The Mimic Stage / A Series of Dramas, Comedies, Burlesques, and Farces for Public Exhibitions and Private Theatricals

“‘We are three brethren out of Spain,

Come to court your daughter Jane.’

‘My daughter Jane she is too young:

She is not skilled in flattering tongue.’

‘Be she young, or be she old,

’Tis for her gold she must be sold.

So fare you well, my lady gay:

We will return another day.’”

How do you like that?

Stella. (Fiercely.) I don’t like it.

Festus. No? Perhaps you prefer some other style of delivery. (Reads with a drawl.)

“‘We awe thwe bwethwen aw-out of Spain,

Come to court-aw your dawtaw Jane-aw.’”

Stella. Oh, do read some thing else!

Festus. Certainly.

“Hi diddel diddel! the cat and the fiddle!

The cow jumped over the moon”—

Stella. (Jumps up.) Pray, sir, do you intend to read that nonsense the whole evening?

Festus. Oh, no! I think I can get through the book in about an hour.

Stella. Sir, you have forced yourself here, an unwelcome visitor: you insist upon my hearing such nonsense as Mother-Goose melodies for an hour. Do you call that gentlemanly?

Festus. Madam, you advertised for a reader. I have applied, with your permission, for the situation. Under the circumstances, I naturally expected to have your attention during the reading of such selections as I should offer; instead of which, you turn your back upon me, and very coolly bid me proceed. Do you call that ladylike?

Stella. Frankly, no. You have asked the trial: you shall have it. For an hour I will hear you; and, though I strongly suspect the situation of reader is not the object of your visit, you shall have no reason to complain of my inattention. Is that satisfactory?

Festus. Pray go a step farther. You are said to have fine elocutionary powers. May I not hope to have the pleasure of hearing your voice? Grant me your assistance, and my hour’s trial may perhaps be made agreeable to both.

Stella. Oh! not quite certain of your ability, Mr. Festus?

Festus. Not in the presence of so fine a reader.

Stella. A compliment! Well, I agree.

Festus. Let me hear you read: that will give me courage to make the attempt myself.

Stella. Oh, very well! Remembering your partiality for juvenile literature, you will pardon me if I read a very short but sweet poem. (Produces a printed handkerchief from her pocket.)

Festus. Ah, a pocket edition!

Stella. (Reads from the handkerchief.)

“Who sat and watched my infant head

When sleeping on my cradle-bed,

And tears of sweet affection shed?

My mother.

When sleep forsook my open eye,

Who was it sang sweet lullaby,

And rocked me that I should not cry?

My mother.

When pain and sickness made me cry,

Who gazed upon my heavy eye,

And wept for fear that I should die?

My mother.”

There, sir! what do you say to that?

Festus. It’s very sweet. But that child had too many mothers. Now, I prefer Tom Hood’s parody. (Reads “A Lay of Real Life,” by Thomas Hood.)

A LAY OF REAL LIFE.

Who ruined me ere I was born,

Sold every acre, grass or corn,

And left the next heir all forlorn?

My Grandfather.

Who said my mother was no nurse,

And physicked me, and made me worse,

Till infancy became a curse?

My Grandmother.

Who left me in my seventh year,

A comfort to my mother dear,

And Mr. Pope the overseer?

My Father.

Who let me starve to buy her gin,

Till all my bones came through my skin,

Then called me “ugly little sin”?

My Mother.

Who said my mother was a Turk,

And took me home, and made me work,

But managed half my meals to shirk?

My Aunt.

Who “of all earthly things” would boast,

“He hated others’ brats the most,”

And therefore made me feel my post?

My Uncle.

Who got in scrapes, an endless score,

And always laid them at my door,

Till many a bitter bang I bore?

My Cousin.

Who took me home when mother died,

Again with father to reside,

Black shoes, clean knives, run far and wide?

My Stepmother.

Who marred my stealthy urchin joys,

And, when I played, cried “What a noise!”—

Girls always hector over boys—

My Sister.

Who used to share in what was mine,

Or took it all, did he incline,

’Cause I was eight, and he was nine?

My Brother.

Who stroked my head, and said, “Good lad,”

And gave me sixpence, “all he had;”

But at the stall the coin was bad?

My Godfather.

Who, gratis, shared my social glass,

But, when misfortune came to pass,

Referred me to the pump? Alas!

My Friend.

Through all this weary world, in brief,

Who ever sympathized with grief,

Or shared my joy, my sole relief?

Myself.

Stella. That is very amusing; but, Mr. Festus, if this is the extent of your elocutionary acquirements—

Festus. Oh, I beg your pardon! By no means! With your permission, I will read something a little more sombre,—Edgar Poe’s “Raven.”

Stella. That is certainly more sombre. Proceed.

Reading. “The Raven,” by Edgar A. Poe. Festus.

Stella. Excellent! Mr. Festus, you are certainly a good reader. But this seems to affect you.

Festus. It does, it does; for I, too, have lost one—

Stella. A raven?

Festus. Pshaw! Come, madam, I believe you are to read now, and I to listen.

Stella. Certainly. I will read, with your permission, Whittier’s “Maud Muller.”

Festus. I should be delighted to hear it.

Reading. “Maud Muller.” Stella.

Festus. Beautiful, beautiful! Madam, this, too, affects me.

Stella. How?

Festus. When I think “it might have been.”

Stella. Then I wouldn’t think of it, if I were you. What shall we have now?

Festus. Suppose we read together.

Stella. Together?

Festus. Yes, a scene from some play. There’s “The Marble Heart.”

Stella. Oh, there’s nothing in that but love-scenes!

Festus. It’s a favorite play with me; and I have been thinking, while you were reading, that the character of “Marco” is one in which you might excel.

Stella. Indeed! I have studied the character.

Festus. (Aside.) I should think so. (Aloud.) Let us attempt a scene. Come, you shall have your choice.

Stella. Thank you. Then I will choose “the rejection scene.”

Festus. (Aside.) Of course you would! (Aloud.) Very well.

Stella. Do you know, Mr. Festus, I think there is something very odd in your attempting a love-scene?

Festus. Do you? I have attempted them, and with success too.

Stella. Ah! I remember there was one attempted here.

Festus. Indeed!

Stella. Yes; but the gentleman’s name was not Festus.

Festus. Shall we try the scene?

Stella. You must prompt me if I fail.

Festus. Fail! “In the bright lexicon of youth, there’s no such word as fail.”

Stella. Ah! but, in attempts at acting, there are many failures.

Festus. True; but yours will not be one of them.

Stella. (Aside.) Another compliment! I begin to like the fellow.

Festus. Now, then, the scene! (Stella takes a bouquet from the table, sits on tête-à-tête, R.)

SCENE FROM “THE MARBLE HEART.”

(Arranged for this piece.)

Marco, Stella. Raphael, Festus.

Raph. I have endured the sarcasms of Monsieur de Veaudore, the disavowal of your love, the reproaches and anger of my only friend, who insulted me in my last adieu: for your sake, I have become a coward, a crawling, abject wretch, without heart, without mind, without shame. (Throws himself into chair, L., and covers his face with his hands. A pause. Marco pulls the bouquet to pieces. Raphael raises his head, looks at her, and endeavors to speak with firmness.) What did that man say to you? I have a right to ask.

Marco. (Smiling in derision.) Right!

Raph. Yes, Marco, the right of a man, who, knowing he is to die, would learn the time and manner of his death. He told you he loved you?

Marco. (Carelessly.) Perhaps he did: what then?

Raph. (Violently.) You accepted his love?

Marco. I will not answer you.

Raph. But you must, you shall!

Marco. (Disdainfully.) Shall!

Raph. He offered you his hand? (A pause.) Speak, Marco, speak: in mercy let me know the worst.

Marco. He did.

Raph. And you accepted?

Marco. (Coldly.) Yes.

Raph. (Greatly agitated.) O Marco, Marco! (Violently, rising.) You shall not marry him!

Marco. (With contempt.) Who shall prevent me?

Raph. (With a burst of fury.) The man you have wronged! (Suddenly losing all command over himself, and throwing himself at her feet in an agony of grief.) No, no! Pity, pity for the wretched maniac who cannot live without you—humanity—remorse—

Marco. (Taking away her hand, and rising, with contempt and rage.) Remorse! I am weary of this persecution, these clamors, these maledictions. You think me a monster of falsehood, inconstant as the wind, perfidious as the ocean, the incarnation of caprice, selfishness, and cruelty? And why? Because I am too wise to rush headlong to ruin, and too proud to be pitied.

Raph. Pitied, Marco!

Marco. Yes (vehemently), pitied, insulted, and despised. Look at me now, surrounded with every luxury that art can invent and gold can purchase. Everybody bows to me. I am a queen. Divest me of these gilded claims to the world’s respect, and what am I? (Bitterly.) The dust—the friends who now follow my carriage, and fight for my smiles, will mock me, spurn me, and trample upon me.

Raph. Marco, Marco! in mercy—

Marco. I have known poverty, and have suffered such tortures in its hideous grasp that my heart sickens and my soul shudders at facing it again. You will perhaps laugh at my fear, and say there is happiness in poverty. (Laughing in scorn.) Yes, for those who are born to it; but to have known better days, and fall! Oh the misery, the heart-desolation, the despair! My father was rich and proud, the descendant of a noble family. He lived in splendor, and brought me up to despise every thing but wealth. He showed me its power: it surrounded him with friends and flatterers, and made life a perpetual summer. An evil day arrived: he speculated, and was reduced to his last crown. Where were his friends? (Laughing in scorn, and speaking in a hoarse voice.) They passed him in the street without recognition, they maligned, they despised, they forgot him. (Sinks into a chair, sobbing, and wiping her eyes.)

Raph. Forbear, Marco, forbear!

Marco. Ten years (oh, how long the days and months!) we lived in poverty,—abject, squalid, starving poverty. I saw my father in the prime of his life grow old, decrepit, and insane. In his ravings he had but one thought, “Money, money, money!” “Cling to it, my child,” he would say to me with glaring eyes and grinding teeth,—“cling to it, Marco, as you would to a raft in shipwreck: it is the all in all of our existence. See what the loss of it has brought to me. Let your heart be marble to every thing but gold, gold, gold!”

Raph. O misery!

Marco. My father died, and I was left dependent on the charity of my relations. (With savage scorn.) Charity! I wore their cast clothes, waited on their will,—their servant, their encumbrance, their hopeless slave. One happy day, Providence came to my relief: I was left a small fortune. (Rising.) From that moment I became a statue. The recollection of my days of misery extinguished the glowing impulses of my youth; and I lived on the surface of the world, mixing in all its gay pleasures, caressed and fêted, the idol of the hour, hating and despising the smiling monster, and devising means to secure my independence. A wealthy marriage was the only course; and for that I have devoted myself, heart and mind; for that I have been cruel, false, and pitiless; for that I am deaf to reproaches, dead to remorse. (Sits.)

Raph. (In amazement.) I hear you, Marco, and disbelieve my ears: I see you, and doubt my eyes. Those fearful words, those evil looks,—is it possible such hideousness can dwell in such a heavenly shrine? (Growing gradually frantic.) But I am glad, very glad, you have at last been candid with me: it relieves me from a world of sorrow, it rescues me from despair. Yet I hoped you had some regard for me, some little regret for—Ah, well! it was my accursed vanity. How could I ever hope to?— (Laughing hysterically, and speaking in a hoarse whisper.) I, too, am a deception: I have pretended to devote to you my heart, my life, my soul—no such thing! I, too, wore a mask—ha, ha, ha! When my eyes looked fondest, my heart was plotting treachery; when I swore you were my happiness, I felt you were my curse; when I vowed I could not live without you, I was devising means to break with you—ha, ha, ha! We owe each other nothing; we are both demons: but the comedy is over now, and the actors have returned to their every-day costumes and natures. I wish to be a gentleman, like Monsieur Veaudore. Mademoiselle Marco, I ask pardon for having annoyed you so long. I leave you to your pleasures. (He endeavors to kiss her hand; but she recoils, alarmed by the wildness of his tone and looks.) What do you fear? (With a burst of maniac laughter.) There is no venom on my lips: it is in my heart! (Kisses her hand.)

Marco. (Alarmed, trying to pacify him.) Come, come, Raphael, let us be friends.

Raph. (With a vacant stare.) Friends!—oh, yes! delighted! (Bowing with cold politeness, in the manner of his first introduction.) Mademoiselle Marco, I believe—beautiful, very beautiful, but (shaking his head mournfully) false, false, fatally false. (Sighing, and putting his hand to his head.) Ah, yes! and now we are friends (shaking both her hands, and looking at her earnestly),—yes, yes, real friends; for we no longer love, no longer deceive each other.

Marco. Raphael!

Raph. We thought we were happy. (Laughing.) Vain delusion! we were breaking our hearts. (With a sudden alteration of tone and countenance conveying that the recollection of his home had suddenly come to his mind.) Yes, yes (with a tremulous voice), breaking our hearts; but we were not the only sufferers. No, no: there were other hearts breaking, others (in an agony of suppressed grief) I had forgotten. But my absence is desired, and some older friends claim my politeness. Adieu! (Going.)

Marco. You will call and see me sometimes in Paris?

Raph. (Gayly bowing with affected politeness.) You are very kind; but I fear I shall not often be able to profit by your politeness, for my work—you understand—it is necessary that I should repair the time I have lost; and besides, when I and the persons who reside with me have recovered our happiness, it would be indiscreet to revive recollections that might jeopardize it.

Marco. (Coldly.) Well, then, at least you’ll try? (Sits on sofa.)

Raph. (Suffocating with suppressed emotion.) Yes, yes: I will try. (Puts his hand hastily to his heart with an exclamation of acute pain.)

Marco. (Alarmed.) Raphael!

Raph. (After a violent effort to calm himself.) ’Tis nothing, ’tis nothing! (Staggering to go off, L.)

Marco. Are you going to Paris?

Raph. Yes, yes, oh, yes! Don’t you know—they are waiting for me.

Marco. Take my carriage.

Raph. (With scorn.) No, no (with a maniac smile): I shall walk, walk. (Bitterly.) Poverty should walk: the weather is superb (endeavoring to be gay)—and (his forces nearly abandoning him)—my heart—is so light—I—I (staggering to table, and taking his hat)—Adieu, Mademoiselle Marco, adieu (faintly)—adieu, adieu! (Staggers off, L.)

Marco. (Rising from sofa, and looking after him with deep emotion.) O Raphael, Raphael! my heart is not quite marble; no, no, not quite! (Falls back on sofa, covers her face with her handkerchief, and weeps.)

Re-enter Raphael.

Marco. (With a smile, holding out her hand.) Thank you for returning; thank you for not taking my follies in earnest: this goodness endears you to me more than ever. (Raphael stands fixed, looking at her with a cold, immovable countenance.) You love me still? (Trying to draw him to her.) Yes, yes: I see you do; and you will pardon me! (She is about to put her arm round his neck: he looks sternly at her, and repels her by extending his arms with an action of disdain.) Oh! do not look at me thus: you frighten me—

Raph. (With terrible calmness.) Give me my portrait. (Pointing to it on her neck.)

Marco. Nay, I am sure—

Raph. (Sternly.) Give it me! (Marco gives it him.) Don’t be alarmed, it is only the painting I reclaim. (Taking it from the frame.) I leave you the diamonds. (Gives back the frame and chain.)

Marco. Raphael!

Raph. Marco, shall I tell you why for a moment you have love on your lips and in your eyes? ’Tis because you have learned that in recalling me you could break another heart: the feeling which guided you was not the happiness of Raphael, but the despair of Marie. (Marco starts.) Now, adieu. But first give me your wreath.

Marco. My wreath?

Raph. (Approaching.) I would have it.

Marco. (Recoiling alarmed.) Are you mad?

Raph. (Wildly.) Take it off, take it off! White roses are the symbols of purity; they make you hideous: they are only for the brows of innocence and truth. (Tears the crown from her head, and dashes it on the ground.)

END OF PART I.

PART II.

Scene.—Same as before. Enter Festus, C.

Festus. It is astonishing how much a little borrowed plumage becomes a bashful man. The ice once broken by the inspiring thoughts and words of the love-sick “Raphael,” I feel now almost equal to the composition and delivery of an energetic and passionate appeal that shall carry the heart of the lady by storm; but then, having once been refused, I dread a second attempt. “A burnt child fears the fire;” and a singed lover trembles before the blazing eyes of the object of his adoration. I have yet a short time before the expiration of my hour of trial, and the character of “Sir Thomas Clifford” from which to borrow courage. (Enter Stella, C.)

Stella. Well, mysterious “Festus,” what new fancy is agitating your fertile brain?

Festus. Madam, to tell you the truth, I was—thinking—of you.

Stella. Of me, or of your future salary?

Festus. Both.

Stella. What of me?

Festus. (Very awkward and confused.) That I think—I think—that you—you—are—are—

Stella. Well, what am I?

Festus. (Abruptly.) A very fine reader.

Stella. Oh! is that all?

Festus. All worth mentioning.

Stella. Sir!

Festus. That is all I am at liberty to mention.

Stella. What if I should grant you liberty to say more?

Festus. Oh! then—then I should say—I should say—

Stella. Well, what would you say?

Festus. It’s your turn to read.

Stella. (Aside.) Stupid! (Aloud.) Well, sir, what shall I read?

Festus. Oh! oblige me by making your own selection.

Stella. There’s “The Bells,” by Poe. Do you like that?

Festus. Oh, exceedingly!

Stella. But I don’t know how to read it: it’s very difficult.

Festus. Perhaps I can assist you. (Aside.) I’ll provoke her a bit; see if she has a temper.

Stella. Well, you are very kind. (Aside.) I’ll see if I can make him talk.

Festus. Well, then, you take the book, and read. (Hands her copy of Poe.) When I think you need correcting, I will speak.

Stella. Very well. (They sit, C. Stella reads in a very tragic tone, emphasizing the words in italics.)

“Hear the sledges with the bells,

Silver bells!”

Festus. Oh, stop, stop, stop! Dear me! that’s not the way to read. There’s no silver in your bells. Listen:—

“Hear the sledges with the bells,

Sil-ver bells!”

Very silvery, don’t you see?

Stella. Oh, yes! excuse me. (Reads in a very silly tone.)

“Hear the sledges with the bells,

Sil——ver bells!”

Festus. Oh, no, no! that’s too silly.

Stella. Sir!

Festus. I mean, there’s too much of the sil in silver. (Repeats his reading. She imitates it.)

Festus. Ah! that’s better. Thank you: you are charming. (She looks at him.) That is, a charming reader. Go on.

Stella. (Reads.)

“What a world of merriment their melody foretells!

How they tinkle”—

Festus. (Interrupting.) I beg your pardon: “twinkle.”

Stella. No, sir: “tinkle.”

Festus. But I am sure it is “twinkle.”

Stella. Can’t I believe my own eyes?

Festus. Not unless they “twinkle.”

Stella. Look for yourself. (Shows him the book.)

Festus. My stars! it is “tinkle.” I beg your pardon. Go on.

Stella.

“How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,

In the icy air”—

Festus. No, no: frosty,—frosty air.

Stella. No, sir: it’s icy air.

Festus. You are mistaken: “frosty.”

Stella. Am I? Look for yourself.

Festus. Well, I declare! It is, I see, icy. I beg your pardon. Go on.

Stella. I see, I see. You are bent on interrupting me. What do you mean, sir?

Festus. What can you expect, if you don’t know how to read?

Stella. Sir, this is provoking. I don’t know how to read?

Festus. Not “The Bells,” I know.

Stella. Oh! do you? Well, sir, I know you are no gentleman; and I know, if you want “The Bells” read (starts up, and throws book at him), read it yourself.

Festus. Madam, what am I to understand by this?

Stella. That your presence is no longer agreeable to me.

Festus. Oh, very well, very well! I understand you wish me to go. (Stella stands, R., with her back to him.) You wish me to go. I will intrude no longer. (Very loud.) Since you—wish—me—to—go— (Aside.) Confound it, I believe she does! (Aloud.) Very well, madam, very well. Good-evening. (Exit, L.)

Stella. He’ll be back in three minutes. (Enter Festus, L.)

Festus. I forgot my hat. You’ll excuse me if I take my— (Aside.) Confound it, she won’t speak! (Stands irresolute a moment, then approaches her.) Madam,—Stella,—I was wrong. You can read “The Bells” divinely. I hear them ringing in my ears now. I beg your pardon. Read “The Bells” in any manner you please: I shall be delighted to listen.

Stella. Oh, very well! Since you have returned, I will read.

Reading. “The Bells,” Poe. Stella.

Festus. Splendid, splendid!

Stella. Now, sir, I shall be happy to listen to you once more.

Festus. Your “Bells” have stirred the fires of patriotism within my heart; and I will give you, as my selection, “Sheridan’s Ride.”

Reading. “Sheridan’s Ride,” Reid. Festus.

Stella. Excellent! Mr. Festus, you are a very spirited rider,—I mean reader. Now, suppose, for variety, we have another scene.

Festus. With all my heart. What shall it be?

Stella. Oh! you select. Pray, Mr. Festus, did you have any design in selecting the scene from “The Marble Heart”?

Festus. Well, I like that. You selected it yourself.

Stella. But the play was your selection; and you were very perfect in the part of “Raphael.”

Festus. Well, I selected what I thought I should most excel in.

Stella. You excel in love-making! That’s good. But I must say, you act it well.

Festus. Yes—that is—I think that circumstances—occurring—which would make—circumstances—perfectly—that is, I mean to say that—circumstances—indeed—what were you saying?

Stella. Ha, ha, ha! O mighty Festus! you’ve lost your place; but, as you have a partiality for love-scenes, what is your next?

Festus. What say you to a scene from “The Hunchback”? “The secretary of my lord”? You know the scene,—“Julia” and “Sir Thomas Clifford.”

Stella. Oh, yes! I am familiar with it; but I think, as an applicant for a situation, you are making me perform more than my share of work.

Festus. Oh! if you object—

Stella. Oh! but I don’t object. Proceed. (Sits, L. of table. Festus exits, L.)

SCENE FROM “THE HUNCHBACK.”

(Arranged for this piece.)

Julia, Stella. Sir Thomas Clifford, Festus.

Jul. (Alone.) A wedded bride?

Is it a dream?

Oh, would it were a dream!

How would I bless the sun that waked me from it!

I am wrecked

By mine own act! What! no escape? no hope?

None! I must e’en abide these hated nuptials!

Hated!—ay, own it, and then curse thyself

That mad’st the bane thou loathest for the love

Thou bear’st to one who never can be thine!

Yes, love! Deceive thyself no longer. False

To say ’tis pity for his fall,—respect

Engendered by a hollow world’s disdain,

Which hoots whom fickle fortune cheers no more!

’Tis none of these: ’tis love, and, if not love,

Why, then, idolatry! Ay, that’s the name

To speak the broadest, deepest, strongest passion

That ever woman’s heart was borne away by!

He comes! Thou’dst play the lady,—play it now!

(Enter Clifford, L.)

Speaks he not?

Or does he wait for orders to unfold

His business? Stopped his business till I spoke,

I’d hold my peace forever!

(Clifford kneels, presenting a letter.)

Does he kneel?

A lady am I to my heart’s content!

Could he unmake me that which claims his knee,

I’d kneel to him,—I would, I would! Your will?

Clif. This letter from my lord.

Jul. Oh, fate! who speaks?

Clif. The secretary of my lord.

(Rises.)

Jul. I breathe!

I could have sworn ’twas he!

(Makes an effort to look at him, but is unable.)

So like the voice!—

I dare not look lest there the form should stand.

How came he by that voice? ’Tis Clifford’s voice

If ever Clifford spoke! My fears come back.

Clifford, the secretary of my lord!

Fortune hath freaks, but none so mad as that.

It cannot be!—it should not be! A look,

And all were set at rest.

(Tries to look at him again, but cannot.)

So strong my fears,

Dread to confirm them takes away the power

To try and end them. Come the worst, I’ll look.

(She tries again, and is again unequal to the task.)

I’d sink before him if I met his eye!

Clif. Wilt please your ladyship to take the letter?

Jul. There, Clifford speaks again! Not Clifford’s breath

Could more make Clifford’s voice; not Clifford’s tongue

And lips more frame it into Clifford’s speech.

A question, and ’tis over! Know I you?

Clif. Reverse of fortune, lady, changes friends:

It turns them into strangers. What I am

I have not always been.

Jul. Could I not name you?

Clif. If your disdain for one, perhaps too bold

When hollow fortune called him favorite,

Now by her fickleness perforce reduced

To take an humble tone, would suffer you—

Jul. I might?

Clif. You might.

Jul. O Clifford! is it you?

Clif. Your answer to my lord.

(Gives the letter.)

Jul. Your lord!

Clif. Wilt write it?

Or, will it please you send a verbal one?

I’ll bear it faithfully.

Jul. You’ll bear it?

Clif. Madam,

Your pardon; but my haste is somewhat urgent.

My lord’s impatient, and to use despatch

Were his repeated orders.

Jul. Orders? Well (takes letter),

I’ll read the letter, sir. ’Tis right you mind

His lordship’s orders. They are paramount.

Nothing should supersede them. Stand beside them!

They merit all your care, and have it! Fit,

Most fit, they should. Give me the letter, sir.

Clif. You have it, madam.

Jul. So! How poor a thing

I look! so lost while he is all himself!

Have I no pride?

If he can freeze, ’tis time that I grow cold.

I’ll read the letter.

(Opens it, and holds it as about to read it.)

Mind his orders! So!

Quickly he fits his habits to his fortunes!

He serves my lord with all his will! His heart’s

In his vocation. So! Is this the letter?

’Tis upside down, and here I’m poring on’t!

Most fit I let him see me play the fool!

Shame! Let me be myself!

(She sits awhile at table, vacantly gazing on the letter, then looks at Clifford.)

How plainly shows his humble suit!

It fits not him that wears it. I have wronged him!

He can’t be happy—does not look it—is not!

That eye which reads the ground is argument

Enough. He loves me. There I let him stand,

And I am sitting!

(Rises, and points to a chair.)

Pray you, take a chair.

(He bows as acknowledging and declining the honor. She looks at him awhile.)

Clifford, why don’t you speak to me!

(Weeps.)

Clif. I trust

You’re happy.

Jul. Happy? Very, very happy!

You see I weep I am so happy. Tears

Are signs, you know, of naught but happiness.

When first I saw you, little did I look

To be so happy. Clifford!

Clif. Madam?

Jul. Madam!

I call thee Clifford, and thou call’st me madam!

Clif. Such the address my duty stints me to.

Thou art the wife elect of a proud earl

Whose humble secretary sole am I.

Jul. Most right! I had forgot! I thank you, sir,

For so reminding me, and give you joy

That what, I see, had been a burthen to you

Is fairly off your hands.

Clif. A burthen to me?

Mean you yourself? Are you that burthen, Julia?

Say that the sun’s a burthen to the earth!

Say that the blood’s a burthen to the heart!

Say health’s a burthen, peace, contentment, joy,

Fame, riches, honors, every thing that man

Desires, and gives the name of blessing to!—

E’en such a burthen Julia were to me

Had fortune let me wear her.

Jul. (Aside.) On the brink

Of what a precipice I’m standing! Back,

Back! while the faculty remains to do’t!

A minute longer, not the whirlpool’s self

More sure to suck thee down! One effort! (Sits.) There!

(Recovers her self-possession, takes up the letter, and reads.)

To wed to-morrow night! Wed whom? A man

Whom I can never love! I should before

Have thought of that. To-morrow night! This hour

To-morrow,—how I tremble!

At what means

Will not the desperate snatch! What’s honor’s price?

Nor friends, nor lovers,—no, nor life itself!

Clifford, this moment leave me!

(Clifford retires up the stage out of her sight.)

Is he gone?

Oh, docile lover! Do his mistress’ wish

That went against his own! Do it so soon,

Ere well ’twas uttered! No good-by to her!

No word, no look! ’Twas best that so he went.

Alas the strait of her who owns that best

Which last she’d wish were done! What’s left me now?

To weep, to weep!

(Leans her head upon her arm, which rests upon the table, her other arm hanging listless at her side. Clifford comes down the stage, looks a moment at her, approaches her, and, kneeling, takes her hand.)

Clif. My Julia!

Jul. Here again?

Up, up! By all thy hopes of heaven go hence!

To stay’s perdition to me! Look you, Clifford!

Were there a grave where thou art kneeling now,

I’d walk into’t and be inearthed alive

Ere taint should touch my name! Should some one come

And see thee kneeling thus! Let go my hand!—

Remember, Clifford, I’m a promised bride—

And take thy arm away! It has no right

To clasp my waist! Judge you so poorly of me

As think I’ll suffer this? My honor, sir!

(She breaks from him, quitting her seat.)

I’m glad you’ve forced me to respect myself:

You’ll find that I can do so.

Clif. There was a time I held your hand unchid;

There was a time I might have clasped your waist:

I had forgot that time was past and gone.

I pray you, pardon me.

Jul. (Softened.) I do so, Clifford.

Clif. I shall no more offend.

Jul. Make sure of that.

No longer is it fit thou keep’st thy post

In’s lordship’s household. Give it up! A day,

An hour, remain not in it.

Clif. Wherefore?

Jul. Live,

In the same house with me, and I another’s?

Put miles, put leagues, between us! The same land

Should not contain us.

O Clifford, Clifford!

Rash was the act, so light that gave me up,

That stung a woman’s pride, and drove her mad,

Till in her frenzy she destroyed her peace!

Oh, it was rashly done! Had you reproved,

Expostulated, had you reasoned with me,

Tried to find out what was indeed my heart,

I would have shown it, you’d have seen it, all

Had been as nought can ever be again.

Clif. Lov’st thou me, Julia?

Jul. Dost thou ask me, Clifford?

Clif. These nuptials may be shunned—

Jul. With honor?

Clif. Yes.

Jul. Then take me! Hold!—hear me, and take me, then!

Let not thy passion be my counsellor;

Deal with me, Clifford, as my brother. Be

The jealous guardian of my spotless name.

Scan thou my cause as ’twere thy sister’s. Let

Thy scrutiny o’erlook no point of it,

And turn it o’er not once, but many a time,

That flaw, speck, yea, the shade of one,—a soil

So slight not one out of a thousand eyes

Could find it out,—may not escape thee; then

Say if these nuptials can be shunned with honor!

Clif. They can.

Jul. Then take me, Clifford—

Festus. Stop one moment. (Looks at watch.) Time’s up.

Stella. So soon?

Festus. The tone of your voice expresses regret. What is your decision?

Stella. My decision?

Festus. Upon my application for the situation of reader. Shall I have it?

Stella. Perhaps the terms will not suit.

Festus. Madam, I am willing to serve you on any terms. Allow me to throw off the mask of “Festus,” which of course you have seen through, and offer myself for a situation under the name of—

Stella. Stop: you are not going to pronounce that name before all these good people?

Festus. Of course not. But what shall I do? Stella, I feel that “Raphael” and “Sir Thomas Clifford” have inspired me to attempt love-making on my own account. Grant me the opportunity to make application for the situation made vacant by my unceremonious exit the other night. Let “Festus” apply once more.

Stella. What shall I say? (To audience.) Would you? He seems to have found his tongue; and who knows but what he may make an agreeable beau? I think he had better call again; for to have a lover who can make love by borrowing, is, at least,—under the circumstances—under the circumstances—what is it, Festus?

Festus. Circumstances? Why, under the circumstances, I should say it was “An Original Idea.”

CURTAIN.

Note. The “Readings” and “Scenes” may be varied to suit the taste of the performers. “The Garden Scene” in “Romeo and Juliet,” scenes from “Ingomar,” “The School for Scandal,” &c., have been used with good effect.

The Mimic Stage / A Series of Dramas, Comedies, Burlesques, and Farces for Public Exhibitions and Private Theatricals

About This Book

PART II.