Complete Fictional Works of Henry Fielding

by Henry Fielding

  LADY LUCY PEDANT. I’ll engage she gave it to you home.

  WILDING. That she did, indeed.

  LADY LUCY PEDANT. And — and — Ha, ha, ha! — How did she receive you? — Ha, ha, ha!

  WILDING. Why, I attacked her in a grave solemn style. I put on as hypocritical a countenance as a Jesuit at a confession.

  LADY LUCY PEDANT. And she received you like a nun, I suppose.

  WILDING. Sir (says she), while you frequent my sister’s assemblies, your affected sobriety will gain no place in my belief. I receive no visits from any man — but from such a gay wild, loose, raking, dancing, singing, fluttering —

  LADY LUCY PEDANT. Coxcomb! Ha, ha, ha!

  WILDING. Would you recommend yourself to me, you must leave off your whole set of company, and particularly that wild vain, thoughtless, flirting, unfixed, inconstant —

  LADY LUCY PEDANT. Hold! hold!

  WILDING. Mimicking, sighing, laughing ——

  LADY LUCY PEDANT. Whom do you mean?

  WILDING. She named nobody.

  LADY LUCY PEDANT. No, she did not need. I know whom she scandalised, and I’ll tell her, be it only to make mischief.

  WILDING. I say she named nobody at first; but when she found I did not know the picture by her colours, she writ your name at the bottom.

  LADY Lucy Pedant. My name!

  WILDING. ‘Tis too true.

  LADY LUCY PEDANT. The devil take you for telling me of it; it has discomposed me so — I find it impossible to have any complexion to-day.

  WILDING. You need none, you have done mischief enough already; ‘tis time to think of repairing some of it.

  LADY LUCY PEDANT. But I will not repair any mischief I have done.

  WILDING. That’s an affectation: you are better natured.

  LADY LUCY PEDANT. Indeed, I am as cruel as Caligula. I wish your whole sex had but one pair of eyes, that I might kill them all with a frown.

  WILDING. And one body, that you might recover them as easily. Come, come, Lady Lucy, I have been your fool long enough, and have had no reward for my pains.

  LADY LUCY PEDANT. No reward! Have I not spoke to you in all public places? Have I not read your odious letters? Have I not sung your more odious songs? Have I not suffered you to gallant my fan, to kiss my lap dog? What can a reasonable creature ask, which I have not done?

  WILDING. The only thing a reasonable creature would ask. You have turned the tables on me finely, indeed, and made that my reward which I should have pleaded as my merit. A prince would be finely served truly, who, when his soldiers asked him for a reward, was to tell them the honour of serving him was one.

  LADY LUCY PEDANT. I can reckon fifty lovers of mine contented with less.

  WILDING. Rare lovers! A lady would be as finely served by such lovers as a king by such soldiers — fellows only fit to guard a drawing-room, or to court in it; and of no more use in the real fields of love or war than a eunuch in a bedchamber, or a parson in a battle.

  LADY LUCY PEDANT. I have taken a sudden resolution.

  WILDING. Have a care of a bad one!

  LADY LUCY PEDANT. Never to see you more.

  WILDING. I thank you for telling me, however, because it has led me into another resolution.

  LADY LUCY PEDANT. Impertinent!

  WILDING. Never to leave you more, till you have given me all the joy’s in your power.

  LADY LUCY PEDANT. I hate you.

  WILDING. That’s barbarous, when you know my love.

  LADY LUCY PEDANT. Yes, I do know your love; and therefore I have used you like a spaniel, and will use you like a spaniel.

  WILDING. And I, like a spaniel, will but fawn the more, my angel. [Takes her in his arms.

  SCENE II.

  To them SIR AVARICE PEDANT.

  SIR AVARICE PEDANT. Hoity-toity? Hey-day! What’s here to do? Have I caught you, gentlefolks? I begin to see I am rightly informed. Are these your innocent gaieties madam?

  SCENE III.

  To them SIR HARRY WILDING.

  SIR HARRY WILDING. Where is the dog? Sirrah! scoundrel! where are you? I shall see you hanged, rascal! I shall see you hanged, sirrah! I’ll begin the executioner’s work. I’ll chastise you, sirrah!

  WILDING. Humph!

  SIR AVARICE PEDANT. Sir Harry! what is the matter?

  SIR HARRY WILDING. The matter! Why, sir, my boy, my lawyer, that I told you of, is ruined and undone.

  SIR AVARICE PEDANT. How, pray? — [Aside.] I’m glad to hear it, however.

  SIR HARRY WILDING. HOW! why, he is a fop, coxcomb, and I shall see him hanged. — That’s he, sir, that’s the lawyer. — I’ll disinherit you, dog.

  WILDING. Sir, I hope I have done nothing to deserve such a fate.

  SIR HARRY WILDING. Nothing! Is disappointing my hopes nothing? Is being a beau, when I thought you a lawyer, nothing? — I’ll disinherit you, sirrah! — you are no son of mine — you have proved your mother a strumpet, and me a cuckold.

  SIR AVARICE PEDANT. Truly, so he has me too, I’m afraid. [Aside.

  LADY LUCY PEDANT. Heaven send us safe off. [Aside.

  SIR HARRY WILDING. You must know, sir, I came up to town to marry you to this gentleman’s niece, a fine young lady with twenty thousand pound ——

  LADY LUCY PEDANT. Ha! — [Aside.

  SIR HARRY WILDING. But you shall beg, or starve, or steal, it is equal to me. Sir, I cannot but be in a passion; he has injured me in the tenderest point.

  SIR AVARICE PEDANT. So he has me; truly.

  LADY LUCY PEDANT. And me, I am sure.

  SIR AVARICE PEDANT. In short, I suspect, Sir Harry, that he has been too free with my wife; and he who is too free with one’s wife, may, some time or other, rob one’s house.

  SIR HARRY WILDING. Nay, perhaps he has begun to rob already. It’s probable I may see him hanged before I go out of town.

  LADY LUCY PEDANT. He has been too free, indeed! What did you ever see in me, sir, or in my conduct which could give you an ill suspicion of me?

  WILDING. SO! I’m in a fine way i’faith. [Aside.

  SIR HARRY WILDING. I shall see him hanged.

  SIR AVARICE PEDANT. He deserves it truly.

  LADY LUCY PEDANT. What could make you imagine that I was to be bribed to so mean, base, low an action! what could make you think T’d ever sell my niece?

  SIR AVARICE PEDANT and SIR HARRY WILDING. How?

  LADY LUCY PEDANT. Sir Avarice, you are a stranger to the arts of this wicked young man; he has importuned me a thousand times, sincc Bellaria’s coming to town, to betray her to him; and just now he vowed never to let me go, till I had promised. —— Had you not come in, Heaven knows whether I should have ever got away from him.

  WILDING. Can you blame the effects of love, madam? You yourself see what a metamorphosis it has caused in me. — I, who for six long years scarce ever lived out of a study, who knew no amusement, no diversion but in books, no sooner saw the charming maid, than reading grew my bane; gaiety, dress, every thing that might charm the fair, has since employed my thoughts.

  SIR HARRY WILDING. What do I hear?

  WILDING. My father here, who, from not knowing the cause of this transformation, has so severely resented it, can testify the truth of what I say.

  SIR HARRY WILDING. I shall see the rogue a judge! — That I can, my dear boy; and I will take care that thou shalt not be forced to bribe or beg any one: the girl shall be thy own. Sir Avarice, I ask your pardon; and, madam, I ask your pardon; and, Harry, I ask your pardon.

  WILDING. Oh, sir! you make me blush. Dear witty creature! — [Aside.

  SIR AVARICE PEDANT. You were not so good as your word, at dinner. Sir Harry.

  SIR HARRY WILDING. I was hunting after my boy here; but I will be glad to be recommended to the butler presently.

  SIR AVARICE PEDANT. At your own time. — Come, my dear; Sir Harry may have some privacies for his son: I have something to impart to you too.

  SCENE IV.

  SIR HARRY WILDING, YOUNG WIL
DING.

  SIR HARRY WILDING. But hark you, young man; what’s become of all your law-books, hey?

  WILDING. Books, sir; at my chambers, sir.

  SIR HARRY WILDING. Then they are invisible. If I could but have seen as much of them as of my own in the country (I mean the outsides) I should have been satisfied. — And pray, sir, how came you by this letter?

  WILDING. Damnation! — [Aside,

  SIR HARRY WILDING. Why don’t you answer?

  WILDING. That letter, sir!

  SIR HARRY WILDING. Yes, sir, that letter, sir!

  WILDING. That letter, sir!

  SIR HARRY WILDING. Yes, sir.

  WILDING. I don’t know what it is, sir, I never read it.

  SIR HARRY WILDING. You are too great a man to read your own letters, I suppose. You keep a secretary, I hope. I have paid off your secretary, I assure you. But I presume — a — you can read it. You are not a perfect beau, I hope.

  WILDING. What shall I do? I am ruined and undone. [Aside.

  SIR HARRY WILDING. Or shall I read it for you? [Beads it.] I found this in your chamber, sir; in your strong box. Your effects were all paper, sir. Are not you a fine gentleman? Oh! Harry! Harry! that ever I should find such a letter as this, directed to — ha! to Capt. Belvil.

  WILDING. ‘Sdeath! how came I not to recollect that sooner? [Aside.] To Capt. Belvil! — I see the whole mistake.

  SIR HARRY WILDING. What mistake?

  WILDING. You have been at another gentleman’s chambers.

  SIR HARRY WILDING. Sir, I was at those chambers where I placed you.

  WILDING. Ah, sir! there’s the mistake. I changed them about a fortnight ago; they were so noisy, they discomposed me in my study. I should have sent you word of it in my next letter.

  SIR HARRY WILDING. How? I have committed a fine set of errors, I’m sure.

  WILDING. What have you done, sir?

  SIR HARRY WILDING. Broke open a few locks, that’s all — I may be hanged myself now before I go into the country.

  WILDING. Forbid it — you have a most litigious man to deal with.

  SIR HARRY WILDING. I must make it up in the best manner I can. You must assist me with law. But come, we will lose no time with our heiress. Besides, I long to see your chambers, and your books. I am resolved I’ll find some time this afternoon. I’ll first obey a certain call that I find within me, and then wash my face and hands, and get my wig powdered, that I may be fit to wait on the young lady: so don’t be out of the way.

  WILDING. This is a miraculous escape! or rather a short reprieve; for how to carry on the deceit I don’t know. I’ll e’en go and advise with trusty Pincet; for I believe he is (as well as several of my brother Templars’ servants) a better lawyer than his master.

  SCENE V.

  SIR AVARICE PEDANT, LADY LUCY PEDANT, BELLARIA, YOUNG PEDANT.

  SIR AVARICE PEDANT. Be not angry with me, Bellaria, I get nothing by this match; and when I get nothing by an affair, it is very hard I should be blamed for it.

  BELLARIA. I know not whom to be angry with.

  LADY LUCY PEDANT. Look you, Bellaria, I am heartily sorry for your misfortune; because I know nothing so inconvenient as being married to a very gay man. Mr. Wilding may be a diverting lover, but he is not fit for a husband.

  BELLARIA. I cannot distinguish between those names, madam.

  LADY LUCY PEDANT. Don’t affect the prude, dear Bellaria. — You see yourself reduced to a necessity of marrying, and I know but one way in the world to avoid the match proposed — and that too, by Sir Avarice’s leave.

  SIR AVARICE PEDANT. Anything in my power. I confess I do not approve of the young man.

  LADY LUCY PEDANT. Then let us leave the lovers together. If you can agree, Bellaria, to prefer a sober young man who loves you, to a wild fellow who values you no more than a thousand others, you may escape what you so much dread.

  SIR AVARICE PEDANT. Well, well, you see my excessive fondness, niece. I sacrifice my reputation to your happiness.

  SCENE VI.

  BELLARIA, YOUNG PEDANT.

  BELLARIA. I am infinitely obliged to your concern for me — [A long silence here. So, cousin, you hear what my aunt says: you are in love with me, it seems.

  YOUNG PEDANT. No truly. I can’t profess that I am. Matrimony is a subject I have very little revolved in my thoughts: but obedience to a parent is most undoubtedly due.

  BELLARIA. Obedience to a parent, cousin!

  YOUNG PEDANT. Nay, nay, I shall not require any thing to be given which admits of a dispute — or which (as Mr. Locke very well observes) does not receive our assent as soon as the proposition is known and understood. Let us introduce then this syllogism:

  Whatever the law of nature enjoins is indispensably just: But the law of nature enjoins obedience to a parent: Ergo, Obedience to a parent is indispensably just.

  BELLARIA. Nay, but what have we to do with the law of nature?

  YOUNG PEDANT. O, if you require farther — the divine law confirms the law of nature. I shall proceed to show that it is approved by profane writers also; translating them as they occur for their more immediate comprehension.

  BELLARIA. I’ll leave you to your meditations.

  SCENE VII.

  YOUNG PEDANT. [Alone.] Venus says to Æneas in Virgil, “Fear not the commands of a parent; nor refuse to obey her precepts.” — What says Polynices to Jocasta in Euripides?— ‘‘Whatever you will, O my mother, shall also be grateful to me.” — The sons of Metellus, as recorded by Alexander, are a great instance — Plautus in Sticho — “Whatever our parents command we are obliged to perform.” Why are Cleobis and Biton preferred by Solon in Herodotus? why, for their piety to their mother. What an instance have we in the second son of Artaxerxes —

  SCENE VIII.

  To him VALENTINE, VEROMIL.

  VALENTINE. So, cousin Pedant, what, arguing with yourself?

  YOUNG PEDANT. What! is she gone?

  VALENTINE. Who?

  YOUNG PEDANT. The lady: Bellaria, I think they call her. The women of this age are profoundly wicked! I was proving to her the necessity of obeying a parent, and she would not stay to hear it.

  VALENTINE. Oh! you must not entertain ladies with those subjects.

  YOUNG PEDANT. I should rejoice egregiously not to be obliged to entertain them at all. I have a very hard fate, that I cannot be permitted to pursue my studies, but must be summoned up hither to be married. I have money enough to buy books, and the necessaries of life; and why should I marry then? — Because my wife is rich. Why, if it be granted that I have enough, the conclusion will be that I do not want more.

  VEROMIL. Here’s news for you, Valentine.

  VALENTINE. The villainy of my uncle gives me more surprise than I have apprehension from his son.

  VEROMIL. Surprised at villainy, now-a-days! No, Valentine, be surprised when you see a man honest; when you find that man whom gold will not transform into a knave, I will believe it possible you may find that stone which will change every thing into gold.

  SCENE IX.

  To them WILDING.

  WILDING. Wish me joy, wish me joy, my friends!

  VEROMIL. We should rather ask the occasion of your joy.

  WILDING. The usual occasion, marriage — I don’t know but I may be married to-morrow — But (perhaps) you’ll think, from what I said to-day, I should have rather begged your pity than your congratulation.

  VEROMIL. Your wife may (perhaps) want that most — But who is she?

  WILDING. She is — she is — Ha, ha ha!

  VALENTINE. One thou art ashamed to name, I believe.

  WILDING. She is a very great friend of a friend of yours. She is even —— Bellaria.

  VALENTINE. Bellaria?

  VEROMIL. Confusion! — [Aside.

  WILDING. My father is arrived on that purpose. The matter is agreed with the guardian in the country, who is himself coming to town. This haste (it seems) is lest she should be discovered by a lover in the country. But you
don’t wish me joy, methinks.

  VALENTINE. Because I believe you won’t have her.

  WILDING. Ha, ha, ha! If I have her not: if I don’t win her, wed her, love her, and grow weary of her in a month, may I be reduced to that last extremity, to live by the charity of superannuated widows of the town, and either go to bed with an old woman, or without a supper.