SCENE I.—The Green Room of the Theatre Royal, Covent Garden. A Fire-place C., with a Looking-glass over it, on which a call is wafered. Curtain rises on Mr. Quin and Mrs. Clive, seated each side of Fire-place.
CLIVE. Who dines with Mr. Vane to-day besides ourselves?
QUIN. His inamorata, Mrs. Woffington, of this theatre.
CLIVE. Of course. But who else?
QUIN. Sir Charles Pomander. The critics, Snarl and Soaper, are invited, I believe.
CLIVE. Then I shall eat no dinner.
QUIN. Pooh! There is to be a haunch that will counterpoise in one hour a century of censure. Let them talk! the mouth will revenge the ears of Falstaff;—besides, Snarl is the only ill-natured one—Soaper praises people, don’t he?
CLIVE. Don’t be silly, Quin! Soaper’s praise is only a pin for his brother executioner to hang abuse on: by this means Snarl, who could not invent even ill-nature, is never at a loss. Snarl is his own weight in wormwood; but Soaper is—hush!—hold your tongue.
[Enter Snarl and Soaper L.D. Quin and Clive rise.]
(Clive, with engaging sweetness). Ah! Mr. Snarl! Mr. Soaper! we were talking of you.
SNARL. I am sorry for that, madam.
QUIN. We hear you dine with us at Mr. Vane’s.
SOAP. We have been invited, and are here to accept. I was told Mr. Vane was here.
QUIN. No; but he is on the stage.
SNARL. Come, then, Soaper.
[They move towards door.
SOAP. (aside). Snarl!
SNARL. Yes. (With a look of secret intelligence).
SOAP. (crosses slowly to Clive). My dear Mrs. Clive, there was I going away without telling you how charmed I was with your Flippanta; all that sweetness and womanly grace, with which you invested that character, was——
SNARL. Misplaced. Flippanta is a vixen, or she is nothing at all.
SOAP. Your Sir John Brute, sir, was a fine performance: you never forgot the gentleman even in your cups.
SNARL. Which, as Sir John Brute is the exact opposite of a gentleman, he ought to have forgotten.
[Exit L.
SOAP. But you must excuse me now; I will resume your praise at dinner-time.
[Exit, with bows, L.
CLIVE (walks in a rage). We are the most unfortunate of all artists. Nobody regards our feelings. (Quin shakes his head.)
[Enter Call-Boy L.]
CALL-BOY. Mr. Quin and Mrs. Clive!
[Exit Call-Boy L.
QUIN. I shall cut my part in this play.
CLIVE (yawns). Cut it as deep as you like, there will be enough left; and so I shall tell the author if he is there.
[Exeunt Quin and Clive L.
[Enter Mr. Vane and Sir Charles Pomander L.]
POM. All this eloquence might be compressed into one word—you love Mrs. Margaret Woffington.
VANE. I glory in it.
POM. Why not, if it amuses you? We all love an actress once in our lives, and none of us twice.
VANE. You are the slave of a word, Sir Charles Pomander. Would you confound black and white because both are colours? Actress! Can you not see that she is a being like her fellows in nothing but a name? Her voice is truth, told by music: theirs are jingling instruments of falsehood.
POM. No—they are all instruments; but hers is more skilfully tuned and played upon.
VANE. She is a fountain of true feeling.
POM. No—a pipe that conveys it, without spilling or retaining a drop.
VANE. She has a heart alive to every emotion.
POM. And influenced by none.
VANE. She is a divinity to worship.
POM. And a woman to fight shy of. No—no—we all know Peg Woffington; she is a decent actress on the boards, and a great actress off them. But I will tell you how to add a novel charm to her. Make her blush—ask her for the list of your predecessors.
VANE (with a mortified air). Sir Charles Pomander! But you yourself profess to admire her.
POM. And so I do, hugely. Notwithstanding the charms of the mysterious Hebe I told you of, whose antediluvian coach I extricated from the Slough of Despond, near Barnet, on my way to town yesterday, I gave La Woffington a proof of my devotion only two hours ago.
VANE. How?
POM. By offering her three hundred a-year—house—coach—pin-money—my heart——and the et ceteras.
VANE. You? But she has refused.
POM. My dear Arcadian, I am here to receive her answer. (Vane crosses to L. H.) You had better wait for it before making your avowal.
VANE. That avowal is made already; but I will wait, if but to see what a lesson the calumniated actress can read to the fine gentleman.
[Exit L. H.
POM. The lesson will be set by me—Woffington will learn it immediately. It is so simple, only three words, £. s. d.
[Exit L. H.
TRIPLET (speaking outside). Mr. Rich not in the theatre? Well, my engagements will allow of my waiting for a few minutes. (Enter Triplet and Call-Boy L. Triplet has a picture wrapped in baize and without a frame.) And if you will just let me know when Mr. Rich arrives (winks—touches his pocket). Heaven forgive me for raising groundless expectations!
CALL-BOY. What name, sir?
TRIP. Mr. Triplet.
CALL-BOY. Triplet! There is something left for you in the hall, sir.
[Exit Call-Boy L.
TRIP. I knew it, I sent him three tragedies. They are accepted; and he has left me a note in the hall, to fix the reading—at last. I felt it must come, soon or late; and it has come—late. Master of three arts, painting, writing, and acting, by each of which men grow fat, how was it possible I should go on perpetually starving. But that is all over now. My tragedies will be acted, the town will have an intellectual treat, and my wife and children will stab my heart no more with their hungry looks.
[Enter Call-Boy with parcel.]
CALL-BOY. Here is the parcel for you, sir.
[Exit Call-Boy L.
TRIP. (weighs it in his hand). Why, how is this? Oh, I see; he returns them for some trifling alterations. Well, if they are judicious, I shall certainly adopt them, for (opening the parcel) managers are practical men. My tragedies!—Eh? here are but two! one is accepted!—no! they are all here (sighs). Well, (spitefully) it is a thousand pounds out of Mr. Rich’s pocket, poor man! I pity him; and my hungry mouths at home! Heaven knows where I am to find bread for them to-morrow! Everything that will raise a shilling I have sold or pawned. Even my poor picture here, the portrait of Mrs. Woffington from memory—I tried to sell that this morning at every dealer’s in Long Acre—and not one would make me an offer.
[Enter Woffington L. reciting from a part.]
WOFF. “Now by the joys
Which my soul still has uncontroll’d pursued,
I would not turn aside from my least pleasure.
Though all thy force were armed to bar my way.”
TRIP. (aside, R.). Mrs. Woffington, the great original of my picture!
WOFF. (L.) “But like the birds, great nature’s happy commoners
Rifle the sweets”—I beg your pardon, sir!
TRIP. Nay, madam, pray continue; happy the hearer and still happier the author of verses so spoken.
WOFF. Yes, if you could persuade the authors how much they owe us, and how hard it is to find good music for indifferent words. Are you an author, sir?
TRIP. In a small way, madam; I have here three tragedies.
WOFF. (looking down at them with comical horror). Fifteen acts, mercy on us!
TRIP. Which if I could submit to Mrs. Woffington’s judgment——
WOFF. (recoiling). I am no judge of such things, sir.
TRIP. No more is the manager of this theatre.
WOFF. What! has he accepted them?
TRIP. No! madam! he has had them six months and returned them without a word.
WOFF. Patience, my good sir, patience! authors of tragedies should learn that virtue of their audiences. Do you know I called on Mr. Rich fifteen times before I could see him?
TRIP. You, madam, impossible!
WOFF. Oh, it was some years ago—and he has had to pay a hundred pounds for each of those little visits—let me see,—fifteen times—you must write twelve more tragedies—sixty acts—and then he will read one, and give you his judgment at last, and when you have got it—it won’t be worth a farthing.
(turns up reading her part.)
TRIP. (aside). One word from this laughing lady, and all my plays would be read—but I dare not ask her—she is up in the world, I am down. She is great—I am nobody—besides they say she is all brains and no heart (crosses to L. Moves sorrowfully towards L. D., taking his picture).
WOFF. He looks like a fifth act of a domestic tragedy. Stop, surely I know that doleful face—Sir!
TRIP. Madam!
WOFF. (beckons). We have met before;—don’t speak; yours is a face that has been kind to me, and I never forget those faces.
TRIP. Me, madam! I know better what is due to you than to be kind to you.
WOFF. To be sure! it is Mr. Triplet, good Mr. Triplet of Goodman’s-fields Theatre.
TRIP. It is, madam (opening his eyes with astonishment); but we don’t call him Mr., nor even good.
WOFF. Yes; it is Mr. Triplet (shakes both his hands warmly; he timidly drops a tragedy or two). Don’t you remember a little orange girl at Goodman’s Fields you used sometimes to pat on the head and give sixpence to, some seven years ago, Mr. Triplet?
TRIP. Ha! ha! I do remember one, with such a merry laugh and bright eye; and the broadest brogue of the whole sisterhood.
WOFF. Get along with your blarney then, Mr. Triplet, an’ is it the comether ye’d be puttin’ on poor little Peggy?
TRIP. Oh! oh! gracious goodness, oh!
WOFF. Yes; that friendless orange girl was Margaret Woffington! Well, old friend, you see time has treated me well. I hope he has been as kind to you; tell me, Mr. Triplet.
TRIP. (aside). I must put the best face on it with her. Yes, madam, he has blessed me with an excellent wife and three charming children. Mrs. Triplet was Mrs. Chatterton, of Goodman’s Fields—great in the juvenile parts—you remember her?
WOFF. (very drily). Yes, I remember her; where is she acting?
TRIP. Why, the cares of our family—and then her health (sighs). She has not acted these eight months.
WOFF. Ah!—and are you still painting scenes?
TRIP. With the pen, madam, not the brush! as the wags said, I have transferred the distemper from my canvas to my imagination, ha! ha!
WOFF. (aside). This man is acting gaiety. And have your pieces been successful?
TRIP. Eminently so—in the closet; the managers have as yet excluded them from the stage.
WOFF. Ah! now if those things were comedies, I would offer to act in one of them, and then the stage door would fly open at sight of the author.
TRIP. I’ll go home and write a comedy (moves).
WOFF. On second thoughts, perhaps you had better leave the tragedies with me.
TRIP. My dear madam!—and you will read them?
WOFF. Ahem! I will make poor Rich read them.
TRIP. But he has rejected them.
WOFF. That is the first step—reading comes after, when it comes at all.
TRIP. (aside). I must fly home and tell my wife.
WOFF. (aside). In the mean time I can put five guineas into his pocket. Mr. Triplet, do you write congratulatory verses—odes—and that sort of thing?
TRIP. Anything, madam, from an acrostic to an epic.
WOFF. Good, then I have a commission for you; I dine to-day at Mr. Vane’s, in Bloomsbury Square. We shall want some verses. Will you oblige us with a copy?
TRIP. (aside). A guinea in my way, at least. Oh, madam, do but give me a subject.
WOFF. Let’s see—myself, if you can write on such a theme.
TRIP. ’Tis the one I would have chosen out of all the heathen mythology; the praises of Venus and the Graces. I will set about it at once (takes up portrait).
WOFF. (sees picture). But what have you there? not another tragedy?
TRIP. (blushing). A poor thing, madam, a portrait—my own painting, from memory.
WOFF. Oh! oh! I’m a judge of painted faces; let me see it.
TRIP. Nay, madam!
WOFF. I insist! (She takes off the baize.) My own portrait, as I live! and a good likeness too, or my glass flatters me like the rest of them. And this you painted from memory?
TRIP. Yes, madam; I have a free admission to every part of the theatre before the curtain. I have so enjoyed your acting, that I have carried your face home with me every night, forgive my presumption, and tried to fix in the studio the impression of the stage.
WOFF. Do you know your portrait has merit? I will give you a sitting for the last touches.
TRIP. Oh, madam!
WOFF. And bring all the critics—there, no thanks or I’ll stay away. Stay, I must have your address.
TRIP. (returning to her). On the fly leaf of each work, madam, you will find the address of James Triplet, painter, actor, and dramatic author, and Mrs. Woffington’s humble and devoted servant. (Bows ridiculously low, moves away, but returns with an attempt at a jaunty manner.) Madam, you have inspired a son of Thespis with dreams of eloquence; you have tuned to a higher key a poet’s lyre; you have tinged a painter’s existence with brighter colours; and—and—(gazes on her and tries in vain to speak) God in heaven bless you, Mrs. Woffington!
[Exit L. hastily.
WOFF. So! I must look into this!
[Enter Sir Charles Pomander L.]
POM. Ah, Mrs. Woffington, I have just parted with an adorer of yours.
WOFF. I wish I could part with them all.
POM. Nay, this is a most original admirer, Ernest Vane, that pastoral youth who means to win La Woffington by agricultural courtship, who wants to take the star from its firmament, and stick it in a cottage.
WOFF. And what does the man think I am to do without this (imitates applause) from my dear public’s thousand hands.
POM. You are to have that from a single mouth instead (mimics a kiss).
WOFF. Go on, tell me what more he says.
POM. Why, he——
WOFF. No, you are not to invent; I should detect your work in a minute, and you would only spoil this man.
POM. He proposes to be your friend, rather than your lover; to fight for your reputation instead of adding to your éclat.
WOFF. Oh! and is Mr. Vane your friend?
POM. He is!
WOFF. (with significance). Why don’t you tell him my real character, and send him into the country again!
POM. I do; but he snaps his fingers at me and common sense and the world:—there is no getting rid of him, except in one way. I had this morning the honour, madam, of laying certain propositions at your feet.
WOFF. Oh, yes, your letter, Sir Charles (takes it out of her pocket). I ran my eye down it as I came along, let me see—(letter)—“a coach,” “a country house,” “pin-money.” Heigh ho! And I am so tired of houses, and coaches, and pins. Oh, yes, here is something. What is this you offer me, up in this corner?
[They inspect the letter together.]
POM. That,—my “heart!”
WOFF. And you can’t even write it; it looks just like “earth.” There is your letter, Sir Charles.
[Curtseys and returns it; he takes it and bows.]
POM. Favour me with your answer.
WOFF. You have it.
POM. (laughing). Tell me, do you really refuse?
WOFF. (inspecting him). Acting surprise? no, genuine! My good soul, are you so ignorant of the stage and the world, as not to know that I refuse such offers as yours every week of my life? I have refused so many of them, that I assure you I have begun to forget they are insults.
POM. Insults, madam! They are the highest compliment you have left it in our power to pay you.
WOFF. Indeed! Oh, I take your meaning. To be your mistress could be but a temporary disgrace; to be your wife might be a lasting discredit. Now sir, having played your rival’s game——
POM. Ah!
WOFF. And exposed your own hand, do something to recover the reputation of a man of the world. Leave the field before Mr. Vane can enjoy your discomfiture, for here he comes.
POM. I leave you, madam, but remember, my discomfiture is neither your triumph, nor your swain’s.
[Exit L.
WOFF. I do enjoy putting down these irresistibles.
[Enter Vane, L.]
At last! I have been here so long.
VANE. Alone?
WOFF. In company and solitude. What has annoyed you?
VANE. Nothing.
WOFF. Never try to conceal anything from me. I know the map of your face. These fourteen days you have been subject to some adverse influence; and to-day I have discovered whose it is.
VANE. No influence can ever shake yours.
WOFF. Dear friend, for your own sake, not mine; trust your own heart, eyes, and judgment.
VANE. I do. I love you; your face is the shrine of sincerity, truth, and candour. I alone know you: your flatterers do not—your detractors—oh! curse them!
WOFF. You see what men are! Have I done ill to hide the riches of my heart from the heartless, and keep them all for one honest man, who will be my friend, I hope, as well as my lover?
VANE. Ah, that is my ambition.
WOFF. We actresses make good the old proverb, “Many lovers, but few friends.” And oh! it is we who need a friend. Will you be mine?
VANE. I will. Then tell me the way for me, unequal in wit and address to many of your admirers, to win your esteem.
WOFF. I will tell you a sure way; never act in my presence, never try to be very clever or eloquent. Remember! I am the goddess of tricks: I can only love my superior. Be honest and frank as the day, and you will be my superior; and I shall love you, and bless the hour you shone on my artificial life.
VANE. Oh! thanks, thanks, for this, I trust, is in my power!
WOFF. Mind—it is no easy task: to be my friend is to respect me, that I may respect myself the more; to be my friend is to come between me and the temptations of an unprotected life—the recklessness of a vacant heart.
VANE. I will place all that is good about me at your feet. I will sympathize with you when you are sad; I win rejoice when you are gay.
WOFF. Will you scold me when I do wrong?
VANE. Scold you?
WOFF. Nobody scolds me now—a sure sign nobody loves me. Will you scold me?
VANE (tenderly). I will try! and I will be loyal and frank. You will not hate me for a confession I make myself? (agitated.)
WOFF. I shall like you better—oh! so much better.
VANE. Then I will own to you——
WOFF. Oh! do not tell me you have loved others before me; I could not bear to hear it.
VANE. No—no—I never loved till now.
WOFF. Let me hear that only. I am jealous even of the past. Say you never loved but me—never mind whether it is true—say so;—but it is true, for you do not yet know love. Ernest, shall I make you love me, as none of your sex ever loved? with heart, and brain, and breath, and life, and soul?
VANE. Teach me so to love, and I am yours for ever. (Pause) And now you will keep your promise, to make me happy with your presence this morning at the little festival I had arranged with Cibber and some of our friends of the theatre.
WOFF. I shall have so much pleasure; but, àpropos, you must include Snarl and Soaper in your list.
VANE. What! the redoubtable Aristarchuses of the pit?
WOFF. Yes. Oh, you don’t know the consequences of loving an actress. You will have to espouse my quarrels, manage my managers, and invite my critics to dinner.
VANE. They shall be invited, never fear.
WOFF. And I’ve a trust for you; poor Triplet’s three tragedies. If they are as heavy in the hearing as the carrying—— But here comes your rival, poor Pomander (crosses to L.).
[Enter Sir Charles, L.]
You will join our party at Mr. Vane’s, Sir Charles? You promised, you know (crosses to L.).
POM. (coldly). Desolé to forfeit such felicity; but I have business.
VANE (as he passes, crosses to C.). By-the-bye, Pomander, that answer to your letter to Mrs. Woffington?
WOFF. He has received it. N’est ce pas, Sir Charles? You see how radiant it has made him! Ha! ha!
[Exeunt Woffington and Vane L. H.
POM. Laughing devil! If you had wit to read beneath men’s surface, you would know it is no jest to make an enemy of Sir Charles Pomander.
[Enter Hundsdon, R.]
HUNDS. Servant, Sir Charles.
POM. Ah, my yeoman pricker, with news of the mysterious Hebe of my Barnet rencontre. Well, sirrah, you stayed by the coach as I bade you?
HUNDS. Yes, Sir Charles.
POM. And pumped the servants?
HUNDS. Yes, Sir Charles, till they swore they’d pump on me.
POM. My good fellow, contrive to answer my questions without punning, will you?
HUNDS. Yes, Sir Charles.
POM. What did you learn from them? Who is the lady, their mistress?
HUNDS. She is on her way to town to join her husband. They have only been married a twelvemonth; and he has been absent from her half the time.
POM. Good. Her name?
HUNDS. Vane.
POM. Vane!
HUNDS. Wife of Mr. Ernest Vane, a gentleman of good estate, Willoughby Manor, Huntingdonshire.
POM. What!—What!—His wife, by heaven! Oh! here is a rare revenge. Ride back, sirrah, and follow the coach to its destination.
HUNDS. They took master for a highwayman. If they knew him as well as I do, they wouldn’t do the road such an injustice.
[Exit R.
POM. (with energy). I’ll after them; and if I can but manage that Vane shall remain ignorant of her arrival, I may confront Hebe with Thalia; introduce the wife to the mistress under the husband’s roof. Aha! my Arcadian pair, there may be a guest at your banquet you little expect, besides Sir Charles Pomander!
[Exit L.
SCENE II.—A spacious and elegant Apartment in the House of Mr. Vane, opening into a Garden formally planted, with Statues, &c. A Table set for a collation, with Fruits, Flowers, Wine, and Plate. A Door C. flat, communicating with Entrance Hall, other Doors R. and L. Settees and high-backed Chairs, a Side Table with Plate, Salvers, &c.
[Colander discovered arranging table.]
COL. So! malmsey, fruit, tea, coffee, yes! all is ready against their leaving the dining-room!
[Enter James Burdock, a salver with letters in his hand.]
BUR. Post letters, Master Colander.
COL. Put ’em on the salver. (Burdock does so.) You may go, honest Burdock—(Burdock fidgets, turning the letters on the salver) when I say you may go—that means you must; the stable is your place when the family is not in Huntingdonshire, and at present the family is in London.
BUR. And I wish it was in Huntingdonshire, with the best part of it, and that’s mistress. Poor thing! A twelvemonth married, and six months of it as good as a widow.
COL. We write to her, James, and receive her replies.
BUR. Aye! but we don’t read ’em, it seems.
COL. We intend to do so at our leisure—meanwhile we make ourselves happy among the wits and the players.
BUR. And she do make others happy among the poor and the suffering.
COL. James Burdock, property has its duties, as well as its rights. Master enjoys the rights in town, and mistress discharges the duties in the country; ’tis the division of labour—and now vanish, honest James, the company will be here directly, and you know master can’t abide the smell of the stable (crosses to L.).
BUR. But, Master Colander, do let him have this letter from missus (holds out the letter he has taken from the salver).
COL. James Burdock, you are incorrigible. Have I not given it to him once already? and didn’t he fling it in my face and call me a puppy? I respect Mistress Vane, James; but I must remember what’s due to myself—I shan’t take it.
[Exit Colander 3 E. L.
BUR. Then I will—there! Poor dear lady! I can’t abear that her letters, with her heart in ’em, I’ll be sworn, should lie unopened. Barnet post mark!—why, how can that be? Well, it’s not my business. (puts salver on table 2 E. L.) Master shall have it though (hurried knocking heard). There goes that door, ah! I thought it wouldn’t be quiet long—what a rake-helly place this London is!
[Exit L.
[Re-enter with Mrs. Vane in a hood and travelling dress.]
BUR. Stop! stop! I don’t think master can see you, young woman.
MABEL. Why, James Burdock, have you forgotten your mistress? (removes her hood)
BUR. Mistress! why Miss Mabel—I ask your pardon, miss,—I mean, madam. Bless your sweet face!—here, John, Thomas!
MABEL. Hush!
BUR. Lord, lord! come at last! oh! how woundy glad I am, to be sure—oh! lord, lord, my old head’s all of a muddle with joy to see your kind face again.
MABEL. (R.) But Ernest—Mr. Vane, James, is he well—and happy—and (sees his change of face)—Eh! he is well, James?
BUR. Yes, yes, quite well, and main happy.
MABEL. And is he very impatient to see me?
BUR. (aside). Lord help her!
MABEL. But mind, James, not a word; he doesn’t expect me till six, and ’tis now scarce four. Oh! I shall startle him so!
BUR. Yes, yes, madam; you’ll startle him woundily.
MABEL. Oh! it will be so delightful to pop out upon him unawares—will it not, James?
BUR. Yes, Miss Mabel,—that is, madam; but hadn’t I better prepare him like?
MABEL. Not for the world. You know, James, when one is wishing for any one very much, the last hour’s waiting is always the most intolerable, so when he is most longing to see me, and counting the minutes to six, I’ll just open the door, and steal behind him, and fling my arms round his neck, and—but I shall be caught if I stay prattling here, and I must brush the dust from my hair, and smooth my dress, or I shall not be fit to be seen; so not a word to anybody, James, I insist, or I shall be angry. Where is my room? (goes to 3 E. R. and opens door) Oh, here!
BUR. Your room, Miss Mabel; no! no! that is Mr. Vane’s room, Ma’am.
MABEL. Well, Mr. Vane’s room is my room, I suppose (pausing at door). He is not there, is he?
BUR. No, Ma’am, he is in the dining-room (knock). Anon! anon!
MABEL. I fear my trunks will not be here in time for me to dress; but Ernest will not mind. He will see my heart in my face, and forgive my travelling sacque.
[Exit into apartment R. 2 E.
BUR. Poor thing! poor thing! (knock) there goes that door again—darn me if I go till I’ve seen Colander. Anon,—Miss Mabel!—(going to door 3 E. R.).
[Hundsdon enters 3 E. L.]
HUNDS. (aside and looking at Burdock). For all the world the twin brother to those bumpkins behind Hebe’s coach. Well, my honest fellow!
BUR. Well, my jack-a-dandy!
HUNDS. Can’st bring me Sir Charles Pomander hither, my honest fellow?
BUR. Here he’s a bringing himself, my jack-a-dandy.
[Exit C. L.
HUNDS. For so pretty a creature, she hath an establishment of the veriest brutes. Ah! here comes Master!
[Enter Sir Charles Pomander 3 E. L.]
POM. Well! is she arrived?
HUNDS. (aside to Pom.). I’ve marked her down, sir. She is here—in that room.
POM. Is her arrival known?
HUNDS. But to a rustic savage of a servant.
POM. Good! Take thy sheep’s face out of sight, incontinently.
HUNDS. Yes, Sir Charles.
POM. Hold! I have kept thee sober for two days. Here’s for thee to make a beast of thyself.
HUNDS. Nay, I’ll disappoint him, and profit by sobriety.
[Exit 3 E. L.
POM. So, the train is laid and I hold the match in my hand (Colander returns with servants, who bring tea, coffee, &c.).
[Enter Vane, Woffington, Quin, Clive, Cibber, Snarl and Soaper, as from the dining-room, laughing.]
QUIN. I hate this detestable innovation of outlandish drawing-room drinks—your tea and coffee—pshaw!
VANE. But you forget the ladies, Mr. Quin, and in the presence of Mr. Cibber too, whom I cannot thank enough for the honor of this visit.
CIB. Nay, sir, I bring my wit in exchange for your wine; we barter our respective superfluities.
QUIN. Good wine is no superfluity, Mr. Cibber; ’tis a necessary of life, just as much as good victuals.
SOAP. I vow Mr. Cibber is as lively as ever, and doesn’t look a day older: does he, Mr. Snarl?
SNARL. ’Tis that there’s no room on Mr. Cibber’s face for another wrinkle.
CIB. (takes snuff). Puppies!
QUIN. Really this is too bad, the coffee is getting cold (goes to table, R.).
CLIVE. So, no wonder Quin is getting warm—(gives him coffee). Here, bear! (Woffington presides over tea.)
CIB. You have a charming house here, Mr. Vane, I knew it in poor dear Lord Loungeville’s time. You may just remember him, Sir Charles?
POM. I never read ancient history.
CIB. Puppy! An unrivalled gallant, Peggy. Oh the petits soupers we have had here! Loungeville was a great creature, Sir Charles. I wish you may ever be like him.
POM. I sincerely trust not (goes to table, C.). I do not feel at all anxious to figure in the museum of town antiquities—labelled, “Old Beau, very curious.”
CIB. (aside). Coxcomb! Let me tell you your old beaux were the only ones worthy of winging the shafts from Cupid’s quiver.
SNARL. Witness Mr. Cibber (goes to table, C.).
WOFF. Oh, Colley is like old port—the more ancient he grows the more exquisite his perfume becomes.
SOAP. Capital! She alludes to Mr. Cibber’s pulvilio.
SNARL. And the crustier he gets.
SOAP. Delicious! He alludes to Mr. Cibber’s little irritability.
CIB. Ah, laugh at us old fellows as you will, young people; but I have known Loungeville entertain a fine lady in this very saloon, whilst a rival was fretting and fuming on the other side of that door. Ha, ha! (sighs.) It is all over now.
POM. Nay, Mr. Cibber, why assume that the house has lost its virtue in our friend’s hands?
CIB. Because, young gentleman, you all want sçavoir faire; the fellows of the day are all either unprincipled heathens like you, or cold blooded Amadisses like our host. The true Preux des Dames (regretfully) went out with the full periwig, stap my vitals!
QUIN. A bit of toast, Mr. Cibber? (goes to table.)
CIB. Jemmy, you are a brute.
QUIN. You refuse, Sir?
CIB. (with dignity). No, Sir, I accept.
(Quin takes plate of toast to table, R.)
POM. (goes to table). You Antediluvians must not flatter yourselves you have monopolized iniquity, or that the deluge washed away intrigue, and that a rake is a fossil. We are still as vicious as you could desire, Mr. Cibber. What if I bet a cool hundred round that Vane has a petticoat in the next room, and Mrs. Woffington shall bring her out.
VANE. Pomander! (checks himself) but we all know Pomander.
POM. Not yet, but you shall. Now don’t look so abominably innocent, my dear fellow, I ran her to earth in this house not ten minutes ago.
CIB. Have her out, Peggy! I know the run—there’s the cover—Hark forward! Yoicks! Ha, ha, ha! (coughing) Ho, ho!
VANE. Mr. Cibber, age and infirmity are privileged; but for you, Sir Charles Pomander—
WOFF. Don’t be angry. Do you not see it is a jest, and, as might be expected, a sorry one?
VANE. A jest; it must go no farther, or by Heaven!—
(Woffington places her hand on his shoulder—Mabel appears, D. R. 3 E.)
MABEL. Ernest, dear Ernest!
(Woffington removes her hand quickly.)
VANE. Mabel!
POM. I win (a pause of silent amazement).
(Vane looks round on the reverse side from Woffington.)
WOFF. (aside to Vane). Who is this?
VANE. My—my wife!
(All rise and bow. Colander places chair for Mrs. Vane.)
CIB. ’Fore Gad! he is stronger than Loungeville.
MABEL. You are not angry with me for this silly trick? After all I am but two hours before my time. You know, dearest, I said six in my letter.
VANE. Yes—yes!
MABEL. And you have had three days to prepare you, for I wrote like a good wife to ask leave before starting, ladies and gentlemen; but he never so much as answered my letter, madam (to Woffington, who winces).
VANE. Why, you c—c—couldn’t doubt, Mabel? (Cibber joins Snarl and Soaper at table L.)
MABEL. No, silence gives consent; but I beg your pardon, ladies (looking to Woffington), for being so glad to see my husband.
SNARL. ’Tis a failing, madam, you will soon get over in town (laugh).
MABEL. Nay, sir, I hope not; but I warrant me you did not look for me so soon.
WOFF. Some of us did not look for you at all.
MABEL. What! Ernest did not tell you he expected me?
WOFF. No; he told us the entertainment was in honor of a lady’s first visit to his house; but he did not tell us that lady was his wife.
VANE (aside to Woff.). Spare her!
WOFF. (aside to Vane). Have you spared me?
POM. No doubt he wished to procure us that agreeable surprise, which you have procured him.
SNARL. And which he evidently enjoys so much.
SOAP. Oh, evidently.
[Cibber, Snarl, and Soaper, laugh, aside.
VANE. You had better retire, Mabel, and change your travelling dress.
MABEL. Nay; you forget, I am a stranger to your friends. Will you not introduce me to them first?
VANE. No, no; it is not usual to introduce in the polite world.
WOFF. We always introduce ourselves (rises).
[All come down except Vane and Quin.]
VANE (aside to Woff.). Madam, for pity’s sake!
WOFF. So, if you will permit me.
POM. (aside). Now for the explosion!
VANE (aside). She will shew me no mercy.
WOFF. (introducing Clive). Lady Lurewell!
CLIVE. Madam! (She curtsies.) If she had made me a commoner, I’d have exposed her on the spot.
WOFF. (introducing him). Sir John Brute!
QUIN (he comes forward, aside to Woff.). Hang it! Falstaff!
WOFF. Sir John Brute Falstaff! we call him for brevity, Brute.
POM. (aside). Missed fire! Confound her ready wit.
VANE (aside). I breathe again.
WOFF. That is Lord Foppington (crosses to Cibber), a butterfly of long standing and a little gouty. Sir Charles Pomander!
POM. Who will spare you the trouble of a description (crossing to Mabel), as he has already had the honour of avowing himself Mrs. Vane’s most humble servant.
VANE. How? (Advances C.)
MABEL. The good gentleman who helped my coach out of the slough yesterday.
VANE. Ah! (goes up to the table, L. U. E.)
WOFF. Mr. Soaper, Mr. Snarl—gentlemen who would butter and cut up their own fathers!
MABEL. Bless me; cannibals!
WOFF. (with a sweet smile). No; critics.
MABEL. But yourself, madam?
WOFF. (curtseying). I am the Lady Betty Modish, at your service.
CLIVE (aside to Quin). And anybody else’s.
MABEL. Oh dear, so many lords and ladies!
VANE. Pray go, and change your dress, Mabel.
MABEL. What! before you hear the news of dear Willoughby, Ernest? Lady Betty, I had so many things to tell him, and he sends me away.
CIBBER. Nay, really, ’tis too cruel.
WOFF. Pray, madam, your budget of country news: clotted cream so seldom comes to London quite fresh.
MABEL. There you see, Ernest. First, then, Grey Gillian is turned out for a brood mare, so old George won’t let me ride her.
WOFF. The barbarian!
MABEL. Old servants are such hard masters, my lady; and my Barbary hen has laid two eggs, Ernest. Heaven knows the trouble we have had to bring her to it. And dame Best (that’s his old nurse, Lady Lurewell) has had soup and pudding from the hall every day.
QUIN. Soup and pudding! that’s what I call true charity.
MABEL. Yes; and once she went so far as to say, “it wasn’t altogether a bad pudding.” I made it with these hands.
CIBBER. Happy pudding!
VANE. Is this mockery, sir?
CIBBER. No, sir, it is gallantry; an exercise that died before you were born. Madam, shall I have the honour of kissing one of the fair hands that made that most favoured of puddings?
MABEL. Oh, my Lord, you may, because you are so old; but I don’t say so for a young gentleman, unless it was Ernest himself, and he doesn’t ask me.
[Cibber, Snarl, and Soaper go up.]
VANE (angrily). My dear Mabel, pray remember we are not at Willoughby.
CLIVE. Now, bear, where’s your paw? (going up R.)
QUIN. All I regret is, that I go without having helped Mrs. Vane to buttered toast.
CLIVE. Poor Quin, first to quit his bottle half finished, and now, to leave the run of the table for a walk in the garden!
[Exeunt U. E. R.
VANE. Let me shew you to your apartment (rings bell, leads her to door R.).
[Enter Servant L. H.]
Bid the musicians play.
[Exit Servant L. H.
(Vane offers his arm to Woff.) Let me conduct you to the garden.
[Music. Woffington gives her hand and goes off with Vane (L. C.): in going out she looks back. Music.]
WOFF. (aside). Yes; there are triumphs out of the theatre.
[Exit with Vane, L. C.
CIBBER (crosses to Mabel). Mr. Vane’s garden will lack its fairest flower, madam, if you desert us.
MABEL (R.). Nay, my Lord, there are fairer here than I.
POM. (goes up to C. L.) Jealous, I see, already. Shall I tell her all? No; I will let the green-eyed monster breach the fortress, and then I shall walk in without a contest.
CIBBER (meeting Sir Charles at C. L.). Your arm, Sir Charles.
POM. At your service, Mr. Cibber.
[Exeunt Pomander and Cibber U. E. L.
SNARL. A pleasant party, Mr. Soaper.
SOAPER. Remarkably. Such a delightful meeting of husband and wife, Mr. Snarl!
[Exeunt L. C.
[Music ceases.
MABEL. How kind they all are to me, except him whose kindness alone I value, and he must take Lady Betty’s hand instead of mine; but that is good breeding I suppose. I wish there was no such thing as good breeding in London, any more than in Huntingdonshire.
COLANDER (without, angrily, C. L.) I tell you Mr. Vane is not at home.
MABEL. What is the matter?
[Triplet discovered attempting to force his way through L. C. Colander bars his entrance. Triplet carries a portfolio, two volumes, and a roll of manuscript.]
COL. I tell you he is not at home, sir.
MABEL. How can you say so, when you know he is in the garden.
COL. Ugh! (aside) the simpleton.
MABEL. Show the gentleman in.
COL. Gentleman!
TRIP. A thousand thanks, madam, for this condescension; I will wait Mr. Vane’s leisure in the hall.
MABEL. Nay, sir, not in the hall, ’tis cold there. Tell Mr. Vane the gentleman waits. Will you go, sirrah?
COL. I am gone, madam. (Aside) Porter to players! and now usher to an author! curse me if I stand it.
[Exit L. U. E.
TRIP. (advancing). A thousand apologies, madam, for the trouble I put you to. I—madam—you overwhelm me with confusion.
MABEL. Nay—nay—be seated.
TRIP. Madam, you are too condescending. (Aside) Who can she be? (Bows again and again.)
MABEL. Nay, sit down and rest you. (Triplet bows, and sits on the edge of a chair, with astonishment). You look sadly adust and tired.
TRIP. Why, yes, madam; it is a long way from Lambeth; and the heat is surpassing (takes his handkerchief out to wipe his brow: returns it somewhat hastily to his pocket). I beg your pardon, I forgot myself.
MABEL (aside). Poor man, he looks sadly lean and hungry. And I’ll be bound you came in such a hurry, you forgot—you mustn’t be angry with me—to have your dinner first.
TRIP. How strange! Madam, you have guessed it. I did forget—he, he!—I have such a head—not that I need have forgotten it—but being used to forget it, I did not remember not to forget it to-day (smiles absurdly).
MABEL (pours wine). A glass of wine, sir?
TRIP. (rising and bowing). Nay, madam (eyes the wine—drinks). Nectar, as I am a man. (She helps him to refreshments).
MABEL. Take a biscuit, sir?
TRIP. (eating). Madam, as I said before, you overwhelm me. Walking certainly makes one hungry (eats). Oh, yes, it certainly does (Mabel helps him); and though I do not usually eat at this time of the day. (Mabel helps him again.)
MABEL. I am sorry Mr. Vane keeps you waiting.
TRIP. By no means, Madam, it is very fortunate (eats)—I mean it procures me the pleasure of (eats) your society. Besides, the servants of the Muse are used to waiting. What we are not used to is (she fills his glass) being waited on by Hebe and the Twelve Graces, whose health I have the honour!—Falernian, as I’m a poet!
MABEL. A poet! (clapping her hands.) Oh, I am so glad! I never thought to see a living poet; I do so love poetry!
TRIP. Ha! it is in your face, madam. I should be proud to have your opinion of this trifle composed by me for Mr. Vane, in honour of the lady he expected this morning.
MABEL (aside). Dear Ernest! how ungrateful I was. Nay, sir, I think I know the lady; and it would be hardly proper for me to hear them.
TRIP. (after placing the MS. by the side of his plate, with another plate to keep it open; laying his hand on his heart). Oh, strictly correct, Madam. James Triplet never stooped to the loose taste of the town, even in trifles of this sort. (Reads) “When first from Albion’s isle——”
MABEL. Take another glass of wine first.
TRIP. Madam, I will (drinks). I thank you infinitely. (Reads) “When first from Albion’s isle——”
MABEL. Another biscuit (helps him).
TRIP. Madam (eats a mouthful), you do me infinite honour. (Reads again) “When first from Albion’s isle——”
MABEL. No—no—no! (stops her ears.) Mr. Vane intended them for a surprise, and it would spoil his pleasure were I to hear them from you.
TRIP. (sighs). As you please, madam! But you would have liked them, for the theme inspired me. The kindest, the most generous and gifted of women!—don’t you agree with me, madam?
MABEL (laughs). No, indeed!
TRIP. Ah! if you knew her as I do.
MABEL. I ought to know her better, sir.
TRIP. Her kindness to me, for instance: a poor devil like me, if I may be allowed the expression.
MABEL. Nay, you exaggerate her trifling act of civility.
TRIP. (reproachfully). Act of civility, madam! Why she has saved me from despair—from starvation perhaps.
MABEL (aside). Poor thing! how hungry he must have been.
TRIP. And she’s to sit to me for her portrait, too.
MABEL. Her portrait! (aside.) Oh, another attention of Ernest’s—but I thought you were a poet, sir?
TRIP. So I am, madam, from an epitaph to an epic. Let me convince you. (Reads) “When first from Albion’s isle——”
MABEL. But you spoke just now of painting. Are you a painter too?
TRIP. From a scene to a sign-board; from a house-front to an historical composition.
MABEL. Oh, what a clever man! And so Ernest commissioned you to paint this portrait?
TRIP. No; for that I am indebted to the lady herself.
MABEL. The lady? (Rises).
TRIP. I expected to find her here;—perhaps you can inform me whether she is arrived?
MABEL (aside). Not my portrait after all. Who?
TRIP. Mrs. Woffington.
MABEL. Woffington? No, there was no such name among the guests Mr. Vane received to-day.
TRIP. That is strange! She was to be here; and therefore I expedited the verses in her honour.
MABEL (ruefully). In her honour?
TRIP. Yes, Madam: the subject is “Genius trampling on Envy.” It begins—(reads). “When first from Albion’s Isle——”
MABEL. Nay, I do not care to hear them, for I do not know the lady.
TRIP. Few really know her; but at least you have seen her act.
MABEL. Act! Is she an actress?
TRIP. An actress, madam! The Actress!—and you have never seen her! Madam, you have a great pleasure before you; to see her act is a privilege, but to act with her, as I once did, though she doesn’t remember it—I was hissed, madam, owing to circumstances which for the credit of our common nature I suppress.
MABEL. An actor too!
TRIP. And it was in a farce of my own too, madam, which was damned—accidentally.
MABEL. And a play-writer?
TRIP. Plays, madam! I have written a library of them; but the madmen who manage the patent houses won’t act them and make their fortunes. You see in me a dramatic gold mine, lost because no company will work me.
MABEL. Yes, yes; but tell me! this actress:—Mr. Vane admires her?
TRIP. Mr. Vane is a gentleman of taste, madam.
MABEL. And she was to have been here? There were none but persons of quality—Ah! the news of my intended arrival—no doubt—well Mr.——
TRIP. Triplet, madam! James Triplet, 10, Hercules Buildings, Lambeth: occasional verses, odes, epithalamia, elegies, dedications, translations, and every species of literary composition executed with spirit, punctuality, and secrecy. Portraits painted, and lessons given in declamation and the dramatic art. The card, madam, (presents card) of him, who, to all these qualifications adds a prouder still—that of being your humble, devoted, and truly grateful servant—James Triplet (bows and moves off,—returns). The fact is, madam, it may appear strange to you, but a kind hand has not so often been held out to me, that I should forget it, especially when that hand is so fair and gracious as yours. May I be permitted, madam? (puts her hand to his lips,) you will impute it to gratitude rather than audacity—madam, I am gone—I flatter myself James Triplet, throughout this charming interview, has conducted himself like what he may not appear to be—a gentleman.—Madam, I take my final leave.
[Exit 3 E. L.
MABEL. Invite an actress to his house! but Ernest is so warm-hearted and generous; no doubt ’tis as Mr. Triplet says; he has admired her acting and wished to mark his sense of her merit by presenting her these verses, and a dinner.
[Music.
These poor actors and actresses! I have seen some of them down in Huntingdonshire, and I know what a kindness it is to give them a good meal. (crosses to L.).
[Enter Sir Charles Pomander, L. C. down R.]
POM. What, madam, all alone, here as in Huntingdonshire! Force of habit. A husband with a wife in Huntingdonshire is so like a bachelor.
MABEL. Sir!
POM. And our excellent Ernest is such a favourite.
MABEL. No wonder.
POM. There are not many who can so pass in six months from the larva state of Bumpkin to the butterfly existence of Beau.
[Music ceases.
MABEL. Yes; (sadly) I find him changed.
POM. Changed? transformed! He is now the prop of the Cocoa-tree—the star of Ranelagh—the Lauzum of the Green Room.
MABEL. The green room?
POM. Ah, I forgot! you are fresh from Eden; the Green Room, my dear madam, is the bower where fairies put off their wings and goddesses become dowdies—where Lady Macbeth weeps over her lap-dog’s indigestion, and Belvidera groans over the amount of her last milliner’s bill. In a word, the Green Room is the place where actors and actresses become mere men and women, and the name is no doubt derived from the general character of its unprofessional visitors.
MABEL. And is it possible that Ernest, Mr. Vane, frequents such places?
POM. He has earned in six months a reputation that many a fine gentleman would give his ears for—not a scandalous journal he has not figured in—not an actress of reputation or no reputation, but gossip has given him for a conquest.
MABEL. You forget, sir, you are speaking to his wife.
POM. On the contrary, madam; but you would be sure to learn this, and it is best you should learn it at once and from a friend.
MABEL. Is it the office of a friend to calumniate the husband to the wife?
POM. When he admires the wife, he reprobates the husband’s ill-taste in neglecting her.
MABEL. Do you suppose I did not know of his having invited Mrs. Woffington to his house to day?
POM. What! you found her out? you detected the Actress-of-all-work under the airs of Lady Betty Modish.
MABEL. Lady Betty Modish!
POM. Yes; that was La Woffington.
MABEL. Whom he had invited hither to present her with a copy of verses.
POM. Et cetera.
MABEL. And who in an actress’s sudden frolic, gave herself and her companions those titles without my husband’s connivance.
POM. Vane could not have explained it half so well. These women are incredibles.
MABEL. Had the visit been in any other character, do you think he would have chosen for it the day of my arrival?
POM. Certainly not, if he knew you were coming.
MABEL. And he did know; why here (seeing letters on table L.) are my letters announcing my intention to start—my progress on the road—the last written from Barnet, only yesterday.
[While speaking she has gone to the salver, and hastily taken the letters, which she offers Pomander with triumph. He takes them with an uncertain air, looks at them—gives them back to her—after a pause—
POM. (coolly). The seals have not been broken, Madam.
MABEL (bursting into tears). Unopened! It is too true! Flung aside unread! and I have learned by heart every word he ever wrote to me. Sir, you have struck down the hope and trust of my life without remorse. May heaven forgive you!
POM. Madam! let me, who have learned to adore you——
MABEL. I may no longer hold a place in my husband’s heart—but I am still mistress of his house—leave it, Sir!
POM. Your wishes are my law (going),—but here they come! (crosses to L.) Use the right of a wife, watch them unseen, and you will soon learn whether I am mistaken, or you misinformed.
MABEL (violently). No! I will not dog my husband’s steps at the bidding of his treacherous friend (watches Pomander out).
POM. (aside). She will watch them.
[Exit.
[After a moment or two of irresolution, Mabel crouches down behind a chair. Enter Vane C. L. conducting Woffington: they pass without observing Mabel.]
VANE. But one word—I can explain all. Let me accompany you to this painter’s. I am ready to renounce credit—character—wife—all for you!
WOFF. I go alone, sir. Call Mrs. Woffington’s coach.
[Exit Woff. followed by Vane.
MABEL (starting from seat). Oh, no, no!—you cannot use me so. Ernest! Husband! (tries to rush towards L. D. Swoons. Vane returns.)
VANE. Who called me? Mabel—my wife! (stamps) help, here!—what have I done? (He raises her in his arms.)
[END OF ACT I.]