ANG. How! I thought your love of me had caused this transport in your soul; which, it seems, you only counterfeited, for mercenary ends and sordid interest.
VAL. Nay, now you do me wrong; for if any interest was considered it was yours, since I thought I wanted more than love to make me worthy of you.
ANG. Then you thought me mercenary. But how am I deluded by this interval of sense to reason with a madman?
VAL. Oh, ’tis barbarous to misunderstand me longer.
SCENE XIX.
[To them] Jeremy.
ANG. Oh, here’s a reasonable creature — sure he will not have the impudence to persevere. Come, Jeremy, acknowledge your trick, and confess your master’s madness counterfeit.
JERE. Counterfeit, madam! I’ll maintain him to be as absolutely and substantially mad as any freeholder in Bethlehem; nay, he’s as mad as any projector, fanatic, chymist, lover, or poet in Europe.
VAL. Sirrah, you be; I am not mad.
ANG. Ha, ha, ha! you see he denies it.
JERE. O Lord, madam, did you ever know any madman mad enough to own it?
VAL. Sot, can’t you apprehend?
ANG. Why, he talked very sensibly just now.
JERE. Yes, madam; he has intervals. But you see he begins to look wild again now.
VAL. Why, you thick-skulled rascal, I tell you the farce is done, and I will be mad no longer. [Beats him.]
ANG. Ha, ha, ha! is he mad or no, Jeremy?
JERE. Partly, I think, — for he does not know his own mind two hours. I’m sure I left him just now in the humour to be mad, and I think I have not found him very quiet at this present. Who’s there? [One knocks.]
VAL. Go see, you sot. — I’m very glad that I can move your mirth though not your compassion.
ANG. I did not think you had apprehension enough to be exceptions. But madmen show themselves most by over-pretending to a sound understanding, as drunken men do by over-acting sobriety. I was half inclining to believe you, till I accidently touched upon your tender part: but now you have restored me to my former opinion and compassion.
JERE. Sir, your father has sent to know if you are any better yet. Will you please to be mad, sir, or how?
VAL. Stupidity! You know the penalty of all I’m worth must pay for the confession of my senses; I’m mad, and will be mad to everybody but this lady.
JERE. So — just the very backside of truth, — but lying is a figure in speech that interlards the greatest part of my conversation. Madam, your ladyship’s woman.
SCENE XX.
Valentine, Angelica, Jenny.
ANG. Well, have you been there? — Come hither.
JENNY. Yes, madam; Sir Sampson will wait upon you presently. [Aside to Angelica.]
VAL. You are not leaving me in this uncertainty?
ANG. Would anything but a madman complain of uncertainty? Uncertainty and expectation are the joys of life. Security is an insipid thing, and the overtaking and possessing of a wish discovers the folly of the chase. Never let us know one another better, for the pleasure of a masquerade is done when we come to show our faces; but I’ll tell you two things before I leave you: I am not the fool you take me for; and you are mad and don’t know it.
SCENE XXI.
Valentine, Jeremy.
VAL. From a riddle you can expect nothing but a riddle. There’s my instruction and the moral of my lesson.
JERE. What, is the lady gone again, sir? I hope you understood one another before she went?
VAL. Understood! She is harder to be understood than a piece of Egyptian antiquity or an Irish manuscript: you may pore till you spoil your eyes and not improve your knowledge.
JERE. I have heard ’em say, sir, they read hard Hebrew books backwards; maybe you begin to read at the wrong end.
VAL. They say so of a witch’s prayer, and dreams and Dutch almanacs are to be understood by contraries. But there’s regularity and method in that; she is a medal without a reverse or inscription, for indifference has both sides alike. Yet, while she does not seem to hate me, I will pursue her, and know her if it be possible, in spite of the opinion of my satirical friend, Scandal, who says —
That women are like tricks by sleight of hand,
Which, to admire, we should not understand.
ACT V. — SCENE I.
A room in Foresight’s house.
Angelica and Jenny.
ANG. Where is Sir Sampson? Did you not tell me he would be here before me?
JENNY. He’s at the great glass in the dining-room, madam, setting his cravat and wig.
ANG. How! I’m glad on’t. If he has a mind I should like him, it’s a sign he likes me; and that’s more than half my design.
JENNY. I hear him, madam.
ANG. Leave me; and, d’ye hear, if Valentine should come, or send, I am not to be spoken with.
SCENE II.
Angelica, Sir Sampson.
SIR SAMP. I have not been honoured with the commands of a fair lady a great while, — odd, madam, you have revived me, — not since I was five-and-thirty.
ANG. Why, you have no great reason to complain, Sir Sampson, that is not long ago.
SIR SAMP. Zooks, but it is, madam, a very great while: to a man that admires a fine woman as much as I do.
ANG. You’re an absolute courtier, Sir Sampson.
SIR SAMP. Not at all, madam, — odsbud, you wrong me, — I am not so old neither, to be a bare courtier, only a man of words. Odd, I have warm blood about me yet, and can serve a lady any way. Come, come, let me tell you, you women think a man old too soon, faith and troth you do. Come, don’t despise fifty; odd, fifty, in a hale constitution, is no such contemptible age.
ANG. Fifty a contemptible age! Not at all; a very fashionable age, I think. I assure you, I know very considerable beaus that set a good face upon fifty. Fifty! I have seen fifty in a side box by candle-light out-blossom five-and-twenty.
SIR SAMP. Outsides, outsides; a pize take ’em, mere outsides. Hang your side-box beaus; no, I’m none of those, none of your forced trees, that pretend to blossom in the fall, and bud when they should bring forth fruit: I am of a long-lived race, and inherit vigour; none of my ancestors married till fifty, yet they begot sons and daughters till fourscore: I am of your patriarchs, I, a branch of one of your antedeluvian families, fellows that the flood could not wash away. Well, madam, what are your commands? Has any young rogue affronted you, and shall I cut his throat? Or —
ANG. No, Sir Sampson, I have no quarrel upon my hands. I have more occasion for your conduct than your courage at this time. To tell you the truth, I’m weary of living single and want a husband.
SIR SAMP. Odsbud, and ’tis pity you should. Odd, would she would like me, then I should hamper my young rogues. Odd, would she would; faith and troth she’s devilish handsome. [Aside.] Madam, you deserve a good husband, and ‘twere pity you should be thrown away upon any of these young idle rogues about the town. Odd, there’s ne’er a young fellow worth hanging — that is a very young fellow. Pize on ’em, they never think beforehand of anything; and if they commit matrimony, ’tis as they commit murder, out of a frolic, and are ready to hang themselves, or to be hanged by the law, the next morning. Odso, have a care, madam.
ANG. Therefore I ask your advice, Sir Sampson. I have fortune enough to make any man easy that I can like: if there were such a thing as a young agreeable man, with a reasonable stock of good nature and sense — for I would neither have an absolute wit nor a fool.
SIR SAMP. Odd, you are hard to please, madam: to find a young fellow that is neither a wit in his own eye, nor a fool in the eye of the world, is a very hard task. But, faith and troth, you speak very discreetly; for I hate both a wit and a fool.
ANG. She that marries a fool, Sir Sampson, forfeits the reputation of her honesty or understanding; and she that marries a very witty man is a slave to the severity and insolent conduct of her husband. I should like a man of wit for a lover, because I would have such an one in my power; but I would no more b
e his wife than his enemy. For his malice is not a more terrible consequence of his aversion than his jealousy is of his love.
SIR SAMP. None of old Foresight’s sibyls ever uttered such a truth. Odsbud, you have won my heart; I hate a wit: I had a son that was spoiled among ’em, a good hopeful lad, till he learned to be a wit; and might have risen in the state. But, a pox on’t, his wit run him out of his money, and now his poverty has run him out of his wits.
ANG. Sir Sampson, as your friend, I must tell you you are very much abused in that matter: he’s no more mad than you are.
SIR SAMP. How, madam! Would I could prove it.
ANG. I can tell you how that may be done. But it is a thing that would make me appear to be too much concerned in your affairs.
SIR SAMP. Odsbud, I believe she likes me. [Aside.] Ah, madam, all my affairs are scarce worthy to be laid at your feet; and I wish, madam, they were in a better posture, that I might make a more becoming offer to a lady of your incomparable beauty and merit. If I had Peru in one hand, and Mexico in t’other, and the Eastern Empire under my feet, it would make me only a more glorious victim to be offered at the shrine of your beauty.
ANG. Bless me, Sir Sampson, what’s the matter?
SIR SAMP. Odd, madam, I love you. And if you would take my advice in a husband —
ANG. Hold, hold, Sir Sampson. I asked your advice for a husband, and you are giving me your consent. I was indeed thinking to propose something like it in jest, to satisfy you about Valentine: for if a match were seemingly carried on between you and me, it would oblige him to throw off his disguise of madness, in apprehension of losing me: for you know he has long pretended a passion for me.
SIR SAMP. Gadzooks, a most ingenious contrivance — if we were to go through with it. But why must the match only be seemingly carried on? Odd, let it be a real contract.
ANG. Oh, fie, Sir Sampson, what would the world say?
SIR SAMP. Say? They would say you were a wise woman and I a happy man. Odd, madam, I’ll love you as long as I live, and leave you a good jointure when I die.
ANG. Ay; but that is not in your power, Sir Sampson: for when Valentine confesses himself in his senses, he must make over his inheritance to his younger brother.
SIR SAMP. Odd, you’re cunning, a wary baggage! Faith and troth, I like you the better. But, I warrant you, I have a proviso in the obligation in favour of myself. Body o’ me, I have a trick to turn the settlement upon the issue male of our two bodies begotten. Odsbud, let us find children and I’ll find an estate!
ANG. Will you? Well, do you find the estate and leave t’other to me.
SIR SAMP. O rogue! But I’ll trust you. And will you consent? Is it a match then?
ANG. Let me consult my lawyer concerning this obligation, and if I find what you propose practicable, I’ll give you my answer.
SIR SAMP. With all my heart: come in with me, and I’ll lend you the bond. You shall consult your lawyer, and I’ll consult a parson. Odzooks, I’m a young man — odzooks, I’m a young man, and I’ll make it appear, — odd, you’re devilish handsome. Faith and troth, you’re very handsome, and I’m very young and very lusty. Odsbud, hussy, you know how to choose, and so do I. Odd, I think we are very well met. Give me your hand, odd, let me kiss it; ’tis as warm and as soft — as what? Odd, as t’other hand — give me t’other hand, and I’ll mumble ’em and kiss ’em till they melt in my mouth.
ANG. Hold, Sir Sampson. You’re profuse of your vigour before your time. You’ll spend your estate before you come to it.
SIR SAMP. No, no, only give you a rent-roll of my possessions. Ah, baggage, I warrant you for little Sampson. Odd, Sampson’s a very good name for an able fellow: your Sampsons were strong dogs from the beginning.
ANG. Have a care and don’t over-act your part. If you remember, Sampson, the strongest of the name, pulled an old house over his head at last.
SIR SAMP. Say you so, hussy? Come, let’s go then; odd, I long to be pulling too; come away. Odso, here’s somebody coming.
SCENE III.
Tattle, Jeremy.
TATT. Is not that she gone out just now?
JERE. Ay, sir; she’s just going to the place of appointment. Ah, sir, if you are not very faithful and close in this business, you’ll certainly be the death of a person that has a most extraordinary passion for your honour’s service.
TATT. Ay, who’s that?
JERE. Even my unworthy self, sir. Sir, I have had an appetite to be fed with your commands a great while; and now, sir, my former master having much troubled the fountain of his understanding, it is a very plausible occasion for me to quench my thirst at the spring of your bounty. I thought I could not recommend myself better to you, sir, than by the delivery of a great beauty and fortune into your arms, whom I have heard you sigh for.
TATT. I’ll make thy fortune; say no more. Thou art a pretty fellow, and canst carry a message to a lady, in a pretty soft kind of phrase, and with a good persuading accent.
JERE. Sir, I have the seeds of rhetoric and oratory in my head: I have been at Cambridge.
TATT. Ay; ’tis well enough for a servant to be bred at an university: but the education is a little too pedantic for a gentleman. I hope you are secret in your nature: private, close, ha?
JERE. Oh, sir, for that, sir, ’tis my chief talent: I’m as secret as the head of Nilus.
TATT. Ay? Who’s he, though? A privy counsellor?
JERE. O ignorance! [Aside.] A cunning Egyptian, sir, that with his arms would overrun the country, yet nobody could ever find out his head-quarters.
TATT. Close dog! A good whoremaster, I warrant him: — the time draws nigh, Jeremy. Angelica will be veiled like a nun, and I must be hooded like a friar, ha, Jeremy?
JERE. Ay, sir; hooded like a hawk, to seize at first sight upon the quarry. It is the whim of my master’s madness to be so dressed, and she is so in love with him she’ll comply with anything to please him. Poor lady, I’m sure she’ll have reason to pray for me, when she finds what a happy exchange she has made, between a madman and so accomplished a gentleman.
TATT. Ay, faith, so she will, Jeremy: you’re a good friend to her, poor creature. I swear I do it hardly so much in consideration of myself as compassion to her.
JERE. ’Tis an act of charity, sir, to save a fine woman with thirty thousand pound from throwing herself away.
TATT. So ’tis, faith; I might have saved several others in my time, but, i’gad, I could never find in my heart to marry anybody before.
JERE. Well, sir, I’ll go and tell her my master’s coming, and meet you in half a quarter of an hour with your disguise at your own lodgings. You must talk a little madly: she won’t distinguish the tone of your voice.
TATT. No, no; let me alone for a counterfeit. I’ll be ready for you.
SCENE IV.
Tattle, Miss Prue.
MISS. O Mr. Tattle, are you here? I’m glad I have found you; I have been looking up and down for you like anything, till I’m as tired as anything in the world.
TATT. Oh, pox, how shall I get rid of this foolish girl? [Aside.]
MISS. Oh, I have pure news, I can tell you, pure news. I must not marry the seaman now — my father says so. Why won’t you be my husband? You say you love me, and you won’t be my husband. And I know you may be my husband now, if you please.
TATT. Oh, fie, miss; who told you so, child?
MISS. Why, my father. I told him that you loved me.
TATT. Oh, fie, miss; why did you do so? And who told you so, child?
MISS. Who? Why, you did; did not you?
TATT. Oh, pox, that was yesterday, miss, that was a great while ago, child. I have been asleep since; slept a whole night, and did not so much as dream of the matter.
MISS. Pshaw — oh, but I dreamt that it was so, though.
TATT. Ay, but your father will tell you that dreams come by contraries, child. Oh, fie; what, we must not love one another now. Pshaw, that would be a foolish thing indeed. Fie, fie, you’re a wo
man now, and must think of a new man every morning and forget him every night. No, no, to marry is to be a child again, and play with the same rattle always. Oh, fie, marrying is a paw thing.
MISS. Well, but don’t you love me as well as you did last night then?
TATT. No, no, child, you would not have me.
MISS. No? Yes, but I would, though.
TATT. Pshaw, but I tell you you would not. You forget you’re a woman and don’t know your own mind.
Complete Works of William Congreve Page 50