Part 24
ROB. When I'm a bad Bart. I will tell taradiddles! CHORUS. He'll tell taradiddles when he's a bad Bart. ROB. I'll play a bad part on the falsest of fiddles. CHORUS. On very false fiddles he'll play a bad part! ROB. But until that takes place I must be conscientious— CHORUS. He'll be conscientious until that takes place. ROB. Then adieu with good grace to my morals sententious! CHORUS. To morals sententious adieu with good grace!
ZOR. Who is the wretch who hath betrayed thee? Let him stand forth! RICH. (coming forward). 'Twas I! ALL. Die, traitor! RICH. Hold! my conscience made me! Withhold your wrath!
SOLO—RICHARD.
Within this breast there beats a heart Whose voice can't be gainsaid. It bade me thy true rank impart, And I at once obeyed. I knew 'twould blight thy budding fate— I knew 'twould cause thee anguish great— But did I therefore hesitate? No! I at once obeyed! ALL. Acclaim him who, when his true heart Bade him young Robin's rank impart, Immediately obeyed!
SOLO—ROSE (addressing Robin).
Farewell! Thou hadst my heart— 'Twas quickly won! But now we part— Thy face I shun! Farewell!
Go bend the knee At Vice's shrine, Of life with me All hope resign. Farewell! Farewell! Farewell!
(To Sir Despard.) Take me—I am thy bride!
BRIDESMAIDS.
Hail the Bridegroom—hail the Bride! When the nuptial knot is tied; Every day will bring some joy That can never, never cloy!
(Enter Margaret, who listens.)
SIR D. Excuse me, I'm a virtuous person now— ROSE. That's why I wed you! SIR D. And I to Margaret must keep my vow! MAR. Have I misread you? Oh, joy! with newly kindled rapture warmed, I kneel before you! (Kneels.) SIR D. I once disliked you; now that I've reformed, How I adore you! (They embrace.)
BRIDESMAIDS.
Hail the Bridegroom-hail the Bride! When the nuptial knot is tied; Every day will bring some joy That can never, never cloy!
ROSE. Richard, of him I love bereft, Through thy design, Thou art the only one that's left, So I am thine! (They embrace.)
BRIDESMAIDS.
Hail the Bridegroom—hail the Bride! Let the nuptial knot be tied!
DUET—ROSE and RICHARD.
Oh, happy the lily When kissed by the bee; And, sipping tranquilly, Quite happy is he; And happy the filly That neighs in her pride; But happier than any, A pound to a penny, A lover is, when he Embraces his bride!
DUET—SIR DESPARD and MARGARET.
Oh, happy the flowers That blossom in June, And happy the bowers That gain by the boon, But happier by hours The man of descent, Who, folly regretting, Is bent on forgetting His bad baronetting, And means to repent!
TRIO—HANNAH, ADAM, and ZORAH.
Oh, happy the blossom That blooms on the lea, Likewise the opossum That sits on a tree, But when you come across 'em, They cannot compare With those who are treading The dance at a wedding, While people are spreading The best of good fare!
SOLO—ROBIN.
Oh, wretched the debtor Who's signing a deed! And wretched the letter That no one can read! But very much better Their lot it must be Than that of the person I'm making this verse on, Whose head there's a curse on— Alluding to me!
Repeat ensemble with Chorus.
(Dance)
(At the end of the dance Robin falls senseless on the stage. Picture.)
END OF ACT I
## ACT II
Scene.—Picture Gallery in Ruddigore Castle. The walls are covered with full-length portraits of the Baronets of Ruddigore from the time of James I.—the first being that of Sir Rupert, alluded to in the legend; the last, that of the last deceased Baronet, Sir Roderic.
Enter Robin and Adam melodramatically. They are greatly altered in appearance, Robin wearing the haggard aspect of a guilty roue; Adam, that of the wicked steward to such a man.
DUET—ROBIN and ADAM.
ROB. I once was as meek as a new-born lamb, I'm now Sir Murgatroyd—ha! ha! With greater precision (Without the elision), Sir Ruthven Murgatroyd—ha! ha!
ADAM. And I, who was once his valley-de-sham, As steward I'm now employed—ha! ha! The dickens may take him— I'll never forsake him! As steward I'm now employed—ha! ha!
ADDITIONAL SONG (Omitted after opening night.)
ROB. My face is the index to my mind, All venom and spleen and gall—ha! ha! Or, properly speaking, It soon will be reeking, With venom and spleen and gall—ha! ha!
ADAM. My name from Adam Goodheart you'll find I've changed to Gideon Crawle—ha! ha! For bad Bart's steward Whose heart is much too hard Is always Gideon Crawle—ha! ha!
BOTH. How dreadful when an innocent heart Becomes, perforce, a bad young Bart., And still more hard on old Adam, His former faithful valley-de-sham!
ROB. This is a painful state of things, old Adam!
ADAM. Painful, indeed! Ah, my poor master, when I swore that, come what would, I would serve you in all things for ever, I little thought to what a pass it would bring me! The confidential adviser to the greatest villain unhung! Now, sir, to business. What crime do you propose to commit to-day? ROB. How should I know? As my confidential adviser, it's your duty to suggest something. ADAM. Sir, I loathe the life you are leading, but a good old man's oath is paramount, and I obey. Richard Dauntless is here with pretty Rose Maybud, to ask your consent to their marriage. Poison their beer. ROB. No—not that—I know I'm a bad Bart., but I'm not as bad a Bart. as all that. ADAM. Well, there you are, you see! It's no use my making suggestions if you don't adopt them. ROB. (melodramatically). How would it be, do you think, were I to lure him here with cunning wile—bind him with good stout rope to yonder post—and then, by making hideous faces at him, curdle the heart-blood in his arteries, and freeze the very marrow in his bones? How say you, Adam, is not the scheme well planned? ADAM. It would be simply rude—nothing more. But soft—they come!
(Adam and Robin retire up as Richard and Rose enter, preceded by Chorus of Bridesmaids.)
DUET—RICHARD and ROSE.
RICH. Happily coupled are we, You see— I am a jolly Jack Tar, My star, And you are the fairest, The richest and rarest Of innocent lasses you are, By far— Of innocent lasses you are! Fanned by a favouring gale, You'll sail Over life's treacherous sea With me, And as for bad weather, We'll brave it together, And you shall creep under my lee, My wee! And you shall creep under my lee! For you are such a smart little craft— Such a neat little, sweet little craft, Such a bright little, tight little, Slight little, light little, Trim little, prim little craft!
CHORUS. For she is such, etc.
ROSE. My hopes will be blighted, I fear, My dear; In a month you'll be going to sea, Quite free, And all of my wishes You'll throw to the fishes As though they were never to be; Poor me! As though they were never to be. And I shall be left all alone To moan, And weep at your cruel deceit, Complete; While you'll be asserting Your freedom by flirting With every woman you meet, You cheat—Ah! With every woman you meet! Ah!
Though I am such a smart little craft— Such a neat little, sweet little craft, Such a bright little, tight little, Slight little, light little, Trim little, prim little craft!
CHORUS. Though she is such, etc.
(Enter Robin.)
ROB. Soho! pretty one—in my power at last, eh? Know ye not that I have those within my call who, at my lightest bidding, would immure ye in an uncomfortable dungeon? (Calling.) What ho! within there! RICH. Hold—we are prepared for this (producing a Union Jack). Here is a flag that none dare defy (all kneel), and while this glorious rag floats over Rose Maybud's head, the man does not live who would dare to lay unlicensed hand upon her! ROB. Foiled—and by a Union Jack! But a time will come, and then—- ROSE. Nay, let me plead with him. (To Robin.) Sir Ruthven, have pity. In my book of etiquette the case of a maiden about to be wedded to one who unexpectedly turns out to be a baronet with a curse on him is not considered. Time was when you loved me madly. Prove that this was no selfish love by according your consent to my marriage with one who, if he be not you yourself, is the next best thing—your dearest friend!
BALLAD—ROSE.
In bygone days I had thy love— Thou hadst my heart. But Fate, all human vows above, Our lives did part! By the old love thou hadst for me— By the fond heart that beat for thee— By joys that never now can be, Grant thou my prayer!
ALL (kneeling). Grant thou her prayer!
ROB. (recitative). Take her—I yield!
ALL. (recitative). Oh, rapture! (All rising.)
CHORUS. Away to the parson we go— Say we're solicitous very That he will turn two into one— Singing hey, derry down derry!
RICH. For she is such a smart little craft- ROSE. Such a neat little, sweet little craft— RICH. Such a bright little- ROSE. Tight little- RICH. Slight little- ROSE. Light little- BOTH. Trim little, prim little craft!
CHORUS. For she is such a smart little craft, etc.
(Exeunt all but Robin.)
ROB. For a week I have fulfilled my accursed doom! I have duly committed a crime a day! Not a great crime, I trust, but still, in the eyes of one as strictly regulated as I used to be, a crime. But will my ghostly ancestors be satisfied with what I have done, or will they regard it as an unworthy subterfuge? (Addressing Pictures.) Oh, my forefathers, wallowers in blood, there came at last a day when, sick of crime, you, each and every, vowed to sin no more, and so, in agony, called welcome Death to free you from your cloying guiltiness. Let the sweet psalm of that repentant hour soften your long-dead hearts, and tune your souls to mercy on your poor posterity! (Kneeling).
(The stage darkens for a moment. It becomes light again, and the Pictures are seen to have become animated.)
CHORUS OF FAMILY PORTRAITS.
Painted emblems of a race, All accurst in days of yore, Each from his accustomed place Steps into the world once more.
(The Pictures step from their frames and march round the stage.)
Baronet of Ruddigore, Last of our accursed line, Down upon the oaken floor— Down upon those knees of thine.
Coward, poltroon, shaker, squeamer, Blockhead, sluggard, dullard, dreamer, Shirker, shuffler, crawler, creeper, Sniffler, snuffler, wailer, weeper, Earthworm, maggot, tadpole, weevil! Set upon thy course of evil, Lest the King of Spectre-land Set on thee his grisly hand!
(The Spectre of Sir Roderic descends from his frame.)
SIR ROD. Beware! beware! beware! ROB. Gaunt vision, who art thou That thus, with icy glare And stern relentless brow, Appearest, who knows how?
SIR ROD. I am the spectre of the late Sir Roderic Murgatroyd, Who comes to warn thee that thy fate Thou canst not now avoid.
ROB. Alas, poor ghost!
SIR ROD. The pity you Express for nothing goes: We spectres are a jollier crew Than you, perhaps, suppose!
CHORUS. We spectres are a jollier crew Than you, perhaps, suppose!
SONG—SIR RODERIC.
When the night wind howls in the chimney cowls, and the bat in the moonlight flies, And inky clouds, like funeral shrouds, sail over the midnight skies— When the footpads quail at the night-bird's wail, and black dogs bay at the moon, Then is the spectres' holiday—then is the ghosts' high-noon!
CHORUS. Ha! ha! Then is the ghosts' high-noon!
As the sob of the breeze sweeps over the trees, and the mists lie low on the fen, From grey tomb-stones are gathered the bones that once were women and men, And away they go, with a mop and a mow, to the revel that ends too soon, For cockcrow limits our holiday—the dead of the night's high-noon!
CHORUS. Ha! ha! The dead of the night's high-noon!
And then each ghost with his ladye-toast to their churchyard beds takes flight, With a kiss, perhaps, on her lantern chaps, and a grisly grim "good-night"; Till the welcome knell of the midnight bell rings forth its jolliest tune, And ushers in our next high holiday—the dead of the night's high-noon!
CHORUS. Ha! ha! The dead of the night's high-noon! Ha! ha! ha! ha!
ROB. I recognize you now—you are the picture that hangs at the end of the gallery. SIR ROD. In a bad light. I am. ROB. Are you considered a good likeness? SIR ROD. Pretty well. Flattering. ROB. Because as a work of art you are poor. SIR ROD. I am crude in colour, but I have only been painted ten years. In a couple of centuries I shall be an Old Master, and then you will be sorry you spoke lightly of me. ROB. And may I ask why you have left your frames? SIR ROD. It is our duty to see that our successors commit their daily crimes in a conscientious and workmanlike fashion. It is our duty to remind you that you are evading the conditions under which you are permitted to exist. ROB. Really, I don't know what you'd have. I've only been a bad baronet a week, and I've committed a crime punctually every day. SIR ROD. Let us inquire into this. Monday? ROB. Monday was a Bank Holiday. SIR ROD. True. Tuesday? ROB. On Tuesday I made a false income-tax return. ALL. Ha! ha! 1ST GHOST. That's nothing. 2ND GHOST. Nothing at all. 3RD GHOST. Everybody does that. 4TH GHOST. It's expected of you. SIR ROD. Wednesday? ROB. (melodramatically). On Wednesday I forged a will. SIR ROD. Whose will? ROB. My own. SIR ROD. My good sir, you can't forge your own will! ROB. Can't I, though! I like that! I did! Besides, if a man can't forge his own will, whose will can he forge? 1ST GHOST. There's something in that. 2ND GHOST. Yes, it seems reasonable. 3RD GHOST. At first sight it does. 4TH GHOST. Fallacy somewhere, I fancy! ROB. A man can do what he likes with his own! SIR ROD. I suppose he can. ROB. Well, then, he can forge his own will, stoopid! On Thursday I shot a fox. 1ST GHOST. Hear, hear! SIR ROD. That's better (addressing Ghosts). Pass the fox, I think? (They assent.) Yes, pass the fox. Friday? ROB. On Friday I forged a cheque. SIR ROD. Whose cheque? ROB. Old Adam's. SIR ROD. But Old Adam hasn't a banker. ROB. I didn't say I forged his banker—I said I forged his cheque. On Saturday I disinherited my only son. SIR ROD. But you haven't got a son. ROB. No—not yet. I disinherited him in advance, to save time. You see—by this arrangement—he'll be born ready disinherited. SIR ROD. I see. But I don't think you can do that. ROB. My good sir, if I can't disinherit my own unborn son, whose unborn son can I disinherit? SIR ROD. Humph! These arguments sound very well, but I can't help thinking that, if they were reduced to syllogistic form, they wouldn't hold water. Now quite understand us. We are foggy, but we don't permit our fogginess to be presumed upon. Unless you undertake to—well, suppose we say, carry off a lady? (Addressing Ghosts.) Those who are in favour of his carrying off a lady? (All hold up their hands except a Bishop.) Those of the contrary opinion? (Bishop holds up his hands.) Oh, you're never satisfied! Yes, unless you undertake to carry off a lady at once—I don't care what lady—any lady—choose your lady—you perish in inconceivable agonies. ROB. Carry off a lady? Certainly not, on any account. I've the greatest respect for ladies, and I wouldn't do anything of the kind for worlds! No, no. I'm not that kind of baronet, I assure you! If that's all you've got to say, you'd better go back to your frames. SIR ROD. Very good—then let the agonies commence.
(Ghosts make passes. Robin begins to writhe in agony.)
ROB. Oh! Oh! Don't do that! I can't stand it! SIR ROD. Painful, isn't it? It gets worse by degrees. ROB. Oh—Oh! Stop a bit! Stop it, will you? I want to speak.
(Sir Roderic makes signs to Ghosts, who resume their attitudes.)
SIR ROD. Better? ROB. Yes—better now! Whew! SIR ROD. Well, do you consent? ROB. But it's such an ungentlemanly thing to do! SIR ROD. As you please. (To Ghosts.) Carry on! ROB. Stop—I can't stand it! I agree! I promise! It shall be done! SIR ROD. To-day? ROB. To-day! SIR ROD. At once? ROB. At once! I retract! I apologize! I had no idea it was anything like that!
CHORUS.
He yields! He answers to our call! We do not ask for more. A sturdy fellow, after all, This latest Ruddigore! All perish in unheard-of woe Who dare our wills defy; We want your pardon, ere we go, For having agonized you so— So pardon us— So pardon us— So pardon us— Or die!
ROB. I pardon you! I pardon you!
ALL. He pardons us- Hurrah!
(The Ghosts return to their frames.)
CHORUS. Painted emblems of a race, All accurst in days of yore, Each to his accustomed place Steps unwillingly once more!
(By this time the Ghosts have changed to pictures again. Robin is overcome by emotion.)
(Enter Adam.)
ADAM. My poor master, you are not well— ROB. Old Adam, it won't do—I've seen 'em—all my ancestors—they're just gone. They say that I must do something desperate at once, or perish in horrible agonies. Go—go to yonder village—carry off a maiden—bring her here at once—any one—I don't care which— ADAM. But— ROB. Not a word, but obey! Fly! (Exeunt Adam)
RECIT. and SONG—ROBIN.
Away, Remorse! Compunction, hence!. Go, Moral Force! Go, Penitence! To Virtue's plea A long farewell— Propriety, I ring your knell! Come, guiltiness of deadliest hue! Come, desperate deeds of derring-do!
Henceforth all the crimes that I find in the Times. I've promised to perpetrate daily; To-morrow I start with a petrified heart, On a regular course of Old Bailey. There's confidence tricking, bad coin, pocket-picking, And several other disgraces— There's postage-stamp prigging, and then thimble-rigging, The three-card delusion at races! Oh! A baronet's rank is exceedingly nice, But the title's uncommonly dear at the price!
Ye well-to-do squires, who live in the shires, Where petty distinctions are vital, Who found Athenaeums and local museums, With a view to a baronet's title— Ye butchers and bakers and candlestick makers Who sneer at all things that are tradey— Whose middle-class lives are embarrassed by wives Who long to parade as "My Lady", Oh! allow me to offer a word of advice, The title's uncommonly dear at the price!
Ye supple M.P.'s who go down on your knees, Your precious identity sinking, And vote black or white as your leaders indite (Which saves you the trouble of thinking), For your country's good fame, her repute, or her shame, You don't care the snuff of a candle— But you're paid for your game when you're told that your name Will be graced by a baronet's handle— Oh! Allow me to give you a word of advice— The title's uncommonly dear at the price! (Exit Robin.)
(Enter Despard and Margaret. They are both dressed in sober black of formal cut, and present a strong contrast to their appearance in Act I.)
DUET.
DES. I once was a very abandoned person— MAR. Making the most of evil chances. DES. Nobody could conceive a worse 'un— MAR. Even in all the old romances. DES. I blush for my wild extravagances, But be so kind To bear in mind, MAR. We were the victims of circumstances! (Dance.) That is one of our blameless dances.
MAR. I was once an exceedingly odd young lady— DES. Suffering much from spleen and vapours. MAR. Clergymen thought my conduct shady— DES. She didn't spend much upon linen-drapers. MAR. It certainly entertained the gapers. My ways were strange Beyond all range— DES. Paragraphs got into all the papers. (Dance.)
DES. We only cut respectable capers.
DES. I've given up all my wild proceedings. MAR. My taste for a wandering life is waning. DES. Now I'm a dab at penny readings. MAR. They are not remarkably entertaining. DES. A moderate livelihood we're gaining. MAR. In fact we rule A National School. DES. The duties are dull, but I'm not complaining. (Dance.)
This sort of thing takes a deal of training!
DES. We have been married a week. MAR. One happy, happy week! DES. Our new life— MAR. Is delightful indeed! DES. So calm! MAR. So unimpassioned! (Wildly). Master, all this I owe to you! See, I am no longer wild and untidy. My hair is combed. My face is washed. My boots fit! DES. Margaret, don't. Pray restrain yourself. Remember, you are now a district visitor. MAR. A gentle district visitor! DES. You are orderly, methodical, neat; you have your emotions well under control. MAR. I have! (Wildly). Master, when I think of all you have done for me, I fall at your feet. I embrace your ankles. I hug your knees! (Doing so.) DES. Hush. This is not well. This is calculated to provoke remark. Be composed, I beg! MAR. Ah! you are angry with poor little Mad Margaret! DES. No, not angry; but a district visitor should learn to eschew melodrama. Visit the poor, by all means, and give them tea and barley-water, but don't do it as if you were administering a bowl of deadly nightshade. It upsets them. Then when you nurse sick people, and find them not as well as could be expected, why go into hysterics? MAR. Why not? DES. Because it's too jumpy for a sick-room. MAR. How strange! Oh, Master! Master!—how shall I express the all-absorbing gratitude that—(about to throw herself at his feet). DES. Now! (Warningly). MAR. Yes, I know, dear—it shan't occur again. (He is seated—she sits on the ground by him.) Shall I tell you one of poor Mad Margaret's odd thoughts? Well, then, when I am lying awake at night, and the pale moonlight streams through the latticed casement, strange fancies crowd upon my poor mad brain, and I sometimes think that if we could hit upon some word for you to use whenever I am about to relapse—some word that teems with hidden meaning—like "Basingstoke"—it might recall me to my saner self. For, after all, I am only Mad Margaret! Daft Meg! Poor Meg! He! he! he! DES. Poor child, she wanders! But soft—some one comes—Margaret—pray recollect yourself—Basingstoke, I beg! Margaret, if you don't Basingstoke at once, I shall be seriously angry. MAR. (recovering herself). Basingstoke it is! DES. Then make it so.
(Enter Robin. He starts on seeing them.)