LADY MATCHLESS. Do not be angry, dear rustic, for we are both enamoratas as well as you — nay, perhaps I am so with yourself. Hang constancy, yon know too much of the world to be constant, sure.
WISEMORE. ‘Tis from a knowledge of the world, madam, that I am constant — For I know it has nothing which can pay me for the exchange.
LADY MATCHLESS. Come, come, you would have more modern notions if you knew that a certain woman of fortune has some kind thoughts of you; and, I assure you, I am not what I seem.
WISEMORE. Faith, madam, I should not. Grandeur is to me nauseous as a gilded pill, and fortune, as it can never raise my esteem for the possessor, can never raise my love. My heart is no place of mercenary entertainment, nor owns more than one mistress. Its spacious rooms are all, all hers who slights and despises it. Yes, she has abandoned me, and I will abandon myself to despair; so, pray, leave me to it, for such as you can have no business with the unhappy.
LADY MATCHLESS. Generous, worthy man! [Aside.] Romantic nonsense! I tell you I am a woman of family and fortune, perhaps beauty too, and so violently enamoured of your humour, that I am afraid my life is in your power.
WISEMORE. Would your tongue was in my power, though I question, even then, the possibility of stopping it. I wonder the anatomy of a woman’s tongue does not enable our modern philosophers to discover a perpetual motion. To me, the Turkish yawl at an onset, the Irish howl at a funeral, or the Indian exclamation at an eclipse, are all soft music to that single noise. — It has no likeness in nature but a rattlesnake; the noise as odious, and the venom as dangerous.
LADY MATCHLESS. But, like a rattlesnake, it gives you warning, and if you will front the danger you must blame your own prowess if you smart for it.
WISEMORE. The serpent practises not half your wiles. He covers not his poison with the cloak of love. Like lawyers, you gild your deceit, and lead us to misery, whilst we imagine ourselves pursuing happiness.
LADY MATCHLESS. Ha! ha! ha! piqued malice! You have lost an estate for want of money, and a mistress for want of wit.
WISEMORE. Methinks, either of those possessions should be maintained by juster titles. — In my opinion, the only title to the first should be right, and, to the latter, merit, love, and constancy.
LADY MATCHLESS. Ha! ha! ha! Then know, thou romantic hero, that right is a sort of knight-errant, whom we have long since laughed out of the world. Merit is demerit, constancy dulness, and love an out-of-fashion Saxon word, which no polite person understands. Lookee, sir, pull out your purse to a lawyer, and your snuff-box to a lady, and I warrant you carry your point with both.
WISEMORE. The purse may, indeed, win the lawyer, but for the other, you must depend on chance. You may as well teach us a certain method to gain that fickle, airy, imaginary mistress, Fortune, whose emblems you are. For your favours, are as blindly bestowed, as fickle in their duration — and, like Fortune, you often curse him most to whom you seem most kind.
SCENE III.
To them, MALVIL.
MALVIL. Wisemore, and women? My philosopher turned rake? Good morrow, Ned; I see a country gentleman must have his morning walk.
WISEMORE. What does he mean? this coldness ill suits his letter. [Aside.] Ay, sir, and you are very seasonably come to my assistance, or I had been devoured by two shewolves, more ravenous than any in the desarts of America.
MALVIL. Nay, ladies, it was barbarous to attack with odds, and when even singly you might have vanquished.
[Talks apart with Vermilia.
WISEMORE. Will you take away your companion, and leave us, for that gentleman and I have business?
LADY MATCHLESS. Not till you agree to an assignation. Promise to meet me barefaced at ten, and I am your servant.
WISEMORE. I’ll promise anything to be rid of you.
LADY MATCHLESS. Step aside, then, and I’ll give you the signals. [Malvil and Vermilia advance.
VERMILIA. Indeed, so gallant!
MALVIL. O, madam, a lady is never more agreeable to me than at first sight, for, to my temper, a woman palls as much by frequent conversation as enjoyment.
VERMILIA. But how are you sure that first sight will be agreeable?
MALVIL. Why, faith, as no woman has charms enough to engage my constancy to the last, so neither does any want enough to fire my desires at first. But, if thy face be potently ugly, keep it to thyself, and discover only thy beauties. You are young, I am sure, and well-shaped, have a vast share of wit, and very little share of modesty.
VERMILIA. Impudence! In what, pray, have I discovered my want of it?
MALVIL. In your pretension to it, child; and, faith, that’s better than the real possession. What is modesty, but a flaming sword to keep mankind out of Paradise? It is a Jack-with-a-lanthorn, that misleads poor women in their roads to happiness. It is the contempt of all society. Lawyers call it the sign of a bad cause, soldiers of cowardice, courtiers of ill breeding, and women — the worst sign of a fool. Indeed it has sometimes made a good cloak for the beauteous, tawdry outside of a lady’s reputation, but, like other cloaks, it is now out of fashion, and worn no where but in the country.
VERMILIA. Then, silence your impertinence at once, know, sir, that I’m a woman of fashion, rigidly virtuous, and severely modest.
MALVIL. A blank verse, faith, and may make a figure in a fustian tragedy. Four fine sounding words, and mean just nothing at all.
VERMILIA. I suppose these are sentiments of you fine modern gentlemen. The beans of this age, like the critics, will not see perfections in others which they are strangers to themselves. You confine the masterly hand of nature to the narrow bands of your own conceptions.
MALVIL. Why, what have we here? Seneca’s morals under a masque.
VERMILIA. I hope that title will prevent your farther perusal.
MALVIL. I’ll tell you a way to do it.
VERMILIA. O name it.
MALVIL. Unmasque then. If I like your face no better than your principles, madam, I will immediately take my leave of both.
VERMILIA. That’s an uncertainty, I’m afraid, considering the sentiments you just now professed. — Was you, indeed, the hero in love which your friend was there?
MALVIL. No, faith. I have been hero in love long enough.
VERMILIA. What woman was blessed with so faithful an admirer? Pray what was your mistress’s name?
MALVIL. Her name was nothing. I was violently enamoured with a constellation of virtues in a fine lady, who had not one in her whole composition.
VERMILIA. And pray, sir, how was you cured of your love?
MALVIL. As children are of their fear when they discover the bugbear.
LADY MATCHLESS. [Advancing with Wisemore.] Well, you will be punctual?
VERMILIA. O, my dear, I have met with a discarded lover too, full as romantic as yours.
LADY MATCHLESS. Say you so? then, I believe, these are the two famed heroes in Don Quixote.
WISEMORE. Shall we never lose your prating?
LADY MATCHLESS. Promise not to dodge us.
WISEMORE. Not even to look after you.
LADY MATCHLESS. Adieu then.
VERMILIA. By constancy; ha, ha, ha!
SCENE IV.
WISEMORE, MALVIL.
WISEMORE. Well, sir, you see I am come.
MALVIL. And am very sorry to see it too, Ned, ha, ha, ha!
WISEMORE. This reception, sir, ill agrees with your letter; but ‘twere absurd to expect coherences in a madman’s behaviour.
MALVIL. What’s this?
WISEMORE. Was it, sir, from my expressed abhorrence of this civil butchery you pitched on me as one who would give you the reputation of a duellist without the danger? perhaps, you had rather met with another.
MALVIL. That I had, indeed.
WISEMORE. Death and the devil! did you invite me here to laugh at me?
MALVIL. Are you mad, or in a dream?
WISEMORE. He who denies to-day what he writes yesterday, either dreams, or worse. Your monstrous jealo
usy, your challenge, and your present behaviour, look like a feverish dream.
MALVIL. Invite! jealousy! challenge! what do you mean?
WISEMORE. [Shows a letter.] Read there, then ask my meaning?
MALVIL. [Reads.] Ha! my letter to Merital! villainous jade! she has altered the name too on the superscription. I am amused, indeed.
WISEMORE. Well, sir!
MALVIL. Wisemore, be assured my surprise is equal to yours. This letter, I did, indeed, write, but not to you.
WISEMORE. HOW!
MALVIL. Believe me, on my honour, I did not send it you. His name to whom I designed it is erased, and yours superscribed, I suppose, by the person to whom I entrusted the delivery. And, be assured, you was not the enemy I wished to meet here.
WISEMORE. What novel’s this?
MALVIL. Faith! it may be a pleasant one to you, and no less useful to me. But the morning is late; you shall go home, and breakfast at my lodgings, and, in the way, I will let you into the whole story.
WISEMORE. Whatever it be which clears my friend from the imputation of so wild a delusion must be agreeable to me.
MALVIL. And now we will have our swing at satire against the sex.
WISEMORE. I shall be as severe as a damned poet is on the age.
MALVIL. And, perhaps, for the same reason — at least the world will always give satire on women the names of malice and revenge — whoever aims at it will succeed,
Like a detracting courier in disgrace,
The wise will say, He only wants a place.
SCENE V
SIR POSITIVE TRAP’S House.
HELENA. [Alone.] Of three deplorable evils, which shall I choose! to endure the tyranny of an imperious aunt? to venture on a man whose inconstancy I have been an ocular witness of? or support the company of a fool for life? Certainly the last is the least terrible. I do now think our parents are wiser than we are, and have reason to curb our inclinations: since it is a happier lot to marry a fool with a good estate than a knave without one.
SCENE VI.
SIR POSITIVE TRAP, HELENA.
SIR POSITIVE TRAP. Are you ready? Are you prepared? Hey?
HELENA. I am sensible, sir, how unworthily I had fixed my heart; and I think, neither wisdom nor honour oblige me to be undutiful to you longer.
SIR POSITIVE TRAP. You are a wise girl! a very wise girl! and have considered doubtless the vast difference between a Baronet and a Mister. Ha, ha! and here he comes.
SCENE VII.
To them, SIR APISH SIMPLE.
SIR POSITIVE TRAP. Sir Apish Simple, your humble servant. You are early. What, you have not slept a wink. I did not sleep for a week before I was married to my lady.
SIR APISH SIMPLE. You had a very strong constitution then, Sir Positive. Sir POSITIVE Trap. Ay, sir, we are a strong family, an Herculean race! Hercules was a Trap by his mother’s side. Well, well, my niece there has given her consent, and every thing is ready. So take her by the hand — and —
SIR APISH. Upon my word, Sir Positive, I cannot dance a step.
SIR POSITIVE TRAP. How! when I was as young as you I could have danced over the moon, and into the moon too, without a fiddle. But come, I hate trifling. The lawyer is without with the deeds, and the parson is drest in his pontificalibus. Sir APISH SIMPLE. The parson! I suppose he is a Welsh one, and plays on the violin, ha, ha, ha!
HELENA. I see my cousin has been as good as her word. [Aside.
SIR POSITIVE TRAP. — Sir Apish, jesting with matrimony is playing with edged tools.
SIR APISH SIMPLE. Matrimony! ha, ha, ha! Sir Positive is merry this morning.
SIR POSITIVE TRAP. Sir, you will put me out of humour presently.
SIR APISH SIMPLE. Sir, I have more reason to be out of humour; for you have invited me to breakfast without preparing any.
SIR POSITIVE TRAP. IS not my niece prepared, sir?
SIR APISH SIMPLE. Sir, I am no cannibal.
SIR POSITIVE TRAP. Did you not come to marry my niece, sir?
SIR APISH SIMPLE. Sir, I never had such a thought since I was begotten.
SIR POSITIVE TRAP. The man is mad. [Staring.
SIR APISH SIMPLE. Poor Sir Positive! is it his first fit, madam?
SIR POSITIVE TRAP. A dark room and clean straw would be of service.
SIR APISH SIMPLE. Nay, nay, I have no time to reason with a madman; but I hope when you hear I am married to one of the finest ladies about town it will cure your frenzy; and so, sir, your humble servant.
HELENA. Bless me, sir! what’s the meaning of this?
SIR POSITIVE TRAP. Why the meaning is that he is mad, and this news will make my lady mad, and that will make me mad; and you may be mad for a husband, by what I can see, by the right hand of the Traps.
HELENA. So. I had yesterday two lovers; but now I have forsaken the one, and the other has forsaken me. Well, these men are jewels; so far, I am sure they are jewels, that the richest lady has always the most in her equipSCENE VIII
The Piazza.
MALVIL, WISEMORE.
MALVIL. How! an assignation from Vermilia?
WISEMORE. That’s the name, the place this, the hour ten.
MALVIL. Impudent harlot!
WISEMORE. She made me pass my word to keep it secret from you; but, when I perceived it the same name with that in your letter, I thought myself obliged by friendship to discover it. The other signals were a red cloak and a masque.
MALVIL. Thou dearest, best of friends. Ten, you say? it is now within an hour of that time. Since you do not intend to keep your assignation, I will take it off your hands. But you may heap another obligation on me by your presence; for I am resolved to expose her.
WISEMORE. I am to meet a serjeant-at-law hard by — but will return with all possible expedition, and then — if I can be of service.
MALVIL. If you return before the hour you will find me at Tom’s, if not here.
WISEMORE. Till then, farewell — How am I involving myself in other men’s affairs, when my own require my utmost diligence! what course shall I take? I cannot resolve to leave her, and, I am sure, she has given me no hopes of gaining her. Yet she has not shown any real dislike, nor will I ever imagine her inclinations leaning to any of those fops she is surrounded with.
SCENE IX.
MERITAL, WISEMORE.
MERITAL. So thoughtful, Wisemore? What point of philosophy are you discussing?
WISEMORE. One that has puzzled all who ever attempted it — Woman, sir, was the subject of my contemplation.
MERITAL. Ha! hey! what point of the compass does the widow turn to now?
WISEMORE. A very frozen one. — Foppery.
MERITAL. Let me advise thee, Ned, to give over your attack, or change your method. For, be assured, widows are a study you will never be any proficient in, till you are initiated into that modern science which the French call le bon assurance.
WISEMORE. Ay, ay, we may allow you gentlemen of professed gaiety those known turns of raillery, since they were the estate of your forefathers: there is an hereditary fund of little pleasantries which the beaus of every age enjoy in a continual succession.
MERITAL. Well, and I hope you will do those of this age the justice to confess they do not attempt any innovation in the province of wit.
WISEMORE. Art thou so converted then as to despise the fops?
MERITAL. AS much as thou dost the women, I believe, Ned.
WISEMORE. You mistake me. It is their follies only I despise. But there certainty are women, whose beauty to their minds, like dress to their beauty, is rather a covering than an ornament.
MERITAL. These are high flights, indeed. But, tell me, on what do you build your hopes of the widow?
WISEMORE. On an opinion I have of her good sense and good nature. The first will prevent her favouring a fop, the latter may favour me.
MERITAL. And, pray, what foundation is your opinion of her good sense built on? If, as you just now seemed to think, the beaus are its supporters — it is a very rotten
one.
WISEMORE. NO; when I said she inclined to foppery, I meant only for her diversion.
MERITAL. Hum! I believe women very seldom take matrimony for a penance.
Complete Fictional Works of Henry Fielding Page 236