William Wycherley [Four Plays]. William Wycherley

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СКАЧАТЬ I am then more glad, madam, for then they cannot be great; and it is in my power, it seems, to make you in part happy, if I could but hold this villainous tongue of mine: but then let the people of the town hold their tongues if they will, for I cannot but tell you what they say.

      Chris. What do they say?

      Isa. Faith, madam, I am afraid to tell you, now I think on't.

      Chris. Is it so ill?

      Isa. O, such base, unworthy things!

      Chris. Do they say I was really Clerimont's wench, as he boasted; and that the ground of the quarrel betwixt Valentine and him was not Valentine's vindication of my honour, but Clerimont's jealousy of him?

      Isa. Worse, worse a thousand times! such villainous things to the utter ruin of your reputation!

      Chris. What are they?

      Isa. Faith, madam, you'll be angry: 'tis the old trick of lovers to hate their informers, after they have made 'em such.

      Chris. I will not be angry.

      Isa. They say then, since Mr. Valentine's flying into France you are grown mad, have put yourself into mourning, live in a dark room, where you'll see nobody, nor take any rest day or night, but rave and talk to yourself perpetually.

      Chris. Now, what else?

      Isa. But the surest sign of your madness is, they say, because you are desperately resolved (in case my Lord Clerimont should die of his wounds) to transport yourself and fortune into France to Mr. Valentine, a man that has not a groat to return you in exchange.

      Chris. All this, hitherto, is true; now to the rest.

      Isa. Indeed, madam, I have no more to tell you. I was sorry, I'm sure, to hear so much of any lady of mine.

      Chris. Insupportable insolence!

      Isa. [Aside.] This is some revenge for my want of sleep to-night.—[Knocking at the door.] So, I hope my old second is come; 'tis seasonable relief. [Exit.

      Chris. Unhappy Valentine! couldst thou but see how soon thy absence and misfortunes have disbanded all thy friends, and turned thy slaves all renegadoes, thou sure wouldst prize my only faithful heart!

      Enter Lady Flippant, Lydia, and Isabel.

      L. Flip. Hail, faithful shepherdess! but, truly, I had not kept my word with you, in coming back to-night, if it had not been for this lady, who has her intrigues too with the fellows as well as you.

      Lyd. Madam, under my Lady Flippant's protection, I am confident to beg yours; being just now pursued out of the Park by a relation of mine, by whom it imports me extremely not to be discovered:—[Knocking at the door.] but I fear he is now at the door.—[To Isabel, who goes out.] Let me desire you to deny me to him courageously;—for he will hardly believe he can be mistaken in me.

      Chris. In such an occasion, where impudence is requisite, she will serve you as faithfully as you can wish, madam.

      L. Flip. Come, come, madam, do not upbraid her with her assurance, a qualification that only fits her for a lady's service. A fine woman of the town can be no more without a woman that can make an excuse with assurance, than she can be without a glass, certainly.

      Chris. She needs no advocate.

      L. Flip. How can any one alone manage an amorous intrigue? though the birds are tame, somebody must help draw the net. If 'twere not for a woman that could make an excuse with assurance, how should we wheedle, jilt, trace, discover, countermine, undermine, and blow up the stinking fellows? which is all the pleasure I receive, or design by them; for I never admitted a man to my conversation, but for his punishment, certainly.

      Chris. Nobody will doubt that, certainly.

      Re-enter Isabel.

      Isa. Madam, the gentleman will not be mistaken: he says you are here, he saw you come in; he is your relation, his name's Ranger, and is come to wait upon you home. I had much ado to keep him from coming up.

      Lyd. [To Christina.] Madam, for Heaven's sake, help me! 'tis yet in your power; if but, while I retire into your dining-room, you will please to personate me, and own yourself for her he pursued out of the Park: you are in mourning too, and your stature so much mine it will not contradict you.

      Chris. I am sorry, madam, I must dispute any command of yours. I have made a resolution to see the face of no man, till an unfortunate friend of mine, now out of the kingdom, return.

      Lyd. By that friend, and by the hopes you have to see him, let me conjure you to keep me from the sight of mine now. Dear madam, let your charity prevail over you superstition.

      Isa. He comes, he comes, madam! [Lydia withdraws, and stands unseen at the door.

      Enter Ranger.

      Ran. Ha! this is no Lydia. [Aside.

      Chris. What, unworthy defamer, has encouraged you to offer this insolence?

      Ran. She is liker Lydia in her style than her face. I see I am mistaken; but to tell her I followed her for another, were an affront rather than an excuse. She's a glorious creature! [Aside.

      Chris. Tell me, sir, whence had you reason for this your rude pursuit of me, into my lodgings, my chamber? why should you follow me?

      Ran. Faith, madam, because you ran away from me.

      Chris. That was no sign of an acquaintance.

      Ran. You'll pardon me, madam.

      Chris. Then, it seems, you mistook me for another, and the night is your excuse, which blots out all distinctions. But now you are satisfied in your mistake, I hope you will seek out your woman in another place.

      Ran. Madam, I allow not the excuse you make for me. If I have offended, I will rather be condemned for my love, than pardoned for my insensibility.

      Lyd. How's that? [Aside.

      Chris. What do you say?

      Ran. Though the night had been darker, my heart would not have suffered me to follow any one but you:—he has been too long acquainted with you to mistake you.

      Lyd. What means this tenderness? he mistook me for her sure. [Aside.

      Chris. What says the gentleman? did you know me then, sir?

      Ran. [Aside.] Not I, the devil take me! but I must on now.—[Aloud.] Could you imagine, madam, by the innumerable crowd of your admirers, you had left any man free in the town, or ignorant of the power of your beauty?

      Chris. I never saw your face before, that I remember.

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