The Man of the World (1792)

by Charles Macklin

THE MAN OF THE WORLD.

ACT I. SCENE I.

A Library. Enter BETTY and SAM.

Betty. The Postman is at the gate, Sam; pray step and take in the letters.

Sam. John the gardener is gone for them, Mrs. Betty.

Bet. Bid John bring them to me, Sam: tell him I am here in the Library.

Sam. I'll send him to your ladyship in a crack, madam. [Exit.

Enter NANNY.

Nan. Miss Constantia desires to speak to you, Mrs. Betty.

Bet. How is she now? any better, Nanny?

Nan. Something; but very low spirited still. I verily believe it is as you say.

Bet. O! I would take my book oath of it. I can not be deceived in that point, Nanny.—Ay, ay, her business is done, she is certainly breeding, depend upon it.

Nan. Why so the housekeeper thinks too.

Bet. Nay, I know the father—the man that ruined her.

Nan. The deuce you do?

Bet. As sure as you are alive, Nanny;—or I am greatly deceived,—and yet—I can't be deceived neither.—Was not that the cook that came gallopping so hard over the common just now?

Nan. The same:—how very hard he gallopped;—-he has been but three quarters of an hour, he says, coming from Hyde Park Corner.

Bet. And what time will the family be down?

Nan. He has orders to have dinner ready by five; there are to be lawyers and a great deal of company here—he fancies there is to be a private wedding to night between our young Master Charles and Lord Lumbercourt's Daughter, the Scotch lady, who he says is just come post from Bath in order to be married to him.

Bet. Ay, ay—Lady Rodolpha—nay, like enough—for I know it has been talked of a good while;—well, go tell Miss Constantia that I will be with her immediately.

Nan. I shall, Mrs. Betty. [Exit.

Bet. Soh! I find they all believe the impertinent creature is breeding—that's pure! it will soon reach my lady's ears, I warrant.

Enter JOHN.

Well, John, ever a letter for me?

John. No, Mrs. Betty, but here is one for Miss Constantia.

Bet. Give it me.—Hum!—my lady's hand.

John. And here is one which the postman says is for my young master—but it's a strange direction. [reads.] 'To Charles Egerton, Esq.'

Bet. O! yes, yes,—that is for Master Charles, John:—for he has dropped his father's name of Macsycophant, and has taken up that of Egerton—the parliament has ordered it.

John. The parliament!—pr'ythee, why so, Mrs. Betty?

Bet. Why you must know, John, that my lady, his mother, was an Egerton by her father:—she stole a match with our old master, for which all her family on both sides have hated Sir Pertinax and the whole crew of the Macsycophants ever since.

John. Except Master Charles, Mrs. Betty.

Bet. O! they dote upon him, though he is a Macsycophant—he is the pride of all my lady's family:—and so, John,—my lady's uncle, Sir Stanley Egerton dying an old bachelor, and, as I said before, mortally hating our old master, and all the crew of the Macsycophants, left his whole estate to Master Charles, who was his godson,—but on condition that he should drop his father's name of Macsycophant, and take up that of Egerton—and that is the reason, John, why the parliament has made him change his name.

John. I am glad that Master Charles has got the estate, however—for he is a sweet tempered gentleman.

Bet. As ever lived:—but come, John, as I know you love Miss Constantia, and are fond of being where she is—I will make you happy;—you shall carry her letter to her.

John. Shall I, Mrs. Betty?—I am very much obliged to you.—Where is she?

Bet. In the housekeeper's room settling the dessert.—Give me Mr. Egerton's letter, and I'll leave it on the table in his dressing room. I see it's from his brother Sandy.—So,—now go and deliver your letter to your sweetheart, John.

John. That I will;—and I am much beholden to you for the favour of letting me carry it to her:—for though she should never have me, yet I shall always love her, and wish to be near her, she is so sweet a creature.—Your servant, Mrs. Betty. [Exit.

Bet. Your servant, John. Ha, ha, ha! poor fellow! he perfectly dotes on her—and daily follows her about with nosegays and fruit and the first of every thing in the season.—Ay, and my young Master Charles too is in as bad a way as the gardener:—in short—every body loves her,—and that's one reason why I hate her.—For my part, I wonder what the deuce the men see in her—a creature that was taken in for charity.—I am sure she's not so handsome.—I wish she was out of the family once:—if she was, I might then stand a chance of being my lady's favourite myself;—ay, and perhaps of getting one of my young masters for a sweetheart,—or at least the chaplain: but as to him, there would be no such great catch if I should get him. I will try for him however,—and my first step shall be to tell the doctor all I have discovered about Constantia's intrigues with her spark at Hadley.—Yes,—that will do,—for the doctor loves to talk with me,—loves to hear me talk too,—and I verily believe—he, he, he!—that he has a sneaking kindness for me,—and this story will make him have a good opinion of my honesty,—and that, I am sure, will be one step towards——O! bless me,—here he comes,—and my young master with him.— I'll watch an opportunity to speak to him as soon as he is alone,—for I will blow her up I am resolved,—as great a favourite and as cunning as she is. [Exit.

Enter EGERTON in great warmth and emotion;
SIDNEY following, as in conversation.

Sid. Nay, dear Charles, but why are you so impetuous?—why do you break from me so abruptly?

Eger. [With great warmth.] I have done, sir,—you have refused.—I have nothing more to say upon the subject.—I am satisfied.

Sid. [With a glow of tender friendship.] Come, come—correct this warmth,—it is the only weak ingredient in your nature, and you ought to watch it carefully. If I am wrong,—I will submit without reserve;—but consider the nature of your request—and how it would affect me:—from your earliest youth, your father has honoured me with the care of your education, and the general conduct of your mind; and, however singular and morose his temper may be to others,—to me—he has ever been respectful and liberal.—I am now under his roof too,—and because I will not abet an unwarrantable passion by an abuse of my sacred character, in marrying you beneath your rank,—and in direct opposition to your father's hopes and happiness,—you blame me—you angrily break from me—and call me unkind.

Eger. [With tenderness and conviction.] Dear Sidney,—for my warmth I stand condemned: but for my marriage with Constantia, I think I can justify it upon every principle of filial duty,—honour,—and worldly prudence.

Sid. Only make that appear, Charles, and you know you may command me.

Eger. [With great filial regret.] I am sensible how unseemly it appears in a son to descant on the unamiable passions of a parent;—but, as we are alone, and friends,—I cannot help observing in my own defence,—that when a father will not allow the use of reason to any of his family—when his pursuit of greatness makes him a slave abroad—only to be a tyrant at home,—when a narrow partiality to Scotland, on every trivial occasion, provokes him to enmity even with his wife and children, only because they dare give a national preference where they think it most justly due;—and when, merely to gratify his own ambition, he would marry his son into a family he detests,—[great warmth.] sure, Sidney, a son thus circumstanced (from the dignity of human reason and the feelings of a loving heart) has a right—not only to protest against the blindness of a parent, but to pursue those measures that virtue and happiness point out.

Sid. The violent temper of Sir Pertinax, I own, cannot be defended on many occasions, but still—your intended alliance with Lord Lumbercourt—

Eger. [With great impatience.] O! contemptible!—a trifling, quaint, haughty, voluptuous, servile tool,—the mere lackey of party and corruption; who, for the prostitution of near thirty years and the ruin of a noble fortune, has had the despicable satisfaction, and the infamous honour—of being kicked up and kicked down—kicked in and kicked out,— just as the insolence, compassion, or convenience of leaders predominated:—and now—being forsaken by all parties, his whole political consequence amounts to the power of franking a letter, and the right honourable privilege of not paying a tradesman's bill.

Sid. Well, but, dear Charles, you are not to wed my lord,—but his daughter.

Eger. Who is as disagreeable to me for a companion, as her father for a friend, or an ally.

Sid. What—her Scotch accent, I suppose, offends you?

Eger. No, upon my honour—not in the least,—I think it entertaining in her;—but were it otherwise—in decency—and indeed in national affection (being a Scotchman myself), I can have no objection to her on that account,—besides, she is my near relation.

Sid. So I understand. But pray, Charles, how came Lady Rodolpha, who, I find, was born in England, to be bred in Scotland?

Eger. From the dotage of an old, formal, obstinate, stiff, rich, Scotch grandmother, who, upon a promise of leaving this grandchild all her fortune, would have the girl sent to her to Scotland, when she was but a year old, and there has she been ever since, bred up with this old lady in all the vanity and unlimited indulgence that fondness and admiration could bestow on a spoiled child—a fancied beauty and a pretended wit.

Sid. O! you are too severe upon her.

Eger. I do not think so, Sidney; for she seems a being expressly fashioned by nature to figure in these days of levity and dissipation:— her spirits are inexhaustible: her parts strong and lively; with a sagacity that discerns, and a talent not unhappy in painting out the weak side of whatever comes before her:—but what raises her merit to the highest pitch in the laughing world is her boundless vanity and spirits in the exertion of those talents, which often render her much more ridiculous than the most whimsical of the characters she exposes—[in a tone of friendly affection.] and is this a woman fit to make my happiness?— this the partner that Sidney would recommend to me for life?—to you, who best know me, I appeal.

Sid. Why, Charles, it is a delicate point,—unfit for me to determine—besides, your father has set his heart upon the match.

Eger. [Impatiently.] All that I know:—but still I ask and insist upon your candid judgment,—is she the kind of woman that you think could possibly contribute to my happiness? I beg you will give me an explicit answer.

Sid. The subject is disagreeable;—but, since I must speak,—I do not think she is.

Eger. [a start of friendly rapture.] I know you do not; and I am sure you never will advise the match.

Sid. I never did. I never will.

Eger. [With a start of joy.] You make me happy,—which I assure you I never could be with your judgment against me in this point.

Sid. And yet, Charles, give me leave to observe, that Lady Rodolpha, with all her ridiculous and laughing vanity, has a goodness of heart, and a kind of vivacity that not only entertains,—but upon seeing her two or three times, she improves upon you; and when her torrent of spirits abates, and she condescends to converse gravely—you really like her.

Eger. Why ay! she is sprightly, good humoured, and, though whimsical, and often too high in her colouring of characters, and in the trifling business of the idle world,—yet I think she has principles, and a good heart,—[with a glow of conjugal tenderness.] but in a partner for life, Sidney, (you know your own precept, and your own judgment)—affection, capricious in its nature, must have something even in the external manners,—nay in the very mode, not only of beauty, but of virtue itself— which both heart and judgment must approve, or our happiness in that delicate point cannot be lasting.

Sid. I grant it.

Eger. And that mode,—that amiable essential I never can meet—but in Constantia. You sigh.

Sid. No. I only wish that Constantia had a fortune equal to yours. But pray, Charles, suppose I had been so indiscreet as to have agreed to marry you to Constantia—would she have consented, think you?

Eger. That I cannot say positively,—but I suppose so.

Sid. Did you never speak to her upon that subject then?

Eger. In general terms only;—never directly requested her consent in form,—[he starts into a warmth of amorous resolution.] but I will this very moment—for I have no asylum from my father's arbitrary design, but my Constantia's arms.—Pray do not stir from hence:—I will return instantly. I know she will submit to your advice—and I am sure you will persuade her to my wish, as my life, my peace, my earthly happiness, depend on my Constantia. [Exit.

Sid. Poor Charles! he little dreams that I love Constantia too,—but to what degree I knew not myself, till he importuned me to join their hands.—Yes—I love—but must not be a rival; for he is dear to me as fraternal affinity:—my benefactor—my friend—and that name is sacred:— it is our better self; and ever ought to be preferred;—for the man who gratifies his passions at the expence of his friend's happiness, wants but a head to contrive—for he has a heart capable of the blackest vice.

Enter BETTY, running up to Sidney.

Bet. I beg pardon for my intrusion, sir. I hope, sir, I do not disturb your reverence!

Sid. Not in the least, Mrs. Betty.

Bet. I humbly beg you will excuse me, sir:—but I wanted to break my mind to your honour—about a scruple that lies upon my conscience:—and indeed I should not have presumed to trouble you, sir, but that I know you are my young master's friend,—and my old master's friend,—and indeed—a friend to the whole family: [runs up to him and curtsies very low.] for to give you your due, sir, you are as good a preacher as ever went into a pulpit.

Sid. Ha, ha, ha! do you think so, Mrs. Betty?

Bet. Ay, in truth do I; and as good a gentleman too as ever came into a family, and one that never gives a servant a bad word, nor that does any one an ill turn neither behind their back, nor before their face.

Sid. Ha, ha, ha! why you are a mighty well spoken woman, Mrs. Betty, and I am mightily beholden to you for your good character of me.

Bet. Indeed, sir, it is no more than you deserve, and what all the world and all the servants say of you.

Sid. I am much obliged to them, Mrs. Betty.—But pray what are your commands with me?

Bet. Why, I'll tell you, sir:—to be sure I am but a servant, as a body may say—and every tub should stand upon its own bottom;—but—[she takes hold of him familiarly, looks first about cautiously, and speaks in a low familiar tone of great secrecy.] my young master is now in the china room in close conference with Miss Constantia;—I know what they are about—but that is no business of mine—and therefore I made bold to listen a little—because you know, sir, one would be sure—before one took away any body's reputation.

Sid. Very true, Mrs. Betty,—very true indeed.

Bet. O! heavens forbid that I should take away any young woman's good name—unless I had a good reason for it; but, sir, [with great solemnity.] if I am in this place alive, as I listened, with my ear close to the door,—I heard my young master ask Miss Constantia the plain marriage question—upon which I started—and trembled—nay my very conscience stirred within me so,—that I could not help peeping through the key-hole.

Sid. Ha, ha, ha! and so your conscience made you peep through the key-hole, Mrs. Betty?

Bet. It did indeed, sir:—and there I saw my young master upon his knees—lord bless us—and what do you think he was doing?—kissing her hand as if he would eat it—and protesting—and assuring her—he knew that you, sir, would consent to the match—and then the tears ran down her cheeks as fast—

Sid. Ay!

Bet. They did indeed. I would not tell your reverence a lie for the world.

Sid. I believe it, Mrs. Betty—and what did Constantia say to all this?

Bet. O!—O! she is sly enough; she looks as if butter would not melt in her mouth; but all is not gold that glitters; smooth water, you know, sir, runs deepest:—I am sorry my young master makes such a fool of himself— but—um!—take my word for it, he is not the man,—for though she looks as modest as a maid at a christening—[hesitating.] yet—ah!—when sweethearts meet—in the dusk of the evening—and stay together a whole hour—in the dark grove—and embrace—and kiss—and weep at parting,—why then you know, sir, it is easy to guess all the rest.

Sid. Why did Constantia meet any body in this manner?

Bet. [Starting with surprise.] O! heavens!—I beg, sir, you will not misapprehend me; for I assure you I do not believe they did any harm—that is, not in the grove—at least, not when I was there;—and she may be honestly married for aught I know.—O! lud! sir,—I would not say an ill thing of Miss Constantia for the world,—for to be sure she is a good creature:—'tis true, my lady took her in for charity, and indeed has bred her up to the music and figures;—ay, and reading all the books about Homer—and Paradise—and Gods and Devils,—and every thing in the world,— as if she had been a dutchess: but some people are born with luck in their mouths, and then—as the saying is—you may throw them into the sea— [deports herself most affedtedly.] but—if I had had dancing masters— and music masters—and French Mounseers to teach me—I believe I might have read the globes, and the maps,—and have danced,—and have been as clever as other folks.

Sid. Ha, ha, ha! no doubt on it, Mrs. Betty;—but you mentioned something of a dark walk,—kissing,—a sweetheart and Constantia.

Bet. [Starts into a cautious hypocrisy.] O! lud! sir—I don't know any thing of the matter: she may be very honest for aught I know: I only say, that they did meet in the dark walk,—and all the servants observe that Miss Constantia wears her stays very loose—looks very pale—is sick in a morning, and after dinner: and, as sure as my name is Betty Hint, something has happened that I won't name,—but—nine months hence—a certain person in this family may ask me to stand godmother, for I think I know what's what, when I see it as well as another.

Sid. No doubt you do, Mrs. Betty.

Bet. [Cries, turns up her eyes, and acts a most friendly hypocrisy.] I do, indeed, sir. I am very sorry for Miss Constantia. I never thought she would have taken such courses—for in truth I love her as if she was my own sister; and though all the servants say that she is breeding—yet, for my part, I don't believe it; but—one must speak according to one's conscience, you know, sir.

Sid. O! I see you do.

Bet. [Going and returning.] I do indeed, sir: and so your servant, sir—but—I hope your worship won't mention my name in this business;—or that you had any item from me.

Sid. I shall not, Mrs. Betty.

Bet. For, indeed, sir, I am no busybody, nor do I love fending nor proving; and, I assure you, sir, I hate all tittling and tattling, and gossiping and backbiting, and taking away a person's good name.

Sid. I observe you do, Mrs. Betty.

Set. I do indeed, sir. I am the farthest from it in the world.

Sid. I dare say you are.

Bet. I am indeed, sir, and so your humble servant.

Sid. Your servant, Mrs. Betty.

Bet. [Aside, in great exultation.] So! I see he believes every word I say,—that's charming. I'll do her business for her I am resolved. [Exit.

Sid. What can this ridiculous creature mean by her dark walk,—her private spark, her kissing, and all her slanderous insinuations against Constantia, whose conduct is as unblamable as innocence itself? I see envy is as malignant in a paltry waiting wench, as in the vainest or most ambitious lady of the court.—It is always an infallible mark of the basest nature; and merit in the lowest, as well as in the highest station, must feel the shaft of envy's constant agents—falsehood and slander.

Enter SAM.

Sam. Sir, Mr. Egerton and Miss Constantia desire to speak with you in the china room.

Sid. Very well, Sam. [Exit Sam.] I will not see them.—What is to be done? inform his father of his intended marriage,—no—that must not be;— for the overbearing nature and ambitious policy of Sir Pertinax would exceed all bounds of moderation; for he is of a sharp, shrewd, unforgiving nature.—He has banished one son already, only for daring to differ from his judgment concerning the merits of a Scotch and an English historian.— But this young man must not marry Constantia.—Would his mother were here! She, I suppose, knows nothing of his indiscretion:—but she shall, the moment she comes hither. I know it will offend him; no matter: it is our duty to offend,—when that offence saves the man we love from a precipitate action, which the world must condemn, and his own heart, perhaps, upon reflection, for ever repent: yes,—I must discharge the duty of my function, and of a friend,—though I am sure to lose the man, whom I intend to serve. [Exit.