O’Prompt (aside). I shall remember.
Miss Comfit. Do you appear as a Turk.
O’Prompt (aside). Very good.
Miss Comfit. Come to me in silence, press my hand three times, and we will go off together.
O’Prompt (aside). Here’s a conspiracy!
Metaphor. But what necessity —
Miss Comfit. It will be so romantic.
Metaphor. As you please. Give me but yourself, I care not how or where.
Miss Comfit. Till then, farewell (holding out her hand, which he kisses passionately. Exit Miss COMFIT).
Metaphor. Farewell, my most adorable Sultana!
O’Prompt (aside). Now comes my cue. (As METAPHOR is going off O’PROMPT interposes himself.) Sir, your most obedient.
Metaphor. Have you any business with me, friend?
O’Prompt. Only just to request a little favour. Will you oblige me by walking into that closet?
Metaphor. Prythee, fellow, cease your impertinence, and stand out of the way.
O’Prompt. Will you walk into the closet?
Metaphor. No, rascal!
O’Prompt. Then, by my soul, I’ll make you!
Metaphor. Make me, monster!
O’Prompt. Yes, jewel! March! (forcing him towards the closet).
Metaphor. What do you mean, ruffian?
O’Prompt. Oh, be easy!
Metaphor. Unhand me, thief!
O’Prompt. Keep yourself cool.
Metaphor. Infamous assassin!
O’Prompt. Arrah, behave yourself! {locks him in). He’s lodged. That was neatly managed. Ah! kick away! I’ll just make fast the outer door, and then you’re safe till the morning. [Exit with the key.
SCENE III. — THE INN.
Enter COMFIT.
Comfit. I have half a mind to make one at the dilettanti masquerade; and I have half a mind to stay where I am: so that balances the matter. Perhaps Tactic will be here presently. Let me consider. Suppose I stay: I don’t think there can be much harm in that. Suppose I go: I’m not sure there can be no harm in that. Suppose I go in to dinner: I am sure there can be no harm in that, so I’ll consult my bottle-counsellor. [Exit.
Enter TACTIC and O’PROMPT.
Tactic. Your intelligence drives me to desperation: such deception is incredible.
O’Prompt. Don’t let a woman ruffle your temper. To be sure the twenty thousand —
Tactic. Paltry consideration! No, sir; it is herself whose loss I regret: she seemed such a pattern of modesty, innocence, and candour— ‘sdeath! I’ll blow my brains out!
O’Prompt. Don’t be in a hurry about that: ‘the times have been, that when the brains were out, the man would die’; as I used to say when I acted Macbeth in Mr. O’Tagrag’s company.
Tactic. The devil take Mr. O’Tagrag!
O’Prompt. Och! then he’d take the very cleverest manager that ever drilled a flourishing company of theatrical ladies and gentlemen.
Tactic. Is this a time, sir, for your buffoonery, when your master’s honour and happiness are at stake?
O’Prompt. Buffoonery! Now that is not civil of you. But you had better take my advice: personate the Turk, carry off the lady, and leave the rest to fortune.
Tactic. It shall be so. But how to procure the dress and obtain admission? —
O’Prompt. Let me alone to manage that.
Tactic. Come along, then; we have no time to lose. Oh woman! woman! inconstant, treacherous woman! — [Exit.
O’Prompt. A very tragical exit! If he had struck his forehead with his fist, and stamped a little harder on the ground, it would have been complete. Let me try if I can’t do it better. Oh woman! woman! inconstant, treacherous woman!
[Exit.
SCENE IV. — AN ILLUMINATED APARTMENT.
MASKED BALL.
MISS COMFIT, as a Sultana, advances to the front of the stage. Enter TACTIC as a Turk; he takes her hand and leads her off. A party of troubadours advances, and sings the following trio.
With knights, and maids, and loves, and arms,
And countless deeds, and war’s alarms,
Our mystic song the hearer charms,
While the ev’ning bells ring merrily.
Of magic groves and vales we sing;
Of Merlin, and the Elfin-king,
Of sprites that o’er the witch-grass spring,
While the ev’ning bells ring merrily.
Of deep enchantments strange and strong,
Of sweetest notes of fairy song,
That float the haunted air along,
While the ev’ning bells ring merrily.
[Dancing renewed. The scene closes.
SCENE V. — AN APARTMENT IN THE INN.
Enter TACTIC and Miss COMFIT, both in their masquerade dresses, followed by O’PROMPT.
Miss Comfit. Mr. Metaphor! my dear Mr. Metaphor! whither are you leading me?
Tactic. It is not my intention, madam, to lead you any farther.
Miss Comfit. Heavens! that is not Mr. Metaphor’s voice!
Tactic. No, madam! Your inconstancy, your duplicity, have forced me to this proceeding; and behold to your confusion —
Miss Comfit. In the name of heaven, sir, who are you? (both unmask).
Tactic. I am thunderstruck!
O’Prompt. What wonder now?
Tactic. This is one of your mischievous tricks, you stage-struck blunderer!
O’Prompt. How! is not this your Southampton flame?
Tactic. No, sir! This lady is a perfect stranger to me.
O’Prompt. Here’s an incident!
Tactic. Madam, I beg ten thousand pardons, but —
Miss Comfit. Sir, all the pardons you can beg will never compensate the injury you have done me. (Bursts into tears.)
O’Prompt. Here’s a dilemma.
Enter COMFIT.
Comfit (aside). Heyday! what is the matter here? Surely that is my daughter, and this is Mr.
Tactic. She’s in tears. I’m strangely perplexed —
Mr. Mustapha Tactic! what is the meaning of this? Tactic. Zounds, sir! I can’t tell.
Comfit. Mr. O’Prompt! what does all this signify?
O’Prompt. Devil burn me, if I know.
Comfit. So! Fair Sultana! may I presume to inquire the occasion of your tears?
Miss Comfit. What’s that to you, you meddling old ragamuffin? — [Exit.
Comfit. A pleasant salutation! Mr. Tactic! will you have the goodness to explain this circumstance?
Tactic. Sir, it’s impossible to explain what I don’t understand. [Exit.
Comfit. Mr. O’Prompt! will you do me the favour to clear up this mystery?
O’Prompt. Oh, bless your old soul! you must not apply to me; for, by the faith of St. Patrick, I’m bothered completely. [Exit.
Comfit. Am I asleep or awake? Do I stand on my head or my heels? I am lost in confusion and darkness. One thing is clear enough, there they are all gone off, and the best thing I can do is to go after them as fast as possible. [Exit.
End of Act I.
ACT II.
SCENE I. — AN APARTMENT — IN COMFIT’S HOUSE.
ENTER TACTIC AND EMMA.
Emma. And could you really suspect me of such ungenerous conduct?
Tactic. What could I suppose? I was not aware that there were two Miss Comfits.
Emma. You have been unfortunate in your choice. My cousin has a large fortune, and I am a mere dependent on my uncle’s bounty. My father died insolvent, and bequeathed me nothing but his tears.
Tactic. My dear Emma! I love you only for yourself. Hang riches! To be sure they are rather convenient according to the present fashion; but I would not resign my Emma for all the mines of Potosi. But tell me, my sweet girl, can you love me truly?
Emma. I cannot answer that question. My uncle’s letter styled you a young man of family and fortune; and those are such powerful inducements to the generality of modern females, that I fear, should I reply in the affirmative, my motives might be li
able to suspicion.
Tactic. Most amiable girl! I can soon relieve you from that embarrassment. It is true, at my father’s death I possessed a considerable property; but thanks to a set of very honourable swindlers, I am now as poor as a Neapolitan lazzarone.
Emma. Is it so indeed? Or is this merely a stratagem to discover my real sentiments?
Tactic. Fact — on my honour.
Emma. Your candour and generosity charm me, but —
Tactic. Oh! do not kill me with that freezing word.
Emma. Why should I hesitate? I confess — I acknowledge — (turns aside, and holds out her hand to him).
Tactic. I think I understand you, but speak, my angel, let your voice confirm me. What shall I think?
Emma. Anything — what you will — I cannot say more at present. Adieu! — [Exit.
Tactic. Gone! That was rather a sudden departure; but I am now convinced she loves me, and, so far, I am satisfied. Let me consider. They say, ‘When poverty comes in at the door—’
What have I to do with musty proverbs? All may go well yet. I must explain myself to old Comfit, and perhaps, as he rolls in riches, he may be persuaded to give his niece a little portion, just enough to purchase a small farm among the mountains of Wales. That would be rather a singular termination of my fashionable career, but the transformation of a London buck into a Welsh farmer will not be the most ëxtraordinary metamorphosis in the annals of Cupid. But I must choose a better place for my deliberations.- One might almost fancy this house an enchanted castle, for Comfit and O’Prompt have both crept into it in search of adventures. I dare say they will get into some ridiculous scrape; but, as I am not at present in much humour for mirth, I shall peaceably leave them to its exclusive enjoyment. [Exit.
SCENE II. — ANOTHER APARTMENT IN COMFIT’S HOUSE. THE SAME AS THE SECOND SCENE OF THE FIRST ACT.
Enter O’PROMPT.
O’Prompt. My master has been abusing me for what he calls my rascally blunders; but running away with a twenty-thousand-pound prize, instead of a girl that’s worth nothing at all, was no such very terrible bull if properly considered. I’ve found out what ‘dilettante’ means; it means a man with a taste. I think I’m a little bit of a dilettante myself. There’s my prisoner kicking away in the closet. He has had a pleasant time of it since yesterday afternoon. I think I’ll let him out. Stop! I hear footsteps. I’ll hide myself ‘till the coast is clear, and perhaps I may have a little more fun with my bird in the cage (goes into the other closet).
Enter MRS. COMFIT, crossing the stage.
Mrs. Comfit. What noise is that? {Metaphor kicks against the closet door; she goes up to it.) Who’s there?
Metaphor (within). Oh, my dear Mrs. Comfit! for heaven’s sake release me!
Mrs. Comfit. Mr. Metaphor! in the name of wonder how came you here?
Metaphor. An Irish rascal locked me up. I have been here all night.
Mrs. Comfit. Astonishing! — the key is taken away.
Metaphor. Let the lock be picked. I am half dead.
Mrs. Comfit. Poor soul! I have another key that will fit this lock. I shall be back in a few minutes. [Exit.
O’Prompt (coming from the closet). Now it’s my turn to talk to him. Mr. Metaphor! my dear jewel! Arrah! how are you?
Metaphor. Is that you, you Irish murderer?
O’Prompt. I hope you slept well, and were none the worse for your supper.
Metaphor. Villain! I have vowed vengeance, horrible vengeance!
O’Prompt. Ha! there’s old Comfit in his disguise sneaking along under the wall. Och! it’s hatching here (touching his forehead). Hark ye, Mr. Jack-in-the-box!
Metaphor. What now, monster?
O’Prompt. Keep yourself perfectly silent for two minutes, and I’ll unlock the door.
Metaphor. Very well, ruffian!
Enter COMFIT.
Comfit. I cannot yet comprehend the mystery of last night. I wish I could be satisfied with respect to my wife. If I thought she would be constant to her old spouse, I think I could get the better of my antipathy to the dilettanti. I have ventured to enter the premises. If I am seen I shall not be recognised. I may perhaps meet with something to confirm or destroy my suspicions. O’Prompt! are you there?
O’Prompt. Hush! take this key: walk up to that door and unlock it without speaking a word.
Comfit. Why, what — ?
O’Prompt. Your wife has shut up a dilettanti in the closet.
Comfit. Ha!
O’Prompt. Don’t be in a passion — I tell you it’s a fact (passes the closet door slily). Now, Mr. Metaphor!
Comfit. I’ll dilettante — him! — (Unlocks the door; Metaphor rushes from the closet flourishing a violin, which he cracks over Comfit’s head.)
Metaphor. Take that, scoundrel, as the reward of your insolence! — [Exit hastily.
Comfit. Stop him! Now, what was that for?
O’Prompt. Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha!
Comfit. What are you laughing at, you great baboon?
O’Prompt. This is a new dilettante method of playing the fiddle.
Comfit. This was your contrivance, and by —
O’Prompt. Be quiet. How should I know what tune the gentleman intended to play? I dare say there are a great many more dilettanti-traps in that closet. I’ll go in and see.
Comfit. Stay where you are: I’ll go in myself. (Goes into the closet. O’PROMPT locks the door.)
O’Prompt. There you are ‘till your wife sets you at liberty. She’s coming. I’ll hide myself again (goes into the other closet).
Re-enter MRS. COMFIT, with a key.
Mrs. Comfit. This adventure of Mr. Metaphor surprises and alarms me exceedingly. I must have it searched into (unlocks the door). Come forth, my dear Mr. Metaphor!
Comfit (coming from the closet). Damn Mr. Metaphor, madam!
Mrs. Comfit. Help! help! John! Richard! Peter! Thomas!
Comfit. Heyday! I must not be known yet, so I’ll take to my heels. [Exit.
Mrs. Comfit. Help! help!
O’Prompt (coming from the closet, and catching her in his arms). Madam, don’t be alarmed.
Mrs. Comfit. Hands off, ruffian! — Thieves! thieves!
O’Prompt. Oh, by my troth! then I must make my escape. [Exit.
Enter SIR HARRY FLOURISH, CHROMATIC, METAPHOR, MISS CADENCE, and Miss MELPOMENE DASHALL.
Omnes. What’s the matter?
Mrs. Comfit. There are thieves in the house. Where are all my servants? John! Thomas! Richard! Peter! — (Enter servants.) — Search the house through, and if you detect any strangers, apprehend them immediately. [Exeunt Servants.
Miss Melpomene. Thieves, do you say?
Mrs. Comfit. If not, I know not what they were. The whole affair is a mystery to me. But I hope my servants will bring them to account.
Sir Harry. What have they done?
Metaphor (apart). Say nothing about the closet adventure.
Mrs. Comfit. One of them frightened me out of my life, and the other caught me in his arms and desired me not to be alarmed.
Sir Harry. Amazing effrontery! Shall I join the pursuit?
Mrs. Comfit. Oh! by no means, Sir Henry. If they remain in the house, they will certainly be taken; and if they have quitted it, I shall rejoice to hear no more of them.
Metaphor. So shall I, most heartily (aside).
Sir Harry. At all events, you may be secure from further apprehension. Where is Mr. Shadow?
Chromatic. I left him painting the battle of Orlando and Rhodomont.
Sir Harry. A little gloom still seems to hang over the company. A song from Miss Cadence would dispel it. May I request —
Miss Cadence. If Mr. Chromatic will accompany me —
Chromatic. Most willingly. My Cremona is in the closet (opens it). Ha! it has disappeared!
Miss Melpomene. Bless me!
Chromatic. What can have become of it?
Metaphor (aside). That you can find out if you can.
Sir Harry (picking up
a fragment). I believe, Mr. Chromatic, I can help you to a piece of it.
Chromatic. Horror and death! Some desperado has ruined me. Oh! my dear, dear Cremona!
Sir Harry. Lamentation, my dear friend, will not mend your violin. If you will accompany Miss Cadence, I can help you to another.
Chromatic. Another, Sir Harry! Never shall my fingers draw a sound from another. Ah! never will my ears again be ravished with such richness of tone! It was without a parallel in the United Kingdoms, excepting only that of Signor Arietto.
Miss Melpomene. I would advise you to make the same vow with regard to Signor Arietto’s violin, that Ferrari made with regard to the helmet of Mambrino.
Chromatic.’Sdeath, madam! what is the helmet of Mambrino in comparison with my Cremona? Let me carefully collect the precious relics, and retire to bewail in solitude my irreparable loss! — [Exit.
Sir Harry. Ha! ha! ha! poor Chromatic! But let me hope this little misfortune will not deprive us of the pleasure of a song from Miss Cadence.
Miss Cadence. If you insist upon it, Sir Harry —
Song. Miss CADENCE.
By the river’s lonely shore,
In the forest’s deepest shade,
Where the winds of midnight roar,
Let my leafy bed be made.
None o’er me shall shed a tear,
None o’er me shall breathe a sigh;
Save the waters murmuring near,
Save the breezes rustling by.
Mrs. Comfit. Admirable indeed! But we must separate to make ourselves perfect for this evening’s Hamlet.
Sir Harry. I must study the last act a little more, and shall then make my entrée with confidence.
Mrs. Comfit. You must exert yourself to the utmost, Sir Harry. All the beauty and fashion of the vicinity will constitute our audience. Miss Melpomene will not fail to do justice to the character of Ophelia.
Miss Melpomene. Oh, madam! you overrate my poor abilities. With such a Gertrude as Mrs. Comfit, Ophelia will be scarcely noticed.
Sir Harry. Ladies, your most devoted. For a little while, farewell, the sweet Ophelia.
Miss Melpomene. Adieu, most noble Hamlet!
Sir Harry. To be, or not to be, that is the question.
Miss Melpomene. Oh help him, you sweet heavens! — [Exeunt severally.
SCENE III. — ANOTHER APARTMENT IN COMFIT’S HOUSE. FOLDING DOORS IN FLAT. A SOFA, ETC. SHADOW DISCOVERED PAINTING.
Complete Works of Thomas Love Peacock Page 108