MR. PUNCH’S DRAMATIC SEQUELS.

Mr. Punch’s
Dramatic Sequels.

BY
St. JOHN HANKIN.

WITH FOURTEEN ORIGINAL ILLUSTRATIONS BY
E. J. WHEELER.

LONDON:
BRADBURY, AGNEW, & CO. LD.

CONTENTS.

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

PREFATORY.

Plays end too soon. They never show

The whole of what I want to know.

The curtain falls and I’m perplexed

With doubts about what happened next.

Did Hamlet’s father haunt no more

The battlements of Elsinore?

Does Lady Teazle never call

At Lady Sneerwell’s now at all?

Was Benedick’s a happy marriage?

And will the Melnottes keep a carriage?

Will Aubrey take to wife one day

Another Mrs. Tanqueray?

Do Eccles and his stepson wrangle?

Has anything been heard of Dangle?

What has become of Mrs. Wangel?

I’ve asked again and yet again

These questions—hitherto in vain!

I sought the answers near and far.

At length they came, and here they are:—

Alcestis.

How Admetus was saved from the disagreeable necessity of dying by his wife Alcestis, who was permitted to die in his stead, and how Heracles, in gratitude for Admetus’ hospitality, wrestled with Death for her and restored her to her husband, has been narrated by Euripides. What Euripides did not do was to give us any hint of the subsequent history of the reunited couple. Did they live happily ever afterwards, or——? But the sequel must show. It is written in the woman-hating vein so often seen in Euripides, and its title has been Latinized for the benefit of those who have forgotten their Greek.

HERCULES VICTUS.

Scene.—Before Admetus’ Palace. That worthy enters hurriedly through the Royal doors, which he bangs behind him with a slight want of dignity. He soliloquises.

Admetus.

Ye gods, how long must I endure all this,

The ceaseless clamour of a woman’s tongue?

Was it for this ye granted me the boon

That she might give her life in place of mine,

Only that Heracles might bring her back,

Torn from the arms of Death to plague me thus?

This was your boon, in sooth no boon to me.

How blind is man, not knowing when he is blest!

Fool that I was, I mourned Alcestis’ death

Almost as much as I should mourn my own.

Indeed I thought, so great my grief appeared,

I would almost have laid my own life down

—Almost I say—to bring her back to earth.

Yet, now she lives once more she makes me weep

More bitter tears than I did ever shed

When I believed her gone beyond recall.

[Weeps bitterly.

Chorus.

First Semichorus.

Oh, what a doubtful blessing is a wife

Who saves your life

And then doth make it doubly hard to live!

Alas, she doth but give

A gift we cannot prize

But count it in our eyes

As nothing worth—a thing to spurn, to cast away,

To form the theme of this depreciatory lay!

Second Semichorus.

Alcestis, what a shame it is to find

This kingly mind

So much disturbed, this kingly heart so wrung,

By thy too active tongue

Thou gav’st thy life for his

But oh, how wrong it is

To make that life which thou so nobly didst restore

A thing he values not at all, in fact a bore!

First Semichorus.

O wretched race of men,

When shall we see again

The peace that once ye had

Ere woman bad,

Or mad,

Did cross your happy path

In wrath,

And doom you to a tedious life of fear and fret,

Of unavailing tears and unconcealed regret!

Second Semichorus.

O Heracles, what shame

Shall cloud thy previous fame

Who brought this lady back

Along the black

Steep track,

Where Death and she did fare,

A pair

(At least, as far as we can ascertain) content

To those Tartarean halls which hear no argument!

[Enter Alcestis. She is in a bad temper, and is weeping as only Euripides’ characters can.

Alcestis.

Ah! woe is me! Why was I ever born?

And why, once dead, did I return again

To this distressful earth? Oh, Heracles,

Why did you bear me back to this sad place,

This palace where Admetus sits enthroned?

Oh, what a disagreeable fate it is

To live with such a husband—hear his voice

Raised ever in complaint, and have no word

Of gratitude for all I did for him!

Was there another creature in the world

Who willingly would die for such a man?

Not one! His father, aged though he was,

Scouted the proposition as absurd.

His mother, when approached, declined in terms

Which I should hesitate to reproduce,

So frank and so unflattering they were.

But I, I gave my life instead of his,

And what is my reward? A few cold words

Of thanks, a complimentary phrase or two,

And then he drops the subject, thinks no more

About the matter and is quite annoyed

When, as may happen once or twice a day,

I accidentally allude to it!

Admetus.

[Bursting into indignant stichomuthia.] Not once or twice but fifty times a day.

Alcestis.

Nay, you can have too much of a good thing.

Admetus.

I don’t agree. Speech is a good to men....

Alcestis.

Your drift, as yet, I do not well perceive.

Admetus.

... Yet too much speech is an undoubted ill.

Alcestis.

Ah, you rail ever at a woman’s tongue.

Admetus.

Where the cap fits, why, let it there be worn.

Alcestis.

You spoke not thus when I redeemed your life.

Admetus.

No, for I thought you gone ne’er to return.

Alcestis.

’Twas not of mine own will that I came back.

Admetus.

I’m very certain that ’twas not of mine!

Alcestis.

Tell that to Heracles who rescued me.

Admetus.

I will, next time he comes to stay with us.

Alcestis.

You say that, knowing that he cannot come.

Admetus.

Why should he not? What keeps him then away?

Alcestis.

Cleansing Augean stables: a good work!

Admetus.

Idiot! He never will let well alone.

Alcestis.

[Tired of only getting in one line at a time.] Iou! Iou! What thankless things are men!

And, most of all, how thankless husbands are!

We cook their dinners, sew their buttons on,

And even on occasion darn their socks,

And they repay us thus! But see where comes

Great Heracles himself. ’Tis ever thus

With heroes. Mention them, and they appear.

[Enter Heracles in the opportune manner customary in Greek tragedy.

Heracles.

[Preparing to salute the gods at great length.]

Great Zeus, and thou, Apollo, and thou too——

Admetus.

[Interrupting hurriedly.] Oh, Heracles, you come in fitting time

To this afflicted and much suffering house.

Heracles.

Wherefore afflicted? Anybody dead?

Admetus.

Not dead, but living. That the grievance is.

Heracles.

A plague on riddles! Make your meaning clear.

Admetus.

Six months, six little months, six drops of time!

Heracles.

You still remain unwontedly obscure.

Admetus.

Six months ago you tore my wife from Death.

Heracles.

Well, what of that? What’s all the fuss about?

Admetus.

I know you did it, meaning to be kind,

But, oh, it was a terrible mistake.

Indeed, I think it positively wrong

That you should interfere with Nature’s laws

In this extremely inconsiderate way.

Depend upon it when a lady dies

It’s most unwise to call her back again.

You should have left Alcestis to the shades

And me to live a happy widower.

Heracles.

Ungrateful man, what words are these you speak?

Were you not glad when I did bring her back?

Admetus.

I was. But that was several months ago.

And in the interval I have found cause,

A dozen times a day, to change my mind.

Heracles.

What cause so strong that you should wish her dead?

Admetus.

Well, if you must be told, she’s sadly changed;

Dying has not at all agreed with her.

Before Death took her she was kind and mild,

As good a wife as any man could wish,

How altered is her disposition now!

She scolds the servants, sends away the cook,

—A man I’ve had in my employ for years—

And actually criticises ME!

Heracles.

I’m really very much distressed to hear

This mournful news. But what am I to do?

Admetus.

Make Death receive her back: an easy task.

Heracles.

But will Alcestis see it, do you think?

Alcestis.

Please, don’t distress yourself on her account;

She’d leave her husband upon any terms.

Is there a woman in the whole wide world

That would not rather die a dozen times

Rather than live her life out with this man,

This puling, miserable, craven thing,

Who lets his wife lay down her life for him

And, when by miracle she is restored

To earth again and claims his gratitude,

Has the bad taste to grumble at the fact?

Admetus.

I told you, Heracles, she had a tongue.

Heracles.

Indeed, she’s well equipped in that respect.

Alcestis.

To such a man the stones themselves would speak.

Heracles.

Well, lady, are you then content to die?

Alcestis.

I’m positively anxious to be off.

Heracles.

Then will I go and make Death take you hence.

Alcestis.

I’m sure I shall be very much obliged.

Admetus.

But, oh! not half so much obliged as I.

Heracles.

So be it, then. Death won’t be far away.

And when I’ve found him and have punched his head,

I’ll make him come and take you off at once.

[Exit Heracles.

The Chorus, who appear to have borrowed their metre from “Atalanta in Calydon,” sing as follows:—

Chorus.

Is this really to put

An end to our cares,

To the toils where our foot

Was caught unawares?

Will Heracles really put straight this unfortunate state of affairs?

Will he overthrow Death

For the second time here?

Will he do as he saith

And in due time appear

With the news which will lay fair Alcestis a second time out on her bier?

She will die, she proclaims,

With the utmost good-will,

And she calls us all names

In a voice that is shrill

While she vows that the sight of Admetus, her husband, is making her ill!

It hardly seems wise

To spurn and reject

Your husband with cries—

To which all men object,

But Admetus is scarcely the husband to inspire any wife with respect.

Lo, Heracles comes,

A hero confessed!

But he twiddles his thumbs

And looks somewhat depressed.

Can it be that at last he’s been conquered? Well, all I can say is, I’m blest!

[The Chorus sit down in dejection.

Enter Heracles.

Heracles.

First I salute the gods, great Zeus in chief....

Admetus.

[Interrupting.] Oh, skip all that. Tell us about the fight.

Heracles.

Iou! Iou!

Admetus.

Don’t yap like that. Speak up. What is your news?

Heracles.

My friends, I saw Death slinking down the drive.

I stopped him, told him that this lady here

Was anxious for his escort to the Shades,

Reminded him that I had once before

Rescued her from his grasp, and pointed out

How generous I was thus to restore

What then I took. In fact, I put the best

Complexion on the matter that I could.

Alcestis.

Well? Did he say that he would take me back?

Heracles.

By no means. He declined emphatically.

He will not take you upon any terms.

Death is no fool; he knows what he’s about!

Admetus.

But did you not compel him to consent?

Heracles.

I did my best. We had a bout or two

Of wrestling, but he threw me every time.

Finally, out of breath, and sadly mauled,

I ran away—and here I am, in fact.

Alcestis.

You stupid, clumsy, fat, degenerate lout,

I positively hate the sight of you!

Out of my way, or I shall scratch your face!

If Dejanira feels at all like me,

She’ll borrow Nessus’ shirt and make you smart!

[Exit angrily.

Heracles.

Oh, what a vixen! Can you wonder Death,

When I approached him, would not take her back?

Admetus.

I can’t pretend I’m very much surprised

Although, if you will pardon the remark,

I think you might have made a better fight.

Better not stay to dine. It’s hardly safe.

Alcestis isn’t to be trifled with,

And if she murdered you I should be blamed!

[Exit sorrowfully.

Chorus.

[Rising fussily.] How ill-natured of Death!

What a horrible thing!

It quite takes my breath

And I pant as I sing.

If Alcestis is really immortal, what a terrible blow for the King!

Curtain.

Hamlet.

Among the plays which seem specially to require a sequel, “Hamlet” must certainly be reckoned. The end of Act V. left the distracted kingdom of Denmark bereft alike of King, Queen, and Heir-Presumptive. There were thus all the materials for an acute political crisis. It might have been imagined that the crown would fall inevitably to the Norwegian Prince Fortinbras who, being on the spot with an army behind him, certainly seems to have neglected his chances. It is clear, however, from the sequel that Fortinbras failed to rise to the occasion, and that Horatio, being more an antique Roman than a Dane, seized his opportunity and by a coup d’état got possession of the vacant throne. Nor would Fortinbras appear to have resented this, as we find him subsequently visiting Horatio at Elsinore. There is, however, a Nemesis which waits upon Usurpers, as the sequel shows. The sequel, by the way, should have been called “Ghosts,” but that title has been already appropriated by a lesser dramatist.

THE NEW WING AT ELSINORE.

Scene I.—The Platform before the old part of the Castle as in Act I. Horatio and Fortinbras come out of the house swathed in overcoats, the former looking nervously over his shoulder. It is a dark winter’s evening after dinner.

Fortinbras.

[Shivering slightly.] ’Tis bitter cold——

Horatio.

[Impatiently.] And you are sick at heart.

I know.

Fortinbras.

[Apologetically.] The fact is, when I get a cold

I often can’t get rid of it for weeks.

I really think we may as well stay in.

Horatio.

[Doggedly.] I’m sorry, but I can’t agree with you.

I shall sit here.

[Sits down resolutely with his back to the castle.

Fortinbras.

[Turning up his coat collar resignedly.] It’s perfect rot, you know,

To let yourself be frightened by a Ghost!

Horatio.

[Angrily.] A Ghost! You’re always so inaccurate!

Nobody minds a spectre at the feast

Less than Horatio, but a dozen spectres,

All sitting round your hospitable board

And clamouring for dinner, are a sight

No one can bear with equanimity.

Of course, I know it’s different for you.

You don’t believe in ghosts!... Ugh, what was that?

Fortinbras.

Nothing.

Horatio.

I’m sure I saw a figure moving there.

Fortinbras.

Absurd! It’s far too dark to see at all.

[Argumentatively.] After all, what are ghosts?

In the most high and palmy state of Rome

A little ere the mightiest Julius fell,

People saw hoards of them! Just ring for lights,

And let us make ourselves as comfortable

As this inclement atmosphere permits.

Horatio.

[Despondently.] I’d ring with pleasure, if I thought the bell

Had any prospect of being answered.

But as there’s not a servant in the house——

Fortinbras.

[Annoyed.] No servants?

Horatio.

[Bitterly.]As my genial friend, Macbeth,

Would probably have put it, “Not a maid

Is left this vault to brag of.” In other words,

They left en masse this morning.

Fortinbras.

Dash it all!

Something is rotten in the state of Denmark

When you, its reigning monarch, cannot keep

Your servants for a week.

Horatio.

[Sadly.]Ah, Fortinbras,

If you inhabited a haunted castle

You’d find your servants would give warning too.

It’s not as if we only had one ghost.

They simply swarm! [Ticking them off on his fingers.]

There’s Hamlet’s father.

He walks the battlements from ten to five.

You’ll see him here in half an hour or so.

Claudius, the late King, haunts the State apartments,

The Queen the keep, Ophelia the moat,

And Rosencrantz and Guildenstern the hall.

Polonius you will usually find

Behind the arras murmuring platitudes,

And Hamlet stalking in the corridors.

Alas, poor ghost! his fatal indecision

Pursues him still. He can’t make up his mind

Which rooms to take—you’re never safe from him!

Fortinbras.

But why object to meeting Hamlet’s Ghost?

I’ve heard he was a most accomplished Prince,

A trifle fat and scant of breath, perhaps;

But then a disembodied Hamlet

Would doubtless show a gratifying change

In that respect.

Horatio.

[Irritably.]I tell you, Fortinbras,

It’s not at all a theme for joking.

However, when the New Wing’s finished

I shall move in, and all the ghosts in limbo

May settle here as far as I’m concerned.

Fortinbras.

When will that be?

Horatio.

The architect declares

He’ll have the roof on by the end of March.

Fortinbras.

[Rising briskly.] It is a nipping and an eager air.

Suppose we stroll and see it?

Horatio.

[Rising also.]With all my heart.

Indeed, I think we’d better go at once.

[Looks at watch.

The Ghost of Hamlet’s father’s almost due.

His morbid love of punctuality

Makes him arrive upon the stroke of ten,

And as the castle clock is always fast

He’s rather apt to be before his time.

[The clock begins to strike as they exeunt hastily. On the last stroke, Ghost enters.

Ghost.

I am Hamlet’s father’s spirit,

Doomed for a certain term to walk the night,

And for the day....

[Stops, seeing no one there.

What! Nobody about?

Why, this is positively disrespectful.

I’ll wait until Horatio returns

And, when I’ve got him quietly alone,

I will a tale unfold will make him jump!

[Sits down resolutely to wait for Horatio.

Scene II.—Before the New Wing of the Castle. The two Clowns, formerly grave-diggers but now employed with equal appropriateness as builders, are working on the structure in the extremely leisurely fashion to be expected of artizans who are not members of a Trades Union.

1st Clown.

[In his best Elizabethan manner.] Nay, but hear you, goodman builder——

2nd Clown.

[In homely vernacular.] Look here, Bill, you can drop that jargon. There’s no one here but ourselves, and I ain’t amused by it. It’s all very well to try it on when there’s gentlefolk about, but when we’re alone you take a rest.

1st Clown.

[Puzzled.] Ay, marry!

2nd Clown.

[Throwing down tools.] Stow it, I say, or I’ll have to make you. Marry, indeed! If you mean “Yes,” say “Yes.” If you mean “No,” say “No.”

1st Clown.

All right, mate.

2nd Clown.

[Grumbling.] It’s bad enough staying up all night building more rooms on to this confounded castle—I should have thought it was big enough and ugly enough without our additions—but if I’m to listen to your gab, s’help me——!

1st Clown.

Hush! here comes some one.

[They make a valiant pretence of work as Horatio and Fortinbras enter.

Horatio.

[Ecstatically, completely deceived by this simple ruse.] My Master-Builders!

Fortinbras.

Idle dogs!

1st Clown.

[Elizabethan again.] Argal, goodman builder, will he nill he, he that builds not ill builds well, and he that builds not well builds ill. Therefore, perpend!

Horatio.

[Appreciatively.] How absolute the knave is!

Fortinbras.

He seems to me to be an absolute fool.

Horatio.

Not at all. A most intelligent working man. I’ll draw him out. [To 1st Clown.] When will the house be finished, sirrah?

1st Clown.

When it is done, Sir.

Horatio.

Ay, fool, and when will that be?

1st Clown.

When it is finished, o’ course.

Horatio.

[To Fortinbras.] There! What do you call that? Witty, eh?

Fortinbras.

I call it perfectly idiotic, if you ask me.

Horatio.

Well, well; we’ll try again. [To 1st Clown.] And whose is the house, fellow?

1st Clown.

[Fatuously.] Marry, his that owns it. Ask another.

Horatio.

[To Fortinbras.] Ha! Ha! Good again. By the Lord, Fortinbras, as Hamlet used to say, the toe of the peasant comes so near the heel of the courtier, it galls his kibe.

Fortinbras.

[Savagely.] The toe of the courtier is getting so perilously near the person of the peasant that you’d better get rid of the latter as soon as possible.

Horatio.

[Doubtfully.] Perhaps you’re right. And yet I was always taught to consider that kind of thing awfully entertaining. But, there. Fashions change in humour as in other things. Send them away.

Fortinbras.

[Giving them money.] Away with you, fellows. Go and get drunk.

[Exeunt clowns.

Horatio.

[Relapses into blank verse on their departure.]

What think you of the New Wing, Fortinbras?

The whole effect is cheerful, is it not?

Good large sash windows, lots of light and air;

No mediæval nonsense.

Fortinbras.

[Who does not admire the building.] So I see!

Horatio.

No ghosts here, eh, to stalk about the rooms

And fade against the crowing of the cock?

Fortinbras.

Probably not—and, yet—look there, Horatio;

There’s something in the shadow over there,

Moving towards the house. It’s going in.

Stop it, Horatio.

Horatio.

[Furious.]Here, I can’t stand this.

I’ll cross it though it blast me. Stay, Illusion!

[The figure stops.

Are you aware, Sir, that you’re trespassing?

This is a private house.

Ghost.

[In a sepulchral voice.] My private house!

Horatio.

Oh, come, you know, you can’t mean that! Your house?

Considering that I’m building it myself—

Of course, assisted by an architect—

I think you must admit there’s some mistake.

Ghost.

[Turning and advancing towards them.]

Pooh! What do I care for your architect?

It’s mine, I say, my house, my plot, my play.

I made them all!

Horatio.

Oh, my prophetic soul!

Shakspeare!

Ghost.

The same.

Horatio.

I say, confound it all,

Do you propose to haunt the castle too?

Ghost.

Yes, the New Wing.

Horatio.

It’s really much too bad.

You’ve filled the old part of the house with spectres;

I think you might have left the new to me.

Fortinbras.

That seems a reasonable compromise.

Ghost.

I shall stay here; make up your mind to that,

But if you like to share the Wing with me

I’ve no objection.

Horatio.

[Stiffly.]Thanks, I’d rather not.

I shall consult with my solicitor,

And if he can’t eject you from the place

I’ll sell it, ghosts and all! Come, Fortinbras.

[Exit with dignity.

Curtain.

Much Ado about Nothing.

The end of “Much Ado about Nothing” must always leave the sympathetic playgoer in tears. The future looks black for everybody concerned. Claudio’s jealous disposition will make him a most uncomfortable husband for the resuscitated Hero, while Benedick and Beatrice are likely to find that a common taste in badinage is not the most satisfactory basis for matrimony. When it is added that Don John’s genius for plotting is sure in the end to get him into trouble one feels that nothing can be gloomier than the prospects of the entire cast.

MORE ADO ABOUT NOTHING.

Scene.—The garden of Benedick’s house at Padua. Benedick is sitting on a garden seat, sunning himself indolently. Beatrice is beside him, keeping up her reputation for conversational brilliancy by a series of sprightly witticisms.

Beatrice.

Very likely I do talk twice as much as I should. But then, if I talk too much you certainly listen far too little, so we are quits. Do you hear?

Benedick.

[Opening his eyes slowly.] Eh?

Beatrice.

I believe you were asleep! But there—’tis a great compliment to my wit. Like Orpheus, I can put even the savage beasts to sleep with it. [Benedick’s eyes close again, and he appears to sink into a profound doze.] But if the beasts go to sleep there’s no use in being witty. I suppose Orpheus never thought of that. Come, wake up, good Signior Beast. [Prods him coquettishly with her finger.] Have you forgotten that the Duke is coming?

Benedick.

[Drowsily.] When will he be here?

Beatrice.

Ere you have done gaping.

Benedick.

[Terribly bored by this badinage.] My dear, if only you would occasionally answer a plain question. When do you expect him?

Beatrice.

[Skittish to the last.] Plain questions should only be answered by plain people.

Benedick.

[Yawning heartily.] A pretty question then.

Beatrice.

Pretty questions should only be asked by pretty people. There! What do you think of that for wit!

Benedick.

Really, my dear, I can hardly trust myself to characterise it in—er—fitting terms. [Rings bell. Enter Page.] When is the Duke expected?

Page.

In half-an-hour, Sir.

Benedick.

Thank you.

[Exit Page.

Beatrice.

[Pouting.] You needn’t have rung. I could have told you that.

Benedick.

I am sure you could, my dear. But as you wouldn’t——

Beatrice.

I was going to, if you had given me time.

Benedick.

Experience has taught me, my dear Beatrice, that it is usually much quicker to ring! [Closes his eyes again.]

Beatrice.

How rude you are!

Benedick.

[Half opening them.] Eh?

Beatrice.

I said it was very rude of you to go to sleep when I am talking.

Benedick.

[Closing his eyes afresh.] It’s perfectly absurd of you to talk when I am going to sleep.

Beatrice.

[Girding herself for fresh witticisms.] Why absurd?

Benedick.

Because I don’t hear what you say, of course, my love.

Beatrice.

[Whose repartees have been scattered for the moment by this adroit compliment.] Well, well, sleep your fill, Bear. I’ll go and bandy epigrams with Ursula.

[Exit Beatrice. Benedick looks cautiously round to see if she is really gone, and then heaves a sigh of relief.

Benedick.

Poor Beatrice! If only she were not so incorrigibly sprightly. She positively drives one to subterfuge.

[Produces a book from his pocket, which he reads with every appearance of being entirely awake.

Enter Don Pedro, as from a journey.

Benedick does not see him.

Don Pedro.

Signior Benedick!

Benedick.

[Starting up on hearing his name.] Ah, my dear Lord. Welcome to Padua.

Don Pedro.

[Looks him up and down.] But how’s this? You look but poorly, my good Benedick.

Benedick.

I am passing well, my Lord.

Don Pedro.

And your wife, the fair Beatrice? As witty as ever?

Benedick.

[Grimly.] Quite!

Don Pedro.

[Rubbing his hands.] I felt sure of it! I made the match, remember! I said to old Leonato “She were an excellent match for Benedick” as soon as I saw her.

Benedick.

[Sighing.] So you did, so you did.

Don Pedro.

[Puzzled.] I’m bound to say you don’t seem particularly happy.

Benedick.

[Evasively.] Oh, we get on well enough.

Don Pedro.

Well enough! Why, what’s the matter, man? Come, be frank with me.

Benedick.

[Impressively.] My dear Lord, never marry a witty wife! If you do, you’ll repent it. But it’s a painful subject. Let’s talk of something else. How’s Claudio? I thought we should see him—and Hero—with you.

Don Pedro.

[Looking slightly uncomfortable.] Claudio is—er—fairly well.

Benedick.

Why, what’s the matter with him? His wife isn’t developing into a wit, is she?

Don Pedro.

No. She’s certainly not doing that!

Benedick.

Happy Claudio! But why aren’t they here then?

Don Pedro.

[Coughing nervously.] Well, the truth is, Claudio’s marriage hasn’t been exactly one of my successes. You remember I made that match too?

Benedick.

I remember. Don’t they hit it off?

Don Pedro.

[Querulously.] It was all Claudio’s suspicious temper. He never would disabuse his mind of the idea that Hero was making love to somebody else. You remember he began that even before he was married. First it was me he suspected. Then it was the mysterious man under her balcony.

Benedick.

You suspected him too.

Don Pedro.

That’s true. But that was all my brother John’s fault. Anyhow, I thought when they were once married things would settle down comfortably.

Benedick.

You were curiously sanguine. I should have thought anyone would have seen that after that scene in the church they would never be happy together.

Don Pedro.

Perhaps so. Anyhow, they weren’t. Of course, everything was against them. What with my brother John’s absolute genius for hatching plots, and my utter inability to detect them, not to speak of Claudio’s unfortunate propensity for overhearing conversations and misunderstanding them, the intervals of harmony between them were extremely few, and, at last, Hero lost patience and divorced him.

Benedick.

So bad as that? How did it happen?

Don Pedro.

Oh, in the old way. My brother pretended that Hero was unfaithful, and as he could produce no evidence of the fact whatever, of course Claudio believed him. So, with his old passion for making scenes, he selected the moment when I and half-a-dozen others were staying at the house and denounced her before us all after dinner.

Benedick.

The church scene over again?

Don Pedro.

No. It took place in the drawing-room. Hero behaved with her usual dignity, declined to discuss Claudio’s accusations altogether, put the matter in the hands of her solicitor, and the decree was made absolute last week.

Benedick.

She was perfectly innocent, of course?

Don Pedro.

Completely. It was merely another ruse on the part of my amiable brother. Really, John’s behaviour was inexcusable.

Benedick.

Was Claudio greatly distressed when he found how he had been deceived?

Don Pedro.

He was distracted. But Hero declined to have anything more to do with him. She said she could forgive a man for making a fool of himself once, but twice was too much of a good thing.

Benedick.

[Frowning.] That sounds rather more epigrammatic than a really nice wife’s remarks should be.

Don Pedro.

She had great provocation.

Benedick.

That’s true. And one can see her point of view. It was the publicity of the thing that galled her, no doubt. But poor Claudio had no reticence whatever. That scene in the church was in the worst possible taste. But I forgot. You had a share in that.

Don Pedro.

[Stiffly.] I don’t think we need go into that question.

Benedick.

And now to select the hour, after a dinner party, for taxing his wife with infidelity! How like Claudio! Really, he must be an absolute fool.

Don Pedro.

Oh, well, your marriage doesn’t seem to have been a conspicuous success, if you come to that.

Benedick.

[Savagely.] That’s no great credit to you, is it? You made the match. You said as much a moment ago.

Don Pedro.

I know, I know. But seriously, my dear Benedick, what is wrong?

Benedick.

[Snappishly.] Beatrice, of course. You don’t suppose I’m wrong, do you?

Don Pedro.

Come, that’s better. A spark of the old Benedick. Let me call your wife to you, and we’ll have one of your old encounters of wit.

Benedick.

[Seriously alarmed.] For Heaven’s sake, no. Ah, my dear Lord, if you only knew how weary I am of wit, especially Beatrice’s wit.

Don Pedro.

You surprise me. I remember I thought her a most amusing young lady.

Benedick.

[Tersely.] You weren’t married to her.

Don Pedro.

But what is it you complain of?

Benedick.

Beatrice bores me. It is all very well to listen to sparkling sallies for ten minutes or so, but Beatrice sparkles for hours together. She is utterly incapable of answering the simplest question without a blaze of epigram. When I ask her what time it is, she becomes so insufferably facetious that all the clocks stop in disgust. And once when I was thoughtless enough to enquire what there was for dinner, she made so many jokes on the subject that I had to go down without her. And even then the soup was cold!

Don Pedro.

[Quoting.] “Here you may see Benedick, the married man!”

Benedick.

Don’t you try to be funny too! One joker in a household is quite enough, I can tell you. And poor Beatrice’s jokes aren’t always in the best of taste either. The other day, when the Vicar came to lunch he was so shocked at her that he left before the meal was half over and his wife has never called since.

Don Pedro.

My poor Benedick, I wish I could advise you. But I really don’t know what to suggest. My brother could have helped you, I’m sure. He was always so good at intrigue. But unfortunately I had him executed after his last exploit with Claudio. It’s most unlucky. But that’s the worst of making away with a villain. You never know when you may need him. Poor John could always be depended upon in an emergency of this kind.

Benedick.

[Gloomily.] He is certainly a great loss.

Don Pedro.

Don’t you think you could arrange so that Beatrice should overhear you making love to someone else? We’ve tried that sort of thing more than once in this play.

Benedick.

[Acidly.] As the result has invariably been disastrous, I think we may dismiss that expedient from our minds. No, there’s nothing for it but to put up with the infliction, and by practising a habit of mental abstraction, reduce the evil to within bearable limits.

Don Pedro.

I don’t think I quite follow you.

Benedick.

In plain English, my dear Lord, I find the only way to go on living with Beatrice is never to listen to her. As soon as she begins to be witty I fall into a kind of swoon, and in that comatose condition I can live through perfect coruscations of brilliancy without inconvenience.

Don Pedro.

Does she like that?

Benedick.

Candidly, I don’t think she does.

Don Pedro.

Hold! I have an idea.

Benedick.

[Nervously.] I hope not. Your ideas have been singularly unfortunate hitherto in my affairs.

Don Pedro.

Ah, but you’ll approve of this.

Benedick.

What is it?

Don Pedro.

Leave your wife, and come away with me.

Benedick.

[Doubtfully.] She’d come after us.

Don Pedro.

Yes, but we should have the start.

Benedick.

That’s true. By Jove, I’ll do it! Let’s go at once.

[Rises hastily.

Don Pedro.

I think you ought to leave some kind of message for her—just to say good-bye; you know. It seems more polite.

Benedick.

Perhaps so. [Tears leaf out of pocket-book.] What shall it be, prose or verse? I remember Claudio burst into poetry when he was taking leave of Hero. Such bad poetry too!

Don Pedro.

I think you might make it verse—as you’re leaving her for ever. It seems more in keeping with the solemnity of the occasion.

Benedick.

So it does. [Writes.]

Bored to death by Beatrice’ tongue

Was the hero that lived here——

Don Pedro.

Hush! Isn’t that your wife over there in the arbour?

Benedick.

[Losing his temper.] Dash it all! There’s nothing but eaves-dropping in this play.

Don Pedro.

Perhaps she doesn’t see us. Let’s steal off, anyhow, on the chance.

[They creep off on tip-toe (r) as Beatrice enters with similar caution (l).

Beatrice.

[Watching them go.] Bother! I thought I should overhear what they were saying. I believe Benedick is really running away. It’s just as well. If he hadn’t, I should. He had really grown too dull for anything. [Sees note which Benedick has left.] Ah, so he’s left a message. “Farewell for ever,” I suppose. [Reads it. Stamps her foot.] Monster! If I ever see him again I’ll scratch him!

Curtain.

The Critic.

Everybody who has seen “The Critic” must have been filled with curiosity to read the Press notices on Mr. Puff’s tragedy “The Spanish Armada.” The following sequel to Sheridan’s comedy embodies some of these.

THE OTHER CRITICS.

Scene.—Dangle’s house. Mr. and Mrs. Dangle, Sneer and Sir Fretful Plagiary discovered discussing the first performance of Puff’s play, which has taken place a week previously. A table is littered with Press cuttings dealing with the event, supplied by the indispensable Romeike.

Sir Fretful Plagiary.

I give you my word, the duel scene was taken wholly from my comedy The Lovers Abandoned—pilfered, egad!

Dangle.

Bless my soul! You don’t say so?

Sir Fretful Plagiary.

And Tilburina’s speech about the “finches of the grove.” ’Twas I first thought of finches, in my tragedy of Antoninus!

Dangle.

But I can’t believe my friend Puff can have borrowed deliberately from you, Sir Fretful.

Sneer.

No one could possibly believe that!

Sir Fretful Plagiary.

Eh?

Mrs. Dangle.

It must have been a coincidence.

Sir Fretful Plagiary.

Coincidence! Egad, Madam, ’twas sheer theft. And that use of the white handkerchief! Stolen bodily, on my conscience. Coincidence!

Dangle.

[Judicially.] It may be so—though he is my friend.

Sir Fretful Plagiary.

May be so! It is so! Zounds, Dangle, I take it very ill that you should have any doubt at all about the matter!

Dangle.

[Hedging.] The resemblances are certainly very marked—though he is my friend. But will you hear what the critics say about it?

[Turning nervously to pile of Press cuttings.

Sir Fretful Plagiary.

Do they say anything about his indebtedness to me?

Sneer.

Not a word, I dare be sworn.

Sir Fretful Plagiary.

Then I don’t want to hear them. None of the rogues know their business.

Dangle.

But they’re very severe on the play.

Sir Fretful Plagiary.

Are they? There’s something in the fellows, after all. Pray read us some of the notices.

Dangle.

Shall I begin with The Times? ’Tis very satirical, and as full of quotations as a pudding is of plums.

Sneer.

I know the style—a vocabulary recruited from all the dead and living languages. ’Tis the very Babel of dramatic criticism. Begin, Dangle.

Dangle.

[Reading.] “The philosopher who found in thought the proof of existence, crystallised his theory in the phrase ‘Cogito ergo sum,’ ‘I think, therefore, I exist.’ In this he found the explanation of what Hugo called the néant géant. The theory of the author of The Spanish Armada, on the contrary, seems to be ‘Sum, ergo non cogitabo,’ ‘I exist, therefore I need not think’——”

Sir Fretful Plagiary.

Ha! Ha! Very good, i’ faith.

Dangle.

[Continuing.] “‘Lasciate ogni speranza’ the audience murmurs with Dante, as three mortal hours pass and Mr. Puff is still prosing. Nor has he any dramatic novelty to offer us. The scène à faire is on conventional lines. The boards are hoar with the neiges d’antan. There is the anagnorisis desiderated by Aristotle, and the unhappy ending required by the Elizabethans. The inevitable peripeteia——”

Mrs. Dangle.

You know, Mr. Dangle, I don’t understand a single word you’re reading.

Sneer.

Nor I, upon my soul.

Sir Fretful Plagiary.

It is certainly somewhat difficult.

Dangle.

Shall I omit a few sentences, and go on again, where the allusions are less obscure? [Reads half aloud to himself, knitting his brows in the effort to understand what it is all about.] “No trace of Heine’s Weltschmerz ... capo e espada ... Nietschze’s Uebermensch ... ne coram pueros ... Petrarch’s immortal Io t’amo ... le canif du jardinier et celui de mon père——”

Mrs. Dangle.

Really, Mr. Dangle, if you can find nothing more intelligible to read than that farrago of jargon, I shall go away. Pray read us something in English, for a change.

Dangle.

[Much relieved, selecting another cutting.] Here’s the Daily Telegraph—a whole column.

Sneer.

Not much English there, I’ll warrant.

Dangle.

[Reading.] “Time was when the London playhouses had not been invaded by the coarse suggestiveness or the veiled indelicacy of the Norwegian stage, when Paterfamilias could still take his daughters to the theatre without a blush. Those days are past. The Master—as his followers call him—like a deadly upas tree, has spread his blighting influence over our stage. Morality, shocked at the fare that is nightly set before her, shuns the playhouse, and vice usurps the scene once occupied by the manly and the true——”

Sneer.

[Who has been beating time.] Hear! hear!

Dangle.

“In the good old days, when Macready——”

Sir Fretful Plagiary.

Zounds, Mr. Dangle, don’t you think we might leave Macready out of the question? I notice that when the Daily Telegraph mentions Macready the reference never occupies less than a quarter of a column. You might omit that part, and take up the thread further on.

Dangle.

Very well. [Continuing.] “It is impossible not to be astonished that a writer of Mr. Puff’s talents should break away from the noble traditions of Shakspeare to follow in the footsteps of the Scandinavian——”

Mrs. Dangle.

Surely, Mr. Dangle, we’ve had that before.

Dangle.

[Testily.] No; not in the same words.

Mrs. Dangle.

But the sense——

Dangle.

Egad, why will you interrupt! You can’t expect a writer for the penny press to have something new to say in every sentence! How the plague is a dramatic critic who has nothing to say to fill a column, if he is never to be allowed to repeat himself?

Sneer.

How, indeed!

Sir Fretful Plagiary.

Ah, I remember when my play The Indulgent Husband was produced——

Sneer.

[Yawning.] I think, Dangle, you might leave the Telegraph and try one of the weekly papers. What does The World say?

Dangle.

As you will. [Selecting a new cutting.] “In his new play The Spanish Armada Mr. Puff has set himself to deal with one of those problems of feminine psychology with which Ibsen, Hauptmann, and Sudermann, and all the newer school of continental dramatists have made us familiar. The problem is briefly this. When filial duty beckons a woman one way and passion another, which call should she obey? Should she set herself to ‘live her life,’ in the modern phrase, to realise her individuality and stand forth glad and free as Gregers Werle says? Or should she deny her ego, bow to the old conventions, accept the old Shibboleths and surrender her love? Like Nora, like Hedda, Tilburina is a personality at war with its environment....”

Sir Fretful Plagiary.

[Interrupting.] Pray, Mr. Dangle, did you not tell me the critics were all unfavourable to Mr. Puff’s play?

Dangle.

Nearly all of them. But if the other critics abuse a play, you will always find the critic of The World will praise it. ’Tis the nature of the man.

Sir Fretful Plagiary.

But how does he know what the other fellows will say?

Dangle.

Easily. You see, he writes only for a weekly paper, and always reads what the others have said first. Then he takes the opposite view.

Sneer.

No wonder he’s so often right!

Dangle.

[Continuing.] “In Whiskerandos we have the man of primary emotions only. Like Solnes, he climbs no steeples; like Lövborg, he may now and then be seen with the vine leaves in his hair....”

Mrs. Dangle.

Stop, stop, Mr. Dangle! Surely there must be some mistake. I don’t remember that Whiskerandos had anything in his hair. He wore a helmet all the time!

Dangle.

[Irritably.] Metaphor, madam, metaphor! [Continuing.] “In Lord Burleigh we hear something of the epic silence which is so tremendous in Borkman....”

Sir Fretful Plagiary.

Egad, Mr. Dangle, doesn’t the fellow abuse the play at all?

Dangle.

[Looking through the article.] I don’t think he does.

Sir Fretful Plagiary.

Then I’ll hear no more of him. What possible pleasure can there be in hearing criticisms of other people’s plays if they are favourable?

Sneer.

None whatever!

[Enter Servant.

Servant.

[Announcing.] Mr. Puff!

Dangle.

[Advancing to meet him with a smile of the warmest affability.] Ah, my dear friend, we were reading the notice of your tragedy in The World. ’Tis extremely friendly. And as Sir Fretful remarked a moment since, “What pleasure can there be in reading criticisms of people’s plays if they aren’t favourable?”

Puff.

Sir Fretful is most obliging.

Sir Fretful Plagiary.

The Telegraph was somewhat severe, though, eh, Mr. Puff?

Puff.

’Tis very like.

Dangle.

You have not seen it? Let me read it to you.

[Searches eagerly in pile of cuttings.

Puff.

[Indifferently.] I never look at unfavourable criticisms.

Sneer.

A wise precaution, truly!

Puff.

Very. It saves valuable time. For if a notice is unfavourable, I am always sure to have it read aloud to me by one d——d good-natured friend or another!

Curtain.

The School for Scandal.

“The School for Scandal” ends, it will be remembered, with the reconciliation of Sir Peter and Lady Teazle, the complete exposure of Joseph Surface and the rehabilitation of Charles. But how long did the Teazle reconciliation last? And if Sir Oliver Surface left all his fortune to his nephew Charles, how long did that young gentleman take to run through it?

THE RELAPSE OF LADY TEAZLE.

Scene.—Room in Sir Peter Teazle’s house. Sir Peter and Lady Teazle discovered wrangling as in Act II.

Sir Peter.

Lady Teazle, Lady Teazle, I’ll not bear it.

Lady Teazle.

Sir Peter, Sir Peter, you’ve told me that a hundred times. This habit of repeating yourself is most distressing. ’Tis a sure sign of old age.

Sir Peter.

[In a passion.] Oons, Madam, will you never be tired of flinging my age in my face?

Lady Teazle.

Lud, Sir Peter, ’tis you that fling it in mine. How often have you said to me [beating time] “when an old bachelor marries a young wife——”

Sir Peter.

And if I have, Lady Teazle, you needn’t repeat it after me. But you live only to plague me. And yet ’twas but six months ago you vowed never to cross me again. Yes, Madam, six months ago, when I found you concealed behind a screen in Mr. Surface’s library, you promised that if I would forgive you your future conduct should prove the sincerity of your repentance. I forgave you, Madam, and this is my reward!

Lady Teazle.

And am I to blame, Sir Peter, for your ill-humours? Must I always be making concessions? To please you, I have given up all routs and assemblies, attend no balls nor quadrilles, talk no scandal, never ogle nor flirt. I go no more to my Lady Sneerwell’s, though I vow hers was a most delightful house to visit. Such fashion and elegance. Such wit! Such delicate malice!

Sir Peter.

[Fretfully.] Just so, Madam; that is what I complain of. All the while you are longing to return to these follies. You are not happy when you are alone with me.

Lady Teazle.

Great heavens, Sir Peter: you must not ask for miracles. What woman of fashion is ever happy alone with her husband?

Sir Peter.

There it is, Lady Teazle. You think only of fashion. And yet, when I married you——

Lady Teazle.

[Yawning.] Lud, Sir Peter, why will you be always returning to that painful subject?

Sir Peter.

Vastly painful, no doubt, Madam, since it prevents you from marrying Mr. Surface, behind whose screen I found you.

Lady Teazle.

[Yawning more heartily.] Mr. Surface? But ’twas Charles you used to suspect.

Sir Peter.

[Angrily.] And now ’tis Joseph. Zounds, Madam, is a man never to be allowed to change his mind? [Raising his voice in fury.] I say ’tis Joseph! Joseph!! Joseph!!!

[Enter Joseph Surface. Sir Peter and Lady Teazle are obviously disconcerted at this inopportune arrival, and say nothing. Joseph has greatly changed in appearance in the six months which have elapsed between the play and the sequel. He has lost his sleekness and his air of conscious virtue, and looks like a careless, good-humoured man-about-town.

Joseph.

[Obviously enjoying their discomfort.] Sir Peter, your servant. Lady Teazle, your most obedient [bows profoundly].

Sir Peter.

[Stiffly.] To what, Mr. Surface, do we owe the honour of this visit?

Joseph.

[Blandly, correcting him.] Pleasure, Sir Peter.

Sir Peter.

[Testily.] I said “honour,” Sir.

Joseph.

[Easily.] I came at the invitation of Sir Oliver, who is staying in your house. He desired to see me.

Lady Teazle.

[Viciously, to Sir Peter.] If this gentleman’s business is with Sir Oliver, perhaps he will explain why he has intruded in this room.

Joseph.

[Amused.] With pleasure. My attention was arrested by the sound of voices raised in dispute. I heard my name mentioned loudly more than once, and, recognizing one of the voices as that of Lady Teazle [with a low bow], I thought it better to interpose to defend my character at once.

Lady Teazle.

[Stamping her foot.] Insolent!

Sir Peter.

[Chuckling.] Ha, ha! Very good. I’ faith, Mr. Surface, I could almost find it in my heart to forgive you for your injuries towards me when you talk like that.

Joseph.

Injuries, Sir Peter? I never did you an injury. That affair of the screen was the merest misunderstanding. I had no desire at all to capture the affections of Lady Teazle. On the contrary, ’twould have been highly inconvenient for me. ’Twas your ward Maria that I wished to win.

Lady Teazle.

Monster!

Joseph.

[Continuing.] Unhappily, Lady Teazle mistook the nature of my attentions and I, knowing her temper [bowing to Lady Teazle], feared to undeceive her lest she should use her influence to prejudice me in the eyes of your ward. That, Sir Peter, is the true explanation of the situation in which you found Lady Teazle on that unlucky morning.