Dramas (Baillie)/The Alienated Manor/Act 1
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Good morning, Mr. Crafton; I am delighted to see you. Do you often, in your morning rambles, trespass thus far on your neighbour's premises?
I trespass not at present, I hope, being directly on my way to pay my compliments to Mr. Charville on this happy occasion.
Right, Mr. Crafton; you are above any little resentment for the extravagant demand with which he so ungraciously met your late reasonable offer regarding this manor. I know all about it; and the very unfair advantage which the late Mr. Charville took of your uncle's distresses to get possession of it,—I know all about it. Mr. Charville is my friend and employer, but I am too candid not to feel and to perceive: indeed he was wrong—much in the wrong, in that matter.
And in other matters too, perhaps. But one must keep up some intercourse with the world as it is; the grass would grow on my threshold, were I to confine my visits to the immaculate. You are come down, I presume, to improve the pleasure grounds. He means upon his marriage to have every thing in the modern taste.
And shall have it, if I can do any thing; but he is so conceited of his own notions, so suspicious, he will trust nobody but by halves.
What; not trust Sir Level Clump implicitly in matters of taste! Conceited indeed!—But what are your own ideas, Sir? Have you surveyed these woods, with all their winding paths, and ferny dells, and dark covert nooks, and tangled thickets? I am, perhaps, too partial to the ancient possessions of my forefathers, but this place seems to me full of sylvan beauty,
Yes,—O yes.
Don't you think so?
Assuredly: it is at least practicable ground. If you saw my plan, you would be astonished at what may be made of it. A few hundred pounds spent in clearing away the underwood, and cutting out that heavy mass of forest trees into separate groups, would give it a very elegant, tasteful, parkish appearance.
Cut out the mass of forest trees into separate groups! I should be astonished indeed.
Ay, ay! I knew you would. Lightness, variety, and plan—these are the grand principles; there is nothing like these. For you know very well, my dear Sir, if there be no plan, there is no meaning in what you do; ergo, no taste; and if there be no taste, it is all one as if there were no plan.
Not exactly. Sir Level.
Nay, you don't exactly comprehend me. You'll catch it by and by, when I show you my sketch. Why, these woods, as they now are, compared to what they will be when the plan is completed, are as a rude, untamed clown to a gentleman.
Say, rather, a savage chief to a posture-master. But you have been in the North lately, Sir Level. What progress is taste making in Lochaber?
O lud, lud ! totally impracticable! What could I do for them there?
I'm sure I can't pretend to say; but you did attempt something, I suppose.
Ay; the Laird of Glenvorluch, who is lately returned from Calcutta, with a large fortune at command, did indeed take me over his estate and put a carte blanche into my hands; but in vain. There was a burn (as they call it) running past the house, with water enough in it to have beautified the domains of a prince; but with such an impetuous, angry, perverse sprite of a stream, spade or shovel never contended. It would neither serpentine, sweep, nor expand in any direction, but as it pleased its own self.
And having no plan. Sir Level, it would, of course, have no taste.
Ah! sad discouraging work there for improvers!
Was there nothing to be done?
I could, no doubt, have collected its stores in the dell beneath, and made as fine a sheet of artificial water as heart could desire; but what purpose could this have answered with a lake fronting the house, in which you might have floated half the small craft of the British navy?
A perverse circumstance, indeed.
In short, all that I could do was to remove some rough woody knolls that intervened, and, instead of a partial view of the lake, open it entirely to the mansion, as a grand, unbroken whole. A hundred sturdy Highlanders, with wheelbarrows and mattocks, made it, in a short time, a very handsome, smooth, gradual slope, that would not have disgraced the finest park in Middlesex. This piece of service I did for him.
And had you done as much for me, Sir Level, I should have acquitted you from all further trouble.
Ay; you are a reasonable man, Mr. Crafton. Why, what could I have done better for such an obstinate place?
Nothing that I know of, unless
Unless what? Pray let me have your idea. Successful as I have generally been, I hope I still bear my faculties too meekly not to be willing to profit by a friendly hint from a person of discernment.—Unless what, my dear Sir?
Unless you had let it alone altogether.
O no, no, no! that was impossible. The Laird had a lady,—a young bride, too;—she was new, the house was new, the furniture was new, and the grounds also were to be made suitable: I was obliged to operate upon it.
A hard necessity.
However, since no better could be, they have my plan hanging in the library, to show what the place ought to be, if it will not; and this must even vindicate their reputation for taste to all the strangers and travellers who may visit the house of Glenvorluch.
Very good. Sir Level; the lady must be satisfied with that.—But pray let us talk of another new-married lady. How do you like Mrs. Charville? Is she handsome?
She is very fond of my plan.
O, no doubt; and this would have been a decided answer, had I inquired after her mental perfections. But being a plain country squire, and pretending to little refinement, I simply inquire if she is handsome.
I believe people do think her so, though the rules of art are against her.
Never mind the rules!—I beg pardon. She is handome then; and gay, I suppose.
Yes, yes: she is too gay; perhaps the world will say thoughtless; but I must still think there is a fund of good sense at bottom. She really perceived the beauties of it with great quickness, and took to it wonderfully.
Took to what?
To my plan.
O very true! how could I lose sight of that? And how will a gay thoughtless wife suit a man of Charville's disposition? He is very suspicious, you say.
They jar a little, as other married folks sometimes do; but if they put my plan into execution, it will occupy them more pleasantly—for a time at least.
If separating the trees will unite them, there is sense in the plan, and its taste is, of course, unquestionable.—And how do you like Charville's sister, who is so much admired—the gentle Mary?
She is gentle enough; but she has no quickness, no perceptions, no brains at all.
Poor girl; I fear she has not wit enough to comprehend the plan.—But here comes my nephew; he is going with me to the mansion.
Come, Freemantle; I have waited for you here some time, and am indebted to this worthy gentleman for not finding it tedious. Let me present Sir Robert Freemantle to you, Sir Level.
Sir Level Clump, I presume. We shall have a paradise about us presently, were we but worthy to enjoy it.
You do me honour, Sir Robert. You have a pretty place in the West, I am told, though the park is somewhat in disorder: but, no doubt you mean to improve it.
I must improve my corn-fields in the first place, to get money for other improvements.
The readier and more common method, now-a-days, is to cut down the wood on one part of the ground, to pay for beautifying the other.
A good device, Sir Level; but my worthy mother likes the old woods as they are; and you might as well bring her own grey head to the block, as lift an axe against any veteran oak on the estate.
Ah! those old people, with their prejudices, are the bane to all taste and improvement.—Good morning; I see Mr. Smitchenstault in search of me.
Is that the German philosopher we have heard of?
Yes; so he calls himself. I only pretend to make these grounds visibly beautiful; he will demonstrate, forsooth, that they become at the same time philosophically so. Poor man! though mighty clever in his way, he is altogether occupied with his own notions; and to indulge him a little, I have promised to meet him in the further part of the wood. Have you a mind for a lecture?
Not at present, my good Sir; excuse us.
Good morning to you.[Exit.
I have a mind for the lecture, though. (Checking himself and returning.) No, no; we will go to our visit: she may possibly be there; she is probably there; she is certainly there: the brightness of the sunshine, the playful fanning of the wind, the quick beating of my heart tells me so. Uncle, are you going? You are in a deep reverie, methinks.
His suspicions, her thoughtlessness,—the idea fastens itself upon me strangely.
Ha! speaking to yourself, Sir! What is it that fastens upon you?
A thought for your good too.
Pray let me have it then, for very few such thoughts have any immediate communication with my own brain.
Charville has got a pretty wife, whom he loves to a folly.
And a pretty sister, too, whom he loves but moderately; yet some other good person might be found, who would be willing to make up that deficiency.
I understand thee well enough. But she has no fortune unless she marry with her brother's consent; and his robbing (I must call it so) thy poor simple cousin at the gaming-table shows plainly how much he loves money.
Nay, nay! Since I have seen the sister, I would forget that unhappy transaction entirely.
I only mention it now to show his disposition; and surely thou art poor enough to justify his refusal of thy suit to his sister.
I have never made any suit to her.
I know thou hast not; but if thou shouldst, how wouldst thou relish a flat denial from his formal importance? Therefore, if thou hast any thing of this kind in thy head, I would counsel thee to begin with paying thy particular attentions to his wife, who will afterwards plead thy cause with her husband.—Come, come; it is a very good thought; let us speak of it as we go.
But not so loud; we may be overheard.
Very true; give me thine arm.[Exeunt.
No, no! I can't wear them so of a morning, my dear Charles: positively you sha'n't make such a witch of me. (Pushing him gently away as he endeavours to stick flowers amongst her hair.)
And art thou not a witch, little Harry? with spells enough about thee for any man's perdition, if thou wert not at the same time a good—a very good little witch, mine own little Harry! Do wear them so; they look pretty.
They look awkward, and affected, and silly; I can't endure them. Why will you be so teasing?
And are my expressions of attachment become teasing? A cold indifferent husband, then, would please you better. You reject the simple offering of a devoted heart: as my fondness increases, yours, alas! declines.
Come, come; don't look so grave! I'll stick those foolish roses into my hair, if you will, though I am sure they are only fit for a holiday nosegay.
I gathered them, Love.
And I am sorry, Love, you had not the wit to gather better. They are such as a village school-mistress would strew in her drawer to sweeten her kerchiefs and aprons. They arc too full blown for the flower-pot on her window. But never mind; I'll wear them.
I knew you would, for all your saucy words, mine own little Harry: and I'll tell thee what I'll do in return for all thy sweet condescension.
And what may that be, I wonder?
You objected to my going to Middlemoor this morning.
No, I did not.
Nay, but you did. I read it in your eyes, gentle Harry. But now I set that journey aside: I will not leave thee a week; not half a week; no, not a day.
O what a tide of goodness flows upon me now! I shall be drowned therewith.—Not a day! Do you think I wish to have you always by my side? No, my dear Charles: go from home when you please; and when you return you will bring your sister and me all the news, and let us know how the world is moving. All the married folks, I know, are sometimes separated.
And are they as happy as you would wish to be?
They are happy enough, I suppose.
I suppose; suppose. The cold, formal, miserable word! I hate the very sound of it.—I may go from home, then, as often as I please. My absence, I suppose, would be no interruption to your happiness?
Your occasional absence, perhaps, might increase it. The most wretched pair of all my acquaintance is the only one always together.
Who are they, pray?
Lady Bloom and her jealous husband. The odious man! She can't stir, but he moves too, like her shadow. She can't whisper to a friend, nor examine a picture or gem with an old cognoscenti, but he must thrust his nose between them.—But how is it now? You are as grave as a judge, and twisting off the heads of those very flowers, too, that have occasioned all this commotion. How is it with you now?
You take part against the husband very eagerly, I perceive.
Not very eagerly; but I hate a man who is so selfish that he must engross his wife's attention entirely. What do you think of the matter?
It is indifferent to you what I think of it; I am no longer your care—your only care.
Did I ever tell you that you were? God forbid I should be so uncharitable, so narrow, so confined! I have cared for some people in the world besides you, and I have told you so.
Yes, Madam; I should have remembered how long Henry Devonford disputed with me the prize of your heart: you favoured us both.
True, Charles; but where would have been the merit of preferring you, had I cared for nobody else? If I did show some favour to him, it was you whom I married.
Very true, very true! It was me whom you married, married,—married.
Nay, foolish man! If you will stride about the room so, let us give something of a figure to it. We are too grave for a rigadoon, so we had better make it a minuet. (Holding out her gown, and always facing him, as he turns away, with so much coaxing good humour, that he is at last overcome, and clasps her in his arms.)
My dear, dear Harriet! you treat me like a fool, but I must bear with it. I know thou lovest me better than thou professest to do.
O not a whit!
Nay, but thou dost. I know it. (Putting his hand fondly on hers.)
Indeed you know a great deal that nobody else does. You study deeply for it; you are fond of occult learning.
And we must be pestered with such interruptions.
Don't fret; I like to see new faces.
I am happy, Mr. Charville, to offer you my hearty congratulations, and to have the honour of paying my respects to this lady.
I thank you, Sir. I am happy to have the honour of seeing you and Sir Robert Freemantle in my house;—and Mrs. Charville too—we are both glad to have that honour.
And must I do my ceremonies to you too? (Makes a very affected stiff courtesy, and then holding out her hand to him with great vivacity.) My old friend and playfellow, I am delighted to see you. So unexpected! Do you belong to these parts?
No; but my good fortune makes me a temporary resident at present.
It is good fortune to us all. Is it not Charles? He is brother to my friend Charlotte. (Charville bows gravely.) And how does dear Charlotte? is she near us too?
No; she is in Shropshire.
I could not prevail upon my niece to come to me at this time.
O but she will come, when she knows that I am here: do write to her: it is so long since we met. Do tell me about her, Sir Robert; I have many things to ask. (Drawing him aside.)
What a charming frank disposition!—a most charming woman! You are a happy man, Charville, and a bold one too, after the dealings you have had with this wicked world, to become responsible for such a treasure. But you will tell me she is all perfection, and I will believe it.
Nay, good Sir, if you are disposed to think well of my choice, I had better trust to that for doing her justice.
Ay, ay; I understand this grave restraint: you have applied the point of ridicule to many a poor Benedict; and when it comes to your own turn, you shrink from it. You are but a new recruit in this service of matrimony, and still belong to the awkward division.
Why, that lies miles off on the other side, you know.
True; I mean the garden.
When you are kind enough to give me a key to it, I may come that way.
No, no! I mean the woods.
You have named my way—my favourite way, at last. But I fear it will not long be so; for Sir Level Clump pronounces it to be practicable ground, and that is a death-warrant to nature and simplicity.
Nature and simplicity are very antiquated personages; and Mr. Crafton is particularly kind in taking any interest in the latter, who has assuredly no kindred claim to his protection.
And is it for the same reason that you would drive her from yours?—But let us both befriend her on more liberal principles: I shall be proud at all times to follow your good example.
You expect to keep up with me on some of the easy-pacing virtues.
I don't know; even so mounted, you may run me harder than I like. But I may strive to do it, were it only out of spite.
I’ll trust you for that.
Do so, by all means: trust me or any body for any thing, if you can, and you will cultivate a disposition of mind that is good for man in every condition, particularly in the married state. Under another name, you know, it is one of the cardinal virtues.
O you talk of de vertues cardinalls, de great, de grand, de sublime vertues; dat be de ting, de one only ting.
Mr. Smitchenstault, I presume. (Bowing.)
Yes, yes; hear you me: my name is Smitchenstault. Hear you me. De sublime vertue is de grand, de only vertue. I prove you dis.—Now we shall say, here is de good-tempered man; he not quarel, he not fret, he disturb no body. Very well; let him live de next door to me: but what all dat mean?—O, dat he is de good-tempered man. Den dere is de industrious man, hear you me, de industrious man; he don't love idle, he work, he toil, he do every ting dat be to do;—very well, all dat very well: let him build my house, let him make my shoe, let him
Letter! I say no letter: I say make my shoe. O, let him make—let him do all dat; dis be well too. And dere be de sober man: he not love wine; wine make him ill; and he have always de great commendations,—O, he be de sober man! But, I say, now hear you me
We do, Mr. Smitchenstault; and no disparagement to your argument, it is a virtue of necessity.
Shall we join her, Mr. Smitchenstault? She is fond of your reasoning.
No, no! She love de flowers and frivolities. I say, hear you me. I say, let him make my shoe.
But you had got beyond that, my good Sir.
O, very well den, you understand.—But of what value is all that piggling, niggling,—you call little thing piggling, niggling?
Sometimes we do, perhaps.
Very well: what is it, I say, but de piggling, niggling driblets of virtue? But de grand, de sublime, is in what you call—not de heart—(Striking his breast.)—not de heart.
Stomach?
No, no!—Soul—(Striking his breast with greater energy.)—ay, de soul, dere be de sublime vertue. My sentiment, my entusiasm, my love for my friend do flame here; what tough in my rage I do cut his troat?
That were but a trifle. But suffer me to transpose the matter, and make the sublimity of sentiment to belong to your friend, and the throat to yourself.
Pardon, pardon! you do turn upon me de very vulgar reply. Observe well de turn of my argument. Actions be noting: it is de high soaring of de soul.—(To Charville.) But you don't attend; you don't look at me.
Pardon him, Sir; his eyes follow a still more agreeable object.—Shall we join the party in the garden, Charville?
O no! 'pon my soul, I was looking at that window frame; the ideot of a carpenter has bungled it abominably.
I see no fault in it. But you are difficult; Mr. Smitchenstault's piggling virtues are not in favour this morning. Good day.
Ha, ha, ha! 'Pon my life, I am in the best humour imaginable. You will not go without taking leave of Mrs. Charville.
I am a person of no ceremony.
But your nephew.
He will walk home when he likes it: I take no charge of him.—Good day, Mr. Smitchenstault.
O! but you have not hear where de sense of my argument lies.
I have not indeed.
But you must, tough. I go wid you. (Taking him by the arm, and speaking busily as they go off.) De soul is de sublime energy; it is de subtile matter, de, &c. &c. &c.
Very good friends, truly, with their letters and their confidences. That coquettish animation too: they must have some merry joke to laugh thus. No, hang it! 'tis their own damned pleasure in being together. (Runs to them in the garden, and the scene closes.)
THE
ALIENATED MANOR.
ACT I.
SCENE I.—A Wood, with a View of Charville's House in the background, seen through the Trees.
Enter Crafton, who immediately stops short, as if looking earnestly at something off the Stage.
CRAFTON.
Who can it be? Ho! paper and pencil in hand; and the broad-brimmed hat, too, with its green lining;—I heard he was with them. Fit crow for such a rookery!
Enter Sir Level Clump.
Your servant, Sir Level Clump; I wish you good morning.
SIR LEVEL.
CRAFTON.
SIR LEVEL.
CRAFTON.
SIR LEVEL.
CRAFTON.
SIR LEVEL (tardily).
CRAFTON.
SIR LEVEL.
CRAFTON.
SIR LEVEL.
CRAFTON.
SIR LEVEL.
CRAFTON.
SIR LEVEL.
CRAFTON.
SIR LEVEL (shrugging up his shoulders).
CRAFTON.
SIR LEVEL.
CRAFTON.
SIR LEVEL.
CRAFTON.
SIR LEVEL.
CRAFTON.
SIR LEVEL.
CRAFTON.
SIR LEVEL.
GRAFTON.
SIR LEVEL.
CRAFTON.
SIR LEVEL.
CRAFTON.
SIR LEVEL.
CRAFTON.
SIR LEVEL.
CRAFTON.
SIR LEVEL.
CRAFTON.
SIR LEVEL.
CRAFTON.
SIR LEVEL.
CRAFTON.
SIR LEVEL.
CRAFTON.
Enter Sir Robert Freemantle.
FREEMANTLE.
SIR LEVEL.
FREEMANTLE.
SIR LEVEL.
FREEMANTLE.
SIR LEVEL.
CRAFTON.
SIR LEVEL.
CRAFTON.
SIR LEVEL.
FREEMANTLE (running after him).
CRAFTON (aside, without attending to him).
FREEMANTLE.
CRAFTON.
SIR ROBERT.
CRAFTON.
FREEMANTLE.
CRAFTON.
FREEMANTLE.
CRAFTON.
FREEMANTLE.
CRAFTON.
FREEMANTLE.
CRAFTON.
SCENE II.
Charville's House; a Saloon opening into the Garden.
Enter Mr. and Mrs. Charville, speaking as they enter.
MRS. CHARVILLE.
CHARVILLE.
MRS. CHARVILLE.
CHARVILLE.
MRS. CHARVILLE.
CHARVILLE.
MRS. CHARVILLE.
CHARVILLE.
MRS. CHARVILLE.
CHARVILLE.
MRS. CHARVILLE.
CHARVILLE.
MRS. CHARVILLE.
CHARVILLE.
MRS. CHARVILLE.
CHARVILLE.
MRS. CHARVILLE.
CHARVILLE.
MRS. CHARVILLE.
CHARVILLE.
MRS. CHARVILLE.
CHARVILLE.
MRS. CHARVILLE.
CHARVILLE.
MRS. CHARVILLE.
CHARVILLE.
MRS. CHARVILLE.
CHARVILLE.
MRS. CHARVILLE.
CHARVILLE.
MRS. CHARVILLE.
Enter a Servant announcing Company.
CHARVILLE.
MRS. CHARVILLE.
Enter Crafton and Sir R. Freemantle.
CRAFTON.
CHARVILLE.
MRS. CHARVILLE (after making a formal courtesy to Crafton, and then turning to Freemantle.
FREEMANTLE.
MRS. CHARVILLE.
FREEMANTLE.
CRAFTON.
MRS. CHARVILLE.
CRAFTON (to CHARVILLE).
CHARVILLE.
CRAFTON.
CHARVILLE (smiling faintly).
Perhaps so. It is a pleasant morning: did you come by(Here Mrs. Charville and Freemantle pass from the bottom of the Stage into the garden.)by the common?
CRAFTON.
CHARVILLE.
CRAFTON.
CHARVILLE.
CRAFTON.
CHARVILLE.
CRAFTON.
CHARVILLE.
CRAFTON.
CHARVILLE.
CRAFTON.
Enter Smitchenstault.
SMITCHENSTAULT.
CRAFTON.
SMITCHENSTAULT.
Charville (who has been all this while watching with his eyes Mrs. Charville and Sir R. Freemantle, as they walked to and fro in the garden, seeing him now take a letter from his pocket, calls out, off his guard).
A letter! (Moves towards the garden.)
SMITCHENSTAULT (pulling him back).
CRAFTON.
SMITCHENSTAULT.
No, he don't hear.—(To Charville.) What you always look dere for? (Turning round himself.) O, de lady is in de garden!
CHARVILLE.
SMITCHENSTAULT.
CRAFTON.
SMITCHENSTAULT.
CRAFTON.
SMITCHENSTAULT.
CRAFTON.
SMITCHENSTAULT.
CRAFTON.
SMITCHENSTAULT.
CRAFTON.
CHARVILLE.
CRAFTON.
CHARVILLE.
CRAFTON.
CHARVILLE.
CRAFTON.
SMITCHENSTAULT.
CRAFTON.
SMITCHENSTAULT.
[Exeunt Crafton and Smitchenstault.
CHARVILLE (now looking without restraint to Mrs. Charville and Freemantle in the garden).