind the market cross, comes down as they go off.
Recitative.—Mr. Wells.
(Sits at foot of market cross.)
Lady Sangazure enters. She is very melancholy.
(Sees Mr. Wells, and becomes fascinated by him.)
Recitative.
Duet.—Lady Sangazure and Mr. Wells.
Recitative.—Mr. Wells.
Ensemble.
| Lady Sangazure. | Mr. Wells. |
| Oh, agony, rage, despair! | Oh, agony, rage, despair! |
| The maiden has bright brown hair, | Oh, where will this end—oh, where? |
| And mine is as white as snow! | I should like very much to know! |
| False man, it will be your fault | It will certainly be my fault |
| If I go to my family vault, | If she goes to her family vault, |
| And bury my life-long woe! | To bury her life-long woe! |
[Exit Lady Sangazure, in great anguish.
Recitative.—Mr. Wells.
[Exit Mr. Wells.
Enter Aline.
Ali. This was to have been the happiest day of my life—but I am very far from happy! Alexis insists that I shall taste the philtre—and when I try to persuade him that to do so would be an insult to my pure and lasting love, he tells me that I object because I do not desire that my love for him shall be eternal. Well (sighing and producing a phial), I can at least prove to him that in that he is unjust!
Recitative.
[As Aline is going off, she meets Dr. Daly, entering pensively. He is playing on a flageolet. Under the influence of the spell she at once becomes strangely fascinated by him, and exhibits every symptom of being hopelessly in love with him.
Song.—Dr. Daly.
[At the end of the song Dr. Daly sees Aline, and, under the influence of the potion, falls in love with her.
Ensemble.—Aline and Dr. Daly.
Enter Alexis.
Recitative.
Duet.—Aline and Dr. Daly.
Ensemble.
Enter all the characters except Lady Sangazure and Mr. Wells.
Chorus.
Recitative.—Alexis.
Dr. D. (coming forward). Hold! Be just. This poor child drank the philtre at your instance. She hurried off to meet you—but, most unhappily, she met me instead. As you had administered the potion to both of us, the result was inevitable. But fear nothing from me—I will be no man’s rival. I shall quit the country at once—and bury my sorrow in the congenial gloom of a colonial bishopric.
Alex. My excellent old friend! (Taking his hand—then turning to Mr. Wells, who has entered with Lady Sangazure.) Oh, Mr. Wells, what, what is to be done?
Mr. W. I do not know—and yet—there is one means by which this spell may be removed.
Alex. Name it—oh, name it!
Mr. W. Or you or I must yield up his life to Ahrimanes. I would rather it were you. I should have no hesitation in sacrificing my own life to spare yours, but we take stock next week, and it would not be fair on the Co.
Alex. True. Well, I am ready!
Ali. No, no—Alexis—it must not be! Mr. Wells, if he must die that all may be restored to their old loves, what is to become of me? I should be left out in the cold, with no love to be restored to!
Mr. W. True—I did not think of that. (To the others.) My friends, I appeal to you, and I will leave the decision in your hands.
Finale.
[All quit their present partners, and rejoin their old lovers. Sir Marmaduke leaves Mrs. Partlet, and goes to Lady Sangazure. Aline leaves Dr. Daly, and goes to Alexis. Dr. Daly leaves Aline, and goes to Constance. Notary leaves Constance, and goes to Mrs. Partlet. All the Chorus make a corresponding change.
All.
Ensemble.
Sir Marmaduke, Lady Sangazure, Alexis, and Aline.
Dr. Daly, Constance, Notary, and Mrs. Partlet.
(General Dance.)
H.M.S. PINAFORE;
OR,
THE LASS THAT LOVED A SAILOR.
AN ENTIRELY ORIGINAL NAUTICAL COMIC
OPERA,
IN TWO ACTS.
First produced at the Opera Comique Theatre, by Mr. R. D’Oyly Carte, on Saturday, May 25, 1878.
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
| The Rt. Hon. Sir Joseph Porter, K.C.B., First Lord of the Admiralty. |
| Captain Corcoran, Commanding H.M.S. Pinafore. |
| Ralph Rackstraw, Able Seaman. |
| Dick Deadeye, Able Seaman. |
| Bill Bobstay, Boatswain’s Mate. |
| Bob Becket, Carpenter’s Mate. |
| Tom Tucker, Midshipmite. |
| Sergeant of Marines. |
| Josephine, the Captain’s Daughter. |
| Hebe, Sir Joseph’s First Cousin. |
| Little Buttercup, a Portsmouth Bumboat Woman. |
First Lord’s Sisters, his Cousins, his Aunts, Sailors, Marines, etc.
SCENE: QUARTER-DECK OF H.M.S. PINAFORE, OFF PORTSMOUTH.
ACT I.—NOON.ACT II.—NIGHT.
H.M.S. PINAFORE;
OR,
THE LASS THAT LOVED A SAILOR.
ACT I.
Scene.—Quarter-deck of H.M.S. Pinafore. View of Portsmouth in distance. Sailors, led by Boatswain, discovered cleaning brasswork, splicing rope, etc.
Chorus.
Enter Little Buttercup, with large basket on her arm.
Recitative.
Aria.
Boat. Ay, Little Buttercup—and well called—for you’re the rosiest, the roundest, and the reddest beauty in all Spithead.
But. Red, am I? and round—and rosy! Maybe, for I have dissembled well! But hark ye, my merry friend—hast ever thought that beneath a gay and frivolous exterior there may lurk a cankerworm which is slowly but surely eating its way into one’s very heart?
Boat. No, my lass, I can’t say I’ve ever thought that.
Enter Dick Deadeye. He pushes through Sailors.
Dick. I have thought it often. (All recoil from him.)
But. Yes, you look like it! What’s the matter with the man? Isn’t he well?
Boat. Don’t take no heed of him; that’s only poor Dick Deadeye.
Dick. I say—it’s a beast of a name, ain’t it—Dick Deadeye?
But. It’s not a nice name.
Dick. I’m ugly too, ain’t I?
But. You are certainly plain.
Dick. And I’m three-cornered too, ain’t I?
But. You are rather triangular.
Dick. Ha! ha! That’s it. I’m ugly, and they hate me for it; for you all hate me, don’t you?
Boat. (crossing). Well, Dick, we wouldn’t go for to hurt any fellow-creature’s feelings, but you can’t expect a chap with such a name as Dick Deadeye to be a popular character—now, can you?
Dick. No.
Boat. It’s asking too much, ain’t it?
Dick. It is. From such a face and form as mine the noblest sentiments sound like the black utterances of a depraved imagination. It is human nature—I am resigned.
Recitative.
Enter Ralph from hatchway.
Madrigal.—Ralph.
Recitative.
Ballad.—Ralph.
[Exit Little Buttercup.
Boat. Ah, my poor lad, you’ve climbed too high: our worthy captain’s child won’t have nothin’ to say to a poor chap like you. Will she, lads?
Dick. No, no, captains’ daughters don’t marry foremast hands.
All (recoiling from him). Shame! shame!
Boat. (crossing). Dick Deadeye, them sentiments o’ yourn are a disgrace to our common natur’.
Ralph. But it’s a strange anomaly, that the daughter of a man who hails from the quarter-deck may not love another who lays out on the fore-yard arm. For a man is but a man, whether he hoists his flag at the maintruck or his slacks on the maindeck.
Dick. Ah, it’s a queer world!
Ralph. Dick Deadeye, I have no desire to press hardly on you, but such a revolutionary sentiment is enough to make an honest sailor shudder.
Boat. (who has gone on poop-deck, returns). My lads, our gallant captain has come on deck; let us greet him as so brave an officer and so gallant a seaman deserves.
Recitative.
Song.—Captain.
[After song exeunt all but Captain.
Enter Little Buttercup.
Recitative.
Enter Josephine on poop. She comes down, twining some flowers which she carries in a small basket.
Ballad.—Josephine.
Capt. My child, I grieve to see that you are a prey to melancholy. You should look your best to-day, for Sir Joseph Porter, K.C.B., will be here this afternoon to claim your promised hand.
Jos. Ah, father, your words cut me to the quick. I can esteem—reverence—venerate Sir Joseph, for he is a great and good man; but oh, I cannot love him! My heart is already given.
Capt. (aside). It is, then, as I feared. (Aloud.) Given? And to whom? Not to some gilded lordling?
Jos. No, father—the object of my love is no lordling. Oh, pity me, for he is but a humble sailor on board your own ship!
Capt. Impossible!
Jos. Yes, it is true—too true.
Capt. A common sailor? Oh, fie!
Jos. I blush for the weakness that allows me to cherish such a passion. I hate myself when I think of the depth to which I have stooped in permitting myself to think tenderly of one so ignobly born, but I love him! I love him! I love him! (Weeps.)
Capt. Come, my child, let us talk this over. In a matter of the heart I would not coerce my daughter—I attach but little value to rank or wealth, but the line must be drawn somewhere. A man in that station may be brave and worthy, but at every step he would commit solecisms that society would never pardon.
Jos. Oh, I have thought of this night and day. But fear not, father. I have a heart, and therefore I love; but I am your daughter, and therefore I am proud. Though I carry my love with me to the tomb, he shall never, never know it.
Capt. You are my daughter, after all. But see, Sir Joseph’s barge approaches, manned by twelve trusty oarsmen and accompanied by the admiring crowd of female relatives that attend him wherever he goes. Retire, my daughter, to your cabin—take this, his photograph, with you—it may help to bring you to a more reasonable frame of mind.
Jos. My own thoughtful father.
[Exit Josephine.
Barcarolle (without.)
[During this the Crew have entered on tiptoe, listening attentively to the song.
Chorus of Sailors.
Enter Sir Joseph’s Female Relatives. They dance round stage.
Enter Sir Joseph with Cousin Hebe.
Song.—Sir Joseph.
Song.—Sir Joseph.
Sir J. You’ve a remarkably fine crew, Captain Corcoran.
Capt. It is a fine crew, Sir Joseph.
Sir J. (examining a very small midshipman). A British sailor is a splendid fellow, Captain Corcoran.
Capt. A splendid fellow indeed, Sir Joseph.
Sir J. I hope you treat your crew kindly, Captain Corcoran.
Capt. Indeed, I hope so, Sir Joseph.
Sir J. Never forget that they are the bulwarks of England’s greatness, Captain Corcoran.
Capt. So I have always considered them, Sir Joseph.
Sir J. What percentage of words are spelled phonetically? No bullying, I trust—no strong language of any kind, eh?
Capt. Oh, never, Sir Joseph.
Sir J. What, never?
Capt. Hardly ever, Sir Joseph. They are an excellent crew, and do their work thoroughly without it.
Sir J. (reproving). Don’t patronize them, sir—pray, don’t patronize them.
Capt. Certainly not, Sir Joseph.
Sir J. That you are their captain is an accident of birth. I cannot permit these noble fellows to be patronized because an accident of birth has placed you above them and them below you.
Capt. I am the last person to insult a British sailor, Sir Joseph.
Sir J. You are the last person who did, Captain Corcoran. Desire that splendid seaman to step forward.
Capt. Ralph Rackstraw, come here.
Sir J. (sternly). If what?
Capt. I beg your pardon——
Sir J. If you please.
Capt. Oh yes, of course. If you please.
[Ralph steps forward.
Sir J. You’re a remarkably fine fellow.
Ralph. Yes, your honour.
Sir J. And a first-rate seaman, I’ll be bound.
Ralph. There’s not a smarter topman in the navy, your honour, though I say it who shouldn’t.
Sir J. Not at all. Proper self-respect, nothing more. Can you dance a hornpipe?
Ralph. No, your honour.
Sir J. That’s a pity: all sailors should dance hornpipes. I will teach you one this evening, after dinner. Now, tell me—don’t be afraid—how does your captain treat you, eh?
Ralph. A better captain don’t walk the deck, your honour.
All. Hear!
Sir J. Good. I like to hear you speak well of your commanding officer; I dare say he don’t deserve it, but still it does you credit. Can you sing?
Ralph. I can hum a little, your honour.
Sir J. Then hum this at your leisure. (Giving him MS. music.) It is a song that I have composed for the use of the Royal Navy. It is designed to encourage independence of thought and action in the lower branches of the service, and to teach the principle that a British sailor is any man’s equal, excepting mine. Now, Captain Corcoran, a word with you in your cabin, on a tender and sentimental subject.
Capt. Ay, ay, Sir Joseph. Boatswain, in commemoration of this joyous occupation, see that extra grog is served out to the ship’s company at one bell.
Boat. Beg pardon. If what, your honour?
Capt. If what? I don’t think I understand you.
Boat. If you please, your honour.
Capt. What!
Sir J. The gentleman is quite right. If you please.
Capt. (stamping his foot impatiently). If you please!
[Exeunt Captain and Sir Joseph into cabin.
Boat. Ah! Sir Joseph’s a true gentleman: courteous and considerate to the very humblest.
Ralph. True, Boatswain; but we are not the very humblest. Sir Joseph has explained our true position to us. As he says, a British seaman is any man’s equal excepting his; and if Sir Joseph says that, is it not our duty to believe him?
All. Well spoke! well spoke!
Dick. You’re on a wrong tack, and so is he. He means well, but he don’t know. When people have to obey other people’s orders, equality’s out of the question.
All (recoiling). Horrible! horrible!
Boat. Dick Deadeye, if you go for to infuriate this here ship’s company too far, I won’t answer for being able to hold ’em in. I’m shocked! that’s what I am—shocked!
Ralph (coming forward). Messmates, my mind’s made up. I’ll speak to the captain’s daughter, and tell her, like an honest man, of the honest love I have for her.
All. Hurrah!
Ralph. Is not my love as good as another’s? Is not my heart as true as another’s? Have I not hands and eyes and ears and limbs like another?
All. Ay, ay.
Ralph. True, I lack birth——
Boat. You’ve a berth on board this very ship.
Ralph. Well said—I had forgotten that. Messmates, what do you say? do you approve my determination?
All. We do.
Dick. I don’t.
Boat. What is to be done with this here hopeless chap? Let us sing him the song that Sir Joseph has kindly composed for us. Perhaps it will bring this here miserable creetur to a proper state of mind.
Glee.—Ralph, Boatswain, Boatswain’s Mate, and Chorus.
[All strike attitude and then dance off to hornpipe down hatchway, excepting Ralph, who remains, leaning pensively against bulwark.
Enter Josephine from cabin.
Jos. It is useless—Sir Joseph’s attentions nauseate me. I know that he is a truly great and good man, but to me he seems tedious, fretful, and dictatorial. Yet his must be a mind of no common order, or he would not dare to teach my dear father to dance a hornpipe on the cabin table. (Sees Ralph.) Ralph Rackstraw! (Overcome by emotion.)
Ralph. Ay, lady—no other than poor Ralph Rackstraw!
Jos. (aside). How my head beats! (Aloud.) And why poor, Ralph?
Ralph. I am poor in the essence of happiness, lady—rich only in never-ending unrest. In me there meet a combination of antithetical elements which are at eternal war with one another. Driven hither by objective influences—thither by subjective emotions—wafted one moment into blazing day by mocking hope—plunged the next into the Cimmerian darkness of tangible despair, I am but a living ganglion of irreconcilable antagonisms. I hope I make myself clear, lady?
Jos. Perfectly. (Aside.) His simple eloquence goes to my heart. Oh, if I dared—but no, the thought is madness! (Aloud.) Dismiss these foolish fancies, they torture you but needlessly. Come, make one effort.
Ralph (aside). I will—one. (Aloud.) Josephine!
Jos. (indignantly). Sir!
Ralph. Ay, even though Jove’s armoury were launched at the head of the audacious mortal whose lips, unhallowed by relationship, dared to breathe that precious word, yet would I breathe it once, and then perchance be silent evermore. Josephine, in one brief breath I will concentrate the hopes, the doubts, the anxious fears of six weary months. Josephine, I am a British sailor, and I love you!
Jos. Sir, this audacity! (Aside.) Oh, my heart, my heart! (Aloud.) This unwarrantable presumption on the part of a common sailor! (Aside.) Common! oh, the irony of the word! (Aloud.) Oh, sir, you forget the disparity in our ranks.
Ralph. I forget nothing, haughty lady. I love you desperately, my life is in thy hand—I lay it at your feet! Give me hope, and what I lack in education and polite accomplishments, that I will endeavour to acquire. Drive me to despair, and in death alone I shall look for consolation. I am proud, and cannot stoop to implore. I have spoken, and I wait your word!
Jos. You shall not wait long. Your proffered love I haughtily reject. Go, sir, and learn to cast your eyes on some village maiden in your own poor rank—they should be lowered before your captain’s daughter!
Duet.-Josephine and Ralph.
[Repeat refrain ensemble, then exit Josephine into cabin.
Recitative.—Ralph.
Enter Sailors, Hebe, and Relatives.
Enter Josephine.
Ensemble.
Sailors and Relatives, and Josephine.
Dick Deadeye.
(Dick appears at hatchway.)
(General Dance.)