As first performed at the St. James's Theatre, on the 26th December, 1868.
Time in representation—One hour and twenty-five minutes.
Period and Costumes.—Modern.
A minute, ma'am, and I'll fetch the master— it's just as likely he's in the garden with
Miss Lucy, but I'll take a look at his study first,
Ah, sure—there's the R, and I never saw him at all.
Lady Olivia Crawdust!
Yes, my lady; I'll fetch the master, my lady, if you'll just amuse yourself half a
minute—you'll find the suudial mighty interesting, my lady,
Crawdust!
Your ladyship?
I ought never to have married you, Crawdust.
Yes, so you've been in the habit of observing.
Often—I can't observe it too often,
A parvenu!— that's the word, isn't it? Fire away, old lady ; I didn't make £80,000 by carrying my feelings in a silver paper bag, I can tell you. Trample on me! That's it—if it don't exactly amuse you, it certainly don't hurt me, and I think it gives me an appetite.
There again—his appetite!
And why not ?
Were you expecting to find one there—in the shade?
Brute!
Well, I should think old Holdsworth must touch pretty well on—
No doubt they know an excellent set.
The master's nowhere in the house, so he must be in the grounds somewhere. It's as likely as not he's feeding the pigs.
Funny, ain't it?
The pigs ! A man with £6,000 a-year feeding the pigs!
Bless you, I've known people with twice the money do dirtier things than that.
Have you really, sir ?
Have the goodness to conduct me to the drawing-room, and inform your master that Lady Olivia Crawdust is here.
And Mr. Crawdust. Tell him Tom Crawdust— he'll remember me—Crawdust's blacking.
An old friend, are you, sir? Sure he'll be as pleased to see you as the pigs themselves. To the right, ma'am, the first door, and there you are.
The blacking, too ! Oh, Sir Peter !
Some of your fine town people, them; it's not my taste, anyways—all that kind of regulation
step !
A letter ?
Yes, sir, and them—
Ah, Crawdust and my lady—Isabel's new friend.
All right, sir.
Business or not, you shan't be fretted. I say, uncle dear, can't you tell Lucy what it is, and let her fight these horrid people for you ? Do let her.
My darling, there's no one to fight, and that's
Won't you tell me ? Well, let me guess, do.
Guess?
I'm sure I can. It's—Edward—isn't it ?
Who told you that ?
You did, of course. Do you think I haven't noticed how anxiously you ask first one little
question, then another about him, how every postman's knock startles you, and how when his
name is mentioned, your dear face falls, and then do you think there has not been something
here that has whispered very softly to me, "Lucy, you must be more gentle and loving than
ever to your dear old uncle, and prove to him there is one heart, at least, that holds him
very, very dear!"
Your advice is taken already, darling, I won't keep all my trouble to myself.
That's right; you'll give me half. You dear, selfish thing, not to have given it me long ago ! Let's hear all about it!
Well then—
Quick, Lucy, into the drawing-room, and say I'm coming in a minute.
Here it is, Miss Trevlyn, I think I've got the roots ! I couldn't find any more in the hole.
Oh, that's capital! You're getting on.
Rather slowly—never knew flowers were so heavy. Where shall I put it ?
Anywhere you like—flower-pot—bed
But I can't see a flower-pot—and, dear me, this is more substantial than it looks.
And get the sack ? You wouldn't care about that, eh ?
Well, no, I shouldn't,
And very wise, too. No, I'm not weighing the odds—at least, the odds you allude to.
Dear me, that thing of yours is so like a book, you know,
No, thank you. Talking of odds, haphazards, and dangerous games generally, can you give me a bit of information, 1 wonder ?
I should think so. But its some time since I've given serious attention to blind hookey, and–
Well, you needn't rub up your reminiscences, but just answer me one question. You're an old friend of Edward's—come now, is there any truth in what they say about—well, about the " pace " he's been going at lately ?
Well, as an old friend of Ted's, you know, I should say, well––
I understand—there is.
You see Ted's such a careless fellow, so fond of driving four-in-hand, and that style of
thing. We used to call him "Tandem Teddy" up at Oxford, I started the idea, wasn't
bad, was it?
I'm afraid it was only too appropriate—he's been driving at a pretty pace ever since ! Well, what's the worst they say of him ? Out with it!
Well, they say he's a confounded ass, that's the worst thing I've heard said of him. I once said, when I was in a rage, that he didn't know how to dress, but I didn't mean it, you know, I didn't mean it.
Well, now, not a word of this to anyone—to tell you the truth, things have come to a crisis.
Have they, really—by Jove, you don't say so ?
And I want the help of a third person. You are the kind of man to suit my purpose, and I'm sure you'll lend me a hand, eh ?
Charmed, quite charmed! With the greatest
Well, then, I shall count upon you, and I'll tell you all about it later; you'll excuse me now, I'm wanted in the drawing-room. Don't you go, I'll be back before you've finished your cigar.
Um ! So I'm going to be of some use to the family. By Jove, I don't dislike the idea !
Befriending any relative of that charming girl is quite a pleasant sensation! platonic attachment, I
think they call it—I wonder if any one ever horsewhipped Plato ?
Good morning, Mr. Mitford; do you know where I can find Lucy ? I want to speak to her particularly. I hope we shall see you to-night.
Oh, charmed, Mrs. Trevlyn. Glad to see you looking so well, it's rather an exertion this walk, with your duties of hostess looming before you.
Oh, I shall survive them,
And Ted ? I hope he's got over that cold he caught at the races ?
I suppose so—but I see so little of him, I really forgot to ask. Hasn't he been here this morning ?
No ; I'm the only goods from town.
I saw him half an hour ago, at the club, in the billiard-room.
Ah then, au revoir.
Tonjours a vous !
I beg your pardon.
I remarked that this was a delightful old place.
Oh, yes, delightful! yes !
No, my dear, salmon colour and hollyhocks ! When I first captivated Sir Peter, it was with salmon colour and hollyhocks; and our styles are precisely similar.
No, white, dear, plain white and a blush rose, or perhaps two, if you like, and my Lucy will look lovely !
You'll drive your Lucy wild between you. There, I'll settle the matter—I believe in gentlemen's tastes, so what do you say, Mr. Crawdust ?
Oh, fight shy of the salmon and sunflower, by all means!
Hollyhock, sir !
Hollyhock, then! It's my opinion in some cases they'd both be equally
charming.
Mr. Crawdust, dear, is not capable of giving an opinion; from his childhood upwards, his favourite colour has been a ditch-green! Ah, Sir Peter's was damson! What do you say, Mr. Redcliffe ?
Mrs. Trevlyn's taste is mine ; the pure white —the blush rose—no combination could speak more eloquently of this charming country spot!
Then the white and roses are carried without a division. And you, Isabel,
I've nothing to tell, dear, I leave it all to Masham; she chooses what she likes, and I'm
only too
What! you don't really care about dress ?
No.
Don't rave about the newest shade of magenta ?
No.
Nor go into hysterics with envy after every ball? Giving it all up ? Oh, this will be news for Uncle Richard. Why, Isabel, how tired, how pale you look !
Tired ! pale ! 1 feel as if this life would wear me out in time ! Look at me, Lucy dear, do I look as merry as I used to, once ?
No, darling.
I am not happy—and sometimes I almost wish—
Hush, darling! Why there are tears in your eyes ! Come, come, you know I get all the
secrets, and
Oh, yes, he is so kind, and so devoted to Edward —he manages the bank for him, and everything ; and he says Edward's his best friend.
He says that? And Edward's best friend must be yours, that's logic, isn't it, dear ?
So late ? And I promised to be at the Derwents for lunch; I am afraid, dear, I must run
away at once.
Oh, no, no, not until you have seen what we done to the pigs. And Ponto, oh, you must see Ponto !
Who's Ponto?
My great big dog, of course ! Oh, you must see him. You like dogs, I can see it,
Mr. Crawdust.
Well, I can't say I do—is he chained up ?
Oh, yes; the dear fellow, he's so lively ! I think that's the air down here, you know—one can't help it.
Depends on situation ; I fancy the air at our end isn't quite so exhilarating.
Come, Lady Olivia, Mr. Redcliffe will escort you if Mr. Crawdust won't.
Isabel, darling, do me a little favour, will you ?
What is it ?
Don't walk back with that Mr. Redcliffe.
Why not?
I don't like him.
Don't like him ? Why not ?
Don't know.
But it would be so rude, without any excuse, too ; besides, it's such an absurd request.
Is it ?
Yes, dear. And I must say I think it a little beyond your province to––
But why do you wish this so particularly ?
Didn't you tell me just now you were unhappy P Does not everything about you tell me of it ? All these balls, parties, dinners, nights turned into days, days useless as nights, don't tell me they are your pleasure ! They weary you, distress you, wear you out.
Heaven knows they do ! But anything is better than the miserable solitude my life would be without them!
I know, dear, Edward has been thoughtless— foolish, very foolish, but he loves you dearly!
What do you mean, Lucy? What do you imply ?
Nothing, dear, nothing ; but your way is difficult and hard just now; and you have need of hope and courage; oh, darling, I know how much !
Ah, Lucy, good morning! Where's Uncle Richard ? Is he at home ?
Yes, but what a hurry you're in ! Ah, of course business, that horrid "business." I have
half a mind to take all those papers away from you!
Did you say he was in ?
How cross you are ? Where is he ? In the house
You see, Lucy, not a word, not a look !
I do ; but, never mind, darling, it will all come right in time! There, kiss me; you know I love you, dear, but you do not know how devotedly !
Dear girl!
Friends! War to the knife ! Look at me ! The idea of keeping such a savage, ill-tempered brute of a dog–
Chained up! Poor Ponto; what would have become of you if he'd only got loose!
Clothes brush! Ten pounds to my tailor's bill— that's what it will be ! The brute! I'm sure he relished it!
Well, I'm not sorry; I never could bear you in that coat!
No, nor in anything else ! Where's my paletot ? Confound it, my coat! with a nasty slimy
heap of mould on it! Who's done this ?
Hollo! here, that's mine !
Stuff, sir, it's mine !
But I put it there !
What, the mess on my coat ?
Coat! I thought it was a hearth-rug.
Hearth-rug! D'ye think I wear a hearth-rug, sir?
'Pon my word, can't say.
What, hurry home in that fashion ? I shouldn't think of allowing Lady Olivia to be so
ill-treated, and
Don't consider me, Mr. Redcliffe, I'll take care of myself.
Bye, bye, dear! We shall meet to-night; remember salmon-colour !
Good-bye!
It's a mercy he did! At your service, madam,
Good-bye, dear; remember, not later than nine!
Please, Miss Lucy, your uncle wants you in the study.
I'm coming, John.
But, Miss Trevlyn, what had I better do with this?
Oh, put it anywhere you like !
Mrs. Trevlyn's parasol—she's left her parasol!
Give it him—with pleasure !
Confound it! What d'ye mean by this, sir?
Impossible ! It can't be; he told me the securities were undeniable, and here I am let in
for £3,000
Everything, sir. Mr. Platum says he's sure it will give you satisfaction—London couldn't beat it—I never seed anything like it, sir—it's tip-top.
That's all right,
Well, old fellow—Clasper will wait, eh ?
By Jove, he won't, though ! It's an ugly piece of business. The fellow's a regular blackguard—one of those sixty per cent, scoundrels, you know,
You don't mean to say he'll drive me into a corner ?
I do, though; it's all over the place. You mustn't mind my telling you, old boy, but the bank's in a shaky state, and is going to collapse or something of the sort to-morrow.
You don't mean that, Cecil!
I do—look here—
The old scamp ! and he's coming to-night P
Of course. Do you think Lady Olivia would be cut out of a fashionable event like this ? No,
not if it came off in the crater of Vesuvius !
What! are we the first ?
Yes, sir, the missus is not down yet, sir.
I told you so. The idea of coming here, like a parcel of musicians, before the candles are lighted! Another time I leave at my hour—half-past eleven!
Half-past eleven, when it says "nine" on the ticket?
Thank'ee, your ladyship.
Your sagacity does you credit. Everything from the candelabras down to the rout seats—is evidently here at so much per foot.
Everything —even the company !
I cannot think how, at such a crisis, they manage to get credit. They appear to have plenty, to judge from the silver I noticed as I passed the diningroom.
I believe you. All the ancestors since the Flood might have been born with a silver spoon in their mouths. Spoon! aye, with an entree dish, and a couple of soup ladles!
I have never heard much about ancestors.
Haven't you ? Well, Trevlyn might have hired his respectability too—at least, in the shape of pictures. I have known houses date back to William the Conqueror—in an afternoon. The order has been sent out at three, and the forefathers have been at the front door—with the rout seats before seven ! I've done it myself.
Oh, is it ? Then he must have had something remarkably stony in his composition when he
took a fancy to you !
Wretch ! but this comes of giving my hand to a trade—blacking ! what could come of such a union, but vulgarity!
Vulgarity! Polish, Lady O., polish!
Please my lady, missus says will my lady bring his lordship and her ladyship's self up to the boudoir and take a cup of tea, until the parties begin to arrive ?
A well instructed man, and knows his station.
Lordship! called me "his lordship!" Egad, I'll come it, too.
Well, he don't look as if he'd got a coronet in his pocket.
This ball's a lucky thing in it's way, you see; it will quiet all the small talk, like nothing else. But what's the good of quiet ? I must get money—must! And this Clasper shows his teeth, eh ?
Every one of them.
What on earth's to be done ? I don't even know how we stand downstairs—and if there's a heavy run to-morrow––
You must meet it.
But how ?
My uncle ? I can't. I tried this morning to break a little of the matter to him, but it was too much for me—I could not do it. No, no, no—he must be the very last resource.
Now to read this young scape-grace a lesson. I think the time's come for it, too.
No, my boy, I shan't. A precious time you choose for your entertainments. Not to mince matters with you—I think you must be mad!
Uncle !
The truth is, I've come to say a word to you, and it's on my conscience that I haven't said it before ; but I've heard some news to-day that turns silence into sin, so speak out I must, for things have come to a crisis at last.
A crisis!
Yes, you've lost largely—I know all about it— your paper isn't worth a penny, and to-morrow—from all sides—you'll be literally beseiged for gold. Don't deny it!
Who has told you all this ?
It's the common story from mouth to mouth. Nor the only common story—not contented with living at a ruinous rate yourself, letting your business go to the dogs
Redcliffe's my right hand, and has done everything for me.
Your partner, eh ? A pretty right hand indeed! But it's all of a piece—you've neglected everything ; first and foremost, your poor wife.
Neglect! Why, what wrong have I done her? Has she not everything money can purchase ?
Or credit command ! Ah, it was an evil day when you took this great place to tinsel it from top to toe.
What more reasonable than to inhabit premises over my own bank ?
Premises fitter for a club house than mere man and wife. A pretty life, too ! Sham—everything sham, from the ceiling to the floor. Trappings, lights, servants, silver—not your own, but hired to humbug your friends— friends hired too, like the wine they drink, and the dazzle they sneer at, as unreal, as false, and as great a sham as the miserable gaslight life you lead.
Really uncle, there is a season for all things, and––
Hark you, my boy, I don't come to lecture, but to warn you. You are asleep—I must wake you.
If you will be reckless—if the crash must come, at least, look that the honour of your
home survives.
What do you mean ?
Do you think a husband's neglect will not sometimes bear a bitter fruit ? Isabel––
What of her ?
Nothing as yet, but your friend––
Redcliffe ?
Why is he ever hanging about your house, night and day ?
Oh, the thing's preposterous,
As you will then ; I've had my say—perhaps an hour or two may tell a different tale. Now
listen, Edward, if trouble comes upon you, you know one friend to whom
But uncle—oh, he's a good, generous fellow. But what does he mean by talking in that way
about "my honour?"
Then let it be a short, one, for our dance is half over already.
Your dance must wait,
I see you are not, but that is nothing new.
It's only this, Redcliffe: what have we available in the bank at this moment ?
As much as that ? Are you sure ?
Sure—of course. Ah, you've heard them talking of a run upon the place to-morrow. Provided
for, my dear sir—I've seen to it; we shall be ready for them at ten o'clock, to the minute !
So you've seen to it, have you ? possibly. Something very odd about his manner to-night,
thinks it's a valse. That girl's an
abominable flirt.
Is she, by Jove ? Then I shall go in for her.
You'll do nothing of the kind.
Oh, I'm not going to hang about like a piece of stuffed furniture all the evening, I can tell you. I shall dance, and get up an appetite !
Crawdust, you are unusually vulgar this evening. Let me beg you will confine yourself to two glasses of sherry,
Ditto, Lady Olivia!
You'll stay with me. A man of your age too ! Now, Sir Peter––
Sir Peter be –
Now,
And so you have found something to enjoy in the country at last ?
Enjoy ! I should like to have a place, you know —farm-yard, a pig, and all that sort of thing, and live on new laid eggs.
And garden all day in lavender kid gloves.
Yea, 'pon my word, I should, if—if—
I'm very sorry, but my card is filled up.
24? The gallow, the gallow ?
I'm afraid it's gone.
Would it ? Not much chance of your affording me a similar entertainment!
You will dance this valse, Lady Olivia P
Mr. Muffles—Lady Olivia Crawdust.
five glasses of
sherry!
Quite refreshing to be alone ! That is, I'm a domestic sort of person, you know; I like—that is—I don't care about balls, and all that sort of thing, you know.
Novel?
Yes.
Seems a good one.
No, it's very stupid,
Which?
The old fellow with the walking-stick.
Oh, that's my grandmother !
Dear me, I beg her pardon, but these old things, you know, one can't make head or tail of them.
Especially when they are uncommonly well done !
Yes.
You don't happen to have the second volume there, do you?
Oh, you may have this if you like, I don't want it.
I thought you said it was so—stupid ?
Yes, very; take it.
Thanks, you're very kind, really ! But don't let me rob you ! Ah, a good idea! I'll read it out loud, and then it will do for both of us.
I'm all attention.
Some one who's killed in the first volume.
Ah, this is volume two! Oh, then it's his ghost; that's a good idea!
What stupid nonsense! Do find something exciting.
Oh, but I like this, I think it's very exciting ! she endeavoured to appear indifferent to
the situation." She—Amy, I suppose? Ah, yes. "While he behaved as most men do under
such circumstances, said nothing, and looked—a fool! "
That's "Frank." Oh, it's not so bad, after all; quite amusing, go on.
Go on ? It's trash ! The fellow who wrote that knows nothing about the circumstances, nothing !
What do you know about the circumstances ? I suppose you haven't spent all your leisure time in making offers of marriage ?
No, no, not exactly ; but I fancy I know the kind of thing one ought to do.
That you would do ?
Yes, that's it. Now just to illustrate the thing, imagine that I was going to make an offer
to you.
No, no, not to me, the chair will do just as well.
No, the chair won't do half as well. Placing myself near the object of my affections––
Just to illustrate the thing ?
Oh, of course ; I should tell her as well as I could, how, ever since I first set eyes on
her, all things have grown stale and unprofitable, how I don't care about showing at the
opera, about the shape of my hat, the price of my cigars, in fact, for all the more important
things of a fellow's life! Then, taking her hand ––
Just to illustrate the thing ?
Of course, purely, purely. I would ask her to— to give up –
All the pomps and vanities together ; say goodbye to ever little foible, even to her love of universal admiration ?
No, I shouldn't mind that.
Well, and suppose she were to say, spite of all concessions, one short, little word ?
Yes ?
Or no !
But, Miss Trevlyn—Lucy, you don't understand me, you know—this is what I want to say to you, and in fact, I –
Ah, Cecil, the very man I want! You will go for me. Here, old fellow, take my hat,
Fetch them at once, eh ?
There's not a moment to lose!
You don't say so ? I'm sure I shall be delighted —with pleasure!
Quick, there's a good fellow ! It's a matter of thousands! quick !
Really, this is very annoying! I say, Miss Trevlyn, we must finish that novel another time
! Yes, by Jove, another time !
What is it, Edward? What has happened ?
Simply this. One of our safes has been robbed of every farthing. I found a light below, and the public door on the half lock.
I have rushed up to give the alarm, and now I'm going to look at the other. Where's Redcliffe ? Find him—send him to me.
Where he was. Yes !
You are right, you ought to see him at once. But, Edward, promise me, if you should meet with a surprise, a blow—a heavy one---
A blow ! What do you mean ?
Nothing as yet, but, if you do, you will bear it like a man !
Lucy, you are faint. This sudden news, this robbery has upset you !
Yes, yes, how foolish of me, to be sure!
You—what are you going to do ?
Never mind ! men know how to fight—and storm —but when something's to be done, leave it to a woman!
But, Lucy.
Do as you're bid, and don't look scared! Do I appear alarmed ? am I trembling ? Now, go !
go!
Not a moment to be lost! Trevlyn suspects, and to-morrow must discover all!
I feel quite faint! give me my fan, I think I left it there.
'Tis nothing, and will pass off presently.
You will kill yourself with all these routs an balls.
No, it is not that
Ah, would that I could weave around you an enchanted silence!
Never mind the silence, you can talk to me—I can hear you.
"Hear me?" And yet would you listen were I to speak of things more true than the unreal
phantom life you lead ? Would you turn away were I— in low, half-whispered accents—to tell
you of one, who, for weeks, for months, has known no happiness, but in the sunshine of your
presence,
Ah, I have need of friends, indeed.
Oh, would that he by word, or deed, could give some proof, some token of his sincerity, his truth, his devotion!
I chose my life! Heaven knows I take that choice, and bear it to the end.
And can you look to this, and still drag on? Think, life without prospect, aim or hope!
Why not ? Once, heaven knows, I looked into the bright vision of the coming years, and saw—yes—all that lends to life its beauty, its enchantment. Fair paradise, so beautiful to my fancy then, a paradise where love was enthroned for ever ! Love, true, never-dying love.
And is it thus you talk ? You, so young, so beautiful—
What do you mean ?
Pardon me, if I have offended you, but you were giving me your confidence.
True, I thank you for reminding me—I was— take care how you abuse it!
Marble !
There's something in his manner to-night, I know not what—that is horrible to me ! I will
end this !
At last! and this is what you, as my friend, say to my face—to me ?
Oh, Isabel, yes, to you, and you must listen. You know not your own true happiness, it is not here ; no, you must leave this place to-night.
This was your meaning, was it ? Flight ? Back from me, villain !
Baffled ! but she must, by heaven, she shall!
Isabel! what is this ?
Edward, my husband !
What is this, eh ? An appointment—not of my making.
Edward, I swear to heaven, 'tis false ! He has insulted me, has talked of love to me, your wife, and now he would escape his chastisement by falsehood.
Hound!
I'll have your life for this ! you'll hear from me.
Hear from you ! Men may have met with men and fought, but the poisoned, crawling adder that hides and waits and wounds them unawares, they do not fight, they crush and stamp it from their path.
We shall meet again!
A foul calumny ! a gross falsehood !
Then let this witness speak !
Oh, Edward, dear husband, let this be a warning to us both! Pity me, and say that you forgive me !
Forgive, Isabel, that word is not for you, it is for me !
I tell you I will! Come in, Lady Olivia, come in!
Why didn't you tell the carriage to come at twelve, after the feed ? Who ever heard of
ordering it at three, like a morning paper! Hollo, hollo!
Why, that this is a meeting of good hearts and true!
"Good hearts and true," I wish I could have thought of that just now. By Jove, I'll try it
to-morrow.
What! you all look happy ? How about the bank, eh?
Firm as a rock! But you cannot be much interested in the matter, you are no longer on our books.
Mr. and Mrs. Crawdust's carriage stops the way!
Gaslight friends, eh? Well, Edward, Isabel, what's it to be ? This base metal or the true ? This town trickery, or ––
The dear old country home ! We're all agreed!
Oh, yes, decidedly ! all agreed!
Fresh, honest, country air, and not this stifling atmosphere. A real healthy life, and not a poisoned dream! A life that looks alone to the pure gold of truth, and once holding this, values the unreal splendour of the world for what it is—mere tinselled falsehood—empty GLITTER !