Part 12
Now my brisk brothers of the pit, you'll say I'm come to speak a good word for the play; But gallants, let me perish! if I do, For I have wit and judgment, just like you; Wit never partial, judgment free and bold, For fear or friendship never bought or sold, Nor by good-nature e'er to be cajoled. Good-nature in a critic were a crime, Like mercy in a judge, and renders him Guilty of all those faults he does forgive, Besides, if thief from gallows you reprieve, He'll cut your throat; so poet saved from shame, In damned lampoon will murder your good name. Yet in true spite to him and to his play, Good faith, you should not rail at them to-day But to be more his foe, seem most his friend, And so maliciously the play commend; That he may be betrayed to writing on, And poet let him be,--to be undone.
_THE GENTLEMAN DANCING-MASTER._
"Non satis est risu diducere rictum Auditorus: et est quædam tamen his quoque virtus."[51]--HORAT.
If we may trust the author's statement to Pope, this admirable comedy was written when Wycherley was twenty-one years of age, in the year 1661-2. It is impossible to fix with certainty the date of its first performance. The Duke's Company, then under the management of the widow of Sir William Davenant, opened its new theatre in Dorset Gardens, near Salisbury Court, on the 9th of November, 1671, with a performance of Dryden's _Sir Martin Mar-all_, and Wycherley's "Prologue to the City" points to the production of his play in the new theatre shortly after its opening. Genest states, on the authority of Downes, that "_The Gentleman Dancing-Master_ was the third new play acted at this theatre, and that several of the old stock plays were acted between each of the new ones." _Sir Martin Mar-all_, having been three times performed, was succeeded by Etherege's _Love in a Tub_, which, after two representations, gave place to a new piece, Crowne's tragedy of _Charles the Eighth_. This was played six times in succession, and was followed, probably after an interval devoted to stock pieces, by a second novelty, an adaptation by Ravenscroft from Molière, entitled _The Citizen turn'd Gentleman, or Mamamouchi_, which ran for nine days together. _The Gentleman Dancing-Master_ was then acted, probably after another short interval, and must therefore have been produced either in December, 1671, or in January, 1672. Genest, in fact, places it first on his list of plays performed at the Dorset Gardens Theatre during the year 1672, although, in his list for the preceding year, immediately after _The Citizen turn'd Gentleman_, he mentions Lord Orrery's comedy of _Mr. Anthony_ as "nearly certain" to have been brought out in the season of 1671-2. But this, again, was a new piece, making the third produced at Dorset Gardens, without including _The Gentleman Dancing-Master_, and must consequently have been brought forward later than Wycherley's play. Of _The Gentleman Dancing-Master_ Genest observes that "it was not much liked, and was acted only six times."
But it is by no means clear that the first performance at Dorset Gardens was the actual first performance of our comedy. The opening verses of the prologue, indeed, seem to imply a previous and unsuccessful performance, probably by the same company, at their old theatre in Portugal Street, Lincoln's Inn Fields. This, at least, as it seems to me, is the most obvious interpretation of the following lines:
"Our author (like us) finding 'twould scarce do At t'other end o' th' town, is come to you; And, _since 'tis his last trial,_ has that wit To throw himself on a substantial pit."
The presumption, therefore, is strongly in favour of 1671 as the year in which _The Gentleman Dancing-Master_ was first brought upon the stage. It was published, without a dedication or the names of the actors, in 1673. The remarks about "packing to sea" in the epilogue, which, like the prologue, was written for the production, or rather, as we may suppose, the revival of the piece at the theatre in Dorset Gardens, refer, questionless, to the impending war with the Dutch, against whom the formal declaration of war was issued on the 17th of March, 1672.
The incident upon which the plot turns is borrowed from Calderon's comedy, _El Maestro de Danzar_, but a brief review of the corresponding scenes in that drama will prove how trifling was Wycherley's obligation to the great Spanish poet. Leonor, the heroine of the piece, is enjoying a stolen interview with her lover, Don Enrique, in an apartment of her father's house in Valencia. Meanwhile, lest their voices should be overheard, Ines, Leonor's maid, stations herself without the chamber, singing and accompanying herself with the guitar. She presently enters, declaring that an instrument so out of tune will attract suspicion, and Don Enrique takes up the guitar for the purpose of tuning it. At this juncture the father, Don Diego, appears suddenly upon the scene. In reply to his questioning, Leonor explains that, dancing being little in fashion at the Court, she had formerly neglected that accomplishment; but that, finding herself, on that account, looked down upon in Valencia, where dancing was all the mode, she had engaged a master, who had but just taken up the guitar which her maid had brought him, when her father entered. This explanation proving satisfactory to Don Diego, he seats himself, and desires that the lesson may proceed. But here a new difficulty arises, for Don Enrique owns, in an "aside" to his mistress, that he understands little or nothing of dancing. The lady, however, is equal to the occasion, and, affecting diffidence, tells her father that he must wait until she has taken a few lessons. He, nevertheless, insisting, Don Enrique takes again the guitar, and, under pretence of tuning it, screws up the string until it snaps, declaring then that the strings are worn, and that the instrument is broken. Leonor now suggests that the maestro shall carry away the guitar, to get it set in order, and shall come again on the morrow or in the evening; and Don Diego, acquiescing, bids him neglect not to return, trusting him for the payment. Don Enrique responding that he will not fail, although he has many lessons to give, the old cavalier dismisses him with a "Vaya con Dios." In a later scene Don Enrique is again with Leonor, of whom he has conceived unjust suspicions, and is bestowing upon her the full benefit of his jealousy, when Ines announces the approach of Don Diego, and the lover, at his mistress's earnest appeal, again takes up the guitar, and pretends to be giving her a lesson. The father inquires after his daughter's improvement, and again insists on seeing her dance, a mock performance this time actually ensuing. And again, in another scene, the lovers, similarly interrupted, have recourse to a similar method of diverting Don Diego's suspicions.
In these few incidents, and in the name of Don Diego, which our author has employed as the adopted appellation of his Spain-loving Englishman, are to be found the only points of resemblance between the two plays. The merits of the one lie in a direction totally diverse from that in which the excellencies of the other are to be sought. Wycherley's play is fairly overflowing with wit and mirth, qualities in which the Spanish drama is somewhat deficient. On the other hand, the English play affords no counterpart to the high moral tone and exalted passion which are distinguishing characteristics of Calderon's comedy.
_The Gentleman Dancing-Master_ is constructed with greater simplicity and unity of action than _Love in a Wood_, and, although less powerfully written than _The Country Wife_, it is also far less exceptionable, and more uniformly pleasing.
PROLOGUE TO THE CITY
NEWLY AFTER THE REMOVAL OF THE DUKE'S COMPANY FROM LINCOLN'S-INN-FIELDS TO THEIR NEW THEATRE NEAR SALISBURY-COURT.
Our author (like us) finding 'twould scarce do At t'other end o' th' town, is come to you; And, since 'tis his last trial, has that wit To throw himself on a substantial pit; Where needy wit or critic dare not come, Lest neighbour i' the cloak, with looks so grum, Should prove a dun; Where punk in vizor dare not rant and tear To put us out, since Bridewell is so near: In short, we shall be heard, be understood, If not, shall be admired, and that's as good. For you to senseless plays have still been kind, Nay, where no sense was, you a jest would find: And never was it heard of, that the city Did ever take occasion to be witty Upon dull poet, or stiff player's action, But still with claps opposed the hissing faction. But if you hissed, 'twas at the pit, not stage; So, with the poet, damned the damning age, And still, we know, are ready to engage Against the flouting, ticking gentry, who Citizen, player, poet, would undo:-- The poet! no, unless by commendation, For on the 'Change wits have no reputation: And rather than be branded for a wit, He with you able men would credit get.
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ
Mr. GERRARD, Mr. MARTIN, Young Gentlemen of the town, and friends.
Mr. PARIS, or Monsieur de PARIS, a vain coxcomb, and rich city heir, newly returned from France, and mightily affected with the French language and fashions.
Mr. JAMES FORMAL, or Don DIEGO, an old rich Spanish merchant, newly returned home, much affected with the habit and customs of Spain, and Uncle to PARIS.
A little Blackamoor, Lackey to FORMAL.
A Parson.
A French Scullion.
HIPPOLITA, FORMAL'S Daughter.
Mrs. CAUTION, FORMAL'S Sister, an impertinent precise old woman.
PRUE, HIPPOLITA'S Maid.
A Lady.
Mrs. FLIRT, Mrs. FLOUNCE, Two common Women of the town.
Servants, Waiter, and Attendants.
SCENE--LONDON.
_THE GENTLEMAN DANCING-MASTER._
ACT THE FIRST.
SCENE I.--Don DIEGO'S _House, in the evening._
_Enter_ HIPPOLITA _and_ PRUE.
_Hip._ To confine a woman just in her rambling age! take away her liberty at the very time she should use it! O barbarous aunt! O unnatural father! to shut up a poor girl at fourteen, and hinder her budding! All things are ripened by the sun:--to shut up a poor girl at fourteen!--
_Prue._ 'Tis true, miss, two poor young creatures as we are!
_Hip._ Not suffered to see a play in a twelve-month!--
_Prue._ Nor go to Punchinello,[52] nor Paradise!--
_Hip._ Nor to take a ramble to the Park nor Mulberry-garden![53]--
_Prue._ Nor to Totnam-court, nor Islington![54]--
_Hip._ Nor to eat a syllabub in New Spring garden[55] with a cousin!--
_Prue._ Nor to drink a pint of wine with a friend at the Prince in the Sun!--
_Hip._ Nor to hear a fiddle in good company!--
_Prue._ Nor to hear the organs and tongs at the Gun in Moorfields!--
_Hip._ Nay, not suffered to go to church, because the men are sometimes there!--Little did I think I should ever have longed to go to church.
_Prue._ Or I either;--but between two maids--
_Hip._ Nor see a man!--
_Prue._ Nor come near a man!--
_Hip._ Nor hear of a man!--
_Prue._ No, miss; but to be denied a man! and to have no use at all of a man!--
_Hip._ Hold, hold!--your resentment is as much greater than mine, as your experience has been greater. But all this while, what do we make of my cousin, my husband elect, as my aunt says? We have had his company these three days; is he no man?
_Prue._ No, faith, he's but a monsieur. But you'll resolve yourself that question within these three days; for by that time he'll be your husband, if your father come to-night--
_Hip._ Or if I provide not myself with another in the mean time: for fathers seldom choose well; and I will no more take my father's choice in a husband, than I a would in a gown, or a suit of knots. So that if that cousin of mine were not an ill-contrived, ugly, freakish fool, in being my father's choice I should hate him. Besides, he has almost made me out of love with mirth and good-humour; for he debases it as much as a jack-pudding, and civility and good breeding more than a city dancing-master.
_Prue._ What! won't you marry him then, madam?
_Hip._ Would'st thou have me marry a fool, an idiot?
_Prue._ Lord! 'tis a sign you have been kept up indeed, and know little of the world, to refuse a man for a husband only because he's a fool! Methinks he's a pretty apish kind of a gentleman, like other gentlemen, and handsome enough to lie with in the dark, when husbands take their privileges; and for the day-times, you may take the privilege of a wife.
_Hip._ Excellent governess! you do understand the world, I see.
_Prue._ Then you should be guided by me.
_Hip._ Art thou in earnest then, damned jade?--would'st thou have me marry him?--Well, there are more poor young women undone, and married to filthy fellows by the treachery and evil counsel of chambermaids, than by the obstinacy and covetousness of parents.
_Prue._ Does not your father come on purpose out of Spain to marry you to him? Can you release yourself from your aunt or father any other way? Have you a mind to be shut up as long as you live? For my part, though you can hold out upon the lime from the walls here, salt, old shoes, and oatmeal, I cannot live so: I must confess my patience is worn out.
_Hip._ Alas, alas, poor Prue! your stomach lies another way: I will take pity of you, and get me a husband very suddenly, who may have a servant at your service. But rather than marry my cousin, I will be a nun in the new protestant nunnery they talk of; where, they say, there will be no hopes of coming near a man.
_Prue._ But you can marry nobody but your cousin, miss: your father you expect to-night; and be certain his Spanish policy and wariness, which has kept you up so close ever since you came from Hackney school, will make sure of you within a day or two at farthest.
_Hip._ Then 'tis time to think how to prevent him--stay--
_Prue._ In vain, vain, miss!
_Hip._ If we knew but any man, any man, though he were but a little handsomer than the devil, so that he were a gentleman!
_Prue._ What if you did know any man? if you had an opportunity, could you have confidence to speak to a man first? but if you could, how could you come to him, or he to you? nay, how could you send to him? for though you could write, which your father in his Spanish prudence would never permit you to learn, who should carry the letter?--But we need not be concerned for that, since we know not to whom to send it.
_Hip._ Stay--it must be so--I'll try however--
_Enter_ Monsieur de PARIS.
_Mons. Serviteur! serviteur! la cousine;_ I come to give the _bon soir_, as the French say.
_Hip._ O, cousin! you know him; the fine gentleman they talk of so much in town.
_Prue._ What! will you talk to him of any man else?
_Mons._ I know all the _beau monde, cousine_.
_Hip._ Master--
_Mons._ Monsieur Taileur, Monsieur Esmit, Monsieur--
_Hip._ These are Frenchmen--
_Mons. Non, non_; voud you have me say Mr. Taylor, Mr. Smith? Fi! fi! _tête non!_--
_Hip._ But don't you know the brave gentleman they talk so much of in town?
_Mons._ Who? Monsieur Gerrard?
_Hip._ What kind of man is that Mr. Gerrard? and then I'll tell you.
_Mons._ Why--he is truly a pretty man, a pretty man--a pretty so so--kind of man, for an Englishman.
_Hip._ How a pretty man?
_Mons._ Why, he is conveniently tall--but--
_Hip._ But what?
_Mons._ And not ill-shaped--but--
_Hip._ But what?
_Mons._ And handsome, as 'tis thought, but--
_Hip._ But! what are your exceptions to him?
_Mons._ I can't tell you, because they are innumerable, innumerable, _ma foi!_
_Hip._ Has he wit?
_Mons._ Ay, ay, they say, he's witty, brave, and _de bel humeur_, and well-bred, with all that--but--
_Hip._ But what? does he want judgment?
_Mons. Non, non_: they say he has good sense and judgment; but it is according to the account Englis--for--
_Hip._ For what?
_Mons._ For, _jarni!_ if I think it.
_Hip._ Why?
_Mons._ Why?--why his tailor lives within Ludgate--his _valet de chambre_ is no Frenchman--and he has been seen at noon-day to go into an English eating-house--
_Hip._ Say you so, cousin!
_Mons._ Then for being well-bred, you shall judge:--First, he can't dance a step, nor sing a French song, nor swear a French oate, nor use the polite French word in his conversation; and in fine, can't play at hombre--but speaks base good Englis, with the commune home-bred pronunciation; and in fine, to say no more, he never carries a snuff-box about with him.
_Hip._ Indeed!
_Mons._ And yet this man has been abroad as much as any man, and does not make the least show of it, but a little in his mien, not at all in his discour, _jarni!_ He never talks so much as of St. Peter's church at Rome, the Escurial, or Madrid; nay, not so much as of Henry IV., of Pont-neuf, Paris, and the new Louvre, nor of the Grand Roi.
_Hip._ 'Tis for his commendation, if he does not talk of his travels.
_Mons._ Auh! auh!--_cousine_--he is conscious to himself of his wants, because he is very envious; for he cannot endure me.
_Hip._ [_Aside._] He shall be my man then for that.--Ay, ay! 'tis the same, Prue.--[_Aloud._] No, I know he can't endure you, cousin.
_Mons._ How do you know it--who never stir out? _tête non!_
_Hip._ Well--dear cousin,--if you will promise me never to tell my aunt, I'll tell you.
_Mons._ I won't, I won't, _jarni!_
_Hip._ Nor to be concerned yourself, so as to make a quarrel of it.
_Mons. Non, non_--
_Hip._ Upon the word of a gentleman?
_Mons. Foi de chevalier_, I will not quarrel.
_Prue._ Lord, miss! I wonder you won't believe him without more ado.
_Hip._ Then he has the hatred of a rival for you.
_Mons. Malepeste!_
_Hip._ You know my chamber is backward, and has a door into the gallery which looks into the back yard of a tavern, whence Mr. Gerrard once spying me at the window, has often since attempted to come in at that window by the help of the leads of a low building adjoining; and, indeed, 'twas as much as my maid and I could do to keep him out.
_Mons. Ah, le coquin!_--
_Hip._ But nothing is stronger than aversion; for I hate him perfectly, even as much as I love you--
_Prue._ I believe so, faith!--but what design have we now on foot? [_Aside._
_Hip._ This discovery is an argument, sure, of my love to you.
_Mons._ Ay, ay, say no more, cousin, I doubt not your amour for me, because I doubt not your judgment. But what's to be done with this fanfaron?--I know where he eats to-night--I'll go find him out, _ventre bleu!_--
_Hip._ O, my dear cousin, you will not make a quarrel of it? I thought what your promise would come to!
_Mons._ Would you have a man of honour--
_Hip._ Keep his promise?
_Mons._ And lose his mistress?--That were not for my honour, _ma foi!_
_Hip._ Cousin, though you do me the injury to think I could be false, do not do yourself the injury to think any one could be false to you. Will you be afraid of losing your mistress? To show such a fear to your rival, were for his honour, and not for yours, sure.
_Mons._ Nay, cousin, I'd have you know I was never afraid of losing my mistress in earnest.--Let me see the man can get my mistress from me, _jarni!_--But he that loves must seem a little jealous.
_Hip._ Not to his rival: those that have jealousy hide it from their rivals.
_Mons._ But there are some who say, jealousy is no more to be hid than a cough:--but it should never be discovered in me, if I had it, because it is not French at all--_ventre bleu!_
_Hip._ No, you should rally your rival, and rather make a jest of your quarrel to him; and that, I suppose, is French too.
_Mons._ 'Tis so, 'tis so, _cousine_; 'tis the veritable French method; for your Englis, for want of wit, drive every thing to a serious grum quarrel, and then would make a jest on't, when 'tis too late, when they can't laugh, _jarni!_
_Hip._ Yes, yes, I would have you rally him soundly: do not spare him a jot.--But shall you see him to-night?
_Mons._ Ay, ay.
_Hip._ Yes; pray be sure to see him for the jest's sake.
_Mons._ I will--for I love a jest as well as any _bel esprit_ of 'em all--da!
_Hip._ Ay, and rally him soundly; be sure you rally him soundly, and tell him just thus:--that the lady he has so long courted, from the great window of the Ship tavern, is to be your wife to-morrow, unless he come at his wonted hour of six in the morning to her window to forbid the banns; for 'tis the first and last time of asking; and if he come not, let him for ever hereafter stay away, and hold his tongue.
_Mons._ Ha! ha! ha! a ver good jest, _tête bleu!_
_Hip._ And if the fool should come again, I would tell him his own, I warrant you, cousin. My gentleman should be satisfied for good and all, I'd secure him.
_Mons. Bon, bon._
_Prue._ Well, well, young mistress; you were not at Hackney school for nothing, I see; nor taken away for nothing.--A woman may soon be too old, but is never too young to shift for herself. [_Aside._
_Mons._ Ha! ha! ha! _cousine_, dou art a merry grig, _ma foi!_--I long to be with Gerrard; and I am the best at improving a jest--I shall have such divertisement to-night, _tête bleu!_
_Hip._ He'll deny, may be, at first, that he ever courted any such lady.
_Mons._ Nay, I am sure he'll be ashamed of it, I shall make him look so sillily, _tête non!_--I long to find him out.--Adieu, adieu, _la cousine_.
_Hip._ Shall you be sure to find him?
_Mons. Indubitablement_, I'll search the town over, but I'll find him: ha! ha! ha!--[_Exit_ MONSIEUR, _and returns._]--But I'm afraid, _cousine_, if I should tell him you are to be my wife to-morrow, he would not come: now, I am for having him come for the jest's sake, _ventre!_--
_Hip._ So am I, cousin, for having him come too for the jest's sake.
_Mons._ Well, well, leave it to me:--ha! ha! ha!
_Enter_ Mrs. CAUTION.
_Mrs. Caut._ What's all this giggling here?
_Mons._ Hey! do you tinke we'll tell you? no, fait, I warrant you, _tête non!_--ha! ha! ha!--
_Hip._ My cousin is overjoyed, I suppose, that my father is to come to-night.
_Mrs. Caut._ I am afraid he will not come to-night:--but you'll stay and see, nephew?
_Mons. Non, non_: I am to sup at t'other end of the town to-night--La, la, la--Ra, ra, ra--[_Exit, singing._
_Mrs. Caut._ I wish the French levity of this young man may agree with your father's Spanish gravity.
_Hip._ Just as your crabbed old age and my youth agree.
_Mrs. Caut._ Well, malapert, I know you hate me, because I have been the guardian of your reputation: but your husband may thank me one day.
_Hip._ If he be not a fool, he would rather be obliged to me for my virtue than to you, since, at long run, he must, whether he will or no.
_Mrs. Caut._ So, so!