OLD VALENCE. You have none of my blood in you if you are; and, take my word for it, there are in marriage many comfortable hours when a man wants not the assistance of beggary to make him hang himself.
YOUNG VALENCE. Sir, it was in obedience to your commands that I thought of the match at all.
OLD VALENCE. And it is, sir, in obedience to my commands, that I expect you to break it off.
YOUNG VALENCE. I hope you’ll give me leave to do it with civility.
OLD VALENCE. Oh! with as much civility as you please, sir; when you are obliged by prudence to do what the world calls an ill thing, always do it with civility.
YOUNG VALENCE. Sir, I shall obey you in all things.
OLD VALENCE. Send your sister to me in my closet, I must give her a lesson of the same kind.
YOUNG VALENCE. She will, I am confident, receive it with the same regard. [Exit Young Valence.
OLD VALENCE. I have no reason to doubt it, thanks to my severity; for by continually thwarting my children’s desires, I made their inclinations so useless to them, that at length they seemed to have none at all, but to be entirely guided by my will. Severity is, in short, the whole duty of a parent. [Exit.
SCENE II
MR. BONCOUR’S House.
Enter Young Boncour and Miss Boncour.
MISS BONCOUR. La, brother, you are always teasing me with your odious questions: what condition is my heart in? What condition is your own in? We seem to be pretty much in the same circumstances.
YOUNG BONCOUR. I confess, and glory in it. I wonder why the devil women should have more reserve than men.
MISS BONCOUR. Oh, don’t be angry with us on that account; we have not a bit more than is useful to us; and really it seems well enough contrived to keep your whimsical affections alive, which seldom pursue us longer than you have difficulties thrown in your way.
YOUNG BONCOUR. AS you have had no experience, sister, you must have heard this from others; and, believe me, child, they told thee those frightful stories, and made bugbears of men merely to deter thee from marrying, that’s all: they only frighten thee, as they do children, with apparitions.
MISS BONCOUR. It is preposterous though to frighten us, in order to make us desire to lie alone.
YOUNG BONCOUR. Well, you don’t know but I am an exception to your first rule, if it be general. [Miss Boncour sighs.] Why that sigh?
MISS BONCOUR. I wish there may be another.
YOUNG BONCOUR. I am convinced you will find another in my friend Valence.
MISS BONCOUR. It is my interest to hope so, since you have contrived among you to marry me to him.
YOUNG BONCOUR. All compliance! you have no affection for him, then?
MISS BONCOUR. Shall I tell you the truth, brother?
YOUNG BONCOUR. I would not put you to too violent pain, sister; but if, without great danger of your life, it might come out —
MISS BONCOUR. Why, then I do love him, and shall love him to all eternity.
Enter SERVANT.
SERVANT. Madam, Mr. Valence to wait on you.
MISS BONCOUR. Show him into the parlour, I’ll come to him. [Exit Servant.] Brother, you will keep my secret; at least, don’t tell him till a day or two after I am married, and perhaps I may be beforehand with you. [Exit Miss Boncour.
YOUNG BONCOUR. Get you gone for a good-natured girl: he is a rascal who would not make you happy, and be so himself with you. Re-enter SERVANT, with a letter.
SERVANT. Mr. Valence’s man, sir, delivered me this. [Exit Servant.
YOUNG BONCOUR. Ha! I know the dear hand. — [Reads.] “Sir, I am sorry to inform you, that I have this moment orders from my father to” — Ha! confusion!— “to see you no more: you will best know on this occasion how to act, for the sake of your unhappy Sophia Valence!” — My blood runs cold; I’ll fly to her and know the reason of this change of my fortune — poor girl, she wants a comforter as much as myself. [Exit.
SCENE III
Another Apartment in MR. BONCOUR’S House.
Enter YOUNG VALENCE and Miss BONCOUR.
YOUNG VALENCE. How sudden are the changes in this world, how vain our pursuits! An hour ago I was the happiest of mankind, and am now the most miserable.
MISS BONCOUR. This is nothing but some scruple started between the old gentleman, which will be settled again: this be assured of, while your happiness is in my power, you shall never be miserable.
YOUNG VALENCE. Yet consider, madam, consider my condition; I, who, if I was possessed of all my father’s fortune, should be an unworthy offering to your beauty: with what assurance can I throw a disinherited son at your feet?
MISS BONCOUR. Fathers often threaten what they never perform; but let yours be ever so obstinate, I know my father’s good nature to be such, that he will settle a fortune on us that will enable us to live at our ease, if not in splendour.
YOUNG VALENCE. Oh! my dearest love, I fear there are no hopes from that quarter; for the reason of my father’s breaking off the match was an account he just received from undoubted authority, that your father is irretrievably ruined, and is not worth a shilling in the world.
MISS BONCOUR. Good Heavens! what do I hear?
YOUNG VALENCE. ‘Tis but too true; and ‘Tis with the utmost reluctance I come the fatal messenger of such unwelcome tidings! Oh, that I were now but master of the fortune I am entitled to, that I might prove the sincerity of my passion; that I might show my sole object was the possession of your lovely self, without any sordid views of fortune.
MISS BONCOUR. Then all the flattering prospects of happiness I had before me is vanished in an instant.
YOUNG VALENCE. Why so, my angel? if the change of fortune makes no change in our love, we may still be happy.
MISS BONCOUR. Happy! what, by indulging a hopeless passion?
YOUNG VALENCE. Why hopeless? it is in our power instantly to realise its joys — curse on all those who conspired to fetter love with any chains to make it subservient to the gain of lawyers and priests; cannot we trust to the ties of nature, and our own affections? Is not this dear hand security enough for your heart, without a more formal union? Oh, melting softness. (Ha! by my hopes she dissolves — I’ll carry her now.) [Aside.] O my paradise, this hour, this minute, this instant —
MISS BONCOUR. What do you mean?
YOUNG VALENCE. Need I tell you my meaning? or can words do it? O no, my soul, my angel!
MISS BONCOUR. Sure I am in a dream! pray who are you, sir?
YOUNG VALENCE. You are in a dream, indeed; do not you know your Valence?
MISS BONCOUR. My Valence! no, he never would use me thus.
YOUNG VALENCE. Does the excess of my passion offend you, which, inflamed by disappointment, will admit of no delay? I here plight my solemn vow, and call Heaven to witness that you are my wife, and at my father’s death —
MISS BONCOUR. Be gone, villain, and never see me more. [Exit.
YOUNG VALENCE. This I might expect on the first proposal; but her distress and my perseverance must in time prevail. [Exit.
SCENE IV
Another Apartment in MR. BONCOUR’S House.
Enter MR. BONCOUR and SIR GEORGE BONCOUR.
SIR GEORGE BONCOUR. Your ruin will go round the town before night; by six all the good women will order their horses, to blame your conduct, and pity your family in every assembly and private company they meet with.
MR. BONCOUR. So, you think I shall have no more difficulty to prevent the match.
SIR GEORGE BONCOUR. I do, indeed, and hope you will reap more advantage than that from it.
MR. BONCOUR. What, pray?
SIR GEORGE BONCOUR. Be cured of your distemper — your good nature. Have you not obliged almost every one of your acquaintance? Have you not lent money without security? Have you not always been inclined to speak well of mankind, and blamed nothing but the most notorious villainy? Have not your doors been open as those of an hospital to the sustenance of the poor? nay, have you not taken them from a prison, and brought
them to your table? Are there not many rich men who owe the original of their wealth to your bounty; and yet, if after all that you have done, should you not be able to borrow five pounds in the town, would it not cure you?
MR. BONCOUR. Why should I be sorry that I have been good, because others are evil? If I have acted right I have done well, though alone; if wrong, the sanction of all mankind would not justify my conduct.
SIR GEORGE BONCOUR. I tell you, sir, you have not acted right; you have acted very wrong in doing kindness to a parcel of rogues and rascals, who with the tenth part of your understanding have called you fool for serving them; have privately laughed at you in your prosperity, and will publicly despise you in your adversity — a good-natured man! Oh! ‘Tis a precious character.
MR. BONCOUR. Ha, ha, ha! brother, you yourself are a good-natured man, and don’t know it.
SIR GEORGE BONCOUR. Why, truly, I have been guilty of some infirmities of that kind, for which I am heartily sorry; I have told a man he deserved to be hanged, when he ought to have been broke on the wheel; and sometimes I pay my tradesmen’s bills in half a year without deduction, when the rascals would gain three per cent, if I paid them in a twelvemonth: I have refused going to law with a man for a debt, only because I knew he could not pay the charges: I have shaken a rogue by the hand, only because it was the fashion; and have expressed abundance of sorrow for the misfortunes of my acquaintance when they have not given me the least uneasiness; yes, I think, in the main, I am too good-natured truly.
MR. BONCOUR. Well, Sir George let the effects this scheme of yours produces upon my children be the test of our principles.
SIR GEORGE BONCOUR. Content.
Enter YOUNG BONCOUR.
YOUNG BONCOUR. My father! oh, sir, I have heard such news! heaven forbid there should be the least shadow or colour of truth in it.
SIR GEORGE BONCOUR. Why, sure, sir, it can’t surprise you to hear your father is ruined, when you have been endeavouring by a long course of extravagance to bring it about?
YOUNG BONCOUR. Sir, I can ill bear jesting on this subject: if the indulgence of my father has allowed the inadvertency of my youth to bring this misfortune on him, the agonies of all my future days will not sufficiently punish me for it.
MR. BONCOUR. Do you hear that, brother?
SIR GEORGE BONCOUR. I would not have you take it so much to heart neither, since your own ruin will not be absolutely included in your father’s; you have a certain reversion of the estate, by the marriage settlement, upon which you may still raise money for your own subsistence; and I do not suppose you mad enough to give up your right to that in order to enable your father to preserve himself, by cutting off the entail.
YOUNG BONCOUR. How! is it in my power to preserve him?
SIR GEORGE BONCOUR. Yes, in that way you may, but in no other.
YOUNG BONCOUR. Send for a lawyer this moment: let him point out the method: if there were no other way my blood should sign the deed. Oh, my father, believe me, I am blest to give you this trifling instance of my duty, of my affection!
MR. BONCOUR. My child! Oh, brother, I can scarce support it.
YOUNG BONCOUR. I’ll this instant to my lawyer; I am impatient till it be done; justice, gratitude, duty to the best of fathers, will not let me rest till it is accomplished. [Exit.
MR. BONCOUR. Well, Sir George, what think you now?
SIR GEORGE BONCOUR. Think! why I think he has smelt out the trick, and has artfully contrived this cheap method of appearing meritorious in your eyes.
MR. BONCOUR. Oh, brother, that is too severe a censure; the feeling that he showed, the warmth, the earnestness with which he expressed himself, could never be assumed by one not accustomed to dissemble.
SIR GEORGE BONCOUR. Well, if that be the case, all I can say is, that you have damned good luck in having a son whose natural disposition was so good, that all the pains you have taken have not been able to spoil him entirely — But who have we here?
Enter Sir Gregory Kennel.
SIR GREGORY KENNEL [entering]. Pshaw! at home indeed!, plague on thee; dost think I want to ask whether a man’s at home when I see him at the window? Neighbour Boncour, how fares it? — what, Sir George!
MR. BONCOUR. Is it possible! Sir Gregory Kennel in town!
SIR GREGORY KENNEL. That question hath been asked by every one I have seen since I have been here: why should it not be as possible for us country gentlemen to come to town, as for you town gentlemen to come into the country? I don’t know whether you are glad to see us here, but we should be glad to see some of you there a little oftener.
MR. BONCOUR. I hope you left all well there, Sir Gregory?
SIR GREGORY KENNEL. Yes; I left the tenants very well; and they give their humble service to you, would be very glad of your company to spend a little of your money amongst them.
MR. BONCOUR. But how does your family, Sir Gregory? how does my godson do?
SIR GREGORY KENNEL. Why, the squire is very well; I was bringing him to see you; but I taught un to travel, I think, and so, ecod, at the corner of one of the streets, he travelled off, and left me in the lurch: you have no need to be ashamed of your godson, I can tell you; he is a fine gentleman: I suppose you have heard he has made the tour of Europe, as he calls it.
MR. BONCOUR. Not I, truly.
SIR GREGORY KENNEL. But, pray, Sir George, what do you think is my business in town?
SIR GEORGE BONCOUR. Faith, I can’t tell — To sell oxen, I suppose?
SIR GREGORY KENNEL. NO; not that entirely; though I have some cattle with me too. Pray guess again.
SIR GEORGE BONCOUR. To see my Lord Mayor’s show, perhaps?
SIR GREGORY KENNEL. No, no; I don’t love shows. Well, then, since you can’t tell, I’ll tell you; to get a good wife for my son; for though the boy hath seen all Europe, till a man hath married his son, he ha’n’t discharged his duty — then he hath done all in his power.
SIR GEORGE BONCOUR. Ay, ay, his wife will do the rest.
Enter Miss Boncour.
MISS BONCOUR. Sir, when you are at leisure, I shall be happy to speak with you.
MR. BONCOUR. Presently, my dear. Sir Gregory Kennel — a very old friend of mine. My daughter, Sir Gregory.
SIR GREGORY KENNEL. A brave lass, faith! by your leave, madam; why, that’s well; you are in the right not to be shy to me, for I have had you in my arms before now.
MR. BONCOUR. And her brother too,. Sir Gregory.
SIR GREGORY KENNEL. Ay, so I have, and truly for the matter we were talking of, since I see what I see, I don’t care for going any farther; what say you, neighbour Boncour? You know my estate, and I know yours, you have seen my son, and I see your daughter; what say you to a match between them?
MR. BONCOUR. My daughter, Sir Gregory, will be the properest person to ask.
SIR GREGORY KENNEL. Not at all; what signifies asking a person a question, when you know beforehand what will be the answer; especially when you know that answer to be a false one — No, no, the boy shall ask her, and then they will lie to one another; for if she swears she does not love him, he’ll swear he’ll love her for ever, and that is as good a one.
MR. BONCOUR. Sir Gregory, I am sensible of the honour you propose me, but shall neither force nor oppose her inclination.
MISS BONCOUR. I find he hath not heard our story. [Aside.
SIR GREGORY KENNEL. Well, my little Gillifiower, since I am to ask thee, what would it say to a hearty, healthy, good-humoured young dog, that would love thee till thy heart ached?
MISS BONCOUR. Sir! I don’t understand you.
SIR GREGORY KENNEL. O lud, there is a —
MISS BONCOUR. Hold, sir, no rudeness; when I am properly asked, I shall know how to answer. [Exit.
SIR GREGORY KENNEL. That is, when she is asked by the young fellow; that, I suppose, is properly asked.
SIR GEORGE BONCOUR. ‘Tis an alliance on no account to be lost — well, Sir Gregory, I hope my niece gave you a satisfactory answer.
SIR GEORGE BONCOUR. What’s that?
SIR GREGORY KENNEL. That they were not properly asked; but here will be the proper person himself presently; he who knows where to fine me.
MR. BONCOUR. In the mean time, Sir Gregory, what say you to a bottle of Burgundy?
SIR GREGORY KENNEL. I shall like a bottle of any thing very well, for I have not drank a single drop this whole hour.
Complete Fictional Works of Henry Fielding Page 368