Original Plays, Second Series

by W. S. Gilbert

GRETCHEN.

ACT I.

Scene.—Under the cloisters of a monastery. In the centre of the stage a graveyard; in the graveyard, conspicuous among other tombs, is a tall monument. Procession of Monks crosses the stage at back. Moonlight.

Dominic discovered seated, reading. To him enters Anselm.

Dom. Pax vobiscum, father!

Ans.Benedicite!

I am rejoiced that, after many perils

By sea and land, I am once more among you.

How fares our poor sick Faustus?

Dom.By Heaven’s grace,

He is, in body, well—yet much I fear

There lies some hidden canker at his soul.

When he was prostrate on a fevered bed,

The utterings of his delirium

Were rather those of some base man of sin,

Than of a holy father, vowed to heaven.

Ans. Thy news is grave indeed; but knowest thou this

Of thine own knowledge?

Dom.Ay, in truth I do.

I took my turn with others at his bed,

And all who watched him made the same report.

When the delirium was at its worst

His fevered brain was filled with worldly dreams,

And seemed to revel in the guilty joys

That he for once and all had long forsworn.

Now at a gaming table, flushed with wine,

And swearing roundly that the dice were loaded;

Now at a drunken revel, trolling forth

Ungodly songs that set mine ears ablaze;

Now at the chase; now breathing words of love

Into the ears of some fair wanton; then

Invoking curses on her wantonness!

Ans. But spake he never of the holy life

That he is sworn to lead?

Dom.Nay, never once,

Unless it were to curse the evil haste

That led him to it.

Ans.It affects me much

To hear these tidings of our well-loved Faustus.

I knew that, ere he took his holy vows,

He led a life of sin, and for that cause

I more rejoiced his heart had turned to grace.

But, see, he comes. Leave me alone with him.

I’ll speak to him as father speaks to son.

Dom. May Heaven speed thy work.

[Exit Dominic.

Enter Faustus.

Ans.Come hither, son.

The kindly brothers who attended thee

In thy delirium have no light cause

To think that, though thy priestly ministries

Are to the letter faithfully performed,

Thy heart is bent on worldly matters still.

Faus. Of what do they complain? Can any say

That I have failed in my observances?

That I have spoken ill of any man?

That I live not a chaste and sober life?

That I am loth to pray with dead and dying?

Are not my priestly duties well discharged?

Ans. Would that all priests within these sacred walls

Took thee for an ensample in these matters.

But who can read the inmost heart of man?

The lips may move in prayer, and but the lips.

Speak to me frankly—tell me by what means

Thou wast induced to quit the world without,

Its fleeting pleasures and its lasting pains,

For the pure calm of these monastic shades?

Faus. Oh, father, holy father, bear with me,

My heart is very sore!

Ans.Come—tell me all,

Fear nothing; speak to me as to thyself.

Faus. How shall I speak to such a one as thou

Of an intense and all-believing love,

Betrayed, abandoned, trampled underfoot?

Of pure and simple faith in one fair woman—

Unswerving faith—faith, absolute and whole—

And of the deadly agony that came

Of finding that well-trusted woman false?

All the more false for the divine truth-promise

That played upon her fair and placid brow;

All the more false for the hot passion-vows

That leaped, in hurried whispers, from her lips!

I gave her all the wealth of my rich heart—

I lived upon her love—I fed my life

With the sweet poison of her lying lips

In utter trust. God help me!—one dark day,

In the high noon of all my happiness,

My heart upraised to heaven, in gratitude

For the fair promise of our coming life,

She left me, for a man whose proffered love

Had formed the theme of many an idle jest.

But he was rich—and so—she went to him!

At once the open volume of her life

Lay plain before me, and I read therein,

That she was—womankind!

Mad with the frenzy of a shipwrecked heart,

And with the old fond test-words of our love

Ringing a mocking echo through my brain,

I cursed the world and all the women in it,

And here sought sanctuary.

Ans.Ah, my son,

This haven from the tempests of the world

Should not be sought in bitterness of soul.

Only the pious heart, turned heavenwards

From very love of heaven, will here find rest,

Till Heaven, in its good time, shall garner it.

But take good heart. I’ll talk with thee to-night,

And, with the help of Heaven, give thee good counsel.

Be comforted—the world without is hollow,

As thou, in thine hot wrath, didst reckon it.

Thy wrath had reason in’t. Be comforted!

[Exit Anselm.

Faus. “Only the pious heart, turned heavenwards

From very love of heaven!” Fit formula

To typify the fierce, embittered cynic,

Who, in heart-misery, sought refuge here,

As a poor, worried, over-hunted fox,

Cursing his persecutors, runs to earth

To lick his bleeding flanks in sulky peace,

And brood, in solitude, on men and dogs!

No hope! no hope! no hope! For life entombed—

For life cut off from life—a breathing man,

Wrapped in a winding-sheet of his own weaving!

A living heart, inurned and sepulchred!

Enter Gottfried, disguised as a monk.

Gott. Good brother, pax vobiscum.

Faus.Benedicite!

Gott. Art thou the monk who, in the world without,

Was known as Faustus?

Faus.Ay, the very same.

Gott. I am a travelling Dominican

Sent to thee by the Prior of our Order;

Who, having heard much scandalous report

Of thy most heinous immoralities,

Instructs me, with all friendly privacy,

To urge thee to amend thy naughty life.

Or, if thou findest this impossible

(As there is reason to believe thou mayst),

So to conceal and cloke thy wanton ways,

That thou, at least, mayst seem to be a saint,

And so afford no handle to the grasp

Of the all-watchful enemies of our Church.

Faus. Strange mission, strangely worded, holy brother!

What doth your Prior allege? And by what right

Dares he to counsel such hypocrisy?

Whence comes his information?

Gott.From Sir Gottfried,

A very blameless, pure, and godly knight;

Who, once a boon companion of thy follies,

Hath since repented, and indicted thee

For that, despite thy vows of continence,

Thou livest the old life.

Faus.Now, by the Truth,

Never lied Gottfried thus!

Gott.Nay, by the Truth,

I speak his very words—and here’s the proof!

[Throws off his robe, and appears as a young soldier.

Faus. Gottfried! Is this indeed my dear old friend?

Gott. The same indeed. Bound for the wars again!

My troop of horse is passing through the town,

And hearing that thou wast within these walls,

I asked for thee. A bearded brother came,

And with scant courtesy, he bade me wait

Thy leisure in the great refectory.

There, much perplexed to know with what address

I might most ceremoniously greet

So eminent a theologian,

I saw this rag-bag hanging on a peg—

Thou knowest the rest.

Faus.I am rejoiced to see thee,

Despite thy ill-timed jest.

Gott.And this Faustus!

The old dare-devil Faustus! Marvellous!

When last I saw thee, thou wast bravely clad

In coat of cramoisie, and by thy side

There swung the readiest rapier in the town!

Faus. Hush, hush, these vanities are past and gone,

And many others with them!

Gott.By-the-by,

There was a black-eyed wench—a plump brown rogue,

With full red lips, and twinkling ankles, too—

Dost recollect her ankles? No? I do!

Let’s see—her name. What was the wench’s name?

Has she gone with the other vanities?

Faus. I prithee stop thy tongue. I loved the girl

And she was false to me. My heart died out.

I sickened of the world and woman’s love,

And here sought refuge.

Gott.Oh, for shame! for shame!

To hold the world to be a hollow world

Because one heart has proved a hollow heart!

Now hear a parable. But ten days since,

A swindling huckster gave me a bad ducat;

Now, by my head, I thought that ducat good:

It seemed so fair and bright—and as it lay

Upon my open palm, I read thereon

A pious legend, drawn from Holy Writ!

Believing that a ducat, wreathed about

With such a goodly warrant, could not lie,

I loved that ducat, and I trusted it!

Well, well, the ducat proved to be but base.

With a deep sigh—for gold is scarce with me—

I cast that ducat from me. But did I,

On that account, forswear all ducats? No!

My love for ducats—and my need of them—

Are just as keen as ever!

Faus.Peace, old friend.

I am a priest, who once forswore the world

Because he thought all women false. Think you

That being priest, and sitting day by day

In yon confessional,

I have seen cause to hold my judgment cheap?

Gott. Plague on thy judgments! Judgments ready-made

Are counterparts of garments ready-made,

That fit some well, some ill, some not at all.

I know a maiden, scarce eighteen years old,

Fair as the apple-green of early dawn,

Pure as the summer sun of southern heaven;

A psalm incarnate—an embodied prayer,

Not of the earth, yet dwelling thereupon;

Nor yet of heaven—although her mission be

To teach mankind that heaven is worth the winning.

I have seen sturdy brawlers sheath their blades

To humbly doff their hats at her approach;

And when she’s fairly out of hearing, then

Draw a long breath and go their ways in peace,

As though the air were charged with loving-kindness.

Rude gallants, in whose eyes all womankind

Are but the subjects of licentious jest,

Stand back abashed as Gretchen passes by,

And hush their converse into decency.

Young wanton girls weep tears of honest shame,

And old men think of angels and the heaven

That is to crown their closing pilgrimage!

Faus. (interested). Who is this maiden?

Gott.My dead uncle’s child,

An orphan, dwelling twenty leagues away.

Faus. Thou lovest her?

Gott.Ay, as I love the truth—

As I love purity and innocence—

As I love heaven and the good life to come!

Faus. Well, well—go on—she is thy kinswoman.

Thou hast a goodly presence—and I know

Thy heart is honest. Thou hast told thy love?

Gott. I, dare to speak of love to Gretchen? No!

I’m a rough soldier—barrack-born and bred.

My life’s a tavern life—- my closest friends

Are all rough soldiers; and the air I breathe

Reeks with unholy jests and fumes of wine!

I, dare to speak of love to Gretchen? Why,

My tongue would shrivel at the blasphemy!

Faus. Why, what’s all this?

Thou’rt going from her, and thou dost not dare

To tell her of thy love? She is the pearl

Of maidenhood, and yet thy heart is faint

Because she is the pearl of maidenhood?

Up, man! Take heart of grace! Thy love is honest,

Thy face is fair—thine heart is true and sound—

Thou art a soldier, marked for fair reward.

Up, man! Take heart of grace! No fretting vows

Stand betwixt thee and such an earthly heaven!

To think that this most miserable man

Has all this boundless treasure in his reach,

And hesitates to grasp it! Up, faint heart!

Come, boot and saddle, and away with thee,

Ere some more daring and less worthy suitor

Step in to take her from thee!

Gott. (astonished).By my hand,

’Twas Faustus spake then—not the holy friar!

Faus. I spake as man to man—as friend to friend.

I love thee; and if such a woman live

As thou hast pictured, take her to thine heart

While yet thou mayst. Had I loved such a one

I should not now be wearing out my life

In these sad solitudes!

Gott. (sadly).There spake the heart,

And not the lips.

Faus. (recollecting himself). May Heaven pardon me!

I knew not what I said!

Gott.My dear old friend!

Come, I must say farewell, my troop awaits me.

We ride through Lutzen. I shall see her there.

(Trumpet heard without.)

“To horse!” Dost know the sound?

Faus. (sighing).I know it well!

Gott. I’ll warrant me thy trusty soldier-heart

Bounds as of old, despite thy monkish frock,

At the old trumpet call!

Faus.These things are past!

May God protect thee in thine enterprise,

And give thee safe and speedy conduct home.

Gott. Amen to that. So, Faustus, fare thee well!

[Exit Gottfried.

Faus. He’s gone! gone forth to the fair, fruitful world:

The world of life and love, the world of hope,

Of open hearts and unchecked sympathies!

Oh, foolish priest, misleading and misled,

Poor trickster, ever duping, ever duped—

Cheating thyself into a mad surrender

Of all that youth holds dearest: cheating others

Into blind trust of thy sincerity!

Thou art a man—the world was made for men!

Thou hast a heart—thy heart is idle here!

A curse on all this maddening mummery,

This life-long lie, this living catacomb!

Earth, heaven, hell, whichever hears me now,

Come to my call, and bring me back to life!

[Thunder, lightning; Mephisto appears.

Faus. Merciful Heaven, defend me! Who art thou?

What dost thou here, and what wouldst thou with me?

Meph. You called me, and I came in hurried haste,

Lest the two other powers whom you invoked

Should be before me in the race.

Faus.Who art thou?

Meph. A travelling clock-cobbler, who repairs

The moral timepiece when it’s out of order.

Faus. A truce to riddles.

Meph.Then I’ll speak more plainly

Some clocks are well made, some are roughly fashioned,

And need much tinkering; springs weaken, snap,

Wheels loosen, dust gets in, and time is lost;

Men lose all faith, and put the liar by

As something worse than useless. I, clock-cobbler,

Wind up the moral timepiece, make new faces,

Repair this wheel, that spring, mend here, mend there;

In short, I do my very best to make

A timepiece that has lost its character

Pass for a trusty herald of the hour.

Faus. Get thee behind me, for I know thee now,

Despite thy fair disguise!

Meph.Oh, pardon me,

I’ve no disguise. This is my own fair form.

I’m not the horrible embodiment

You doctors of the Church have painted me—

A very Satyr, with a dragon’s tail—

A nursemaid’s devil! Oh, shortsighted priests,

My policy is to allure mankind,

Not to repel them!

Faus.What wouldst thou with me?

Meph. A proper question! Why, you summoned me!

It is a leading principle with me

That no one ever needs to call me twice.

Faus. I spake in haste. I did not weigh my words.

Meph. That may be, or it may not be. I have

A character for promptness to maintain,

And can’t afford to risk my reputation

On the mere hazard that your words were idle.

Faus. You’ve saved your character, and so depart—

Prime cause of sin—accursed of God and man!

Meph. Unjust—illogical! But you’re a Churchman.

Prime cause of sin! Why, evil comes from good,

As oft as good from evil. Motives? Pooh!

Why, half the ills that vex mankind arise

From motives that are unimpeachable.

Faus. If goodly seed, well sown, bear evil fruit,

The fault is scarcely with the husbandman.

Meph. But why sow any goodly seed at all,

If evil may result from doing so?

Faus. Why try to stop my sowing goodly seed,

If it produce the crops that please you best?

Meph. He’s hit the blot! This clear-cut brain of his

Is wasted in this world of half an acre!

Cast off thy frock—come forth with me. The man

Who can detect my sophisms at a glance

Is safe enough, without the galling chains

That fetter him to prayer and solitude.

Come forth with me;

There’s a fair field without these gloomy walls

For such a brain as thine—a merry world,

Teeming with song and dance—a grateful world,

Where gallant deed and brilliant enterprise

Meet with their due reward—a loving world,

Where kindred hearts may chime in unison.

Come forth with me!

Faus.Peace—get thee hence away.

My vows are taken!

Meph.Ay, and so they are!

Vows not to dream of the gay world without—

Vows not to sigh for temporal vanities—

Vows so to chasten, quell, and mortify

Your natural craving for a woman’s love,

That it shall sicken, wither, starve and die

From lack of sustenance!

Rare vows, and rarely kept, I make no doubt!

Why, man, you break them every day you live;

You break them when you weep upon the grave

Of broken hopes and blighted sympathies—

Of wrecked ambitions, and the hundred tombs

That crowd this solitary sepulchre!

You break them when you let your memory loose

To revel in the rich, ripe luxury

Of luscious lips, soft cheeks and glancing eyes,

The violet breath—the press of warm, soft hands,

Or the crisp frettle of disordered hair,

That wooed your flaming cheek, as, half ashamed,

The maiden nestled, blushing, on your breast—

And yet you plead your vows! Like some I know

Who pray for mankind in the aggregate,

And damn them all in detail!

Faus.Tempt me not.

I left the world of women for these walls,

Because I found a woman false as thou—

I’ll not return.

Meph.Illogical again.

“As one is so are all.” Sound argument!

You gather generals from particulars

Like all your brood. Why, there’s no harm in women.

I didn’t make them! They’re my deadliest foes!

Why, he who of his own unfettered will

Cuts himself off from pure communion

With blameless womanhood, withdraws himself

From a far holier influence than he finds

Within these sad and silent solitudes.

Faus. Strange sentiments from such as thou!

Meph.For that

We devils, as you Churchmen please to call us,

Are not the simple folk you take us for;

We are shrewd fellows in our homely way,

And look facts in the face. I know a maid,

A fair and gentle girl—the pink and bloom

Of all that’s loveliest in maidenhood,

Whose simple truth and pure and blameless life

Have done my cause more harm in eighteen years

Than all the monks in Christendom can mend!

Faus. Is this indeed the truth?

Meph.Ay, though I tell it.

Faus. If there live such a one as thou hast painted—

A maiden—pure as the blue breath of heaven,

Into whose virgin heart no dream of ill

Hath ever crept—the bloom of whose pure lips

Is yet unbrushed by man’s polluting touch;

Whose life is open as the very truth—

A perfect type of blameless maidenhood,

Take me to her, and I will learn of her.

Meph. Humph! No, I’d rather not.

Faus.And why?

Meph.You see,

We devils have our consciences. In vice

We can do nearly all that man can do,

But not quite all. There are some forms of sin

From which we shrink—and this is one of them.

I have no stomach for such worldly work.

Best get a man to help you.

Faus.Mocking fiend,

Misjudge me not. As there’s a heaven and hell,

I mean the maid no wrong. I’ll take thy help,

If thou wilt give it me. But be forewarned;

I’ll make no compact with thee. Set me free,

And I will fight thee with the holy aid

Of her pure innocence. Be thou forewarned.

Meph. I like your frankness! Well, you’re not the first

Who’s tried to rise to heaven on my shoulders!

Humph! I don’t know. I am a match for you.

But, you and she allied! The odds are heavy!

Well, I’m a student still, and always glad

To glean experience when and how I can.

I’m curious to see how this will end;

If for me—good; but if against me—well,

I shall but lose you, and you’re no great stake.

And so I’ll risk it. See! The maiden comes!

[A vision of Gretchen is seen, gliding across the stage, through the tombstones; she is reading a breviary.

Faus. (entranced). Great grace of Heaven!

Is this indeed a form of mortal mould?

Speak, tempter, speak!

Meph.Ay, flesh and blood, like yours,

Taken, haphazard, from a world of women!

How say you? Is she not exceeding fair?

Is there not innocence in every line

Of that pure, face? Is aught more virginal

Than the sweet sadness of those downcast eyes

Bent on her breviary? And yet withal,

There is a wondrous world of latent love

Within that maiden heart. The girl will love

As few can love, when the full time arrives;

So take good heed, deal gently with the maid,

Or harm may come of it—and that were pity!

Faus. If there be truth in heaven, there’s truth in her!

If there be heaven on earth, there’s heaven here!

Meph. Ay, verily! Why, when I look on her,

I’m almost tempted to turn saint myself;

What would the world do then! Well, what say you?

The choice is well before you. On one hand,

Quibbling chop-logic—lip and letter worship—

Flesh idly mortified—unreasoning dogma—

The shallow sophistries of means and end—

Straws split, and split, and split, and split again—

Each section in itself infallible,

And all dissentients damned! And on the other,

Peace, charity, and mercy, simple faith,

Gentle good-will and loving kindliness.

Come, priest, what say you? Quick—my time is short.

[The apparition raises her eyes from her book and turns to Faustus, holding out her hand to him.

Faus. Spirit of peace—divine embodiment—

Henceforth be thou my faith—be thou my Church!

Be thou my guide, my hope, my monitress!

Henceforth the beacon-light of thy pure soul

Shall shed its light upon my onward path,

And I will follow whither it may lead!

Spirit of purity, I come to thee!

---

ACT II.

Scene.—A glade. On the right a precipitous descent through the stage at the back; on the left an avenue of trees.

Barbara, Bessie, and others discovered; to them enters Agatha.

Aga. Oh, Bessie—Barbara! Such dreadful news!

Bess. News!

Bar.Quick! What is it?

Aga.Lisa has returned!

Lisa, who ran away with the rich merchant

A year ago!

Bar.A wicked, wicked girl!

I hope she won’t come here!

Bess.And have you seen her?

Aga. I met her only half an hour ago

Upon the Leipzic road!

Bess.Is she much changed?

Aga. Changed! Why, at first I couldn’t trust my eyes.

You know how jauntily she bore herself—

How daintily she dressed? Well—that’s all changed!

Pale, wasted to a shadow—draggletailed—

Dressed in torn rags—bare-footed, and bare-headed!

A beggar!

Bar.I remember how she sneered

At my blue gown trimmed with peach-coloured ribbon.

Well, Heaven has punished her for that.

Bess.But say—

Did she address you?

Aga.Yes, she spoke my name.

I started, and I recognized her. Well,

I mumbled forth some words—I scarce know what—

And, all a-fluster, gathered up my skirts,

And ran as though a ghost were at my heels.

Bar. And you did wisely. Honest working girls

Should shun such brazen creatures!

Bess.Soft—she’s here!

[Lisa comes down avenue; she is dressed in torn and travel-stained rags, as described. As she comes down the girls turn away from her.

Lisa. Well, girls,

Do you not know me, that you turn from me?

Or has the misery of twelve black months

So sadly changed me?

Bess. (sighing).Yes, we know you well!

Bar. (spitefully). Too well!

Lisa. Is there no pity for me in your hearts?

Is there no pardon for such sin as mine?

See—I am cold and hungry—travel-worn—

Broken in spirit, humbled and forsaken.

Oh, I have paid a penalty!

Bar.No doubt

We knew you would.

Bess. (aside to Barbara). I’m sorry for the girl;

We’ve known her all our lives. With all her faults,

We loved her well, when she was one of us.

Bar. When she was one of us? Of course—because

She then was one of us. But when a man—

A married man—elopes with one of us

(Which happens sometimes), why, that one of us

No longer claims to rank as one of us;

And so the cause of love exists no longer.

Aga. That’s true, indeed!

Lisa.Have you no charity?

Is there no eloquence to touch your hearts

In this wan, wasted form—these wretched rags?

Why, look at me!

Bar.There is a certain frock,

Blue, trimmed with peach—not much the worse for wear—

That’s humbly at your service. (Curtsying mockingly.)

Bess.Spare her, pray!

Lisa. Ay, spare me, bitter hearts! Who can foresee?

A year ago, I was as one of you!

Another year, and you may be as I!

So, better spare me, lest it come to pass

That you have judged yourselves in judging me.

Well, well, the river’s near!

Enter Gretchen.

Gret.Why, who is this?

Lisa! (Taking her hand.)

Lisa. Hold! Ere you take my hand in yours,

Remember what I am and what I’ve done.

I am an outcast, cheated and betrayed.

He swore to marry me—well, I believed him,

And when I looked to him to keep his promise,

He told me of his wife. There, that’s my story.

Go wash your hand!

Gret.Poor bruised and broken heart—

Be comforted. Why, I have prayed and prayed

For thy return—and see, my prayer is heard!

Poor wanderer! Our hearts were sore for thee,

Ay, very sore—and I remember well

How Barbara wept when the sad tidings came,

And vowed she’d rather lose her best ten years

Than this had happened.

Bar.Yes, and so I would,

But it has happened—and the mischief’s done.

Bess. (crying). I’m sure I loved her dearly!

Aga.So did I!

One can’t forget old times!

Gret.Why, then be brave,

And prove that thine was no fine-weather love,

Poor penitent! Oh, sisters, is it fit

That we should judge our sister, or withhold

The mercy that we pray for, day by day?

Lisa (surprised). Oh, Gretchen, Gretchen!

Gret.Come, poor broken heart,

Look up—we are thy sisters as of old.

Bess. (half sobbing). If Gretchen can forgive thee, who are we

That we should hold aloof? We spake in haste;

Our hearts were turned to thee, despite our words.

[Bessie kisses her and exit.

Bar. You told me once that I’d a bitter tongue,

D’ye recollect it? Lisa, you were right.

Forgive me, please; there! (Kissing her.) Never mind the frock,

Though bear in mind (to Agatha) I still maintain my point,

That blue and peach go very well together!

[Exeunt Barbara and Agatha.

Gret. Come, dry your eyes, and take good heart again.

Lisa. Oh, Gretchen, Gretchen! let me weep awhile:

In truth I looked for pity and for help

From them, for they and I had much in common;

But thou, so good in all, so pure, so true——

Gret. If it be good and true to close one’s heart

To sorrow such as thine, why, Heaven help me,

For then I have no title to the words!

See, Martha comes. She has an angry tongue,

Although her heart is kindly. Get thee hence

Till I have spoken to her. Here is money;

Go, get thee food, and then come back to me.

Take courage—Martha can refuse me nothing.

It shall go hard but when thou comest back

She’ll welcome thee as I do. Fare thee well.

Lisa. Those who would pray for thee have but one prayer,

That earth be kind to thee, for heaven is thine,

Ay, surely, surely thine.

[Exit.

Enter Martha, with basket.

Mar. Drudge, drudge, drudge, drudge! To market seven miles,

And seven home again! It’s a hard life,

And tells upon me sorely! All this comes

Of marrying a bad man—a bad, poor man.

But there, he’s at the wars—God keep him there!

Ah, Gretchen, Gretchen, be advised by me;

And promise me that when thy heart’s in danger,

Thou’lt come to me, that I may counsel thee

Out of the wealth of my experience—

The only wealth I have. Come, promise me.

Gret. I do. (Pauses; then timidly) In proof of my sincerity

I will begin to-day. I have seen one

Whom I could love.

Mar. (amazed).Why, Gretchen, what’s all this?

Doth he love thee?

Gret.Ay, for he told me so.

Mar. He told thee so! And when?

Gret.Last night.

Mar.Last night!

Gret. Or stay—it might have been betimes this morning.

Mar. Last night! This morning! Gretchen! Where wast thou

Last night—this morning!

Gret.Why, within thy house.

Mar. And there thy lover saw thee—spake to thee,

Within my house—alone—at dead of night!

Gretchen, for shame! Art thou as other girls?

Who is the reprobate?

Gret.I cannot say.

I do not think he is a reprobate.

Mar. His name?

Gret.I do not know.

Mar.His rank—his calling?

Gret. I cannot tell.

Mar.Why, Gretchen, I’m aghast!

Gret. Nay, I’ll not plague thee with half-hidden truths,

I’ll tell thee all, and thou shalt counsel me.

Last night I slept—it might have been this morning,

I cannot tell—and, as I slept, methought

That as I wandered all alone, amid

The moonlight tombs of some old cloistered square,

I saw a man, arrayed in monkish frock,

And yet (so much at variance with themselves

Are sleeping fantasies) he was no monk,

But some young errant knight of noble rank,

The very flower of gentle chivalry!

Entranced, I gazed upon him, marvelling much

That aught of mortal mould could be so fair;

(’Twas but a dream—we cannot frame our dreams)

And as I gazed, methought he knelt him down,

And vowed himself to me, for evermore!

There—read me that!

Mar.I will. Now, mark my words,

The lover whom thou seest in a dream

Will, in due season, court thee—in a dream.

And, if the courtship prosper, as it will,

Some day, perhaps, he’ll wed thee—in a dream.

Then after many long and life-like dreams

Of married misery, black looks, rough words,

Hard blows and mutual discontent, thou’lt wake

And bless thy lucky stars it was a dream!

Dream on, my child, pray thou mayst never wake,

As I have done. Come, there is work to do.

[Exeunt together.

Enter Faustus and Mephisto.

Faus. At last, at last—unless my heart deceives me,

Here is the glade, and that should be her house.

Meph. Ay, that’s the house that holds the guardian maid

Who is to lead you whither you should go,

And save your lordship from yourself—and me.

Henceforth that hovel is to be your church,

With savoury fumes of roast and boiled for incense;

The dim recesses of the chimney corner

Will serve you as a snug confessional.

How say you? Will you enter? If you do,

You’ll find the fair high priestess of the shrine

Intent upon the secular employ

Of hanging clothes to dry. Or will you wait

Until my pretty enemy is free

To enter on her spiritual functions?

Faus. Peace! mocking spirit. Stay thy ribald tongue.

Dost thou, whom none believe, believe in none?

Meph. Nay, I’m the most confiding soul alive.

I credit all I’m told. Not by the tongue—

Men do not speak to me with tongues. No, no.

Man keeps his words and deeds for man’s behoof.

They speak a language that I cannot fathom.

I read the heart and brain, and all they tell me,

With childlike faith, I readily accept.

Faus. I would my heart were as an open book,

That all might read therein! But who comes here?

By all the powers that rule mischance, ’tis Gottfried!

What shall I do? How justify myself

In my old comrade’s eyes?

Meph.Leave that to me.

Bear yourself boldly; put a good face on’t,

And I will frame excuses that will serve.

Enter Gottfried.

Gott. Here is the well-loved home! Ah, Gretchen, Gretchen!

When shall we meet again? Or shall we meet?

God knows! I go where death is freely dealt,

And I may fall—— Well, she will weep for me. (Sees Faustus.)

Whom have we here? Either my senses cheat me,

Or this is Faustus! Faustus, as I live!

Faustus unfrocked! Faustus unsanctified!

Faustus re-butterflied in bravery!

Faus. Ay, Gottfried, I am Faustus—in the flesh.

Gott. Now here’s a riddle, and I wait the answer.

But yesterday thou wast a hooded monk,

A pale, cold, stern, and sour Dominican;

A human tombstone, sculptured by thyself,

In honour of thy dead and buried follies.

To-day I find the tombstone taken down,

And all the follies risen from the dead!

Meph. He was misled—his follies cheated him.

Believing they were dead, to all intent,

In decency he raised a monument;

But finding them alive beneath his gown,

In decency he took the tombstone down.

Gott. It is enough for me that thou art free.

Welcome once more to life and liberty!

(To Mephisto.) Sir, in the name of all good fellowship,

I thank you for your charitable office.

Faus. Now tell me, Gottfried, wherefore art thou here?

Gott. I come, as yesterday I said I should,

To bid a long farewell to cousin Gretchen.

Faus. To Gretchen?

Gott.Ay, the maid of whom I spake.

Faus. Is her name Gretchen?

Gott.Yes—she lives hard by,

With Mistress Martha. Faustus, thou shalt see her,

And join with me in worship at her shrine.

Faus. (confused). I understand—my words have weighed with thee,

And thou hast come to tell her of thy love.

Gott. Not I, indeed; despite thine eloquence,

I’m going from her for a weary while,

Maybe for ever. That will give her sorrow,

Sorrow enough. I would not add to it

By telling her of such poor love as mine

For all the world holds dear. Some day, please Heaven,

I shall return with honours to my name

(If honours lie within my grasp, I’ll grasp them),

And then, if I’ve a name worth offering,

Maybe I’ll pluck up heart. Not now, not now.

But hush, she comes.

Enter Gretchen.

Gretchen, my sister Gretchen!

Gret. Gottfried! I am right glad to welcome thee,

My dear, dear brother! Art thou come for long?

Gott. Nay, Gretchen, I am with my troop of horse.

We march to Dettingen, and being here

I stole a brief half hour to say farewell.

Gret. (alarmed). Thou art not going to the war?

Gott.No, no!

Mere frontier duty, Gretchen; nothing more.

(Aside.) May Heaven forgive me—that’s a downright lie!

Gret. I breathe again. (Sees Faustus.) Who is this gentleman?

(With intense surprise.)

Gott. This is my very dear and tried friend, Faustus,

The truest fellow that the wide world holds.

Faustus, this is my gentle cousin Gretchen.

Gret. (agitated). Surely I dream again! Oh, marvellous!

The very face and form!

Gott.Come, Gretchen, speak.

Gret. (much agitated). I give you honest welcome, noble sir;

As you are Gottfried’s friend, so are you ours.

Faus. I thank you, lady.

Gott.Well, and is that all?

“I thank you, lady!” Come, thou shamefaced knight,

Where are thy words? Gretchen, be not deceived—

He hath a tongue—a very fluent tongue,

And one that serves him well, when he so pleases.

Faus. I am not dumb from lack of gratitude.

Much as I owe to Gottfried’s well-tried love,

My heavy debt is multiplied tenfold.

Gott. (aside to Faustus). Then, debtor, pay the tenfold debt tenfold.

Watch over her when I am far away—

Shield her from harm as though she were thy sister,

And we’ll cry quits. Thou wilt? I thank thee, Faustus;

I go with lighter heart! (Aloud to Gretchen.) Now, fare thee well.

God keep thee safe and sound till I return.

Gret. Farewell, dear Gottfried—think of me at times.

My heart is full—then read it in my eyes.

May Heaven shield thee from all harm!

Gott.Amen.

And now to horse—nay, not another word,

Or I shall lack the heart to go at all.

Farewell—once more and only once—farewell!

[Exit Gottfried.

Gret. (timidly). Sir, will you enter? Our poor home is near,

And Mistress Martha will be glad to greet you.

You are an old friend of my cousin Gottfried?

Faus. Ay, lady.

Gret.Nay, you must not call me “lady;”

I am a peasant girl—my name is Gretchen.

Faus. And may I call thee Gretchen?

Gret.Willingly.

All call me Gretchen.

Faus.Gottfried calls thee Gretchen.

I thought he claimed a cousin’s privilege.

Gret. Does Gottfried speak of me?

Faus.He does indeed,

And in such terms of glowing eulogy

I almost feared that he had gained thy heart.

Gret. Feared!

Faus.Pardon me. I spake unwittingly.

His welfare should be very dear to me,

And, therefore, I should rather hope than fear.

Gret. Gottfried has been my brother all my life.

I would not own another man as brother:

Nor would I have him aught but honest “brother.”

I love him dearly—dearly. Twice a day

I say a prayer for him, and he for me.

He is my brother. Every hope of his

Is hope of mine. When trouble falls on him

It falls alike on me—he is my brother.

And when he comes—as one day he will come—

To tell me of some good and gentle girl

Who worthily has won his honest heart,

I’ll throw my loving arms around her neck,

And call her “sister,” as I call him “brother.”

Faus. Now Heaven forgive me, but those words of thine

Have freed my bosom from a load of care!

Gret. Didst thou then think I loved him not?

Faus.Nay, nay.

I feared thy love was more than sister-love.

Gret. Dost thou then fear the love that tends to wedlock?

Meph. (aside). Not he!

Faus.I hold that truest happiness

Is born of wedlock.

Meph. (aside). Bravo, celibate!

Gret. And yet it much rejoiceth thee to know

That cousin Gottfried hath no thought of wedlock?

Faus. Nay, maiden, it rejoiceth me to know

That cousin Gretchen hath no thought of wedlock.

Gret. Thou dost not wish me happy, then?

Faus.My heart!

I would it were my care to make thee happy!

Gret. Now I am sorely puzzled!

Meph. (aside).And no wonder!

Gret. Thou wishest Gottfried happy, and me happy;

In wedlock, only, is true happiness;

And yet, forsooth, it much rejoiceth thee

To know that he and I are not to wed!

Meph. (aside). Pretty logician! A dilemma, truly!

Faus. Nay, Gretchen, better let the riddle rest

Till time shall solve it!

Gret.Pray forgive me, sir.

I do not doubt thy words are learned words.

Small wonder that I cannot fathom them.

Mar. (without). Come, Gretchen! Gretchen!

Meph. (aside).Bah! she’ll ruin all!

How these old ladies always interfere!

Enter Martha.

Mar. Why, who is this?

Gret.A friend of cousin Gottfried,

A very old and very trusty friend;

And so, a very trusty friend of ours.

Mar. We give you welcome, sir. Our home is poor,

But wholly at your service. (Aside.) By the mass,

A very straight, and well-favoured gentleman!

Meph. (aside). She’ll never leave him. I must interfere.

(Coming forward.) Pray pardon this intrusion——

Mar.Who is this?

Meph. (to Gretchen). Do I address Dame Martha?

Gret.No, indeed,

My name is Gretchen—this is Mistress Martha.

Meph. A thousand pardons for my clumsy error.

Misled by a description—“tall and fair,

Eighteen, and very beautiful.” The words

Apply, with equal truth, to both the ladies.

Mar. You’re vastly civil, sir! (Aside.) Upon my word,

It rains well-spoken, proper gentlemen!

Meph. Sisters, of course?

Mar.Nay, she’s my sister’s child

(Hastily.) My sister was, by many years, my senior!

Meph. That’s evident. I bring you doleful news—

Yet news not altogether dolorous;

There is a certain spice of comfort in’t—

Yet not so much of comfort, I’m afraid,

As to disguise its not unpleasant bitter.

Mar. Your words alarm me! Pray forgive me, sir,

Are you a lawyer?

Meph.I’m the prince of lawyers.

Mar. I am your servant, sir! (Curtsying.)

Meph.I’m glad to hear it!

But pardon me, the news I have to tell

Is for your ears alone.

Mar. (to Gretchen, who is conversing with Faustus).

Go, Gretchen dear,

And show the gentleman the Lover’s Glen.

Meph. Take heed—the path is dangerously steep—

Be sure you do not trip, my pretty maid.

Gret. I thank you, sir. I know its pitfalls well,

And how to pass them safely. (To Faustus.) Wilt thou come?

Faus. To the world’s end, fair maiden, an thou wilt.

Gret. (laughing). Nay, I’ll not pledge thee to so long a journey,

The road is short.

Mar.But very perilous.

Meph. It is, indeed!

Faus.Wilt trust thy hand in mine?

Mar. Ay, take his hand—you will be safer so.

Meph. (aside). I doubt it much.

[Faustus and Gretchen go down incline.

Mar.Now we are quite alone.

Meph. The news I bring you is about your husband.

Mar. My husband! he’s not coming back!

Meph.No, no—

It’s not as bad as that.

Mar. (relieved).You frightened me!

Meph. (with emotion). He never will come back.

Mar.What mean you, sir?

Meph. I mean that, fighting bravely ’gainst the Turks,

An arrow struck him—and—— (Faltering.)

Mar. (affected).I guess your meaning!

This is sad news, indeed! Alack-a-day,

I never wished his death! With all his faults,

He was no worse than other husbands are!

Meph. A most affecting tribute to his worth.

Pray pardon my emotion; I’ve a heart

That melts at weeping women.

Mar.Pray go on;

I’ll try to stem my tears. Left he a will?

Meph. He did—a very good and Christian will.

Mar. He was a Christian!

Meph. (sighing).Ah! His will directs

That you shall spend on masses for his soul,

Five hundred marks.

Mar. (indignantly). Five hundred fiddlesticks!

A wicked waste!

Meph.Well, knowing all I know

About his mode of life, I must admit

It is a waste; but so his will directs.

Mar. And is that all? Left he no parting words

Of penitence?

Meph.Oh yes; as death drew near,

He much bewailed his manifold transgressions

And said that he could die more tranquilly

Had he his wife’s forgiveness.

Mar.Poor dear soul!

I could forgive him, freely, everything,

Except those masses!

Meph.“Though it’s true,” said he,

“In all our quarrels, and we’d many quarrels,

She was invariably to blame.”

Mar.A lie!

A most observable and shameless lie!

Meph. Alas! I fear that, as a rule, his words

Were not distinguished by that love of truth

That you and I deem indispensable.

For instance, he declared that earning bread

To feed so many mouths took all his time,

And left no moment he could call his own!

Mar. Again, a lie! I drudged from morn to night

To feed and clothe his famished family,

While he sat all day fuddling at the ale-house!

Alas, he never cared for wife or child!

Meph. Nay, there you wrong him. Give the deuce his due.

Before he sailed he prayed to all the saints

To bless his arms with full prosperity;

So that, if he in battle should be slain,

His widow yet might live in luxury.

Mar. Poor soul! poor soul! Did Heaven so bless them?

Meph.Yes.

His prayer was heard. Some seven months ago

He helped to take a Turkish galley, fraught

With countless treasure.

Mar.Why, that was well done.

Brave man!

Meph.Brave man!

Mar.And what got he by that?

Meph. His share of prize-money—twelve thousand marks!

Mar. Twelve thousand marks! a fortune in itself!

May Heaven forgive me all my angry words!

He had a brave good heart. Where is the money?

Meph. Ask his good heart. He never could resist

A tale of sorrow eloquently told.

Mar. (alarmed). What mean you?

Meph.When at Naples, shortly after,

He saw a girl—young, beautiful, but poor—

A very child, scarce seventeen years old.

His tender heart gave way; she was so poor,

And then so very young—scarce seventeen!

He gave it all to her.

Mar.All!

Meph.Every florin.

But then, she was so young—scarce seventeen——

Mar. At his old tricks! Then there is nothing left?

Meph. You wrong him there; he left a priceless treasure,

Compared with which his other paltry gains

Sink into nothingness—a charming widow!

Mar. You’re very good.

Meph.I speak the simple truth.

Come, take good heart. You waste your tears upon

A man who priced you far below your worth.

You’re young, and (pardon me) attractive still.

Spend one chaste year of lonely widowhood,

Then seek a better husband.

Mar.As for that,

With all his faults, I might wed worse than he.

(Sobbing.) He was a kindly fool!

Meph.Forgiving soul!

Angelic tolerance! Ah, were I sure

That you would treat my faults as leniently,

I should be almost tempted to——

Mar.To what?

Oh, sir, you’re surely jesting!

Meph.Not at all.

(Aside.) I’d better change the subject. This old girl

Would take the very devil at his word.

They’re coming back. (Aloud.) We’ll talk of this anon—

After a year—or two—or three——

Mar.We will!

[Exeunt together, as Faustus and Gretchen appear at back.

Faus. That, Gretchen, was my dream.

Gret.Oh, marvellous!

That thou and I—each stranger to the other—

Should thus have peopled each the other’s vision!

I tremble when I think on’t.

Faus.Wherefore so?

Was then the vision so distasteful?

Gret.Nay,

I said not so; but that we two should dream

As we have dreamt—’tis not in nature!

Faus.Promise

That if again thou seest me in a dream

Thou’lt tell me all—the part I play therein—

The words I speak to thee, and thou to me.

Gret. (confused). Perhaps. It may be so. I will not promise.

Faus. Tell me again—Gottfried—thou dost not love him?

Gret. He is my brother, sir!

Faus.So he be alway!

There is, perchance, some other envied man

To whom the flower of thine heart is given?

Gret. Indeed, I have no lover, sir.

Faus.None?

Gret.None.

Faus. Thy time will come!

Gret.Perhaps!

Faus.Give me thy hand—

I’ll read thy fortune, Gretchen.

Gret.Wonderful!

Canst thou read fortunes? (Giving her hand.)

Faus. Ay, indifferent well. (Playing with her hand.)

Gret. Speak, sir; I listen.

Faus. (still playing with her hand). ’Tis a soft white hand!

Gret. (demurely). My fortune, sir.

Faus. (recollecting himself). True, true, thy fortune! Come. (Looking at her palm.)

Ah, Gretchen, Gretchen, be thou on thy guard!

There cometh one to woo thee. Oh, beware,

Take heed of him—he is no honest man!

Gret. And do I know him, sir?

Faus.Ay, in some sort,

Thou knowest his smooth face, his specious tongue;

But there is that within his evil heart

Of which thou knowest little! Oh, my child,

Beware of him! My child, beware of him!

Gret. Why comes this wicked man to such as I?

I would not aid him in his wickedness.

Faus. In sad and sorrowing heart he comes to thee,

That he may learn the lesson of thy life.

He comes to thee in the fond, foolish hope

That the pure influence of such love as thine

May quell the evil angel at his side;

For wicked as he is, he loveth thee,

With all his poor frail heart he loveth thee!

Gret. ’Tis a strange fortune! I, an untaught girl,

Can teach but little. But if such a one

Come to me sorrowing for his bygone sins,

E’en though I loved him not,

In pity I would strive, with all my heart,

To help him, even as I pray for help.

I do not know why I should fear this man.

Faus. (earnestly). Because, with all his sorrow, he is false—

False to himself, and, maybe, false to thee.

Oh, Gretchen, deal not lightly with my words;

Weigh them, and weigh them, o’er and o’er again.

And when thou kneelest by thy bed to-night,

Pray thou for strength as thou hast never prayed;

Pray for a brave and staunch and steadfast heart—

Steadfast to aid this poor weak wanderer

Upon the holy path that thou hast chosen.

But above all, beyond all, and before all,

Steadfast to pluck the traitor from thine

If, in the depth of his mortality,

He strive to gain thee by unholy means!

Gret. (quietly). I will take heed, sir. (Rising and going.)

Faus.Gretchen—leave me not.

Gret. I go to seek a poor lost, friendless girl,

Who waits for me hard by. I thank you, sir—

I take your kindly counsel in good part.

Thou dost not know the sad and solemn lesson

That her poor blighted heart hath taught us all.

For she was wont to laugh as the birds sing,

From very wealth of idle happiness!

It seems so strange that she should not have died.

Faus. God save thee from such harm! (Releasing her.)

Gret.Amen! amen!

[Exit.

Faus. (stands as if entranced for a moment; then suddenly)

Why, whither am I going? Grace of Heaven!

Have I been blind? Fool! poor, self-cheating fool!

Stop, while thou mayst—thine eyes are open now!

What seest thou?

Hell against heaven—and thou allied with hell!

[Mephisto appears and listens.

What seest thou? A pure and blameless child,

Trustful as innocence—her gentle soul,

Calm as a lake in heaven—her angel face,

God’s work,

Untainted by man’s desecrating touch!

And, at her side,

A scheming mummer, tricked in godly garb—

His tongue all plausible, his heart all false—

His lying manhood traitor to itself!

Faustus, mine enemy, I know thee now!

Faustus, mine enemy, I know thee now!

Meph. Shake off thy Churchman’s qualms. Thou art a man,

Wast once a soldier ere thou wast a priest.

Has monkish milk so curdled the hot blood

That bore thee ever where the fight was thickest,

That this raw girl—this butter-churning doll,

Hath turned thee chicken-hearted?

Faus.Hold thy peace,

Accursed fiend, nor dare to breathe her name.

Deal thou with me—let Heaven deal with heaven,

I go from her—God shield her from all harm!

Meph. Hush, not so loud, she’ll hear you. See, she comes!

[Gretchen appears at back, picking petals from a daisy as she advances.

Gret.  He loves me—he loves me not!

He loves me—he loves me not!

Meph. (aside to Faustus). Too late, too late! her heart is given to thee;

Her love is not as other women’s love.

Take thyself hence and she will surely die!

[Faustus watches her, entranced.

Gret. (with increased anxiety).

He loves me—he loves me not!

He loves me—he loves me not!

Meph. See how she trembles as the petals fall.

Poor child, poor child!

She trusts her simple charm, and should it fail,

Her heart will break! Have pity on her, Faustus!

Gret.  He loves me—he loves me not!

He loves me—he loves me not! (She picks the last petal.)

Oh, Heaven, have mercy!

Faus. (breaking from Mephisto, and rushing to her).

Gretchen, dearly loved!

Mistrust thy charm! By Heaven that hears me now,

He loves thee, Gretchen! loves thee, loves thee, loves thee!

[Gretchen gives a cry of joy and surprise, then falls weeping on his neck. Mephisto at back, laughing cynically.

---

ACT III.

Scene.—A market-place in a German town. Entrance to church on right of stage. A stone cross on the left.

Bessie, Barbara, and Agatha discovered, conversing. Three months have elapsed.

Aga. Gottfried returned!

Bess.Ay, and a captain, too;

All steel and gold! I hear the people say

That in the ranks of those who fought and bled,

No braver soldier lives!

Bar. (maliciously).Alas, poor Gottfried!

Bess. Poor Gottfried! To have gained such poverty

I’d given ten years—ay, though it made me thirty!

Bar. Fool! He is head and ears in love with Gretchen!

There’s but a bitter time in store for him.

Bess. Ah, ’tis a sorry thing this love!

Aga.For that,

The world without it were a sorry thing!

It’s meat and drink to me! (Sighing.)

Bar. (to Bessie).Thou foolish child,

Revile not that of which thou knowest naught.

Some day, maybe—observe, I say maybe—

Some one will love thee—strange things come to pass—

And then thou’lt change thy note.

Bess.If so, I pray

’Twill not be such a one as that gay knight,

Who hath so wondrously bewitched our Gretchen!

But three months since, no happier maiden lived;

And now—kind Heaven help us all!—they say

She will not live to see her twentieth year!

Enter Lisa, unobserved.

Bar. Girls do not die of honest-hearted love.

(Maliciously.) They sometimes die of shame and penitence,

When love has carried them beyond themselves.

Lisa (coming forward). Foul shame on thee, who darest couple shame

With the most pure and perfect heart on earth!

May Heaven pardon thee thy bitter words!

I’ll stake my soul upon her innocence!

Bar. Thy stake is small—in that thou showest wisdom.

Thou shouldst be an unerring judge of guilt.

But as to innocence—leave innocence

To those who know the meaning of the word.

Lisa. Rail on at me—I heed a mocking tongue

As little as I heed a winter’s wind;

For misery hath hardened me to both.

But bow thy head, and stop thy shameless tongue,

When others speak of that pure angel heart,

Which, day by day, draws nearer to its heaven!

Aga. (looking off). See, see, the soldiers!

[All look off.

Bess.Marry, how they march!

I love a soldier?

Aga. (sighing). I love several!

Enter the Soldiers, led by Friedrich, and accompanied by Men and Girls. They halt in line, in front of cathedral, at Friedrich’s word.

Aga. There’s Karl!

Bar.And Otto!

Bess.Max!

Aga.And Friedrich, too!

Oh, what a beard!

Gottfried enters, dressed as an officer.

Gott.Break off!

[They recover pikes and break off, mingling with the crowd.

Whom have we here?

Why, Agatha! and Bessie! Barbara!

[They crowd around him as he greets them.

How fares it with you? Are you married yet?

[They sigh and shake their heads.

What, none of you? Well, there are plenty here

To set that right!

Aga.Sir, welcome home again!

Bess. And you’re a captain!

Gott. (laughing).Yes, unworthily!

Fried. Nay, never credit that. There never lived

A doughtier soldier!

Bar.How came it to pass?

Gott. My faith! I hardly know. ’Twas sheer good luck,

We were at rest around a big camp fire,

Dreaming, maybe, of loved ones far away,

When came a sudden trumpet-call—To horse!

Another moment saw us in the saddle,

And tearing on—we knew not why nor whither.

Then came a shock of strong men breast to breast—

A clash of swords—a hurricane of blows—

I on my back, half blind with blood and rage,

A thousand devils dancing in my eyes,

And friends and foes in wild entanglement,

All tussling for my body—then, a wrench—

A mighty shout—another rush, and lo,

A panting dozen of us on a hill,

Besmirched with blood and dust, and all agog

To grasp my hand and hail me as a hero! (Rises.)

That’s all I know of it, except that I

Went in a trooper, and came out a captain!

[Several Soldiers stroll off with Girls. A Soldier remains with Bessie, another with Barbara, Friedrich with Agatha.

Gott. But there—enough of that! Come, tell me now.

(Anxiously.) How fares my cousin Gretchen—is she well?

Bess. (confused). Yes, yes—that is—— (Aside to Soldier.)

How shall I answer him?

Gott. Is aught amiss?

Bess.How well thou carriest

Thy new-born rank!

Gott. (impatiently). The devil take my rank!

Tell me of Gretchen!

[Bessie, at fault, watches her opportunity, and exit with Soldier.

Bar.Prithee, ask us not,

We would not say a word to give thee pain

On such a day.

[Exit with Soldier.

Gott. (amazed). Pain!

Aga.Nay—be not distressed,

All may be well.

Gott. (with sudden eagerness). She lives?

Aga.Yes, yes! she lives!

(To Friedrich.) Oh, come away—I dare not tell him more!

Gott. Why, how is this? A curse upon the fools!

Where are their tongues? Is aught amiss with her?

At the bare thought of it my heart stands still!

Fried. Nay, never heed them—girls are all alike—

Mere jealous jades! Thy first and foremost thoughts

Were for another. There’s the mischief of it.

Hadst thou but spoken lightly of thy cousin

A shower of praise would have been poured upon her!

Gott. A plague upon their scurril serpent-tongues!

In the old days they knew no jealousy.

My blood is all a-chill! I shake with fear!

I’ll to her house at once, and ere an hour,

I’ll learn the best and worst!

[Exit.

Aga.Alas, poor Gottfried!

Fried. It’s a strange world! Here is a plain, shrewd fellow,

With so much simple sense that when he hears

Of hearts and homes laid waste through misplaced faith,

Uplifts his hands in wonderment to think

That men can be such fools; and, thanking Heaven

That he is not as blind as others are,

He trusts a pretty woman to his friend!

Aga. But see, she comes! Quick! take me hence away.

Enter Faustus and Gretchen, lovingly. Gretchen, seeing Agatha, advances to speak to her. Agatha turns about, and exit quickly with Friedrich.

Gret. Oh, Faustus, didst thou see? She turned from me!

Faus. Nay, nay, she saw thee not.

Gret.She saw me well!

They shun me, one and all. Where’er I go,

My loved companions look at me askance,

And then, with sidelong looks and pitying words,

They whisper to each other of my shame!

Faus. Nay, calm thy fears. They do not speak of thee.

Gret. Oh, Faustus, Faustus,

I know the purport of their whispered words,

As though they had been spoken trumpet-tongued!

Faus. Nay, never heed them, Gretchen.

Gret.Never heed them!

They were my world before thou cam’st to me.

They loved me, Faustus, and they honoured me.

And now they turn away from me, as though

I bore a deadly poison in my glance!

Faus. Dismiss them from thy thoughts. We will go hence

To some far-distant land where none shall know us,

And there the bond of all-forgiving Heaven

Shall sanctify our love.

Gret.Oh, Faustus, Faustus,

I have thine heart?

Faus.For ever, and for aye!

Gret. Ah, Heaven is kind to me, for all my sin!

For when my heart is more than common sad,

I need but close my eyes—and all at once,

I wander at my will amid the days

When thou and I may face the world again.

And yet I am no fitting mate for thee.

Thou, a great lord—rich, honoured, and beloved—

I, a poor simple, untaught, peasant girl!

Yet bear with me—my love shall plague thee little,

Though ever and anon I come to thee,

With faltering step and tearful downcast eyes,

A timid suppliant for such alms of love

As thou in thy good-will mayst grant to me.

So, when thou seest, kneeling at thy feet,

Thy poor, mad, love-sick, trusting, trembling wife,

Throw her in charity one little flower

Out of the boundless garden of thy heart,

That she may go rejoicing on her way.

Faus. Thou art, indeed, no fitting mate for me—

Thou, glorious in the sheen of innocence. (She covers her eyes.)

I, devil-taught in all unholy art!

Oh, Gretchen, dearly loving—dearly loved—

Wronged beyond all repair, yet all-forgiving,

The simple utterance of thy trusting heart

Is terrible to my unhallowed soul

As the proclaimed doom of angered Heaven!

Gret. Hush! hush!

I will not suffer thee to utter treason

Against my lord. I am but his handmaiden,

Yet I am jealous of my master’s honour

As of his love.

Faus.Ah, Gretchen, if his honour

Were trusty as his love, thy jealousy

Might slumber unto death!

Gret. (anxiously).But tell me, Faustus,

When first thou camest to me in the vision,

Hadst thou then loved?

Faus. (sighing).Ay, Gretchen, verily!

Gret. With all thy heart?

Faus.Alas, with all my heart!

Gret. (sadly). Would Heaven that I had been the first!

Faus.Amen!

Gret. And when she learnt that thou hadst love for me,

Did her heart break?

Faus.Nay, nay—her love had died

A year before. She fled from me, and I,

In a mad frenzy, born of shattered hopes,

Gave up the world, and sought forgetfulness

In the cold cloisters of a monastery.

For twelve long months, twelve weary, weary months,

I strove to keep my ill-considered vows,

Till, wearying of the sacrilegious lie,

I broke my bonds, and cast my priesthood from me.

Gret. (aghast). Faustus! thou art a priest? No, no! no, no!

My senses cheat me, or thou mockest me!

Faus. If the mere letter of a reckless vow

Could make me priest, I was a priest indeed.

If vows cast off and scattered to the wind

Can free me from my priesthood, I am free.

Gret. (dazed).

Thou art a priest! and vowed to Heaven! (Suddenly.) Why then—!

Oh, God preserve me! I am lost indeed!

Oh, grace of Heaven, have mercy on me now!

Oh, take me hence! oh, free me from my life!

What have I done! (Crossing and falling at foot of cross, and clinging to it.) Oh, Heaven, pity me!

I knew it not! thou knowest I knew it not!

Faus. (kneeling over her). Gretchen, in Heaven’s eyes I am no priest—

Apostate, if thou wilt; but still no priest.

If there be power in boundless love to heal

The wound that I have opened in thy heart,

That boundless love is thine.

Gret. (clinging to cross, and shrinking from him). Thou art a priest;

Thou hast a Bride—thy Church! Thy vows are plighted,

And thou hast cheated her! Away! away!

Lose not a moment—get thee hence to her—

Upon thy knees confess thy faithlessness,

That she may take thee to her heart again!

Be brave—go thou from my unhallowed arms

Back to the heavenly Bride from whom thou camest!

Faus. Gretchen, be merciful—have pity on me—

Think of our love—I know thou lovest me.

Think of the shame that must await thee here,

If thou art left, unfriended and alone,

To bear the burden I have placed on thee!

Gret. Think not of me—thy wrong to me is naught—

Thy wrong to injured Heaven is all in all!

Go, make thy peace with her while yet thou mayst.

In the rich plenitude of her great heart

Thy Bride may pardon thee! Oh, Faustus, Faustus!

Thou lovest my body, and I love thy soul!

Oh, be thou brave as I! If I can go

From the enduring heaven of thy love

To shame and misery unspeakable,

Canst thou not yield such mortal heart as mine,

For the pure love of an eternal Bride?

Faus. Too late—my love for thee is all-supreme—

And while thou livest, as Heaven hears me now,

I’ll leave thee not!

Gret.Faustus, be not deceived.

I love thee with my heart—my heart of hearts—

My very death prayer shall be breathed for thee;

But, though it rend my heart to keep my vow,

As there is pardon for a penitent,

I will not meet thine eyes on earth again!

Nay, touch me not! God pardon thee! Farewell! [Exit.

Faus. My doom is spoken and I bow my head.

So, Gretchen, let it be! At thy just bidding

I go to death in life. There is a tomb

In which a living, loving man may bury

All but his aching heart. I go to it!

Mephisto has entered and overheard this.

Meph. Why, how is this? does not the good work prosper?

Come, come, take heart—’tis but a summer storm—

A day, alone, will bring her to her senses.

Faus. Fiend, I renounce thee! Give me back myself.

Let me go hence; our bond is at an end!

Meph. Nay, that’s ungenerous—it is indeed.

You are a Churchman—my profound respect

For all your cloth induced me to forego

The customary writing. Satisfied

That I was dealing with a holy man,

I asked no bond—I trusted to your honour.

And now, to take advantage of my weakness,

And turn my much—misplaced credulity

Against myself—nay, ’tis unworthy of you!

Faus. Poor mocker, hold thy peace—let me go hence,

Back to my cloister, back to the old blank life!

My eyes are open and I see the gulf,

The broad, black gulf, deep as the nether hell,

To which thou leadest me! Release thy grasp—

My heart is changed. Thou hast no hold on me—

Accursed of God—our bond is at an end!

(Breaks from him and rushes into the church.)

Meph. (moving after him, but drawing back at sight of the church).

The blight of hell upon thy head, false priest!

False priest? True priest! true to the lying trade

That I have taught thy smug-faced brotherhood!

The old, old doom! My sword against myself!

As once it was, so ever must it be!

Well, go thy ways!

Go to thy kennel, dog Dominican,[A]

And gnaw the fleshless bones of thy dead joy!

The end has yet to come, and Time’s my friend.

But, oh! just Heaven,

Is the fight fair, when this mine enemy

May traffic with me till his end is gained,

Then steep his chicken-soul in penitence,

And cheat damnation? So it comes to pass

I gather fools, blind fools, and only fools!

Oh, for the soul of one wise man—but one—

To show, in triumph, at the Reckoning!

[A] The Dominicans were stigmatized as “Domini Canes”—dogs of the Lord.

Enter Gottfried.

Gott. My search is vain—she is not at her home.

Well, patience, patience! I must wait for her

As best I may! (Sees Mephisto.) So, so; whom have we here?

Surely I know this worthy gentleman?

Meph. Your humble servant, sir!

Gott.’Tis Faustus’ friend.

Meph. His very loving friend. But welcome home—

Fame has been busy with your worship’s valour.

Gott. (anxiously). Sir, you can give me news of cousin Gretchen.

Is the maid safe and well?

Meph.Why, as to “well,”

What loving maid is ever in rude health,

When he who has her heart is far afield?

But as to “safe”—why, have you not a friend

Who’s sworn to keep a watch upon her safety?

And is not that friend Faustus? Have more faith!

Gott. True, true. He has watched over her?

Meph.He has,

Most conscientiously. He never leaves her.

Gott. I breathe again! My heart had sunk within me.

I asked some village girls an hour ago

For news of her. Well, this one shook her head,

And that one sighed; a third looked dubious,

Uncertain whether she should shake or sigh,

Then finally did both. I breathe again.

Meph. The maid is well—a little pale, perhaps.

But then, poor child—her lover at the wars!

’Twas hardly fair to leave her as you did,

With a mere cold “good-bye.”

Gott.Why, as for that,

I have no claim, alas! to rank as lover.

Meph. Ah, pardon me—I know the maiden’s heart.

Gott. Sir, you are jesting!

Meph.Jesting? Not at all.

For two months past, the town, from end to end,

Has known no topic but your worship’s valour;

And while she trembled for your well-being,

Her bosom swelled with pride when brave men told

Of Gottfried’s chivalry. Oh, mark my words,

You have gained more promotion than you wot of!

Gott. Can this be true?

Meph.Quite true—but see, she comes.

With your permission, and no doubt you’ll grant it,

I will withdraw—but ere I take my leave,

Allow me to congratulate you both

On the great happiness in store for you.

Gott. You’re more than good!

Meph.Some people seem to think so.

But then they flatter me—ha! ha! Good day!

[Exit.

Gott. At last! at last! Why, how I tremble! Strange!

I am but little moved at thought of death.

I’ve stared his kingship out of countenance

A dozen times a day.

But, in the presence of this gentle child,

My well-beloved and loving kinswoman,

I am no better than a shaking coward!

Enter Gretchen.

Gott. Gretchen! At last!

Gret. (amazed).Gottfried!

Gott.Ay, home again!

Hale, sound, and whole, with money in my purse,

And a good-sounding title to my name,

So give me joy of it. Why, how is this?

Hast thou no welcome for me, cousin Gretchen?

Gret. (with an effort). Ay, welcome home, dear Gottfried! welcome home!

Gott. But wherefore dost thou sigh?

Gret.Nay, heed me not,

But tell me of thyself—the country side

Rings with the tidings of thy valour.

Gott.Bah!

I am no hero, Gretchen, in myself—

A plain, rude man, with just so much of sense

As to go gladly two leagues round about

To save a broken crown; who loves not blood—

Unless, indeed, it be his own, and that

He loves too well to lose it willingly!

So, cousin Gretchen,

If there be aught of valour in my deeds,

The merit of it is thine own, not mine.

Gret. Mine, Gottfried? mine?

Gott.Ay, for it came from thee!

It lives for thee, and it will die with thee!

Gretchen, my dearly loved——

Gret.Oh, Gottfried! Gottfried!

Gott. For many a year, at home and far away,

I’ve had thee at my heart, but did not dare

To speak to thee of love. Misjudge me not—

I do not blush that I have loved thee, Gretchen.

God sent such truth and virgin innocence

To teach rough men how holy love may be.

Let that man blush (if such a one there live)

Who knows thy maiden heart and loves thee not.

I would not be that man!

But if, in giving tongue to my dumb love,

I overstep the bounds of reverence,

Look down in pity on my poor mad heart;

And tell me gently that for man to hope

For more than sister-love from such as thou

Is more than man should dare—and I’ll believe it!

Gret. Gottfried, have mercy on me and be silent!

Dear Gottfried—brother, be my brother still!

Oh, be my brother—I have need of thee!

Such need! Oh, Heaven pity me, such need!

Gott. Gretchen, my sister, if no more than brother,

Then always brother, now as heretofore!

Why dost thou weep? Nay, nay, take heart again.

Tell me thy sorrow.

Gret. (aghast).Tell it unto thee?

No, not to thee! I have my punishment.

If thou hast love for me—I know thou hast—

Go, pray with all thy heart for such as I.

If thou hast pity—and I know thou hast—

Ask me no more, but go and pray for me!

Gott. Well, be it so. Enough that thou hast cause

To hide thy grief. May Heaven lighten it!

I seek to know no more. My love for thee

Is deathless as the faith it feeds upon!

Gret. Thy love for me comes of thy faith in me? Gottfried!

Let thy love die! Uproot it from thine heart;

It feeds on falsehood! Oh, uproot the weed;

It hath no place amid the God-grown flowers—

Truth, steadfast honour, simple manliness—

That blossom in that goodly garden-land.

Let thy love die, brave heart; I am unworthy!

Gott. (horror-struck). Gretchen! what sayest thou?

Unworthy? And of what? Of such as I?

(After a pause.) God help me if I read thy words aright!

Thou, Gretchen, thou? No, no—it could not be!

Thou, Gretchen? Oh, mankind is not so base!

Gret. Oh, Gottfried, pity me—my heart is broken!

Gott. Oh, my poor love—my gentle angel-heart!

Oh, death, kind death—that thou canst surely strike,

Hadst thou no pity on this poor fair flower?

Oh, death, kind death,

Would Heaven’s mercy thou hadst been at hand,

To fold my darling in thy sheltering wings!

(With sudden fury.) His name? Quick! quick! His name!

Gret. (wildly). Nay, ask me not!

In this have mercy!

Gott. (drawing his sword). Quick—his name, I say!

Gret. No, no—ah, Gottfried, spare him!

Gott.Quick—his name!

Gret. He loved me, Gottfried—spare him—he is gone.

Oh, Gottfried, Gottfried—I—— (Falls senseless at his feet.)

Gott.Come hither, all!

[During these lines the Soldiers, Friedrich, and Girls have entered.

His name, give me his name! (They turn away.) Why, how is this?—

Why turn you from me, comrades? Have you heard?

Fried. Ay, Gottfried, we have heard.

Gott.A curse on you!

Why hold you back his name?

Fried.In mercy to thee.

Gott. (seizing him and threatening him). Have mercy on thyself! Am I in mood

To play with words? I charge thee on thy life,

Give me his name.

Fried.Then steel thy heart to hear it.

They say it was thy friend!

Gott.My friend?

Fried.Ay, Faustus!

Gott. Faustus? My friend? They lie!

Bar.Alas, alas!

She hath confessed the truth!

Gott.Oh, earth and heaven!

Are there no bounds to human devil-hood?

Are heaven’s weapons sheathed? Is honour dead?

Has innocence cast off her majesty?

(Unhooks his scabbard and breaks it.)

Away! away! I have no need of thee!

Good, trusty sword, henceforth sheathless thou

Until I home thee to the very hilt

In the foul slough of his accursed heart—

His heart, and then—mine own!

---

ACT IV.

Scene.—Room in Martha’s cottage; a couch in recess of window. Night. A small lamp burning on pedestal table at head of couch.

Enter Lisa from without, meeting Martha.

Mar. (anxiously). Well, hast thou seen the holy Anselm?

Lisa.Yes;

Yet but one moment I had been too late.

Old Karl is dying, and the holy man,

Being called in haste to minister to him,

Was on the eve of starting as I came.

Mar. (testily). Old Karl! Must he needs die this very night!

But thou didst tell the holy man that Gretchen

Was sorely ill, and stood in urgent need

Of his most comfortable ministry?

Lisa. Yes, yes. Alas that it should be the truth!

He promised he would come without delay.

How fares our loved one? Is her mind at rest?

Mar. Alas, I fear that death draws nigh apace!

There is a strange look in her wondering eyes

That is not of this world—a bright calm light,

As though she saw far, far beyond the grave.

When she is taken, Heaven help the poor!

There’s not an ailing soul for miles around

Who does not bless her ministering hand!

Lisa. If the old tale be true, when such as she

Are taken hence to their appointed heaven,

Good angels come to earth to take their place

And finish their good works; and so the poor

Who looked to them are clothed and comforted,

The hungry fed, the sick and dying healed.

Mar. Her work is all her own, and would be so

Though Heaven sent the best of all good angels!

[Gretchen appears at door, dressed in white. She is pale and weak.

Gret. Lisa, thy hand!

Lisa.Gretchen, what dost thou here?

Gret. My heart is sad. I cannot rest in peace.

Mar. But thou shouldst not have left thy bed, dear child.

The night is cold.

Gret.Alas, it matters little!

The end is near—the tale is nearly told.

Lisa. Nay, nay—not yet! not yet! Oh, Gretchen, Gretchen!

While life remains to thee, pray thou for life!

Oh! pray, pray, pray!

For Heaven hears the prayers of such as thou.

Oh, mercy, mercy on my misery!

How shall I live without thy saving love?

How shall I die when thou are gone from me?

Oh! Gretchen, stay with us, oh! stay with us!

As thou, in the rich love of thy great heart,

Didst look in pity on my bygone sin,

Have mercy on the love I live upon,

And pray for life! Oh, Gretchen, pray for life!

Gret. Lisa,

I looked in pity on thy bygone sin

In the poor pride of an untempted heart,

As one to whom such sorrow could not come.

I looked upon such unknown sin as thine

As a rich queen might look upon starvation—

In pitying wonder that such things could be.

And now—

God pardon me, as thou wast, so am I!

Lisa. But, Gretchen, think of him, he loveth thee!

His heart is all thine own, oh, live for him!

Oh, Gretchen, for his sake, if not for ours!

Remember him—his life’s in thy hands!

Gret. Remember him!

Ay, I remember him! Had I the power

To blot him from my aching memory,

Even as I have torn him from my heart,

Then I could die in hope!

Mar.Ah! Gretchen, Gretchen,

Pray Heaven thy love be dead!

Gret.I have no love.

There is no biding place for earthly love

Within a heart rent with the agony

Of sacrilege, unpardoned, unatoned.

Her minister! her chosen instrument!

And I—— Oh, Heaven, have mercy on my soul!

I knew it not—thou knowest I knew it not!

(Falls weeping on the couch.)

Mar. Who knocks?

Lisa (opening door). ’Tis Father Anselm.

Enter Anselm, followed by Faustus, who is in a monk’s dress, his face hidden by his cowl.

Ans.Benedicite!

Is this the poor sick maid who seeks our aid?

(To Gretchen, who is still sobbing.)

Nay, dry thy tears, my child; however grave

Thy burden, Heaven’s grace will lighten it.

(To Martha.) Old Karl is even at the point of death,

And I must go to him; but take good heart;

This holy father will abide with her

Until I come again. The old man’s house

Is near at hand?

Mar.Good father, follow me

And I will lead thee thither.

Ans.Be it so.

[Exeunt Anselm and Martha. Exit Lisa by another door. Gretchen weeping at couch.

Faus. (removing his cowl).Gretchen!

Gret. (starting up amazed). Thou here! Oh, Faustus, get thee hence.

Have I not sinned enough, that thou hast come

To fill my dying heart with thoughts of thee?

I am not thine! Go, leave me to myself.

Faus. As stands a felon at the judgment-seat,

Bent with the burden of his published shame,

Stand I before thee!

Gret.I am not thy judge.

Faus. I have been judged, and to my lifelong doom

I bow. Yet by the love of long ago—

By the pure days when yet that love was young,

Shed but one ray of light—one gleam of hope

Upon the darkness of my dungeoned soul!

Gret. What wouldst thou with me? Speak, my hour is brief.

Faus. Time was when every tongue was eloquent

With legends of thy God-sent charity.

Gretchen,

Of all the starving crowd thy hands have fed,

Never was wretch so famine-worn as I.

Of all the agony thy words have soothed,

Never soothed they such agony as mine!

I come to thee, as others came to thee,

In shame and sorrow—hungry and athirst,

For pity and for pardon.

Gret. Oh, Faustus, is it meet that thou and I,

Two trembling sinners, guilty hand in hand,

Should ask each other’s mercy? Who am I

That I should deal in pardons!

Faus. (wildly).What am I

That I should live unpardoned! Hear my prayer,

And save me from myself. Thy love is dead.

So let it rest—’tis fit that it should die.

I would not raise it from its solemn grave

For all the joy that it would bring to me.

I pray thy pity, Gretchen, not thy love.

Gret. Kneel thou to Heaven, and not to such as I;

So shall thy pardon come from that great Source

From which alone can pardon profit thee.

My time is brief—I have to make my peace!

[Exit.

Faus. Gone! And with her, my only hope on earth!

Oh, Heaven, send me my death—send me my death,

And all that follows death! Am I to live

With this black blight upon my tortured soul.

Or carry with me into dark old age

The canker of an unforgiven sin?

Curse not the world with my unhallowed life,

Or me, with life on this thy goodly world!

Send me my death, oh Heaven—send me my death!

[Falls sobbing on table. Door opens, and Gottfried enters, with sword drawn, and another in his hand. He pauses, advances to Faustus, strikes him heavily on the shoulder, and puts one sword on table.

Gott. Sleeper, awake! Thine hour or mine hath come!

Faus. (starting and turning round). Gottfried!

Gott.Ay, Gottfried! Oh, mine enemy!

Arise, destroyer! Thou that layest waste

The flowers of heaven with thy plague-laden blast!

Thou devil-wielded scourge! Thou thief of souls!

Make thine account with God—thy course is run!

Faus. Spare thou thy barbèd words for worthier foes.

There is a voice within my tortured heart

To whose anathemas thine utterance

Is but a kindly whisper. Use thy sword!

Gott. Then strip thy monkish frock, and take thy guard.

Strip off thy frock, I say—or does it cling

More closely to thy limbs than heretofore?

Time was when thou couldst cast thy slough at will.

Has that time gone? or does thy craven heart

Seek sanctuary in a Churchman’s garb?

[Involuntarily Faustus grasps sword on table.

Despair thy hope—the rag will serve thee not.

Monk or no monk, as Heaven defends the right,

To-night thou diest! so arm and take thy guard!

Faus. (after a pause throws down sword).

Gottfried, I’ll fight thee not. Thy cause is just.

I am a blot upon the fruitful world.

Away with me! I have no claim to live!

Gott. Defend thy life! Base as thy soul has shown,

I would not be thine executioner;

Yet, by the rood, defence or no defence,

I will fulfil my mission. Take thy sword!

I know no mercy when I war with hell!

Faus. (passionately).

Strike, Gottfried, strike! In the good days gone by

Thy loving hand was ever on the stretch

To aid me with a hundred offices,

The least of which should knit my heart to thine

As brother’s heart to brother. Crown thy work

Enter Gretchen; she stands horrified.

With this the kindliest of thy kindly deeds! (Tearing open his gown.)

Comrade in arms—brother in all but blood—

Here is my heart—kill the accursed thing,

It eats my flesh! Strike surely and strike deep!

Gott. So be it then! Thine hour has come! Good sword,

That never yet shed undefended blood,

I pray thy pardon for the infamy

I place upon thee!

[Gottfried is about to strike. Gretchen staggers forward and places herself before Faustus, with her arms extended to protect him.

Gret.Gottfried! stay thy hand,

Or slay me with him! Oh, for shame, for shame!

Is this thy love for me? He is to me

As I to thee, and wouldst thou prove thy love

By slaying him to whom my heart is given?

Gottfried!

I place thy brotherhood upon the test,

And by that test, so shall it stand or fall.

If it be free from the base taint of earth,

As I believe it, from my heart, to be,

It will arise unshaken from the proof.

If it be as the love of other men,

Slay him—and me! (Kneeling to him.) My brother—oh, my brother!

I know thy love—this is its counterfeit;

I know thy love—thou wouldst lay down thy life

To add one hour to mine. Thou wouldst not rob

The few brief hours that yet are left to me!

Thou seest, I know thy love! Oh, brother, brother,

Be strong in mercy! Is his wrong to thee

Less than his wrong to me?—and I forgive him!

May Heaven have pity on my woman’s heart—

I love this man!

Gott. (after a pause). Go, sir—I spare thy life.

My heart has lost its vigour, and my hand

Is stayed against thee. Go! thou knowest now

The virtue of her love—its alchemy

Hath made thee sacred in mine eyes! Go, sir,

Amend thy mis-spent life—she loveth thee!

When evil thoughts assail thine impious soul,

Remember that, despite thy wrong to her,

She loveth thee!

If a man’s heart is beating in thy breast,

That amulet should hold thee Satan-proof! [Exit.

Faus. Gretchen, I thank thee for my granted life,

For it hath taught me that, for all my sin,

Thine heart is turned towards me. But for that,

’Twere better I had died by Gottfried’s hand

Than by mine own!

Gret.Faustus, thou shalt not die.

Oh, Faustus, Faustus! I am marked for death—

Is not one life enough!

Faus.Ay, verily,

So that that life be mine. I must atone!

Gret. Thou shalt atone, for thou hast greatly sinned—

Thou shalt atone with worthy deeds lifelong;

Thou shalt atone with steadfast, humbled heart,

With faith, and truth, and works of charity.

Atone with life—with brave and blameless life,

And not with coward death. Resign thyself.

Enter Lisa.

Heaven wills that thou shouldst live—that I should die—

So let us yield ourselves to Heaven’s will!

[Gretchen grows gradually fainter. Faustus leads her to couch.

Enter Martha and Anselm.

Mar. Too late! Oh, Heaven, too late!

Lisa.Oh, Gretchen, Gretchen!

Poor loved one—speak to us—one word! one word!

Oh, Heaven, pity us!

Gret.Nay, gentle one,

Weep not for Gretchen—three sad months ago

Poor Gretchen died! ’Tis a long time to mourn,

Three months! Nay, Martha, dry thine eyes again,

And deck thyself as for a holiday.

Rejoice with me—

The days of mourning for thy kinswoman

Are past and gone!

Faus.Oh, Gretchen—oh, my love—

My heart will break. Gretchen, tell me, at least,

That thou forgivest me!

[Faint indications of coming daylight are seen through window.

Gret.I love thee, Faustus

Ah me! but it is meet that I should die,

For I can turn my head, but not my heart—

And I can close mine eyes, but not my heart—

And still my foolish tongue, but not my heart—

So, Faustus, it is meet that I should die!

Weep not—

[Faustus rises and turns towards Anselm.

I go from Death to Life—from Night to Day!

Weep not—my heart is glad, and all my cares

Fold their black wings and creep away abashed,

As shrinks the night before the coming dawn.

[The lamp at her feet begins to die out. Mephisto is seen at door.

Farewell!

The hand of death is heavy on my heart,

The little lamp of life is dying out.

It matters not—the dreary Night is past,

And Daylight is at hand!

[She raises her hands towards the rising sun, which is seen through the window. Her hand falls slowly and she dies, as the light at her head goes out, and the sky is filled with the splendour of the coming day. Anselm, consoling Faustus, raises his crucifix in the air. Mephisto, at door, cowers before it. During Gretchen’s speech, the music of an organ is heard faintly; it swells into a loud peal as Gretchen dies.

---

TOM COBB;
OR,
FORTUNE’S TOY.

AN ENTIRELY ORIGINAL FARCICAL COMEDY,
IN THREE ACTS.

First produced at St. James’s Theatre, under the management of Miss Litton, on Saturday, 24th April, 1875.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

Colonel O’Fipp, an Irish Adventurer					Mr. C. Cooper.
Tom Cobb	}	Young Surgeons		{	Mr. Royce.
Whipple	}			{	Mr. Bruce.
Matilda O’Fipp, the Colonel’s Daughter					Miss E. Challis.
Mr. Effingham		}	Members of a romantic family	{	Mr. De Vere.
Mrs. Effingham		}		{	Mrs. Chippendale.
Bulstrode Effingham		}		{	Mr. Hill.
Caroline Effingham		}		{	Miss Litton.
Biddy					Miss Doyne.
Footman					Mr. Russell.

---

TOM COBB;
OR,
FORTUNE’S TOY.

ACT I.

Scene.—A shabby but pretentious sitting-room in Colonel O’Fipp’s house. Breakfast laid. Enter Tom Cobb, with open letter in his hand.

Tom. I haven’t a penny—I haven’t the ghost of a prospect of a penny. In debt everywhere, and now I’m told that judgment’s been signed against me for £250 by the cruellest Jew in Christendom! Upon my soul, it’s enough to make a fellow shy things about, I swear it is! But everything always did go wrong with me, even before I was born, for I was always expected to be a girl, and turned out something quite different, and no fault of mine, I’m sure! (Producing pistol.) Oh, if I was only quite, quite sure I knew how to load it, I’d blow my brains out this minute! I would, upon my word and honour!

Enter Matilda.

Mat. Eh! and what good ’ld that do, dear?

Tom. It would rid the world of an unhappy wretch. The world’s a beast, and I hate it.

Mat. Then if you hate it, what d’ye want to be doing it a good turn for? Sure it would be a bad bargain, lovey, for you’d lose the world, whereas the world ’ld only lose you. (Takes pistol away from him.)

Tom. There’s truth in that.

Mat. If I was you, dear, I’d go on living to spite it.

Tom. Oh, ain’t that small! Oh, ain’t that like a woman!

Mat. And, after all, ye’re not so badly off. Don’t ye board and lodge on nominal turr’ms with a rale cornel?

Tom. Yes, that’s true enough.

Mat. And ain’t ye engaged to a rale cornel’s daughter? And isn’t that something to live for? (Goes to table and cuts bread and butter.)

Tom (seated). Oh, I’ve plenty to live for, but I’ve nothing to live on. Upon my word, Matilda, when you come to think of it, it is a most extraordinary thing that I can’t get any patients! I’m a qualified practitioner, right enough! I’ve passed the College of Surgeons!

Mat. So have I, dear, often.

Tom. You can’t be more a surgeon than I am, put it how you will; but nobody seems to know it, and I’m sure I don’t know how to tell ’em. I can’t send sandwich men about with advertisements—the College wouldn’t like that. I can’t hang placards out from a real colonel’s balcony, “Walk up, walk up, this is the Shop for Amputations!” or, “To married couples and others”—the Horse Guards wouldn’t like that. (Taking up carving-knife.) Upon my word, Matilda, when I look at you, and reflect that there isn’t an operation in the whole range of practical surgery that I shouldn’t be delighted to perform upon you at five minutes’ notice for nothing, why, it does seem a most extraordinary thing that I can’t get any patients!

Enter Colonel O’Fipp, in seedy, showy dressing-gown.

O’Fi. Good mornin’, Thomas; Matilda, my own, the mornin’ to ye. (Kisses her.) Breakfast ready? That’s well. Good appetite, Thomas? (They sit to breakfast.)

Tom. Tremendous. (Taking an egg.)

O’Fi. (aside). Then I’ll spile it for ye. (Aloud.) Don’t crack that egg till you’re sure ye’ll want it. (Takes it from him.) Thomas Cobb, I’m goin’ to have a wurr’d or two with ye about your prospects, sorr.

Tom. Oh, Lord! (Turns away from his breakfast.)

O’Fi. When I gave my consint to yer engagement with me beautiful and beloved daughter—— Don’t cry, my child.

Mat. No, pa. (Takes an egg.)

O’Fi. Ye tould me ye were about to purchase a practice; and, like a simple old soldier, I believed ye.

Mat. Sure, and so he was. Didn’t ye introduce him to Ben Isaacs, and didn’t he lend him the money to do it?

Tom. Which your papa immediately exchanged for bills.

O’Fi. Which is another turr’m for money.

Tom. Another term for money?

Mat. Papa has always been accustomed to regard his I.O.U.’s as currency.

Tom. Why, who do you suppose would sell me a practice for a bundle of your I.O.U.’s?

O’Fi. My name, sorr, is considered in the City to be as good for a thousand pounds as for a hundred.

Mat. Papa’s is one of the oldest names in the kingdom.

O’Fi. Yes, sorr. And let me tell ye it’s on some of the oldest bills in the kingdom, too. Such is the value of my name that I suppose I have renewed oftener than any man aloive! And it isn’t every man that can say that!

Tom. But when I try to discount your paper, capitalists always say, “Who’s O’Fipp?” And when I tell ’em he’s a colonel, they say, “What’s he a colonel of?”

O’Fi. Colonel of a regiment, to be sure.

Tom. Yes, but in what service?

O’Fi. Never mind the surrvice, sorr. It was the 27th ridgment of it. That’s enough for any man. There’s many a surrvice besides the British surrvice, I believe, sorr?

Tom. Oh, I believe there’s a good many.

O’Fi. There’s the Spanish surrvice, sorr—and the Hungarian surrvice—and the Italian surrvice, and the French surrvice, and the——

Mat. And the dinner surrvice.

Tom. And the Church Service.

O’Fi. No, sorr. When a gintleman asks me my ridgment, he has a right to know it, and I tell him at once. But when he asks me in what surrvice, sorr, why that’s a piece of impertinent curiosity, and I ask him “what the devil he means by it?”

Tom. Oh, I’m sure I don’t care; the regiment’s quite enough for me. But then I ain’t a capitalist.

O’Fi. Well, sorr, let us come to the p’int. For two months ye’ve been engaged to my lovely and accomplished daughter—— Don’t cry, my love. (To Matilda.)

Mat. No, pa. (Takes an egg.)

O’Fi. And ye’re as far from marrying her as iver. Now during the last two months my poor child’s been wastin’ the best years of her loife, and she can’t wait much longer.—Can ye, Matilda?

Mat. ’Deed, and I can’t then. I’m twenty-noine and a bit.

O’Fi. She’s twenty-noine—and a bit! Now it’s roight to tell ye, and you too, Matilda, that a gintleman of good birth, irreproachable morals, and a considerable command of ready money, has done me the honour to propose for me daughter’s hand. I say no more, sorr. As a man of honour there’s two courses open to ye, and I leave ye to decide which of ’em ye’ll take.

[Exit.

Tom (in great grief). Matilda, did you hear that?

Mat. Yes, Tom, I heard that.

Tom (furious). Who is the scoundrel who has dared to aspire to your hand?

Mat. ’Deed, and I don’t know, but it’ll be some one who’s lendin’ money to papa. I ginerally go with the bills.

Tom (aghast). What!

Mat. When a body falls in love with me, papa ginerally borrows money of him, and he gives bills, and I go with ’em. It’s a rule of the family. (Rises.)

Tom. But surely you’ll never countenance such a bargain?

Mat. ’Deed, and I don’t want to, Tom dear, but I’ve countenanced it for thirteen years, and sure it ’ld look odd to refuse now. Besides, dear, I’m not as young as I was.

Tom. No, but then you’re not as old as you might be.

Mat. No, but I’m as old as I mean to be. There’s razin for ye, Tom, and ye want it.

Tom. Well, I’m sure I don’t know what to do; I’m at my wits’ end.

Mat. Then it’s the beginning end, and there’s hope for ye yet. (Knock.)

Tom. Who’s that?

Mat. There, now, if it ain’t your friend Whipple’s carriage!

Tom. Whipple! Whipple with a carriage! A fool, an impostor, a quack, with a carriage! What does he want to come flaunting his one-horse fly in my face for? There, I actually did that man’s botany papers for him at the College, and now he’s rolling in fever patients,—literally rolling in fever patients,—while I haven’t one to my back!

Mat. Well, maybe he’ll help ye if ye ask him. He’s a pleasant man.

Tom. Pleasant, is he? I don’t know what you call pleasant. Why, there’s a squalid old pauper idiot, a patient of his, who’s got no name of his own, and Whipple christened him Tom Cobb, because he says he’s the ugliest old lunatic he ever saw and reminds him of me. And all the boys in the neighbourhood have taken it up, and he’s been known as Tom Cobb for the last two years. That’s pleasant of Whipple.

Mat. Sure, it’s his joke.

Tom. Yes, I know it’s his joke, but I don’t like his joke. One Tom Cobb’s enough at a time, and—(taking out pistol)—if I was only quite, quite sure I knew how to load it, I’d snuff one of ’em out this minute. I would; upon my word and honour, I would!

[Exit Cobb.

Mat. Poor Tom! He’s an innocent boy, and he’s fond of me, and I like him too, and it’s a pity he ain’t rich. And now who’s the gentleman with the command of ready money who’s proposed for me, I’d like to know?

Enter Biddy.

Bid. Mr. Whipple.

[Exit Biddy.

Enter Whipple.

Whi. Miss Matilda, don’t think me premature for calling, but I came because I really couldn’t wait any longer.

Mat. And ye did right; sit ye down.

Whi. I couldn’t help it; you’re not angry? (Sits.)

Mat. Not I! If ye couldn’t help it, what were ye to do? (Sits.)

Whi. I declare I haven’t slept a wink all night from anxiety.

Mat. Would ye like to take a snooze on the sofa?

Whi. A snooze? Miss Matilda, hasn’t your father told you?

Mat. Told me—told me what?

Whi. Why, that I——

Mat. Ye niver mean to sit there and tell me ye’re the young gintleman of high family, unblemished morals, and considerable command of ready money?

Whi. That’s me—he has told you. Yes, Miss Matilda, I have dared——

Mat. But don’t ye know I’m engaged to your friend, Tom Cobb?

Whi. Tom Cobb! Yes, I know you are. A mule, a clod, an unsuccessful clod. Yes, I know he’s tied to you as a log is tied to the leg of a runaway donkey. I beg your pardon—I don’t mean that; but you can’t really love him?

Mat. ’Deed, and I like him very well then. He’s a good boy. But tell me now—is it bills?

Whi. (rather taken aback). Well, yes; since you put it like that, it is bills.

Mat. Then I tell ye what, Mr. Whipple; I’m tired of being handed over with stamped paper.

Whi. (earnestly). There was no stamp on it; indeed, there was no stamp on it. It was an I.O.U.

Mat. It’s the same thing. I like Tom Cobb better than I like you, and if he’ll marry me in a month I’ll have him, and if he won’t, why I’ll talk to you. There’s your answer now, and don’t bother again.

Whi. In a month! (Aside.) In a month! He shan’t marry her in a month! If I can only manage to get him out of the way, and keep him there for a few weeks! (Suddenly.) I’ll do it! It’ll cost money, but I’ll do it.

Enter Tom Cobb.

Ah! Tom, my boy, I’m delighted to see you; how uncommonly jolly you’re looking, to be sure!

Tom (very miserably). Yes, I should say I was looking uncommonly jolly.

Whi. Why, what’s the matter?

Tom. Why, a good many things; and look here, Whipple, I wish next time you want a godfather for a nameless pauper you’d choose somebody else.

Whi. Oh! you mean ugly old Tom Cobb! I beg your pardon—but he was so like you I couldn’t help it. But there, that needn’t distress you—for he died last night, and there’s an end of him. Never mind, old boy, I’ll make it up to you some day.

Tom (suddenly). Will you? Whipple, I’m in an awful fix about Ben Isaacs’ bills; now you’re well off—I did your botany paper for you at the College—will you lend me £250 on my personal security? I want a plain answer—yes or no.

Whi. My dear boy, of course; with pleasure.

Tom (delighted and surprised). My dear Whipple!

Whi. You shall have it, of course. (Feeling for his handkerchief.)

Tom. When?

Whi. Why, now, if you like.

Tom. What—the money?

Whi. No; the plain answer. (Takes out handkerchief, uses it, and returns it.) I haven’t a penny at my bankers. I’ve lent it all—to the colonel. What have you done with the money?

Tom. Well, I lent it all to—the Colonel. He borrowed it the very day he agreed to my engagement with Matilda; didn’t he, dear?

Mat. (clearing away breakfast things). Just that very same day, dear. Directly after I told him ye were going to propose for me, and immediately before ye did it.

Whi. Good soldier, the Colonel.

Tom. Oh, he didn’t borrow it because he wanted it; he borrowed it to prevent my wasting it in foolishness. He said so; but I should like to have a go in at some foolishness now and then, if it was only a pair of trousers or half a dozen socks.

Mat. Yes, ye want socks.

[Exit Matilda with breakfast things.

Tom. But what’s the use of socks to a man who’s going to blow his brains out? Whipple, I do assure you on my honour, if I knew a safe and perfectly painless way of popping out of this world into comfortable quarters in the next, I’d adopt it—upon my word and honour, I’d adopt it!

Whi. (suddenly). Do you mean that?

Tom. Yes, I mean that.

Whi. Then I’ll help you. Now, observe: my old pauper patient, Tom Cobb, died last night. He hasn’t a friend or relation in the world to claim him. Well, I certify to his death, and he’s comfortably buried, and there’s an end of old Tom Cobb.

Tom. The ugly one?

Whi. The ugly one, of course.

Tom. I don’t see what you’re driving at.

Whi. Don’t you? Why, if Tom Cobb’s dead and buried, what becomes of the bill Tom Cobb gave Ben Isaacs?

Tom. But the ugly Tom Cobb never gave a bill. (A light breaks upon him.) Oh, you cunning devil!

Whi. Now then, what d’ye say to dying by deputy?

Tom. By Jove, it’s worth thinking of.

Whi. Worth thinking of? It’s worth jumping at without stopping to think at all.

Tom. I believe you’re right. (After a pause.) I’ll do it! I’m a dead man! I can come to life again, I suppose, when I like?

Whi. Oh yes, under another name. But you’ll have to hide away for a few months.

Tom. Oh, ah; but (turning out his pockets) how about burial fees?

Whi. Will five and twenty pounds do it?

Tom. Five and twenty pounds will just do it.

Whi. Then come along at once to my house, and take leave of this life.

Tom. But you’ll let me take a last farewell of Matilda?

Whi. No, no; bother Matilda! (Taking his arm.)

Tom. Oh, but you mustn’t bother Matilda!

Whi. Now, now, do come along.

Tom. Hang it all, let me see her before the tomb closes over me for three months!

Whi. No, you can write to her; now, come at once, or I won’t help you.

Tom. Then farewell, Matilda; I go to my doom. Whipple, during my decease I confide her to you. Be a mother to her. (Kissing photograph.) Farewell, unhappy Matilda; be true to my memory, for I’m as good as dead, and you’re engaged to a body! (He staggers out wildly, followed by Whipple.)

Enter Matilda.

Mat. Now, where’s he gone with Whipple, I’d like to know? That Whipple’s up to some bedevilment with him, I’ll go bail.

Enter Biddy.

Bid. Please, miss, here’s a young lady as says she must see you, and won’t take no denial.

Mat. A young lady?

Enter Caroline, in great agitation. She is a romantic-looking young lady, with long curls and gushing, poetical demeanour. She pauses melodramatically.

Car. Matilda! Don’t ye know me?

Mat. ’Deed, and I don’t. Why, if it isn’t my old schoolfellow, Carrie Effingham! It’s Carrie, as I’m a living sinner!

Car. Yes; I came to town yesterday; and though ten long weary years have flown since last we met, I could not pass my dear old friend’s abode without one effort to awake those slumbering chords that, struck in unison, ever found ready echoes in our sister hearts.

Mat. Why, ye talk nonsense as well as ever, dear; but I’m glad to see ye. (She sits. Caroline kneels at her feet.)

Car. How well—how very well you’re looking—and, heavens! how lovely!

Mat. Yes, dear. Ye’re lookin’ older. Ye’re not married yet, I suppose?

Car. Alas, no! (Wiping her eyes.)

Mat. Don’t fret, dear; it’ll come.

Car. Oh, Matilda, a maiden’s heart should be as free as the summer sun itself; and it’s sad when, in youth’s heyday, its trilling gladness has been trodden underfoot by the iron-shod heel of a serpent!

Mat. Yes; it’s sad when that’s happened. Tell me all about it.

Car. Swear that, come what may, no torture shall ever induce you to reveal the secret I am going to confide to you?

Mat. Oh, I’ll swear that with pleasure.

Car. Will you believe me when I tell you that—I have loved?

Mat. Oh yes!

Car. And that I have been loved in return?

Mat. Well, ye—es. Oh yes; it’s possible.

Car. He was a poet-soldier, fighting the Paynim foe in India’s burning clime—a glorious songster, who swept the lute with one hand, while he sabred the foe with the other!

Mat. Was he in the band?

Car. The band! He was a major-general! (Rises.)

Mat. Oh! Handsome?

Car. I know not. I never saw him.

Mat. Ye never saw him?

Car. I never saw his face; but—I have seen his soul!

Mat. What’s his soul like?

Car. Like? Like the frenzied passion of the antelope! Like the wild fire of the tiger-lily! Like the pale earnestness of some lovesick thunder-cloud that longs to grasp the fleeting lightning in his outstretched arms!

Mat. Was he often like that?

Car. Always!

Mat. A pleasant man in furnished lodgings! And where did ye see his soul?

Car. (sits). He poured it into the columns of the Weybridge Watchman, the local paper of the town that gave him birth. Dainty little poems, the dew of his sweet soul, the tender frothings of his soldier brain. In them I read him, and in them I loved him! I wrote to him for his autograph—he sent it. I sent him my photograph, and directly he saw it he proposed in terms that cloyed me with the sweet surfeit of their choice exuberance, imploring me at the same time to reply by telegraph. Then, maiden-like, I longed to toy and dally with his love. But Anglo-Indian telegraphic rates are high; so, much against my maiden will, I answered in one word—that one word, yes!

Mat. And ye’ve engaged yerself to a man whose face ye’ve niver seen?

Car. I’ve seen his soul!

Mat. And when d’ye think ye’ll see his body?

Car. Alas, never! for (pity me) he is faithless! We corresponded for a year, and then his letters ceased; and now, for eighteen months, no crumb nor crust of comfort has appeased my parched and thirsting soul! Fortunately my solicitor has all his letters.

Mat. Oh, I see. And when does the action come off?

Car. I know not. We have advertised for him right and left. Twenty men of law are on his track, and my brother Bulstrode, an attorney’s clerk, carries a writ about him night and day. Thus my heart-springs are laid bare that every dolt may gibe at them—the whole county rings with my mishap—its gloomy details are on every bumpkin’s tongue! This—this is my secret. Swear that you will never reveal it!

Mat. Oh! but ye’ll get thumping damages when ye do find him.

Car. It may be so. The huckstering men of law appraise my heart-wreck at five thousand pounds!

Mat. Well, and I wish ye may get it, dear!

Car. Thank you, oh! thank you for that wish.

Mat. Ye’re not goin’?

Car. No; I have come to spend a long, long day. I’m going to take my bonnet off. (Solemnly.) Dear Matilda, we have not met for many many years, and I long—I cannot tell you, Matilda, how earnestly I long—to see all your new things!

[Exeunt together, as O’Fipp enters.

O’Fi. There’s an ungrateful daughter to refuse Whipple, and me pinched for money till I can hardly raise an egg for breakfast. But she shan’t have Tom Cobb anyhow. I’ll see to that! A pretty kettle of fish I’m boiling for myself. When I’ve sent Tom Cobb about his business, what’ll the ongrateful villain do? Why, he’ll sue on them bills o’ mine, as if I’d never bin the next thing to a father-in-law to him! But that’s the way with mean and thankless naturs. Do ’em an injustice and they’re never satisfied till they’ve retaliated!

Enter Matilda with letter, and pretending to cry.

Mat. Papa dear, I’ve bad news for you.

O’Fi. Bad news? At whose suit?

Mat. It ain’t that, dear; it’s my Tom.

O’Fi. And what’s the scamp been doin’ now?

Mat. The scamp’s bin dyin’.

O’Fi. Dying? What d’ye mean?

Mat. I mean Tom’s dead.

O’Fi. (looking at her sternly). Matilda, are ye in earnest, or have ye bin at the eau de Cologne?

Mat. Oh! I’m in earnest. Tom’s dead.

O’Fi. Who’s killed him?

Mat. Faith, an’ he killed himself. He’s written to say so. Here’s his letter. He encloses yer two bills and app’ints ye his executor.

O’Fi. Ye pain and surproise me more than I can tell ye. Poor Tom! He was a koind and ginerous lad, and I’d hoped to have met these bills under happier circumstances. Well, his executor deals with them now—that’s me; and the question is whether, in the interests of Tom’s estate, it would be worth while to proceed against the acceptor—that’s me again; and, on the whole, I don’t recommend it. (Tears them up.) Now, tell me all about it; don’t cry, my child.

Mat. No, pa. Well, it’s loike this—Ben Isaacs was overpressin’, and poor Tom was bothered, and thought he’d make an end of himself; and just then he heard that the ould man, that Whipple called Tom Cobb from the loikeness, had just died. So Tom thought he’d make one death do for the two. Sure, he’s been economically brought up.

O’Fi. What! Am I to onderstand that Thomas Cobb has been troiflin’ with the most sacred feelings of an old soldier’s grey-headed ould harr’t?

Mat. Well, he’s shamming dead, if ye mean that, and he hopes you’ll go to the funeral!

O’Fi. (rises). Shamming dead, is he! Shamming dead! Let me come across him, and by the blood of the O’Fipps, I’ll make him sham dead in rale earnest!

Mat. But, papa dear, the boy’s hard pressed!

O’Fi. Don’t interrupt an honest burst of feelin’ in an old military officer. For months I’ve looked forward like a simple ould soldier to meetin’ those bills, and now I’ve destroyed them, and deproived meself of a pleasure which might have lasted me the next twenty years! But I’ll expose him. It’s a croime of some sort, pretendin’ to be dead when ye’re not. It’s obtainin burial under false pretences, if it’s nothing else! What’s that?

Mat. (with paper in her hand). It’s his will! (Laughing.)

O’Fi. (indignantly). His will!

Mat. Yes; would ye have a gintleman doi without a will?

O’Fi. A gintleman! A beggarly scoundrel! (Opens it.) Ha, ha! He leaves ye everything, Matilda! It’s duly signed and witnessed, all quite in form! By my soul, I congratulate ye on yer accession to fortune and prosperity!

Mat. It’s just done to give colour to his death. Don’t be hasty, dear. It’s the first time I’ve been mentioned in a will, and maybe it’ll be the last. (Laughing.)

O’Fi. (furious). Mentioned in a will! It’s an outrage—a sacrilege, I tell ye—an insult to a simple ould officer and his deluded gyurl, to mention them in a swindlin’ document that’s not worth the ink it’s written with! This is how I treat it, Matilda. (Crumpling it up.) This is how I treat it (throws it in the fire); and if that thief, Tom Cobb, was here, I’d crumple him too and send him after it!

Enter Whipple, breathless and much excited.

Whi. Oh, Colonel!

O’Fi. Well, sorr?

Whi. Here’s news! My old man, the ugly old man who always went by the name of Tom Cobb——

O’Fi. Well, sorr?

Whi. He died last night! Poor ugly old Tom Cobb died last night.

Mat. We know all about it; we knew it half an hour ago.

Whi. Yes, Matilda, but you don’t know this: I went to his cottage this morning, and on the bed I found a hasty scrawled note written by the old man just before he died. (Colonel becomes interested.) It contained these words, “Look under the fireplace.” I got a crowbar, raised the hearth, and under it I found gold—gold,—silver and bank-notes in profusion! No end of gold—you could roll in it, you could roll in it! And he hasn’t a friend or relation in the world!

[Colonel O’Fipp, during the last few lines, has hurriedly snatched the will out of the fire, and smoothed it out, unobserved. He produces it with a dignified air.

Whi. What’s that?

O’Fi. This, sorr, is the poor old gintleman’s will, in which he leaves everything to my beloved daughter.

Whi. But that’s not old Tom Cobb’s will! That’s the will young Tom Cobb made in fun just now!

O’Fi. Sorr, old Tom Cobb’s dead, and here’s a will signed “Tom Cobb.” Put that and that together, and what d’ye make of it?

[Whipple falls into a chair amazed.

---

ACT II.

Scene.—The same room in Colonel O’Fipp’s house, but very handsomely furnished. Pictures, busts, etc. Writing materials on one table; sherry and glasses on another.

Matilda O’Fipp discovered working, Whipple on a stool at her feet.

Whi. My darling Matilda, who was it who said the course of true love never did run smooth? Are not our loves true? And could anything be smoother than their course during the last three months?

Mat. No, dear, savin’ that when ye proposed for me, papa kicked ye out of the house.

Whi. He did, in the effusion of the moment, and I honour him for it! On his unexpected accession to wealth he naturally looked for a wealthy and well-born son-in-law, and I honour him for it! But the doughty old soldier was open to reason, and when I proved to him that his wealth depended on my secrecy, he admitted his error at once, like a frank old warrior as he is, and I honour him for it!

Mat. Poor Tom! I wonder what’s come of him all this while? It’s three months since he——

Whi. Died.

Mat. Died, and I’ve never heard a word from him since.

Whi. Then he can’t complain if you’ve been inconstant.

Mat. ’Deed, and he can’t. It’s clear a young girl must marry somebody. It’s nature.

Enter O’Fipp.

Whi. Of course it is, and if he truly loves you—really and truly loves you as I do, he ought to be delighted when he comes back to find that you’ve engaged yourself to a gentleman in every way his superior.

O’Fi. Deloighted when he comes back? Divil a bit! By razin that he won’t come back any more!

Mat. Won’t come back any more?

O’Fi. Not he. Isn’t he dead, and haven’t we buried him, and paid his debts, and proved his will, and stuck up a tombstone that he’d blush to read. Sure, it’ll be in the highest degree ondacent in him to give the lie to a tombstone!

Whi. But Tom never had any tact—and if he should be guilty of the indiscretion of turning up——

O’Fi. Well, sorr, if he should, I shall be prepared to admit that I’ve acted under a misconception. But, sorr, before I yield possession of the estate which has so miraculously come into my hands, I shall satisfy meself beyond all doubt that I am not dealin’ with an imposthor. Any one who assumes to be the late Tom Cobb will have to establish his identity beyond all manner of doubt. And as I’ve paid Mr. Ben Isaacs and his other creditors conditionally on his being dead, he may find that difficult, sorr,—he may find that difficult.

[Exit O’Fipp.

Mat. Well, Tom Cobb may be dead, but when he finds out the use that’s been made of his will, he’ll not rest in his grave, I’m thinking, that’s all!

Whi. But if he should return—if Tom Cobb’s shade should take it into his ghostly head to revisit the scenes of his earthly happiness—promise me that you will treat him with the cold respect due to a disembodied spirit.

Mat. But when d’ye think he’ll come?

Whi. Well, between ourselves, I think we may look for his apparition at an early date. Unless the necessaries of life are considerably cheaper in the other world than in this, Tom Cobb’s five and twenty pounds must be as shadowy as himself by this time.

Mat. But if he comes to life, who’s to kill him again?

Whi. Oh, your papa will have to kill him; it’s his turn. Besides, it’s a colonel’s business to kill people.

Mat. And a doctor’s, too.

Whi. Yes, Matilda. But we don’t pay people to die: they pay us to kill ’em. It’s the rule of the profession.

[Exeunt Matilda and Whipple.

Enter Tom Cobb, preceded by Footman. Tom is very seedy and dirty, and his boots are in holes.

Footman. If you’ll take a seat, sir, I’ll tell the Colonel you want to see him. What name shall I say?

Tom (aside). If I give him my real name he’ll faint. (Aloud.) The Duke of Northumberland. (Aside.) That’ll draw him. (Aloud.) I haven’t a card. (Footman is incredulous. He is about to go, but returns and removes tray with sherry; then exit.) Well, nicely the old scoundrel’s feathered his nest, upon my word! Real Axminster, satin furniture, ancestors, busts! And this has been going on for three months, and I only heard of it yesterday. Why, he’s made me accessory to a forgery, and I’m being advertised for in every paper in the kingdom! Why, it’s penal servitude! Who’d think an Irish colonel could be such a scoundrel! Well, you never know when you’re safe in this world; upon my soul, you don’t. I never met a man in my life whose manner and appearance inspired me with so much confidence.

Enter O’Fipp.

Well, upon my word, Colonel O’Fipp, you’re a nice officer, you are! I make a will more by way of a joke than anything else, and you have the face to apply it to the property of a friendless old man who went by my name! Why, it’s robbery! it’s forgery! and Docket and Tape are offering £50 reward to any one who can give information about me! Now, look here—destroy that will and restore the property, or I’ll answer this advertisement this very minute. I will; upon my soul and honour, I will—there!

O’Fi. I believe I have the honour of addressin’ the Jook of Northumberland.

Tom. Oh, don’t talk nonsense, Colonel; you know me well enough.

O’Fi. Am I to onderstand, sorr, that ye’re not the distinguished nobleman you represented yerself to be?

Tom. Oh, haven’t I been deceived in you! Oh, Colonel, Colonel! you have turned out treacherous; upon my soul, you have!

O’Fi. I’m at a loss to comprehend your meanin’, sorr. Will ye oblige me by informing me whom I have the honour of addressin’?

Tom. You’ve the honour of addressing a miserable, poor devil, who’ll be standing alongside of you at the Old Bailey bar in about three weeks, if he’s not very much mistaken.

O’Fi. Upon my wurrd, sorr, ye’ve got the advantage of me.

Tom. Have I? Then I’m the only man that ever did. I don’t think Tom Cobb is the sort of man to get any advantage out of Colonel O’Fipp. (Colonel O’Fipp falls sobbing into chair.) What’s the matter now?

O’Fi. Ye mentioned the name of Tom Cobb, sorr. I had a dear, dear friend of that name once. He was to have married me daughter, sorr; but he’s gone!

Tom. Well, if that’s what you’re crying for—cheer up, because he’s come back again.

O’Fi. (seizing his hand). Me dear friend, me very dear friend, if ye can only assure me that poor dear dead and gone Tom Cobb is aloive, me gratitude shall know no bounds! Maybe you’re his brother?

Tom. His brother!—get out!

O’Fi. No? I thought ye moight be; I seem to see a loikeness.

Tom. I should think you did!

O’Fi. A distant loikeness, sorr.

Tom. A mere suggestion, I suppose?

O’Fi. A faint shadowy indication of a remote family resemblance; that’s all, sorr, I give ye my honour. And now tell me where is he, that I may embrace him.

Tom. Well, he’s here; but don’t embrace him.

O’Fi. Sorr, d’ye mean to sit there and tell me to me very face that you’re me beloved ould friend Tom Cobb?

Tom. Well, if the marks on my linen are to be trusted——

O’Fi. Ah, sorr! beware of jumpin’ at conclusions on insufficient grounds. Depend upon it, ye’re mistaken, sorr.

Tom. Well, upon my honour, I begin to think I am!

O’Fi. Tom Cobb, sorr, is dead and buried. I had the melancholy satisfaction of following him to his grave—me dear friend, Tim Whipple, accompanied me, and he’s at the present moment engaged in comforting my bereaved and inconsolable daughter.

Tom. I’m sure I’m very much obliged to him! Perhaps I could do that better than he?

O’Fi. I think not, sorr. He’s doing it very well—very well indeed.

Tom. Now, once for all, Colonel, this won’t do. There are plenty of people who know me if you don’t. Here’s my card—“T. Cobb, 6,” in red cotton (showing mark on pocket-handkerchief), and I’ve several other marks of the same character about me, which I shall be happy to show you at a more convenient opportunity.

O’Fi. Sorr, documentary evidence in red cotton isn’t worth the cambric it’s stitched upon. Ye’ll have to find some better proof of yer identity than that.

Enter Matilda.

Mat. Papa dear, Tim’s goin’ to take me to the theayter. (Sees Tom.) Oh!

Tom. My darlin’ Matilda! My beloved Matilda! I’m so, so, so glad to see you again, dear! Why, it’s three months since we met. (Kissing and hugging her.) What a fool I’ve been to cut myself out of this sort of thing for three months! (Kisses her.) How very, very well you’re looking! (Kisses her.)

Mat. Will ye koindly leave off kissin’ me till I’ve had the pleasure of bein’ inthrojuiced to ye?

Tom. Why, you don’t mean to tell me you don’t know me?

Mat. ’Deed, and I don’t then. And yet I seem to have seen yer face before?

Tom. ’Deed, and you have, and you’ve kissed it before.

Mat. I don’t rimimber kissin’ it.

O’Fi. You observe, sorr. She don’t rimimber kissin’ it.

Mat. Oh, papa! (Crying.)

O’Fi. What’s the matter, my dear?

Mat. There’s somethin’ about him that remoinds me of poor Tom!

O’Fi. There’s a faint resemblance; I remarked it meself. (Wipes his eyes.)

Tom. Now, Matilda, don’t you deny me? I’ve loved you so long in spite of your not having any money, and although you do go with the bills, and although you are older than I am, don’t turn against me now. Oh, you do look so pretty! (Puts his arm round her and kisses her.)

Enter Whipple. He seizes Tom by the collar and whirls him away from Matilda.

Tom (seizing his hand). My dear Tim—my very dear Tim—you’re the very man I wanted to see! I am most unaffectedly delighted to see you. (Shaking his hand heartily.) How well—how remarkably well you’re looking, to be sure!

Whi. (shaking his hand with a great show of welcome). Yes, uncommonly well—never better. And how have you been?

Tom. Very well, but rather dull. I say, I’ve got into a nice scrape! They’re after me—they’re advertising for me!

Whi. No!

Tom. Fact! £50 is offered for me! What do you say to that?

Whi. Well, I should close with it.

Tom. Why?

Whi. Because I should think it’s a good deal more than you’re worth.

Tom. Ha, ha!

Whi. Ha, ha!

Tom. What a fellow you are! Same old Whipple! I say, the Colonel’s a cool hand. What d’ye think he says now?

Whi. Nothing worth repeating, I should imagine.

Tom. What a caustic fellow you are! He says I’m dead!

Whi. Oh, he’s an Irishman.

Tom. Ha, ha! Oh, that’s very good: that’s so like you.

Whi. He’s not dead, Colonel. (Feeling Tom’s pulse.)

Tom. There, Matilda, you hear that! (About to embrace her.)

Whi. What are you about? How dare you embrace that young lady? (Stopping him.)

Tom. You said I was alive.

Whi. But, bless my heart, you don’t suppose every man alive is privileged to embrace Miss O’Fipp?

Mat. A nice time I’d have of it.

O’Fi. I tell ye, sorr, Tom Cobb is dead and buried.

Whi. Yes, poor Tom, he’s dead. (Wipes his eyes.)

Tom. But you just said I was alive.

Whi. Yes, old chap, you’re alive.

Tom (puzzled). I see, your theory is that I’m alive; but I’m not Tom Cobb.

Whi. Yes; that’s my theory.

Tom. But I’m like him, ain’t I?

Whi. Well, now you mention it, you are like him.

Tom. Matilda—once more, I implore you—— (Seizing her hand.)

Whi. Matilda, leave the room! (Takes her to door.) Sir, misled by a resemblance, which I admit to be striking, you have come here under the impression that you are my departed friend. I can excuse the error; but now that it’s been pointed out to you, if ever you attempt to embrace this young lady again, I’ll break your leg and set it myself.

[Exit.

Tom. Colonel O’Fipp, I——

O’Fi. Stop, sorr. If this conversation is to continue, I must be informed whom I have the pleasure of addressing. Up to the present moment we have only learnt who you are not. Let us now proceed to ascertain who ye are.

Tom. Colonel, I’m in that state of mental confusion, that I declare I don’t know who I am. Give me a little breathing time. When a young man believes he’s been Tom Cobb for twenty-five years, and then suddenly finds himself kicked out of Tom Cobb, with nowhere to go to, he wants a little breathing time to look about him and find a name to let.

O’Fi. Well, sorr, for the purpose of this interview one name’s as good as another. Here’s the Toimes newspaper. Ye’ll find many a good name goin’ beggin’ in that. Choose yer name. Here’s a gintleman who was hanged this mornin’! Would ye like his name? He’s done with it.

Tom. Don’t be unpleasant, Colonel.

O’Fi. Well, put your finger down; take the first that comes. (Puts Cobb’s finger on the newspaper at random.) Here’s one—the Bishop of Bath and Wells.

Tom. Nonsense! Who’d take me for a bishop?

O’Fi. Then try again. Mr. and Mrs. German Reed.

Tom. Don’t be absurd.

O’Fi. Well, once more. Major-Gineral Arthur Fitzpatrick. What d’ye say to that?

Tom. But I don’t look like a major-general.

O’Fi. Well, sorr, and what of that? I don’t look like a lieutenant-colonel, do I?

Tom. No, you don’t; but a major-general in broken boots!

O’Fi. Sure it’s where yer corns have been shootin’ through. Ye wouldn’t have a major-gineral with corns that couldn’t shoot, I suppose?

Tom. No!

O’Fi. Now, sorr, it’ll take a mighty deal of argument to pursuade me that you’re not Major-Gineral Arthur Fitzpatrick in broken boots. Now, I’ve the credit of the surrvice at stake, and when I see a major-gineral in broken boots me harrut bleeds for him, and I long to allow him a pound a week, sorr—a pound a week—to keep up his military position.

Tom. A pound a week?

O’Fi. No less, sorr. Now, as long as Major-Gineral Arthur Fitzpatrick chooses to claim a pound a week of me, it’s here at his service. But on the onderstanding that he resumes his name and rank, and ceases for ever the dishonourable and unsoldierlike practice of masquerading under a false name. D’ye onderstand me, sorr?

Tom. Yes—I understand you.

O’Fi. Do ye agree?

Tom. I’m so hungry, and seedy, and wretched, that I’d agree to anything. You couldn’t oblige me with the first week in advance?

O’Fi. Sorr, it has always been Terence O’Fipp’s maxim to pay everything in advance. I’ll go and get ye a pound, and ye can amuse yeself by writing out the receipt while I’m gone. (Going.)

Tom. (sitting down to write). Colonel, I don’t know whether to be very much obliged to you, or to look upon you as the coolest scamp unhung.

O’Fi. Sorr, take my word for it, ye’ve every reason to do both.

[Exit Colonel O’Fipp.

Tom. Now, that man’s commanded a regiment for years—he’s enjoyed the unlimited confidence of his sovereign (whoever that may be), and a thousand men have looked up to him with reverence and esteem. And it’s been left to me (who am not naturally sharp) to find out that he’s an atrocious scoundrel!

Enter Footman, followed by Mr. Effingham, Mrs. Effingham, Bulstrode Effingham, and Caroline. Cobb takes up newspaper and sits.

Foot. The Colonel will be here directly, ma’am.

[Exit Footman. The others pose themselves in a group, as if being photographed:—Mr. Effingham seated, Mrs. Effingham leaning on his left shoulder, Caroline seated in a picturesque attitude at her feet, and Bulstrode standing gloomily behind.

Mrs. Eff. Adolphus, what a sweet spot! A rural paradise, indeed. How balmy, and yet how cheap!

Eff. I am an old, old man, and I have learnt the hollowness of outward splendours. The house is, indeed, well enough, and (it may be) cheap—but, after all, what is the house?

Tom. (politely.) Seventy-five pounds a year, on a three years’ agreement, I believe.

Eff. (not heeding him.) After all, what is the house but the outer husk? Let us rather learn to value the fruit within. The shell, truly, is goodly; but where, oh, where is the kernel?

Tom (politely). He will be here in one minute. (All turn to look at him.) I beg your pardon. (They all turn slowly back again.)

Bul. (gloomily). To the soaring soul, fettered by stern destiny to the office stool of an obscure attorney, the contemplation of such a paradise opens a new vista of Life’s Possibilities.

Mrs. Eff. My crushed and broken boy!

Bul. In such a home as this I feel I could lay the warp and woof of a Great Life. In the dingy purlieus of Somers Town life has no warp—no woof.

Tom. A kind of shoddy.

All. Sir!

Tom. Nothing—I didn’t speak. (They turn back as before.) (Aside.) Extraordinary family!

Mrs Eff. If there is one class of young men I detest beyond another, it is the class of young men who see a humorous side to everything.

Car. In the eyes of such a one the doughtiest deeds are the subject of a sneer—the noblest thoughts, the peg on which to hang a parody.

Bul. Go to, sir—go to.

Eff. (to Mrs. Eff.). I am an aged man—let me play the peacemaker. Remember, you are not as others are—you are a thing of thought—an abstraction. You must not expect the young man of average tastes to grasp you.

Mrs Eff. I do not expect any young man to grasp me.

Tom. And she’s right.

Eff. (rising and approaching Tom). We pity you, young man, but do not despise you. Read the master thoughts of mighty minds. Withdraw yourself within yourself. Soar. Be abstract. Think long and largely. Study the incomprehensible. Revolve. So will you learn at last to detach yourself from the sordid world, and float, as we float, in thoughts of empyrean purity.

Car. Oh, sir, my father is an aged man, and his words are wise. Be led by him and you will prosper.

Mrs Eff. The young man is not of those who can detach themselves from the sordid world.

Tom. I beg your pardon. The young man is one of those who have detached themselves from the sordid world, so completely that he can’t get back again!

Enter Colonel O’Fipp.

O’Fi. Now, if you’ve got the receipt—— Mrs. Effingham! I’m rejoiced to see ye! Miss Caroline—Bulstrode—Mr. Effingham, my aged friend! Allow me to inthrojuice ye to a very particular friend and ould comrade—Major-General Arthur Fitzpatrick. (Tom bows.) Foightin’ Fitz we called him.

All. What!

O’Fi. Major-General Arthur Fitzpatrick. (Tom bows.)

Mrs Eff. (crossing to Tom). Of the 29th Madras Native Infantry?

Tom (puzzled). I have no doubt that was my regiment.

Mrs. Eff. Viper! (Caroline faints in her fathers arms.)

Tom. What!

Mrs. Eff. Viper! Deliberate and systematic viper! (Goes to Caroline.)

Bul. Poetic fiend in human shape, despair!

Mr. Eff. Blighter of fond and faithful hopes, behold your handiwork!

Tom. Why, what have I done?

O’Fi. (turning up his sleeves). Ay, sorr, what have ye done? Answer me that. Come, Gineral, no evasion, or by the blood of the O’Fipps—— (Turning up sleeves.)

[Caroline revives, and Mr. Effingham and Bulstrode turn up their sleeves.

Car. No, no—don’t hurt him. I am better now. (To Bulstrode, who is turning up his sleeves and advancing in a threatening attitude.) Brother, stand off! (Throws herself between Tom and the others.) Stand off—father, mother, brother, all! I have loved this man—ay, and I love him still. (To Tom.) Arthur—my poet-soldier—by our old vows—by the old poetic fire that burns in your heart and kindled mine, tell them—tell me—that you can explain everything. (Falls on her knees to him.)

Tom. Upon my word, I shouldn’t like to undertake to do that. Why, I never saw you before in all my life.

Mrs. Eff. Despair that plea—it cannot serve you, sir. Your letters bind you—we are so advised.

Tom. But it can’t be—it’s impossible.

Car. Oh, Arthur, I am told by those who understand these things that you have indeed compromised yourself to the extent required by our common law. But you will not—oh, you will not compel me to bring our sacred loves into Court. You are a poet—a great, great poet—you will be faithful—you will be true. (Kneels.)

Mr. Eff. (kneels). Oh, sir, do not compel us to lay bare the workings of her young affections—do not force us to bring her very heartstrings into Court, that ribald minds may play upon them!

Bul. (gloomily). To the tune of £5000.

Enter Whipple.

O’Fi. (brandishing a big stick). Gineral, do not blight this young lady’s harrut. Give her your sacred promise, or by the blood of the O’Fipps (sees that Tom has taken up a chair and looks threatening), my son-in-law elect shall teach you your forgotten duty! (Hands stick to Whipple, and retires.)

Whi. (brandishing stick). Yes, sir. Promise at once, or nothing shall prevent me from urging this young lady’s natural protector to inflict on you the condign punishment you so richly deserve. (Hands the stick to Mr. Effingham, and retires.)

Mr. Eff. (brandishing stick). You speak nobly, sir. I am an old, old man, but I am yet hale and tough as hickory. I have a brave and stalwart son, and it is to his hand I confide the task of avenging the insult offered to his outraged family! (Hands the stick to Bulstrode.)

Bul. (gloomily). What prevents me from flying at his throat? What prevents me from whipping him as I would whip a cur? Tell me, somebody, what is it holds me back?

Car. I will tell you—it is mercy.

Bul. It is! (Throwing away stick.) I give you your life!

Mrs. Eff. My lion-hearted boy!

Tom. Do you know that you are labouring under some surprising and unaccountable delusion?

Mrs. Eff. Delusion, sir!

Bul. Delusion! Ha! ha!

Car. (kneeling). No, Arthur, no—this is no delusion, for see, I have your letters. (Feeling for them.) No, they are with my solicitor.

Bul. They are. I am his clerk, and at my broken-hearted sister’s suit, cold calculating man of war, I serve you with this writ!

[Bulstrode presents writ, which Caroline, kneeling at Tom’s feet, reaches and hands to him, kissing his hand as she places the writ in it.

Tom (looking at writ). Breach of promise! (Wildly.) Don’t bring any actions, don’t resort to any violent measures. You say I’m engaged to you. I dare say I am. If you said I was engaged to your mother I’d dare say it too. I’ve no idea who I am, or what I am, or where I am, or what I am saying or doing, but you are very pretty, and you seem fond of me. I’ve no objection. I think I should rather like it: at least—I’ll try!

Car. (flinging herself into his arms). My poet-soldier, and my minstrel boy!

[Mr. Effingham, Bulstrode, and Mrs. Effingham group themselves about Caroline and Tom.

---

ACT III.

Scene.—A drawing-room, shabbily furnished, in Mr. Effingham’s house. Cobb is discovered smoking a pipe on balcony with Caroline. The Effingham family is discovered grouped:—Mrs. Effingham seated; old Effingham leaning on her chair, with his arm round her neck, and Bulstrode standing moodily behind. As curtain rises Caroline enters from balcony, and throws herself at her mother’s feet.

Mrs. Eff. Where is your poet-lover, Caroline?

Car. I left him basking on the balcony, in deep communion with his inner self.

Mrs. Eff. Ah, what a priceless destiny is yours, my babe—to live a lifetime in the eternal sunlight of his poet brain!

Car. It is; but you shall share it—father—mother—brother—all! We will all share it, alway! I would not rob you of one ray that emanates from that divine face, for all the wealth of earth!

Mrs. Eff. My unselfish girl!

Bul. How nobly he looks when, sickened with the world, he turns his eyes inward to gaze upon his hidden self!

Mr. Eff. None but Apollo ever looked as he looks then.

Car. Truly. Yet—shall I confess that when I saw him first my idiot heart sank deep within me, because, in the expression of his thoughts, I did not recognize Apollo’s stamp?

Bul. Fie, Caroline! Would, you have a poet carry his muse pick-a-back, for daws to pick at? Fie, Caroline—oh, fie!

Mrs. Eff. Some thoughts are too deep for utterance.

Car. And some too precious. Why should he scatter such gems broadcast? My poet-warrior thinks them to himself.

Bul. He does. It is his weird and warlike way.

Car. He comes. (Rises.) His fancy-flight has ended for the nonce. My soldier-minstrel has returned to earth!

Tom enters from balcony. Caroline goes to meet him, and brings him forward lovingly. His appearance is somewhat altered. He parts his hair in the centre, and allows it to grow long. He wears a very low lie-down collar in order to look Byronic. Caroline throws herself at his feet, and Mr. and Mrs. Effingham cross and group themselves about him. Mrs. Effingham kneels, Bulstrode standing moodily behind his mother.

Mr. Eff. Arthur, ennoble us. Raise us one step towards the Empyrean. Give us a Great Thought!

Bul. From the vast treasures of your poet brain, we beg some spare small change.

Tom. Well, I really don’t know; I haven’t anything just now.

Car. We are the bees, and you the flower. We beg some honey for our little hives.

Tom (with a desperate effort to be brilliant). Talking of bees (all take out note-books and write down what follows)—talking of bees, have you ever remarked how the busy little insect avails herself of the sunshine to gather her sweet harvest from—from every opening flower?

Mr. Eff. (writing). We have, we have. How true to fact!

Bul. (writing). You said “her sweet harvest,” I think?

Tom. Her sweet harvest.

Bul. (writing). Her sweet harvest. (All shake their heads and sigh.)

Tom. Her honey, you know.

Bul. Thank you. (Sighs. All finish writing and put up their note-books.)

Mrs. Eff. You are a close student of nature, sir.

Tom. Yes, I do a good deal in that way.

Mrs. Eff. How simple are his words, and yet what priceless pearls of thought lie encased beneath their outer crust!

Tom. Yes, I always wrap them in an outer crust, to keep them from the cold. (All take out note-books and write this down.)

Car. (writing).

“He wraps them in an outer crust

To keep them from the cold!”

And once I sneered at these grand utterances, just as we continually sneer at shapeless clods upon the road, which, on inspection, turn out to be jewelled bracelets of exceeding price!

Tom. Nothing more common. It’s the old story. The superficial mind (all take out books and write)—the superficial mind looks for cream upon the surface of the milk; but the profound philosopher dives down deep below. (Aside.) Much more of this and my mind will give way!

Mrs. Eff. You are a deep thinker, sir. I can fancy Shakespeare to have been such another.

Car. Shakespeare? Shakespeare never said anything like that! How—how do you do it?

Tom. I don’t know. It comes. I shut my eyes and it comes. (All shut their eyes and try.)

Car. I cannot do it. Ah me! I shall never learn to talk like that.

[Mrs. Effingham rises, goes to Bulstrode, and leans upon his shoulder.

Mrs. Eff. Bulstrode, had you had communion with the Major-General in earlier life, he might have helped to shape your destiny to some nobler end.

[Mr. Effingham crosses behind. Caroline and Cobb remain in conversation.

Bul. No, it might not be. I am fated. Destiny has declared against me. Fettered to the desk of an obscure attorney—forced to imprison my soaring soul within the left-off garments of a father whose figure has but little in common with my own, who can wonder that my life is one protracted misfit?

Mr. Eff. (rising). My boy, sneer not at those clothes. They have been worn for many, many years by a very old, but very upright man. Be proud of them. No sordid thought has ever lurked behind that waistcoat. That hat has never yet been doffed to vicious wealth. Those shoes have never yet walked into the parlours of the sinful.

Mrs. Eff. (embracing him). I am sure of that, Adolphus,—I am very, very sure of that.

Bul. It may be as you say. I do respect these clothes, but not even a father’s eloquence can gloze over the damning fact that they are second-hand!

[Turns up and exit on to balcony, as Mr. and Mrs. Effingham exeunt lovingly.

Car. A blessing on him. Is he not benevolent?

Tom. Yes, he looks so. Why do benevolent people have such long hair? Do they say to themselves, “I am a benevolent person, so I will let my hair grow,” or do they let it grow because they are too benevolent to cut it off?

Car. There are thousands of such questions that appear at every turn to make us marvel at Nature’s strange decrees. Let us not pry into these dark secrets. Let us rather enquire whether you have any chance of getting anything to do? (Rises.)

Tom. No; there’s no opening for major-generals just now.

Car. And yet how nobly you would lead your troops into action, caracolling at their head on a proud Arabian barb, and rousing them to very frenzy by shouting forth martial songs of your own composition! Oh! it would madden them!

Tom. Yes, I think it would! But at present I’ve only my half-pay—a pound a week—and we can’t marry on that.

Car. Why not? It is ten shillings a week each. I am content if you are. Say, Arthur, shall we be made one?

Tom. My dear Caroline, it’s nonsense to talk about being made one. (She takes out her note-book.) It’s my experience that when poor people marry, they’re made half a dozen, at least, in no time!

Car. Arthur! (Shuts up book.) Well, I must wait and hope. Oh for a war! (Cobb much alarmed.) A vast, vast, vast war! Oh for the clash of steel-clad foemen! Oh for the deadly cannonade! And loud above the din of battle, I bear my Arthur’s voice, as, like a doughty Paladin of old, he cleaves his path where’er the fight is thickest! Oh! I think I see him doing it!

[Exit Caroline.

Tom. Yes. I think I see myself doing it! Poor, dear girl, it’s a shame to deceive her, but what can I do in the face of this confounded advertisement, which still appears in all the papers every day! (Reads.) “£50 reward will be paid to any one who will give any information concerning the whereabouts of Thomas Cobb, M.R.C.S. Apply to Docket and Tape, 27, Paragon, Somers Town!” For just six mouths this blighting paragraph has appeared in every paper in London. Every one is talking about it; a Christmas annual has been published, “How we found Tom Cobb,” and a farce, called “Tom Cobb found at last,” is playing at a principal theatre!

Enter Whipple.

Tom. Whipple, you here?

Whi. Yes, how de do? I’m quite well. So’s Matilda.

Tom. That name!

Whi. She’s downstairs, with Miss Effingham.

Tom. Downstairs! And does she—don’t think I ask from an improper motive—does she ever talk about me? (Sits.)

Whi. Never mentions you by any chance. But she often drops a tear to the memory of poor dead-and-gone Tom Cobb.

Tom. Oh! she does that, does she? That’s rather nasty for you, isn’t it?

Whi. Not a bit. (Sits.) It does her credit, and I honour her for it. The poor fellow’s dead, and there’s an end to him. I loved him as a brother! (Wiping his eye.) He did my botany papers for me at the College. But it’s no use repining. No power on earth can bring him to life again, now. How she loved that man!

Tom (half sobbing). Oh, Matilda! Be good to her, Whipple.

Whi. I will, General; trust me.

Tom. Is she—is she as fond of the theatre as ever!

Whi. Quite. We go every night.

Tom. She used to call it the “theayter.”

Whi. (much moved). She does still!

Tom. Bless her for it. And does she still like oysters after the play?

Whi. Always. She bargains for ’em—stout and oysters.

Tom. She used to call them “histers.”

Whi. She does still.

Tom. Oh, thank you for this news of her. Oh, Whipple, make that woman happy!

Whi. Trust me—I will, for poor dear Tom Cobb’s sake. How she loved that man! (Wipes his eye.) But this is not business. The Colonel, who is downstairs with Mr. Effingham, begged me to give you this—your weekly screw. Allow me, Major-General. (Gives him a sovereign.)

Tom. Thank you. The Colonel is always regular and punctual with my little pension.

Whi. The Colonel is extremely punctilious about money matters. Oh, I quite forgot—he further desires me to say that from this moment he proposes to discontinue your weekly payment.

Tom (aghast). What!

Whi. From this moment your little pension dries up.

Tom. Do you mean to tell me that he intends deliberately to break his plighted word?

Whi. That is precisely what I intended to convey.

Tom. And cut off my only source of sustenance?

Whi. Absolutely.

Tom. But hang it, man, don’t he know that his liberty and wealth are at my mercy?

Whi. Yes, he knows that; but he’s prepared to risk it. You see, General, Messrs. Docket and Tape are looking out for Tom Cobb. Tom Cobb’s wanted. I don’t know what he’s done, but people talk about a forged will. He’s advertised for every day. You may have noticed it.

Tom. Yes, I’ve remarked it.

Whi. Well, if Tom Cobb is alive this advertisement is quite enough to keep him quiet. The Colonel, having this fact strongly before his eyes, considers that as he has no further interest in Major-General Fitzpatrick’s existence, he does not see why he should be called upon to contribute to his support.

Tom. But it’s ruin! Hang it—it’s starvation! Whipple, you used to be a nice man once—ask him to see me—ask him to speak to me for five minutes! By your old niceness, I implore you!

Whi. I can’t resist that appeal! I’ll ask him, but I’m not sanguine. You see, he’s been in the constant practice of breaking his promise for the last sixty-five years, and it’s degenerated into a habit.

[Exit Whipple.

Tom. And I did that man’s—— (Furious.) But I’ll be even with them all. I don’t care now. I’ve nothing to lose, and I’m a desperate man. My mind’s made up. I’ll write to Docket and Tape, and tell the whole truth! (Sits down to write.) Now, Colonel O’Fipp, tremble, and you, Whipple, tremble, and Matilda. (Throws down pen.) I would spare Matilda! But no, let her tremble too! (Finishes letter; about to ring bell.) Now, now, I shall soon know the worst!

Enter Bulstrode from balcony.

Bul. The Major-General seems moody. On what is he thinking? On the sacking of towns, perchance?

Tom. Bulstrode, you’re a lawyer’s clerk, aren’t you?

Bul. Cursed be my lot, I am!

Tom. Do you happen to know Docket and Tape?

Bul. I do!

Tom. Who are they?

Bul. My loathed employers!

Tom. What! Why, then, you know all about this Tom Cobb whom they are advertising for, and whose name is on every tongue?

Bul. I should rather say I did.

Tom (excited). A—what is he wanted for?

Bul. Much.

Tom. Yes, but what—what?

Bul. It is a weird tale. Wild horses shouldn’t drag it from me.

Tom. But, hang it, you can trust me.

Bul. (takes his hand). General, I think I can—but I’m sure I won’t.

Tom. But why do you object?

Bul. Major-General Fitzpatrick, had you the password of some leaguered town, and an enemy, armed to the teeth, demanded that word at the pistol’s mouth, what would you do?

Tom. Tell him at once without a moment’s hesitation.

Bul. Then am I made of doughtier stuff. Sir, I hate my employers, I loathe their unholy practices, but—I respect their secrets. Good day; I go to them.

[Exit Bulstrode.

Tom. So it seems I’ve had my head in the lion’s mouth for the last three months without knowing it! Well, well—there is a grim justice in the fact that my punishment will be brought about through the employers of the son of the husband of the mother of the young woman to whom I was to have been married.

Enter Colonel O’Fipp.

O’Fi. Now, sorr, ye’ve expressed a wish for an audience. On consideration I have resolved to grant it.

Tom. You’re very good, Colonel.

O’Fi. You may say that, sorr, for I have discovered that ye’re an imposthor. An out and out imposthor, sorr! Ye’re no more a gineral officer than I’m a gineral postman.

Tom. But I never said I was. You said I was a major-general; and you ought to know. It isn’t for me to set up my opinion on a military matter against a lieutenant-colonel’s.

O’Fi. Sorr, I’m a soft-hearted, simple ould fool, and at first your military bearing deceived me practised oi, and I was moved to pity by yer plausible tale and yer broken boots. I was touched by yer sorrows, and I was disposed to try and heal them.

Tom. The boots?

O’Fi. The sorrows. Now, sorr, a lie has ever been me scorrn and aversion, and an imposture me deepest abhorrence.

Tom. Colonel, I respect your sentiments, for they are my own. You discontinue my allowance, and you are quite right. Your hand.

O’Fi. (rather surprised). Sorr, ye spake like a gintleman. Ye’re not a gintleman, but ye spake like one. (Sees note in Tom’s hand.) What’s that?

Tom. It’s a letter to Docket and Tape, in which I confess myself to be the Tom Cobb they’re advertising for,—and offering to give them all the information in my power.

O’Fi. But ye’re niver goin’ to send that?

Tom. I’m going to send it directly.

O’Fi. Ye’re doin’ it to frighten me.

Tom. Frighten a colonel? I wouldn’t presume to attempt it!

O’Fi. But—— Oh! ye’ll niver sind it—it would ruin ye.

Tom. It’ll ruin us all. (Rings.)

O’Fi. No, no—they can’t touch me, mind that! I’m a simple ould man; it’s well known, and aisy done. Don’t send that, Tom Cobb, and I’ll pay ye the pound a week; damme, I’ll double it—treble it! I’m a simple ould soldier, and I’m fond of ye, Tom, and I’ll not let ye ruin yeself for me!

Tom. Sir, a lie has ever been my scorn and aversion, and an imposture my deepest abhorrence.

Enter Servant.

Take this to the address at once.

[Exit Servant.

O’Fi. Effingham—Mrs. Effingham—Matilda—Bulstrode—Whipple—all of ye—come here! (To Tom.) Ye’ve determined to inform on me grey hairs—I’ll be first in the field anyhow—mind that now.

Enter all the characters from different doors; Bulstrode and Caroline holding back Tom, Whipple and Matilda holding back O’Fipp.

Mrs. Eff. What—what is the clamour?

Mat. Papa, dear, what’s he bin doin’ to ye?

O’Fi. This man—who has passed himself off as a major-general—he’s a swindler—an imposthor—he’s deceived us all—he’s practised on our inexperience.

Car. Arthur—Arthur—speak—what, oh, what is this?

Mat. Don’t call him Arthur—his name’s Tom—Tom.

Car. Tomtom? Impossible. Tell them, Arthur, that it is false. Tell them that you are not—you cannot be Tomtom!

O’Fi. His name’s Tom Cobb. Tom Cobb, Mr. Bulstrode—and he’s a swindlin’ apothecary—the man you’ve been advertising for these six months.

[Caroline faints in Mr. and Mrs. Effingham’s arms.

Bul. Amazement!

Mr. Eff. Monster—once more behold your work!

Mrs. Eff. Viper! Creeping, crawling, unadulterated viper!

Tom. I am Tom Cobb, M.R.C.S.; there’s my card—“Tom Cobb, 6.” (Producing handkerchief.) Lead me away.

Bul. This is a day of great events. We have sought you everywhere for six months.

Tom. I know you have. Your advertisement has been the nightmare of my life.

Bul. Amazement! There was a nameless old man, who bore so strong a resemblance to you, that scoffers called him by your name. He died in squalor, barely six months since.

Tom. All is over—lead me away!

Bul. He was supposed to have much money in the house, though not a penny could be found. But besides this untold gold, there was standing in his name a sum amounting to £12,000!

Tom. I know nothing about the £12,000! But I am amenable to the law. Take me to my dungeon!

Bul. No dungeon yawns for you, oh, happy sir. Wealth—wealth waits you open-armed!

All. What!

Bul. You had a father once—that father yet another of his own, the aged man so strangely like yourself. That aged person had a son—that son another son—that son your father, and that other son yourself!

Tom. Then—I am the old man’s grandson!

Bul. That is the same idea in vulgar phrase. You are his grandson and his heir-at-law.

Car. (reviving). My poet-surgeon, and my old, old love! (Embracing him.)

Mrs. Eff. My son!

Bul. My brother!

Tom. Well, Colonel, I must trouble you to hand over the property. If it’s inconvenient——

O’Fi. It is. (From behind his handkerchief.)

Tom. Well, I’m sorry, that’s all.

O’Fi. Maybe ye’re sorry, sorr; but ye’re not so sorry as I am, I’ll go bail!

Mat. Papa dear, don’t fret. Sure, I’m a poor penniless girl now; but ain’t I goin’ to marry a handsome and ginerous young gintleman of good fortune? (Leaning on Tom’s shoulder.) And won’t he be a son to ye, and give ye a home for the rest of yer days?

[Whipple appears to remonstrate with her. Caroline expresses indignation and clings to her mother.

Tom. But I protest!

O’Fi. Tom Cobb, ye spake like a gintleman. Ye’re not a gintleman, but ye spake like one. I accept yer offer with pride and gratitude, my son! (Seizes his hand.)

Tom. Get out! (Shakes him off.) Whipple, take this young lady. Matilda, go with the bills! (Hands her to Whipple, who takes her up, expostulating with her.) Caroline, you loved me as a penniless, but poetical major-general; can you still love me as a wealthy, but unromantic apothecary?

Car. I can! I can love you as a wealthy anything!

Mrs. Eff. We all can!

Bul. All!

[They group about him, Mr. and Mrs. Effingham on each side, Bulstrode behind, and Caroline at his feet; the Colonel, Whipple, and Matilda seated at table, with their heads buried in their arms.

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THE SORCERER.

AN ENTIRELY ORIGINAL MODERN COMIC OPERA,
IN TWO ACTS.

First produced at the Opera Comique Theatre, by Mr. R. D’Oyly Carte, on November 17, 1877.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

Sir Marmaduke Pointdextre, an elderly Baronet.

Alexis, of the Grenadier Guards—his Son.

Dr. Daly, Vicar of Ploverleigh.

John Wellington Wells, of J. W. Wells & Co., Family Sorcerers.

Notary.

Lady Sangazure, a Lady of ancient lineage.

Aline, her Daughter—betrothed to Alexis.

Mrs. Partlet, a Pew-Opener.

Constance, her Daughter.

Chorus of Peasantry.

ACT I.

GROUNDS OF SIR MARMADUKE’S MANSION.

[Half an hour is supposed to elapse between Acts I. and II.]

ACT II.

MARKET-PLACE OF PLOVERLEIGH.

Time—The Present Day.

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