Original Plays [First Series]

by W. S. Gilbert

ACT I.

Scene: A pretty boudoir in Mrs. Van Brugh’s country-house.

Eve discovered with Frederick; Frederick on chair, Eve on footstool.

Fred. (dictating to Eve, who writes in a memorandum book at his feet). Let me see. Three hundred oranges, six hundred buns, thirty gallons of tea, twelve large plum cakes. So much for the school-children’s bodies. As for their minds—

Eve. Oh, we’ve taken great care of their minds. In the first place, the amateur minstrels from Locroft are coming, with some lovely part songs.

Fred. Part songs. Come, that’s well. Dr. Watts?

Eve. Oh dear, no. Doctors Moore and Burgess!—Much jollier. (He shakes his head gravely.) Then we have a magic lantern. Here are the views. (Handing them.)

Fred. (examining them). A person on horseback, galloping at full speed. Here he is again. Probably the flight of Xerxes.

Eve. No—the flight of John Gilpin.

Fred. Very trivial, Eve dear; very trivial.

Eve. Oh, but it will amuse them much more than the flight of Xerxes.

Fred. (gravely). My dear Eve, is this giddiness quite consistent with the nature of the good work before us?

Eve. Mayn’t one be good and jolly too?

Fred. Scarcely. Grave work should be undertaken gravely, and with a sense of responsibility.

Eve. But I don’t call a school feast grave work.

Fred. All work is grave when one has regard to the issues that may come of it. This school feast, trivial as it may seem to you—this matter of buns and big plum cakes—may be productive, for instance, of much—of much—

Eve. Indigestion? That’s grave indeed! (He seems annoyed.) There, I’m very sorry I teased you, dear old boy; but you look at every thing from such a serious point of view.

Fred. Am I too serious? Perhaps I am. And yet in my quiet undemonstrative way I am very happy.

Eve. If you are not happy dear, who should be?

Fred. Yes, Eve, who indeed! (Kisses her.)

Eve. I did not mean that. There is very little in me to make such a man as you happy, unless it be the prospect of making me as good and earnest as yourself—a poor prospect, I’m afraid, for I’m a very silly little girl.

Fred. At least I will try.

Eve. Begin now; tell me of my faults.

Fred. No, no; that would be a very ungrateful task.

Eve. Oh, if you neglect all tasks that are not pleasant, you are too like me to allow of my hoping to learn any thing of you.

Fred. Very aptly put, Eve. Well then, you are too giddy, and too apt to laugh when you should sigh.

Eve. Oh, but I am naturally rather—jolly. Mamma has taught me to be so. Mamma’s views are so entirely opposed to yours.

Fred. Yes; I am deeply sorry for it. If it were not so, perhaps Mrs. Van Brugh would like me better.

Eve. Mamma does like you, dear. She thinks you are very grave and precise and methodical, but I am sure she likes you—or why did she consent to our engagement?

Fred. Because she loves you so well that she has the heart to thwart you in nothing. She is an admirable woman—good, kind—charitable beyond measure—beloved, honored, and courted by all——

Eve. The best woman in the world!

Fred. But she does not understand me. Well, time will work a change, and I must be content to wait.

Enter Servant.

Servant. Mr. Edward Athelney, miss, is in the drawing room.

Eve. Dear me, how tiresome.

Fred. (calmly). Miss Van Brugh is not at home.

Eve. (astonished). Oh, Frederick, I am![Exit Servant.

Fred. Well, yes, of course in one sense you certainly are. But being engaged upon a good work, with which an interruption would seriously interfere, you may be said—metaphorically, of course, and for the purposes of this particular case—to be, to a certain extent, out.

Eve. (puzzled). I am quite sure I am at home, dear, in every possible sense of the word. You don’t dislike Edward, do you?

Fred. You know very well that I dislike no one.

Eve. I’m sure of that. You love all men.

Fred. No doubt, Eve, I love all men. But you will understand that I love some men less than others; and, although I love Edward Athelney very much indeed, I love him, perhaps, less than anybody else in the world.

Eve. But this is quite astonishing! Has Ted Athelney a fault? What is it? Come, sir, name one fault if you can. And mind, he’s my big brother, or as good, so be careful.

Fred. “Frater nascitur non fit.”

Eve. Oh!

Fred. I don’t believe in your amateur brother. With every desire to confine himself to the duties of the character he undertakes, he is nevertheless apt to overlook the exact point where the brother ends and the lover begins.

Eve. (puzzled). The lover!

Fred. The brother by birth keeps well within bounds, but the amateur treads so often on the border line that in time it becomes obliterated and the functions merge.

Eve. Ted Athelney a lover of mine! Oh, that’s too absurd. Ted Athelney—that great, clumsy, middle-aged, awkward, good-natured, apple-faced man, a lover of anybody’s, and least of all, of mine! Why he’s forty! Oh, it’s shocking—it’s horrible! I won’t hear any thing so dreadful of any one I love so much.

Fred. You admit that you love him?

Eve. Oh, yes, I love him—but I don’t love him. (Nestling against Fred.) Don’t you understand the difference?

Fred. I don’t like his calling you Eve.

Eve. Why you wouldn’t have him—oh, you never could want Ted Athelney to call me Miss Van Brugh?

Fred. Then he kisses you.

Eve. Of course he does, dear. Kisses me? So does mamma!

Fred. No doubt, but there’s some difference.

Eve. A difference! What difference?

Fred. This, if no other: that I object to the one, and don’t object to the other. (Turns away.)

Eve. (disappointed). Then I’m not to kiss Ted Athelney any more.

Enter Ted Athelney.

Ted. Well, Eve, old lady, here I am, back again—well and hearty.

Eve. Ted, stand back; I’m not to kiss you.

Ted. Eh? Why not?

Eve. It’s wrong. Isn’t it? (To Fred.)

Fred. I’m sorry you think it necessary to ask the question.

Eve. There, Ted. Only think of the wrong we’ve been doing for years and years, and never knew it!

Ted. But who told you it was wrong. Not conscience, I’ll be sworn.

Eve. No; that’s the worst of it. There’s something wrong with my conscience; it doesn’t seem to be up to its work. From some motive—mistaken politeness, perhaps—it declines to assert itself. Awful, isn’t it?

Ted. Come, something’s happened during my absence in town; tell me what it is.

Eve. Something of a tremendous nature has happened! Ted Athelney, I mustn’t call you Ted Athelney any longer!

Ted. What?

Eve. And I mustn’t let you kiss me, because I’m going to be married.

Ted. Married! (Starting.)

Eve. Yes.

Ted. To—? (Indicating Frederick.)

Eve. Yes. (He is much agitated.) Won’t you tell me that you are glad to hear it?

Ted. (after a pause). Yes, Eve, I’m glad of any thing that makes you happy. It has come upon me very suddenly. I never thought of your getting married. I was a great ass, for it must have come about some time or other, and why not now? and it must have been to some fellow, and why not Fred Smailey? God bless you, Eve. I must get it well into my mind before I can talk about it, and mine is a mind that takes a good deal of getting at. I hope and believe that you will be happy. (She retires.)
Fred, old man——

(Goes to Fred; takes his hand and tries to speak, but in vain.)

Enter Mrs. Van Brugh.

Mrs. V. B. Well, I’ve done for myself now; go away from me; I’m a pariah, an outcast; don’t, for goodness’ sake, be seen talking with me.

Eve. Why, mamma, dear, what on earth have you been doing?

Mrs. V. B. Doing? Listen and shudder! I’ve put a Dissenter into my almshouses! (Sits at table.)

Fred. (rising). A Dissenter?

Mrs. V. B. A real live Dissenter. Isn’t it awful!

Fred. No, awful is too strong a term; but I think it was a very, very sad mistake.

Mrs. V. B. A thousand thanks for your toleration—I shall never forget it. The village is outraged—they have stood my eccentricities long enough. It was bad enough when I put a Roman Catholic in, but in consideration of the almshouses being my own they were good enough to swallow the Roman Catholic. Then came a Jew—well, the village was merciful, and with a few wry faces they swallowed even the Jew. But a Dissenter! The line must be drawn somewhere, and High and Low Church are agreed that it must be drawn at Dissenters. The churchwardens look the other way when I pass. The clerk’s religious zeal causes him to turn into the “Red Cow,” rather than touch his hat to me, and even the dirty little boys run after me shouting “No Popery” at the top of their voices, though I’m sure I don’t see how it applies.

Fred. But, my dear Mrs. Van Brugh, you mean well I’m sure—but a Jew, a Catholic, and a Dissenter!—is there no such thing as a starving Churchman to be found?

Mrs. V. B. There are but too many starving men of all denominations, but while I’m hunting out the Churchman, the Jew, the Catholic and the Dissenter will perish, and that would never do, would it?

Fred. That is the Christianity of impulse. I would feed him that belonged to my own church, and if he did not belong to it, I would not feed him at all.

Mrs. V. B. That is the Christianity of Religious Politics. As to these poor people, they will shake down and agree very well in time. Nothing is so conducive to toleration as the knowledge that one’s bread depends upon it. It applies to all conditions of life, from almshouses to Happy Families. Where are you going?

Eve. We are going down to the school to see the cakes and oranges and decorations——

Fred. (seriously). And to impress upon the children the danger of introducing inharmonious elements into their little almshouses.

Mrs. V. B. Well, I hope you’ll be more successful with them than with me. Their case is much more critical than mine, I assure you. (Exeunt Eve and Fred. Mrs. Van Brugh sees Edward, who is sitting at back, with his head between his hands.) Why, who’s this? Edward Athelney, returned at last to his disconsolate village? Go away, sir—don’t come near me—you’re a reprobate—you’ve been in London ten days and nobody to look after you. Give an account of yourself. It’s awful to think of the villainy a thoroughly badly disposed young man can get through in ten days in London, if I’m not there to look after him—come, sir, all your crimes, please, in alphabetical order—now then, A—Arson. Any arson? No? Quite sure? Come now, that’s something—Then we go to Burglary? Bigamy? No Bigamy? Come, it’s not as bad as I thought.—Why (seeing that he looks very wretched), what on earth is the matter—why, my poor Ted—what is distressing you? I never saw you look so wretched in my life!

Ted. Oh! Mrs. Van Brugh, I’m awfully unhappy!

Mrs. V. B. My poor old friend—tell me all about it.

Ted. It’s soon told—Mrs. Van Brugh, you have a daughter, who’s the best and loveliest girl I ever saw in my life.

Mrs. V. B. (pause). My poor Edward!

Ted. Did—did you know that I—that I was like this?

Mrs. V. B. No! no! no!

Ted. Nor I, it came on me like a thunderclap—my love for that little girl has grown as imperceptibly as my age has grown—I’ve taken no note of either till now—when I rub my eyes and find that I love her dearly, and that I’m eight-and-thirty!

Mrs. V. B. But, surely you know—you must have heard——

Ted. Yes, yes, I’ve just heard—Fred Smailey’s a lucky fellow, and he deserves his luck.

Mrs. V. B. Perhaps. I don’t know. I don’t like Fred Smailey.

Ted. (amazed). You don’t like Smailey?

Mrs. V. B. No, I don’t, and I’m afraid I show it. My dear old friend, it would have made me very happy to have seen you married to Eve, but he was first in the field, and she loves him. At first I wouldn’t hear of it—but she fell ill—might have died—well I’m her mother, and I love her, and I gave in. I know nothing against him.

Ted. Oh, Fred Smailey’s a good fellow, a thorough good fellow. You do him an injustice, indeed you do; I never knew a man with such a sense of gratitude—it’s perfectly astonishing. Remember how he gave me that splendid colly, when I pulled him out of the ice, last February, and how in return for my lending him money to pay his college debts, he got his father to let me shoot over Rushout—no—no—if Fred Smailey has a fault, he’s too good for this world.

Mrs. V. B. Is he?—at all events he’s too solemn.

Ted. Here’s the dad coming—he mustn’t see me like this. Good-by, Mrs. Van Brugh. You won’t speak of this to any one, I know—not that I’ve reason to be ashamed of it, but it’ll pain Eve and Fred too. I’ll bear up, never fear, and Eve shall never know—after all, her happiness is the great end, and, so that it’s brought about, what matter whether Fred or I do it, so that it’s done. It’s Fred’s job, not mine—better luck for him, worse luck for me.[Exit.

Mrs. V. B. Poor fellow! There goes a heart of gold with a head of cotton-wool! Oh, Eve, Eve, my dear, I’m very sad for you! Is it head or heart that makes the best husband? Better that baby-hearted simpleton than the sharpest Smailey that ever stepped! I’m very unjust. Heaven knows that I, of all women in this world, should be slow to judge. But my dislike to that man, to his family, to every thing that relates to him, is intuitive. However, the mischief, if mischief there be, is done; I’ll make the best of it.

Enter Dr. Athelney, very hurriedly.

Dr. A. My dear Mrs. Van Brugh, I come without a moment’s loss of time, to thank you in my late curate Twemlow’s name for your great kindness in presenting him to the Crabthorpe living. He has a wife and four children, and is nearly mad with joy and gratitude. I’ve brought you his letter.

Mrs. V. B. I won’t read it, doctor. I can’t bear gratitude; it makes my eyes red. Take it away. I am only too glad to have helped a struggling and deserving man. Now, I’m very glad you’ve come, because I want to consult you on a business matter of some importance.

Dr. A. My dear Mrs. Van Brugh, I have been the intellectual head of this village for fifty-three years, and nobody ever yet paid me the compliment of consulting me on a matter of business.

Mrs. V. B. Then I’ve no doubt I’m going to hit upon a neglected mine of commercial sagacity!

Dr. A. It’s very possible. I was second wrangler of my year.

Mrs. V. B. I told you last night of Eve’s engagement. Well, old Mr. Smailey has sent me a note to say that he will call on me to-morrow week to talk over the settlement I propose to make on the occasion of my darling’s marriage with his son. Now, doctor, look as wise as you can, and tell me what I ought to do.

Dr. A. Well, in such a case I should be very worldly. I think, my dear, I should prepare a nice little luncheon, with a bottle of that Amontillado, and then, having got him quietly and cosily tête-à-tête, I should ask him what he proposes to do.

Mrs. V. B. Very good indeed, doctor. Upon my word, for a colonial bishop-elect, that’s not bad. But, unfortunately, I’ve already ascertained that he proposes to do nothing. All his money is tied up.

Dr. A. Oh, is it indeed? Bless me! Tied up, is it? And may I ask, what do you understand by that expression?

Mrs. V. B. Well, in round terms, it’s his, but he mustn’t spend it. Do you understand?

Dr. A. Oh, yes. When I was a boy my uncle gave me a guinea on those terms.

Mrs. V. B. Now come, doctor dear, the young people look to me, and, when one is looked to, one should be equal to the emergency. What would you advise me to do?

Dr. A. Your property is not, I suppose, tied up?

Mrs. V. B. No; it is quite unfettered, and consists principally of long leaseholds and funded property, left me by my godfather, and a small sum of money acquired by Captain Van Brugh on his first marriage.

Dr. A. His first marriage! Bless me, I never knew he had been married before.

Mrs. V. B. Yes (much agitated), a most unhappy match. She—she left him under discreditable circumstances—went to Australia—resumed her maiden name, and, under that name, died in Melbourne.

Dr. A. And when did this unhappy lady die?

Mrs. V. B. (still agitated). Oh! years ago—It’s a terrible story. I don’t like to think of it—I can’t bear to talk of it.

Dr. A. (aside). What a blundering old savage I am! If there is a pitfall open, ten to one I tumble into it! (Aloud.) I have always understood that where marriage settlements of any consideration are concerned, it is customary to employ a solicitor. I can’t quote my authority, but, I feel sure that I am right.

Mrs. V. B. Old Mr. Smailey is an executor under Captain Van Brugh’s will, and his solicitor has always acted for me.

Dr. A. His solicitor! what, that queer little red-faced fellow who accompanies him everywhere?

Mrs. V. B. No. Ha! ha! ha! I suppose Mr. Fitz Partington is a junior partner, or head clerk, or something of the kind—at all events, his name doesn’t appear in the firm.

Dr. A. Well, leave it to me, Mrs. Van Brugh, and I’ll write to my brother, the Vice-Chancellor, who will tell us what to do. Now I’m off. (Noise without.) Why—what’s this? Bless me, Mrs. Van Brugh, what is the cause of this commotion?

(Noise heard without, as of people struggling with a woman, who rudely expostulates with them.)

Mrs. V. B. Why, what in the world is the matter?

Enter three or four Servant Men with Ruth Tredgett in custody. She is wild-looking and dishevelled, as if she had been struggling violently.

Groom. We’ve got her, ma’am. Don’t be afraid. (To Ruth.) Stand quiet, you jade, will yer? Woa, there! We’ve got her, sir, but we’ve had a desperate hard job to do it.

Dr. A. What has been done?

Groom. She’s knocked two teeth clean out of my head, sir, and give notice to quit to a dozen more.

Dr. A. We will hear your grievance presently. What has this woman done that she is brought here?

All. Done, sir, why——

But. (with dignity to the others). If you please! (To Mrs. Van Brugh) Ma’am, Edwards found this here woman creepin’ out of my pantry, ma’am, on all fours.

Dr. A. On what?

But. On her hands and knees, like a quadruped, sir.

Dr. A. Have you searched her?

But. (shocked). No, sir, I have not searched her.

Dr. A. Well, well, I mean has she been searched?

But. (with dignity). I put my hand in her pocket, sir, and I looked under her shawl.

Dr. A. Well, you didn’t search her, but you put your hand in her pocket, and you looked under her shawl. What did you find there?

But. A decanter of sherry, sir. (Producing it.)

Dr. A. (to Mrs. V. B.) Your sherry, Mrs. Van Brugh?

But. Our sherry, Dr. Athelney.

Dr. A. Well, you hear what this man says; did you take this wine?

Ruth. Ay, I took it, sure enough.

Dr. A. Why did you take it?

Ruth. Why, to drink, of course. Why should I take it?

Dr. A. You shouldn’t take it.

Ruth. Don’t you never take wine?

Dr. A. Not other people’s wine—except, of course, with their permission.

Ruth. Maybe you’ve got a cellar of your own.

Dr. A. Maybe I have.

Ruth. Well, maybe I haven’t. That’s my answer.

Dr. A. Now, what are we to do with her?

Mrs. V. B. Leave her to me. Dr. Athelney, please remain here with me. Every one else, except the woman, leave the room.

But. She’s a desperate character, ma’am; it took six of us, including me, to bring her here.

Mrs. V. B. Never mind. Dr. Athelney and I will see her alone. Take your hands from her and go.

But. Hadn’t we better keep within hearing? If help was wanted——

Mrs. V. B. No help will be wanted. I am in earnest. Go. Shut the door. (The Servants reluctantly depart.)

Ruth. You’re a cool hand, missis; ain’t you afeard on me?

Mrs. V. B. Not at all. Why should I be afraid of you? I mean you no harm.

Ruth. Who’s he?

Mrs. V. B. Dr. Athelney, a clergyman and a magistrate.

Ruth. Beak, is he? Well, let him make out the committal. Where’s it to be? Sessions?

Mrs. V. B. We have no wish to prosecute you. We wish to help you to arrive at a sense of right and wrong.

Ruth. Can’t it be done without a parson? I dunno much good o’ parsons. I’d rather it was done without a parson.

Dr. A. (kindly). Don’t think of me as a clergyman, if that calling is distasteful to you. Perhaps some day we may succeed in overcoming your prejudice. In the mean time, think of me only as a harmless old gentleman, who is willing and able to help you to earn your living respectably, if you desire to do so.

Ruth. Ah, I’ve come across the likes o’ you afore now. Three weeks agone comes a parson, as it might be you. “I’ve come to help you, poor fallen creetur,” says he; “I’ve come to tell you blessed truths, poor miserable outcast,” says he. “Read that, wretched lost sheep,” says he. “I’ll call again in a month and see how you feel,” says he. A month! Heugh! When I was bad with fever the doctor come every day. He never come no more. There’s ladies come odd times. I call to mind one—come in a carriage she did. Same story—poor, miserable, lost one—wretched abandoned fellow-creetur, and that. She called me a brand from the burnin’, and wanted to stretch out a hand to save me, she did. Well, she stretched it out, and I thought she meant it (for I was green then), and, fool-like, I took it, and kissed it. She screeched as though I’d bit her!

Mrs. V. B. Will you take my hand?

Ruth. (astonished). Do you know what I am?

Mrs. V. B. Yes; I know well what you are. You are a woman who wants help, and I a woman who will help you. (Taking her hand).

Ruth. (much moved). Thankee, missis! you’ve spoke fair to me. I’ve had no one speak like that to me for many a long year. Thankee, missis. (Struggling with tears.) Don’t mind me. (Throws her apron over her face and sobs.) They will come odd times!

Mrs. V. B. Will you tell me your name?

Ruth. Ruth Tredgett. I come from Cambridge.

Dr. A. Born there?

Ruth. I dunno as I was born there, but I come from there.

Dr. A. What are you?

Ruth. I s’pose I’m a thief. I s’pose I’m what gentlefolk thinks is wus than a thief. God help me! I s’pose I’m as bad as I can be. (Weeping.)

Mrs. V. B. Are your parents alive?

Ruth. No, I never had no father—my mother was such as me. See here, lady. Wot’s to become of a gal whose mother was such as me? Mother! Why, I could swear afore I could walk!

Dr. A. But were you not brought up to any calling?

Ruth. Yes, sir, I were; I were brought up to be a thief. Every soul as I knowed was a thief, and the best thief was the best thought on. Maybe a kid not long born ought to have knowed better. I dunno, I must ha’ been born bad, for it seemed right enough to me. Well, it was in prison and out o’ prison—three months here and six months there—till I was sixteen. I sometimes thinks as if they’d bin half as ready to show me how to go right as they was to punish me for goin’ wrong, I might have took the right turnin’ and stuck to it afore this. At sixteen I got seven year for shopliftin’, and was sent out to Port Philip. I soon got a ticket and tried service and needlework, but no one wouldn’t have me; and I got sick and tired of it all, and began to think o’ putting a end to it, when I met a smooth-spoken chap—a gentleman, if you please—as wanted to save me from the danger afore me. Well, wot odds? He was a psalm-singing villain, and he soon left me. No need to tell the rest—to such as you it can’t be told. I’m ’most as bad as I can be—as bad as I can be!

Mrs. V. B. I think not; I think not. What do you say, Doctor?

Dr. A. (struggling with his tears). Say, ma’am? I say that you, Ruth Tredgett, have been a most discreditable person, and you ought to be heartily ashamed of yourself, Ruth Tredgett; and as a clergyman of the Church of England I feel bound to tell you that—that your life has been—has been what God knows it couldn’t well have helped being under the circumstances.

Mrs. V. B. Ruth Tredgett, I am very, very sorry for you. If you are willing to leave this unhappy course of life I will provide you with the means of earning your living honestly.

Ruth. Honestly! Why, lady, I’m too fur gone for that!

Mrs. V. B. I hope not. I have assisted many, very many such women as yourself, and I have seldom found my efforts wasted.

Ruth. But you—a lady, high-born, high-bred, beautiful, rich, good—(In amazement.)

Mrs. V. B. Hush. (Rises.) No matter what I am. (With emotion.) Who shall say what the very best of us might not have been but for the accident of education and good example? Tell me, Ruth Tredgett, will you accept my offer?

Ruth. (kneels at her feet and looks up into her face). I will!