ONE TOUCH OF NATURE,

A PETITE DRAMA,

In One Act,

BY

BENJAMIN WEBSTER, ESQ.

AS FIRST PERFORMED AT THE

THEATRE ROYAL, NEW ADELPHI,

ON SATURDAY, AUGUST 6TH, 1859.

CORRECTLY PRINTED FROM THE PROMPTER’S COPY, WITH THE CAST OF CHARACTERS, SCENIC ARRANGEMENT, SIDES OF ENTRANCE AND EXIT, AND RELATIVE POSITIONS OF THE DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

WEBSTER AND CO., 411, STRAND; W. S. JOHNSON, “NASSAU STEAM PRESS,” 60, ST. MARTIN’S LANE; MESSRS. PIPER AND CO., PATERNOSTER ROW; VICKERS AND BERGER, HOLYWELL STREET; ALLEN, WARWICK LANE; JOHN HEYWOOD, MANCHESTER; WISEHEART, SUFFOLK STREET, DUBLIN; SUTHERLAND AND CO., EDINBURGH; PETRIDGE, BOSTON, U.S.; AND ALL BOOKSELLERS.

“Nassau Steam Press”—W. S. Johnson, 60, St. Martin’s Lane, Charing Cross, W.C.

Dramatis Personæ.

Time of Representation, 45 minutes.

EXPLANATION OF THE STAGE DIRECTIONS.

L. means first entrance, left. R. first entrance, right. S. E. L. second entrance, left. S. E. R. second entrance, right. U. E. L. upper entrance, left. U. E. R. upper entrance, right. C. centre. L. C. left centre. R. C. right centre. T. E. L. third entrance, left. T. E. R. third entrance, right. Observing you are supposed to face the audience.

ONE TOUCH OF NATURE.

ACT I.

SCENE I.—Mr. Beaumont Fletcher’s chambers in the Adelphi, handsomely furnished, doors R., L., and C. JONES discovered.

Jones (writing). To address the lady’s-maid of a marchioness is no trifling affair, especially in the present march of intellect, when the maids know more than the mistresses. One’s obliged not only to mind one’s stops, but one’s grammar. I have been nearly three-quarters of an hour now trying to round a period—I, who French-polish the boots of a dramatic author. Ought I to put “I was smitten,” or “I was struck with your charms?”—it’s very embarrassing—I must consult Mr. Fletcher. In my letter I must inclose the order he promised to procure for me; but if, with the order, I cannot conclude my letter——

Enter FLETCHER, C. door.

Fle. The devil take the theatre, and all the actresses into the bargain!

Jones. Has the rehearsal been unsatisfactory, sir?

Fle. This Miss Constance Belmour! this Miss Constance Belmour!

Jones. Sir!

Fle. Is it talent or is it temper?

Jones. Sir!

Fle. She was execrable.

Jones. Did you think, sir—

Fle. Hey! what? What do you say?

Jones. I was going to ask, sir, if you thought of the order?

Fle. What order?

Jones. The order, sir, that I asked you for this morning, for the lady’s-maid of a marchioness, whom I met at Cremorne. I suppose you forgot it, sir?

Fle. Oh! I had other matters to attend to.

Jones. Of course, sir; of course. Then I’ll go myself, sir—in your name, sir, I’m sure to get it sir, as you write in the newspapers. Only, sir, if you should want me, sir, you will please to recollect that I am obliged to go out.

Fle. Not one word of her part—not one, and the piece is to come out on Wednesday. It’s enough to drive one mad.

Jones. I have always said, sir, that you have never been done justice to, sir; yet you will persist in writing for these second-rate theatres. If I was you, sir, I would not write again till government built a legitimate theatre for scenery.

Fle. That’s your opinion, is it?

Jones. Yes, sir, and it’s the opinion of Miss Penelope, too.

Fle. And who’s Miss Penelope?

Jones. The lady’s-maid I mentioned just now, sir. When I told her your profession, sir, she immediately asked if you authorised the legitimate drama.

Fle. And you replied——

Jones. I blushed, sir, and answered that you did not, but that you intended to do so.

Fle. You did right, Jones. In future I will write only blank verse, and you shall blush no more.

Jones. If you will permit, sir, I will give you a subject.

Fle. Well, let us see what it is.

Jones. Would it not be something new and original to work up a servant whose sentiments are above his situation?

[Bell rings.

Fle. Some one rang.

Jones. I’ll attend to it, sir.

Fle. Go, then. (aside) What a life! what a life!

Jones. (returning) Oh, sir!

Fle. Still here?

Jones. “I’m struck with your charms”—is it refined English?

Fle. (bell rings) Attend to the bell.

Jones. (returning) Is it more refined—“I am smitten with your charms?” (bell rings violently.)

Fle. Devil take it, they’ll pull the bell down.

Jones. I’m going, sir! (aside.) Shall I put smitten or struck? I must toss up for it, heads or tails.

[Exit door, C.

Fle. If I allow this woman to play the part, she’ll ruin the piece.

Enter BELGRAVE, C.

Bel. Good morning. Do you take me for a man that can be easily imposed on? No; can’t humbug me!

Fle. What do you mean? (coldly) I’m delighted to see you.

Bel. This explains the promptitude with which I was admitted.

Fle. (satirically) By-the-bye, you have come most opportunely. I have to thank you for persuading me to confide an important character to Miss Constance Belmour—that was a grand idea of yours.

Bel. Capital, was it not?

Fle. (satirically) I was charmed with her at rehearsal just now. Luckily I can undo what is done. I mean to take the part away from her.

Bel. A brilliant idea that, I must confess, and any one but me would let you follow your bent.

Fle. What do you say?

Bel. It is useless to disguise matters. I know all. Can’t humbug me.

Fle. What do you know?

Bel. All! (showing bouquet.) Here is your bouquet, returned like a dishonest bill—no effects.

Fle. My bouquet?

Bel. Do you deny that you sent these flowers to Constance?

Fle. I’m in a nice humour to send her flowers. I am going to write to her.

Bel. To anyone else you please, but not to her; this rage is all moonshine. Can’t humbug me!

Fle. Moonshine is it?

Bel. You are in love with Constance, and you would have us believe you intend taking this part from her and lose by the change.

Fle. I will soon prove that.

Bel. I am not a man to be easily imposed on. Can’t humbug me!

Fle. This is folly. It was not I who sent the bouquet.

Bel. Not you?

Fle. On my honour!

Bel. Then I will find out if I go to every flower-shop in London.

Fle. Do, my good fellow, do.

Bel. I will, depend on it. I will not rest until I have discovered the truth. I will know who sent this bouquet. Adieu. I am not a man to be easily imposed on. Can’t humbug me!

[Exit C.

Fle. Now there goes a man determined to make himself miserable. To win Constance from him would be no very difficult task. The day before yesterday I spoke to her, she was not at all coy, and when I took her hand in mine——it is true that this act of sensibility has borne its fruits. Till then her rehearsing was very so so. But since she imagined I was fascinated by her coquetry, she has not rehearsed at all. Love is evidently no friend of mine. Once a man gets his legs entangled in the steel traps of a crinoline it’s all over with him. So I’ll pluck up resolution, and inform this popular lady that I will relieve her from the part. (Writes.) “My dear young lady.” Hum! It is rather difficult to write disagreeably to a woman whose hand you have pressed in yours but two days since. “My dear.” (A rap at door C.) Come in. (Rap repeated.) Come in.

Enter HOLDER with manuscript C.

Hol. (at door) It’s me, sir.

Fle. Oh! good day, Mr. Holder.

Hol. Do I disturb you?

Fle. No. Come in.

Hol. Here is your manuscript. I have copied it all but the last scene, which you did not give me.

Fle. Here it is. I had some corrections to make.

Hol. Shall I take it home with me and finish it?

Fle. No, no. Copy it here; it will not take ten minutes.

[He looks over the MS.

Hol. Is it readable?

Fle. It is beautifully clear.

Hol. You flatter me. I know it is only good feeling induces you to give me your manuscripts to copy.

Fle. No, Mr. Holder, no.

Hol. But for you I should have starved.

Fle. Starved! Die of hunger in wealthy London!

Hol. It is true, though; that day when you found me almost fainting near the stage-door of the theatre.

Fle. Ah! what the devil were you doing there?

Hol. I was waiting.

Fle. Waiting? For what?

Hol. (quickly). Nothing. I expected nothing. I, I came there by accident, because I had not strength to go any further. Ah! sir, I wish I was enabled to prove to you that I am not ungrateful.

Fle. Do not mention it.

Hol. But I will mention it. Why yesterday I received through you a guinea for copying a comedy—a guinea, sir, a whole guinea. I have not been so rich for many a day.

Fle. (laughing.) Which you doubtless invested in stocks.

Hol. No sir, roses.

Fle. Roses! and you spoke of starving.

Hol. It was for another, and I may never have the means again. Self-denial was, in this instance, a pleasure to me.

Fle. Well, well, privately as politically, I suppose you have a right to do what you like with your own.

Hol. Ah! if you only knew—no matter. Your piece is very pretty.

Fle. You like it?

Hol. Yes; perhaps I am presuming in giving an opinion.

Fle. Not at all. I rather like it.

Hol. It’s very pretty. There is one part in particular that affected me to tears.

Fle. Which was that?

Hol. The scene where the father finds his daughter.

Fle. (aside). The very part that Miss Constance Belmour absolutely murders.

Hol. It’s fine, very fine! The father speaks as a father should; I, if I found myself in a similar situation, I feel I should express myself exactly as you have written.

Fle. The eulogium pleases me infinitely.

Hol. I have read that scene over at least ten times. I know it by heart.

Fle. Indeed!

Hol. Let me see—“My child! my child! come to my arms. It is you alone can efface the sufferings of twenty years!”

Fle. That’s it; that’s just what I mean.

Hol. That scene requires to be well acted.

Fle. Does it not?

Hol. Well acted by the man, and well acted by the lady, in particular.

Fle. (aside) He’s quite right.

Hol. The lady has but one word to say, but one exclamation: “My father!” but the success entirely depends upon the manner of her giving it.

Fle. You are right, and I shall hesitate no longer. (Writes.) “My dear Miss Belmour,—It is quite impossible”——

Hol. Miss Belmour! Did you say Miss Constance Belmour?

Fle. Yes, I cast her this part—I am writing to relieve her of it.

Hol. Take the part from her? from Constance—christened during the run of the Love Chase.

Fle. Your “Father!” has decided me.

Hol. My “Father!” decided you? In opposition to Knowles’s most beautiful creation? You shall write no such thing.

Fle. What!

Hol. Take this part from her, give it to another, and humiliate her. You must not write. Why would you take it from her?

Fle. Because she’ll murder it.

Hol. Murder it! poor child! The part contains sentiments she is a stranger to. She does not appear to feel sufficiently strong the expression, “My father!” Who knows? perhaps she has never known a father, or a father’s love.

Fle. You seem quite affected.

Hol. You will not write? If you take this part from her I shall hate you—to know that you caused her pain through what I have said. It would drive me mad—it would kill me!

Fle. What did you say?

Hol. Pay no attention to what I say—my head is a little shaky. Promise me, only promise me, you will not take this part from her. She will play it admirably—beautifully.

Fle. Oh!——well, there. (tears up letter.)

Hol. Bless you! Bless—don’t mind me—I’m an old fool. Explain it to her. If I could speak to her, I——explain to her what you wish. She’ll play it to perfection. She has intelligence—you have not observed it. Ah! you don’t know her—she’s a genius.

Fle. You speak of Miss Belmour? (knock and bell.)

Hol. Hush! some one’s called. It is she!

Fle. How do you know?

Hol. It is she, I tell you. I am not mistaken—it is she!

Fle. Well, this is the most singular—

Enter CONSTANCE, door C.

Hol. (to FLETCHER) I was right, you see.

Con. Good morning, my dear Mr. Fletcher. What nice chambers you have here—only a little high.

Fle. (coldly) You here, Miss Belmour!

Con. Oh, dear! what a refrigerating reception.

Fle. I was writing to you—

Con. To tell me—

Fle. That I should not require you in my piece.

Hol. (aside to FLETCHER) Oh, sir!

Con. Very amiable of you, very amiable, indeed. (Seeing pieces of the letter, and picking up one.) “Belmour—it is quite impossible”—why did you tear up the letter?

Fle. Because I was entreated to allow you to retain the character.

Con. By whom?

Fle. Mr. Holder.

Con. Mr.——I remember your face somewhere, sir.

Hol. (subdued and quite overpowered.) At the theatre, probably.

Con. If I am not mistaken, I have often seen you as I entered the theatre.

Hol. Possibly! possibly!

Con. What ails you? are you ill?

Hol. No, oh dear no; it’s only a——I was not prepared——it is the first time you have spoken to me.

Con. And that produces such an effect on you?

Hol. Yes. I don’t know how it is—but it is nothing.

Con. Poor man!

[She is about to take out her purse, but on a look from HOLDER, she arrests her hand.

Hol. (to FLETCHER aside.) You see? She would not insult me by offering me money.

Fle. Will you finish copying the last leaf?

Hol. Ah! yes, directly—conclude it’s done.

Fle. There is some mystery about you——

Con. (R., taking of her bonnet and shawl.) Will you be kind enough to assist me, Mr. Fletcher. What an ungallant man you are.

Fle. I beg your pardon.

Con. As I came here, I met Fitzcharles in her brougham with her father.

Fle. Was the father on the box?

Con. No, inside.

Fle. You astound me.

Con. Perhaps it’s his birthday.

Hol. Oh! Lord!

Fle. (to HOLDER.) Can’t you make it out?

Hol. I’d come to the tag, sir; the tag!

Fle. (aside.) I can’t make him out.

Hol. Your conversation distracts me.

Fle. Then copy it in my study. (pointing to door R.)

Hol. No, I shall be more at home in the hall. (going.)

Con. (to HOLDER.) Adieu, my good friend. I shall make it a point of speaking to you whenever I see you now. I wish you to get accustomed to my voice.

Hol. (aside.) Ah! Ah! she has not insulted me by offering me money.

[Exit, C.

Con. What and who is this Mr. Holder?

Fle. A copyist; he is often here. You have produced a singular effect upon him.

Con. Then I am to understand that but for the intercession of this good creature I should have received by post, stamped at its full value, the gracious compliment.

Fle. On second thoughts I might not have sent my letter.

Con. The fact is that you are like Macbeth, “Letting, I dare not, wait upon I would.” My dear sir, between ourselves, you want it here (touching her forehead); you do indeed!

Fle. Confess, now, that you rehearsed to-day on purpose to turn the whole piece into ridicule.

Con. Well, and if I did—the piece deserves it? A father—a daughter—the old story, old as the world.

Fle. What matters, if the situations are new.

Con. It’s a dramatised police affair.

Fle. What signifies if the manager is bound over to keep the piece.

Con. Well said! Capital! Now don’t put itself out of temper. I freely admit that the story is very touching, but if I do not feel it, what would you have? It is a sentiment I have never experienced, and, therefore, cannot comprehend.

Fle. (aside) Holder’s right.

Con. At any rate I shall look the character to the life, and that’s everything now-a-days. I shall have a simple white robe. Oh! I have been very studious about my dress.

Fle. And you don’t know a word of your part yet.

Con. Ah! that’s because I have not studied that.

Fle. That reason’s conclusive.

Con. Besides, I was out of temper. Some one sent me a bouquet this morning, and Belgrave has been making such a fuss about it.

Fle. He came to me, pretending that I had sent you the bouquet.

Con. And it was not you.

Fle. Certainly not.

Con. Decidedly, that Belgrave is insupportable.

Fle. He quitted me, swearing that he would find out who sent it, if he searched every flower-shop in London.

Con. And he is not a man to be imposed upon—at least, that’s his monomania. I was very curious to know who sent this bouquet, and he charged himself with satisfying my curiosity. I fear he will have only his trouble for his pains.

Fle. Why are you so anxious to know?

Con. Because in the present day the man who sends a bouquet anonymously, and does not inform you what it cost, is a rare specimen of the genus homo worth knowing.

Fle. You have a rare wit beyond a doubt, and you would be perfect if you would study the part in my piece.

Con. Ungrateful monster! Now can you guess why I have come here?

Fle. No.

Con. To go over the part with you seriously.

Fle. Is it possible?

Con. At the theatre, instead of rehearsing we were saying disagreeable things to each other; as that did not appear to me to advantage the piece, I thought an hour with you in good earnest would not be thrown away.

Fle. You’re an angel.

Con. That’s an incontrovertible fact, for what everybody says must be true; but since you intend this character for another——

Fle. I!

Con. Have you not told me so to my face? and (sings)

“My face is my fortune, sir, she said.”

Fle. A moment of irritation—I was not serious.

Con. Did you intend to give the part to Fitzcharles? They say you are smitten in that quarter. She’ll listen to you. She delights in literary men—but they are not the wise men who know themselves to be fools.

Fle. I did not intend to give the part to Fitzcharles, I am not smitten with her, and you know that well.

Con. Well, now, we must attend particularly to the scene when the father and daughter recognize each other. I candidly confess that at present I have no idea of it. When I exclaim “My father!” I always feel inclined to laugh.

Fle. Then that would damn the piece.

Con. Hush! Let us hope that I shall find it no laughing matter on the day of representation.

Fle. Most fervently, I hope so.

Con. Ah! you must send some one for my part; I have left it at home.

Fle. You go to the rehearsal without your part, and you don’t know a word of it.

Con. But I have the credit of knowing it, for I spoke to my cue.

Fle. Not without a prompter; I’ll send for it. Jones! Jones! Where is he? Jones! Jones!

Enter HOLDER, C.

Hol. Jones is gone out, sir.

Fle. There now!

Hol. He’s gone to the theatre for the order you promised him.

Fle. Devil take him! and the order too.

Con. You have yourself to blame—you should not break your promises. You should not “palter with him in a double sense,” when the order was doubtless for two.

Hol. As I have finished copying, if I can be of any service—

Con. Yes; it’s a great service you can render me with very little trouble.

Hol. A service—to you!

Con. It is to go to my house, and ask my servant to give you my part.

Hol. I fly.

Con. Where are you going to fly?

Hol. To your house.

Con. Without knowing the address.

Hol. Oh, I know it—Norfolk Street, No. 90—close by.

Con. You know my address?

Hol. Yes, at the theatre—heard it accidentally—the prompter told the call-boy, the call-boy told the messenger—and I fly.

[Exit C.

Con. What a strange man! I recollect seeing him often about the theatre. How very singular.

Fle. When you spoke to him just now, I thought he would have fallen.

Con. I perceived it.

Fle. Perhaps he has fallen—in love with you.

Con. Absurd!

Fle. Has it never crossed your mind when the curtain fell, to think that among those who had seen and applauded you, many perhaps loved you who never would be enabled to declare their love——

Con. “But let concealment like a worm in the bud,” &c. Yes, such a vain idea has flitted through my brain.

Fle. Without the slightest impression?

Con. Yes, a momentary pleasure.

Fle. You are a very woman to your fingers’ ends.

Con. Beware of them. But come to business. It will be awkward rehearsing without Melfort, who plays the father.

Fle. I’ll send for him.

Con. Melfort stands upon his dignity. He’s a fettered lion. Send for him. You had better go for him yourself.

Fle. Where shall I find him?

Con. At the theatre until four.

Fle. (looking at his watch.) And it’s five minutes past.

Con. You have no time to lose.

Fle. It will not take five minutes to go to the theatre, and they allow ten for the variation of clocks.

Con. Do it, “nor leave the task to me.”

[He is running off, C., when he knocks against BELGRAVE, who seizes him by the collar.

Bel. A word, if you please.