Complete Fictional Works of Henry Fielding

by Henry Fielding

  VALENTINE. A very modest declaration! and may you thrive according to your merits. But I must leave you on some business — Veromil.

  SCENE X.

  WILDING, YOUNG PEDANT.

  WILDING. So cold!’Sdeath! this fellow’s in love with matrimony itself, and jealous of any others sharing in it.

  YOUNG PEDANT. Sir, if I reeollect your face, your name is Wilding.

  WILDING. Ha! Mr. Pedant, your very humble servant.

  YOUNG PEDANT. I hear, sir, you are about to consummate with a young lady here. I assure you, none will so sensibly rejoice in your fortune as myself.

  WILDING, Dear sir!

  YOUNG PEDANT. For your preferment will be my deliverance, and the occasion of restoring me to my studies.

  WILDING. Oh! sir!

  YOUNG PEDANT. For books are, in my eye, as much preferable to women, as the Greek language is to the French.

  WILDING. You say true — and women are as much more difficult to be understood.

  YOUNG PEDANT. Ay, sir; and when you have studied them your whole life, you may justly say of them, what a certain philosopher romanced of learning— “That you know nothing at all.”

  WILDING. It is no doubt, a very great uneasiness to you to be absent from your books.

  YOUNG PEDANT. Yet, sir, do not imagine me totally absent: I have the benefit of a friend’s chambers in the Temple, one formerly my chum, now out of town, who has no very bad collection, and condescends to permit me the use of his rooms.

  WILDING. You just now told me you rejoiced in my fortune.

  YOUNG PEDANT. I remember.

  WILDING. It is then in your power to promote it infinitely by lending me your chambers this afternoon.

  YOUNG PEDANT. Sir, you may depend upon my doing — quantum in me, to serve you. How will they be instrumental?

  WILDING. If you will walk with me I’ll tell you, for I hear company.

  SCENE XI.

  CLARISSA, followed by BELLARIA, VALENTINE, and VEROMIL.

  CLARISSA. Nothing shall prevail with me — I detest his sight; the appearance of ghosts or fiends can bring no greater horror, nor more would I avoid them.

  VALENTINE. You see, Bellaria, how happy I should have been in a wife.

  BELLARIA. This is only affectation; you must not part so. Follow her, Mr. Valentine; she can fly no farther than that chamber. Nay, I vow you shall. — The little quarrels of lovers are only throwing water on the flames, which quells them for a while, then makes them burn the brighter.

  VALENTINE. But, when you throw on too great a quantity, the flames may be extinguished.

  BELLARIA. Nay, this is barbarous: you must and shall follow her, and appease her.

  VALENTINE. Since you command, madam —— It shall be my own fault, if this be not the last visit. [Aside.

  SCENE XII.

  VEROMIL, BELLARIA.

  VEROMIL. [Looking on Bellaria, and speaking as to himself.] Can deceit take root in such a soil? — No. I’ll sooner disbelieve my friend — she can’t be false; heaven never would have stampt its image on so base a coin. The eyes which have beheld that face will never believe themselves against her — so lively is innocence writ there — can falsehood then —

  BELLARIA. What means my love?

  VEROMIL. I know not what I mean.

  BELLARIA. Named you not falsehood?

  VEROMIL. Ha! do you start at that sound? A guilty conscience starts when it is upbraided — the name of a crime has magic in it to the guilty ear.

  BELLARIA. I am confounded!

  VEROMIL. So am I, Bellaria!

  BELLARIA. Oh! tell me what it is that afflicts you. I will relieve your pain.

  VEROMIL. Have you the power then of that fabled spear, can you as easily cure as give a wound?

  BELLARIA. [Smiling.] If I have given you the wound, I will have the charity to cure it.

  VEROMIL. Your charity is extensive, madam; you would do the same to more — to Valentine. But oh! you cannot wound him as you have wounded me; his heart is better fortified; one of those whom love may make a scar in for a while, which time will soon wear off. You have pierced my soul, Bellaria.

  BELLARIA. It never felt a pain like that torments me now; tell me, be generous, and tell me all your griefs.

  VEROMIL. “What can they be? but that Bellaria’s false; false with my friend; she triumphs in her falsehood, and bids me make a confidant of my happier rival.

  BELLARIA. Do I hear this, and live!

  VEROMIL. “Wonder rather that I have lived to tell it. Live! I do not! my life was wrapped in you, in you, my only love, whom youth or beauty, wit or wealth, could never chase away from my bosom; whom, through a tedious three years’ absence, amidst the splendour of foreign courts, my constant breast still cherished as its guardian angel, for whom I’ve sighed, I’ve wept more than becomes a man to boast of.

  BELLARIA. I shall not boast what I have done for you; yet this: I would not have accused you without a cause.

  VEROMIL. A cause! demonstration is one.

  BELLARIA. Demonstration!

  VEROMIL. Ay, madam! the words of such a friend are little less: he told me that you knew of his passion, and had not discouraged it.

  BELLARIA. By all that’s virtuous; by all the powers of heaven, he wronged me.

  VEROMIL. Whom shall I believe?

  BELLARIA. Your friend — a woman’s testimony bears no proportion with a man’s.

  VEROMIL. By heaven it should not.

  BELLARIA. Still maintain the unjust superiority; allow no virtue, no merit to us; make us as you do your slaves. Inconstancy, which damns a woman, is no crime in man. The practised libertine, who seduces poor, unskilful, thoughtless virgins is applauded, while they must suffer endless infamy and shame. Well have ye revenged the sin of Eve upon us: for man has since supplied the serpent’s place, and scandalously lurks to cause our ruin: for what but such an infernal spirit could inspire a villain to abuse my innocence to you?

  VEROMIL. Could he be such a villain?

  BELLARIA. Do believe him, ungrateful as thou art; but oh! remember this, you’ll find too late how much you’ve wronged me, and curse that credulous ear which separates us for ever. [As she is going, he catches hold of her.

  VEROMIL. Oh, stay! [Looking fondly at her] by heavens thou canst not be false.

  BELLARIA. Be not too sure of any thing; I was too sure you never could have thought me so.

  VEROMIL. Oh! did you know the torments of my mind, you’d pity, not upbraid me.

  BELLARIA. Witness heaven I do pity you; and while I am racked with torments of my own, I feel yours too.

  VEROMIL. Oh! thou art all angel: would I had had no ears, or he no tongue, or that I had lost my own, ere I had said — I believe, I know thee innocent; thy mind is white as purest snow. But oh! that cursed suspicion has blackened mine. I never shall forgive it to myself.

  BELLARIA. For my sake, ease the tempests of your mind. I’ll never think on’t more.

  VEROMIL. When I deserve it, do. Surely thou art more than woman. How dearly mightest thou have revenged my unjust accusation, by keeping me a few moments in the horror of having offended thee, or doubt of thy pardon.

  BELLARIA. Unkindly you think me capable of such a behaviour. No, Veromil, I know the sincerity of your love — and would not give you an uneasy hour, to gain more worlds than you deserve.

  VEROMIL. Hear her, ye wanton fools, who sacrifice your own and lover’s happiness to fantastic triumphs, and an illjudging world. O, mayst thou be the pattern of thy sex; till women, learning by thy bright example, wipe off the scandals which are thrown upon them. O, let me press thee to my heart for ever.

  Still searching out new beauties in thy mind,

  A perfect woman till I prove, designed

  By heaven, its greatest blessing on mankind.

  ACT IV.

  SCENE I.

  Continues.

  WILDING, PINCET.

  WILDING. You have your part perfect?

  PINCET. AS
my catechism, sir; and I’ll engage, that I act it to your satisfaction. If I am not revenged on those blows of yours, old gentleman — if I don’t make your heart bleed, may you fetch the last drop out of mine!

  WILDING. Fetch but the money out of his pocket —

  PINCET. That’s my intention — the way to most men’s hearts is through their pockets.

  WILDING. But do you think he will not discover you when you are disguised in the gown?

  PINCET. Oh, sir! you need not fear that; a gown will hide a rogue at any time.

  WILDING. Away, then; for, should the old gentleman see us together, we are ruined. My affairs in this house are in a very good situation. Here are four ladies in it, and I am in a fair way of being happy with three of them. Agad, I begin to wish myself fairly off with my two aunts; for I think a modest and reasonable man can desire no more than one woman out of a family. But, I have gone too far to make an honourable retreat; for women act in love, as heroes do in war; their passions are not presently raised for the combat: but when once up, there’s no getting off without fighting. Here comes one. Humph!

  [Stands with his arms across.

  SCENE II.

  LADY GRAVELY, WILDING.

  LADY GRAVELY. Are you meditating, Mr. Wilding?

  WILDING. Lady Gravely, I ask a thousand pardons.

  LADY GRAVELY. Oh! you can’t recommend yourself to me more; I love to see young men thoughtful. And really, young men now-a-days seem to be ashamed to think.

  WILDING. They ought to be so! for the only excuse to their actions is a supposition that they do not.

  LADY GRAVELY. That’s very justly said. I find you and I sympathise in opinion.

  WILDING. Their dress, however, would persuade one otherwise: the care and art employed in that seem the effects of thought — .

  LADY GRAVELY. In milliners and valets des chambres.

  WILDING. I wonder how they recommend themselves to so many fine ladies.

  LADY GRAVELY. You mistake. There are half a dozen green-sickness girls, who long for beaus, and chalk, and those things — but they are equally despised by knowing women. For my part, I think them pardonable no longer than a doll.

  WILDING. And of no more use. Like that too, they rise in value, as they are richer dressed.

  LADY GRAVELY. They are my aversion.

  WILDING. That, I fear, our whole sex is.

  LADY GRAVELY. That’s too generally spoken, I can’t say all; I have found two exceptions already — and I don’t know but I have seen a third.

  WILDING. IS it possible!

  LADY GRAVELY. You can’t guess how excessively some things you have said have succeeded in my favour.

  WILDING. O, my happiness!

  LADY GRAVELY. So much, that I shall do for you — what, I vow I never did to any but my husbands.

  WILDING. Soh! — [Aside.

  LADY GRAVELY. Yet I fear I shall not prevail on you.

  WILDING. O, my angel! I vow by this soft hand I’ll instantly obey.

  LADY GRAVELY. Then I will give you my advice. — Think no more of Bellaria.

  WILDING. Humph.

  LADY GRAVELY. What can she have to tempt you?

  WILDING. She is really handsome.

  LADY GRAVELY. Her face, indeed, looks pretty well; but she paints. Then for her shape; she bolsters her stays. Then I’ll tell you two particular deformities — she has a rotten tooth in the left side of her upper jaw, and crooked legs.

  WILDING. Still, madam, there is one pleasure, which recompenses all; my marrying your niece will entitle me to your conversation.

  LADY GRAVELY. So far from that — If you marry her, I’ll never see you more.

  WILDING. What reason can you have?

  LADY GRAVELY. A thousand — the world might suspect our familiarity; how must my reputation then suffer! O I would not for worlds even now be thought — but now a thousand excuses might be made. There’s no consanguinity in the case; the naughtiness of others; an agreeable young man! passion of love!

  WILDING. Oh, my saint! [He takes her by the hand, and during the rest of the scene, is hauling her to the door.

  LADY GRAVELY. Though I would not now — yet — if I did — my reputation would suffer in so small a degree — now-adays scarce at all. — And if you were secret —

  WILDING. No torments should extort it from me.

  LADY GRAVELY. I should have only my own conscience to satisfy. — And though no conscience is more tender: yet, temptations allowed for —

  SIR HARRY WILDING. [Without.] Harry! Harry! where’s Harry?

  LADY GRAVELY. I faint, I die, I am undone! run, run into that chamber, and fasten the door on the inside: I’ll knock when you may come out.

  SCENE III.

  SIR HARRY WILDING, LADY GRAVELY.

  SIR HARRY WILDING. Have you seen my son, madam?

  LADY GRAVELY. Not since dinner, Sir Harry.

  SIR HARRY WILDING. What can have become of him! I have been beating about this half hour. I have unkennelled a fox in less time.

  LADY GRAVELY. Sir Harry, you may thank your stars that conducted you to me; for perhaps it is in my power to save your son from ruin.

  SIR HARRY WILDING. How, madam!

  LADY GRAVELY. I fear he is about marrying a woman who will make him miserable.

  SIR HARRY WILDING. No, no, madam, I have taken care to prepare such a match as shall make him happy.

  LADY GRAVELY. Perhaps you are mistaken. I speak against my relation; but honour obliges it. In short, Sir Harry, my niece has not those principles which can make a good wife.

  SIR HARRY WILDING. I ask your pardon, madam, she has twenty thousand pounds — very good principles, I think.

  LADY GRAVELY. She is a wild, flirting, giddy jilt.

  SIR HARRY WILDING. Is that all?

  LADY GRAVELY. I am afraid she is no better than she should be.

  SIR HARRY WILDING. I don’t expect it.

  LADY Gravely. Her reputation has a flaw — a flaw, as wide in it —

  SIR HARRY WILDING. She has money enough to stop it up, madam.

  LADY GRAVELY. Would you marry your son to a woman who has a flaw in her reputation?

  SIR HARRY WILDING. If she had as many as she has pounds; and if I were to receive a pound for every flaw, the more she had the better. [Exit.

  LADY GRAVELY. What shall I do? If he marries her, I lose him for ever. — I am distracted.

  SCENE IV.

  LADY LUCY PEDANT, LADY GRAVELY, YOUNG PEDANT.

  LADY LUCY PEDANT. You seem discomposed, sister; what’s the matter?

  LADY GRAVELY. I suppose you are in the plot too.

  LADY LUCY PEDANT. What plot?

  LADY GRAVELY. To sell my niece; to give her up to a wild, raking, extravagant young fellow; to Wilding.

  LADY LUCY PEDANT. Indeed you wrong me. I came this moment to consult with you how to prevent it. Not that I imagine Wilding what you call him, or that Bellaria would be unhappy with him; but I have another’s happiness in my view.

  LADY GRAVELY. Distraction! she’s in love with him herself. [Aside.

  LADY LUCY PEDANT. NOW, my dear, if you may be trusted with a secret.

  LADY GRAVELY. Any secret is safe with me, that is not contrary to virtue and honour.

  LADY LUCY PEDANT. Nay, but I am afraid that you refine too much on those words.

  LADY GRAVELY. Refine, madam! I believe to censure your conduct needs no refinement. I see very well what your drift is; I know what you would say.

  YOUNG PEDANT. Hold, aunt; that you can know what my mother is going to say is denied; for to know one’s thoughts before that knowledge is conveyed by words implies a supernatural insight into the mind. It will be proper, therefore, to prove you have that insight, before any assent to your proposition can be required.

  LADY GRAVELY. Fool! coxcomb! pedant! You should be sent to an academy to learn men, before you converse with them; or else be confined to a tub, as one of your philosophers were, till you had learnt enough to know you are
a fool.

  YOUNG PEDANT. Aunt, I wish a female relation of mine was shut up, till any one thought her wise, beside herself. — Shut up in a tub! I agree, so that no women trouble me. I had rather live in a tub by myself than in a palace with a woman. You see, madam, what an encouragement I have to marry. — What a task must I undertake, to marry a girl, when my aunt, who has had two husbands, is not half tamed. Get me such a wife as Andromache was, and I’ll marry; but for your fine ladies, as you term them, I would as soon put on a laced coat; for they are both alike; your fine coat is only admired when new, no more is your fine lady; your fine coat is most commonly the property of a fool, so is your fine lady. Your fine coat is to be bought, so is your fine lady. I despise them both to an excessive degree.