LADY LUCY PEDANT. Leave us, sir, till you learn more manners.
YOUNG PEDANT. I obey willingly.
SCENE V.
LADY LUCY PEDANT, LADY GRAVELY.
LADY LUCY PEDANT. A pedant is a most intolerable wretch: I’m afraid she’ll never endure him.
LADY GRAVELY. Who endure him?
LADY LUCY PEDANT. That is my secret. — Sir Avarice sent for this wretch to town, in order to match him to
BELLARIA. I was afraid to trust you with it, because of your nice principles.
LADY GRAVELY. Indeed, I do not approve of any clandestine affair: but since it is the lesser evil of the two, it is to be preferred; for nothing can equal the misery of marrying a rake. O! the vast happiness of a life of vapours with such a husband.
LADY LUCY PEDANT. I am a little in the vapours at this present: I wish, my dear, you would give me a spoonful of your ratafia.
LADY GRAVELY. Was ever any thing so unfortunate! — It is in the closet of my chamber, and I have lost the key.
LADY LUCY PEDANT. One of mine will open it.
LADY GRAVELY. Besides, now I think on’t — I threw down the bottle yesterday, and broke it.
LADY LUCY PEDANT. You have more; for I drank some this morning.
LADY GRAVELY. Did you so? then, I assure you, you shall taste no more this day; I’ll have some regard for your health, if you have none.
LADY LUCY PEDANT. Nay, I will have one drop.
LADY GRAVELY. Indeed you sha’n’t.
LADY LUCY PEDANT. Indeed I will. [They struggle, Lady Lucy gets to the door and pushes it.
SCENE VI.
To them WILDING from the closet.
LADY LUCY PEDANT. If this be your ratafia, you may keep it all to yourself: the very sight of it has cured me. Ha, ha, ha!
LADY GRAVELY. Sir, if I may expect truth from such as you, confess by what art and with what design, you conveyed yourself into my chamber.
LADY LUCY PEDANT. Confess, sir, by what art did you open the door when the key was lost?
LADY GRAVELY. I cannot suspect a gentleman of a design to rob me.
LADY LUCY PEDANT. Only, like a gentleman, of what you would not be a bit the poorer for losing.
LADY GRAVELY. Speak, sir; how got you there? what was your design?
LADY LUCY PEDANT. He is dumb.
LADY GRAVELY. He is inventing a lie, I suppose.
LADY LUCY PEDANT. He is bringing forth truth, I believe: it comes so difficultly from him.
WILDING. If I am not revenged on you, madam! — Look ye, ladies, since our design is prevented, I don’t know why it should be kept a secret: so, Lady Lucy, you have my leave to tell it.
LADY LUCY PEDANT. I tell!
LADY GRAVELY. Oh! the creature! is she in the plot? O virtue, virtue! whither art thou flown! O the monstrous impiety of the age!
WILDING. Nay, there was no such impiety in the case neither: so tell, Lady Lucy.
LADY LUCY PEDANT. Surprising!
LADY GRAVELY. Oh! the confidence of guilt!
WILDING. Come, come, discover all: tell her ladyship the whole design of your putting me in her chamber. But you will own you have lost the wager.
LADY LUCY PEDANT. Impudence beyond belief!
LADY GRAVELY. Tell me, sir; I beseech you, tell me.
WILDING. Only a wager between Lady Lucy and me, whether your ladyship was afraid of sprites. So Lady Lucy conveyed me into your chamber; and if, upon my stalking out as frightful as possible, your ladyship shrieked out, I was to lose the wager.
LADY LUCY PEDANT. Prodigious!
LADY GRAVELY. No, no, it is for evil consciences to fear; innocence will make me bold; but let me tell you, sister, I do not like jesting with serious things. So you thought to frighten me, sir: I am not to be frightened, I assure you.
LADY LUCY PEDANT. By any thing in the shape of a man, I am confident. [Aside.
SERVANT. [Entering.] Lady Basto, madam, is at the door.
LADY GRAVELY. I am to go with her to Deards’s. I forgive your frolic, sister, and I hope you are convinced that I am not afraid of sprites.
SCENE VII.
LADY LUCY PEDANT, WILDING.
LADY LUCY PEDANT. Leave the room.
WILDING. When you command with a smile, I obey: but as a fine lady never frowns but in jest, what she says then may be supposed to be spoken in jest too.
LADY LUCY PEDANT. This assurance is insupportable; to belie me to my sister; before my face too.
WILDING. Hear this now! What way shall a man take to please a woman? Did you not desire me to make love to her for your diversion? Have I not done it? Am I not striving to bring matters to an issue? Should I not have frustrated it all at once, if I had not come off some way or other? What other way could I have come off? Have I not been labouring, sweating, toiling for your diversion? and do you banish me for it?
LADY LUCY PEDANT. Nay, if this be true —
WILDING. Rip open my heart, that fountain of truth, and there you will see it with your own dear image.
LADY LUCY PEDANT. Well then, do one thing, and I forgive you.
WILDING. Any thing.
LADY LUCY PEDANT. Refuse my niece.
WILDING. Any thing but that.
LADY LUCY PEDANT. You shall, you must.
WILDING. To refuse a fine lady, with twenty thousand pounds, is neither in my will, nor in my power. It is against law, reason, justice — In short, it is a most execrable sin, and I’ll die a martyr to matrimony ere I consent to it.
LADY LUCY PEDANT. And I’ll die a thousand times rather than you shall have her.
WILDING. What reason can you have?
LADY LUCY PEDANT. Ill-nature.
WILDING. I see a better — you would have me yourself. Look’ee, madam, I’ll lay a fair wager I am at liberty again before you. You will never bury Sir Avarice; you are not half fond enough. Kindness is the surest pill to an old husband; the greatest danger from a woman or a serpent is in their embraces.
LADY LUCY PEDANT. Indeed you are mistaken, wise sir: I do not want to bury him; but if I did bury him, matrimony should be the last folly I’d commit again, and you the last man in the world I’d think of for a husband.
WILDING. But the first for a lover; my angel.
LADY LUCY PEDANT. Keep off. Remember the serpent.
WILDING. I’m resolved to venture.
LADY LUCY PEDANT. I’ll alarm the house; I’ll raise the powers of heaven and hell to my assistance.
WILDING. And I,
Clasped in the folds of love will meet my doom,
And act my joys, though thunder shake the room.
SIR AVARICE PEDANT. [Without.] Oh! the villain, the rogue!
WILDING. It thunders now, indeed.
SIR AVARICE PEDANT. Was ever such a traitor heard of!
SCENE VIII.
To them, SIR AVARICE PEDANT.
LADY LUCY PEDANT. What’s the matter, Sir Avarice?
SIR AVARICE PEDANT. Ask me nothing: I am in such a passion, I shall never come to myself again.
LADY LUCY PEDANT. That will break my heart certainly.
SIR AVARICE PEDANT. We have harboured in our house a traitor, a thief, a villain.
LADY LUCY PEDANT. Whom, my dear?
SIR AVARICE PEDANT. The gentleman Valentine brought hither to-day I have overheard making love to Bellaria.
WILDING. Whom, Veromil?
LADY LUCY PEDANT. I am glad to hear it. [Aside.
SCENE IX.
To them, VALENTINE.
SIR AVARICE PEDANT. Pack up your all, sir, pack up your all, and be gone: you shall not bring a set of idle vagabonds to my house, I am resolved.
VALENTINE. You surprise me, sir! What vagabonds have I brought?
SIR AVARICE PEDANT. Why, good sir! the gentleman you were so kind to introduce to me this day I have discovered addressing Bellaria.
VALENTINE. How, sir!
SIR AVARICE PEDANT. I have overheard him, sir, just now. So, if you please to go to him from me, and
desire him civilly to walk out of my house.
VALENTINE. Nay, sir — if it be so —
SIR AVARICE PEDANT. And hark’ee, sir, if you please to show him the way, to conduct him yourself, you will prevent my using rougher means. Here, sir, you harbour no longer — I see him coming up the gallery; we’ll leave you to deliver your message. — Hark you; cut his throat, and I will deal favourably with you in that affair: you know what I mean.
[Aside.
SCENE X.
VALENTINE, VEROMIL.
VALENTINE. If Veromil be a villain!
VEROMIL. Valentine, I am glad to find you: I have been looking for you.
VALENTINE. I am sorry Mr. Veromil should have acted in a manner to make our meeting uneasy to either. I am forced to deliver you a message from my uncle, less civil than I thought you could have deserved.
VEROMIL. What’s this, Valentine?
VALENTINE. The violation of our long and tender friendship shocks me so I have hardly power to disclose your crime, more — than that you know my love, and have basely wronged it.
VEROMIL. How, sir!
VALENTINE. You have injured me — you know it.
VEROMIL. Valentine, you have injured me, and do not know it: yet the injustice of the act you know. Yes, too well you know religion forbids an injury to a stranger.
VALENTINE. Preach not religion to me. — Oh! it well becomes the mouth of hypocrisy to thunder Gospel tenets to the world, while there is no spark of honour in the soul.
VEROMIL. You speak the meaning of a libertine age; the heart that throws off the face of religion wears but the mask of honour.
VALENTINE. Rather, he that has not honour wears but the mask of piety. Canting sits easy on the tongue that would employ its rhetoric against a friend.
VEROMIL. Your reflection on me is base and vain. You know I scorn the apprehension of doing a wrong.
VALENTINE. Ha!
VEROMIL. Nay, ‘tis true; true as that you did intend to wrong another; to rob him of his right, his love; and Heaven, in vengeance on the black design, ordained it to be your friend. Yes, Valentine, it was from me the beauteous, lovely
Bellaria was torn; her whom I ignorantly would have pursued abroad; and ‘tis to you I owe that I am not robbed of her for ever.
VALENTINE. Curse on the obligation. ‘Tis to chance, not me: for, had I known to whom I had discovered her, thou hadst still been ignorant. But thus I cancel it, and all our friendship, in a breath. Henceforward I am thy foe.
VEROMIL. Could I as easily be thine I should deride and scorn thee, as I pity thee now. By Heavens! I should disclaim all friendship with a man who falsely wronged my love. You I can forgive.
VALENTINE. Forgive! I ask it not. Do thy worst.
[Laying his hand on his sword.
VEROMIL. Hero in sin! wouldst thou seal all in thy friend’s blood? Art thou a man, and can thy passion so outstrip thy reason, to send thee wading through falsehood, perjury, and murder, after a flying light which you can ne’er o’ertake! — Think not I fear you as a rival. By Heaven, ‘tis friendship bids me argue with you, bids me caution you from a vain pursuit, whence the utmost you can hope is to make her you pursue as wretched as her you have forsaken.
VALENTINE. Hell! hell and confusion!
VEROMIL. You see she meets my passion with an equal flame; and though a thousand difficulties may delay our happiness, they can’t prevent it. Yours she can never be; for all your hopes must lie in her affection, which you will never gain. No, Valentine, I know myself so fixed, so rooted in that dear bosom, that art or force would both prove ineffectual.
VALENTINE. I’m racked to death!
VEROMIL. Reflect upon the impossibility of your success — But grant the contrary; would you sacrifice our long, our tender friendship, to the faint, transitory pleasures of a brutal appetite? for love that is not mutual is no more.
VALENTINE. Grant not that I might succeed. No passion of my soul could counterpoise my love, nor reason’s weaker efforts make a stand against it.
VEROMIL. Think it impossible then.
VALENTINE. Thou knowest not the strugglings of my breast; for Heaven never made so fine a form.
VEROMIL. Can love, that’s grounded on the outside only, make so deep an impression on your heart? — Possession soon would quench those sudden flames. Beauty, my Valentine, as the flowery blossoms, soon fades; but the diviner excellences of the mind, like the medicinal virtues of the plant, remain in it, when all those charms are withered. Had not that beauteous shell so perfect an inhabitant, and were our souls not linked, not joined so fast together, by Heaven I would resign her to my friend.
VALENTINE. O Veromil! Life, fortune, I could easily abandon for thy friendship. — I will do more, and strive to forget thy mistress.
VEROMIL. Let me applaud thy virtue, and press thy noble bosom to my heart.
VALENTINE. It will be necessary for you to remove from hence. I will, if possible, find some means to effect your wishes. Within this hour you shall find me at the coffeehouse.
VEROMIL. Once more let me embrace thee. — The innocent, the perfect joy that flows from the reflection of a virtuous deed far surpasses all the trifling momentary raptures that are obtained by guilt. To triumph o’er a conquered passion is a pride well worthy of a man.
Safe o’er the main of life the vessel rides,
When passion furls her sails, and reason guides:
While she who has that surest rudder lost,
‘Midst rocks and quicksands by the waves is tost;
No certain road she keeps, no port can find,
Toss’d up and down by ev’ry wanton wind
ACT V.
SCENE I.
CLARISSA’S Apartment.
CLARISSA [alone, rising from a table with a letter in her hand]. So! the task is done: Heaven knows how difficult a one; so entirely to subdue the stubbornness of my resentment. What have I writ? I will see once more.
[Breaks open the letter.
“If there be the least spark of honour remaining in your breast, you will, you must be obliged to relent of your behaviour towards me. I am now too well assured of the reason of your late conduct, from Bellaria: but as it is impossible you should succeed there, I hope” — I can read no farther— “I hope you will reflect on those vows you have so solemnly made to the unhappy
“Clarissa.”
I am resolved not to send it. [Throws it down on the table.
SCENE II.
To her, VALENTINE.
CLARISSA. Ha! he’s here, and comes to insult me. Distraction!
VALENTINE. I fear, madam, you are surprised at this sudden renewal of my visit.
CLARISSA. I own, sir, I expected your good breeding, if not your good nature, would have forbidden you to continue your affronts to a woman — but if your making me uneasy, wretched, miserable, can do you any service to Bellaria — cruel, barbarous! how have I deserved this usage? If you can be cruel, perfidious, forsworn, forgetful of your honour — yet, sure, to insult me is beneath a man.
VALENTINE. If to relent — if with a bleeding heart to own my crime, and with tears to ask your pardon, be insulting —
CLARISSA. Ha!
VALENTINE. See, see my grief, and pity me. I cannot excuse, nor dare I name my crime; but here will kneel till you forgive it.
CLARISSA. Nay, since you repent, you shall not have a cause for kneeling long — Rise, I forgive it.
VALENTINE. Sure, such transcendent goodness never commanded a woman’s heart before! it gives new strength to my reviving passion; a love which never more shall know decay. Let us this moment tie the joyful knot.
Complete Fictional Works of Henry Fielding Page 245