First performed at the Theatre Royal Drury Lane, on Monday, October 29th, 1855,
Time in representation thirty-five minutes.
Dolly!
Eh! what-
It is only your husband, stupid.
Good gracious, Jacob, how you frighten one. I thought it was master.
There's little danger of being troubled with him before nine o'clock. He's fast asleep.
Yes, with one eye open, like all wild beasts.
He certainly belongs to that class of animals, and no mistake.
He's a brute, a perfect tiger.
So he is; but that's not very surprising, when we recollect that he was born, bred, and brought up in Bengal; which country, I've heard say, produces the finest tigers in the world.
But what can make him so savage?
I don't know. His love of solitude, perhaps.
I declare it's horrid to see a person shunning all mankind in such a way.
Ah! you don't shun mankind, my dear.
What do you mean by that?
Oh, nothing-nothing! only that you don't like to be boxed up any more than I do; and when I reflect that we've been here for six months, in this animal's cage-
Yes, Jacob, but its a cage in which we get some nice pickings.
That may be; but still I'm tired of it.
Not more than I am. Only allowed out once a fortnight.
And then, without your husband.
And all the rest of the time cooped up within four walls.
Yes, but that's with your husband.
It's horrible!
Eh!–
Nonsense! a husband is all very well, but one likes a change.
What–
Of air.
Oh!
And scene.
Oh, yes, of course!
Let's leave him!–let's give him warning!
With all my heart. I'll do it, the very first time I catch him in a good humour.
Why not at once.
I don't see why we shouldn't.
As the place don't suit us.
And as we want to go.
I'll speak to him. I'm not afraid of him.
Jacob!
Eh!–here he comes.
Now for it! pluck up a spirit; don't tremble! I'll support you–I'll back you up!
Jacob! Dolly!
Here, sir.
Here we are, sir!
What does all this singing and laughing mean?
Laughing, sir!
There's nobody laughing here, sir.
Where then?
Oh, I see! Don't you know, sir?
Know what?
Old Mr. Tomkins, your landlord, has sent a lot of men to whitewash the ceilings.
What?
And new paper the rooms.
What?
And repair the roof.
What?
And paint the house.
What!–whitewash, paint, paper! I won't have it. I didn't ask him to do it. It shan't be done! I'll remain as I am!
But, sir, for all the nine years you have been here it has never been touched, and—
Hold your tongue.
The animal! to dare to whitewash, paper, and paint me! Suppose the rooms are a little brown, I like 'em! Go to old Tomkins, tell him to take all his workmen away, instantly. I give him till ten o'clock, if they are not gone by that time, I'll pitch the first one I meet into the fish pond that stands at the bottom of my garden! Well, why don't you go?
Hem!–the fact is, sir, I only wanted to say–
What?
Pray don't be angry, sir, we only wish–
What?
To–to–
To quit your service, sir.
Quit my service?
And if you will have the kindness to discharge us, and get rid of us as soon as possible—
We should for ever be obliged to you, sir.
Quit my service? Never!
Well, sir, I've no fault to find, I'm sure, only, you make a regular jail of the house.
And you want to change it to another jail.
Eh?
Close by the Town Hall there's one, where they receive, and provide board and lodging for servants who steal their master's wine.
How the devil did he know that?
If you prefer it, I'll have a room prepared for you, there.
Oh, lord! No, no, sir.
After all, sir, I suppose we are not slaves—and I like a taste of fresh air, and a walk now and then.
In the evening with a policeman, down Love Lane.
Mercy on me, whoever told him that?
You think once a fortnight too seldom, but your husband, if he knew it, might
think it too often.
Oh, sir!
Well, well, say no more about it.
Yes, sir! Yes, sir!
But suppose he refuses, sir?
Refuses?
Am I to give him notice that you'll quit?
Quit? Never! I'll strangle him first!
Oh! I'll tell him, sir! I'll tell him!
Quit! Never!
Yes, sir, Miss Arabella is in the drawing room.
Bless her dear heart, I'll go, and give her a kiss.
I know, sir! I'll take care.
What! whether I will or not! Paper, paint, whitewash me!
As the garden gate is open, I'll lock this door to make all sure.
This is Mr. Chutnee's?
He's not at home!
I know it.
He never is!
I know it; I wish to speak to his wife.
He's a widower!
To his mother.
She's dead, too!
To his housekeeper, then.
His housekeeper! What the deuce can he want with me?
Open the door, it is of great consequence.
He seems a civil spoken person, I'll risk it, for once.
So here I am, then, in the Tiger's lair. This is his den.
Why, bless me, if it isn't Mr. Beeswing.
Eh? what, Dolly?
The wine merchant's traveller!
The pretty chambermaid of the commercial at Cheltenham.
This is lucky! I knew I had something to say to you my darling.
Good gracious, Mr. Beeswing, what on earth brings you here?
Business, Dolly! I have come to tickle your master's liquid sensibilities! Do you take?
Oh, yes! But do you know him?
By reputation only; a queer fish they say.
Fish! He's a beast. Mr. Beeswing, a regular ferocious wild beast!
Never mind, I'll stir him up with a long pole.
If you'll take my advice, you will make your way out of his house as soon as possible.
Never! my honour's engaged in the affair!
How?
Well, a party of sixteen of us, all good men, and true, some of the choicest spirits on the road, were dining together yesterday, at the Lamb! I needn't tell you we were all well primed.
No, you needn't tell me that.
And when Aurora with her rosy fingers was opening her shutters—
Aurora! Have they got a new chambermaid, then–has Betty left?
Bless your unsophisticated innocence! you are not mythological, Dolly.
No, sir, but you said Aurora–so I thought.—
Of course you did. But Aurora, at this period of the year, means half past three o'clock in the morning, Dolly.
Oh! Ah! Yes!
Well, about half past three this morning, while we were mutually recounting our exploits
and successes, some, while confessing their defeats, mentioned a certain Mr. Chili Chutnee,
to whom no one has ever been able to make a sale, and, from whom, more
than one has had some difficulty in escaping with a whole skin.
Oh, don't I!
Ah! he was a good judge. he makes a failure with old Chutnee; and if anybody will bet me two cases
to one, I'll take it, that he gets his bones broken into the bargain.' 'Done," said I, “on
both events,”—and the wager was noted down amid hurrahs of enthusiasm–and here I am."
I shouldn't like to be in your place. I tell you he is a perfect wild beast.
I've travelled all over the world in my time, and cut wild beasts' claws of all sorts and sizes. I'll tame him.
I don't think it.
We shall see. After all, what do I risk? My corpus–my edifice. Well, it is mine! I don't hire it; I hold the fee simple of it; I have a right to dispose of it as I please. I have relations, it is true, scattered here and there about the world, like dandelions in a hay–field; but there isn't one of 'em, if my nose was bleeding, would lend me a key to put down my back to stop it. I have a rich old bachelor uncle in this very town, yet the animal would never even give me an order for a dozen of port, although he drinks three bottles every day of his life; so if I choose to run a hazard, what is it to anybody?
Oh, if you don't care about it.
You are wrong, I do care–to a certain extent. But what I care for infinitely more
is to preserve my reputation as the first man–the cleverest fellow in my profession. Where is
this Bengal Tiger?
With his daughter in the next room.
Oh, he has a daughter, has he? The Mohican! Well, I'll wait here till he comes.
Dolly, you haven't got a long pole, have you?
No, sir, but here's this morning's paper.
Where's to–day's Times, Dolly?
Oh, mercy, there he is!
Bravo! the overture has struck up–the opera is about to begin. It opens with a duet between the trombone and the first fiddle, so you may take your flute out of the orchestra, Dolly.
I will.
Don't you hear me, you lazy minx? where's my to–day's Times?
There it is.
A stranger here?
Some very interesting news this morning.
Where do you come from? Who do you want?
I want Mr. Chili Chutnee.
Well my name is Chutnee–well?
I come to propose a matter of business to you.
I have left off business these ten years.
I'll smooth the animal down a little.
That's flattery! This fellow is a humbug.
He don't bite–he looks as if he could.
I'm not easily deceived—I'm up to snuff, sir.
Try that, you'll find it good.
No. thank you; be so good as to let me know, plainly, what you want?
Don't like flattery, eh?
What?
You asked me to speak plainly–I want to sell you six dozen of champagne, which a customer has returned on my hands, because he says it is manufactured from gooseberries.
What! Another of these infernal travelling wine merchants. Hark ye, you're a new hand I fancy, or you must have heard of the sort of treatment you gentry usually meet with from me.
May I inquire its nature?
I'll set my dogs at you.
Oh, indeed! Have you any good ones? I should like to see them. I have dealt in dogs; in fact, I have dealt in almost everything in my time. What breed are they?
Bull dogs, sir!
And I'm sure well–bred with so well–bred a master.
Death, and the devil!
The bull dog is a most interesting animal; what a mouth he has–what a jaw–what strength! I knew one, sir, who would have lifted you off the ground by the hair of your head, in this way.
Hands off, if you expect to leave this room alive.
Leave this room alive! of course I do.
You had better make haste, then.
Why so? do you suppose I credit all the queer stories they tell about you? I don't believe you're a bit more ferocious than other people; they were afraid of you–I'm not; that's all the difference.
In a word, sir, I believe I'm master in my own house; you have thrust yourself in, unasked, and I have a perfect right to–
Tell me to leave it; so you have, with politeness.
Politeness to a–. But so be it. Sir, I have not the honour to know you–I have no wish to make your acquaintance. You come to offer to sell me bad champagne; I don't want any champagne. I hope that is polite? so, now be kind enough to quit my premises.
Sir, I can refuse nothing to so well–bred a bull–dog–gentleman, I mean–and have the honour to wish you a very good morning.
A good riddance. The impudent villain!
If you think you have got rid of me, you old rhinoceros, you are vastly mistaken. Good morning, Chutnee; pray don't trouble yourself to come to the door. You are a good hearted fellow, I'm sure, Chili! only a little too warm, Chili,–Ta, ta! ta, ta!
That is certainly the most impudent fellow I ever met with. I could scarcely keep myself from—
May I come in, papa?
Yes, my darling; always when I am alone. Come here, my darling.
You are vexed about something.
I–no!
Ah, now, you can't deceive me. I can see a little ugly wrinkle here
Well, yes; just now, a–no matter, you are; by my side, and all is forgotten.
Ah, that's right!
I love you so dearly; you are the only one I love in the world.
Oh yes! my sister, too?
I don't! she left me.
To go with her husband!
A pretty reason, truly! a father is nothing, of course! I detest her husband! He promised to remain here with his wife; and, after they were married,–
But his business obliged him to go and settle in Edinburgh.
I don't believe it; let us drop the subject, it irritates me; give me a kiss, darling! You
won't leave me; you will love me always, won't you? I will do everything I can to render your
life happy. Have you seen the new
Oh! what a beautiful necklace!
It is yours.
My dear father, you are too kind to me.
You think me kind, do you?
Yes, indeed!
Ah! to you I am; to everybody else I am a brute–a savage, as they call me. No
matter, let them call me what they please. Why don't you put on your necklace?
It is more fitted for a ball room, papa; one only wears these things, you know, when one wants to look handsome.
So you don't want to look handsome for me, then?
Oh yes, I do, papa!
That's a good girl.
I only meant that, when one is at home–
Yes –yes, I know.
What a pity that I had not this necklace when you let me go to Eastborne to stay a fortnight with my aunt. But, next time I visit her, I'll take it with me.
You won't visit her any more.
Indeed!
No; it was all very well for once, because you were ill. But I shan't consent to it again.
As you please, papa.
I was wretched all the time you were away. I fancied you were surrounded by a thousand dangers; and so you were. A stupid old fool of a woman to allow you to go and bathe in the sea–all alone!
Poor aunty! I'm sure she was frightened enough, when she suddenly saw me disappear beneath the waves, and I should assuredly have been drowned, but for that young stranger, who happened to be passing, and rescued me.
You have never seen him since, have you?
Never! No sooner had he brought me safely to the shore than he ran off, as if ashamed of the service he had rendered me.
Ah, good!
But I am sure I should know him again if ever we chance to meet.
Humph! You are never likely to meet.
Very well, papa!
Coming–coming!
Ten thousand apologies for disturbing you!
What! you again?
Don't get out of temper. I was wrong, I confess it. I own it, and I have come to make the amende honourable.
Make the devil!
It was an insult to offer you champagne, and more especially such champagne as that. You were very right to have nothing to do with it.
And I was very right also to show you the door
Perfectly! Unquestionably!
Then why have you come back again?
Champagne for you!–a woman's wine. No! The stuff to suit you, my dear Chutnee, is a very fine, dry old Madeira, and as I have some magnificent–
Sir! This time I shan't show you out at the door–I shall throw you
out.
What! you, yourself?
Why not?
With those two little thin arms?
Yes, sir!
Well, you may be strong, I don't say you are not–you are wiry, perhaps, but I haven't fed lately with a pap–spoon. I'm firmly–built–healthy biceps!
Do you threaten me? Ten thousand devils! will you get out?
Immediately, if you'll prove to me that you have in your wine cellar any Madeira as good as mine.
What are you doing, there?
Ringing for a bottle of yours.
Villain!
Ah!
Papa! papa!
My daughter!
Did you ring, papa ?
No! go to your room, I'm busy.
Not at all! not at all!
Is it possible? was it not you, sir, who–
Who–what?
A month ago, at Eastborne–
Yes–yes? but I knew which way the current ran; there was no great merit in it.
Was it this person, who—
Saved my life? Yes, father, it was, indeed!
Enough!
You have saved my daughter's life, it appears!
The devil's in it, if I haven't got him safe now.
If I had been there such an accident would never have happened? but no matter for that.
Turn me out of the house, now, do?
Is that the way in which you thank him, papa?
Silence!
Five per cent. net.
You will be so good as to send me in five and twenty pounds worth of Madeira.
Certainly! Allow me to make a memorandum of the order.
That will be five and twenty shillings for your–self, which, I believe, is a half–a–crown
more than the cost of the Humane Society's gold medal.
Eh?
I'll give you my cheque for the amount at once.
What a queer old crocodile! I hardly expected that.
Take this in re–membrance of me, sir.
No!no! really–I–
I beg–I insist!
There, sir, is a checque for the twenty–five pounds, and now we are quits.
Oh! father–
Bid the gentleman good day, and go to your room.
Sir–I—
How the deuce shall I give her back the necklace!
Good day, sir! and, I feel myself still your debtor, believe me.
You haven't seen the last of me yet, old fellow.
I was very right to get rid of him as I did! There always are crowds of young humbugs
saving
It's I, master, Jacob.
I have been to the landlord, sir.
Well?
And it is impossible to have an answer, sir.
Ah! He does that on purpose to put me in a rage, and drive me to extremities
No, sir, nothing of the sort. The poor man is dead.
Dead!
Yes, sir, of a perplexity, in the middle of the night–last night. He had a very short neck, just like yours, sir!
I'll–
You can't sir! They musn't go!
What!
I've seen the lawyer, who has charge of every–thing; he says that the house is being put in order, because the very last instructions he received from Mr. Tompkins were, that it was to be sold; and he can't stop the repairs without the permission of the heir–at–law.
Who is the heir–at–law?
That's his address, sir.
Give it to me, fool! Donkey, get out–leave me.
Three, six, seven feet nine.
Here again?
Ah! excuse me, don't disturb yourself, merely taking some measures.
Sir! this–
I'm rather afraid it's dam –eh?
Sir! you have saved my daughter's life, it is true, but that is no reason why—
That I should come into your house through the window, I confess it !–but I felt that you had most probably locked all the doors. Now tell me, upon your honour!–Is it damp?
Is what, damp?
This house!
Jacob! go and fetch the police.
Jacob! Your man seems to have got a fit of the sloes.
What do you mean by that?
What, don't you know what sloes are! Ah, you are no wine merchant.
Jacob! Jacob!
Why, what's the matter? When a house is for sale, I believe people have a right to look through it? I'm looking through this.
What?
Here's the printed bill, "This House to be Sold," and I think I shall buy it.
I shall murder this man, I know I shall
Bring coals and wood, Jacob!
Coals and wood!
And light a fire; I want to see if the chimneys smoke.
Get out–get out of my sight; I shall kill somebody, shortly.
Oh! I forgot the doors! are they in good order? how do they hang?
I should like to see you hang.
Pretty well–pretty well! that will do. Now let's try this.
The villain! That's my daughter's room!
It is as well to make certain.
One step further and you are dead man.
Very well, fire away! Commit murder; but recollect, all I want to know from you
is, how they hang.
Is it, though. I have something to say to her.
What about?
A private matter; nothing that concerns you.
But, sir–
Well, well, I've no particular objection to tell you. I'm in love with your daughter.
I knew it–I was sure of it.
And I even venture to flatter myself that she–
She–
Do you know this necklace?
The one I gave her.
Ah, she is not quite so unmindful of what is due to the man who saved her life, as her
father. She thought that five–and–twenty shillings was hardly enough, so she added this to
it. But take it back,
Marry you?
Why not? I'm poor, I confess, but–
It makes no difference with me, if you were as rich as Croesus. Moreover, there is a singular, dare–devil, coolness about you, which I can't help admiring. But I have made up my mind, that as long as I live, my daughter shall remain single.
Then you must be killed.
What!
I shan't like the task, for to say the truth, there's a strange oddity about you which I
cannot help liking. You're not an every day father–in–law; you are not a common–place,
tasteless, boiled veal sort of a father–in–law.
Must I, indeed!
Yes, I have made up my mind, and when Charley Beeswing makes up his mind–
What did you say, Charles Beeswing.
Yes, that is my name.
Then you are the nephew of Mr. Peter Tomkins?
Inasmuch as he is my uncle, I believe I am.
My landlord!
Eh?
I'm delighted. His agent has just referred me to you.
What about?
About the purchase of this house. I have lived in it nine years, sir, and I am so attached to the old place, that it would break my heart to part with it. The dearest wish I have on earth is, to spend the rest of my days and die beneath this roof. It is folly, perhaps, it is a mania you will say, still—
But why do you address yourself to me? Go to my uncle.
Your uncle is dead.
Dead!
Last night–did you not know it?
Not I.
And as you are his heir–at–law—
Oho! I'm your landlord, am I?
What is your price for it, sir. I pay down on the nail.
It makes no difference with me.
A cheque for the whole amount before you leave the–
If you were as rich as Croesus–
I don't want to haggle about terms.
It makes no difference with me.
But, sir–
Sir, I adore this house. Like
What?
Sir, the dearest wish I have on earth is to spend the rest of my days and die beneath this
roof. It is a folly, perhaps it is a mania, you will say ; but mania's are
respectable things, when indulged in by respectable people, so I give you notice to quit.
Notice to quit!—to me, a tenant of nine years' standing! after I have made such improvements–rebuilt the stables, laid down fresh drains, made a beautiful new kitchen garden–
And I am so doatingly fond of vegetables. Thank you!
Then you shan't live long.
We shall see.
I won't take notice; you shan't go!
Let go; this is a go.
Villain! I'll strangle you!
You are not strong enough in the biceps!
I'll kill you–I'll–
Good gracious me, how dreadfully they are quarrelling. I knew how it would end–I told him
so.
What is the matter?
Oh, frightful! murder is the matter, perhaps !
Great Heaven!
They've just left the room.
They–who?
That young man and your father!
Quarrelling!
Oh, shocking! and bawling and pitching into one another, terrible.
Merciful powers!
I'm sure something horrible will come of it.
What is to be done.
Oh, Miss!–Oh, Dolly! O—h!
Speak!
Such an event!
What has happened?
Master and that other gent–
Well!
Having a desperate row, at the bottom of the garden.
Yes!
The gent trying to get away.
Go on!
And master trying to hold him fast.
Well!
The gent's coat-tail came slap off in master's hand, and bang he fell into the fish–pond!
Who fell?
The gent! and it's sixteen feet deep.
Merciful heaven! Drowned!
I don't know–I didn't stop to see I ran here to tell you.
This is a dreadful affair! He went down like a stone, and never rose again. What is to be done?
Oh papa! surely–surely–
It was pure accident, my darling. He was obstinate–I was obstinate–
Oh! To think that, after saving my life, he should perish thus!
And, worse than all, I fear you loved him!
I did!–I did!
I declare I would have sacrificed all I possess, in the world, and give him your hand into the bargain, rather than this should have happened. But, when we quarrelled, he didn't give way—I didn't give way–but his coat–tail did give way.
Why, how did you come here?
By water!
Alive!
And merry! after the sweet confession I have heard from these dear lips; and your own declaration that you would have consented to our union. So, I suppose, you are hardly going to have another quarrel on the subject, my dear papa?
Ah! but I said that when I thought you were dead.
So I was; you don't want to kill me again—twice in one day; you don't want to pull my other
coat–tail off,
Why, you only jumped into a fish–pond!
Well, wasn't that a diver's feat? But come, you'll consent to our union; I know you will, for, bless you, you can't deceive me. I've seen through you all along.
Seen through me?
Yes, as clear as a claret glass. I said to myself "'there's a world of good in that dry old husk;" but the difficulty was to crack you to get at the kernel. Why, bless you! kind feelings, like champagne, no matter how you cork, tie, wire it to keep it down, it will come up–it will effervesce. Now, you effervesced!
Did I? Did I effervesce?
Of course you did; didn't you pull my coat–tail off? what was that? why, kind feeling to be sure. I cut the string, and pop–you effervesced.
Well, I believe I did; and if I thought you wouldn't turn me out of the old house.
Turn out! not exactly; we all mean to turn in
But have a care, if ever you take her away from this house while I live–
I'll give you leave to burn it down to the ground.
But how and when did you get out of the water? I saw nothing of you after you disappeared.
I never intended you should. I dived down under the boat, on the opposite side, among the weeds, and squatted down behind it, till I saw you enter the house.
For shame, to frighten us so.
All is fair in love.
You must be a famous swimmer, sir?
It's only a mere wet before dinner. Well, after all, I have made a tolerable good
day's work. I think, even old Jack Barber will confess, I haven't done badly. I've won a
wager and a wife; found a house and a home; dropped into a fortune and a fish–pond; bought a
two–foot rule and tamed a tiger, and all within the short space of twenty minutes, by the
best stop watch! And now, ladies and gentlemen, if any of you have at home, a tiger or a
tartar, bring 'em here, and I'll cut their claws–you have seen my method.