Complete Works of Thomas Love Peacock

by Thomas Love Peacock

  Shadow. Yes! this will certainly be my chef-d’oeuvre. The countenance of Rhodomont is in perfect gusto, and Orlando is an excellent figure. The splashing of the water is admirable, and the foam is absolute nature. Ne salta in aria l’onda, e il lido geme. Oh, divine Ariosto! Where’s my vermilion? Oh, it’s in the next room. I must fetch it (going, turns round). Beautiful! (exit through the folding-doors).

  O’Prompt (without). I’ll distance you, rascals! (Enters and runs to the opposite door) Fast! Whew! och! I’ll defend myself manfully. What’s this? (looking at the picture). There’s a bridge without a railing. I suppose that’s a dilettante bridge. It would be thought a bit of a bull to build such an one at Dublin. It’s no wonder the two fellows tumbled off. Fighting in the water! I should think it mighty agreeable to be ducked and beaten at once. There’s a lady, too: she looks perfectly cool on the occasion. Sure, now, she does not mean to go over that dirty little narrow bridge on horseback? I wonder what it’s all about. It’s not about Saint Patrick, nor it’s not about Saint George. Those are the two grand subjects. This is not worth a thirteen.

  Enter THREE SERVANTS.

  First Servant. There he is — seize him!

  O’Prompt. Seize me! Approach at your peril.. You will — will you? (snatching the picture, easel, etc.). Take that at your heads, and that — and that —

  ‘First Servant. He that loves a broken head may stay — I’m off.

  O’Prompt. There’s a chair for you, and a stool. I’ll teach you to meddle with me. (Drives them off.) Oh, by my soul! I’ve done mischief! When the dilettante comes in, he’ll be in a small bit of a passion. I’ll hide myself under the sofa. {Retires.)

  Re-enter SHADOW.

  Shadow. A touch of this on Rhodomont’s cheek will not be amiss. Madness and murder! what demon has been here? Ruined! ruined! ruined for ever! (throws himself on the sofa).

  Enter SIR HARRY, with a hook.

  Sir Harry. I must rehearse this scene with Shadow. What is all this confusion? Shadow! my dear Shadow! in the name of all that’s amazing, what is the matter?

  Shadow. Leave me, Sir Harry! Leave me, and let one die in peace!

  Sir Harry. What can this mean?

  Shadow (rising a little, and pointing to the picture). Look there, Sir Harry! Look there, and melt with pity! Behold the fruit of my elegant labours, the darling child of my genius! The head of Rhodomont is beaten through, and Orlando is totally defaced. Oh! oh! oh!

  Sir Harry. How did it happen?

  Shadow. Alas! I know not. If I could find the vandal that did it, I would have him sacrificed.

  Sir Harry. I think the devil is in the house. You have partners in adversity. Chromatic’s Cremona is broken to atoms.

  Shadow. And can you, Sir Harry, can you have the barbarity to place a paltry fiddle in competition with my Rhodomont?

  Sir Harry. Metaphor was locked up all last night in a closet; he wanted to make a secret of it, but I have found him out.

  Shadow. I would willingly be locked up fifty nights to restore my Orlando to his pristine beauty.

  Sir Harry. I console with you most sincerely.

  Shadow. Such brilliancy of colouring! Such boldness of execution! Such a noble disposition of light and shade!

  Sir Harry. I pity you from my heart.

  Shadow. Such expression in the countenance! Such proportion in the figures! Such beauty in the perspective!

  Sir Harry. I commiserate you from my soul. But bear your misfortunes like a man. I am come to rehearse with you. I hope you are perfect in your character of Laertes.

  Shadow. Don’t talk to me of Laertes, Sir Harry!

  Sir Harry. The performance will be suspended without you.

  Shadow (rising). Let it. Let all the affairs of Europe be suspended. They are indifferent to me. I am a ruined man! Oh, Rhodomont! Rhodomont!

  [Exit.

  Sir Harry. This is a strange frenzy about a pitiful daub. (O’PROMPT rises behind the sofa.)

  O’Prompt. Ha! ha! ha! (hides himself again).

  Sir Harry. What was that? (looks round). Mere fancy! I am horribly vexed at his refusal to perform Laertes. (O’PROMPT looks up.) We must find a substitute.

  O’Prompt (aside). I think I’ll offer my services.

  Sir Harry. Now I must rehearse by myself.

  O’Prompt (aside). I’ll rehearse with you, my jewel.

  Sir Harry. Let me see — (O’PROMPT advances unobserved, and puts himself in a tragical attitude.)

  ‘What’s he, whose grief Bears such an emphasis? whose phrase of sorrow Conjures the wand’ring stars, and makes them stand Like wonder-wounded hearers? This is I, ‘Hamlet the Dane.’

  O’Prompt (seizing him by the throat). The devil take thy soul!

  Sir Harry. Who are you?

  O’Prompt. Laertes, at your service. I’ve had the honour of acting Laertes in Mr. O’Tagrag’s company.

  Sir Harry. Scoundrel! this insolence shall not pass unpunished.

  O’Prompt. Scoundrel! — mind what you are saying.

  Sir Harry. Villain! miscreant! answer me instantly — who are you and where do you come from?

  O’Prompt. Faith, I’m an honest man, and I come from Ireland.

  Sir Harry. Damn your honesty! — you —

  O’Prompt. Ah! you may well damn my honesty, as you’ve none of your own, Mr. Dilettante Hamlet! And is this all the thanks I get for kindly undertaking a part at a minute’s warning?

  Sir Harry. Impertinent rascal!

  O’Prompt (aside). Impertinent rascal! That’s rather more than the honour of Ireland can digest. Sure, now, and I won’t be after tweaking him by the nose. Ah! here comes old Comfit. Och! I’ve a scheme — (aloud). Do you mean to call me an impertinent rascal now?

  Sir Harry. Yes, puppy!

  O’Prompt (aside). Puppy, too! Och! I’ll revenge myself neatly.

  Enter COMFIT behind.

  O’Prompt. It’s mighty well, sir — it’s mighty well; but take care I don’t expose you to Mr. Comfit, that’s all.

  Comfit (aside). Hey! what’s all this?

  Sir Harry. Expose me, sirrah?

  O’Prompt. How would you look in the presence of that injured husband, if I should boldly stand forward and say to him: Sir, I found this dilettante gentleman stealing soft kisses from the lips of your tender bride?

  Comfit. How? {aside).

  Sir Harry. This is a madman — he raves — (aside).

  O’Prompt. If I were to expose the whole of that iniquitous transaction?

  Comfit (aside). Furies!

  O’Prompt. If I were to let him know the full extent of his disgrace?

  Comfit (aside). Fiends and fire!

  O’Prompt. But no, sir! I have too much regard for Mr. Comfit’s feelings to inform him of a single circumstance; so I leave you to the pleasant company of your own conscience (going).

  Comfit. Hold! I insist on knowing the transaction you allude to.

  O’Prompt. Sir! — no, sir! I have so much regard for your feelings that you shall not get a syllable of it from me. Oh! this was a clever contrivance (aside). [Exit.

  Comfit. Sir, there is no need of explanation — I understand the matter perfectly — I — I Sir Harry. Upon my honour, sir, then, that is more than I do: I was never so much at a loss in the whole course of my life.

  Comfit. Sir, you may well be at a loss, when an injured husband —

  Sir Harry (aside). Here’s another lunatic! Sir, it is needless to ask if there has been a fire in Bedlam.

  Comfit. Bedlam! Death and thunder! What do you mean by that? I say, sir — I — I Sir Harry. May I take the liberty, sir, to inquire who you are?

  Comfit. Who am I, sir? Sir, I am that injured husband of whose wrongs you are the author. I am Gregory Comfit, sir, to your confusion, and I insist — that is, I demand — that is — lightning and devils! (throwing off his disguise).

  Sir Harry. Mr. Comfit, I assure you —

  Comfit. Sir, it’s too plain! It’s too plain! Did not I he
ar that honest Irishman tax you with your iniquities? And had you the impudence to deny a particle of his assertions?

  Sir Harry. I perceive it is useless to argue with you now, sir: when you are cool I shall be happy to talk with you. — This is the most extraordinary adventure. I’ll never rehearse Hamlet again, if I live to eternity (aside). [Exit.

  Comfit. Cool! I shall never be cool! I rage, I burn, I boil with passion! This comes of marrying a girl! Oh, damn the dilettanti! — [Exit.

  Re-enter O’PROMPT, laughing and clapping his hands.

  O’Prompt. Bravo! bravo! To be sure, now, little Peter O’Prompt, and you have made a fine confusion. The dilettante poet locked up in a closet — the fiddler’s instrument broken to pieces — the painter’s canvas demolished — and the Hamlet bothered out of his senses!

  Re-enter SERVANTS, behind.

  First Servant. Slily — hush!

  O’Prompt. I have done more mischief than I intended, and I am rather afraid I shall get into a dilemma.

  First Servant. That you may swear for.

  O’Prompt. My first care now must be to make my escape.

  First Servant. We shall prevent you. (They advance.)

  O’Prompt. Surrounded! Oh, you cunning dogs!

  First Servant. Come you along with us. We’ll take care of your rogueship.

  O’Prompt. Paws off! Touch me, and I’ll be refractory. Let me alone, and I’ll walk off peaceably. Hark you here, Timothy!

  First Servant. My name’s John.

  O’Prompt. All’s one for that. Stand a little closer, and I’ll let you into a secret. I’ll make a discovery of my grand scheme for turning things topsyturvy (trips him up). That’s what we call the pantomime touch. Arrah! Stand aside! (runs off).

  First Servant. Confound your pantomime touch! Is that your discovery? The rascal’s gone!

  Second Servant. Shall we pursue him again?

  First Servant. No! no! I’ve had enough of him. Let him go. He is sure enough of being hanged without our interference. [Exeunt.

  SCENE IV. — THE INN.

  Enter TACTIC with a letter.

  Tactic. I exist again — I tread on air — I am a new man! This letter from the only friend whom I entrusted with my destination informs me that the penitence of one of my swindlers, excited by a dangerous illness, has restored to me nearly half of my former possessions; and that will be more than sufficient for my present plans. I’ll marry my dear Emma, take a house on the seashore, and pass the rest of my days in the bosom of domestic felicity and elegant retirement. As I live, here comes Comfit without his disguise: — some new adventure, I presume.

  Enter COMFIT.

  Comfit. Oh, Mr. Tactic! I am the most miserable old man! Everything that I feared has come to pass. Ah! I knew what I had to expect from the time Orlando Furioso came into my house!

  Tactic. You alarm me. In the name of wonder, what has happened?

  Comfit. I cannot speak it. Here is your servant, the witness of my dishonour.

  Enter O’PROMPT.

  O’Prompt. That pantomime touch was a neat thought —— —— — Oh, Mr. Comfit! I rejoice to see you.

  Comfit. Now, let me hear the fatal story. I am prepared.

  O’Prompt. And so am I — to make an ample acknowledgment. Give me your hand, and promise me your forgiveness, and I’ll explain the whole.

  Comfit. I do.

  O’Prompt. Faith, then, it was nothing more or less than a trick of mine.

  Comfit. And have you the impudence — ?

  Tactic. Nay, you have pledged your word.

  O’Prompt. Master Hamlet took the liberty to call me an impertinent rascal — I saw you coming, and devised a stratagem to bother him a little — that is all.

  Comfit. And what was the man in the closet?

  O’Prompt. Faith, that was another trick of mine.

  Comfit. And dare you think, sir, that after getting me a broken head and taking away my wife’s character —

  Tactic. Remember your promise. Did not I caution you, sirrah, against these abominable tricks?

  O’Prompt. Faith and troth, I always lay up your cautions in my head very carefully; but somehow or other they are always sure to slip out when a neat opportunity of making fun presents itself.

  Comfit. Now, may I request a solution of last night’s mystery?

  Tactic. It originated in a mistake relative to your niece and daughter, which shall be explained to you at leisure. The latter has bestowed her affections elsewhere; the former, if you please, shall be my choice.

  Comfit. My niece, Emma? My poor, pretty, portionless niece?

  Tactic. Even so. I have more than enough for both.

  O’Prompt (aside). I should like to know how what is not sufficient for one can be more than enough for two. I’m afraid that’s a bit of a bull. (Apart.) You’re not going to throw yourself away on a girl without a penny when you have nothing at all of your own?

  Tactic. Read that, sirrah! (gives the letter).

  O’Prompt (having read it). Hurrah! Sure, now, if there was a river in the way I would not jump over it.

  Comfit. Give me your hand. You are a fine, generous fellow, and shall not have a portionless bride. I always intended to provide handsomely for Emma.

  O’Prompt. Now you’re a hearty old boy, and I ask your pardon.

  Tactic. You must not refuse him. His honesty and fidelity are truly exemplary, though he sometimes suffers his love for mischief —

  O’Prompt. ‘To overstep the modesty of nature.’ As I am a true man, I’ll try to reform.

  Comfit. Well, I forgive you. And now, what’s to be done?

  Tactic. Will you take my advice?

  Comfit. Let me hear it.

  Tactic. Return to your wife, shake hands with the dilettanti, and give your daughter to Metaphor.

  Comfit. I believe it will be the best plan. You shall direct me.

  Tactic. Forward, then. O’Prompt, you will follow us. [Exeunt COMFIT and TACTIC.

  O’Prompt. Fast enough. When my master’s married, to be sure I’ll go to bed sober. I’m afraid I’ve offended the dilettanti beyond hope of forgiveness. I suppose now, as soon as I get to the house, they’ll cry havoc, and let slip the dogs of war,’ as I used to say when I acted Mark Antony in Mr. O’Tagrag’s company. Ah! poor Mr. O’Tagrag! I often lament the unlucky little accident that dissolved our theatrical connection.

  SONG.

  Oh, Mr. O’Tagrag! great tragedy king!

  I am speechless with woe when your sorrows I sing;

  While I think of those moments, as light as a feather,

  When we acted Othello and Falstaff together.

  Says Mr. O’Tagrag: ‘Observe what I say:

  This is quite labour lost — there’s the devil to pay.

  My profits are short and my bills growing long;

  So I’ll tell you what — we are all in the wrong.’

  Says I: ‘Mighty hero! despise Fortune’s pow’r;

  For time and the day will soon run through the hour.’

  Says he: ‘’Tis in vain ‘gainst the torrent to pull —

  My purse is quite empty, my heart is quite full.’

  Says I: ‘Mr. O’Tagrag, I pretty well guess,

  That when all is but nothing a share must be less.’

  I began a fine speech, and was going on gaily,

  But he march’d off the stage — in the charge of a bailey!

  — [Exit.

  SCENE V. — AN APARTMENT IN COMFIT’S HOUSE.

  Enter CHROMATIC and SHADOW. meeting.

  Chromatic. My dear Shadow! I was seeking you.

  Shadow. My dear Chromatic! you are the very man I wished to see.

  Chromatic. I hear you have met with a melancholy disaster.

  Shadow. I understand you have suffered a serious loss.

  Chromatic. I desire to condole with you.

  Shadow. I long to pour my sorrows into your faithful bosom.

  Chromatic. A friend in adversity is tr
uly welcome.

  Shadow. A companion in calamity is a great consolation.

  Chromatic. Though our misfortunes are not equal —

  Shadow. Though the loss of your Cremona is not to be compared to that of my Rhodomont —

  Chromatic. How, sir! do you presume to insinuate —— ?

  Shadow. Let me tell you, Mr. Chromatic —

  Chromatic. And let me tell you, Mr. Shadow —

  Shadow. There are five thousand violins in the kingdom, but my Rhodomont was unique.

  Chromatic. Sir, my Cremona was unequalled but by that of Signor Arietto.

  Shadow. Sir, my Rhodomont was worthy of the pencil of Guido.

  Chromatic. Sir, my Cremona was worthy of the finger of Orpheus.

  Shadow. Sir, since you are so presumptuous —

  Chromatic. Sir, since you are so conceited —

  Shadow. You shall hear my real opinion.

  Chromatic. I will tell you the plain truth.

  Shadow. Your Cremona was a paltry English fiddle.

  Chromatic. Your Rhodomont would have disgraced Harp Alley.

  Shadow. Contemptible libeller!

  Chromatic. Miserable dauber!

  Shadow. Vile scraper of catgut!

  Chromatic. Zounds, sir! you are as mad as your own Orlando!

  Shadow.’Sdeath, sir! you are as crazy as your own violin!

  Chromatic. Barbarian!

  Shadow. Savage!

  Chromatic. Goth!

  Shadow. Hun!

  Chromatic. Vandal!

  Shadow. Visigoth! —

  Chromatic. Take my mortal defiance.

  Shadow. Receive my eternal enmity!

  [Exeunt severally.

  Enter MRS. COMFIT and SIR HARRY.

  Mrs. Comfit. Mr. Comfit in the house, Sir Harry?

  Sir Harry. Yes, madam, or some spirit in his likeness; for I am almost tempted to think the house is haunted.

  Mrs. Comfit. This has indeed been a day of mystery and disaster; but what you relate is scarcely credible.

  Enter Miss MELPOMENE.

  Miss Melfomene. My dear Sir Harry! are you perfect in your character?

  Sir Harry. My charming Melpomene! it goes to my heart to tell you that I am absolutely determined never to perform Hamlet again.

  Miss Melfomene. Can it be? Can you, Sir Harry, have taken such a resolution? you, who are

  Hamlet himself, ‘the glass of fashion and the mould of form, the observed of all observers ‘? You must not, shall not adhere to it.