First produced at the Royal Adelphi Theatre.
London.
One day.
There, there, and there; at last, then I have finished. Anyone to see me sign so rapidly, would look upon it as a sign of industry; but no, if industrious at all, it is industriously idle I am—for what little business I am obliged to do, I do thus rapidly, that I may have the more time to be idle—No, no, not idle, for he who devotes himself to the service of the ladies, need never complain of not having enough to do. Oh, here comes old Mathew, my head clerk.
I hope, to-day, sir, you will look over my last two years' accounts.
Not to-day, Mathew, not to-day—to-morrow.
To-morrow, always to-morrow. Ah, sir! to-morrow's that scoundrel, who has never yet been born, who has deceived so many by his promissory notes, that I doubt whether he'll ever dare show his face in this world at all.
Has Lord Charles called this morning?
No, sir, not yet.
I wrote to him—why does he not come, I wonder? If I do not see him every morning, I never know how to fill up the day.
Still young, you are one of the first merchants in London, and though it's only two years since you practised addition, and got married—
It must be more than that.
Two years, this very day.
True.
You were, and even now, as sure as madam goes one way, you as surely go the other. Nothing is as it used to be—except our amateur concerts, now and then; at which you blow the French horn so charmingly; if you no longer love your wife, one must confess you still love music.
Mathew, you are going a little too far.
Pardon, sir, but the love I bear the son of my old master—who has pass'd his account, bless him!—makes me speak out. Look here, sir, at these diamonds, that you ordered me to purchase, and which, I fear, are not for my lady—
Fear nothing, and keep your lips closed about the diamonds.
Depend on me, sir; but do, pray do be more attentive to my mistress; for be sure that if the husband deceives the wife, the wife will very soon deceive the husband. Here comes the great cause of all our troubles, Lord Charles.
You are wrong, Mathew, he is the very best and most attached of all my friends. As you go down, tell William to let me know the moment the maker brings home the new pair of French horns I have ordered.
I'll not forget, sir; no, I must cease my lecture and begone, for when deceitful folly enters, honest sobriety had better quit the field.
Good morning, Melville. How fares it?
Bon jour, mon cher ami! How is it you are out so early this morning? We did not
press the down of our pillows until the middle of the night.
I had some little purchases to make.
I wish to speak to you before I see my wife; I want your assistance.
And you shall have it.
I'll do as much for you when you are married. Well, you must know, the lovely little French girl, that invincible beauty, with all her unconquerable virtue, has at last melted a little.
I compliment your chymical power.
Yes, and as I shall want a little money for my private business, and you have always been tempting me to sell my young Arabian horse, I am determined you shall purchase it.
Willingly, and with thanks.
But, ah! my dear friend, now comes the great service you must do me. It will be necessary
that I should, at three o'clock, be here, alone—wife
My only hope is in you.
As how?
Presently, in a careless way, you must propose to me and my wife just to take an airing in the park.
Well?
At the moment we are ready to depart, I remember an important affair—and men of business
have plenty ready made— I am, therefore, against my will, obliged to remain
at home. As the horses are put to the carriage, I could not think of preventing my dear wife
enjoying herself; and you, yes, you must accompany her.
But, Melville—
I know you must think a wife disagreeable, but out of friendship for me, do all you can to amuse her.
If you absolutely wish it—
You go this evening to the ball at Lady Graves, my wife's aunt?
I am invited.
You know that for this year past I have not been on visiting terms with her ladyship?
Which has astonished me greatly—a lady so amiable!
True, she is an excellent creature; but then I was always obliged to be there twice a week,
a thing not to be borne, whereas by quarrelling with her, I don't prevent my wife attending
her parties—indeed, I insist upon her never missing one—by which, instead of two
nights a week of detestable tediousness, I enjoy two nights a week of delightful liberty.
Well managed, indeed.
Is it not so? Now, my dear friend, you must take her to this ball and conduct her home again.
Perhaps—I am engaged elsewhere—
It is to serve a friend, and by this means Julia will suspect nothing; for after all, I would not give her pain for worlds; and if I thought there was a chance of the affair ever coming to her knowledge, I would renounce it altogether.
Yes, my friend, my wife before all.
So plump, so pretty—not so pretty as my wife, I allow—but it is a whim of mine, a fancy.
You have a great many such fancies.
This is the last, I swear! But, after all, it does not hinder one loving one's wife—rather the contrary.
But I do not like to be an accomplice—
I'll do the same for you with your countesses and your duchesses, for no less rank will
suit you. You delight in elegance and grandeur, I in simplicity and beauty. You
admire the arms of your mistresses upon her carriage door, I admire mine
with her arms about my neck; chaçun à son goût. But why have you been so mysterious
of late? I tell you all, you tell me nothing. Are you in love?
Yes, to desperation; but without hope!
Is she handsome?
A divinity!
A divinity!—oh, you're always in the clouds. Ah, that's above me.
She is charming—young, beautiful, and virtuous!
Virtuous!—that last's the devil! But never despair, man, chance and perseverance may do wonders.
I believe it, for last night—oh! happy, happy night—imagining she looked upon me with a tender eye, I was tempted to make a declaration!
With your lips?
No, I did not dare to speak, but gliding gently past her, and unperceived by her husband, I slipped a note into her lovely hand!
And she accepted it?
Julia, what has happened?
Is that you, love?
Love! she can't mean her husband, surely!
I'm sorry I spoke so crossly, but the stupidity of that girl is beyond bearing.
You have lost something, madam.
Yes! that beautiful present which I discovered the moment I awoke.
It was so kind—the sentiment so eloquent—I should scarcely have remembered myself that this was my birthday.
But this act has obliterated all my little cross feelings, and I confess myself alone culpable.
Pleased? delighted! It is so long since you behaved so kindly, that I hail it as the return of a long—long absent friend—happiness. The flowers, too, are so beautiful.
Yes, they are pretty. nor did it come from me—
Pardon, madam, the boldness I have displayed in thus daring, but remembering this to be your birthday—I—I—
You, sir!
I hoped that so slight an attention might not be received with displeasure, either by you, madam, or by my dear friend, your husband.
I displeased! no no! I thank you a thousand times. it was very kind—very kind—exceedingly,
knowing how I am distracted with business.
Anything that will please you will delight me.
As the weather is beautiful, suppose we all three take an airing in the park, and afterwards visit the diorama— the new views, they say, are superb.
For myself, I would rather remain at home.
No—you must go, dear, must she not, Charles? we shall return to dinner, and Charles has kindly promised to take my place, and attend you to the ball this evening.
And will you not go?
How happy it would make me, but being upon the terms I am at present with your aunt—and besides, I have this evening an appointment upon business—you know, Charles, the affair we were mentioning.
Yes, Mrs. Melville, an affair of such a confidential nature that I dare say he will not feel himself authorised to tell even you.
No, not till to-morrow.
Well, I must be content—he is master.
You are vexed, Julia.
Not at all—I am used to it now; formerly when you refused to accompany me, I remained at home alone, and wept.
How childish!
I used to say to myself—and these tears and vexation make one so ugly—it's odious, you know, to have large red eyes, so I determined to leave off crying and smile—ay, smile at sorrow as well as mirth.
Sorrow must fly before such a smile, did you but know how gaiety becomes you, how enchanting you appear in the dance. I hope I may claim that fair hand for the first quadrille.
If my husband will permit.
Oh, certainly—certainly! I authorise even your dancing the gallopade.
Charming! the dance of which I have heard so much, but have never seen.
Can it be possible?
Yes, truly! Balls generally finish by it, and we never remain after eleven—my husband always wants to go to sleep.
Quite natural! I hate dancing, and that dance above all.
You are wrong! how much more amusing is it than
Remember, Julia—I allow it only with Charles.
And why not with others?
Why, because it ought to be danced by intimate friends only, and one should be very sure of
the person we allow to gallopade with one's wife.
I ought to be afraid of being unworthy of you, my lord, for I know but little about it.
For the ladies nothing is easier; they have but to allow themselves to be conducted, and I am certain I could in a single lesson—
You are very kind.
Not at all! it's customary, when one is to dance in the evening, just to try it over in the
morning.
Oh, certainly—certainly! and since Charles is kind enough to take the trouble of giving you a lesson, I'll play the violin while you dance.
Are you serious?
The milliner has brought your new dresses, madam.
It's very provoking, but if you can wait but a few minutes, I will return and profit by your able instruction.
My dear friend, what do I not owe you? I was dreadfully afraid she would not go
without me this evening.
So was I.
What trouble you take to serve me—but remember, I've promised to aid you all in my power in your intrigue, and I'll do it.
Thank you!
I'll do it—I'll do it.
And while Julia is away, I will take the opportunity of speaking to my servant, who is waiting with my cabriolet, and will be up again immediately.
But don't be long! all is going on well—my wife suspects nothing—they will go without
me—Rosalie will be here at three, and then in the evening during the ball—oh, charming—thanks
to that good fellow, Lord Charles—I am for the whole day—he's a true friend—so attached to
me; he is scarcely ever away from my house.
Sir, your new horns have come home.
Ah, curse you! get out!
What is the matter, sir?
What is the matter? Zounds! here have I been waiting an hour for my man Felix! where is he?
He's gone to take your horns—
you mention it.
Why, he's only gone with the horns—
If you do finish it, I must throw you out of the window.
Dear me—what has come to my master?
Where is Joseph?
He went out with madam's mantuamaker.
What, Joseph, a married man, go out with a pretty milliner? I shall discharge the scoundrel. I'll have no such goings on in my house. “Oh—happy day! Oh—day to be remembered,” “What wild emotion,” “Pleasing agitation,”— agitation!—what will rhyme to agitation? agitation—
Why, multiplication!
Talk about multiplication to my wife? nonsense! “Ah—happy day,”—
I don't know how other poets compose verses, but I must say you do it in a most furious manner.
I hear my wife. Begone.
“Oh—happy day.”
Here I am at last—and now I shall be happy to take my lesson in dancing. What, Charles
gone, and my husband writing. What can he be so intent upon? I wish I could see. If I could,
without notice—just over his shoulder.
Were those verses there, really for me?
If, when finished, I had thought them worthy of you, if not, they should have shared the fate of others—which I've torn on the instant.
Then you have written more than these?
Volumes!—yes, volumes—and all to you, love. feel as if I
could strangle her. By-the-bye, love, you know this is the anniversary of our marriage. I
composed a little serenade in honour of the occasion, which I hope will please you.
Ah, Edmund, this attention is so kind, it recalls to memory happy days long since past.
tête-a-tête with your
husband will not be too disagreeable.
Oh, fie, Edmund, you know how truly happy it would make me, could I have a little more of your society.
Bravo! bravo! upon my life, this little matrimonial tableau is quite refreshing.
Oh, here is Charles—how very kind he is.
I beg pardon, madam,
I can't, I've no bow—
Then on the flute.
I've no breath—and besides, I'm not in a humour to play the flute.
This is fortunate. I've found your bow—now there's no excuse; so just place this violin
under your chin and strike up.
But, my dear, you won't dance?
Yes, indeed I shall—for if I do not try it once first with Charles, I shall look quite ridiculous.
Now, Melville.
Well, I suppose I must.
For goodness sake, don't scrape so.
he'll get into a scrape
too.
Sir!
Your hand in mine.
I shall be very well without that.
Impossible!
Yes, yes—she'll do very well without that.
You mind your fiddling—quite impossible!
I can't keep time—I've no rosin.
Did anyone ever see anything so stupid?
Oh, horrible! really Melville, you're very much in our way.
Now once more, and don't make so many shakes.
Dancing with you, my lord, has quite turned my head.
My maid has gone out—might I trouble you, Melville, to fetch my fan from the room below?
Let me fly for it.
away—I can't bear it—I must put
an end to this. I'll make 'em quarrel, then she'll dismiss him the house.
Melville!
You care but little for me.
I could make the same reproach to you.
It would be unjust; your indifference—I will confess all—once made me try to
forget you, by attempting to love another.
Another!
Yes—you neglected—she flattered me, and we are all open to flattery; you
know—
Is it possible?
My candour will at least prove that I resisted; and then Charles—poor fellow, he is so doatingly fond of the girl—
Charles!
What have I said? it's abominable to betray the affection and confidence of a friend.
Does Charles love the girl?
Be secret—he does; but then he loves all the girls— and he's right. If women are such fools as to run after him, what was he to do? I was just the same when I was a bachelor?
What, sir?
Charles and I were companions, and used to wager which could deceive the largest number—I remember—I really can't help laughing. Yes, I remember at one time we had so many upon our hands that we composed a circular letter, which answered for all sorts and sizes—only fancy, a love letter being lithographed!
Shocking!
Abominable! I blush to think of it. But it saved a great deal of time—there was no searching for phrases. I think I can remember it now. “Pardon—pardon, madam,” or “miss,” as occasion required—“Pardon an unhappy wretch, who dies of love and despair.”
Enough, sir, it's too dreadful to think of.
Here is the fan, and the carriage is at the door— may I have the honour?
I thank you, my lord, for this excess of attention, but I've changed my mind. I shall not go out.
What, madam?
Not go out, my love?
No, I shall remain.
It will be such a disappointment to all our friends, who were to meet us.
You can prevent that, by sending them a circular.
A circular?
A circular!
Yes—lithographed.
Lithographed?
Lithographed!
And if not, we have no wish to prevent you joining them.
A whim, doubtless—nothing but a whim.
But don't you be afraid—I shall be able to clear all up again, at the first opportunity.
find one—for nothing in the world
shall force me to leave them for a moment together.
Sir, a person is waiting for you, in your private office.
Say I can't see them.
They said they were to come at three o'clock.
and very pretty.
I don't doubt you.
Don't stand upon ceremony with me—go down I beg.
If Melville don't like to descend, Mathew can ask the person to walk up.
Well, then, why don't you go?
Yes, why don't you go?
Yes, yes—I'll go, I'll go—
I cannot.
'Tis necessary. I will speak no more of a love that to you is so displeasing—odious. But I value your esteem, your friendship. I must justify my conduct.
There is no occasion.
What, madam, have I done?—What is my crime?
Do you ask me? I did not wish, yesterday, before my husband, before every body, to
return your note, that you had the audacity—
Madam!
Be assured I shall not augment the number of your conquests!
My conquests? Who has dared say—
One who knows you well, my lord.
Your husband, perhaps; but I think, before one accuses another, we ought ourselves, at all events, to be less reproachable.
What mean you? I am sure my husband does not deserve that remark.
Perhaps not!
I am sure not!—he has told me all.
All?
Yes, and so far from being angry, from this moment I love him better than ever!
indeed told you all?
Yes, my lord.
Of his appointment—and of the supper?
Then you know not of it?
No!
Then do not believe me—I did not say supper.
Do not think to deceive me. You must complete the confidence, or I must think you wish dishonourably to ruin Melville in my eyes.
Can you believe so?
I can believe all; and never place your foot within this house again if you do not instantly speak!
What am I to say?
Listen to me, my lord—I loved my husband, I still love him more than all the world; but if
he has betrayed me— if you can give me proof—decided proof—
You will not banish me from your presence—you will allow me to see you again?
The proof—the proof!
But promise?
The proof!
At last I've got rid of her, and now I breathe again.
Well, sir, this important visit?—
Was not of such consequence as I had expected—they are gone.
You have returned very soon.
That's not very flattering to me, considering how I hurried to be near you.
You fear the evening may not be long enough.
What do you mean?
Oh, nothing. I am not in want of dinner, and shall retire to my own apartment, and there
wait, until Lord Charles takes me to the ball. very beautiful this evening.
Then you intend to go?
Certainly. Have I not promised Charles, and did you not command me to go?
Command? I wished it.
A wish from a husband is a command.
I, madam?
Certainly. Since you take the trouble to escort me, surely I ought to do
all I can to please you.
What?
Impossible!
As you are going home, don't forget to send me the cheque for the four hundred guineas.
Four hundred guineas? You said in your note, three hundreed.
Oh, no, four hundred—indeed, you—
You really are in error.
I assure you I am not.
You wrote three hundred in the note, this morning, which I'll show you.
That must not be; if I wrote three hundred, I must keep my word—What is written is written—so let us see the note?
Yes, you had it this morning.
Had I—perhaps I had.
I am convinced now it was four, not three, and I will send it immediately.
Bring it yourself, when you come to fetch my wife. I wish to speak to you, my worthy
friend.
friend. Can he
suspect? Well, Melville, until the evening, farewell.
Where is my wife?
Busy at her toilet.
So soon?
She is taking such pains, and looks so beautiful.
It's pleasant to think it's all for another.
And then she's so cross, and quarrels with everything; “her ruby necklace is detestable”—“her pearl one looks so pale and wretched”—and then she has in her hand a letter—
Happy thought—la, la, la!
My master is certainly mad.
I will turn that unlucky letter to good account. Here, Mathew, take this to her instantly.
What, the diamonds I brought home this morning! And were they for my lady?
To be sure they were—a little surprise.
I feared these diamonds were to have whirled away in a pirouette.
What will she say when she receives them? If she still loves me, all will be easy, for true love is but too happy to deceive itself. Sincerely do I repent me of my neglect, and would give worlds if I could regain her love. She comes—how pretty she looks!
Am I to believe my senses?—from whom came these diamonds?
From your husband. tête-a-tête, with a lovely woman!
Yes—my wife!
I have it all—it must be so!—the letter—the letter!
Now, madam—the carriage waits—the devil!
Why do you start, man? Is it such a wonder to see a husband embracing his wife? I forgive
you, too,
against my will—I loved
her—Was I to blame?
Ye married ladies, prythee tell me—although I may have gone a step beyond the bounds
prescribed to wedlock, by doing which, I have saved a husband—Was I to blame?
married men—was I to
blame? but if you smile upon our past follies, we're sure— yes, quite
sure—you'll not be to blame.