ACT III. edit
SCENE I.—A Library in DON JEROME'S House.
Enter DON JEROME and SERVANT.
Don Jer. Why, I never was so amazed in my life! Louisa gone off with
Isaac Mendoza! What! steal away with the very man whom I wanted her to
marry—elope with her own husband, as it were—it is impossible!
Ser. Her maid says, sir, they had your leave to walk in the garden,
while you were abroad. The door by the shrubbery was found open, and
they have not been heard of since. [Exit.]
Don Jer. Well, it is the most unaccountable affair! 'sdeath! there
is certainly some infernal mystery in it I can't comprehend!
Enter SECOND SERVANT, with a letter.
Ser. Here is a letter, sir, from Signor Isaac. [Exit.]
Don Jer. So, so, this will explain—ay, Isaac Mendoza—let me see—
[Reads.]
Dearest Sir,
You must, doubtless, be much surprised at my flight with your
daughter!—yes, 'faith, and well I may—I had the happiness to gain
her heart at our first interview—The devil you had!—But, she
having unfortunately made a vow not to receive a husband from your
hands, I was obliged to comply with her whim!—So, so!—We shall
shortly throw ourselves at your feet, and I hope you will have a
blessing ready for one, who will then be your son-in-law. ISAAC
MENDOZA.
A whim, hey? Why, the devil's in the girl, I think! This morning, she
would die sooner than have him, and before evening she runs away with
him! Well, well, my will's accomplished—let the motive be what it
will—and the Portuguese, sure, will never deny to fulfil the rest of
the article.
Re-enter SERVANT, with another letter.
Ser. Sir, here's a man below, who says he brought this from my young
lady, Donna Louisa. [Exit.]
Don Jer. How! yes, it's my daughter's hand, indeed! Lord, there was
no occasion for them both to write; well, let's see what she says—
[Reads.]
My dearest father,
How shall I entreat your pardon for the rash step I have taken—how
confess the motive?—Pish! hasn't Isaac just told me the motive?—one
would think they weren't together when they wrote.—If I have a
spirit too resentful of ill usage, I have also a heart as easily
affected by kindness.—So, so, here the whole matter comes out; her
resentment for Antonio's ill usage has made her sensible of Isaac's
kindness—yes, yes, it is all plain enough. Well. I am not married
yet, though with a man who, I am convinced, adores me.—Yes, yes, I
dare say Isaac is very fond of her. But I shall anxiously expect your
answer, in which, should I be so fortunate as to receive your consent,
you will make completely happy your ever affectionate daughter,
LOUISA.
My consent! to be sure she shall have it! Egad, I was never better
pleased—I have fulfilled my resolution—I knew I should. Oh, there's
nothing like obstinacy! Lewis! [Calls.]
Re-enter SERVANT.
Let the man who brought the last letter, wait; and get me a pen and
ink below.—[Exit SERVANT.] I am impatient to set poor Louisa's
heart at rest. [Calls.]Holloa! Lewis! Sancho!
Enter SERVANTS.
See that there be a noble supper provided in the saloon to-night;
serve up my best wines, and let me have music, d'ye hear?
Ser. Yes, sir.
Don Jer. And order all my doors to be thrown open; admit all guests,
with masks or without masks.—[Exeunt SERVANTS.] I'faith, we'll have
a night of it! and I'll let them see how merry an old man can be.
SONG.
Oh, the days when I was young.
When I laugh'd in fortune's spite;
Talk'd of love the whole day long,
And with nectar crown'd the night!
Then it was, old Father Care,
Little reck'd I of thy frown;
Half thy malice youth could bear,
And the rest a bumper drown.
Truth, they say, lies in a well,
Why, I vow I ne'er could see;
Let the water-drinkers tell,
There it always lay for me.
For when sparkling wine went round,
Never saw I falsehood's mask;
But still honest truth I found
In the bottom of each flask.
True, at length my vigour's flown,
I have years to bring decay;
Few the locks that now I own,
And the few I have are grey.
Yet, old Jerome, thou mayst boast,
While thy spirits do not tire;
Still beneath thy age's frost
Glows a spark of youthful fire. [Exit.]
SCENE II.—The New Piazza.
Enter DON FERDINAND and LOPEZ.
Don Ferd. What, could you gather no tidings of her? nor guess where
she was gone? O Clara! Clara!
Lop. In truth, sir, I could not. That she was run away from her
father, was in everybody's mouth; and that Don Guzman was in pursuit
of her, was also a very common report. Where she was gone, or what was
become of her, no one could take upon them to say.
Don Ferd. 'Sdeath and fury, you blockhead! she can't be out of
Seville.
Lop. So I said to myself, sir. 'Sdeath and fury, you blockhead, says
I, she can't be out of Seville. Then some said, she had hanged herself
for love; and others have it, Don Antonio had carried her off.
Don Ferd. 'Tis false, scoundrel! no one said that.
Lop. Then I misunderstood them, sir.
Don Ferd. Go, fool, get home! and never let me see you again till
you bring me news of her.—[Exit LOPEZ.] Oh, how my fondness for
this ungrateful girl has hurt my disposition.
Enter ISAAC.
Isaac. So, I have her safe, and have only to find a priest to marry
us. Antonio now may marry Clara, or not, if he pleases.
Don Ferd. What! what was that you said of Clara?
Isaac. Oh, Ferdinand! my brother-in-law that shall be, who thought
of meeting you?
Don Ferd. But what of Clara?
Isaac. I'faith, you shall hear. This morning, as I was coming down,
I met a pretty damsel, who told me her name was Clara d'Almanza, and
begged my protection.
Don Ferd. How!
Isaac. She said she had eloped from her father, Don Guzman, but that
love for a young gentleman in Seville was the cause.
Don Ferd. Oh, Heavens! did she confess it?
Isaac. Oh, yes, she confessed at once. But then, says she, my lover
is not informed of my flight, nor suspects my intention.
Don Ferd. [Aside.] Dear creature! no more I did indeed! Oh, I am
the happiest fellow!—[Aloud.] Well, Isaac?
Isaac. Why then she entreated me to find him out for her, and bring
him to her.
Don Ferd. Good Heavens, how lucky! Well, come along, let's lose no
time. [Pulling him.]
Isaac. Zooks! where are we to go?
Don Ferd. Why, did anything more pass?
Isaac. Anything more! yes; the end on't was, that I was moved with
her speeches, and complied with her desires.
Don Ferd. Well and where is she?
Isaac. Where is she? why, don't I tell you? I complied with her
request, and left her safe in the arms of her lover.
Don Ferd. 'Sdeath, you trifle with me!—I have never seen her.
Isaac. You! O Lud no! how the devil should you? 'Twas Antonio she
wanted; and with Antonio I left her.
Don Ferd. [Aside.] Hell and madness!—[Aloud.] What, Antonio
d'Ercilla?
Isaac. Ay, ay, the very man; and the best part of it was, he was shy
of taking her at first. He talked a good deal about honour, and
conscience, and deceiving some dear friend; but, Lord, we soon
overruled that!
Don Ferd. You did!
Isaac. Oh, yes, presently.—Such deceit! says he.—Pish! says the
lady, tricking is all fair in love. But then, my friend, says he.—
Psha! damn your friend, says I. So, poor wretch, he has no chance.—
No, no; he may hang himself as soon as he pleases.
Don Ferd. [Aside.] I must go, or I shall betray myself.
Isaac. But stay, Ferdinand, you han't heard the best of the joke.
Don Ferd. Curse on your joke!
Isaac. Good lack! what's the matter now? I thought to have diverted
you.
Don Ferd. Be racked! tortured! damned!
Isaac. Why, sure you are not the poor devil of a lover, are you?—
I'faith, as sure as can be, he is! This is a better joke than t'other.
Ha! ha! ha!
Don Ferd. What! do you laugh? you vile, mischievous varlet!—
[Collars him.] But that you're beneath my anger, I'd tear your heart
out! [Throws him from him.]
Isaac. O mercy! here's usage for a brother-in-law!
Don Ferd. But, hark ye, rascal! tell me directly where these false
friends are gone, or, by my soul——[Draws.]
Isaac. For Heaven's sake, now, my dear brother-in-law, don't be in a
rage! I'll recollect as well as I can.
Don Ferd. Be quick, then!
Isaac. I will, I will!—but people's memories differ; some have a
treacherous memory: now mine is a cowardly memory—it takes to its
heels at sight of a drawn sword—it does i'faith; and I could as soon
fight as recollect.
Don Ferd. Zounds! tell me the truth, and I won't hurt you.
Isaac. No, no, I know you won't, my dear brother-in-law; but that
ill-looking thing there——
Don Ferd. What, then, you won't tell me?
Isaac. Yes, yes, I will; I'll tell you all, upon my soul!—but why
need you listen, sword in hand?
Don Ferd. Why, there.—[Puts up.] Now.
Isaac. Why, then, I believe they are gone to—that is, my friend
Carlos told me he had left Donna Clara—dear Ferdinand, keep your
hands off—at the convent of St. Catherine.
Don Ferd. St. Catherine!
Isaac. Yes; and that Antonio was to come to her there.
Don Ferd. Is this the truth?
Isaac. It is indeed; and all I know, as I hope for life!
Don Ferd. Well, coward, take your life; 'tis that false,
dishonourable Antonio, who shall feel my vengeance.
Isaac. Ay, ay, kill him; cut his throat, and welcome.
Don Ferd. But, for Clara! infamy on her! she is not worth my
resentment.
Isaac. No more she is, my dear brother-in-law. I'faith I would not
be angry about her; she is not worth it, indeed.
Don Ferd. 'Tis false! she is worth the enmity of princes!
Isaac. True, true, so she is; and I pity you exceedingly for having
lost her.
Don Ferd. 'Sdeath, you rascal! how durst you talk of pitying me?
Isaac. Oh, dear brother-in-law, I beg pardon! I don't pity you in
the least, upon my soul!
Don Ferd. Get hence, fool, and provoke me no further; nothing but
your insignificance saves you!
Isaac. [Aside.] I'faith, then, my insignificance is the best friend
I have.—[Aloud.] I'm going, dear Ferdinand.—[Aside.] What a
curst hot hot-headed bully it is! [Exeunt severally.]
SCENE III.—The Garden of the Convent.
Enter DONNA LOUISA and DONNA CLARA.
Don. Louisa. And you really wish my brother may not find you out?
Don. Clara. Why else have I concealed myself under this disguise?
Don. Louisa. Why, perhaps because the dress becomes you: for you
certainly don't intend to be a nun for life.
Don. Clara. If, indeed, Ferdinand had not offended me so last night—
Don. Louisa. Come, come, it was his fear of losing you made him so
rash.
Don. Clara. Well, you may think me cruel, but I swear, if he were
here this instant, I believe I should forgive him.
SONG.
By him we love offended,
How soon our anger flies!
One day apart, 'tis ended;
Behold him, and it dies.
Last night, your roving brother,
Enraged, I bade depart;
And sure his rude presumption
Deserved to lose my heart.
Yet, were he now before met
In spite of injured pride,
I fear my eyes would pardon
Before my tongue could chide.
Don. Louisa. I protest, Clara, I shall begin to think you are
seriously resolved to enter on your probation.
Don. Clara. And, seriously, I very much doubt whether the character
of a nun would not become me best.
Don. Louisa. Why, to be sure, the character of a nun is a very
becoming one at a masquerade: but no pretty woman, in her senses, ever
thought of taking the veil for above a night.
Don. Clara. Yonder I see your Antonio is returned—I shall only
interrupt you; ah, Louisa, with what happy eagerness you turn to look
for him! [Exit.]
Enter DON ANTONIO.
Don Ant. Well, my Louisa, any news since I left you?
Don. Louisa. None. The messenger is not yet returned from my father.
Don Ant. Well, I confess, I do not perceive what we are to expect
from him.
Don. Louisa. I shall be easier, however, in having made the trial: I
do not doubt your sincerity, Antonio; but there is a chilling air
around poverty, that often kills affection, that was not nursed in it.
If we would make love our household god, we had best secure him a
comfortable roof.
SONG.—Don Antonio.
How oft, Louisa, hast thou told,
(Nor wilt thou the fond boast disown,)
Thou wouldst not lose Antonio's love
To reign the partner of a throne!
And by those lips that spoke so kind,
And by that hand I've press'd to mine,
To be the lord of wealth and power,
By heavens, I would not part with thine!
Then how, my soul, can we be poor,
Who own what kingdoms could not buy?
Of this true heart thou shalt be queen,
In serving thee, a monarch I.
Thus uncontroll'd, in mutual bliss,
I rich in love's exhaustless mine,
Do thou snatch treasures from my lips,
And I'll take kingdoms back from thine!
Enter MAID with a letter.
Don. Louisa. My father's answer, I suppose.
Don Ant. My dearest Louisa, you may be assured that it contains
nothing but threats and reproaches.
Don. Louisa. Let us see, however.—[Reads.] Dearest daughter, make
your lover happy: you have my full consent to marry as your whim has
chosen, but be sure come home and sup with your affectionate father.
Don Ant. You jest, Louisa!
Don. Louisa. [Gives him the letter..] Read! read!
Don Ant. 'Tis so, by heavens! Sure there must be some mistake; but
that's none of our business.—Now, Louisa, you have no excuse for
delay.
Don. Louisa. Shall we not then return and thank my father?
Don Ant. But first let the priest put it out of his power to recall
his word.—I'll fly to procure one.
Don. Louisa. Nay, if you part with me again, perhaps you may lose
me.
Don Ant. Come, then—there is a friar of a neighbouring convent is
my friend; you have already been diverted by the manners of a nunnery;
let us see whether there is less hypocrisy among the holy fathers.
Don. Louisa. I'm afraid not, Antonio—for in religion, as in
friendship, they who profess most are the least sincere. [Exeunt.]
Re-enter DONNA CLARA.
Don. Clara, So, yonder they go, as happy as a mutual and confessed
affection can make them, while I am left in solitude. Heigho! love may
perhaps excuse the rashness of an elopement from one's friend, but I
am sure nothing but the presence of the man we love can support it.
Ha! what do I see! Ferdinand, as I live! How could he gain admission?
By potent gold, I suppose, as Antonio did. How eager and disturbed he
seems! He shall not know me as yet. [Lets down her veil.]
Enter DON FERDINAND.
Don Ferd. Yes, those were certainly they—my information was right.
[Going.]
Don. Clara. [Stops him.] Pray, signor, what is your business here?
Don Ferd. No matter—no matter! Oh! they stop.—[Looks out.] Yes,
that is the perfidious Clara indeed!
Don. Clara. So, a jealous error—I'm glad to see him so moved.
[Aside.]
Don Ferd. Her disguise can't conceal her—no, no, I know her too
well.
Don. Clara. [Aside.] Wonderful discernment!—[Aloud.] But,
signor——
Don Ferd. Be quiet, good nun; don't tease me!—By heavens, she leans
upon his arm, hangs fondly on it! O woman, woman!
Don. Clar. But, signor, who is it you want?
Don Ferd. Not you, not you, so prythee don't tease me. Yet pray
stay—gentle nun, was it not Donna Clara d'Almanza just parted from
you?
Don. Clara. Clara d'Almanza, signor, is not yet out of the garden.
Don Ferd. Ay, ay, I knew I was right! And pray is not that
gentleman, now at the porch with her, Antonio d'Ercilla?
Don. Clara. It is indeed, signor.
Don Ferd. So, so; but now one question more—can you inform me for
what purpose they have gone away?
Don. Clara. They are gone to be married, I believe.
Don Ferd. Very well—enough. Now if I don't mar their wedding!
[Exit.]
Don. Clara. [Unveils.] I thought jealousy had made lovers quick-
sighted, but it has made mine blind. Louisa's story accounts to me for
this error, and I am glad to find I have power enough over him to make
him so unhappy. But why should not I be present at his surprise when
undeceived? When he's through the porch, I'll follow him; and,
perhaps, Louisa shall not singly be a bride.
SONG.
Adieu, thou dreary pile, where never dies
The sullen echo of repentant sighs!
Ye sister mourners of each lonely cell
Inured to hymns and sorrow, fare ye well!
For happier scenes I fly this darksome grove,
To saints a prison, but a tomb to love! [Exit.]
SCENE IV.—A Court before the Priory.
Enter ISAAC, crossing the stage, DON ANTONIO following.
Don Ant. What, my friend Isaac!
Isaac. What, Antonio! wish me joy! I have Louisa safe.
Don Ant. Have you? I wish you joy with all my soul.
Isaac. Yes, I come here to procure a priest to marry us.
Don Ant. So, then, we are both on the same errand; I am come to look
for Father Paul.
Isaac. Ha! I'm glad on't—but, i'faith, he must tack me first; my
love is waiting.
Don Ant. So is mine—I left her in the porch.
Isaac. Ay, but I'm in haste to go back to Don Jerome.
Don Ant. And so am I too.
Isaac. Well, perhaps he'll save time, and marry us both together—or
I'll be your father, and you shall be mine. Come along—but you are
obliged to me for all this.
Don Ant. Yes, yes. [Exeunt.]
SCENE V.—A Room in the Priory.
FATHER PAUL, FATHER FRANCIS, FATHER AUGUSTINE, and other FRIARS,
discovered at a table drinking.
GLEE AND CHORUS.
This bottle's the sun of our table,
His beams are rosy wine
We, planets, that are not able
Without his help to shine.
Let mirth and glee abound!
You'll soon grow bright
With borrow'd light,
And shine as he goes round.
Paul. Brother Francis, toss the bottle about, and give me your
toast.
Fran. Have we drunk the Abbess of St. Ursuline?
Paul. Yes, yes; she was the last.
Fran. Then I'll give you the blue-eyed nun of St. Catherine's.
Paul. With all my heart.—[Drinks.] Pray, brother Augustine, were
there any benefactions left in my absence?
Aug. Don Juan Corduba has left a hundred ducats, to remember him in
our masses.
Paul. Has he? let them be paid to our wine-merchant, and we'll
remember him in our cups, which will do just as well. Anything more?
Aug. Yes; Baptista, the rich miser, who died last week, has
bequeathed us a thousand pistoles, and the silver lamp he used in his
own chamber, to burn before the image of St. Anthony.
Paul. 'Twas well meant, but we'll employ his money better—
Baptista's bounty shall light the living, not the dead. St. Anthony is
not afraid to be left in the dark, though he was.—[Knocking.] See
who's there.
[FATHER FRANCIS goes to the door and opens it.]
Enter PORTER.
Port. Here's one without, in pressing haste to speak with Father
Paul.
Fran. Brother Paul!
[FATHER PAUL comes from behind a curtain with a glass of wine, and in
his hand a piece of cake.]
Paul. Here! how durst you, fellow, thus abruptly break in upon our
devotions?
Port. I thought they were finished.
Paul. No, they were not—were they, brother Francis?
Fran. Not by a bottle each.
Paul. But neither you nor your fellows mark how the hours go; no,
you mind nothing but the gratifying of your appetites; ye eat, and
swill, and sleep, and gourmandise, and thrive, while we are wasting in
mortification.
Port. We ask no more than nature craves.
Paul. 'Tis false, ye have more appetites than hairs! and your
flushed, sleek, and pampered appearance is the disgrace of our order—
out on't! If you are hungry, can't you be content with the wholesome
roots of the earth? and if you are dry, isn't there the crystal
spring?—[Drinks.] Put this away,—[Gives the glass] and show me
where I am wanted.—[PORTER drains the glass.—PAUL, going,
turns.] So you would have drunk it if there had been any left! Ah,
glutton! glutton! [Exeunt.]
SCENE VI.—The Court before the Priory.
Enter ISAAC and DON ANTONIO.
Isaac. A plaguey while coming, this same father Paul.—He's detained
at vespers, I suppose, poor fellow.
Don Ant. No, here he comes.
Enter FATHER PAUL.
Good father Paul, I crave your blessing.
Isaac. Yes, good father Paul, we are come to beg a favour.
Paul. What is it, pray?
Isaac. To marry us, good father Paul; and in truth thou dost look
like the priest of Hymen.
Paul. In short, I may be called so; for I deal in repentance and
mortification.
Isaac. No, no, thou seemest an officer of Hymen, because thy
presence speaks content and good humour.
Paul. Alas, my appearance is deceitful. Bloated I am, indeed! for
fasting is a windy recreation, and it hath swollen me like a bladder.
Don Ant. But thou hast a good fresh colour in thy face, father;
rosy, i'faith!
Paul. Yes, I have blushed for mankind, till the hue of my shame is
as fixed as their vices.
Isaac. Good man!
Paul. And I have laboured, too, but to what purpose? they continue
to sin under my very nose.
Isaac. Efecks, father, I should have guessed as much, for your nose
seems to be put to the blush more than any other part of your face.
Paul. Go, you're a wag.
Don Ant. But to the purpose, father—will you officiate for us?
Paul. To join young people thus clandestinely is not safe: and,
indeed, I have in my heart many weighty reasons against it.
Don Ant. And I have in my hand many weighty reasons for it. Isaac,
haven't you an argument or two in our favour about you?
Isaac. Yes, yes; here is a most unanswerable purse.
Paul. For shame! you make me angry: you forget who I am, and when
importunate people have forced their trash—ay, into this pocket here—
or into this—why, then the sin was theirs.—[They put money into
his pockets.] Fie, now how you distress me! I would return it, but
that I must touch it that way, and so wrong my oath.
Don Ant. Now then, come with us.
Isaac. Ay, now give us our title to joy and rapture.
Paul. Well, when your hour of repentance comes, don't blame me.
Don Ant. [Aside.] No bad caution to my friend Isaac.—[Aloud.]
Well, well, father, do you do your part, and I'll abide the
consequences.
Isaac. Ay, and so will I.
Enter DONNA LOUISA, running.
Don. Louisa. O Antonio, Ferdinand is at the porch, and inquiring for
us.
Isaac. Who? Don Ferdinand! he's not inquiring for me, I hope.
Don Ant. Fear not, my love; I'll soon pacify him.
Isaac. Egad, you won't. Antonio, take my advice, and run away; this
Ferdinand is the most unmerciful dog, and has the cursedest long
sword! and, upon my, soul, he comes on purpose to cut your throat.
Don Ant. Never fear, never fear.
Isaac. Well, you may stay if you will; but I'll get some one to
marry me: for by St. Iago, he shall never meet me again, while I am
master of a pair of heels. [Runs out.—DONNA LOUISA lets down her veil.]
Enter DON FERDINAND.
Don Ferd. So, sir, I have met with you at last.
Don Ant. Well, sir.
Don Ferd. Base, treacherous man! whence can a false, deceitful soul,
like yours, borrow confidence, to look so steadily on the man you've
injured!
Don Ant. Ferdinand, you are too warm: 'tis true you find me on the
point of wedding one I loved beyond my life; but no argument of mine
prevailed on her to elope.—I scorn deceit, as much as you. By heaven
I knew not that she had left her father's till I saw her!
Don Ferd. What a mean excuse! You have wronged your friend, then,
for one, whose wanton forwardness anticipated your treachery—of this,
indeed, your Jew pander informed me; but let your conduct be
consistent, and since you have dared to do a wrong, follow me, and
show you have a spirit to avow it.
Don. Louisa. Antonio, I perceive his mistake—leave him to me.
Paul. Friend, you are rude, to interrupt the union of two willing
hearts.
Don Ferd. No, meddling priest! the hand he seeks is mine.
Paul. If so, I'll proceed no further. Lady, did you ever promise
this youth your hand? [To DONNA LOUISA, who shakes her head.]
Don Ferd. Clara, I thank you for your silence—I would not have
heard your tongue avow such falsity; be't your punishment to remember
that I have not reproached you.
Enter DONNA CLARA, veiled.
Don. Clara. What mockery is this?
Don Ferd. Antonio, you are protected now, but we shall meet.
[Going, DONNA CLARA holds one arm, and DONNA LOUISA the other.]
DUET.
Don. Louisa.
Turn thee round, I pray thee,
Calm awhile thy rage.
Don. Clara.
I must help to stay thee,
And thy wrath assuage.
Don. Louisa.
Couldst thou not discover
One so dear to thee?
Don. Clara.
Canst thou be a lover,
And thus fly from me? [Both unveil.]
Don Ferd. How's this? My sister! Clara, too—I'm confounded.
Don. Louisa. 'Tis even so, good brother.
Paul. How! what impiety? did the man want to marry his own sister?
Don. Louisa. And ar'n't you ashamed of yourself not to know your own
sister?
Don. Clara. To drive away your own mistress——
Don. Louisa. Don't you see how jealousy blinds people?
Don. Clara. Ay, and will you ever be jealous again?
Don Ferd. Never—never!—You, sister, I know will forgive me—but
how, Clara, shall I presume——
Don. Clara. No, no; just now you told me not to tease you—"Who do
you want, good signor?" "Not you, not you!" Oh you blind wretch! but
swear never to be jealous again, and I'll forgive you.
Don Ferd. By all——
Don. Clara. There, that will do—you'll keep the oath just as well.
[Gives her hand.]
Don. Louisa. But, brother, here is one to whom some apology is due.
Don Ferd. Antonio, I am ashamed to think——
Don Ant. Not a word of excuse, Ferdinand—I have not been in love
myself without learning that a lover's anger should never be resented.
But come—let us retire, with this good father, and we'll explain to
you the cause of this error.
GLEE AND CHORUS.
Oft does Hymen smile to hear
Wordy vows of feign'd regard;
Well, he knows when they're sincere,
Never slow to give reward
For his glory is to prove
Kind to those who wed for love. [Exeunt.]
SCENE VII—A Grand Saloon in DON JEROME'S House.
Enter DON JEROME, LOPEZ, and SERVANTS.
Don Jer. Be sure, now, let everything be in the best order—let all
my servants have on their merriest faces: but tell them to get as
little drunk as possible, till after supper.—[Exeunt SERVANTS.] So,
Lopez, where's your master? shan't we have him at supper?
Lop. Indeed, I believe not, sir—he's mad, I doubt! I'm sure he has
frighted me from him.
Don Jer. Ay, ay, he's after some wench, I suppose: a young rake!
Well, well, we'll be merry without him. [Exit LOPEZ.]
Enter a SERVANT.
Ser. Sir, here is Signor Isaac. [Exit.]
Enter ISAAC.
Don Jer. So, my dear son-in-law—there, take my blessing and
forgiveness. But where's my daughter? where's Louisa?
Isaac. She's without, impatient for a blessing, but almost afraid to
enter.
Don Jer. Oh, fly and bring her in.—[Exit ISAAC.] Poor girl, I
long to see her pretty face.
Isaac. [Without.] Come, my, charmer! my trembling angel!
Re-enter ISAAC with DUENNA; DON JEROME runs to meet them; she
kneels.
Don Jer. Come to my arms, my—[Starts back.] Why, who the devil
have we here?
Isaac. Nay, Don Jerome, you promised her forgiveness; see how the
dear creature droops!
Don Jer. Droops indeed! Why, Gad take me, this is old Margaret! But
where's my daughter? where's Louisa?
Isaac. Why, here, before your eyes—nay, don't be abashed, my sweet
wife!
Don Jer. Wife with a vengeance! Why, zounds! you have not married
the Duenna!
Duen. [Kneeling.] Oh, dear papa! you'll not disown me, sure!
Don Jer. Papa! papa! Why, zounds! your impudence is as great as your
ugliness!
Isaac. Rise, my charmer, go throw your snowy arms about his neck,
and convince him you are——
Duen. Oh, sir, forgive me! [Embraces him.]
Don Jer. Help! murder!
Enter SERVANTS.
Ser. What's the matter, sir?
Don Jer. Why, here, this damned Jew has brought an old harridan to
strangle me.
Isaac. Lord, it is his own daughter, and he is so hard-hearted he
won't forgive her!
Enter DON ANTONIO and DONNA LOUISA; they kneel.
Don Jer. Zounds and fury! what's here now? who sent for you, sir,
and who the devil are you?
Don Ant. This lady's husband, sir.
Isaac. Ay, that he is, I'll be sworn; for I left them with a priest,
and was to have given her away.
Don Jer. You were?
Isaac. Ay; that's my honest friend, Antonio; and that's the little
girl I told you I had hampered him with.
Don Jer. Why, you are either drunk or mad—this is my daughter.
Isaac. No, no; 'tis you are both drunk and mad, I think—here's your
daughter.
Don Jer. Hark ye, old iniquity! will you explain all this, or not?
Duen. Come then, Don Jerome, I will—though our habits might inform
you all. Look on your daughter, there, and on me.
Isaac. What's this I hear?
Duen. The truth is, that in your passion this morning you made a
small mistake; for you turned your daughter out of doors, and locked
up your humble servant.
Isaac. O Lud! O Lud! here's a pretty fellow, to turn his daughter
out of doors, instead of an old Duenna!
Don Jer. And, O Lud! O Lud! here's a pretty fellow, to marry an old
Duenna instead of my daughter! But how came the rest about?
Duen. I have only to add, that I remained in your daughter's place,
and had the good fortune to engage the affections of my sweet husband
here.
Isaac. Her husband! why, you old witch, do you think I'll be your
husband now? This is a trick, a cheat! and you ought all to be ashamed
of yourselves.
Don Ant. Hark ye, Isaac, do you dare to complain of tricking? Don
Jerome, I give you my word, this cunning Portuguese has brought all
this upon himself, by endeavouring to overreach you, by getting your
daughter's fortune, without making any settlement in return.
Don Jer. Overreach me!
Don. Louisa. 'Tis so, indeed, sir, and we can prove it to you.
Don Jer. Why, Gad, take me, it must be so, or he never could put up
with such a face as Margaret's—so, little Solomon, I wish you joy of
your wife, with all my soul.
Don. Louisa. Isaac, tricking is all fair in love—let you alone for
the plot!
Don Ant. A cunning dog, ar'n't you? A sly little villain, eh?
Don. Louisa. Roguish, perhaps; but keen, devilish keen!
Don Jer. Yes, yes; his aunt always called him little Solomon.
Isaac. Why, the plagues of Egypt upon you all! but do you think I'll
submit to such an imposition?
Don Ant. Isaac, one serious word—you'd better be content as you
are; for, believe me, you will find that, in the opinion of the world,
there is not a fairer subject for contempt and ridicule than a knave
become the dupe of his own art.
Isaac. I don't care—I'll not endure this. Don Jerome, 'tis you have
done this—you would be so cursed positive about the beauty of her you
locked up, and all the time I told you she was as old as my mother,
and as ugly as the devil.
Duen. Why, you little insignificant reptile!——
Don Jer. That's right!—attack him, Margaret.
Duen. Dare such a thing as you pretend to talk of beauty?—A walking
rouleau?—a body that seems to owe all its consequence to the dropsy!
a pair of eyes like two dead beetles in a wad of brown dough! a beard
like an artichoke, with dry, shrivelled jaws that would disgrace the
mummy of a monkey?
Don Jer. Well done, Margaret!
Duen. But you shall know that I have a brother who wears a sword—
and, if you don't do me justice—
Isaac. Fire seize your brother, and you too! I'll fly to Jerusalem
to avoid you!
Duen. Fly where you will, I'll follow you.
Don Jer. Throw your snowy arms about him, Margaret.—[Exeunt ISAAC
and DUENNA.] But, Louisa, are you really married to this modest
gentleman?
Don. Louisa. Sir, in obedience to your commands, I gave him my hand
within this hour.
Don Jer. My commands!
Don Ant. Yes, sir; here is your consent, under your own hand.
Don Jer. How! would you rob me of my child by a trick, a false
pretence? and do you think to get her fortune by the same means? Why,
'slife! you are as great a rogue as Isaac!
Don Ant. No, Don Jerome; though I have profited by this paper in
gaining your daughter's hand, I scorn to obtain her fortune by deceit.
There, sir—[Gives a letter.] Now give her your blessing for a
dower, and all the little I possess shall be settled on her in return.
Had you wedded her to a prince, he could do no more.
Don Jer. Why, Gad, take me, but you are a very extraordinary fellow!
But have you the impudence to suppose no one can do a generous action
but yourself? Here, Louisa, tell this proud fool of yours that he's
the only man I know that would renounce your fortune; and, by my soul!
he's the only man in Spain that's worthy of it. There, bless you both:
I'm an obstinate old fellow when I'm in the wrong; but you shall now
find me as steady in the right.
Enter DON FERDINAND and DONNA CLARA.
Another wonder still! Why, sirrah! Ferdinand, you have not stole a
nun, have you?
Don Fred. She is a nun in nothing but her habit, sir—look nearer,
and you will perceive 'tis Clara d'Almanza, Don Guzman's daughter;
and, with pardon for stealing a wedding, she is also my wife.
Don Jer. Gadsbud, and a great fortune! Ferdinand, you are a prudent
young rogue, and I forgive you: and, ifecks, you are a pretty little
damsel. Give your father-in-law a kiss, you smiling rogue!
Don. Clara. There, old gentleman; and now mind you behave well to
us.
Don Jer. Ifecks, those lips ha'n't been chilled by kissing beads!
Egad, I believe I shall grow the best-humoured fellow in Spain. Lewis!
Sancho! Carlos! d'ye hear? are all my doors thrown open? Our
children's weddings are the only holidays our age can boast; and then
we drain, with pleasure, the little stock of spirits time has left
us.—[Music within.] But, see, here come our friends and neighbours!
Enter MASQUERADERS.
And, i'faith, we'll make a night on't, with wine, and dance, and
catches—then old and young shall join us.
FINALE.
Don Jer.
Come now for jest and smiling,
Both old and young beguiling,
Let us laugh and play, so blithe and gay,
Till we banish care away.
Don. Louisa.
Thus crown'd with dance and song,
The hours shall glide along,
With a heart at ease, merry, merry glees
Can never fail to please.
Don Ferd.
Each bride with blushes glowing,
Our wine as rosy flowing,
Let us laugh and play, so blithe and gay,
Till we banish care away.
Don Ant.
Then healths to every friend
The night's repast shall end,
With a heart at ease, merry, merry glees
Can never fail to please.
Don. Clar.
Nor, while we are so joyous,
Shall anxious fear annoy us;
Let us laugh and play, so blithe and gay,
Till we banish care away.
Don Jer.
For generous guests like these
Accept the wish to please,
So we'll laugh and play, so blithe and gay,
Your smiles drive care away.
[Exeunt omnes.]