ACT THE THIRD.
SCENE I.—Mrs. Clerimont's Room.
Enter Mrs. Clerimont, Fainlove (carrying her lap-dog), and Jenny.
Jen. Madam, the footman that's recommended to you is below, if your ladyship will please to take him.
Mrs. Cler. O fie; don't believe I'll think on't. It is impossible he should be good for anything—The English are so saucy with their liberty—I'll have all my lower servants French. There cannot be a good footman born out of an absolute monarchy.
Jen. I am beholden to your ladyship for believing so well of the maidservants in England.
Mrs. Cler. Indeed, Jenny, I could wish thou wert really French; for thou art plain English in spite of example. Your arms do but hang on, and you move perfectly upon joints; not with a swim of the whole person—But I am talking to you, and have not adjusted myself to-day: What pretty company a glass is, to have another self! [Kisses the dog.] To converse in soliloquy! To have company that never contradicts or displeases us! The pretty visible echo of our actions! [Kisses the dog.] How easy, too, it is to be disencumbered with stays, where a woman has anything like shape; if no shape, a good air—But I look best when I'm talking. [Kisses the lap-dog in Fainlove's arms.
Jen. You always look well.
Mrs. Cler. For I'm always talking, you mean so; that disquiets thy sullen English temper; but I don't really look so well when I am silent. If I do but offer to speak, then I may say that—Oh, bless me, Jenny, I am so pale, I am afraid of myself—I have not laid on half red enough—What a dough-baked thing was I before I improved myself, and travelled for beauty! However, my face is very prettily designed to-day.
Fain. Indeed, madam, you begin to have so fine an hand, that you are younger every day than other.
Mrs. Cler. The ladies abroad used to call me Mademoiselle Titian, I was so famous for my colouring; but prithee, wench, bring me my black eyebrows out of the next room.[92]
Jen. Madam, I have 'em in my hand.
Fain. It would be happy for all that are to see you to-day, if you could change your eyes, too.
Mrs. Cler. Gallant enough—no, hang it, I'll wear these I have on; this mode of visage takes mightily. I had three ladies last week came over to my complexion. I think to be a fair woman this fortnight, till I find I'm aped too much—I believe there are an hundred copies of me already.
Jen. Dear madam, won't your ladyship please to let me be of the next countenance you leave off?
Mrs. Cler. You may, Jenny; but I assure you it is a very pretty piece of ill-nature, for a woman that has any genius for beauty to observe the servile imitation of her manner, her motion, her glances, and her smiles.
Fain. Ay, indeed, madam, nothing can be so ridiculous as to imitate the inimitable.
Mrs. Cler. Indeed, as you say, Fainlove, the French mien is no more to be learned than the language, without going thither. Then, again, to see some poor ladies who have clownish, penurious, English husbands, turn and torture their old clothes into so many forms, and dye 'em into so many colours, to follow me—What say'st, Jenny? What say'st? Not a word?
Jen. Why, madam, all that I can say——
Mrs. Cler. Nay, I believe, Jenny, thou hast nothing to say any more than the rest of thy country-women. The splenatics speak just as the weather lets 'em; they are mere talking barometers. Abroad the people of quality go on so eternally, and still go on, and are gay and entertain. In England discourse is made up of nothing but question and answer. I was t'other day at a visit, where there was a profound silence, for, I believe, the third part of a minute.
Jen. And your ladyship there?
Mrs. Cler. They infected me me with their dulness; who can keep up their good humour at an English visit? They sit as at a funeral, silent in the midst of many candles. One, perhaps, alarms the room—"'Tis very cold weather"—then all the mutes play their fans till some other question happens, and then the fans go off again.
Boy. Madam, your spinet-master is come.
Mrs. Cler. Bring him in; he's very pretty company.
Fain. His spinet is; he never speaks himself.
Mrs. Cler. Speak, simpleton! What then; he keeps out silence, does not he?—Oh, sir, you must forgive me; I have been very idle. Well, you pardon me. [Master bows.] Did you think I was perfect in the song? [Bows]—but pray let me hear it once more. Let us see it——[Reads.
Song.
With studied airs, and practised smiles,
Flavia my ravished heart beguiles;
The charms we make, are ours alone,
Nature's works are not our own;
Her skilful hand gives every grace,
And shows her fancy in her face.
She feeds with art an amourous rage,
Nor fears the force of coming age.
You sing it very well; but, I confess, I wish you'd give more in to the French manner—Observe me hum it à-la-Française.
"With studied airs," &c.
The whole person, every limb, every nerve sings. The English way is only being for that time a mere musical instrument, just sending forth a sound without knowing they do so. Now I'll give you a little of it, like an Englishwoman: You are to suppose I've denied you twenty times, looked silly, and all that—then, with hands and face insensible—I have a mighty cold.
"With studied airs" &c.
Enter Servant.
Ser. Madam, Captain Clerimont and a very strange gentleman are come to wait on you.
Mrs. Cler. Let him and the very strange gentleman come in.
Fain. Oh! madam, that's the country gentleman I was telling you of.
Enter Humphry and Captain Clerimont.
Fain. Madam, may I do myself the honour to recommend Mr. Gubbin, son and heir to Sir Harry Gubbin, to your ladyship's notice?
Mrs. Cler. Mr. Gubbin, I am extremely pleased with your suit; 'tis antique, and originally from France.
Hump. It is always locked up, madam, when I'm in the country. My father prizes it mightily.
Mrs. Cler. 'Twould make a very pretty dancing suit in a masque. Oh! Captain Clerimont, I have a quarrel with you.
Enter Servant.
Ser. Madam, your ladyship's husband desires to know whether you see company to-day or not?
Mrs. Cler. Who, you clown?
Ser. Mr. Clerimont, madam.
Mrs. Cler. He may come in.
Enter Clerimont, Sen.
Mrs. Cler. Your very humble servant.
Cler. Sen. I am going to take the air this morning in my coach, and did myself the honour, before I went, to receive your commands, finding you saw company.
Mrs. Cler. At any time when you know I do, you may let me see you. Pray, how did you sleep last night?—If I had not asked him that question they might have thought we lay together. [Aside. Here Fainlove, looking through a perspective, bows to Clerimont, Sen.]—But captain, I have a quarrel with you—I have utterly forgot those three coupees[93] you promised to come again and show me.
Cler. Sen. Then, madam, you have no commands this morning?
Mrs. Cler. Your humble servant, sir—But, oh! [As she is going to be led by the Captain.] Have you signed that mortgage to pay off my Lady Faddle's winnings at ombre?
Cler. Sen. Yes, madam.
Mrs. Cler. Then all's well; my honour's safe. [Exit Clerimont, Sen.] Come, captain, lead me this step, for I'm apt to make a false one; you shall show me.
Cler. I'll show you, madam; 'tis no matter for a fiddle; I'll give you 'em the French way, in a teaching tune. Pray, more quick—Oh, mademoiselle, que faites-vous?—A moi—There again—Now slide, as it were, with and without measure—There you outdid the gipsy; and you have all the smiles of the dance to a tittle.
Mrs. Cler. Why, truly, I think that the greatest part. I have seen an English woman dance a jig with the severity of a vestal virgin.
Hump. If this be French dancing and singing, I fancy I could do it. Haw! haw! [Capers aside.
Mrs. Cler. I protest, Mr. Gubbin, you have almost the step, without any of our country bashfulness. Give me your hand. Haw! haw! So, so; a little quicker. That's right, haw!—Captain, your brother delivered this spark to me, to be diverted here till he calls for him. [Exit Clerimont.
Hump. This cutting so high makes one's money jingle confoundedly. I'm resolved I'll never carry above one pocketful hereafter.
Mrs. Cler. You do it very readily; you amaze me.
Hump. Are the gentlemen in France generally so well bred as we are in England? Are they, madam, ha?—But, young gentleman, when shall I see this sister? Haw! haw! haw! Is not the higher one jumps the better?
Fain. She'll be mightily taken with you, I'm sure. One would not think 'twas in you—you're so gay, and dance so very high.
Hump. What should ail me? Did you think I was wind-galled? I can sing, too, if I please; but I won't till I see your sister—This is a mighty pretty house.
Mrs. Cler. Well, do you know that I like this gentleman extremely? I should be glad to inform him—But were you never in France, Mr. Gubbin?
Hump. No; but I'm always thus pleasant, if my father's not by.—[To Fainlove.] I protest I'd advise your sister to have me: I'm for marrying her at once. Why should I stand shilly-shally, like a country bumpkin?
Fain. Mr. Gubbin, I daresay she'll be as forward as you; we'll go in and see her. [Apart.
Mrs. Cler. Then he has not yet seen the lady he is in love with! I protest very new and gallant—Mr. Gubbin, she must needs believe you a frank person—Fainlove, I must see this sister, too, I'm resolved she shall like him.
There needs not time true passion to discover;
The most believing is the most a lover.
SCENE II.—Niece's Lodgings.
Enter Niece.
Niece. Oh, Clerimont! Clerimont! To be struck at first sight! I'm ashamed of my weakness; I find in myself all the symptoms of a raging amour. I love solitude, I grow pale, I sigh frequently, I call upon the name of Clerimont when I don't think of it—His person is ever in my eyes, and his voice in my ears—Methinks I long to lose myself in some pensive grove, or to hang over the head of some warbling fountain, with a lute in my hand, softening the murmurs of the water.
Enter Aunt.
Aunt. Biddy, Biddy; where's Biddy Tipkin?
Niece. Whom do you inquire for?
Aunt. Come, come; he's just a-coming at the Park door.
Niece. Who is coming?
Aunt. Your cousin Humphry. Who should be coming? Your lover, your husband that is to be—Pray, my dear, look well, and be civil for your credit, and mine too.
Niece. If he answers my idea, I shall rally the rustic to death.
Aunt. Hist—Here he is.
Enter Humphry.
Hump. Aunt, your humble servant. Is that—ha! Aunt?
Aunt. Yes, cousin Humphry, that's your cousin Bridget—Well, I'll leave you together. [Exit Aunt. They sit.
Hump. Aunt does as she'd be done by, cousin Bridget, does not she, cousin? Ha! What, are you a Londoner, and not speak to a gentleman? Look ye, cousin, the old folks resolving to marry us, I thought it would be proper to see how I liked you, as not caring to buy a pig in a poke, for I love to look before I leap.
Niece. Sir, your person and address bring to my mind the whole history of Valentine and Orson.[94] What, would they marry me to a wild man? Pray answer me a question or two.
Hump. Ay, ay; as many as you please, cousin Bridget.
Niece. What wood were you taken in? How long have you been caught?
Hump. Caught!
Niece. Where were your haunts?
Hump. My haunts!
Niece. Are not clothes very uneasy to you? Is this strange dress the first you ever wore?
Hump. How?
Niece. Are you not a great admirer of roots, and raw flesh? Let me look upon your nails—Don't you love blackberries, haws, and pig-nuts, mightily?
Hump. How?
Niece. Can'st thou deny that thou wert suckled by a wolf? You have not been so barbarous, I hope, since you came among men, as to hunt your nurse, have you?
Hump. Hunt my nurse? Ay, 'tis so, she's distracted, as sure as a gun. Hark ye, cousin, pray will you let me ask you a question or two?
Niece. If thou hast yet learned the use of language, speak, monster.
Hump. How long have you been thus?
Niece. Thus! What would'st thou say?
Hump. What's the cause of it? Tell me truly, now; did you never love anybody before me?
Niece. Go, go, thou'rt a savage. [Rises.
Hump. They never let you go abroad, I suppose.
Niece. Thou'rt a monster, I tell thee.
Hump. Indeed, cousin, though 'tis a folly to tell thee so—I am afraid thou art a mad woman.
Niece. I'll have thee carried into some forest.
Hump. I'll take thee into a dark room.
Niece. I hate thee.
Hump. I wish you did—There's no hate lost, I assure you, cousin Bridget.
Niece. Cousin Bridget, quoth'a! I'd as soon claim kindred with a mountain bear—I detest thee.
Hump. You never do any harm in these fits, I hope.—But do you hate me in earnest?
Niece. Dost thou ask it, ungentle forester?
Hump. Yes; for I've a reason, look ye. It happens very well if you hate me and are in your senses, for, to tell you truly, I don't much care for you; and there is another fine woman, as I am informed, that is in some hopes of having me.
Niece. This merits my attention. [Aside.
Hump. Look ye, d'ye see—as I said, since I don't care for you, I would not have you set your heart on me; but if you like anybody else let me know it, and I'll find out a way for us to get rid of one another, and deceive the old folks that would couple us.
Niece. This wears the face of an amour.—There is something in that thought which makes thy presence less insupportable.
Hump. Nay, nay, now you're growing fond; if you come with these maid's tricks, to say you hate at first and afterwards like me, you'll spoil the whole design.
Niece. Don't fear it—When I think of consorting with thee, may the wild boar defile the cleanly ermine; may the tiger be wedded to the kid.
Hump. When I of thee, may the pole-cat caterwaul with the civet.
Niece. When I harbour the least thought of thee, may the silver Thames forget its course.
Hump. When I like thee, may I be soused over head and ears in a horsepond—But do you hate me?
Enter Aunt.
Niece. For ever; and you me?
Hump. Most heartily.
Aunt. Ha! I like this. They are come to promises and protestations. [Aside.
Hump. I am very glad I have found a way to please you.
Niece. You promise to be constant?
Hump. Till death.
Niece. Thou best of savages!
Hump. Thou best of savages! Poor Biddy.
Aunt. Oh! the pretty couple, joking on one another—Well, how do you like your cousin Humphry now?
Niece. Much better than I thought I should. He's quite another thing than what I took him for—We have both the same passion for one another.
Hump. We wanted only an occasion to open our hearts, aunt.
Aunt. Oh, how this will rejoice my brother and Sir Harry! we'll go to 'em.
Hump. No, I must fetch a walk with a new acquaintance, Mr. Samuel Pounce.
Aunt. An excellent acquaintance for your husband; come, niece, come.
Niece. Farewell, rustic.
Hump. Bye, Biddy.
Aunt. Rustic! Biddy! Ha! ha! pretty creatures. [Exeunt.