Part 15
_Don._ Well, child, I am satisfied then.--But I hope he does not use the dancing-master's tricks, of squeezing your hands, setting your legs and feet, by handling your thighs and seeing your legs.
_Hip._ No, indeed, father: I'd give him a box on the ear if he should.
_Don._ Poor innocent!--Well, I am contented you should learn to dance, since, for aught I know, you shall be married to-morrow, or the next day at farthest: by that time you may recover a corant--a saraband I would say.[59] And since your cousin, too, will have a dancing wife, it shall be so; and I'll see you dance myself. You shall be my charge these two days, and then I dare venture you in the hand of any dancing-master, even a saucy French dancing-master, look you.
_Mrs. Caut._ Well, have a care, though; for this man is not dressed like a dancing master.
_Don._ Go, go, you dote; are they not (for the most part) better dressed and prouder than many a good gentleman? you would be wiser than I, would you, _cuerno_?
_Mrs. Caut._ Well, I say only, look to't, look to't.
_Don._ Hey, hey! Come, friend, to your business; teach her her lesson over again; let's see.
_Hip._ Come, master.
_Don._ Come, come, let's see your English method; I understand something of dancing myself--come.
_Hip._ Come, master.
_Ger._ I shall betray you yet, dearest miss; for I know not a step: I could never dance. [_Apart to_ HIPPOLITA.
_Hip._ No!
_Don._ Come, come, child.
_Hip._ Indeed I'm ashamed, father.
_Don._ You must not be ashamed, child; you'll never dance well if you are ashamed.
_Hip._ Indeed, I can't help it, father.
_Don._ Come, come, I say, go to't.
_Hip._ Indeed I can't, father, before you: 'tis my first lesson, and I shall do it so ill.--Pray, good father, go into the next room for this once; and the next time my master comes, you shall see I shall be confident enough.
_Don._ Poor, foolish, innocent creature!--Well, well, I will, child. Who but a Spanish kind of a father could have so innocent a daughter in England?--Well, I would fain see any one steal or debauch my daughter from me.
_Hip._ Nay, won't you go, father?
_Don._ Yes, yes, I go, child: we will all go but your maid.--You can dance before your maid?
_Hip._ Yes, yes, father: a maid at most times with her mistress is nobody. [_Exeunt_ DIEGO _and_ Mrs. CAUTION.
_Ger._ He peeps yet at the door.
_Hip._ Nay, father, you peep; indeed you must not see me. When we have done, you shall come in. [_She pulls the door to._
_Prue._ Indeed, little mistress, like the young kitten, you see you played with your prey till you had almost lost it.
_Hip._ 'Tis true, a good old mouser like you had taken it up, and run away with it presently.
_Ger._ Let me adore you, dearest miss, and give you--[_Going to embrace her._
_Hip._ No, no embracing, good master! that ought to be the last lesson you are to teach me, I have heard.
_Ger._ Though an aftergame be the more tedious and dangerous, 'tis won, miss, with the more honour and pleasure: for all that, I repent we were put to't. The coming in of your father, as he did, was the most unlucky thing that ever befel me.
_Hip._ What then, you think I would have gone with you?
_Ger._ Yes; and you will go with me yet, I hope.--Courage, miss! we have yet an opportunity; and the gallery-window is yet open.
_Hip._ No, no; if I went, I would go for good and all: but now my father will soon come in again, and may quickly overtake us. Besides, now I think on't, you are a stranger to me; I know not where you live, nor whither you might carry me. For aught I know, you might be a spirit, and carry me to Barbadoes.
_Ger._ No, dear miss, I would carry you to court, the playhouses, and Hyde-park--
_Hip._ Nay, I know 'tis the trick of all you that spirit women away, to speak 'em mighty fair at first: but when you have got 'em in your clutches, you carry 'em into Yorkshire, Wales, or Cornwall, which is as bad as to Barbadoes; and rather than be served so, I would be a prisoner in London still as I am.
_Ger._ I see the air of this town, without the pleasures of it, is enough to infect women with an aversion for the country. Well, miss, since it seems you have some diffidence in me, give me leave to visit you as your dancing-master, now you have honoured me with the character; and under that I may have your father's permission to see you, till you may better know me and my heart, and have a better opportunity to reward it.
_Hip._ I am afraid to know your heart would require a great deal of time; and my father intends to marry me very suddenly to my cousin, who sent you hither.
_Get._ Pray, sweet miss, let us make the better use of our time if it be short. But how shall we do with that cousin of yours in the mean time? we must needs charm him.
_Hip._ Leave that to me.
_Ger._ But (what's worse) how shall I be able to act a dancing-master, who ever wanted inclination and patience to learn myself?
_Hip._ A dancing-school in half an hour will furnish you with terms of the art. Besides, Love (as I have heard say) supplies his scholars with all sorts of capacities they have need of, in spite of nature:--but what has love to do with you?
_Ger._ Love, indeed, has made a grave gouty statesmen fight duels, the soldier fly from his colours, a pedant a fine gentlemen, nay, and the very lawyer a poet; and, therefore, may make me a dancing-master.
_Hip._ If he were your master.
_Ger._ I'm sure, dearest miss, there is nothing else which I cannot do for you already; and, therefore, may hope to succeed in that.
_Re-enter_ Don DIEGO.
_Don._ Come, have you done?
_Hip._ O, my father again!
_Don._ Come, now let us see you dance.
_Hip._ Indeed I am not perfect yet: pray excuse me till the next time my master comes. But when must he come again, father?
_Don._ Let me see--friend, you must needs come after dinner again, and then at night again, and so three times to-morrow too. If she be not married to-morrow, (which I am to consider of,) she will dance a corant in twice or thrice teaching more; will she not? for 'tis but a twelvemonth since she came from Hackney-school.
_Ger._ We will lose no time, I warrant you, sir, if she be to be married to-morrow.
_Don._ True, I think she may be married to-morrow; therefore, I would not have you lose any time, look you.
_Ger._ You need not caution me, I warrant you, sir.--Sweet scholar, your humble servant: I will not fail you immediately after dinner.
_Don._ No, no, pray do not; and I will not fail to satisfy you very well, look you.
_Hip._ He does not doubt his reward, father, for his pains. If you should not, I would make that good to him.
_Don._ Come, let us go in to your aunt: I must talk with you both together, child.
_Hip._ I follow you, sir. [_Exeunt_ GERRARD _and_ Don DIEGO.
_Prue._ Here's the gentlewoman o' th' next house come to see you, mistress.
_Hip._ [_Aside._] She's come, as if she came expressly to sing the new song she sung last night. I must hear it; for 'tis to my purpose now.--
_Enter_ Lady.
Madam, your servant: I dreamt all night of the song you sung last; the new song against delays in love, Pray, let's hear it again.
_Lady._ [_Sings._]
Since we poor slavish women know Our men we cannot pick and choose, To him we like why say we no, And both our time and lover lose? With feigned repulses and delays A lover's appetite we pall; And if too long the gallant stays, His stomach's gone for good and all,
Or our impatient amorous guest Unknown to us away may steal, And rather than stay for a feast, Take up with some coarse ready meal When opportunity is kind, Let prudent women be so too; And if the man be to your mind, Till needs you must, ne'er let him go.
The match soon made is happy still, For only love has there to do. Let no one marry 'gainst her will, But stand off when her parents woo, And only to their suits be coy: For she whom jointure can obtain, To let a fop her bed enjoy, Is but a lawful wench for gain.
_Prue._ Your father calls for you, miss. [_Steps to the door._
_Hip._ I come, I come; I must be obedient as long as I am with him. [_Pausing._
Our parents who restrain our liberty, But take the course to make us sooner free, Though all we gain be but new slavery; We leave our fathers, and to husbands flee.
[_Exeunt._
ACT THE THIRD.
SCENE I.--Don DIEGO'S _House._
_Enter_ Monsieur de PARIS, HIPPOLITA, _and_ PRUE.
_Mons. Serviteur, serviteur, la cousine._ Your maid told me she watched at the stair-foot for my coming; because you had a mind to speak wit me before I saw your fader, it seem.
_Hip._ I would so, indeed, cousin.
_Mons. Or-ça! or-ça!_ I know your affair. It is to tell me wat recreation you ade with Monsieur Gerrard. But did he come? I was afrait he would not come.
_Hip._ Yes, yes, he did come.
_Mons._ Ha! ha! ha!--and were you not infiniment divertisee and please? Confess.
_Hip._ I was indeed, cousin, I was very well pleased.
_Mons._ I do tinke so. I did tinke to come and be divertisee myself this morning with the sight of his reception: but I did rancounter last night wit dam company dat keep me up so late, I could not rise in de morning, _malepeste de putains!_--
_Hip._ Indeed, we wanted you here mightily, cousin.
_Mons._ To elpe you to laugh: for if I adde been here, I had made such recreation wit dat coxcomb Gerrard!
_Hip._ Indeed, cousin, you need not have any subject property to make one laugh, you are so pleasant yourself; and when you are but alone, you would make one burst.
_Mons._ Am I so happy, cousin, then, in the _bon_ quality of making people laugh?
_Hip._ Mighty happy, cousin.
_Mons. De grace?_
_Hip._ Indeed.
_Mons._ Nay, _sans vanité_, I observe, wheresoe'er I come, I make everybody merry; _sans vanité_--da--
_Hip._ I do believe you do.
_Mons._ Nay, as I marche in de street, I can make de dull apprenty laugh and sneer.
_Hip._ This fool, I see, is as apt as an ill poet to mistake the contempt and scorn of people for applause and admiration. [_Aside._
_Mons._ Ah, cousin, you see what it is to have been in France! Before I went into France, I could get nobody to laugh at me, _ma foi!_
_Hip._ No? truly, cousin, I think you deserved it before; but you are improved, indeed, by going into France.
_Mons._ Ay, ay, the French education make us _propre à tout_. Beside, cousin, you must know, to play the fool is the science in France, and I didde go to the Italian academy at Paris thrice a-week to learn to play de fool of Signior Scaramouche,[60] who is the most excellent personage in the world for dat noble science. Angel is a dam English fool to him.
_Hip._ Methinks, now, Angel is a very good fool.
_Mons._ Naugh, naugh, Nokes is a better fool; but indeed the Englis are not fit to be fools: here are ver few good fools. 'Tis true, you have many a young cavalier who go over into France to learn to be de buffoon; but for all dat, dey return but _mauvais_ buffoon, _jarni!_
_Hip._ I'm sure, cousin, you have lost no time there.
_Mons._ Auh, _le brave_ Scaramouche!
_Hip._ But is it a science in France, cousin? and is there an academy for fooling? sure none go to it but players.
_Mons._ Dey are comedians dat are de _maîtres_; but all the _beau monde_ go to learn, as they do here of Angel and Nokes. For if you did go abroad into company, you would find the best almost of de nation conning in all places the lessons which dey have learned of the fools dere _maîtres_, Nokes and Angel.
_Hip._ Indeed!
_Mons._ Yes, yes, dey are de _gens de qualité_ that practise dat science most, and the most _ambitieux_; for fools and buffoons have been always most welcome to courts, and desired in all companies. Auh, to be de fool, de buffoon, is to be de great personage.
_Hip._ Fools have fortune, they say, indeed.
_Mons._ So say old Senèque.
_Hip._ Well, cousin, not to make you proud, you are the greatest fool in England, I am sure.
_Mons. Non, non, de grace; non:_ Nokes de comedian is a pretty man, a pretty man for a comedian, da--
_Hip._ You are modest, cousin.--But lest my father should come in presently, which he will do as soon as he knows you are here, I must give you a caution, which 'tis fit you should have before you see him.
_Mons._ Vell, vell, cousin, vat is dat?
_Hip._ You must know, then (as commonly the conclusion of all mirth is sad), after I had a good while pleased myself in jesting, and leading the poor gentleman you sent into a fool's paradise, and almost made him believe I would go away with him, my father, coming home this morning, came in upon us, and caught him with me.
_Mons. Malepeste!_
_Hip._ And drew his sword upon him, and would have killed him; for you know my father's Spanish fierceness and jealousy.
_Mons._ But how did he come off then, _tête non?_
_Hip._ In short, I was fain to bring him off by saying he was my dancing-master.
_Mons._ Ha! ha! ha! ver good jeste.
_Hip._ I was unwilling to have the poor man killed, you know, for our foolish frolic with him: but then, upon my aunt's and father's inquiry, how he came in, and who sent him, I was forced to say you did, desiring I should be able to dance a corant before our wedding.
_Mons._ A ver good jest--da--still better as better.
_Hip._ Now, all that I am to desire of you is, to own you sent him, that I may not be caught in a lie.
_Mons_ Yes, yes, a ver good jest: Gerrard a _maître de danse!_ ha! ha! ha!
_Hip._ Nay, the jest is like to be better yet; for my father himself has obliged him now to come and teach me: so that now he must take the dancing-master upon him, and come three or four times to me before our wedding, lest my father, if he should come no more, should be suspicious I had told him a lie. And, for aught I know, if he should know, or but guess he were not a dancing-master, in his Spanish strictness and punctilios of honour, he might kill me as the shame and stain of his honour and family, which he talks of so much. Now, you know the jealous cruel fathers in Spain serve their poor innocent daughters often so; and he is more than a Spaniard.
_Mons. Non, non,_ fear noting; I warrant you, he shall come as often as you will to de house; and your father shall never know who he is till we are married. But then I'll tell him all for the jest's sake.
_Hip._ But will you keep my counsel, dear cousin, till we are married?
_Mons._ Poor dear fool! I warrant thee, _ma foi!_
_Hip._ Nay, what a fool am I indeed! for you would not have me killed. You love me too well, sure, to be an instrument of my death.
_Enter_ Don DIEGO, _walking gravely, a_ Black boy _behind him; and_ Mrs. CAUTION.
But here comes my father, remember.
_Mons._ I would no more tell him of it than I would tell you if I had been with a wench, _jarni!_ [_Aside._]--She's afraid to be killed, poor wretch, and he's a capricious, jealous fop enough to do't:--but here he comes.--[_To_ HIPPOLITA.] I'll keep thy counsel, I warrant thee, my dear soul, _mon petit cœur._
_Hip._ Peace! peace! my father's coming this way.
_Mons._ Ay, but by his march he won't be near enough to hear us this half hour, ha! ha! ha! [Don DIEGO _walks leisurely round_ Monsieur, _surveying him, and shrugging up his shoulders, whilst_ Monsieur _makes legs and faces aside._
_Don._ Is that thing my cousin, sister?
_Mrs. Caut._ 'Tis he, sir.
_Don._ Cousin, I am sorry to see you--
_Mons._ Is that a Spanish compliment?
_Don._ So much disguised, cousin.
_Mons._ [_Aside._] Oh! is it out at last, _ventre?_--[_To_ Don DIEGO.]--_Serviteur, serviteur, à monsieur mon oncle;_ and I am glad to see you here within doors, most Spanish _oncle_, ha! ha! ha! but I should be sorry to see you in the streets, _tête non!_
_Don._ Why so?--would you be ashamed of me, hah--_voto á St. Jago!_ would you? hauh--
_Mons._ Ay; it may be you would be ashamed yourself, _monsieur mon oncle_, of the great train you would get to wait upon your Spanish hose, puh--the boys would follow you, and hoot at you--_vert_ and _bleu!_ pardon my Franch _franchise, monsieur mon oncle._
_Hip._ We shall have sport anon, betwixt these two contraries. [_Apart to_ PRUE.
_Don._ Dost thou call me "monsieur?" _voto á St. Jago!_
_Mons._ No, I did not call you Monsieur Voto á St. Jago! Sir, I know you are my uncle, Mr. James Formal--da--
_Don._ But I can hardly know you are my cousin, Mr. Nathaniel Paris.--But call me, sir, Don Diego henceforward, look you, and no monsieur. Call me monsieur! _guarda!_
_Mons._ I confess my error, sir; for none but a blind man would call you monsieur, ha! ha!--But, pray, do not call me neder Paris, but de Paris, de Paris, (_s'il vous plait,_) Monsieur de Paris. Call me monsieur, and welcome, da--
_Don._ Monsieur de Pantaloons then, _voto_--
_Mons._ Monsieur de Pantaloons! a pretty name, a pretty name, _ma foi!_ da--_bien trouvé_ de Pantaloons! how much better den your de la Fountaines, de la Rivieres, de la Roches, and all the _de's_ in France--da--well; but have you not the admiration for my pantaloon, Don Diego, _mon oncle?_
_Don._ I am astonished at them, _verdaderamente_, they are wonderfully ridiculous.
_Mons._ Redicule! redicule! ah--'tis well you are my uncle, da--redicule! ha--is dere any ting in the universe so _gentil_ as de pantaloons? any ting so _ravissant_ as de pantaloons? Auh--I could kneel down and varship a pair of _gentil_ pantaloons. Vat, vat, you would have me have de admiration for dis outward skin of your thigh, which you call Spanish hose, fi! fi! fi!--ha! ha! ha!
_Don._ Dost thou deride my Spanish hose, young man, hauh?
_Mons._ In comparison of pantaloon, I do undervalue 'em indeed, Don Diego, _mon oncle_, ha! ha! ha!
_Don._ Thou art then a _gabacho[61] de mal gusto_, look you.
_Mons._ You may call me vat you vill, _oncle_ Don Diego; but I must needs say, your Spanish hose are scurvy hose, ugly hose, lousy hose, and stinking hose.
_Don._ Do not provoke me, _borracho!_ [_Puts his hand to his sword._
_Mons._ Indeet, as for lousy, I recant dat epithete, for dere is scarce room in 'em for dat little animal, ha! ha! ha! but for stinking hose, dat epithete may stand; for how can they choose but stink, since they are so _furieusement_ close to your Spanish tail, da?
_Hip._ Ha! ha! ridiculous! [_Aside._
_Don._ Do not provoke me, I say, _en hora mala!_ [_Seems to draw._
_Mons._ Nay, _oncle_, I am sorry you are in de pation; but I must live and die for de pantaloon against de Spanish hose, da.
_Don._ You are a rash young man; and while you wear pantaloons, you are beneath my passion, _voto_--auh--they make thee look and waddle (with all those gewgaw ribbons) like a great, old, fat, slovenly water dog.
_Mons._ And your Spanish hose, and your nose in the air, make you look like a great, grizzled, long Irish greyhound reaching a crust off from a high shelf, ha! ha! ha!
_Don. Bueno! bueno!_
_Mrs. Caut._ What, have you a mind to ruin yourself and break off the match?
_Mons._ Pshaw--wat do you tell me of the matche! d'ye tinke I will not vindicate pantaloons, _morbleu!_
_Don._ [_Aside._] Well, he is a lost young man, I see, and desperately far gone in the epidemic malady of our nation, the affectation of the worst of French vanities: but I must be wiser than him, as I am a Spaniard. Look you, Don Diego, and endeavour to reclaim him by art and fair means, look you, Don Diego; if not, he shall never marry my daughter, look you, Don Diego, though he be my own sister's son, and has two thousand five hundred seventy-three pounds sterling, twelve shillings and twopence a year pennyrent, _seguramente!_--[_To_ Monsieur.] Come, young man, since you are so obstinate, we will refer our difference to arbitration; your mistress, my daughter, shall be umpire betwixt us, concerning Spanish hose and pantaloons.
_Mons._ Pantaloons and Spanish hose, _s'il vous plait_.
_Don._ Your mistress is the fittest judge of your dress, sure.
_Mons._ I know ver vel dat most of the _jeunesse_ of England will not change de ribband upon de crevat without de consultation of dere _maîtresse_; but I am no _Anglais_, da--nor shall I make de reference of my dress to any in the universe, da--I judge by any in England! _tête non!_ I would not be judge by any English looking-glass, _jarni!_
_Don._ Be not _positivo_, young man.
_Mrs. Caut._ Nay, pray refer it, cousin, pray do.
_Mons._ Non, non, your servant, your servant, aunt.
_Don._ But, pray, be not so positive. Come hither, daughter, tell me which is best.
_Hip._ Indeed, father, you have kept me in universal ignorance, I know nothing.
_Mons._ And do you tink I shall refer an affair of that consequence to a poor young ting who have not seen the vorld, da? I am wiser than so, _voto!_
_Don._ Well, in short, if you will not be wiser, and leave off your French dress, stammering, and tricks, look you, you shall be a fool, and go without my daughter, _voto!_
_Mons._ How! must I leave off my jantee French accoutrements, and speak base Englis too, or not marry my cousin, _mon oncle_ Don Diego? Do not break off the match, do not; for know, I will not leave off my pantaloon and French pronuntiation for ne'er a cousin in England't, da.
_Don._ I tell you again, he that marries my daughter shall at least look like a wise man, for he shall wear the Spanish habit; I am a Spanish _positivo_.
_Mons._ Ver vel! ver vel! and I am a French _positivo_.
_Don._ Then I am _definitivo_; and if you do not go immediately into your chamber, and put on a Spanish habit, I have brought over on purpose for your wedding-clothes, and put off all these French fopperies and _vanidades_, with all your grimaces, agreeables, adorables, _ma fois_, and _jarnis_; I swear you shall never marry my daughter (and by an oath by Spaniard never broken) by my whiskers and snuff-box!
_Mons._ O hold! do not swear, uncle, for I love your daughter _furieusement_.
_Don._ If you love her, you'll obey me.