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all_chapterized_books/2246-chapters/2.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/All's Well That Ends Well/section_3_part_0.txt

All's Well That Ends Well.act 2.scene 1

act 2, scene 1

{"name": "Scene 1", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820042551/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmAllsWell16.asp", "summary": "This scene opens in the King's palace in Paris. The King is accompanied by Bertram, Parolles, and several young lords who are ready to leave for the Florentine wars. The King exhorts them to fight valiantly in the true French spirit; in a lighter vein, he tells them to watch out for Florentine girls. Bertram, who is not allowed to accompany the lords to battle because of his youth, decides, at the urging of Parolles and others, to sneak off to war. Parolles and Bertram leave in pursuit of the departing lords after Parolles decides it might be a good idea for them to ingratiate themselves with the other soldiers. In the meantime, Lafeu enters. He kneels before the King and tells him a lady doctor has arrived who believes she can cure him. The King agrees to see her, and Lafeu re-enters with Helena. After Lafeu leaves, Helena introduces herself as the daughter of the famous physician Gerard de Narbon. She tells the King she can cure him with her father's remedy. The King is doubtful that she can succeed, especially when she proposes to cure him within the space of twenty-four hours. Helena strikes a deal with the King that if she is unable to cure him, he can kill her on the spot. But if she succeeds, he must allow her to choose a husband from among the noble bachelors of the court as payment for her services.", "analysis": "Notes This scene is important mostly for the way it depicts first the hero, then the heroine, of the play. The scene opens with Bertram denied a chance at military victory because of his youth. He is petulant, eager, and enthusiastic. He feels left out and rejected by the lords and the King who are used to valors in life. This young impressionability in Bertram is further heightened in the way that Parolles counsels him, advises him, seeks to shape him into the kind of man he would like to be. Parolles, acting as a tempter, persuades Bertram that youth should not stop him; instead he tells his friend to take matters into his own hands and sneak off to battle. Bertram, utterly impressionable and spineless, does everything Parolles tells him to do. In direct contrast, young, confident, and determined Helena boldly petitions the King for a chance to prove herself. She comes before him, not only young but also a woman, and proposes that he allow her an honest chance to cure him. After some persuading, Helena succeeds in speaking for herself honestly and openly. She strikes up a bold and confident deal with the king, proving that she is not in need of flattering counselors and false praises and suggestions in order to achieve what she wants. If she cures the King, she will be able to choose anyone she wants for a husband; of course, she has Bertram in mind. Throughout this scene, Helena proves herself to be self-driven, ambitious, and doggedly determined; she knows what she wants and is not afraid to go after it. In sharp contrast, Bertram is weak, easily led, and in need of both confidence and direction; he has no idea of what he really wants in life, but allows Parolles to influence all his decisions. It is important to notice the importance that Parolles places on clothing and fashion. He is the main character in the play to establish the theme of appearance vs. reality. He always seeks to be perfectly dressed, as if to hide his very imperfect being. The audience, however, can easily see right through his appearance to his rotten core. At the end of the drama, when his true self has been revealed to all, including Bertram, he will be shabbily dressed."}

Actus Secundus. Enter the King with diuers yong Lords, taking leaue for the Florentine warre: Count, Rosse, and Parrolles. Florish Cornets. King. Farewell yong Lords, these warlike principles Doe not throw from you, and you my Lords farewell: Share the aduice betwixt you, if both gaine, all The guift doth stretch it selfe as 'tis receiu'd, And is enough for both Lord.G. 'Tis our hope sir, After well entred souldiers, to returne And finde your grace in health King. No, no, it cannot be; and yet my heart Will not confesse he owes the mallady That doth my life besiege: farwell yong Lords, Whether I liue or die, be you the sonnes Of worthy French men: let higher Italy (Those bated that inherit but the fall Of the last Monarchy) see that you come Not to wooe honour, but to wed it, when The brauest questant shrinkes: finde what you seeke, That fame may cry you loud: I say farewell L.G. Health at your bidding serue your Maiesty King. Those girles of Italy, take heed of them, They say our French, lacke language to deny If they demand: beware of being Captiues Before you serue Bo. Our hearts receiue your warnings King. Farewell, come hether to me 1.Lo.G. Oh my sweet Lord y you wil stay behind vs Parr. 'Tis not his fault the spark 2.Lo.E. Oh 'tis braue warres Parr. Most admirable, I haue seene those warres Rossill. I am commanded here, and kept a coyle with, Too young, and the next yeere, and 'tis too early Parr. And thy minde stand too't boy, Steale away brauely Rossill. I shal stay here the for-horse to a smocke, Creeking my shooes on the plaine Masonry, Till honour be bought vp, and no sword worne But one to dance with: by heauen, Ile steale away 1.Lo.G. There's honour in the theft Parr. Commit it Count 2.Lo.E. I am your accessary, and so farewell Ros. I grow to you, & our parting is a tortur'd body 1.Lo.G. Farewell Captaine 2.Lo.E. Sweet Mounsier Parolles Parr. Noble Heroes; my sword and yours are kinne, good sparkes and lustrous, a word good mettals. You shall finde in the Regiment of the Spinij, one Captaine Spurio his sicatrice, with an Embleme of warre heere on his sinister cheeke; it was this very sword entrench'd it: say to him I liue, and obserue his reports for me Lo.G. We shall noble Captaine Parr. Mars doate on you for his nouices, what will ye doe? Ross. Stay the King Parr. Vse a more spacious ceremonie to the Noble Lords, you haue restrain'd your selfe within the List of too cold an adieu: be more expressiue to them; for they weare themselues in the cap of the time, there do muster true gate; eat, speake, and moue vnder the influence of the most receiu'd starre, and though the deuill leade the measure, such are to be followed: after them, and take a more dilated farewell Ross. And I will doe so Parr. Worthy fellowes, and like to prooue most sinewie sword-men. Exeunt. Enter Lafew. L.Laf. Pardon my Lord for mee and for my tidings King. Ile see thee to stand vp L.Laf. Then heres a man stands that has brought his pardon, I would you had kneel'd my Lord to aske me mercy, And that at my bidding you could so stand vp King. I would I had, so I had broke thy pate And askt thee mercy for't Laf. Goodfaith a-crosse, but my good Lord 'tis thus, Will you be cur'd of your infirmitie? King. No Laf. O will you eat no grapes my royall foxe? Yes but you will, my noble grapes, and if My royall foxe could reach them: I haue seen a medicine That's able to breath life into a stone, Quicken a rocke, and make you dance Canari With sprightly fire and motion, whose simple touch Is powerfull to arayse King Pippen, nay To giue great Charlemaine a pen in's hand And write to her a loue-line King. What her is this? Laf. Why doctor she: my Lord, there's one arriu'd, If you will see her: now by my faith and honour, If seriously I may conuay my thoughts In this my light deliuerance, I haue spoke With one, that in her sexe, her yeeres, profession, Wisedome and constancy, hath amaz'd mee more Then I dare blame my weakenesse: will you see her? For that is her demand, and know her businesse? That done, laugh well at me King. Now good Lafew, Bring in the admiration, that we with thee May spend our wonder too, or take off thine By wondring how thou tookst it Laf. Nay, Ile fit you, And not be all day neither King. Thus he his speciall nothing euer prologues Laf. Nay, come your waies. Enter Hellen. King. This haste hath wings indeed Laf. Nay, come your waies, This is his Maiestie, say your minde to him, A Traitor you doe looke like, but such traitors His Maiesty seldome feares, I am Cresseds Vncle, That dare leaue two together, far you well. Enter. King. Now faire one, do's your busines follow vs? Hel. I my good Lord, Gerard de Narbon was my father, In what he did professe, well found King. I knew him Hel. The rather will I spare my praises towards him, Knowing him is enough: on's bed of death, Many receits he gaue me, chieflie one, Which as the dearest issue of his practice And of his olde experience, th' onlie darling, He bad me store vp, as a triple eye, Safer then mine owne two: more deare I haue so, And hearing your high Maiestie is toucht With that malignant cause, wherein the honour Of my deare fathers gift, stands cheefe in power, I come to tender it, and my appliance, With all bound humblenesse King. We thanke you maiden, But may not be so credulous of cure, When our most learned Doctors leaue vs, and The congregated Colledge haue concluded, That labouring Art can neuer ransome nature From her inaydible estate: I say we must not So staine our iudgement, or corrupt our hope, To prostitute our past-cure malladie To empericks, or to disseuer so Our great selfe and our credit, to esteeme A sencelesse helpe, when helpe past sence we deeme Hell. My dutie then shall pay me for my paines: I will no more enforce mine office on you, Humbly intreating from your royall thoughts, A modest one to beare me backe againe King. I cannot giue thee lesse to be cal'd gratefull: Thou thoughtst to helpe me, and such thankes I giue, As one neere death to those that wish him liue: But what at full I know, thou knowst no part, I knowing all my perill, thou no Art Hell. What I can doe, can doe no hurt to try, Since you set vp your rest 'gainst remedie: He that of greatest workes is finisher, Oft does them by the weakest minister: So holy Writ, in babes hath iudgement showne, When Iudges haue bin babes; great flouds haue flowne From simple sources: and great Seas haue dried When Miracles haue by the great'st beene denied. Oft expectation failes, and most oft there Where most it promises: and oft it hits, Where hope is coldest, and despaire most shifts King. I must not heare thee, fare thee wel kind maide, Thy paines not vs'd, must by thy selfe be paid, Proffers not tooke, reape thanks for their reward Hel. Inspired Merit so by breath is bard, It is not so with him that all things knowes As 'tis with vs, that square our guesse by showes: But most it is presumption in vs, when The help of heauen we count the act of men. Deare sir, to my endeauors giue consent, Of heauen, not me, make an experiment. I am not an Imposture, that proclaime My selfe against the leuill of mine aime, But know I thinke, and thinke I know most sure, My Art is not past power, nor you past cure King. Art thou so confident? Within what space Hop'st thou my cure? Hel. The greatest grace lending grace, Ere twice the horses of the sunne shall bring Their fiery torcher his diurnall ring, Ere twice in murke and occidentall dampe Moist Hesperus hath quench'd her sleepy Lampe: Or foure and twenty times the Pylots glasse Hath told the theeuish minutes, how they passe: What is infirme, from your sound parts shall flie, Health shall liue free, and sickenesse freely dye King. Vpon thy certainty and confidence, What dar'st thou venter? Hell. Taxe of impudence, A strumpets boldnesse, a divulged shame Traduc'd by odious ballads: my maidens name Seard otherwise, ne worse of worst extended With vildest torture, let my life be ended Kin. Methinks in thee some blessed spirit doth speak His powerfull sound, within an organ weake: And what impossibility would slay In common sence, sence saues another way: Thy life is deere, for all that life can rate Worth name of life, in thee hath estimate: Youth, beauty, wisedome, courage, all That happines and prime, can happy call: Thou this to hazard, needs must intimate Skill infinite, or monstrous desperate, Sweet practiser, thy Physicke I will try, That ministers thine owne death if I die Hel. If I breake time, or flinch in property Of what I spoke, vnpittied let me die, And well deseru'd: not helping, death's my fee, But if I helpe, what doe you promise me Kin. Make thy demand Hel. But will you make it euen? Kin. I by my Scepter, and my hopes of helpe Hel. Then shalt thou giue me with thy kingly hand What husband in thy power I will command: Exempted be from me the arrogance To choose from forth the royall bloud of France, My low and humble name to propagate With any branch or image of thy state: But such a one thy vassall, whom I know Is free for me to aske, thee to bestow Kin. Heere is my hand, the premises obseru'd, Thy will by my performance shall be seru'd: So make the choice of thy owne time, for I Thy resolv'd Patient, on thee still relye: More should I question thee, and more I must, Though more to know, could not be more to trust: From whence thou cam'st, how tended on, but rest Vnquestion'd welcome, and vndoubted blest. Giue me some helpe heere hoa, if thou proceed, As high as word, my deed shall match thy deed. Florish. Exit. Enter Countesse and Clowne. Lady. Come on sir, I shall now put you to the height of your breeding Clown. I will shew my selfe highly fed, and lowly taught, I know my businesse is but to the Court Lady. To the Court, why what place make you speciall, when you put off that with such contempt, but to the Court? Clo. Truly Madam, if God haue lent a man any manners, hee may easilie put it off at Court: hee that cannot make a legge, put off's cap, kisse his hand, and say nothing, has neither legge, hands, lippe, nor cap; and indeed such a fellow, to say precisely, were not for the Court, but for me, I haue an answere will serue all men Lady. Marry that's a bountifull answere that fits all questions Clo. It is like a Barbers chaire that fits all buttockes, the pin buttocke, the quatch-buttocke, the brawn buttocke, or any buttocke Lady. Will your answere serue fit to all questions? Clo. As fit as ten groats is for the hand of an Atturney, as your French Crowne for your taffety punke, as Tibs rush for Toms fore-finger, as a pancake for Shroue-tuesday, a Morris for May-day, as the naile to his hole, the Cuckold to his horne, as a scolding queane to a wrangling knaue, as the Nuns lip to the Friers mouth, nay as the pudding to his skin Lady. Haue you, I say, an answere of such fitnesse for all questions? Clo. From below your Duke, to beneath your Constable, it will fit any question Lady. It must be an answere of most monstrous size, that must fit all demands Clo. But a triflle neither in good faith, if the learned should speake truth of it: heere it is, and all that belongs to't. Aske mee if I am a Courtier, it shall doe you no harme to learne Lady. To be young againe if we could: I will bee a foole in question, hoping to bee the wiser by your answer La. I pray you sir, are you a Courtier? Clo. O Lord sir theres a simple putting off: more, more, a hundred of them La. Sir I am a poore freind of yours, that loues you Clo. O Lord sir, thicke, thicke, spare not me La. I thinke sir, you can eate none of this homely meate Clo. O Lord sir; nay put me too't, I warrant you La. You were lately whipt sir as I thinke Clo. O Lord sir, spare not me La. Doe you crie O Lord sir at your whipping, and spare not me? Indeed your O Lord sir, is very sequent to your whipping: you would answere very well to a whipping if you were but bound too't Clo. I nere had worse lucke in my life in my O Lord sir: I see things may serue long, but not serue euer La. I play the noble huswife with the time, to entertaine it so merrily with a foole Clo. O Lord sir, why there't serues well agen La. And end sir to your businesse: giue Hellen this, And vrge her to a present answer backe, Commend me to my kinsmen, and my sonne, This is not much Clo. Not much commendation to them La. Not much imployement for you, you vnderstand me Clo. Most fruitfully, I am there, before my legges La. Hast you agen. Exeunt. Enter Count, Lafew, and Parolles. Ol.Laf. They say miracles are past, and we haue our Philosophicall persons, to make moderne and familiar things supernaturall and causelesse. Hence is it, that we make trifles of terrours, ensconcing our selues into seeming knowledge, when we should submit our selues to an vnknowne feare Par. Why 'tis the rarest argument of wonder, that hath shot out in our latter times Ros. And so 'tis Ol.Laf. To be relinquisht of the Artists Par. So I say both of Galen and Paracelsus Ol.Laf. Of all the learned and authenticke fellowes Par. Right so I say Ol.Laf. That gaue him out incureable Par. Why there 'tis, so say I too Ol.Laf. Not to be help'd Par. Right, as 'twere a man assur'd of a- Ol.Laf. Vncertaine life, and sure death Par. Iust, you say well: so would I haue said Ol.Laf. I may truly say, it is a noueltie to the world Par. It is indeede if you will haue it in shewing, you shall reade it in what do ye call there Ol.Laf. A shewing of a heauenly effect in an earthly Actor Par. That's it, I would haue said, the verie same Ol.Laf. Why your Dolphin is not lustier: fore mee I speake in respect- Par. Nay 'tis strange, 'tis very straunge, that is the breefe and the tedious of it, and he's of a most facinerious spirit, that will not acknowledge it to be the- Ol.Laf. Very hand of heauen Par. I, so I say Ol.Laf. In a most weake- Par. And debile minister great power, great trancendence, which should indeede giue vs a further vse to be made, then alone the recou'ry of the king, as to bee Old Laf. Generally thankfull. Enter King, Hellen, and attendants. Par. I would haue said it, you say well: heere comes the King Ol.Laf. Lustique, as the Dutchman saies: Ile like a maide the Better whil'st I haue a tooth in my head: why he's able to leade her a Carranto Par. Mor du vinager, is not this Helen? Ol.Laf. Fore God I thinke so King. Goe call before mee all the Lords in Court, Sit my preseruer by thy patients side, And with this healthfull hand whose banisht sence Thou hast repeal'd, a second time receyue The confirmation of my promis'd guift, Which but attends thy naming. Enter 3 or 4 Lords. Faire Maide send forth thine eye, this youthfull parcell Of Noble Batchellors, stand at my bestowing, Ore whom both Soueraigne power, and fathers voice I haue to vse; thy franke election make, Thou hast power to choose, and they none to forsake Hel. To each of you, one faire and vertuous Mistris; Fall when loue please, marry to each but one Old Laf. I'de giue bay curtall, and his furniture My mouth no more were broken then these boyes, And writ as little beard King. Peruse them well: Not one of those, but had a Noble father. She addresses her to a Lord. Hel. Gentlemen, heauen hath through me, restor'd the king to health All. We vnderstand it, and thanke heauen for you Hel. I am a simple Maide, and therein wealthiest That I protest, I simply am a Maide: Please it your Maiestie, I haue done already: The blushes in my cheekes thus whisper mee, We blush that thou shouldst choose, but be refused; Let the white death sit on thy cheeke for euer, Wee'l nere come there againe King. Make choise and see, Who shuns thy loue, shuns all his loue in mee Hel. Now Dian from thy Altar do I fly, And to imperiall loue, that God most high Do my sighes streame: Sir, wil you heare my suite? 1.Lo. And grant it Hel. Thankes sir, all the rest is mute Ol.Laf. I had rather be in this choise, then throw Ames-ace for my life Hel. The honor sir that flames in your faire eyes, Before I speake too threatningly replies: Loue make your fortunes twentie times aboue Her that so wishes, and her humble loue 2.Lo. No better if you please Hel. My wish receiue, Which great loue grant, and so I take my leaue Ol.Laf. Do all they denie her? And they were sons of mine, I'de haue them whip'd, or I would send them to'th Turke to make Eunuches of Hel. Be not afraid that I your hand should take, Ile neuer do you wrong for your owne sake: Blessing vpon your vowes, and in your bed Finde fairer fortune, if you euer wed Old Laf. These boyes are boyes of Ice, they'le none haue heere: sure they are bastards to the English, the French nere got em La. You are too young, too happie, and too good To make your selfe a sonne out of my blood 4.Lord. Faire one, I thinke not so Ol.Lord There's one grape yet, I am sure thy father drunke wine. But if thou be'st not an asse, I am a youth of fourteene: I haue knowne thee already Hel. I dare not say I take you, but I giue Me and my seruice, euer whilst I liue Into your guiding power: This is the man King. Why then young Bertram take her shee's thy wife Ber. My wife my Leige? I shal beseech your highnes In such a busines, giue me leaue to vse The helpe of mine owne eies King. Know'st thou not Bertram what shee ha's done for mee? Ber. Yes my good Lord, but neuer hope to know why I should marrie her King. Thou know'st shee ha's rais'd me from my sickly bed Ber. But followes it my Lord, to bring me downe Must answer for your raising? I knowe her well: Shee had her breeding at my fathers charge: A poore Physitians daughter my wife? Disdaine Rather corrupt me euer King. Tis onely title thou disdainst in her, the which I can build vp: strange is it that our bloods Of colour, waight, and heat, pour'd all together, Would quite confound distinction: yet stands off In differences so mightie. If she bee All that is vertuous (saue what thou dislik'st) A poore Phisitians daughter, thou dislik'st Of vertue for the name: but doe not so: From lowest place, whence vertuous things proceed, The place is dignified by th' doers deede. Where great additions swell's, and vertue none, It is a dropsied honour. Good alone, Is good without a name? Vilenesse is so: The propertie by what is is, should go, Not by the title. Shee is young, wise, faire, In these, to Nature shee's immediate heire: And these breed honour: that is honours scorne, Which challenges it selfe as honours borne, And is not like the sire: Honours thriue, When rather from our acts we them deriue Then our fore-goers: the meere words, a slaue Debosh'd on euerie tombe, on euerie graue: A lying Trophee, and as oft is dumbe, Where dust, and damn'd obliuion is the Tombe. Of honour'd bones indeed, what should be saide? If thou canst like this creature, as a maide, I can create the rest: Vertue, and shee Is her owne dower: Honour and wealth, from mee Ber. I cannot loue her, nor will striue to doo't King. Thou wrong'st thy selfe, if thou shold'st striue to choose Hel. That you are well restor'd my Lord, I'me glad: Let the rest go King. My Honor's at the stake, which to defeate I must produce my power. Heere, take her hand, Proud scornfull boy, vnworthie this good gift, That dost in vile misprision shackle vp My loue, and her desert: that canst not dreame, We poizing vs in her defectiue scale, Shall weigh thee to the beame: That wilt not know, It is in Vs to plant thine Honour, where We please to haue it grow. Checke thy contempt: Obey Our will, which trauailes in thy good: Beleeue not thy disdaine, but presentlie Do thine owne fortunes that obedient right Which both thy dutie owes, and Our power claimes, Or I will throw thee from my care for euer Into the staggers, and the carelesse lapse Of youth and ignorance: both my reuenge and hate Loosing vpon thee, in the name of iustice, Without all termes of pittie. Speake, thine answer Ber. Pardon my gracious Lord: for I submit My fancie to your eies, when I consider What great creation, and what dole of honour Flies where you bid it: I finde that she which late Was in my Nobler thoughts, most base: is now The praised of the King, who so ennobled, Is as 'twere borne so King. Take her by the hand, And tell her she is thine: to whom I promise A counterpoize: If not to thy estate, A ballance more repleat Ber. I take her hand Kin. Good fortune, and the fauour of the King Smile vpon this Contract: whose Ceremonie Shall seeme expedient on the now borne briefe, And be perform'd to night: the solemne Feast Shall more attend vpon the coming space, Expecting absent friends. As thou lou'st her, Thy loue's to me Religious: else, do's erre. Exeunt. Parolles and Lafew stay behind, commenting of this wedding. Laf. Do you heare Monsieur? A word with you Par. Your pleasure sir Laf. Your Lord and Master did well to make his recantation Par. Recantation? My Lord? my Master? Laf. I: Is it not a Language I speake? Par. A most harsh one, and not to bee vnderstoode without bloudie succeeding. My Master? Laf. Are you Companion to the Count Rosillion? Par. To any Count, to all Counts: to what is man Laf. To what is Counts man: Counts maister is of another stile Par. You are too old sir: Let it satisfie you, you are too old Laf. I must tell thee sirrah, I write Man: to which title age cannot bring thee Par. What I dare too well do, I dare not do Laf. I did thinke thee for two ordinaries: to bee a prettie wise fellow, thou didst make tollerable vent of thy trauell, it might passe: yet the scarffes and the bannerets about thee, did manifoldlie disswade me from beleeuing thee a vessell of too great a burthen. I haue now found thee, when I loose thee againe, I care not: yet art thou good for nothing but taking vp, and that th'ourt scarce worth Par. Hadst thou not the priuiledge of Antiquity vpon thee Laf. Do not plundge thy selfe to farre in anger, least thou hasten thy triall: which if, Lord haue mercie on thee for a hen, so my good window of Lettice fare thee well, thy casement I neede not open, for I look through thee. Giue me thy hand Par. My Lord, you giue me most egregious indignity Laf. I with all my heart, and thou art worthy of it Par. I haue not my Lord deseru'd it Laf. Yes good faith, eu'ry dramme of it, and I will not bate thee a scruple Par. Well, I shall be wiser Laf. Eu'n as soone as thou can'st, for thou hast to pull at a smacke a'th contrarie. If euer thou bee'st bound in thy skarfe and beaten, thou shall finde what it is to be proud of thy bondage, I haue a desire to holde my acquaintance with thee, or rather my knowledge, that I may say in the default, he is a man I know Par. My Lord you do me most insupportable vexation Laf. I would it were hell paines for thy sake, and my poore doing eternall: for doing I am past, as I will by thee, in what motion age will giue me leaue. Enter. Par. Well, thou hast a sonne shall take this disgrace off me; scuruy, old, filthy, scuruy Lord: Well, I must be patient, there is no fettering of authority. Ile beate him (by my life) if I can meete him with any conuenience, and he were double and double a Lord. Ile haue no more pittie of his age then I would haue of- Ile beate him, and if I could but meet him agen. Enter Lafew. Laf. Sirra, your Lord and masters married, there's newes for you: you haue a new Mistris Par. I most vnfainedly beseech your Lordshippe to make some reseruation of your wrongs. He is my good Lord, whom I serue aboue is my master Laf. Who? God Par. I sir Laf. The deuill it is, that's thy master. Why dooest thou garter vp thy armes a this fashion? Dost make hose of thy sleeues? Do other seruants so? Thou wert best set thy lower part where thy nose stands. By mine Honor, if I were but two houres yonger, I'de beate thee: mee-think'st thou art a generall offence, and euery man shold beate thee: I thinke thou wast created for men to breath themselues vpon thee Par. This is hard and vndeserued measure my Lord Laf. Go too sir, you were beaten in Italy for picking a kernell out of a Pomgranat, you are a vagabond, and no true traueller: you are more sawcie with Lordes and honourable personages, then the Commission of your birth and vertue giues you Heraldry. You are not worth another word, else I'de call you knaue. I leaue you. Exit Enter Count Rossillion. Par. Good, very good, it is so then: good, very good, let it be conceal'd awhile Ros. Vndone, and forfeited to cares for euer Par. What's the matter sweet-heart? Rossill. Although before the solemne Priest I haue sworne, I will not bed her Par. What? what sweet heart? Ros. O my Parrolles, they haue married me: Ile to the Tuscan warres, and neuer bed her Par. France is a dog-hole, and it no more merits, The tread of a mans foot: too'th warres Ros. There's letters from my mother: What th' import is, I know not yet Par. I that would be knowne: too'th warrs my boy, too'th warres: He weares his honor in a boxe vnseene, That hugges his kickie wickie heare at home, Spending his manlie marrow in her armes Which should sustaine the bound and high curuet Of Marses fierie steed: to other Regions, France is a stable, wee that dwell in't Iades, Therefore too'th warre Ros. It shall be so, Ile send her to my house, Acquaint my mother with my hate to her, And wherefore I am fled: Write to the King That which I durst not speake. His present gift Shall furnish me to those Italian fields Where noble fellowes strike: Warres is no strife To the darke house, and the detected wife Par. Will this Caprichio hold in thee, art sure? Ros. Go with me to my chamber, and aduice me. Ile send her straight away: To morrow, Ile to the warres, she to her single sorrow Par. Why these bals bound, ther's noise in it. Tis hard A yong man maried, is a man that's mard: Therefore away, and leaue her brauely: go, The King ha's done you wrong: but hush 'tis so. Exit Enter Helena and Clowne. Hel. My mother greets me kindly, is she well? Clo. She is not well, but yet she has her health, she's very merrie, but yet she is not well: but thankes be giuen she's very well, and wants nothing i'th world: but yet she is not well Hel. If she be verie wel, what do's she ayle, that she's not verie well? Clo. Truly she's very well indeed, but for two things Hel. What two things? Clo. One, that she's not in heauen, whether God send her quickly: the other, that she's in earth, from whence God send her quickly. Enter Parolles. Par. Blesse you my fortunate Ladie Hel. I hope sir I haue your good will to haue mine owne good fortune Par. You had my prayers to leade them on, and to keepe them on, haue them still. O my knaue, how do's my old Ladie? Clo. So that you had her wrinkles, and I her money, I would she did as you say Par. Why I say nothing Clo. Marry you are the wiser man: for many a mans tongue shakes out his masters vndoing: to say nothing, to do nothing, to know nothing, and to haue nothing, is to be a great part of your title, which is within a verie little of nothing Par. Away, th'art a knaue Clo. You should haue said sir before a knaue, th'art a knaue, that's before me th'art a knaue: this had beene truth sir Par. Go too, thou art a wittie foole, I haue found thee Clo. Did you finde me in your selfe sir, or were you taught to finde me? Clo. The search sir was profitable, and much Foole may you find in you, euen to the worlds pleasure, and the encrease of laughter Par. A good knaue ifaith, and well fed. Madam, my Lord will go awaie to night, A verie serrious businesse call's on him: The great prerogatiue and rite of loue, Which as your due time claimes, he do's acknowledge, But puts it off to a compell'd restraint: Whose want, and whose delay, is strew'd with sweets Which they distill now in the curbed time, To make the comming houre oreflow with ioy, And pleasure drowne the brim Hel. What's his will else? Par. That you will take your instant leaue a'th king, And make this hast as your owne good proceeding, Strengthned with what Apologie you thinke May make it probable neede Hel. What more commands hee? Par. That hauing this obtain'd, you presentlie Attend his further pleasure Hel. In euery thing I waite vpon his will Par. I shall report it so. Exit Par. Hell. I pray you come sirrah. Exit Enter Lafew and Bertram. Laf. But I hope your Lordshippe thinkes not him a souldier Ber. Yes my Lord and of verie valiant approofe Laf. You haue it from his owne deliuerance Ber. And by other warranted testimonie Laf. Then my Diall goes not true, I tooke this Larke for a bunting Ber. I do assure you my Lord he is very great in knowledge, and accordinglie valiant Laf. I haue then sinn'd against his experience, and transgrest against his valour, and my state that way is dangerous, since I cannot yet find in my heart to repent: Heere he comes, I pray you make vs freinds, I will pursue the amitie. Enter Parolles. Par. These things shall be done sir Laf. Pray you sir whose his Tailor? Par. Sir? Laf. O I know him well, I sir, hee sirs a good workeman, a verie good Tailor Ber. Is shee gone to the king? Par. Shee is Ber. Will shee away to night? Par. As you'le haue her Ber. I haue writ my letters, casketted my treasure, Giuen order for our horses, and to night, When I should take possession of the Bride, And ere I doe begin Laf. A good Trauailer is something at the latter end of a dinner, but on that lies three thirds, and vses a known truth to passe a thousand nothings with, should bee once hard, and thrice beaten. God saue you Captaine Ber. Is there any vnkindnes betweene my Lord and you Monsieur? Par. I know not how I haue deserued to run into my Lords displeasure Laf. You haue made shift to run into't, bootes and spurres and all: like him that leapt into the Custard, and out of it you'le runne againe, rather then suffer question for your residence Ber. It may bee you haue mistaken him my Lord Laf. And shall doe so euer, though I tooke him at's prayers. Fare you well my Lord, and beleeue this of me, there can be no kernell in this light Nut: the soule of this man is his cloathes: Trust him not in matter of heauie consequence: I haue kept of them tame, & know their natures. Farewell Monsieur, I haue spoken better of you, then you haue or will to deserue at my hand, but we must do good against euill Par. An idle Lord, I sweare Ber. I thinke so Par. Why do you not know him? Ber. Yes, I do know him well, and common speech Giues him a worthy passe. Heere comes my clog. Enter Helena. Hel. I haue sir as I was commanded from you Spoke with the King, and haue procur'd his leaue For present parting, onely he desires Some priuate speech with you Ber. I shall obey his will. You must not meruaile Helen at my course, Which holds not colour with the time, nor does The ministration, and required office On my particular. Prepar'd I was not For such a businesse, therefore am I found So much vnsetled: This driues me to intreate you, That presently you take your way for home, And rather muse then aske why I intreate you, For my respects are better then they seeme, And my appointments haue in them a neede Greater then shewes it selfe at the first view, To you that know them not. This to my mother, 'Twill be two daies ere I shall see you, so I leaue you to your wisedome Hel. Sir, I can nothing say, But that I am your most obedient seruant Ber. Come, come, no more of that Hel. And euer shall With true obseruance seeke to eeke out that Wherein toward me my homely starres haue faild To equall my great fortune Ber. Let that goe: my hast is verie great. Farwell: Hie home Hel. Pray sir your pardon Ber. Well, what would you say? Hel. I am not worthie of the wealth I owe, Nor dare I say 'tis mine: and yet it is, But like a timorous theefe, most faine would steale What law does vouch mine owne Ber. What would you haue? Hel. Something, and scarse so much: nothing indeed, I would not tell you what I would my Lord: Faith yes, Strangers and foes do sunder, and not kisse Ber. I pray you stay not, but in hast to horse Hel. I shall not breake your bidding, good my Lord: Where are my other men? Monsieur, farwell. Exit Ber. Go thou toward home, where I wil neuer come, Whilst I can shake my sword, or heare the drumme: Away, and for our flight Par. Brauely, Coragio.

Scene 1

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820042551/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmAllsWell16.asp

This scene opens in the King's palace in Paris. The King is accompanied by Bertram, Parolles, and several young lords who are ready to leave for the Florentine wars. The King exhorts them to fight valiantly in the true French spirit; in a lighter vein, he tells them to watch out for Florentine girls. Bertram, who is not allowed to accompany the lords to battle because of his youth, decides, at the urging of Parolles and others, to sneak off to war. Parolles and Bertram leave in pursuit of the departing lords after Parolles decides it might be a good idea for them to ingratiate themselves with the other soldiers. In the meantime, Lafeu enters. He kneels before the King and tells him a lady doctor has arrived who believes she can cure him. The King agrees to see her, and Lafeu re-enters with Helena. After Lafeu leaves, Helena introduces herself as the daughter of the famous physician Gerard de Narbon. She tells the King she can cure him with her father's remedy. The King is doubtful that she can succeed, especially when she proposes to cure him within the space of twenty-four hours. Helena strikes a deal with the King that if she is unable to cure him, he can kill her on the spot. But if she succeeds, he must allow her to choose a husband from among the noble bachelors of the court as payment for her services.

Notes This scene is important mostly for the way it depicts first the hero, then the heroine, of the play. The scene opens with Bertram denied a chance at military victory because of his youth. He is petulant, eager, and enthusiastic. He feels left out and rejected by the lords and the King who are used to valors in life. This young impressionability in Bertram is further heightened in the way that Parolles counsels him, advises him, seeks to shape him into the kind of man he would like to be. Parolles, acting as a tempter, persuades Bertram that youth should not stop him; instead he tells his friend to take matters into his own hands and sneak off to battle. Bertram, utterly impressionable and spineless, does everything Parolles tells him to do. In direct contrast, young, confident, and determined Helena boldly petitions the King for a chance to prove herself. She comes before him, not only young but also a woman, and proposes that he allow her an honest chance to cure him. After some persuading, Helena succeeds in speaking for herself honestly and openly. She strikes up a bold and confident deal with the king, proving that she is not in need of flattering counselors and false praises and suggestions in order to achieve what she wants. If she cures the King, she will be able to choose anyone she wants for a husband; of course, she has Bertram in mind. Throughout this scene, Helena proves herself to be self-driven, ambitious, and doggedly determined; she knows what she wants and is not afraid to go after it. In sharp contrast, Bertram is weak, easily led, and in need of both confidence and direction; he has no idea of what he really wants in life, but allows Parolles to influence all his decisions. It is important to notice the importance that Parolles places on clothing and fashion. He is the main character in the play to establish the theme of appearance vs. reality. He always seeks to be perfectly dressed, as if to hide his very imperfect being. The audience, however, can easily see right through his appearance to his rotten core. At the end of the drama, when his true self has been revealed to all, including Bertram, he will be shabbily dressed.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/2246-chapters/3.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/All's Well That Ends Well/section_8_part_0.txt

All's Well That Ends Well.act 3.scene 1

act 3, scene 1

{"name": "Scene 1", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820042551/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmAllsWell21.asp", "summary": "This scene shifts to Florence. The Duke enters accompanied by two French lords and soldiers who are discussing the imminent war. The Duke expresses his astonishment at the French King's refusal to help. The First Lord refuses to divulge the reasons for the French King's refusal, but the Second Lord quips that the younger lords will soon come to Florence to exercise their talents in military exploits.", "analysis": "Notes This brief scene provides the necessary background to the Florentine wars. The setting shifts to Florence, a necessary move for the coming action of the play, in which Bertram tries to escape his wife. Helena, with plans of her own, sets out on a pilgrimage for Florence. The scene also reiterates the theme of military honor, which Bertram so eagerly seeks. He will arrive here because he values the honor he thinks military exploits will bring. Several young lords echo his feeling, giving the impression that the eagerness for war belongs to the young and inexperienced.. ACT III, SCENE 2 Summary This scene shifts back to Rousillon and opens with a conversation between the Countess and the clown. The Countess expresses satisfaction at the way things have turned out. Her only grudge is that Bertram is not accompanying Helena home. The clown says that Bertram had appeared to be very melancholic. Taking up Bertram's letter, the Countess remarks that she will read what he has written and find out when he intends to come home. The clown remarks that he has dropped his intentions of marrying Isbel since he has been at court, for he has found a great difference between the Isbels of the country and Isbels of the court. The clown leaves while the Countess is reading the letter. The contents of the letter shock the Countess, who is afraid Bertram's foolish actions will anger the King. The clown re-enters with the news that Bertram has run away. As the clown leaves, Helena enters along with some gentlemen. She has already heard about her abandonment and is heartbroken. One of the gentlemen attempts to console Helena. The Countess tells her to be patient. She says that she has experienced so many situations of grief and joy that they have lost the capacity to move her excessively. Then she asks the gentlemen if they know where Bertram has gone. The Countess is told that Bertram has gone off to serve the Duke of Florence in battle. Helena shows her the letter she has received, in which Bertram states that he will never be her husband until she can obtain the ring that he always wears on his finger and becomes pregnant with his child. He also tells her he will never return to France as long as she is alive. The gentlemen who have brought this letter express their apology for its sorrowful contents and inform the Countess that Parolles is accompanying and advising Bertram. The Countess is incensed at Bertram's conduct and says that he does not deserve to have Helena's love. The Countess further denounces Parolles as a \"tainted fellow, full of wickedness\" who is corrupting her son by encouraging him in his waywardness. The Countess asks the gentlemen, who are returning to Florence, to tell Bertram that he will never regain the honor that he has lost by abandoning his wife. She gives them a letter for Bertram in which she disowns him. The Countess and the gentlemen leave together. Helena, left alone, begins to cry. She blames herself for Bertram's being in the war. She prays for his safety and expresses her belief that if Bertram is killed in battle, it will be her fault. She desperately wants Bertram to return to Rousillon, away from battle. Since it is her presence in France that keeps him away, she decides to sneak away at night, hoping he will consider it safe, and return. Notes The central event in this scene is the delivery of Bertram's letter. It is important to note that while Helena is deeply hurt by Bertram's callous behavior, she does not show any resentment towards him. Instead of feeling anger at her shoddy treatment, she is driven by a sense of guilt and blames herself for his departure. She even worries about him being killed, which would be her fault, and thinks, \"Whoever shoots at him, I set him there; Whoever charges on his forward breast; I am the caitiff that do hold him to't; And though I kill him not, I am the cause; His death was so effected\". Her concern for him and lack of regard for the way she has been treated are almost pathetic. There is a distinct contrast between the reactions of the Countess and Helena to Bertram's letter. While Helena blames herself for driving Bertram away, the Countess is explicit in her denunciation of her son. Like many others, she refers to her son as a boy, indicating his extreme immaturity. She is angry that he does not follow the King's desires and honor Helena. She remarks furiously, \"Nothing in France until he have no wife! / There's nothing here that is too good for him / But only she, and she deserves a lord / That twenty such rude boys might tend upon / And hourly call mistress\". The Countess is deeply shocked by Bertram's rash behavior and makes the statement that Bertram cannot hope to win back the honor that he has lost by mistreating his wife, not even as a hero of war. Her words reiterate Lafeu's earlier idea -- that virtuous deeds are more important that noble birth, and that noble birth can never make up for virtue-less actions. Several other characters also spout this view at various points in the play. The terms of the riddling letter are cruelly blunt but do provide a clear and decisive course of action for the impetuous and determined Helena. As a result of Bertram's letter, Helena formulates her plan to steal away in the cover of darkness. Perhaps this will bring Bertram back to France. Once again, she makes her own destiny."}

Actus Tertius. Flourish. Enter the Duke of Florence, the two Frenchmen, with a troope of Souldiers. Duke. So that from point to point, now haue you heard The fundamentall reasons of this warre, Whose great decision hath much blood let forth And more thirsts after 1.Lord. Holy seemes the quarrell Vpon your Graces part: blacke and fearefull On the opposer Duke. Therefore we meruaile much our Cosin France Would in so iust a businesse, shut his bosome Against our borrowing prayers French E. Good my Lord, The reasons of our state I cannot yeelde, But like a common and an outward man, That the great figure of a Counsaile frames, By selfe vnable motion, therefore dare not Say what I thinke of it, since I haue found My selfe in my incertaine grounds to faile As often as I guest Duke. Be it his pleasure Fren.G. But I am sure the yonger of our nature, That surfet on their ease, will day by day Come heere for Physicke Duke. Welcome shall they bee: And all the honors that can flye from vs, Shall on them settle: you know your places well, When better fall, for your auailes they fell, To morrow to'th the field. Flourish. Enter Countesse and Clowne. Count. It hath happen'd all, as I would haue had it, saue that he comes not along with her Clo. By my troth I take my young Lord to be a verie melancholly man Count. By what obseruance I pray you Clo. Why he will looke vppon his boote, and sing: mend the Ruffe and sing, aske questions and sing, picke his teeth, and sing: I know a man that had this tricke of melancholy hold a goodly Mannor for a song Lad. Let me see what he writes, and when he meanes to come Clow. I haue no minde to Isbell since I was at Court. Our old Lings, and our Isbels a'th Country, are nothing like your old Ling and your Isbels a'th Court: the brains of my Cupid's knock'd out, and I beginne to loue, as an old man loues money, with no stomacke Lad. What haue we heere? Clo. In that you haue there. Exit A Letter. I haue sent you a daughter-in-Law, shee hath recouered the King, and vndone me: I haue wedded her, not bedded her, and sworne to make the not eternall. You shall heare I am runne away, know it before the report come. If there bee bredth enough in the world, I will hold a long distance. My duty to you. Your vnfortunate sonne, Bertram. This is not well rash and vnbridled boy, To flye the fauours of so good a King, To plucke his indignation on thy head, By the misprising of a Maide too vertuous For the contempt of Empire. Enter Clowne. Clow. O Madam, yonder is heauie newes within betweene two souldiers, and my yong Ladie La. What is the matter Clo. Nay there is some comfort in the newes, some comfort, your sonne will not be kild so soone as I thoght he would La. Why should he be kill'd? Clo. So say I Madame, if he runne away, as I heare he does, the danger is in standing too't, that's the losse of men, though it be the getting of children. Heere they come will tell you more. For my part I onely heare your sonne was run away. Enter Hellen and two Gentlemen. French E. Saue you good Madam Hel. Madam, my Lord is gone, for euer gone French G. Do not say so La. Thinke vpon patience, pray you Gentlemen, I haue felt so many quirkes of ioy and greefe, That the first face of neither on the start Can woman me vntoo't. Where is my sonne I pray you? Fren.G. Madam he's gone to serue the Duke of Florence, We met him thitherward, for thence we came: And after some dispatch in hand at Court, Thither we bend againe Hel. Looke on his Letter Madam, here's my Pasport. When thou canst get the Ring vpon my finger, which neuer shall come off, and shew mee a childe begotten of thy bodie, that I am father too, then call me husband: but in such a (then) I write a Neuer. This is a dreadfull sentence La. Brought you this Letter Gentlemen? 1.G. I Madam, and for the Contents sake are sorrie for our paines Old La. I prethee Ladie haue a better cheere, If thou engrossest, all the greefes are thine, Thou robst me of a moity: He was my sonne, But I do wash his name out of my blood, And thou art all my childe. Towards Florence is he? Fren.G. I Madam La. And to be a souldier Fren.G. Such is his noble purpose, and beleeu't The Duke will lay vpon him all the honor That good conuenience claimes La. Returne you thither Fren.E. I Madam, with the swiftest wing of speed Hel. Till I haue no wife, I haue nothing in France, 'Tis bitter La. Finde you that there? Hel. I Madame Fren.E. 'Tis but the boldnesse of his hand haply, which his heart was not consenting too Lad. Nothing in France, vntill he haue no wife: There's nothing heere that is too good for him But onely she, and she deserues a Lord That twenty such rude boyes might tend vpon, And call her hourely Mistris. Who was with him? Fren.E. A seruant onely, and a Gentleman: which I haue sometime knowne La. Parolles was it not? Fren.E. I my good Ladie, hee La. A verie tainted fellow, and full of wickednesse, My sonne corrupts a well deriued nature With his inducement Fren.E. Indeed good Ladie the fellow has a deale of that, too much, which holds him much to haue La. Y'are welcome Gentlemen, I will intreate you when you see my sonne, to tell him that his sword can neuer winne the honor that he looses: more Ile intreate you written to beare along Fren.G. We serue you Madam in that and all your worthiest affaires La. Not so, but as we change our courtesies, Will you draw neere? Enter. Hel. Till I haue no wife I haue nothing in France. Nothing in France vntill he has no wife: Thou shalt haue none Rossillion, none in France, Then hast thou all againe: poore Lord, is't I That chase thee from thy Countrie, and expose Those tender limbes of thine, to the euent Of the none-sparing warre? And is it I, That driue thee from the sportiue Court, where thou Was't shot at with faire eyes, to be the marke Of smoakie Muskets? O you leaden messengers, That ride vpon the violent speede of fire, Fly with false ayme, moue the still-peering aire That sings with piercing, do not touch my Lord: Who euer shoots at him, I set him there. Who euer charges on his forward brest I am the Caitiffe that do hold him too't, And though I kill him not, I am the cause His death was so effected: Better 'twere I met the rauine Lyon when he roar'd With sharpe constraint of hunger: better 'twere, That all the miseries which nature owes Were mine at once. No come thou home Rossillion, Whence honor but of danger winnes a scarre, As oft it looses all. I will be gone: My being heere it is, that holds thee hence, Shall I stay heere to doo't? No, no, although The ayre of Paradise did fan the house, And Angels offic'd all: I will be gone, That pittifull rumour may report my flight To consolate thine eare. Come night, end day, For with the darke (poore theefe) Ile steale away. Enter. Flourish. Enter the Duke of Florence, Rossillion, drum and trumpets, soldiers, Parrolles. Duke. The Generall of our horse thou art, and we Great in our hope, lay our best loue and credence Vpon thy promising fortune Ber. Sir it is A charge too heauy for my strength, but yet Wee'l striue to beare it for your worthy sake, To th' extreme edge of hazard Duke. Then go thou forth, And fortune play vpon thy prosperous helme As thy auspicious mistris Ber. This very day Great Mars I put my selfe into thy file, Make me but like my thoughts, and I shall proue A louer of thy drumme, hater of loue. Exeunt. omnes Enter Countesse & Steward. La. Alas! and would you take the letter of her: Might you not know she would do, as she has done, By sending me a Letter. Reade it agen. Letter. I am S[aint]. Iaques Pilgrim, thither gone: Ambitious loue hath so in me offended, That bare-foot plod I the cold ground vpon With sainted vow my faults to haue amended Write, write, that from the bloodie course of warre, My deerest Master your deare sonne, may hie, Blesse him at home in peace. Whilst I from farre, His name with zealous feruour sanctifie: His taken labours bid him me forgiue: I his despightfull Iuno sent him forth, From Courtly friends, with Camping foes to liue, Where death and danger dogges the heeles of worth. He is too good and faire for death, and mee, Whom I my selfe embrace, to set him free. Ah what sharpe stings are in her mildest words? Rynaldo, you did neuer lacke aduice so much, As letting her passe so: had I spoke with her, I could haue well diuerted her intents, Which thus she hath preuented Ste. Pardon me Madam, If I had giuen you this at ouer-night, She might haue beene ore-tane: and yet she writes Pursuite would be but vaine La. What Angell shall Blesse this vnworthy husband, he cannot thriue, Vnlesse her prayers, whom heauen delights to heare And loues to grant, repreeue him from the wrath Of greatest Iustice. Write, write Rynaldo, To this vnworthy husband of his wife, Let euerie word waigh heauie of her worth, That he does waigh too light: my greatest greefe, Though little he do feele it, set downe sharpely. Dispatch the most conuenient messenger, When haply he shall heare that she is gone, He will returne, and hope I may that shee Hearing so much, will speede her foote againe, Led hither by pure loue: which of them both Is deerest to me, I haue no skill in sence To make distinction: prouide this Messenger: My heart is heauie, and mine age is weake, Greefe would haue teares, and sorrow bids me speake. Exeunt. A Tucket afarre off. Enter old Widdow of Florence, her daughter Violenta and Mariana, with other Citizens. Widdow. Nay come, For if they do approach the Citty, We shall loose all the sight Diana. They say, the French Count has done Most honourable seruice Wid. It is reported, That he has taken their great'st Commander, And that with his owne hand he slew The Dukes brother: we haue lost our labour, They are gone a contrarie way: harke, you may know by their Trumpets Maria. Come lets returne againe, And suffice our selues with the report of it. Well Diana, take heed of this French Earle, The honor of a Maide is her name, And no Legacie is so rich As honestie Widdow. I haue told my neighbour How you haue beene solicited by a Gentleman His Companion Maria. I know that knaue, hang him, one Parolles, a filthy Officer he is in those suggestions for the young Earle, beware of them Diana; their promises, entisements, oathes, tokens, and all these engines of lust, are not the things they go vnder: many a maide hath beene seduced by them, and the miserie is example, that so terrible shewes in the wracke of maiden-hood, cannot for all that disswade succession, but that they are limed with the twigges that threatens them. I hope I neede not to aduise you further, but I hope your owne grace will keepe you where you are, though there were no further danger knowne, but the modestie which is so lost Dia. You shall not neede to feare me. Enter Hellen. Wid. I hope so: looke here comes a pilgrim, I know she will lye at my house, thither they send one another, Ile question her. God saue you pilgrim, whether are bound? Hel. To S[aint]. Iaques la grand. Where do the Palmers lodge, I do beseech you? Wid. At the S[aint]. Francis heere beside the Port Hel. Is this the way? A march afarre. Wid. I marrie ist. Harke you, they come this way: If you will tarrie holy Pilgrime But till the troopes come by, I will conduct you where you shall be lodg'd, The rather for I thinke I know your hostesse As ample as my selfe Hel. Is it your selfe? Wid. If you shall please so Pilgrime Hel. I thanke you, and will stay vpon your leisure Wid. You came I thinke from France? Hel. I did so Wid. Heere you shall see a Countriman of yours That has done worthy seruice Hel. His name I pray you? Dia. The Count Rossillion: know you such a one? Hel. But by the eare that heares most nobly of him: His face I know not Dia. What somere he is He's brauely taken heere. He stole from France As 'tis reported: for the King had married him Against his liking. Thinke you it is so? Hel. I surely meere the truth, I know his Lady Dia. There is a Gentleman that serues the Count, Reports but coursely of her Hel. What's his name? Dia. Monsieur Parrolles Hel. Oh I beleeue with him, In argument of praise, or to the worth Of the great Count himselfe, she is too meane To haue her name repeated, all her deseruing Is a reserued honestie, and that I haue not heard examin'd Dian. Alas poore Ladie, 'Tis a hard bondage to become the wife Of a detesting Lord Wid. I write good creature, wheresoere she is, Her hart waighes sadly: this yong maid might do her A shrewd turne if she pleas'd Hel. How do you meane? May be the amorous Count solicites her In the vnlawfull purpose Wid. He does indeede, And brokes with all that can in such a suite Corrupt the tender honour of a Maide: But she is arm'd for him, and keepes her guard In honestest defence. Drumme and Colours. Enter Count Rossillion, Parrolles, and the whole Armie. Mar. The goddes forbid else Wid. So, now they come: That is Anthonio the Dukes eldest sonne, That Escalus Hel. Which is the Frenchman? Dia. Hee, That with the plume, 'tis a most gallant fellow, I would he lou'd his wife: if he were honester He were much goodlier. Is't not a handsom Gentleman Hel. I like him well Di. 'Tis pitty he is not honest: yonds that same knaue That leades him to these places: were I his Ladie, I would poison that vile Rascall Hel. Which is he? Dia. That Iacke-an-apes with scarfes. Why is hee melancholly? Hel. Perchance he's hurt i'th battaile Par. Loose our drum? Well Mar. He's shrewdly vext at something. Looke he has spyed vs Wid. Marrie hang you Mar. And your curtesie, for a ring-carrier. Enter. Wid. The troope is past: Come pilgrim, I wil bring you, Where you shall host: Of inioyn'd penitents There's foure or fiue, to great S[aint]. Iaques bound, Alreadie at my house Hel. I humbly thanke you: Please it this Matron, and this gentle Maide To eate with vs to night, the charge and thanking Shall be for me, and to requite you further, I will bestow some precepts of this Virgin, Worthy the note Both. Wee'l take your offer kindly. Exeunt. Enter Count Rossillion and the Frenchmen, as at first. Cap.E. Nay good my Lord put him too't: let him haue his way Cap.G. If your Lordshippe finde him not a Hilding, hold me no more in your respect Cap.E. On my life my Lord, a bubble Ber. Do you thinke I am so farre Deceiued in him Cap.E. Beleeue it my Lord, in mine owne direct knowledge, without any malice, but to speake of him as my kinsman, hee's a most notable Coward, an infinite and endlesse Lyar, an hourely promise-breaker, the owner of no one good qualitie, worthy your Lordships entertainment Cap.G. It were fit you knew him, least reposing too farre in his vertue which he hath not, he might at some great and trustie businesse, in a maine daunger, fayle you Ber. I would I knew in what particular action to try him Cap.G. None better then to let him fetch off his drumme, which you heare him so confidently vndertake to do C.E. I with a troop of Florentines wil sodainly surprize him; such I will haue whom I am sure he knowes not from the enemie: wee will binde and hoodwinke him so, that he shall suppose no other but that he is carried into the Leager of the aduersaries, when we bring him to our owne tents: be but your Lordship present at his examination, if he do not for the promise of his life, and in the highest compulsion of base feare, offer to betray you, and deliuer all the intelligence in his power against you, and that with the diuine forfeite of his soule vpon oath, neuer trust my iudgement in anie thing Cap.G. O for the loue of laughter, let him fetch his drumme, he sayes he has a stratagem for't: when your Lordship sees the bottome of this successe in't, and to what mettle this counterfeyt lump of ours will be melted if you giue him not Iohn drummes entertainement, your inclining cannot be remoued. Heere he comes. Enter Parrolles. Cap.E. O for the loue of laughter hinder not the honor of his designe, let him fetch off his drumme in any hand Ber. How now Monsieur? This drumme sticks sorely in your disposition Cap.G. A pox on't, let it go, 'tis but a drumme Par. But a drumme: Ist but a drumme? A drum so lost. There was excellent command, to charge in with our horse vpon our owne wings, and to rend our owne souldiers Cap.G. That was not to be blam'd in the command of the seruice: it was a disaster of warre that C�sar him selfe could not haue preuented, if he had beene there to command Ber. Well, wee cannot greatly condemne our successe: some dishonor wee had in the losse of that drum, but it is not to be recouered Par. It might haue beene recouered Ber. It might, but it is not now Par. It is to be recouered, but that the merit of seruice is sildome attributed to the true and exact performer, I would haue that drumme or another, or hic iacet Ber. Why if you haue a stomacke, too't Monsieur: if you thinke your mysterie in stratagem, can bring this instrument of honour againe into his natiue quarter, be magnanimious in the enterprize and go on, I wil grace the attempt for a worthy exploit: if you speede well in it, the Duke shall both speake of it, and extend to you what further becomes his greatnesse, euen to the vtmost syllable of your worthinesse Par. By the hand of a souldier I will vndertake it Ber. But you must not now slumber in it Par. Ile about it this euening, and I will presently pen downe my dilemma's, encourage my selfe in my certaintie, put my selfe into my mortall preparation: and by midnight looke to heare further from me Ber. May I bee bold to acquaint his grace you are gone about it Par. I know not what the successe wil be my Lord, but the attempt I vow Ber. I know th'art valiant, And to the possibility of thy souldiership, Will subscribe for thee: Farewell Par. I loue not many words. Exit Cap.E. No more then a fish loues water. Is not this a strange fellow my Lord, that so confidently seemes to vndertake this businesse, which he knowes is not to be done, damnes himselfe to do, & dares better be damnd then to doo't Cap.G. You do not know him my Lord as we doe, certaine it is that he will steale himselfe into a mans fauour, and for a weeke escape a great deale of discoueries, but when you finde him out, you haue him euer after Ber. Why do you thinke he will make no deede at all of this that so seriouslie hee dooes addresse himselfe vnto? Cap.E. None in the world, but returne with an inuention, and clap vpon you two or three probable lies: but we haue almost imbost him, you shall see his fall to night; for indeede he is not for your Lordshippes respect Cap.G. Weele make you some sport with the Foxe ere we case him. He was first smoak'd by the old Lord Lafew, when his disguise and he is parted, tell me what a sprat you shall finde him, which you shall see this verie night Cap.E. I must go looke my twigges, He shall be caught Ber. Your brother he shall go along with me Cap.G. As't please your Lordship, Ile leaue you Ber. Now wil I lead you to the house, and shew you The Lasse I spoke of Cap.E. But you say she's honest Ber. That's all the fault: I spoke with hir but once, And found her wondrous cold, but I sent to her By this same Coxcombe that we haue i'th winde Tokens and Letters, which she did resend, And this is all I haue done: She's a faire creature, Will you go see her? Cap.E. With all my heart my Lord. Exeunt. Enter Hellen, and Widdow. Hel. If you misdoubt me that I am not shee, I know not how I shall assure you further, But I shall loose the grounds I worke vpon Wid. Though my estate be falne, I was well borne, Nothing acquainted with these businesses, And would not put my reputation now In any staining act Hel. Nor would I wish you. First giue me trust, the Count he is my husband, And what to your sworne counsaile I haue spoken, Is so from word to word: and then you cannot By the good ayde that I of you shall borrow, Erre in bestowing it Wid. I should beleeue you, For you haue shew'd me that which well approues Y'are great in fortune Hel. Take this purse of Gold, And let me buy your friendly helpe thus farre, Which I will ouer-pay, and pay againe When I haue found it. The Count he woes your daughter, Layes downe his wanton siedge before her beautie, Resolue to carrie her: let her in fine consent As wee'l direct her how 'tis best to beare it: Now his important blood will naught denie, That shee'l demand: a ring the Countie weares, That downward hath succeeded in his house From sonne to sonne, some foure or fiue discents, Since the first father wore it. This Ring he holds In most rich choice: yet in his idle fire, To buy his will, it would not seeme too deere, How ere repented after Wid. Now I see the bottome of your purpose Hel. You see it lawfull then, it is no more, But that your daughter ere she seemes as wonne, Desires this Ring; appoints him an encounter; In fine, deliuers me to fill the time, Her selfe most chastly absent: after To marry her, Ile adde three thousand Crownes To what is past already Wid. I haue yeelded: Instruct my daughter how she shall perseuer, That time and place with this deceite so lawfull May proue coherent. Euery night he comes With Musickes of all sorts, and songs compos'd To her vnworthinesse: It nothing steeds vs To chide him from our eeues, for he persists As if his life lay on't Hel. Why then to night Let vs assay our plot, which if it speed, Is wicked meaning in a lawfull deede; And lawfull meaning in a lawfull act, Where both not sinne, and yet a sinfull fact. But let's about it.

Scene 1

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820042551/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmAllsWell21.asp

This scene shifts to Florence. The Duke enters accompanied by two French lords and soldiers who are discussing the imminent war. The Duke expresses his astonishment at the French King's refusal to help. The First Lord refuses to divulge the reasons for the French King's refusal, but the Second Lord quips that the younger lords will soon come to Florence to exercise their talents in military exploits.

Notes This brief scene provides the necessary background to the Florentine wars. The setting shifts to Florence, a necessary move for the coming action of the play, in which Bertram tries to escape his wife. Helena, with plans of her own, sets out on a pilgrimage for Florence. The scene also reiterates the theme of military honor, which Bertram so eagerly seeks. He will arrive here because he values the honor he thinks military exploits will bring. Several young lords echo his feeling, giving the impression that the eagerness for war belongs to the young and inexperienced.. ACT III, SCENE 2 Summary This scene shifts back to Rousillon and opens with a conversation between the Countess and the clown. The Countess expresses satisfaction at the way things have turned out. Her only grudge is that Bertram is not accompanying Helena home. The clown says that Bertram had appeared to be very melancholic. Taking up Bertram's letter, the Countess remarks that she will read what he has written and find out when he intends to come home. The clown remarks that he has dropped his intentions of marrying Isbel since he has been at court, for he has found a great difference between the Isbels of the country and Isbels of the court. The clown leaves while the Countess is reading the letter. The contents of the letter shock the Countess, who is afraid Bertram's foolish actions will anger the King. The clown re-enters with the news that Bertram has run away. As the clown leaves, Helena enters along with some gentlemen. She has already heard about her abandonment and is heartbroken. One of the gentlemen attempts to console Helena. The Countess tells her to be patient. She says that she has experienced so many situations of grief and joy that they have lost the capacity to move her excessively. Then she asks the gentlemen if they know where Bertram has gone. The Countess is told that Bertram has gone off to serve the Duke of Florence in battle. Helena shows her the letter she has received, in which Bertram states that he will never be her husband until she can obtain the ring that he always wears on his finger and becomes pregnant with his child. He also tells her he will never return to France as long as she is alive. The gentlemen who have brought this letter express their apology for its sorrowful contents and inform the Countess that Parolles is accompanying and advising Bertram. The Countess is incensed at Bertram's conduct and says that he does not deserve to have Helena's love. The Countess further denounces Parolles as a "tainted fellow, full of wickedness" who is corrupting her son by encouraging him in his waywardness. The Countess asks the gentlemen, who are returning to Florence, to tell Bertram that he will never regain the honor that he has lost by abandoning his wife. She gives them a letter for Bertram in which she disowns him. The Countess and the gentlemen leave together. Helena, left alone, begins to cry. She blames herself for Bertram's being in the war. She prays for his safety and expresses her belief that if Bertram is killed in battle, it will be her fault. She desperately wants Bertram to return to Rousillon, away from battle. Since it is her presence in France that keeps him away, she decides to sneak away at night, hoping he will consider it safe, and return. Notes The central event in this scene is the delivery of Bertram's letter. It is important to note that while Helena is deeply hurt by Bertram's callous behavior, she does not show any resentment towards him. Instead of feeling anger at her shoddy treatment, she is driven by a sense of guilt and blames herself for his departure. She even worries about him being killed, which would be her fault, and thinks, "Whoever shoots at him, I set him there; Whoever charges on his forward breast; I am the caitiff that do hold him to't; And though I kill him not, I am the cause; His death was so effected". Her concern for him and lack of regard for the way she has been treated are almost pathetic. There is a distinct contrast between the reactions of the Countess and Helena to Bertram's letter. While Helena blames herself for driving Bertram away, the Countess is explicit in her denunciation of her son. Like many others, she refers to her son as a boy, indicating his extreme immaturity. She is angry that he does not follow the King's desires and honor Helena. She remarks furiously, "Nothing in France until he have no wife! / There's nothing here that is too good for him / But only she, and she deserves a lord / That twenty such rude boys might tend upon / And hourly call mistress". The Countess is deeply shocked by Bertram's rash behavior and makes the statement that Bertram cannot hope to win back the honor that he has lost by mistreating his wife, not even as a hero of war. Her words reiterate Lafeu's earlier idea -- that virtuous deeds are more important that noble birth, and that noble birth can never make up for virtue-less actions. Several other characters also spout this view at various points in the play. The terms of the riddling letter are cruelly blunt but do provide a clear and decisive course of action for the impetuous and determined Helena. As a result of Bertram's letter, Helena formulates her plan to steal away in the cover of darkness. Perhaps this will bring Bertram back to France. Once again, she makes her own destiny.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/2246-chapters/4.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/All's Well That Ends Well/section_15_part_0.txt

All's Well That Ends Well.act 4.scene 1

act 4, scene 1

{"name": "Scene 1", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820042551/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmAllsWell28.asp", "summary": "This scene moves to the widow's house in Florence. Helena is trying to convince the widow that she is Bertram's wife. She is exasperated and says that she does not know how else to assure the widow that she is telling the truth. The widow is suspicious and does not want to get involved in Helena's plan to win Bertram back. Helena offers the widow a purse of gold coins in exchange for her help with additional payment when the plan is finished. Helena tells the widow that when Bertram comes around again, Diana should pretend to yield to his advances and demand from him the ring that he always wears on his finger. Since the ring is a family heirloom that has been handed down from one generation to another, Bertram will be reluctant to part with it but will eventually do so in order to win Diana. Diana should fix a time and place for a secret meeting between the two, and when Bertram arrives, Helena will take the girl's place in bed with Bertram.", "analysis": "Notes In this scene, the clever Helena reveals her deceptive plan for winning Bertram back. By offering monetary payment, she convinces the widow to help her; she also convinces her that the deceitful actions have an honorable result, for a wife and husband will be together as they should. This is one of the first times Helena alludes to her apparent philosophy that all is truly well as long as it ends well. It is important to realize that the audience is supportive of, rather than appalled by, all the deception happening on the stage. The deceptive scheme against Parolles is meant to reveal his truly detestable nature, and the deceptive scheme against Bertram is to win him over to Helena. ACT IV, SCENE 1 Summary The scene opens outside the Florentine camp. The Lords enter, prepared to ambush. Parolles then enters, talking to himself. The Lords listen as Parolles confesses first that he knows he is a liar, and second, that it seems everyone else is beginning to notice. He is, of course, too frightened to go after the drum, so he begins concocting lies about why he does not have it. The Lords marvel at Parolles' self-awareness that he is a cad. Finally, the Lords capture Parolles, cover his eyes, and begin to talk in a nonsense language to him. Frightened, Parolles does exactly as predicted and promises to betray Bertram and all his other comrades if only his \"captors\" will not hurt him. They take him away and go to find Bertram, so that he can hear for himself. Notes In this scene, the Lords marvel that Parolles is aware of his own deceitful nature, and yet he does nothing to change it. This further convinces them of his despicable nature, and they are glad they have a plan to expose his true self to Bertram. The Lords know that any honorable man who recognizes weaknesses in himself would try to improve; but Parolles has no desire to better himself. Although Bertram has been much like the despicable Parolles in the early part of the play, Bertram, unlike his friend, finally comes to his senses and realizes how terribly he has been acting. While Parolles is a flat character who never changes, Bertram, in contrast, has some measure of redemption later in the play."}

Actus Quartus. Enter one of the Frenchmen, with fiue or sixe other souldiers in ambush. Lord E. He can come no other way but by this hedge corner: when you sallie vpon him, speake what terrible Language you will: though you vnderstand it not your selues, no matter: for we must not seeme to vnderstand him, vnlesse some one among vs, whom wee must produce for an Interpreter 1.Sol. Good Captaine, let me be th' Interpreter Lor.E. Art not acquainted with him? knowes he not thy voice? 1.Sol. No sir I warrant you Lo.E. But what linsie wolsy hast thou to speake to vs againe 1.Sol. E'n such as you speake to me Lo.E. He must thinke vs some band of strangers, i'th aduersaries entertainment. Now he hath a smacke of all neighbouring Languages: therefore we must euery one be a man of his owne fancie, not to know what we speak one to another: so we seeme to know, is to know straight our purpose: Choughs language, gabble enough, and good enough. As for you interpreter, you must seeme very politicke. But couch hoa, heere hee comes, to beguile two houres in a sleepe, and then to returne & swear the lies he forges. Enter Parrolles. Par. Ten a clocke: Within these three houres 'twill be time enough to goe home. What shall I say I haue done? It must bee a very plausiue inuention that carries it. They beginne to smoake mee, and disgraces haue of late, knock'd too often at my doore: I finde my tongue is too foole-hardie, but my heart hath the feare of Mars before it, and of his creatures, not daring the reports of my tongue Lo.E. This is the first truth that ere thine own tongue was guiltie of Par. What the diuell should moue mee to vndertake the recouerie of this drumme, being not ignorant of the impossibility, and knowing I had no such purpose? I must giue my selfe some hurts, and say I got them in exploit: yet slight ones will not carrie it. They will say, came you off with so little? And great ones I dare not giue, wherefore what's the instance. Tongue, I must put you into a Butter-womans mouth, and buy my selfe another of Baiazeths Mule, if you prattle mee into these perilles Lo.E. Is it possible he should know what hee is, and be that he is Par. I would the cutting of my garments wold serue the turne, or the breaking of my Spanish sword Lo.E. We cannot affoord you so Par. Or the baring of my beard, and to say it was in stratagem Lo.E. 'Twould not do Par. Or to drowne my cloathes, and say I was stript Lo.E. Hardly serue Par. Though I swore I leapt from the window of the Citadell Lo.E. How deepe? Par. Thirty fadome Lo.E. Three great oathes would scarse make that be beleeued Par. I would I had any drumme of the enemies, I would sweare I recouer'd it Lo.E. You shall heare one anon Par. A drumme now of the enemies. Alarum within. Lo.E. Throca movousus, cargo, cargo, cargo All. Cargo, cargo, cargo, villianda par corbo, cargo Par. O ransome, ransome, Do not hide mine eyes Inter. Boskos thromuldo boskos Par. I know you are the Muskos Regiment, And I shall loose my life for want of language. If there be heere German or Dane, Low Dutch, Italian, or French, let him speake to me, Ile discouer that, which shal vndo the Florentine Int. Boskos vauvado, I vnderstand thee, & can speake thy tongue: Kerelybonto sir, betake thee to thy faith, for seuenteene ponyards are at thy bosome Par. Oh Inter. Oh pray, pray, pray, Manka reuania dulche Lo.E. Oscorbidulchos voliuorco Int. The Generall is content to spare thee yet, And hoodwinkt as thou art, will leade thee on To gather from thee. Haply thou mayst informe Something to saue thy life Par. O let me liue, And all the secrets of our campe Ile shew, Their force, their purposes: Nay, Ile speake that, Which you will wonder at Inter. But wilt thou faithfully? Par. If I do not, damne me Inter. Acordo linta. Come on, thou are granted space. Exit A short Alarum within. L.E. Go tell the Count Rossillion and my brother, We haue caught the woodcocke, and will keepe him mufled Till we do heare from them Sol. Captaine I will L.E. A will betray vs all vnto our selues, Informe on that Sol. So I will sir L.E. Till then Ile keepe him darke and safely lockt. Exit Enter Bertram, and the Maide called Diana. Ber. They told me that your name was Fontybell Dia. No my good Lord, Diana Ber. Titled Goddesse, And worth it with addition: but faire soule, In your fine frame hath loue no qualitie? If the quicke fire of youth light not your minde, You are no Maiden but a monument When you are dead you should be such a one As you are now: for you are cold and sterne, And now you should be as your mother was When your sweet selfe was got Dia. She then was honest Ber. So should you be Dia. No: My mother did but dutie, such (my Lord) As you owe to your wife Ber. No more a'that: I prethee do not striue against my vowes: I was compell'd to her, but I loue thee By loues owne sweet constraint, and will for euer Do thee all rights of seruice Dia. I so you serue vs Till we serue you: But when you haue our Roses, You barely leaue our thornes to pricke our selues, And mocke vs with our barenesse Ber. How haue I sworne Dia. Tis not the many oathes that makes the truth, But the plaine single vow, that is vow'd true: What is not holie, that we sweare not by, But take the high'st to witnesse: then pray you tell me, If I should sweare by Ioues great attributes, I lou'd you deerely, would you beleeue my oathes, When I did loue you ill? This ha's no holding To sweare by him whom I protest to loue That I will worke against him. Therefore your oathes Are words and poore conditions, but vnseal'd At lest in my opinion Ber. Change it, change it: Be not so holy cruell: Loue is holie, And my integritie ne're knew the crafts That you do charge men with: Stand no more off, But giue thy selfe vnto my sicke desires, Who then recouers. Say thou art mine, and euer My loue as it beginnes, shall so perseuer Dia. I see that men make rope's in such a scarre, That wee'l forsake our selues. Giue me that Ring Ber. Ile lend it thee my deere; but haue no power To giue it from me Dia. Will you not my Lord? Ber. It is an honour longing to our house, Bequeathed downe from manie Ancestors, Which were the greatest obloquie i'th world, In me to loose Dian. Mine Honors such a Ring, My chastities the Iewell of our house, Bequeathed downe from many Ancestors, Which were the greatest obloquie i'th world, In mee to loose. Thus your owne proper wisedome Brings in the Champion honor on my part, Against your vaine assault Ber. Heere, take my Ring, My house, mine honor, yea my life be thine, And Ile be bid by thee Dia. When midnight comes, knocke at my chamber window: Ile order take, my mother shall not heare. Now will I charge you in the band of truth, When you haue conquer'd my yet maiden-bed, Remaine there but an houre, nor speake to mee: My reasons are most strong, and you shall know them, When backe againe this Ring shall be deliuer'd: And on your finger in the night, Ile put Another Ring, that what in time proceeds, May token to the future, our past deeds. Adieu till then, then faile not: you haue wonne A wife of me, though there my hope be done Ber. A heauen on earth I haue won by wooing thee Di. For which, liue long to thank both heauen & me, You may so in the end. My mother told me iust how he would woo, As if she sate in's heart. She sayes, all men Haue the like oathes: He had sworne to marrie me When his wife's dead: therfore Ile lye with him When I am buried. Since Frenchmen are so braide, Marry that will, I liue and die a Maid: Onely in this disguise, I think't no sinne, To cosen him that would vniustly winne. Exit Enter the two French Captaines, and some two or three Souldiours. Cap.G. You haue not giuen him his mothers letter Cap.E. I haue deliu'red it an houre since, there is som thing in't that stings his nature: for on the reading it, he chang'd almost into another man Cap.G. He has much worthy blame laid vpon him, for shaking off so good a wife, and so sweet a Lady Cap.E. Especially, hee hath incurred the euerlasting displeasure of the King, who had euen tun'd his bounty to sing happinesse to him. I will tell you a thing, but you shall let it dwell darkly with you Cap.G. When you haue spoken it 'tis dead, and I am the graue of it Cap.E. Hee hath peruerted a young Gentlewoman heere in Florence, of a most chaste renown, & this night he fleshes his will in the spoyle of her honour: hee hath giuen her his monumentall Ring, and thinkes himselfe made in the vnchaste composition Cap.G. Now God delay our rebellion as we are our selues, what things are we Cap.E. Meerely our owne traitours. And as in the common course of all treasons, we still see them reueale themselues, till they attaine to their abhorr'd ends: so he that in this action contriues against his owne Nobility in his proper streame, ore-flowes himselfe Cap.G. Is it not meant damnable in vs, to be Trumpeters of our vnlawfull intents? We shall not then haue his company to night? Cap.E. Not till after midnight: for hee is dieted to his houre Cap.G. That approaches apace: I would gladly haue him see his company anathomiz'd, that hee might take a measure of his owne iudgements, wherein so curiously he had set this counterfeit Cap.E. We will not meddle with him till he come; for his presence must be the whip of the other Cap.G. In the meane time, what heare you of these Warres? Cap.E. I heare there is an ouerture of peace Cap.G. Nay, I assure you a peace concluded Cap.E. What will Count Rossillion do then? Will he trauaile higher, or returne againe into France? Cap.G. I perceiue by this demand, you are not altogether of his councell Cap.E. Let it be forbid sir, so should I bee a great deale of his act Cap.G. Sir, his wife some two months since fledde from his house, her pretence is a pilgrimage to Saint Iaques le grand; which holy vndertaking, with most austere sanctimonie she accomplisht: and there residing, the tendernesse of her Nature, became as a prey to her greefe: in fine, made a groane of her last breath, & now she sings in heauen Cap.E. How is this iustified? Cap.G. The stronger part of it by her owne Letters, which makes her storie true, euen to the poynt of her death: her death it selfe, which could not be her office to say, is come: was faithfully confirm'd by the Rector of the place Cap.E. Hath the Count all this intelligence? Cap.G. I, and the particular confirmations, point from point, to the full arming of the veritie Cap.E. I am heartily sorrie that hee'l bee gladde of this Cap.G. How mightily sometimes, we make vs comforts of our losses Cap.E. And how mightily some other times, wee drowne our gaine in teares, the great dignitie that his valour hath here acquir'd for him, shall at home be encountred with a shame as ample Cap.G. The webbe of our life, is of a mingled yarne, good and ill together: our vertues would bee proud, if our faults whipt them not, and our crimes would dispaire if they were not cherish'd by our vertues. Enter a Messenger. How now? Where's your master? Ser. He met the Duke in the street sir, of whom hee hath taken a solemne leaue: his Lordshippe will next morning for France. The Duke hath offered him Letters of commendations to the King Cap.E. They shall bee no more then needfull there, if they were more then they can commend. Enter Count Rossillion. Ber. They cannot be too sweete for the Kings tartnesse, heere's his Lordship now. How now my Lord, i'st not after midnight? Ber. I haue to night dispatch'd sixteene businesses, a moneths length a peece, by an abstract of successe: I haue congied with the Duke, done my adieu with his neerest; buried a wife, mourn'd for her, writ to my Ladie mother, I am returning, entertain'd my Conuoy, & betweene these maine parcels of dispatch, affected many nicer needs: the last was the greatest, but that I haue not ended yet Cap.E. If the businesse bee of any difficulty, and this morning your departure hence, it requires hast of your Lordship Ber. I meane the businesse is not ended, as fearing to heare of it hereafter: but shall we haue this dialogue betweene the Foole and the Soldiour. Come, bring forth this counterfet module, ha's deceiu'd mee, like a double-meaning Prophesier Cap.E. Bring him forth, ha's sate i'th stockes all night poore gallant knaue Ber. No matter, his heeles haue deseru'd it, in vsurping his spurres so long. How does he carry himselfe? Cap.E. I haue told your Lordship alreadie: The stockes carrie him. But to answer you as you would be vnderstood, hee weepes like a wench that had shed her milke, he hath confest himselfe to Morgan, whom hee supposes to be a Friar, fro[m] the time of his remembrance to this very instant disaster of his setting i'th stockes: and what thinke you he hath confest? Ber. Nothing of me, ha's a? Cap.E. His confession is taken, and it shall bee read to his face, if your Lordshippe be in't, as I beleeue you are, you must haue the patience to heare it. Enter Parolles with his Interpreter. Ber. A plague vpon him, muffeld; he can say nothing of me: hush, hush Cap.G. Hoodman comes: Portotartarossa Inter. He calles for the tortures, what will you say without em Par. I will confesse what I know without constraint, If ye pinch me like a Pasty, I can say no more Int. Bosko Chimurcho Cap. Boblibindo chicurmurco Int. You are a mercifull Generall: Our Generall bids you answer to what I shall aske you out of a Note Par. And truly, as I hope to liue Int. First demand of him, how many horse the Duke is strong. What say you to that? Par. Fiue or sixe thousand, but very weake and vnseruiceable: the troopes are all scattered, and the Commanders verie poore rogues, vpon my reputation and credit, and as I hope to liue Int. Shall I set downe your answer so? Par. Do, Ile take the Sacrament on't, how & which way you will: all's one to him Ber. What a past-sauing slaue is this? Cap.G. Y'are deceiu'd my Lord, this is Mounsieur Parrolles the gallant militarist, that was his owne phrase that had the whole theoricke of warre in the knot of his scarfe, and the practise in the chape of his dagger Cap.E. I will neuer trust a man againe, for keeping his sword cleane, nor beleeue he can haue euerie thing in him, by wearing his apparrell neatly Int. Well, that's set downe Par. Fiue or six thousand horse I sed, I will say true, or thereabouts set downe, for Ile speake truth Cap.G. He's very neere the truth in this Ber. But I con him no thankes for't in the nature he deliuers it Par. Poore rogues, I pray you say Int. Well, that's set downe Par. I humbly thanke you sir, a truth's a truth, the Rogues are maruailous poore Interp. Demaund of him of what strength they are a foot. What say you to that? Par. By my troth sir, if I were to liue this present houre, I will tell true. Let me see, Spurio a hundred & fiftie, Sebastian so many, Corambus so many, Iaques so many: Guiltian, Cosmo, Lodowicke, and Gratij, two hundred fiftie each: Mine owne Company, Chitopher, Vaumond, Bentij, two hundred fiftie each: so that the muster file, rotten and sound, vppon my life amounts not to fifteene thousand pole, halfe of the which, dare not shake the snow from off their Cassockes, least they shake themselues to peeces Ber. What shall be done to him? Cap.G. Nothing, but let him haue thankes. Demand of him my condition: and what credite I haue with the Duke Int. Well that's set downe: you shall demaund of him, whether one Captaine Dumaine bee i'th Campe, a Frenchman: what his reputation is with the Duke, what his valour, honestie, and expertnesse in warres: or whether he thinkes it were not possible with well-waighing summes of gold to corrupt him to a reuolt. What say you to this? What do you know of it? Par. I beseech you let me answer to the particular of the intergatories. Demand them singly Int. Do you know this Captaine Dumaine? Par. I know him, a was a Botchers Prentize in Paris, from whence he was whipt for getting the Shrieues fool with childe, a dumbe innocent that could not say him nay Ber. Nay, by your leaue hold your hands, though I know his braines are forfeite to the next tile that fals Int. Well, is this Captaine in the Duke of Florences campe? Par. Vpon my knowledge he is, and lowsie Cap.G. Nay looke not so vpon me: we shall heare of your Lord anon Int. What is his reputation with the Duke? Par. The Duke knowes him for no other, but a poore Officer of mine, and writ to mee this other day, to turne him out a'th band. I thinke I haue his Letter in my pocket Int. Marry we'll search Par. In good sadnesse I do not know, either it is there, or it is vpon a file with the Dukes other Letters, in my Tent Int. Heere 'tis, heere's a paper, shall I reade it to you? Par. I do not know if it be it or no Ber. Our Interpreter do's it well Cap.G. Excellently Int. Dian, the Counts a foole, and full of gold Par. That is not the Dukes letter sir: that is an aduertisement to a proper maide in Florence, one Diana, to take heede of the allurement of one Count Rossillion, a foolish idle boy: but for all that very ruttish. I pray you sir put it vp againe Int. Nay, Ile reade it first by your fauour Par. My meaning in't I protest was very honest in the behalfe of the maid: for I knew the young Count to be a dangerous and lasciuious boy, who is a whale to Virginity, and deuours vp all the fry it finds Ber. Damnable both-sides rogue Int. Let. When he sweares oathes, bid him drop gold, and take it: After he scores, he neuer payes the score: Halfe won is match well made, match and well make it, He nere payes after-debts, take it before, And say a souldier (Dian) told thee this: Men are to mell with, boyes are not to kis. For count of this, the Counts a Foole I know it, Who payes before, but not when he does owe it. Thine as he vow'd to thee in thine eare, Parolles Ber. He shall be whipt through the Armie with this rime in's forehead Cap.E. This is your deuoted friend sir, the manifold Linguist, and the army-potent souldier Ber. I could endure any thing before but a Cat, and now he's a Cat to me Int. I perceiue sir by your Generals lookes, wee shall be faine to hang you Par. My life sir in any case: Not that I am afraide to dye, but that my offences beeing many, I would repent out the remainder of Nature. Let me liue sir in a dungeon, i'th stockes, or any where, so I may liue Int. Wee'le see what may bee done, so you confesse freely: therefore once more to this Captaine Dumaine: you haue answer'd to his reputation with the Duke, and to his valour. What is his honestie? Par. He will steale sir an Egge out of a Cloister: for rapes and rauishments he paralels Nessus. Hee professes not keeping of oaths, in breaking em he is stronger then Hercules. He will lye sir, with such volubilitie, that you would thinke truth were a foole: drunkennesse is his best vertue, for he will be swine-drunke, and in his sleepe he does little harme, saue to his bed-cloathes about him: but they know his conditions, and lay him in straw. I haue but little more to say sir of his honesty, he ha's euerie thing that an honest man should not haue; what an honest man should haue, he has nothing Cap.G. I begin to loue him for this Ber. For this description of thine honestie? A pox vpon him for me, he's more and more a Cat Int. What say you to his expertnesse in warre? Par. Faith sir, ha's led the drumme before the English Tragedians: to belye him I will not, and more of his souldiership I know not, except in that Country, he had the honour to be the Officer at a place there called Mile-end, to instruct for the doubling of files. I would doe the man what honour I can, but of this I am not certaine Cap.G. He hath out-villain'd villanie so farre, that the raritie redeemes him Ber. A pox on him, he's a Cat still Int. His qualities being at this poore price, I neede not to aske you, if Gold will corrupt him to reuolt Par. Sir, for a Cardceue he will sell the fee-simple of his saluation, the inheritance of it, and cut th' intaile from all remainders, and a perpetuall succession for it perpetually Int. What's his Brother, the other Captain Dumain? Cap.E. Why do's he aske him of me? Int. What's he? Par. E'ne a Crow a'th same nest: not altogether so great as the first in goodnesse, but greater a great deale in euill. He excels his Brother for a coward, yet his Brother is reputed one of the best that is. In a retreate hee outrunnes any Lackey; marrie in comming on, hee ha's the Crampe Int. If your life be saued, will you vndertake to betray the Florentine Par. I, and the Captaine of his horse, Count Rossillion Int. Ile whisper with the Generall, and knowe his pleasure Par. Ile no more drumming, a plague of all drummes, onely to seeme to deserue well, and to beguile the supposition of that lasciuious yong boy the Count, haue I run into this danger: yet who would haue suspected an ambush where I was taken? Int. There is no remedy sir, but you must dye: the Generall sayes, you that haue so traitorously discouerd the secrets of your army, and made such pestifferous reports of men very nobly held, can serue the world for no honest vse: therefore you must dye. Come headesman, off with his head Par. O Lord sir let me liue, or let me see my death Int. That shall you, and take your leaue of all your friends: So, looke about you, know you any heere? Count. Good morrow noble Captaine Lo.E. God blesse you Captaine Parolles Cap.G. God saue you noble Captaine Lo.E. Captain, what greeting will you to my Lord Lafew? I am for France Cap.G. Good Captaine will you giue me a Copy of the sonnet you writ to Diana in behalfe of the Count Rossillion, and I were not a verie Coward, I'de compell it of you, but far you well. Exeunt. Int. You are vndone Captaine all but your scarfe, that has a knot on't yet Par. Who cannot be crush'd with a plot? Inter. If you could finde out a Countrie where but women were that had receiued so much shame, you might begin an impudent Nation. Fare yee well sir, I am for France too, we shall speake of you there. Exit Par. Yet am I thankfull: if my heart were great 'Twould burst at this: Captaine Ile be no more, But I will eate, and drinke, and sleepe as soft As Captaine shall. Simply the thing I am Shall make me liue: who knowes himselfe a braggart Let him feare this; for it will come to passe, That euery braggart shall be found an Asse. Rust sword, coole blushes, and Parrolles liue Safest in shame: being fool'd, by fool'rie thriue; There's place and meanes for euery man aliue. Ile after them. Enter. Enter Hellen, Widdow, and Diana. Hel. That you may well perceiue I haue not wrong'd you, One of the greatest in the Christian world Shall be my suretie: for whose throne 'tis needfull Ere I can perfect mine intents, to kneele. Time was, I did him a desired office Deere almost as his life, which gratitude Through flintie Tartars bosome would peepe forth, And answer thankes. I duly am inform'd, His grace is at Marcellae, to which place We haue conuenient conuoy: you must know I am supposed dead, the Army breaking, My husband hies him home, where heauen ayding, And by the leaue of my good Lord the King, Wee'l be before our welcome Wid. Gentle Madam, You neuer had a seruant to whose trust Your busines was more welcome Hel. Nor your Mistris Euer a friend, whose thoughts more truly labour To recompence your loue: Doubt not but heauen Hath brought me vp to be your daughters dower, As it hath fated her to be my motiue And helper to a husband. But O strange men, That can such sweet vse make of what they hate, When sawcie trusting of the cosin'd thoughts Defiles the pitchy night, so lust doth play With what it loathes, for that which is away, But more of this heereafter: you Diana, Vnder my poore instructions yet must suffer Something in my behalfe Dia. Let death and honestie Go with your impositions, I am yours Vpon your will to suffer Hel. Yet I pray you: But with the word the time will bring on summer, When Briars shall haue leaues as well as thornes, And be as sweet as sharpe: we must away, Our Wagon is prepar'd, and time reuiues vs, All's well that ends well, still the fines the Crowne; What ere the course, the end is the renowne. Exeunt. Enter Clowne, old Lady, and Lafew. Laf. No, no, no, your sonne was misled with a snipt taffata fellow there, whose villanous saffron wold haue made all the vnbak'd and dowy youth of a nation in his colour: your daughter-in-law had beene aliue at this houre, and your sonne heere at home, more aduanc'd by the King, then by that red-tail'd humble Bee I speak of La. I would I had not knowne him, it was the death of the most vertuous gentlewoman, that euer Nature had praise for creating. If she had pertaken of my flesh and cost mee the deerest groanes of a mother, I could not haue owed her a more rooted loue Laf. Twas a good Lady, 'twas a good Lady. Wee may picke a thousand sallets ere wee light on such another hearbe Clo. Indeed sir she was the sweete Margerom of the sallet, or rather the hearbe of grace Laf. They are not hearbes you knaue, they are nose-hearbes Clowne. I am no great Nabuchadnezar sir, I haue not much skill in grace Laf. Whether doest thou professe thy selfe, a knaue or a foole? Clo. A foole sir at a womans seruice, and a knaue at a mans Laf. Your distinction Clo. I would cousen the man of his wife, and do his seruice Laf. So you were a knaue at his seruice indeed Clo. And I would giue his wife my bauble sir to doe her seruice Laf. I will subscribe for thee, thou art both knaue and foole Clo. At your seruice Laf. No, no, no Clo. Why sir, if I cannot serue you, I can serue as great a prince as you are Laf. Whose that, a Frenchman? Clo. Faith sir a has an English maine, but his fisnomie is more hotter in France then there Laf. What prince is that? Clo. The blacke prince sir, alias the prince of darkenesse, alias the diuell Laf. Hold thee there's my purse, I giue thee not this to suggest thee from thy master thou talk'st off, serue him still Clo. I am a woodland fellow sir, that alwaies loued a great fire, and the master I speak of euer keeps a good fire, but sure he is the Prince of the world, let his Nobilitie remaine in's Court. I am for the house with the narrow gate, which I take to be too little for pompe to enter: some that humble themselues may, but the manie will be too chill and tender, and theyle bee for the flowrie way that leads to the broad gate, and the great fire Laf. Go thy waies, I begin to bee a wearie of thee, and I tell thee so before, because I would not fall out with thee. Go thy wayes, let my horses be wel look'd too, without any trickes Clo. If I put any trickes vpon em sir, they shall bee Iades trickes, which are their owne right by the law of Nature. Exit Laf. A shrewd knaue and an vnhappie Lady. So a is. My Lord that's gone made himselfe much sport out of him, by his authoritie hee remaines heere, which he thinkes is a pattent for his sawcinesse, and indeede he has no pace, but runnes where he will Laf. I like him well, 'tis not amisse: and I was about to tell you, since I heard of the good Ladies death, and that my Lord your sonne was vpon his returne home. I moued the King my master to speake in the behalfe of my daughter, which in the minoritie of them both, his Maiestie out of a selfe gracious remembrance did first propose, his Highnesse hath promis'd me to doe it, and to stoppe vp the displeasure he hath conceiued against your sonne, there is no fitter matter. How do's your Ladyship like it? La. With verie much content my Lord, and I wish it happily effected Laf. His Highnesse comes post from Marcellus, of as able bodie as when he number'd thirty, a will be heere to morrow, or I am deceiu'd by him that in such intelligence hath seldome fail'd La. It reioyces me, that I hope I shall see him ere I die. I haue letters that my sonne will be heere to night: I shall beseech your Lordship to remaine with mee, till they meete together Laf. Madam, I was thinking with what manners I might safely be admitted Lad. You neede but pleade your honourable priuiledge Laf. Ladie, of that I haue made a bold charter, but I thanke my God, it holds yet. Enter Clowne. Clo. O Madam, yonders my Lord your sonne with a patch of veluet on's face, whether there bee a scar vnder't or no, the Veluet knowes, but 'tis a goodly patch of Veluet, his left cheeke is a cheeke of two pile and a halfe, but his right cheeke is worne bare Laf. A scarre nobly got, Or a noble scarre, is a good liu'rie of honor, So belike is that Clo. But it is your carbinado'd face Laf. Let vs go see your sonne I pray you, I long to talke With the yong noble souldier Clowne. 'Faith there's a dozen of em, with delicate fine hats, and most courteous feathers, which bow the head, and nod at euerie man. Exeunt.

Scene 1

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820042551/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmAllsWell28.asp

This scene moves to the widow's house in Florence. Helena is trying to convince the widow that she is Bertram's wife. She is exasperated and says that she does not know how else to assure the widow that she is telling the truth. The widow is suspicious and does not want to get involved in Helena's plan to win Bertram back. Helena offers the widow a purse of gold coins in exchange for her help with additional payment when the plan is finished. Helena tells the widow that when Bertram comes around again, Diana should pretend to yield to his advances and demand from him the ring that he always wears on his finger. Since the ring is a family heirloom that has been handed down from one generation to another, Bertram will be reluctant to part with it but will eventually do so in order to win Diana. Diana should fix a time and place for a secret meeting between the two, and when Bertram arrives, Helena will take the girl's place in bed with Bertram.

Notes In this scene, the clever Helena reveals her deceptive plan for winning Bertram back. By offering monetary payment, she convinces the widow to help her; she also convinces her that the deceitful actions have an honorable result, for a wife and husband will be together as they should. This is one of the first times Helena alludes to her apparent philosophy that all is truly well as long as it ends well. It is important to realize that the audience is supportive of, rather than appalled by, all the deception happening on the stage. The deceptive scheme against Parolles is meant to reveal his truly detestable nature, and the deceptive scheme against Bertram is to win him over to Helena. ACT IV, SCENE 1 Summary The scene opens outside the Florentine camp. The Lords enter, prepared to ambush. Parolles then enters, talking to himself. The Lords listen as Parolles confesses first that he knows he is a liar, and second, that it seems everyone else is beginning to notice. He is, of course, too frightened to go after the drum, so he begins concocting lies about why he does not have it. The Lords marvel at Parolles' self-awareness that he is a cad. Finally, the Lords capture Parolles, cover his eyes, and begin to talk in a nonsense language to him. Frightened, Parolles does exactly as predicted and promises to betray Bertram and all his other comrades if only his "captors" will not hurt him. They take him away and go to find Bertram, so that he can hear for himself. Notes In this scene, the Lords marvel that Parolles is aware of his own deceitful nature, and yet he does nothing to change it. This further convinces them of his despicable nature, and they are glad they have a plan to expose his true self to Bertram. The Lords know that any honorable man who recognizes weaknesses in himself would try to improve; but Parolles has no desire to better himself. Although Bertram has been much like the despicable Parolles in the early part of the play, Bertram, unlike his friend, finally comes to his senses and realizes how terribly he has been acting. While Parolles is a flat character who never changes, Bertram, in contrast, has some measure of redemption later in the play.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/2246-chapters/5.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/All's Well That Ends Well/section_20_part_0.txt

All's Well That Ends Well.act 5.scene 1

act 5, scene 1

{"name": "Scene 1", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820042551/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmAllsWell34.asp", "summary": "Helena arrives in Marseilles with the widow, Diana, and two attendants. Again, she promises to repay them handsomely for their efforts on her behalf. A gentleman appears on the street, and Helena asks for directions to the King, only to discover that the King has already left for Paris. At first the party of women are discouraged, thinking all their efforts have been wasted. But Helena retains her confidence and asserts that all's well that ends well although at present the situation appears to be bleak. Helena asks the gentleman to deliver a letter to the King, and assures him he will be rewarded for his pains. She tells the gentleman she will follow him to Rousillon as quickly as she can. The gentleman agrees to this, and Helena and the other women prepare for another journey.", "analysis": "Notes The pace of the action increases when Helena arrives in Marseilles only to find that the King has left for Rousillon. There is a sense of urgency, a race against time. This short scene moves the action quite rapidly and inevitably toward the final confrontation scene--a scene in which everyone converges on the court at Rousillon. ACT V, SCENE 2 Summary Parolles and the clown enter the inner court of the Countess' palace in Rousillon. Parolles gives the clown a letter for Lafeu. Parolles, no longer well-dressed and proud, comments on his present state of disfavor. He reminds the clown that they had been friends when he used to wear fresher clothes; but now he smells of Fortune's displeasure. The clown replies that Fortune's displeasure stinks. Lafeu enters and the clown leaves the two of them alone. Parolles grovels for Lafeu's forgiveness, and Lafeu, after a few wise comments about Parolles being to blame, graciously forgives Parolles. Notes This scene marks the final stage of Parolles' downfall as he grovels for forgiveness. Lafeu graciously pardons Parolles, and the two are reconciled. The importance of this scene has to do with the nature of Shakespearean comedy. Even the lowliest characters at the end of a comedy must be reconciled so that all loose ends are tied up, good feeling abounds, and everything ends well."}

Actus Quintus. Enter Hellen, Widdow, and Diana, with two Attendants. Hel. But this exceeding posting day and night, Must wear your spirits low, we cannot helpe it: But since you haue made the daies and nights as one, To weare your gentle limbes in my affayres, Be bold you do so grow in my requitall, As nothing can vnroote you. In happie time, Enter a gentle Astringer. This man may helpe me to his Maiesties eare, If he would spend his power. God saue you sir Gent. And you Hel. Sir, I haue seene you in the Court of France Gent. I haue beene sometimes there Hel. I do presume sir, that you are not falne From the report that goes vpon your goodnesse, And therefore goaded with most sharpe occasions, Which lay nice manners by, I put you to The vse of your owne vertues, for the which I shall continue thankefull Gent. What's your will? Hel. That it will please you To giue this poore petition to the King, And ayde me with that store of power you haue To come into his presence Gen. The Kings not heere Hel. Not heere sir? Gen. Not indeed, He hence remou'd last night, and with more hast Then is his vse Wid. Lord how we loose our paines Hel. All's well that ends well yet, Though time seeme so aduerse, and meanes vnfit: I do beseech you, whither is he gone? Gent. Marrie as I take it to Rossillion, Whither I am going Hel. I do beseech you sir, Since you are like to see the King before me, Commend the paper to his gracious hand, Which I presume shall render you no blame, But rather make you thanke your paines for it, I will come after you with what good speede Our meanes will make vs meanes Gent. This Ile do for you Hel. And you shall finde your selfe to be well thankt what e're falles more. We must to horse againe, Go, go, prouide. Enter Clowne and Parrolles. Par. Good Mr Lauatch giue my Lord Lafew this letter, I haue ere now sir beene better knowne to you, when I haue held familiaritie with fresher cloathes: but I am now sir muddied in fortunes mood, and smell somewhat strong of her strong displeasure Clo. Truely, Fortunes displeasure is but sluttish if it smell so strongly as thou speak'st of: I will hencefoorth eate no Fish of Fortunes butt'ring. Prethee alow the winde Par. Nay you neede not to stop your nose sir: I spake but by a Metaphor Clo. Indeed sir, if your Metaphor stinke, I will stop my nose, or against any mans Metaphor. Prethe get thee further Par. Pray you sir deliuer me this paper Clo. Foh, prethee stand away: a paper from fortunes close-stoole, to giue to a Nobleman. Looke heere he comes himselfe. Enter Lafew. Clo. Heere is a purre of Fortunes sir, or of Fortunes Cat, but not a Muscat, that ha's falne into the vncleane fish-pond of her displeasure, and as he sayes is muddied withall. Pray you sir, vse the Carpe as you may, for he lookes like a poore decayed, ingenious, foolish, rascally knaue. I doe pittie his distresse in my smiles of comfort, and leaue him to your Lordship Par. My Lord I am a man whom fortune hath cruelly scratch'd Laf. And what would you haue me to doe? 'Tis too late to paire her nailes now. Wherein haue you played the knaue with fortune that she should scratch you, who of her selfe is a good Lady, and would not haue knaues thriue long vnder? There's a Cardecue for you: Let the Iustices make you and fortune friends; I am for other businesse Par. I beseech your honour to heare mee one single word, Laf. you begge a single peny more: Come you shall ha't, saue your word Par. My name my good Lord is Parrolles Laf. You begge more then word then. Cox my passion, giue me your hand: How does your drumme? Par. O my good Lord, you were the first that found mee Laf. Was I insooth? And I was the first that lost thee Par. It lies in you my Lord to bring me in some grace for you did bring me out Laf. Out vpon thee knaue, doest thou put vpon mee at once both the office of God and the diuel: one brings thee in grace, and the other brings thee out. The Kings comming I know by his Trumpets. Sirrah, inquire further after me, I had talke of you last night, though you are a foole and a knaue, you shall eate, go too, follow Par. I praise God for you. Flourish. Enter King, old Lady, Lafew, the two French Lords, with attendants. Kin. We lost a Iewell of her, and our esteeme Was made much poorer by it: but your sonne, As mad in folly, lack'd the sence to know Her estimation home Old La. 'Tis past my Liege, And I beseech your Maiestie to make it Naturall rebellion, done i'th blade of youth, When oyle and fire, too strong for reasons force, Ore-beares it, and burnes on Kin. My honour'd Lady, I haue forgiuen and forgotten all, Though my reuenges were high bent vpon him, And watch'd the time to shoote Laf. This I must say, But first I begge my pardon: the yong Lord Did to his Maiesty, his Mother, and his Ladie, Offence of mighty note; but to himselfe The greatest wrong of all. He lost a wife, Whose beauty did astonish the suruey Of richest eies: whose words all eares tooke captiue, Whose deere perfection, hearts that scorn'd to serue, Humbly call'd Mistris Kin. Praising what is lost, Makes the remembrance deere. Well, call him hither, We are reconcil'd, and the first view shall kill All repetition: Let him not aske our pardon, The nature of his great offence is dead, And deeper then obliuion, we do burie Th' incensing reliques of it. Let him approach A stranger, no offender; and informe him So 'tis our will he should Gent. I shall my Liege Kin. What sayes he to your daughter, Haue you spoke? Laf. All that he is, hath reference to your Highnes Kin. Then shall we haue a match. I haue letters sent me, that sets him high in fame. Enter Count Bertram. Laf. He lookes well on't Kin. I am not a day of season, For thou maist see a sun-shine, and a haile In me at once: But to the brightest beames Distracted clouds giue way, so stand thou forth, The time is faire againe Ber. My high repented blames Deere Soueraigne pardon to me Kin. All is whole, Not one word more of the consumed time, Let's take the instant by the forward top: For we are old, and on our quick'st decrees Th' inaudible, and noiselesse foot of time Steales, ere we can effect them. You remember The daughter of this Lord? Ber. Admiringly my Liege, at first I stucke my choice vpon her, ere my heart Durst make too bold a herauld of my tongue: Where the impression of mine eye enfixing, Contempt his scornfull Perspectiue did lend me, Which warpt the line, of euerie other fauour, Scorn'd a faire colour, or exprest it stolne, Extended or contracted all proportions To a most hideous obiect. Thence it came, That she whom all men prais'd, and whom my selfe, Since I haue lost, haue lou'd; was in mine eye The dust that did offend it Kin. Well excus'd: That thou didst loue her, strikes some scores away From the great compt: but loue that comes too late, Like a remorsefull pardon slowly carried To the great sender, turnes a sowre offence, Crying, that's good that's gone: Our rash faults, Make triuiall price of serious things we haue, Not knowing them, vntill we know their graue. Oft our displeasures to our selues vniust, Destroy our friends, and after weepe their dust: Our owne loue waking, cries to see what's done, While shamefull hate sleepes out the afternoone. Be this sweet Helens knell, and now forget her. Send forth your amorous token for faire Maudlin, The maine consents are had, and heere wee'l stay To see our widdowers second marriage day: Which better then the first, O deere heauen blesse, Or, ere they meete in me, O Nature cesse Laf. Come on my sonne, in whom my houses name Must be digested: giue a fauour from you To sparkle in the spirits of my daughter, That she may quickly come. By my old beard, And eu'rie haire that's on't, Helen that's dead Was a sweet creature: such a ring as this, The last that ere I tooke her leaue at Court, I saw vpon her finger Ber. Hers it was not King. Now pray you let me see it. For mine eye, While I was speaking, oft was fasten'd too't: This Ring was mine, and when I gaue it Hellen, I bad her if her fortunes euer stoode Necessitied to helpe, that by this token I would releeue her. Had you that craft to reaue her Of what should stead her most? Ber. My gracious Soueraigne, How ere it pleases you to take it so, The ring was neuer hers Old La. Sonne, on my life I haue seene her weare it, and she reckon'd it At her liues rate Laf. I am sure I saw her weare it Ber. You are deceiu'd my Lord, she neuer saw it: In Florence was it from a casement throwne mee, Wrap'd in a paper, which contain'd the name Of her that threw it: Noble she was, and thought I stood ingag'd, but when I had subscrib'd To mine owne fortune, and inform'd her fully, I could not answer in that course of Honour As she had made the ouerture, she ceast In heauie satisfaction, and would neuer Receiue the Ring againe Kin. Platus himselfe, That knowes the tinct and multiplying med'cine, Hath not in natures mysterie more science, Then I haue in this Ring. 'Twas mine, 'twas Helens, Who euer gaue it you: then if you know That you are well acquainted with your selfe, Confesse 'twas hers, and by what rough enforcement You got it from her. She call'd the Saints to suretie, That she would neuer put it from her finger, Vnlesse she gaue it to your selfe in bed, Where you haue neuer come: or sent it vs Vpon her great disaster Ber. She neuer saw it Kin. Thou speak'st it falsely: as I loue mine Honor, And mak'st connecturall feares to come into me, Which I would faine shut out, if it should proue That thou art so inhumane, 'twill not proue so: And yet I know not, thou didst hate her deadly, And she is dead, which nothing but to close Her eyes my selfe, could win me to beleeue, More then to see this Ring. Take him away, My fore-past proofes, how ere the matter fall Shall taze my feares of little vanitie, Hauing vainly fear'd too little. Away with him, Wee'l sift this matter further Ber. If you shall proue This Ring was euer hers, you shall as easie Proue that I husbanded her bed in Florence, Where yet she neuer was. Enter a Gentleman. King. I am wrap'd in dismall thinkings Gen. Gracious Soueraigne. Whether I haue beene too blame or no, I know not, Here's a petition from a Florentine, Who hath for foure or fiue remoues come short, To tender it her selfe. I vndertooke it, Vanquish'd thereto by the faire grace and speech Of the poore suppliant, who by this I know Is heere attending: her businesse lookes in her With an importing visage, and she told me In a sweet verball breefe, it did concerne Your Highnesse with her selfe. A Letter. Vpon his many protestations to marrie mee when his wife was dead, I blush to say it, he wonne me. Now is the Count Rossillion a Widdower, his vowes are forfeited to mee, and my honors payed to him. Hee stole from Florence, taking no leaue, and I follow him to his Countrey for Iustice: Grant it me, O King, in you it best lies, otherwise a seducer flourishes, and a poore Maid is vndone. Diana Capilet Laf. I will buy me a sonne in Law in a faire, and toule for this. Ile none of him Kin. The heauens haue thought well on thee Lafew, To bring forth this discou'rie, seeke these sutors: Go speedily, and bring againe the Count. Enter Bertram. I am a-feard the life of Hellen (Ladie) Was fowly snatcht Old La. Now iustice on the doers King. I wonder sir, sir, wiues are monsters to you, And that you flye them as you sweare them Lordship, Yet you desire to marry. What woman's that? Enter Widdow, Diana, and Parrolles. Dia. I am my Lord a wretched Florentine, Deriued from the ancient Capilet, My suite as I do vnderstand you know, And therefore know how farre I may be pittied Wid. I am her Mother sir, whose age and honour Both suffer vnder this complaint we bring, And both shall cease, without your remedie King. Come hether Count, do you know these Women? Ber. My Lord, I neither can nor will denie, But that I know them, do they charge me further? Dia. Why do you looke so strange vpon your wife? Ber. She's none of mine my Lord Dia. If you shall marrie You giue away this hand, and that is mine, You giue away heauens vowes, and those are mine: You giue away my selfe, which is knowne mine: For I by vow am so embodied yours, That she which marries you, must marrie me, Either both or none Laf. Your reputation comes too short for my daughter, you are no husband for her Ber. My Lord, this is a fond and desp'rate creature, Whom sometime I haue laugh'd with: Let your highnes Lay a more noble thought vpon mine honour, Then for to thinke that I would sinke it heere Kin. Sir for my thoughts, you haue them il to friend, Till your deeds gaine them fairer: proue your honor, Then in my thought it lies Dian. Good my Lord, Aske him vpon his oath, if hee do's thinke He had not my virginity Kin. What saist thou to her? Ber. She's impudent my Lord, And was a common gamester to the Campe Dia. He do's me wrong my Lord: If I were so, He might haue bought me at a common price. Do not beleeue him. O behold this Ring, Whose high respect and rich validitie Did lacke a Paralell: yet for all that He gaue it to a Commoner a'th Campe If I be one Coun. He blushes, and 'tis hit: Of sixe preceding Ancestors that Iemme Confer'd by testament to'th sequent issue Hath it beene owed and worne. This is his wife, That Ring's a thousand proofes King. Me thought you saide You saw one heere in Court could witnesse it Dia. I did my Lord, but loath am to produce So bad an instrument, his names Parrolles Laf. I saw the man to day, if man he bee Kin. Finde him, and bring him hether Ros. What of him: He's quoted for a most perfidious slaue With all the spots a'th world, taxt and debosh'd, Whose nature sickens: but to speake a truth, Am I, or that or this for what he'l vtter, That will speake any thing Kin. She hath that Ring of yours Ros. I thinke she has; certaine it is I lyk'd her, And boorded her i'th wanton way of youth: She knew her distance, and did angle for mee, Madding my eagernesse with her restraint, As all impediments in fancies course Are motiues of more fancie, and in fine, Her insuite comming with her moderne grace, Subdu'd me to her rate, she got the Ring, And I had that which any inferiour might At Market price haue bought Dia. I must be patient: You that haue turn'd off a first so noble wife, May iustly dyet me. I pray you yet, (Since you lacke vertue, I will loose a husband) Send for your Ring, I will returne it home, And giue me mine againe Ros. I haue it not Kin. What Ring was yours I pray you? Dian. Sir much like the same vpon your finger Kin. Know you this Ring, this Ring was his of late Dia. And this was it I gaue him being a bed Kin. The story then goes false, you threw it him Out of a Casement Dia. I haue spoke the truth. Enter Parolles. Ros. My Lord, I do confesse the ring was hers Kin. You boggle shrewdly, euery feather starts you: Is this the man you speake of? Dia. I, my Lord Kin. Tell me sirrah, but tell me true I charge you, Not fearing the displeasure of your master: Which on your iust proceeding, Ile keepe off, By him and by this woman heere, what know you? Par. So please your Maiesty, my master hath bin an honourable Gentleman. Trickes hee hath had in him, which Gentlemen haue Kin. Come, come, to'th' purpose: Did hee loue this woman? Par. Faith sir he did loue her, but how Kin. How I pray you? Par. He did loue her sir, as a Gent. loues a Woman Kin. How is that? Par. He lou'd her sir, and lou'd her not Kin. As thou art a knaue and no knaue, what an equiuocall Companion is this? Par. I am a poore man, and at your Maiesties command Laf. Hee's a good drumme my Lord, but a naughtie Orator Dian. Do you know he promist me marriage? Par. Faith I know more then Ile speake Kin. But wilt thou not speake all thou know'st? Par. Yes so please your Maiesty: I did goe betweene them as I said, but more then that he loued her, for indeede he was madde for her, and talkt of Sathan, and of Limbo, and of Furies, and I know not what: yet I was in that credit with them at that time, that I knewe of their going to bed, and of other motions, as promising her marriage, and things which would deriue mee ill will to speake of, therefore I will not speake what I know Kin. Thou hast spoken all alreadie, vnlesse thou canst say they are maried, but thou art too fine in thy euidence, therefore stand aside. This Ring you say was yours Dia. I my good Lord Kin. Where did you buy it? Or who gaue it you? Dia. It was not giuen me, nor I did not buy it Kin. Who lent it you? Dia. It was not lent me neither Kin. Where did you finde it then? Dia. I found it not Kin. If it were yours by none of all these wayes, How could you giue it him? Dia. I neuer gaue it him Laf. This womans an easie gloue my Lord, she goes off and on at pleasure Kin. This Ring was mine, I gaue it his first wife Dia. It might be yours or hers for ought I know Kin. Take her away, I do not like her now, To prison with her: and away with him, Vnlesse thou telst me where thou hadst this Ring, Thou diest within this houre Dia. Ile neuer tell you Kin. Take her away Dia. Ile put in baile my liedge Kin. I thinke thee now some common Customer Dia. By Ioue if euer I knew man 'twas you King. Wherefore hast thou accusde him al this while Dia. Because he's guiltie, and he is not guilty: He knowes I am no Maid, and hee'l sweare too't: Ile sweare I am a Maid, and he knowes not. Great King I am no strumpet, by my life, I am either Maid, or else this old mans wife Kin. She does abuse our eares, to prison with her Dia. Good mother fetch my bayle. Stay Royall sir, The Ieweller that owes the Ring is sent for, And he shall surety me. But for this Lord, Who hath abus'd me as he knowes himselfe, Though yet he neuer harm'd me, heere I quit him. He knowes himselfe my bed he hath defil'd, And at that time he got his wife with childe: Dead though she be, she feeles her yong one kicke: So there's my riddle, one that's dead is quicke, And now behold the meaning. Enter Hellen and Widdow. Kin. Is there no exorcist Beguiles the truer Office of mine eyes? Is't reall that I see? Hel. No my good Lord, 'Tis but the shadow of a wife you see, The name, and not the thing Ros. Both, both, O pardon Hel. Oh my good Lord, when I was like this Maid, I found you wondrous kinde, there is your Ring, And looke you, heeres your letter: this it sayes, When from my finger you can get this Ring, And is by me with childe, &c. This is done, Will you be mine now you are doubly wonne? Ros. If she my Liege can make me know this clearly, Ile loue her dearely, euer, euer dearly Hel. If it appeare not plaine, and proue vntrue, Deadly diuorce step betweene me and you. O my deere mother do I see you liuing? Laf. Mine eyes smell Onions, I shall weepe anon: Good Tom Drumme lend me a handkercher. So I thanke thee, waite on me home, Ile make sport with thee: Let thy curtsies alone, they are scuruy ones King. Let vs from point to point this storie know, To make the euen truth in pleasure flow: If thou beest yet a fresh vncropped flower, Choose thou thy husband, and Ile pay thy dower. For I can guesse, that by thy honest ayde, Thou keptst a wife her selfe, thy selfe a Maide. Of that and all the progresse more and lesse, Resoluedly more leasure shall expresse: All yet seemes well, and if it end so meete, The bitter past, more welcome is the sweet. Flourish. The Kings a Begger, now the Play is done, All is well ended, if this suite be wonne, That you expresse Content: which we will pay, With strife to please you, day exceeding day: Ours be your patience then, and yours our parts, Your gentle hands lend vs, and take our hearts. Exeunt. omn. FINIS. ALL'S Well, that Ends Well.

Scene 1

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820042551/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmAllsWell34.asp

Helena arrives in Marseilles with the widow, Diana, and two attendants. Again, she promises to repay them handsomely for their efforts on her behalf. A gentleman appears on the street, and Helena asks for directions to the King, only to discover that the King has already left for Paris. At first the party of women are discouraged, thinking all their efforts have been wasted. But Helena retains her confidence and asserts that all's well that ends well although at present the situation appears to be bleak. Helena asks the gentleman to deliver a letter to the King, and assures him he will be rewarded for his pains. She tells the gentleman she will follow him to Rousillon as quickly as she can. The gentleman agrees to this, and Helena and the other women prepare for another journey.

Notes The pace of the action increases when Helena arrives in Marseilles only to find that the King has left for Rousillon. There is a sense of urgency, a race against time. This short scene moves the action quite rapidly and inevitably toward the final confrontation scene--a scene in which everyone converges on the court at Rousillon. ACT V, SCENE 2 Summary Parolles and the clown enter the inner court of the Countess' palace in Rousillon. Parolles gives the clown a letter for Lafeu. Parolles, no longer well-dressed and proud, comments on his present state of disfavor. He reminds the clown that they had been friends when he used to wear fresher clothes; but now he smells of Fortune's displeasure. The clown replies that Fortune's displeasure stinks. Lafeu enters and the clown leaves the two of them alone. Parolles grovels for Lafeu's forgiveness, and Lafeu, after a few wise comments about Parolles being to blame, graciously forgives Parolles. Notes This scene marks the final stage of Parolles' downfall as he grovels for forgiveness. Lafeu graciously pardons Parolles, and the two are reconciled. The importance of this scene has to do with the nature of Shakespearean comedy. Even the lowliest characters at the end of a comedy must be reconciled so that all loose ends are tied up, good feeling abounds, and everything ends well.

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/2246-chapters/1.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/All's Well That Ends Well/section_0_part_1.txt

All's Well That Ends Well.act 1.scene 1

act 1, scene 1

{"name": "act 1, Scene 1", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20191224170406/https://www.novelguide.com/alls-well-that-ends-well/novel-summary", "summary": "At the court of Count Rossillion, the Countess is morning her husband, who recently died, and sending off her son to the King of France as a ward. Bertram, her son and therefore the new count, does not want to go but knows that he must. Lafew, a minister, and Helena, a young lady who serves the countess, are also present at the farewell. They discuss that the King of France is ill with an ulcer, and they wish that Helena's recently deceased father were still alive to cure him because her father is a world-renowned physician. The Countess tells Helena not to grieve so vehemently for her father, and after the farewell's end, Helena reveals to the audience that her grief is more about the fact that Bertram is leaving because she is in love with him. Her position, however, dictates that she could never have him. Her friend Parolles enters and they have a lively conversation about virginity but he then has to leave to go to the French court with Bertram. Since the King of France needs to be healed, Helena comes up with a plan to help though she doesn't reveal how", "analysis": ""}

Actus primus. Scoena Prima. Enter yong Bertram Count of Rossillion, his Mother, and Helena, Lord Lafew, all in blacke. Mother. In deliuering my sonne from me, I burie a second husband Ros. And I in going Madam, weep ore my fathers death anew; but I must attend his maiesties command, to whom I am now in Ward, euermore in subiection Laf. You shall find of the King a husband Madame, you sir a father. He that so generally is at all times good, must of necessitie hold his vertue to you, whose worthinesse would stirre it vp where it wanted rather then lack it where there is such abundance Mo. What hope is there of his Maiesties amendment? Laf. He hath abandon'd his Phisitions Madam, vnder whose practises he hath persecuted time with hope, and finds no other aduantage in the processe, but onely the loosing of hope by time Mo. This yong Gentlewoman had a father, O that had, how sad a passage tis, whose skill was almost as great as his honestie, had it stretch'd so far, would haue made nature immortall, and death should haue play for lacke of worke. Would for the Kings sake hee were liuing, I thinke it would be the death of the Kings disease Laf. How call'd you the man you speake of Madam? Mo. He was famous sir in his profession, and it was his great right to be so: Gerard de Narbon Laf. He was excellent indeed Madam, the King very latelie spoke of him admiringly, and mourningly: hee was skilfull enough to haue liu'd stil, if knowledge could be set vp against mortallitie Ros. What is it (my good Lord) the King languishes of? Laf. A Fistula my Lord Ros. I heard not of it before Laf. I would it were not notorious. Was this Gentlewoman the Daughter of Gerard de Narbon? Mo. His sole childe my Lord, and bequeathed to my ouer looking. I haue those hopes of her good, that her education promises her dispositions shee inherits, which makes faire gifts fairer: for where an vncleane mind carries vertuous qualities, there commendations go with pitty, they are vertues and traitors too: in her they are the better for their simplenesse; she deriues her honestie, and atcheeues her goodnesse Lafew. Your commendations Madam get from her teares Mo. 'Tis the best brine a Maiden can season her praise in. The remembrance of her father neuer approches her heart, but the tirrany of her sorrowes takes all liuelihood from her cheeke. No more of this Helena, go too, no more least it be rather thought you affect a sorrow, then to haue- Hell. I doe affect a sorrow indeed, but I haue it too Laf. Moderate lamentation is the right of the dead, excessiue greefe the enemie to the liuing Mo. If the liuing be enemie to the greefe, the excesse makes it soone mortall Ros. Maddam I desire your holie wishes Laf. How vnderstand we that? Mo. Be thou blest Bertrame, and succeed thy father In manners as in shape: thy blood and vertue Contend for Empire in thee, and thy goodnesse Share with thy birth-right. Loue all, trust a few, Doe wrong to none: be able for thine enemie Rather in power then vse: and keepe thy friend Vnder thy owne lifes key. Be checkt for silence, But neuer tax'd for speech. What heauen more wil, That thee may furnish, and my prayers plucke downe, Fall on thy head. Farwell my Lord, 'Tis an vnseason'd Courtier, good my Lord Aduise him Laf. He cannot want the best That shall attend his loue Mo. Heauen blesse him: Farwell Bertram Ro. The best wishes that can be forg'd in your thoghts be seruants to you: be comfortable to my mother, your Mistris, and make much of her Laf. Farewell prettie Lady, you must hold the credit of your father Hell. O were that all, I thinke not on my father, And these great teares grace his remembrance more Then those I shed for him. What was he like? I haue forgott him. My imagination Carries no fauour in't but Bertrams. I am vndone, there is no liuing, none, If Bertram be away. 'Twere all one, That I should loue a bright particuler starre, And think to wed it, he is so aboue me In his bright radience and colaterall light, Must I be comforted, not in his sphere; Th' ambition in my loue thus plagues it selfe: The hind that would be mated by the Lion Must die for loue. 'Twas prettie, though a plague To see him euerie houre to sit and draw His arched browes, his hawking eie, his curles In our hearts table: heart too capeable Of euerie line and tricke of his sweet fauour. But now he's gone, and my idolatrous fancie Must sanctifie his Reliques. Who comes heere? Enter Parrolles. One that goes with him: I loue him for his sake, And yet I know him a notorious Liar, Thinke him a great way foole, solie a coward, Yet these fixt euils sit so fit in him, That they take place, when Vertues steely bones Lookes bleake i'th cold wind: withall, full ofte we see Cold wisedome waighting on superfluous follie Par. Saue you faire Queene Hel. And you Monarch Par. No Hel. And no Par. Are you meditating on virginitie? Hel. I: you haue some staine of souldier in you: Let mee aske you a question. Man is enemie to virginitie, how may we barracado it against him? Par. Keepe him out Hel. But he assailes, and our virginitie though valiant, in the defence yet is weak: vnfold to vs some war-like resistance Par. There is none: Man setting downe before you, will vndermine you, and blow you vp Hel. Blesse our poore Virginity from vnderminers and blowers vp. Is there no Military policy how Virgins might blow vp men? Par. Virginity beeing blowne downe, Man will quicklier be blowne vp: marry in blowing him downe againe, with the breach your selues made, you lose your Citty. It is not politicke, in the Common-wealth of Nature, to preserue virginity. Losse of Virginitie, is rationall encrease, and there was neuer Virgin goe, till virginitie was first lost. That you were made of, is mettall to make Virgins. Virginitie, by beeing once lost, may be ten times found: by being euer kept, it is euer lost: 'tis too cold a companion: Away with't Hel. I will stand for't a little, though therefore I die a Virgin Par. There's little can bee saide in't, 'tis against the rule of Nature. To speake on the part of virginitie, is to accuse your Mothers; which is most infallible disobedience. He that hangs himselfe is a Virgin: Virginitie murthers it selfe, and should be buried in highwayes out of all sanctified limit, as a desperate Offendresse against Nature. Virginitie breedes mites, much like a Cheese, consumes it selfe to the very payring, and so dies with feeding his owne stomacke. Besides, Virginitie is peeuish, proud, ydle, made of selfe-loue, which is the most inhibited sinne in the Cannon. Keepe it not, you cannot choose but loose by't. Out with't: within ten yeare it will make it selfe two, which is a goodly increase, and the principall it selfe not much the worse. Away with't Hel. How might one do sir, to loose it to her owne liking? Par. Let mee see. Marry ill, to like him that ne're it likes. 'Tis a commodity wil lose the glosse with lying: The longer kept, the lesse worth: Off with't while 'tis vendible. Answer the time of request, Virginitie like an olde Courtier, weares her cap out of fashion, richly suted, but vnsuteable, iust like the brooch & the tooth-pick, which were not now: your Date is better in your Pye and your Porredge, then in your cheeke: and your virginity, your old virginity, is like one of our French wither'd peares, it lookes ill, it eates drily, marry 'tis a wither'd peare: it was formerly better, marry yet 'tis a wither'd peare: Will you any thing with it? Hel. Not my virginity yet: There shall your Master haue a thousand loues, A Mother, and a Mistresse, and a friend, A Phenix, Captaine, and an enemy, A guide, a Goddesse, and a Soueraigne, A Counsellor, a Traitoresse, and a Deare: His humble ambition, proud humility: His iarring, concord: and his discord, dulcet: His faith, his sweet disaster: with a world Of pretty fond adoptious christendomes That blinking Cupid gossips. Now shall he: I know not what he shall, God send him well, The Courts a learning place, and he is one Par. What one ifaith? Hel. That I wish well, 'tis pitty Par. What's pitty? Hel. That wishing well had not a body in't, Which might be felt, that we the poorer borne, Whose baser starres do shut vs vp in wishes, Might with effects of them follow our friends, And shew what we alone must thinke, which neuer Returnes vs thankes. Enter Page. Pag. Monsieur Parrolles, My Lord cals for you Par. Little Hellen farewell, if I can remember thee, I will thinke of thee at Court Hel. Monsieur Parolles, you were borne vnder a charitable starre Par. Vnder Mars I Hel. I especially thinke, vnder Mars Par. Why vnder Mars? Hel. The warres hath so kept you vnder, that you must needes be borne vnder Mars Par. When he was predominant Hel. When he was retrograde I thinke rather Par. Why thinke you so? Hel. You go so much backward when you fight Par. That's for aduantage Hel. So is running away, When feare proposes the safetie: But the composition that your valour and feare makes in you, is a vertue of a good wing, and I like the weare well Paroll. I am so full of businesses, I cannot answere thee acutely: I will returne perfect Courtier, in the which my instruction shall serue to naturalize thee, so thou wilt be capeable of a Courtiers councell, and vnderstand what aduice shall thrust vppon thee, else thou diest in thine vnthankfulnes, and thine ignorance makes thee away, farewell: When thou hast leysure, say thy praiers: when thou hast none, remember thy Friends: Get thee a good husband, and vse him as he vses thee: So farewell Hel. Our remedies oft in our selues do lye, Which we ascribe to heauen: the fated skye Giues vs free scope, onely doth backward pull Our slow designes, when we our selues are dull. What power is it, which mounts my loue so hye, That makes me see, and cannot feede mine eye? The mightiest space in fortune, Nature brings To ioyne like, likes; and kisse like natiue things. Impossible be strange attempts to those That weigh their paines in sence, and do suppose What hath beene, cannot be. Who euer stroue To shew her merit, that did misse her loue? (The Kings disease) my proiect may deceiue me, But my intents are fixt, and will not leaue me. Exit Flourish Cornets. Enter the King of France with Letters, and diuers Attendants. King. The Florentines and Senoys are by th' eares, Haue fought with equall fortune, and continue A brauing warre 1.Lo.G. So tis reported sir King. Nay tis most credible, we heere receiue it, A certaintie vouch'd from our Cosin Austria, With caution, that the Florentine will moue vs For speedie ayde: wherein our deerest friend Preiudicates the businesse, and would seeme To haue vs make deniall 1.Lo.G. His loue and wisedome Approu'd so to your Maiesty, may pleade For amplest credence King. He hath arm'd our answer, And Florence is deni'de before he comes: Yet for our Gentlemen that meane to see The Tuscan seruice, freely haue they leaue To stand on either part 2.Lo.E. It well may serue A nursserie to our Gentrie, who are sicke For breathing, and exploit King. What's he comes heere. Enter Bertram, Lafew, and Parolles. 1.Lor.G. It is the Count Rosignoll my good Lord, Yong Bertram King. Youth, thou bear'st thy Fathers face, Franke Nature rather curious then in hast Hath well compos'd thee: Thy Fathers morall parts Maist thou inherit too: Welcome to Paris Ber. My thankes and dutie are your Maiesties Kin. I would I had that corporall soundnesse now, As when thy father, and my selfe, in friendship First tride our souldiership: he did looke farre Into the seruice of the time, and was Discipled of the brauest. He lasted long, But on vs both did haggish Age steale on, And wore vs out of act: It much repaires me To talke of your good father; in his youth He had the wit, which I can well obserue To day in our yong Lords: but they may iest Till their owne scorne returne to them vnnoted Ere they can hide their leuitie in honour: So like a Courtier, contempt nor bitternesse Were in his pride, or sharpnesse; if they were, His equall had awak'd them, and his honour Clocke to it selfe, knew the true minute when Exception bid him speake: and at this time His tongue obey'd his hand. Who were below him, He vs'd as creatures of another place, And bow'd his eminent top to their low rankes, Making them proud of his humilitie, In their poore praise he humbled: Such a man Might be a copie to these yonger times; Which followed well, would demonstrate them now But goers backward Ber. His good remembrance sir Lies richer in your thoughts, then on his tombe: So in approofe liues not his Epitaph, As in your royall speech King. Would I were with him he would alwaies say, (Me thinkes I heare him now) his plausiue words He scatter'd not in eares, but grafted them To grow there and to beare: Let me not liue, This his good melancholly oft began On the Catastrophe and heele of pastime When it was out: Let me not liue (quoth hee) After my flame lackes oyle, to be the snuffe Of yonger spirits, whose apprehensiue senses All but new things disdaine; whose iudgements are Meere fathers of their garments: whose constancies Expire before their fashions: this he wish'd. I after him, do after him wish too: Since I nor wax nor honie can bring home, I quickly were dissolued from my hiue To giue some Labourers roome 2.L.E. You'r loued Sir, They that least lend it you, shall lacke you first Kin. I fill a place I know't: how long ist Count Since the Physitian at your fathers died? He was much fam'd Ber. Some six moneths since my Lord Kin. If he were liuing, I would try him yet. Lend me an arme: the rest haue worne me out With seuerall applications: Nature and sicknesse Debate it at their leisure. Welcome Count, My sonne's no deerer Ber. Thanke your Maiesty. Exit Flourish. Enter Countesse, Steward, and Clowne. Coun. I will now heare, what say you of this gentlewoman Ste. Maddam the care I haue had to euen your content, I wish might be found in the Kalender of my past endeuours, for then we wound our Modestie, and make foule the clearnesse of our deseruings, when of our selues we publish them Coun. What doe's this knaue heere? Get you gone sirra: the complaints I haue heard of you I do not all beleeue, 'tis my slownesse that I doe not: For I know you lacke not folly to commit them, & haue abilitie enough to make such knaueries yours Clo. 'Tis not vnknown to you Madam, I am a poore fellow Coun. Well sir Clo. No maddam, 'Tis not so well that I am poore, though manie of the rich are damn'd, but if I may haue your Ladiships good will to goe to the world, Isbell the woman and I will doe as we may Coun. Wilt thou needes be a begger? Clo. I doe beg your good will in this case Cou. In what case? Clo. In Isbels case and mine owne: seruice is no heritage, and I thinke I shall neuer haue the blessing of God, till I haue issue a my bodie: for they say barnes are blessings Cou. Tell me thy reason why thou wilt marrie? Clo. My poore bodie Madam requires it, I am driuen on by the flesh, and hee must needes goe that the diuell driues Cou. Is this all your worships reason? Clo. Faith Madam I haue other holie reasons, such as they are Cou. May the world know them? Clo. I haue beene Madam a wicked creature, as you and all flesh and blood are, and indeede I doe marrie that I may repent Cou. Thy marriage sooner then thy wickednesse Clo. I am out a friends Madam, and I hope to haue friends for my wiues sake Cou. Such friends are thine enemies knaue Clo. Y'are shallow Madam in great friends, for the knaues come to doe that for me which I am a wearie of: he that eres my Land, spares my teame, and giues mee leaue to Inne the crop: if I be his cuckold hee's my drudge; he that comforts my wife, is the cherisher of my flesh and blood; hee that cherishes my flesh and blood, loues my flesh and blood; he that loues my flesh and blood is my friend: ergo, he that kisses my wife is my friend: if men could be contented to be what they are, there were no feare in marriage, for yong Charbon the Puritan, and old Poysam the Papist, how somere their hearts are seuer'd in Religion, their heads are both one, they may ioule horns together like any Deare i'th Herd Cou. Wilt thou euer be a foule mouth'd and calumnious knaue? Clo. A Prophet I Madam, and I speake the truth the next waie, for I the Ballad will repeate, which men full true shall finde, your marriage comes by destinie, your Cuckow sings by kinde Cou. Get you gone sir, Ile talke with you more anon Stew. May it please you Madam, that hee bid Hellen come to you, of her I am to speake Cou. Sirra tell my gentlewoman I would speake with her, Hellen I meane Clo. Was this faire face the cause, quoth she, Why the Grecians sacked Troy, Fond done, done, fond was this King Priams ioy, With that she sighed as she stood, bis And gaue this sentence then, among nine bad if one be good, among nine bad if one be good, there's yet one good in ten Cou. What, one good in tenne? you corrupt the song sirra Clo. One good woman in ten Madam, which is a purifying ath' song: would God would serue the world so all the yeere, weed finde no fault with the tithe woman if I were the Parson, one in ten quoth a? and wee might haue a good woman borne but ore euerie blazing starre, or at an earthquake, 'twould mend the Lotterie well, a man may draw his heart out ere a plucke one Cou. Youle begone sir knaue, and doe as I command you? Clo. That man should be at womans command, and yet no hurt done, though honestie be no Puritan, yet it will doe no hurt, it will weare the Surplis of humilitie ouer the blacke-Gowne of a bigge heart: I am going forsooth, the businesse is for Helen to come hither. Enter. Cou. Well now Stew. I know Madam you loue your Gentlewoman intirely Cou. Faith I doe: her Father bequeath'd her to mee, and she her selfe without other aduantage, may lawfullie make title to as much loue as shee findes, there is more owing her then is paid, and more shall be paid her then sheele demand Stew. Madam, I was verie late more neere her then I thinke shee wisht mee, alone shee was, and did communicate to her selfe her owne words to her owne eares, shee thought, I dare vowe for her, they toucht not anie stranger sence, her matter was, shee loued your Sonne; Fortune shee said was no goddesse, that had put such difference betwixt their two estates: Loue no god, that would not extend his might onelie, where qualities were leuell, Queene of Virgins, that would suffer her poore Knight surpris'd without rescue in the first assault or ransome afterward: This shee deliuer'd in the most bitter touch of sorrow that ere I heard Virgin exclaime in, which I held my dutie speedily to acquaint you withall, sithence in the losse that may happen, it concernes you something to know it Cou. You haue discharg'd this honestlie, keepe it to your selfe, manie likelihoods inform'd mee of this before, which hung so tottring in the ballance, that I could neither beleeue nor misdoubt: praie you leaue mee, stall this in your bosome, and I thanke you for your honest care: I will speake with you further anon. Exit Steward. Enter Hellen. Old.Cou. Euen so it was with me when I was yong: If euer we are natures, these are ours, this thorne Doth to our Rose of youth rightlie belong Our bloud to vs, this to our blood is borne, It is the show, and seale of natures truth, Where loues strong passion is imprest in youth, By our remembrances of daies forgon, Such were our faults, or then we thought them none, Her eie is sicke on't, I obserue her now Hell. What is your pleasure Madam? Ol.Cou. You know Hellen I am a mother to you Hell. Mine honorable Mistris Ol.Cou. Nay a mother, why not a mother? when I sed a mother Me thought you saw a serpent, what's in mother, That you start at it? I say I am your mother, And put you in the Catalogue of those That were enwombed mine, 'tis often seene Adoption striues with nature, and choise breedes A natiue slip to vs from forraine seedes: You nere opprest me with a mothers groane, Yet I expresse to you a mothers care, (Gods mercie maiden) dos it curd thy blood To say I am thy mother? what's the matter, That this distempered messenger of wet? The manie colour'd Iris rounds thine eye? - Why, that you are my daughter? Hell. That I am not Old.Cou. I say I am your Mother Hell. Pardon Madam. The Count Rosillion cannot be my brother: I am from humble, he from honored name: No note vpon my Parents, his all noble, My Master, my deere Lord he is, and I His seruant liue, and will his vassall die: He must not be my brother Ol.Cou. Nor I your Mother Hell. You are my mother Madam, would you were So that my Lord your sonne were not my brother, Indeede my mother, or were you both our mothers, I care no more for, then I doe for heauen, So I were not his sister, cant no other, But I your daughter, he must be my brother Old.Cou. Yes Hellen, you might be my daughter in law, God shield you meane it not, daughter and mother So striue vpon your pulse; what pale agen? My feare hath catcht your fondnesse! now I see The mistrie of your louelinesse, and finde Your salt teares head, now to all sence 'tis grosse: You loue my sonne, inuention is asham'd Against the proclamation of thy passion To say thou doost not: therefore tell me true, But tell me then 'tis so, for looke, thy cheekes Confesse it 'ton tooth to th' other, and thine eies See it so grosely showne in thy behauiours, That in their kinde they speake it, onely sinne And hellish obstinacie tye thy tongue That truth should be suspected, speake, ist so? If it be so, you haue wound a goodly clewe: If it be not, forsweare't how ere I charge thee, As heauen shall worke in me for thine auaile To tell me truelie Hell. Good Madam pardon me Cou. Do you loue my Sonne? Hell. Your pardon noble Mistris Cou. Loue you my Sonne? Hell. Doe not you loue him Madam? Cou. Goe not about; my loue hath in't a bond Whereof the world takes note: Come, come, disclose: The state of your affection, for your passions Haue to the full appeach'd Hell. Then I confesse Here on my knee, before high heauen and you, That before you, and next vnto high heauen, I loue your Sonne: My friends were poore but honest, so's my loue: Be not offended, for it hurts not him That he is lou'd of me; I follow him not By any token of presumptuous suite, Nor would I haue him, till I doe deserue him, Yet neuer know how that desert should be: I know I loue in vaine, striue against hope: Yet in this captious, and intemible Siue. I still poure in the waters of my loue And lacke not to loose still; thus Indian like Religious in mine error, I adore The Sunne that lookes vpon his worshipper, But knowes of him no more. My deerest Madam, Let not your hate incounter with my loue, For louing where you doe; but if your selfe, Whose aged honor cites a vertuous youth, Did euer, in so true a flame of liking, Wish chastly, and loue dearely, that your Dian Was both her selfe and loue, O then giue pittie To her whose state is such, that cannot choose But lend and giue where she is sure to loose; That seekes not to finde that, her search implies, But riddle like, liues sweetely where she dies Cou. Had you not lately an intent, speake truely, To goe to Paris? Hell. Madam I had Cou. Wherefore? tell true Hell. I will tell truth, by grace it selfe I sweare: You know my Father left me some prescriptions Of rare and prou'd effects, such as his reading And manifest experience, had collected For generall soueraigntie: and that he wil'd me In heedefull'st reseruation to bestow them, As notes, whose faculties inclusiue were, More then they were in note: Amongst the rest, There is a remedie, approu'd, set downe, To cure the desperate languishings whereof The King is render'd lost Cou. This was your motiue for Paris, was it, speake? Hell. My Lord, your sonne, made me to think of this; Else Paris, and the medicine, and the King, Had from the conuersation of my thoughts, Happily beene absent then Cou. But thinke you Hellen, If you should tender your supposed aide, He would receiue it? He and his Phisitions Are of a minde, he, that they cannot helpe him: They, that they cannot helpe, how shall they credit A poore vnlearned Virgin, when the Schooles Embowel'd of their doctrine, haue left off The danger to it selfe Hell. There's something in't More then my Fathers skill, which was the great'st Of his profession, that his good receipt, Shall for my legacie be sanctified Byth' luckiest stars in heauen, and would your honor But giue me leaue to trie successe, I'de venture The well lost life of mine, on his Graces cure, By such a day, an houre Cou. Doo'st thou beleeue't? Hell. I Madam knowingly Cou. Why Hellen thou shalt haue my leaue and loue, Meanes and attendants, and my louing greetings To those of mine in Court, Ile staie at home And praie Gods blessing into thy attempt: Begon to morrow, and be sure of this, What I can helpe thee to, thou shalt not misse. Exeunt.

act 1, Scene 1

https://web.archive.org/web/20191224170406/https://www.novelguide.com/alls-well-that-ends-well/novel-summary

At the court of Count Rossillion, the Countess is morning her husband, who recently died, and sending off her son to the King of France as a ward. Bertram, her son and therefore the new count, does not want to go but knows that he must. Lafew, a minister, and Helena, a young lady who serves the countess, are also present at the farewell. They discuss that the King of France is ill with an ulcer, and they wish that Helena's recently deceased father were still alive to cure him because her father is a world-renowned physician. The Countess tells Helena not to grieve so vehemently for her father, and after the farewell's end, Helena reveals to the audience that her grief is more about the fact that Bertram is leaving because she is in love with him. Her position, however, dictates that she could never have him. Her friend Parolles enters and they have a lively conversation about virginity but he then has to leave to go to the French court with Bertram. Since the King of France needs to be healed, Helena comes up with a plan to help though she doesn't reveal how

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/2246-chapters/3.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/All's Well That Ends Well/section_4_part_1.txt

All's Well That Ends Well.act 3.scene 1

act 3, scene 1

{"name": "act 3, Scene 1", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20191224170406/https://www.novelguide.com/alls-well-that-ends-well/summaries/act3-scene1-act3-scene2", "summary": "The Duke of Florence is disappointed that the King of France does not offer him any official aid in his war", "analysis": ""}

Actus Tertius. Flourish. Enter the Duke of Florence, the two Frenchmen, with a troope of Souldiers. Duke. So that from point to point, now haue you heard The fundamentall reasons of this warre, Whose great decision hath much blood let forth And more thirsts after 1.Lord. Holy seemes the quarrell Vpon your Graces part: blacke and fearefull On the opposer Duke. Therefore we meruaile much our Cosin France Would in so iust a businesse, shut his bosome Against our borrowing prayers French E. Good my Lord, The reasons of our state I cannot yeelde, But like a common and an outward man, That the great figure of a Counsaile frames, By selfe vnable motion, therefore dare not Say what I thinke of it, since I haue found My selfe in my incertaine grounds to faile As often as I guest Duke. Be it his pleasure Fren.G. But I am sure the yonger of our nature, That surfet on their ease, will day by day Come heere for Physicke Duke. Welcome shall they bee: And all the honors that can flye from vs, Shall on them settle: you know your places well, When better fall, for your auailes they fell, To morrow to'th the field. Flourish. Enter Countesse and Clowne. Count. It hath happen'd all, as I would haue had it, saue that he comes not along with her Clo. By my troth I take my young Lord to be a verie melancholly man Count. By what obseruance I pray you Clo. Why he will looke vppon his boote, and sing: mend the Ruffe and sing, aske questions and sing, picke his teeth, and sing: I know a man that had this tricke of melancholy hold a goodly Mannor for a song Lad. Let me see what he writes, and when he meanes to come Clow. I haue no minde to Isbell since I was at Court. Our old Lings, and our Isbels a'th Country, are nothing like your old Ling and your Isbels a'th Court: the brains of my Cupid's knock'd out, and I beginne to loue, as an old man loues money, with no stomacke Lad. What haue we heere? Clo. In that you haue there. Exit A Letter. I haue sent you a daughter-in-Law, shee hath recouered the King, and vndone me: I haue wedded her, not bedded her, and sworne to make the not eternall. You shall heare I am runne away, know it before the report come. If there bee bredth enough in the world, I will hold a long distance. My duty to you. Your vnfortunate sonne, Bertram. This is not well rash and vnbridled boy, To flye the fauours of so good a King, To plucke his indignation on thy head, By the misprising of a Maide too vertuous For the contempt of Empire. Enter Clowne. Clow. O Madam, yonder is heauie newes within betweene two souldiers, and my yong Ladie La. What is the matter Clo. Nay there is some comfort in the newes, some comfort, your sonne will not be kild so soone as I thoght he would La. Why should he be kill'd? Clo. So say I Madame, if he runne away, as I heare he does, the danger is in standing too't, that's the losse of men, though it be the getting of children. Heere they come will tell you more. For my part I onely heare your sonne was run away. Enter Hellen and two Gentlemen. French E. Saue you good Madam Hel. Madam, my Lord is gone, for euer gone French G. Do not say so La. Thinke vpon patience, pray you Gentlemen, I haue felt so many quirkes of ioy and greefe, That the first face of neither on the start Can woman me vntoo't. Where is my sonne I pray you? Fren.G. Madam he's gone to serue the Duke of Florence, We met him thitherward, for thence we came: And after some dispatch in hand at Court, Thither we bend againe Hel. Looke on his Letter Madam, here's my Pasport. When thou canst get the Ring vpon my finger, which neuer shall come off, and shew mee a childe begotten of thy bodie, that I am father too, then call me husband: but in such a (then) I write a Neuer. This is a dreadfull sentence La. Brought you this Letter Gentlemen? 1.G. I Madam, and for the Contents sake are sorrie for our paines Old La. I prethee Ladie haue a better cheere, If thou engrossest, all the greefes are thine, Thou robst me of a moity: He was my sonne, But I do wash his name out of my blood, And thou art all my childe. Towards Florence is he? Fren.G. I Madam La. And to be a souldier Fren.G. Such is his noble purpose, and beleeu't The Duke will lay vpon him all the honor That good conuenience claimes La. Returne you thither Fren.E. I Madam, with the swiftest wing of speed Hel. Till I haue no wife, I haue nothing in France, 'Tis bitter La. Finde you that there? Hel. I Madame Fren.E. 'Tis but the boldnesse of his hand haply, which his heart was not consenting too Lad. Nothing in France, vntill he haue no wife: There's nothing heere that is too good for him But onely she, and she deserues a Lord That twenty such rude boyes might tend vpon, And call her hourely Mistris. Who was with him? Fren.E. A seruant onely, and a Gentleman: which I haue sometime knowne La. Parolles was it not? Fren.E. I my good Ladie, hee La. A verie tainted fellow, and full of wickednesse, My sonne corrupts a well deriued nature With his inducement Fren.E. Indeed good Ladie the fellow has a deale of that, too much, which holds him much to haue La. Y'are welcome Gentlemen, I will intreate you when you see my sonne, to tell him that his sword can neuer winne the honor that he looses: more Ile intreate you written to beare along Fren.G. We serue you Madam in that and all your worthiest affaires La. Not so, but as we change our courtesies, Will you draw neere? Enter. Hel. Till I haue no wife I haue nothing in France. Nothing in France vntill he has no wife: Thou shalt haue none Rossillion, none in France, Then hast thou all againe: poore Lord, is't I That chase thee from thy Countrie, and expose Those tender limbes of thine, to the euent Of the none-sparing warre? And is it I, That driue thee from the sportiue Court, where thou Was't shot at with faire eyes, to be the marke Of smoakie Muskets? O you leaden messengers, That ride vpon the violent speede of fire, Fly with false ayme, moue the still-peering aire That sings with piercing, do not touch my Lord: Who euer shoots at him, I set him there. Who euer charges on his forward brest I am the Caitiffe that do hold him too't, And though I kill him not, I am the cause His death was so effected: Better 'twere I met the rauine Lyon when he roar'd With sharpe constraint of hunger: better 'twere, That all the miseries which nature owes Were mine at once. No come thou home Rossillion, Whence honor but of danger winnes a scarre, As oft it looses all. I will be gone: My being heere it is, that holds thee hence, Shall I stay heere to doo't? No, no, although The ayre of Paradise did fan the house, And Angels offic'd all: I will be gone, That pittifull rumour may report my flight To consolate thine eare. Come night, end day, For with the darke (poore theefe) Ile steale away. Enter. Flourish. Enter the Duke of Florence, Rossillion, drum and trumpets, soldiers, Parrolles. Duke. The Generall of our horse thou art, and we Great in our hope, lay our best loue and credence Vpon thy promising fortune Ber. Sir it is A charge too heauy for my strength, but yet Wee'l striue to beare it for your worthy sake, To th' extreme edge of hazard Duke. Then go thou forth, And fortune play vpon thy prosperous helme As thy auspicious mistris Ber. This very day Great Mars I put my selfe into thy file, Make me but like my thoughts, and I shall proue A louer of thy drumme, hater of loue. Exeunt. omnes Enter Countesse & Steward. La. Alas! and would you take the letter of her: Might you not know she would do, as she has done, By sending me a Letter. Reade it agen. Letter. I am S[aint]. Iaques Pilgrim, thither gone: Ambitious loue hath so in me offended, That bare-foot plod I the cold ground vpon With sainted vow my faults to haue amended Write, write, that from the bloodie course of warre, My deerest Master your deare sonne, may hie, Blesse him at home in peace. Whilst I from farre, His name with zealous feruour sanctifie: His taken labours bid him me forgiue: I his despightfull Iuno sent him forth, From Courtly friends, with Camping foes to liue, Where death and danger dogges the heeles of worth. He is too good and faire for death, and mee, Whom I my selfe embrace, to set him free. Ah what sharpe stings are in her mildest words? Rynaldo, you did neuer lacke aduice so much, As letting her passe so: had I spoke with her, I could haue well diuerted her intents, Which thus she hath preuented Ste. Pardon me Madam, If I had giuen you this at ouer-night, She might haue beene ore-tane: and yet she writes Pursuite would be but vaine La. What Angell shall Blesse this vnworthy husband, he cannot thriue, Vnlesse her prayers, whom heauen delights to heare And loues to grant, repreeue him from the wrath Of greatest Iustice. Write, write Rynaldo, To this vnworthy husband of his wife, Let euerie word waigh heauie of her worth, That he does waigh too light: my greatest greefe, Though little he do feele it, set downe sharpely. Dispatch the most conuenient messenger, When haply he shall heare that she is gone, He will returne, and hope I may that shee Hearing so much, will speede her foote againe, Led hither by pure loue: which of them both Is deerest to me, I haue no skill in sence To make distinction: prouide this Messenger: My heart is heauie, and mine age is weake, Greefe would haue teares, and sorrow bids me speake. Exeunt. A Tucket afarre off. Enter old Widdow of Florence, her daughter Violenta and Mariana, with other Citizens. Widdow. Nay come, For if they do approach the Citty, We shall loose all the sight Diana. They say, the French Count has done Most honourable seruice Wid. It is reported, That he has taken their great'st Commander, And that with his owne hand he slew The Dukes brother: we haue lost our labour, They are gone a contrarie way: harke, you may know by their Trumpets Maria. Come lets returne againe, And suffice our selues with the report of it. Well Diana, take heed of this French Earle, The honor of a Maide is her name, And no Legacie is so rich As honestie Widdow. I haue told my neighbour How you haue beene solicited by a Gentleman His Companion Maria. I know that knaue, hang him, one Parolles, a filthy Officer he is in those suggestions for the young Earle, beware of them Diana; their promises, entisements, oathes, tokens, and all these engines of lust, are not the things they go vnder: many a maide hath beene seduced by them, and the miserie is example, that so terrible shewes in the wracke of maiden-hood, cannot for all that disswade succession, but that they are limed with the twigges that threatens them. I hope I neede not to aduise you further, but I hope your owne grace will keepe you where you are, though there were no further danger knowne, but the modestie which is so lost Dia. You shall not neede to feare me. Enter Hellen. Wid. I hope so: looke here comes a pilgrim, I know she will lye at my house, thither they send one another, Ile question her. God saue you pilgrim, whether are bound? Hel. To S[aint]. Iaques la grand. Where do the Palmers lodge, I do beseech you? Wid. At the S[aint]. Francis heere beside the Port Hel. Is this the way? A march afarre. Wid. I marrie ist. Harke you, they come this way: If you will tarrie holy Pilgrime But till the troopes come by, I will conduct you where you shall be lodg'd, The rather for I thinke I know your hostesse As ample as my selfe Hel. Is it your selfe? Wid. If you shall please so Pilgrime Hel. I thanke you, and will stay vpon your leisure Wid. You came I thinke from France? Hel. I did so Wid. Heere you shall see a Countriman of yours That has done worthy seruice Hel. His name I pray you? Dia. The Count Rossillion: know you such a one? Hel. But by the eare that heares most nobly of him: His face I know not Dia. What somere he is He's brauely taken heere. He stole from France As 'tis reported: for the King had married him Against his liking. Thinke you it is so? Hel. I surely meere the truth, I know his Lady Dia. There is a Gentleman that serues the Count, Reports but coursely of her Hel. What's his name? Dia. Monsieur Parrolles Hel. Oh I beleeue with him, In argument of praise, or to the worth Of the great Count himselfe, she is too meane To haue her name repeated, all her deseruing Is a reserued honestie, and that I haue not heard examin'd Dian. Alas poore Ladie, 'Tis a hard bondage to become the wife Of a detesting Lord Wid. I write good creature, wheresoere she is, Her hart waighes sadly: this yong maid might do her A shrewd turne if she pleas'd Hel. How do you meane? May be the amorous Count solicites her In the vnlawfull purpose Wid. He does indeede, And brokes with all that can in such a suite Corrupt the tender honour of a Maide: But she is arm'd for him, and keepes her guard In honestest defence. Drumme and Colours. Enter Count Rossillion, Parrolles, and the whole Armie. Mar. The goddes forbid else Wid. So, now they come: That is Anthonio the Dukes eldest sonne, That Escalus Hel. Which is the Frenchman? Dia. Hee, That with the plume, 'tis a most gallant fellow, I would he lou'd his wife: if he were honester He were much goodlier. Is't not a handsom Gentleman Hel. I like him well Di. 'Tis pitty he is not honest: yonds that same knaue That leades him to these places: were I his Ladie, I would poison that vile Rascall Hel. Which is he? Dia. That Iacke-an-apes with scarfes. Why is hee melancholly? Hel. Perchance he's hurt i'th battaile Par. Loose our drum? Well Mar. He's shrewdly vext at something. Looke he has spyed vs Wid. Marrie hang you Mar. And your curtesie, for a ring-carrier. Enter. Wid. The troope is past: Come pilgrim, I wil bring you, Where you shall host: Of inioyn'd penitents There's foure or fiue, to great S[aint]. Iaques bound, Alreadie at my house Hel. I humbly thanke you: Please it this Matron, and this gentle Maide To eate with vs to night, the charge and thanking Shall be for me, and to requite you further, I will bestow some precepts of this Virgin, Worthy the note Both. Wee'l take your offer kindly. Exeunt. Enter Count Rossillion and the Frenchmen, as at first. Cap.E. Nay good my Lord put him too't: let him haue his way Cap.G. If your Lordshippe finde him not a Hilding, hold me no more in your respect Cap.E. On my life my Lord, a bubble Ber. Do you thinke I am so farre Deceiued in him Cap.E. Beleeue it my Lord, in mine owne direct knowledge, without any malice, but to speake of him as my kinsman, hee's a most notable Coward, an infinite and endlesse Lyar, an hourely promise-breaker, the owner of no one good qualitie, worthy your Lordships entertainment Cap.G. It were fit you knew him, least reposing too farre in his vertue which he hath not, he might at some great and trustie businesse, in a maine daunger, fayle you Ber. I would I knew in what particular action to try him Cap.G. None better then to let him fetch off his drumme, which you heare him so confidently vndertake to do C.E. I with a troop of Florentines wil sodainly surprize him; such I will haue whom I am sure he knowes not from the enemie: wee will binde and hoodwinke him so, that he shall suppose no other but that he is carried into the Leager of the aduersaries, when we bring him to our owne tents: be but your Lordship present at his examination, if he do not for the promise of his life, and in the highest compulsion of base feare, offer to betray you, and deliuer all the intelligence in his power against you, and that with the diuine forfeite of his soule vpon oath, neuer trust my iudgement in anie thing Cap.G. O for the loue of laughter, let him fetch his drumme, he sayes he has a stratagem for't: when your Lordship sees the bottome of this successe in't, and to what mettle this counterfeyt lump of ours will be melted if you giue him not Iohn drummes entertainement, your inclining cannot be remoued. Heere he comes. Enter Parrolles. Cap.E. O for the loue of laughter hinder not the honor of his designe, let him fetch off his drumme in any hand Ber. How now Monsieur? This drumme sticks sorely in your disposition Cap.G. A pox on't, let it go, 'tis but a drumme Par. But a drumme: Ist but a drumme? A drum so lost. There was excellent command, to charge in with our horse vpon our owne wings, and to rend our owne souldiers Cap.G. That was not to be blam'd in the command of the seruice: it was a disaster of warre that C�sar him selfe could not haue preuented, if he had beene there to command Ber. Well, wee cannot greatly condemne our successe: some dishonor wee had in the losse of that drum, but it is not to be recouered Par. It might haue beene recouered Ber. It might, but it is not now Par. It is to be recouered, but that the merit of seruice is sildome attributed to the true and exact performer, I would haue that drumme or another, or hic iacet Ber. Why if you haue a stomacke, too't Monsieur: if you thinke your mysterie in stratagem, can bring this instrument of honour againe into his natiue quarter, be magnanimious in the enterprize and go on, I wil grace the attempt for a worthy exploit: if you speede well in it, the Duke shall both speake of it, and extend to you what further becomes his greatnesse, euen to the vtmost syllable of your worthinesse Par. By the hand of a souldier I will vndertake it Ber. But you must not now slumber in it Par. Ile about it this euening, and I will presently pen downe my dilemma's, encourage my selfe in my certaintie, put my selfe into my mortall preparation: and by midnight looke to heare further from me Ber. May I bee bold to acquaint his grace you are gone about it Par. I know not what the successe wil be my Lord, but the attempt I vow Ber. I know th'art valiant, And to the possibility of thy souldiership, Will subscribe for thee: Farewell Par. I loue not many words. Exit Cap.E. No more then a fish loues water. Is not this a strange fellow my Lord, that so confidently seemes to vndertake this businesse, which he knowes is not to be done, damnes himselfe to do, & dares better be damnd then to doo't Cap.G. You do not know him my Lord as we doe, certaine it is that he will steale himselfe into a mans fauour, and for a weeke escape a great deale of discoueries, but when you finde him out, you haue him euer after Ber. Why do you thinke he will make no deede at all of this that so seriouslie hee dooes addresse himselfe vnto? Cap.E. None in the world, but returne with an inuention, and clap vpon you two or three probable lies: but we haue almost imbost him, you shall see his fall to night; for indeede he is not for your Lordshippes respect Cap.G. Weele make you some sport with the Foxe ere we case him. He was first smoak'd by the old Lord Lafew, when his disguise and he is parted, tell me what a sprat you shall finde him, which you shall see this verie night Cap.E. I must go looke my twigges, He shall be caught Ber. Your brother he shall go along with me Cap.G. As't please your Lordship, Ile leaue you Ber. Now wil I lead you to the house, and shew you The Lasse I spoke of Cap.E. But you say she's honest Ber. That's all the fault: I spoke with hir but once, And found her wondrous cold, but I sent to her By this same Coxcombe that we haue i'th winde Tokens and Letters, which she did resend, And this is all I haue done: She's a faire creature, Will you go see her? Cap.E. With all my heart my Lord. Exeunt. Enter Hellen, and Widdow. Hel. If you misdoubt me that I am not shee, I know not how I shall assure you further, But I shall loose the grounds I worke vpon Wid. Though my estate be falne, I was well borne, Nothing acquainted with these businesses, And would not put my reputation now In any staining act Hel. Nor would I wish you. First giue me trust, the Count he is my husband, And what to your sworne counsaile I haue spoken, Is so from word to word: and then you cannot By the good ayde that I of you shall borrow, Erre in bestowing it Wid. I should beleeue you, For you haue shew'd me that which well approues Y'are great in fortune Hel. Take this purse of Gold, And let me buy your friendly helpe thus farre, Which I will ouer-pay, and pay againe When I haue found it. The Count he woes your daughter, Layes downe his wanton siedge before her beautie, Resolue to carrie her: let her in fine consent As wee'l direct her how 'tis best to beare it: Now his important blood will naught denie, That shee'l demand: a ring the Countie weares, That downward hath succeeded in his house From sonne to sonne, some foure or fiue discents, Since the first father wore it. This Ring he holds In most rich choice: yet in his idle fire, To buy his will, it would not seeme too deere, How ere repented after Wid. Now I see the bottome of your purpose Hel. You see it lawfull then, it is no more, But that your daughter ere she seemes as wonne, Desires this Ring; appoints him an encounter; In fine, deliuers me to fill the time, Her selfe most chastly absent: after To marry her, Ile adde three thousand Crownes To what is past already Wid. I haue yeelded: Instruct my daughter how she shall perseuer, That time and place with this deceite so lawfull May proue coherent. Euery night he comes With Musickes of all sorts, and songs compos'd To her vnworthinesse: It nothing steeds vs To chide him from our eeues, for he persists As if his life lay on't Hel. Why then to night Let vs assay our plot, which if it speed, Is wicked meaning in a lawfull deede; And lawfull meaning in a lawfull act, Where both not sinne, and yet a sinfull fact. But let's about it.

act 3, Scene 1

https://web.archive.org/web/20191224170406/https://www.novelguide.com/alls-well-that-ends-well/summaries/act3-scene1-act3-scene2

The Duke of Florence is disappointed that the King of France does not offer him any official aid in his war

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/2246-chapters/5.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/All's Well That Ends Well/section_10_part_1.txt

All's Well That Ends Well.act 5.scene 1

act 5, scene 1

{"name": "act 5, Scene 1", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20191224170406/https://www.novelguide.com/alls-well-that-ends-well/summaries/act5-scene1-act5-scene2", "summary": "Helena, the Widow, and Diana arrive at the King's palace in Marseille and approach a gentleman there asking to see the King. The gentleman tells her that the King when to Rossillion, and Helena begs that he deliver a message there for her since he will make it there before her. He agrees and they all leave to part immediately", "analysis": ""}

Actus Quintus. Enter Hellen, Widdow, and Diana, with two Attendants. Hel. But this exceeding posting day and night, Must wear your spirits low, we cannot helpe it: But since you haue made the daies and nights as one, To weare your gentle limbes in my affayres, Be bold you do so grow in my requitall, As nothing can vnroote you. In happie time, Enter a gentle Astringer. This man may helpe me to his Maiesties eare, If he would spend his power. God saue you sir Gent. And you Hel. Sir, I haue seene you in the Court of France Gent. I haue beene sometimes there Hel. I do presume sir, that you are not falne From the report that goes vpon your goodnesse, And therefore goaded with most sharpe occasions, Which lay nice manners by, I put you to The vse of your owne vertues, for the which I shall continue thankefull Gent. What's your will? Hel. That it will please you To giue this poore petition to the King, And ayde me with that store of power you haue To come into his presence Gen. The Kings not heere Hel. Not heere sir? Gen. Not indeed, He hence remou'd last night, and with more hast Then is his vse Wid. Lord how we loose our paines Hel. All's well that ends well yet, Though time seeme so aduerse, and meanes vnfit: I do beseech you, whither is he gone? Gent. Marrie as I take it to Rossillion, Whither I am going Hel. I do beseech you sir, Since you are like to see the King before me, Commend the paper to his gracious hand, Which I presume shall render you no blame, But rather make you thanke your paines for it, I will come after you with what good speede Our meanes will make vs meanes Gent. This Ile do for you Hel. And you shall finde your selfe to be well thankt what e're falles more. We must to horse againe, Go, go, prouide. Enter Clowne and Parrolles. Par. Good Mr Lauatch giue my Lord Lafew this letter, I haue ere now sir beene better knowne to you, when I haue held familiaritie with fresher cloathes: but I am now sir muddied in fortunes mood, and smell somewhat strong of her strong displeasure Clo. Truely, Fortunes displeasure is but sluttish if it smell so strongly as thou speak'st of: I will hencefoorth eate no Fish of Fortunes butt'ring. Prethee alow the winde Par. Nay you neede not to stop your nose sir: I spake but by a Metaphor Clo. Indeed sir, if your Metaphor stinke, I will stop my nose, or against any mans Metaphor. Prethe get thee further Par. Pray you sir deliuer me this paper Clo. Foh, prethee stand away: a paper from fortunes close-stoole, to giue to a Nobleman. Looke heere he comes himselfe. Enter Lafew. Clo. Heere is a purre of Fortunes sir, or of Fortunes Cat, but not a Muscat, that ha's falne into the vncleane fish-pond of her displeasure, and as he sayes is muddied withall. Pray you sir, vse the Carpe as you may, for he lookes like a poore decayed, ingenious, foolish, rascally knaue. I doe pittie his distresse in my smiles of comfort, and leaue him to your Lordship Par. My Lord I am a man whom fortune hath cruelly scratch'd Laf. And what would you haue me to doe? 'Tis too late to paire her nailes now. Wherein haue you played the knaue with fortune that she should scratch you, who of her selfe is a good Lady, and would not haue knaues thriue long vnder? There's a Cardecue for you: Let the Iustices make you and fortune friends; I am for other businesse Par. I beseech your honour to heare mee one single word, Laf. you begge a single peny more: Come you shall ha't, saue your word Par. My name my good Lord is Parrolles Laf. You begge more then word then. Cox my passion, giue me your hand: How does your drumme? Par. O my good Lord, you were the first that found mee Laf. Was I insooth? And I was the first that lost thee Par. It lies in you my Lord to bring me in some grace for you did bring me out Laf. Out vpon thee knaue, doest thou put vpon mee at once both the office of God and the diuel: one brings thee in grace, and the other brings thee out. The Kings comming I know by his Trumpets. Sirrah, inquire further after me, I had talke of you last night, though you are a foole and a knaue, you shall eate, go too, follow Par. I praise God for you. Flourish. Enter King, old Lady, Lafew, the two French Lords, with attendants. Kin. We lost a Iewell of her, and our esteeme Was made much poorer by it: but your sonne, As mad in folly, lack'd the sence to know Her estimation home Old La. 'Tis past my Liege, And I beseech your Maiestie to make it Naturall rebellion, done i'th blade of youth, When oyle and fire, too strong for reasons force, Ore-beares it, and burnes on Kin. My honour'd Lady, I haue forgiuen and forgotten all, Though my reuenges were high bent vpon him, And watch'd the time to shoote Laf. This I must say, But first I begge my pardon: the yong Lord Did to his Maiesty, his Mother, and his Ladie, Offence of mighty note; but to himselfe The greatest wrong of all. He lost a wife, Whose beauty did astonish the suruey Of richest eies: whose words all eares tooke captiue, Whose deere perfection, hearts that scorn'd to serue, Humbly call'd Mistris Kin. Praising what is lost, Makes the remembrance deere. Well, call him hither, We are reconcil'd, and the first view shall kill All repetition: Let him not aske our pardon, The nature of his great offence is dead, And deeper then obliuion, we do burie Th' incensing reliques of it. Let him approach A stranger, no offender; and informe him So 'tis our will he should Gent. I shall my Liege Kin. What sayes he to your daughter, Haue you spoke? Laf. All that he is, hath reference to your Highnes Kin. Then shall we haue a match. I haue letters sent me, that sets him high in fame. Enter Count Bertram. Laf. He lookes well on't Kin. I am not a day of season, For thou maist see a sun-shine, and a haile In me at once: But to the brightest beames Distracted clouds giue way, so stand thou forth, The time is faire againe Ber. My high repented blames Deere Soueraigne pardon to me Kin. All is whole, Not one word more of the consumed time, Let's take the instant by the forward top: For we are old, and on our quick'st decrees Th' inaudible, and noiselesse foot of time Steales, ere we can effect them. You remember The daughter of this Lord? Ber. Admiringly my Liege, at first I stucke my choice vpon her, ere my heart Durst make too bold a herauld of my tongue: Where the impression of mine eye enfixing, Contempt his scornfull Perspectiue did lend me, Which warpt the line, of euerie other fauour, Scorn'd a faire colour, or exprest it stolne, Extended or contracted all proportions To a most hideous obiect. Thence it came, That she whom all men prais'd, and whom my selfe, Since I haue lost, haue lou'd; was in mine eye The dust that did offend it Kin. Well excus'd: That thou didst loue her, strikes some scores away From the great compt: but loue that comes too late, Like a remorsefull pardon slowly carried To the great sender, turnes a sowre offence, Crying, that's good that's gone: Our rash faults, Make triuiall price of serious things we haue, Not knowing them, vntill we know their graue. Oft our displeasures to our selues vniust, Destroy our friends, and after weepe their dust: Our owne loue waking, cries to see what's done, While shamefull hate sleepes out the afternoone. Be this sweet Helens knell, and now forget her. Send forth your amorous token for faire Maudlin, The maine consents are had, and heere wee'l stay To see our widdowers second marriage day: Which better then the first, O deere heauen blesse, Or, ere they meete in me, O Nature cesse Laf. Come on my sonne, in whom my houses name Must be digested: giue a fauour from you To sparkle in the spirits of my daughter, That she may quickly come. By my old beard, And eu'rie haire that's on't, Helen that's dead Was a sweet creature: such a ring as this, The last that ere I tooke her leaue at Court, I saw vpon her finger Ber. Hers it was not King. Now pray you let me see it. For mine eye, While I was speaking, oft was fasten'd too't: This Ring was mine, and when I gaue it Hellen, I bad her if her fortunes euer stoode Necessitied to helpe, that by this token I would releeue her. Had you that craft to reaue her Of what should stead her most? Ber. My gracious Soueraigne, How ere it pleases you to take it so, The ring was neuer hers Old La. Sonne, on my life I haue seene her weare it, and she reckon'd it At her liues rate Laf. I am sure I saw her weare it Ber. You are deceiu'd my Lord, she neuer saw it: In Florence was it from a casement throwne mee, Wrap'd in a paper, which contain'd the name Of her that threw it: Noble she was, and thought I stood ingag'd, but when I had subscrib'd To mine owne fortune, and inform'd her fully, I could not answer in that course of Honour As she had made the ouerture, she ceast In heauie satisfaction, and would neuer Receiue the Ring againe Kin. Platus himselfe, That knowes the tinct and multiplying med'cine, Hath not in natures mysterie more science, Then I haue in this Ring. 'Twas mine, 'twas Helens, Who euer gaue it you: then if you know That you are well acquainted with your selfe, Confesse 'twas hers, and by what rough enforcement You got it from her. She call'd the Saints to suretie, That she would neuer put it from her finger, Vnlesse she gaue it to your selfe in bed, Where you haue neuer come: or sent it vs Vpon her great disaster Ber. She neuer saw it Kin. Thou speak'st it falsely: as I loue mine Honor, And mak'st connecturall feares to come into me, Which I would faine shut out, if it should proue That thou art so inhumane, 'twill not proue so: And yet I know not, thou didst hate her deadly, And she is dead, which nothing but to close Her eyes my selfe, could win me to beleeue, More then to see this Ring. Take him away, My fore-past proofes, how ere the matter fall Shall taze my feares of little vanitie, Hauing vainly fear'd too little. Away with him, Wee'l sift this matter further Ber. If you shall proue This Ring was euer hers, you shall as easie Proue that I husbanded her bed in Florence, Where yet she neuer was. Enter a Gentleman. King. I am wrap'd in dismall thinkings Gen. Gracious Soueraigne. Whether I haue beene too blame or no, I know not, Here's a petition from a Florentine, Who hath for foure or fiue remoues come short, To tender it her selfe. I vndertooke it, Vanquish'd thereto by the faire grace and speech Of the poore suppliant, who by this I know Is heere attending: her businesse lookes in her With an importing visage, and she told me In a sweet verball breefe, it did concerne Your Highnesse with her selfe. A Letter. Vpon his many protestations to marrie mee when his wife was dead, I blush to say it, he wonne me. Now is the Count Rossillion a Widdower, his vowes are forfeited to mee, and my honors payed to him. Hee stole from Florence, taking no leaue, and I follow him to his Countrey for Iustice: Grant it me, O King, in you it best lies, otherwise a seducer flourishes, and a poore Maid is vndone. Diana Capilet Laf. I will buy me a sonne in Law in a faire, and toule for this. Ile none of him Kin. The heauens haue thought well on thee Lafew, To bring forth this discou'rie, seeke these sutors: Go speedily, and bring againe the Count. Enter Bertram. I am a-feard the life of Hellen (Ladie) Was fowly snatcht Old La. Now iustice on the doers King. I wonder sir, sir, wiues are monsters to you, And that you flye them as you sweare them Lordship, Yet you desire to marry. What woman's that? Enter Widdow, Diana, and Parrolles. Dia. I am my Lord a wretched Florentine, Deriued from the ancient Capilet, My suite as I do vnderstand you know, And therefore know how farre I may be pittied Wid. I am her Mother sir, whose age and honour Both suffer vnder this complaint we bring, And both shall cease, without your remedie King. Come hether Count, do you know these Women? Ber. My Lord, I neither can nor will denie, But that I know them, do they charge me further? Dia. Why do you looke so strange vpon your wife? Ber. She's none of mine my Lord Dia. If you shall marrie You giue away this hand, and that is mine, You giue away heauens vowes, and those are mine: You giue away my selfe, which is knowne mine: For I by vow am so embodied yours, That she which marries you, must marrie me, Either both or none Laf. Your reputation comes too short for my daughter, you are no husband for her Ber. My Lord, this is a fond and desp'rate creature, Whom sometime I haue laugh'd with: Let your highnes Lay a more noble thought vpon mine honour, Then for to thinke that I would sinke it heere Kin. Sir for my thoughts, you haue them il to friend, Till your deeds gaine them fairer: proue your honor, Then in my thought it lies Dian. Good my Lord, Aske him vpon his oath, if hee do's thinke He had not my virginity Kin. What saist thou to her? Ber. She's impudent my Lord, And was a common gamester to the Campe Dia. He do's me wrong my Lord: If I were so, He might haue bought me at a common price. Do not beleeue him. O behold this Ring, Whose high respect and rich validitie Did lacke a Paralell: yet for all that He gaue it to a Commoner a'th Campe If I be one Coun. He blushes, and 'tis hit: Of sixe preceding Ancestors that Iemme Confer'd by testament to'th sequent issue Hath it beene owed and worne. This is his wife, That Ring's a thousand proofes King. Me thought you saide You saw one heere in Court could witnesse it Dia. I did my Lord, but loath am to produce So bad an instrument, his names Parrolles Laf. I saw the man to day, if man he bee Kin. Finde him, and bring him hether Ros. What of him: He's quoted for a most perfidious slaue With all the spots a'th world, taxt and debosh'd, Whose nature sickens: but to speake a truth, Am I, or that or this for what he'l vtter, That will speake any thing Kin. She hath that Ring of yours Ros. I thinke she has; certaine it is I lyk'd her, And boorded her i'th wanton way of youth: She knew her distance, and did angle for mee, Madding my eagernesse with her restraint, As all impediments in fancies course Are motiues of more fancie, and in fine, Her insuite comming with her moderne grace, Subdu'd me to her rate, she got the Ring, And I had that which any inferiour might At Market price haue bought Dia. I must be patient: You that haue turn'd off a first so noble wife, May iustly dyet me. I pray you yet, (Since you lacke vertue, I will loose a husband) Send for your Ring, I will returne it home, And giue me mine againe Ros. I haue it not Kin. What Ring was yours I pray you? Dian. Sir much like the same vpon your finger Kin. Know you this Ring, this Ring was his of late Dia. And this was it I gaue him being a bed Kin. The story then goes false, you threw it him Out of a Casement Dia. I haue spoke the truth. Enter Parolles. Ros. My Lord, I do confesse the ring was hers Kin. You boggle shrewdly, euery feather starts you: Is this the man you speake of? Dia. I, my Lord Kin. Tell me sirrah, but tell me true I charge you, Not fearing the displeasure of your master: Which on your iust proceeding, Ile keepe off, By him and by this woman heere, what know you? Par. So please your Maiesty, my master hath bin an honourable Gentleman. Trickes hee hath had in him, which Gentlemen haue Kin. Come, come, to'th' purpose: Did hee loue this woman? Par. Faith sir he did loue her, but how Kin. How I pray you? Par. He did loue her sir, as a Gent. loues a Woman Kin. How is that? Par. He lou'd her sir, and lou'd her not Kin. As thou art a knaue and no knaue, what an equiuocall Companion is this? Par. I am a poore man, and at your Maiesties command Laf. Hee's a good drumme my Lord, but a naughtie Orator Dian. Do you know he promist me marriage? Par. Faith I know more then Ile speake Kin. But wilt thou not speake all thou know'st? Par. Yes so please your Maiesty: I did goe betweene them as I said, but more then that he loued her, for indeede he was madde for her, and talkt of Sathan, and of Limbo, and of Furies, and I know not what: yet I was in that credit with them at that time, that I knewe of their going to bed, and of other motions, as promising her marriage, and things which would deriue mee ill will to speake of, therefore I will not speake what I know Kin. Thou hast spoken all alreadie, vnlesse thou canst say they are maried, but thou art too fine in thy euidence, therefore stand aside. This Ring you say was yours Dia. I my good Lord Kin. Where did you buy it? Or who gaue it you? Dia. It was not giuen me, nor I did not buy it Kin. Who lent it you? Dia. It was not lent me neither Kin. Where did you finde it then? Dia. I found it not Kin. If it were yours by none of all these wayes, How could you giue it him? Dia. I neuer gaue it him Laf. This womans an easie gloue my Lord, she goes off and on at pleasure Kin. This Ring was mine, I gaue it his first wife Dia. It might be yours or hers for ought I know Kin. Take her away, I do not like her now, To prison with her: and away with him, Vnlesse thou telst me where thou hadst this Ring, Thou diest within this houre Dia. Ile neuer tell you Kin. Take her away Dia. Ile put in baile my liedge Kin. I thinke thee now some common Customer Dia. By Ioue if euer I knew man 'twas you King. Wherefore hast thou accusde him al this while Dia. Because he's guiltie, and he is not guilty: He knowes I am no Maid, and hee'l sweare too't: Ile sweare I am a Maid, and he knowes not. Great King I am no strumpet, by my life, I am either Maid, or else this old mans wife Kin. She does abuse our eares, to prison with her Dia. Good mother fetch my bayle. Stay Royall sir, The Ieweller that owes the Ring is sent for, And he shall surety me. But for this Lord, Who hath abus'd me as he knowes himselfe, Though yet he neuer harm'd me, heere I quit him. He knowes himselfe my bed he hath defil'd, And at that time he got his wife with childe: Dead though she be, she feeles her yong one kicke: So there's my riddle, one that's dead is quicke, And now behold the meaning. Enter Hellen and Widdow. Kin. Is there no exorcist Beguiles the truer Office of mine eyes? Is't reall that I see? Hel. No my good Lord, 'Tis but the shadow of a wife you see, The name, and not the thing Ros. Both, both, O pardon Hel. Oh my good Lord, when I was like this Maid, I found you wondrous kinde, there is your Ring, And looke you, heeres your letter: this it sayes, When from my finger you can get this Ring, And is by me with childe, &c. This is done, Will you be mine now you are doubly wonne? Ros. If she my Liege can make me know this clearly, Ile loue her dearely, euer, euer dearly Hel. If it appeare not plaine, and proue vntrue, Deadly diuorce step betweene me and you. O my deere mother do I see you liuing? Laf. Mine eyes smell Onions, I shall weepe anon: Good Tom Drumme lend me a handkercher. So I thanke thee, waite on me home, Ile make sport with thee: Let thy curtsies alone, they are scuruy ones King. Let vs from point to point this storie know, To make the euen truth in pleasure flow: If thou beest yet a fresh vncropped flower, Choose thou thy husband, and Ile pay thy dower. For I can guesse, that by thy honest ayde, Thou keptst a wife her selfe, thy selfe a Maide. Of that and all the progresse more and lesse, Resoluedly more leasure shall expresse: All yet seemes well, and if it end so meete, The bitter past, more welcome is the sweet. Flourish. The Kings a Begger, now the Play is done, All is well ended, if this suite be wonne, That you expresse Content: which we will pay, With strife to please you, day exceeding day: Ours be your patience then, and yours our parts, Your gentle hands lend vs, and take our hearts. Exeunt. omn. FINIS. ALL'S Well, that Ends Well.

act 5, Scene 1

https://web.archive.org/web/20191224170406/https://www.novelguide.com/alls-well-that-ends-well/summaries/act5-scene1-act5-scene2

Helena, the Widow, and Diana arrive at the King's palace in Marseille and approach a gentleman there asking to see the King. The gentleman tells her that the King when to Rossillion, and Helena begs that he deliver a message there for her since he will make it there before her. He agrees and they all leave to part immediately

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/2527-chapters/book_1.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/The Sorrows of Young Werther/section_0_part_0.txt

The Sorrows of Young Werther.book 1

book 1

{"name": "Book One: Letters of May 4-May 30", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20211108095248/https://www.gradesaver.com/the-sorrows-of-young-werther/study-guide/summary-book-one-letters-of-may-4-may-30", "summary": "After a very short note from the editor encouraging the reader to sympathize with Werther's tragic fate, The Sorrows of Young Werther begins with Werther in an ebullient mood, having escaped a young woman named Leonora, whom he implies was madly in love with him. Werther has retreated to a quiet country setting in Germany with the intention of spending his time drawing. He has left behind both his best friend, Wilhelm, and his mother, who is left unnamed. Werther and his mother do not seem to get along particularly well - a fact that we can assume because he never addresses her directly, instead speaking to her through Wilhelm. He notes, however, that he has taken care of some family business stemming from a disagreement between his mother and his aunt. Werther is not a very diligent artist; he spends most of his time wandering the nearby rural regions and observing the customs of the peasant class. He finds the peasants enchanting and watches them as they go about their daily tasks. When he sees young women fetching water from a local well, Werther is reminded of the women in the Bible who do the same. In general, he sees the countryside as operating according to an ancient patriarchal code, untainted by the influence of erudition. Several more examples reveal how Werther has had enough of book-learning. He tells Wilhelm not to send his library, saying that he is happy to read his Bible and his Homer - nothing more. Later, Werther dryly relates a conversation with a young man he calls V., who is enthusiastic about the latest Enlightenment thinkers and theories. Werther likes V. but is rather condescending toward his learnedness. Another acquaintance Werther makes is the Prince's bailiff, S. He notes that the bailiff's eldest daughter is much admired-Werther, too, will come to admire her, to say the least. Although he takes joy in his surroundings, Werther's gloomy side is apparent right from the start. He writes that he finds many of the people he meets \"thoroughly repulsive and quite intolerable in their demonstrations of friendship.\" He also states that the happiest people are the most ignorant - those who lack the intelligence or the curiosity to see the injustice of the world. This haughty note is complemented by an obsession with death. In the letter of May 22, Werther alludes to suicide, saying that through it one can \"leave this prison whenever he likes.\" Werther writes that he has taken to wandering over to a charming nearby village, Wahlheim. While there, he makes the acquaintance of the local landlady and some of the peasant children. He makes a sketch of two peasant brothers that depicts the elder allowing the younger to rest in his arms. Werther thinks his sketch is marvelous and attributes its success to the spontaneous beauty of nature. He also meets the brothers' mother, whose husband has gone to Switzerland to retrieve his inheritance from an obstinate cousin. Also in Wahlheim, Werther meets a young \"country lad\" who has a rather tragic story to tell: he is in love with the widow he works for and pines all day long for her. Werther finds the rustic eloquence of the country lad as he talks about his beloved just as beautiful as the most perfectly crafted poems of the intelligentsia. He admires spontaneous passion that is imperfectly expressed and channeled through raw nature.", "analysis": "First, a word about the editor's note with which the novel opens. Elizabeth Mayer and Louise Bogan's otherwise very good translation of Werther leaves out this opening note, to the detriment of the work. The note is important because it serves as a framework for the novel. First of all, it spoils the \"surprise\" of the ending, as it suggests that Werther meets an untimely fate. This is important to a full reading of the novel, however, as the reader should have no illusions that Werther's tale might end happily. Second, the epigraph exhorts those who might follow Werther's example to take solace in their pain by reading about Werther's. Goethe presents his book as a friend and companion - essentially the equivalent of a living pen pal like Wilhelm. Of course, historically, Werther probably incited more suicides than it prevented, but Goethe included the note specifically to warn readers against this possibility. Finally, the epigraph emphasizes the fact that this volume is edited. This is Goethe's ambiguous gesture toward verisimilitude-he pretends that an \"editor,\" either he or someone else, has collected all of the available documents about Werther's tragic end. It is important to keep in mind while reading Werther that Goethe wants us to know that the story is edited and organized from a perspective other than Werther's. In the original 1764 edition of Werther this editorial hand was quite subdued, but he especially emphasizes the role of the editor in the revised edition of 1787, the version that is almost always read today. At the close of the novel, the editorial perspective will become especially important. Just as the editor's note contains the seed of tragedy that will grow over the course of the novel, so the first six weeks of letters provide us with a fairly complete portrait of Werther, emphasizing his shortsightedness as well as his likeability. Werther does not, in truth, change a great deal over the course of the novel; his tragic potential and suicidal personality merely unfold according to their own logic. Goethe is the master of the Bildungsroman , a novel form in which the kernel of nature in a protagonist comes into its own through narrative action. Even in this, his first work of fiction, Goethe operates according to the rule of the Bildungsroman. Werther does not do anything unlike him; the possibility of his suicide is present from the first words of the book, in the editor's note. Lotte's rejection merely catalyzes his natural chemistry. However, in the first letters that he writes to Wilhelm, Werther is nearly always happy. He observes the world with acute sensitivity, always aware that all observations must come from himself. Indeed, Werther's own subjectivity fascinates him. For example, in his letter of May 10, Werther writes, \"I am so happy, dear friend, so completely sunk in the sensation of sheer being, that my art suffers. I could not draw anything just now, not a line, and yet I have never been a greater painter than at the present moment.\" What, one might ask, does Werther mean by that? Werther uses this paradox to illustrate his reflective state. For Werther-and for Romantics in general, of all eras and ages-perception of nature itself is a kind of painting. Because we always play an active role in interpreting the world-through our eyes, ears, noses, tongues, and flesh-we are, in a way, painting the world. This deep inner communion with outer and inner nature, in all its confusion, is the most emblematic attribute of the Sturm und Drang movement in Germanic literature, of which Werther is the preeminent example. Werther's intense subjectivity provides a basis for his theory of art, which he outlines extensively in his letters of May 26 and May 30. The dominant aesthetic theory at the time of Werther's publication held that beauty was revealed through rules-that it is through form and constraint that art comes to be. Werther admits that there is some truth in this opinion, but contends that truly overwhelming beauty follows from nature itself. In the simple-yet-profound, unstaged charity of one peasant brother caring for another, for example, Werther sees a glimpse of the infinite, the sublime. He is so passionate in his feeling that truth and beauty reveal themselves best in unadorned nature that he mocks anyone who attempts to learn about these absolutes through schoolbooks or theories . The Enlightenment, he thinks, has got it all wrong. The true locus of beauty is not in the intellect or in reason, but in natural feeling and passion. It is worth adding that Goethe himself, though certainly sympathetic to Werther's passion, does not see things so simply; his novel, in fact, is a work of form, \"rules,\" and intellect just as much as it is a passionate, unadorned outpouring of the heart. Werther is undeniably a very interesting fellow: he rejects the erudition and rationality popular during his age, and has lovely, poetic things to say about himself. However, one cannot overlook his many obvious flaws. Remember, for example, that the novel is composed almost entirely of letters to Wilhelm. How often does he ask about Wilhelm, or about his mother? How much genuine interest does he show in anyone except himself? Even when he praises others, Werther is primarily praising his own perception of that person. Werther's standard for judging whether someone is worth his time is quite simple: he asks himself, \"How brilliant does this person think I am?\" Also, Werther has a complicated relationship with the lower classes. He is a youth of obvious privilege. Though he is estranged from his mother, he is financially dependant on her, and spends his days doing essentially nothing-pretending to draw. Of course the laborers fascinate him: he hasn't done a day's work in his life. Furthermore, his idealization of lower class workers actually disguises a strain of snobbery. He writes of the peasants, \"I know quite well that we are not and cannot ever be equal; but I am convinced that anyone who thinks it is necessary to keep his distance from the so-called mob in order to gain its respect is as much to blame as the coward who hides from his enemy because he fears to be defeated.\" Werther considers himself superior to the peasants he draws and converses with; they are like a spoiled boy's playthings, valued for their charming, poetic ignorance, useful because they offer Werther opportunities to feel liberal and wise. This example and several others, including the whole of the letter of May 22, suggest a lurking misanthropy beneath Werther's romantic facade, which will become more prevalent as the novel continues."}

BOOK I MAY 4. How happy I am that I am gone! My dear friend, what a thing is the heart of man! To leave you, from whom I have been inseparable, whom I love so dearly, and yet to feel happy! I know you will forgive me. Have not other attachments been specially appointed by fate to torment a head like mine? Poor Leonora! and yet I was not to blame. Was it my fault, that, whilst the peculiar charms of her sister afforded me an agreeable entertainment, a passion for me was engendered in her feeble heart? And yet am I wholly blameless? Did I not encourage her emotions? Did I not feel charmed at those truly genuine expressions of nature, which, though but little mirthful in reality, so often amused us? Did I not--but oh! what is man, that he dares so to accuse himself? My dear friend I promise you I will improve; I will no longer, as has ever been my habit, continue to ruminate on every petty vexation which fortune may dispense; I will enjoy the present, and the past shall be for me the past. No doubt you are right, my best of friends, there would be far less suffering amongst mankind, if men--and God knows why they are so fashioned--did not employ their imaginations so assiduously in recalling the memory of past sorrow, instead of bearing their present lot with equanimity. Be kind enough to inform my mother that I shall attend to her business to the best of my ability, and shall give her the earliest information about it. I have seen my aunt, and find that she is very far from being the disagreeable person our friends allege her to be. She is a lively, cheerful woman, with the best of hearts. I explained to her my mother's wrongs with regard to that part of her portion which has been withheld from her. She told me the motives and reasons of her own conduct, and the terms on which she is willing to give up the whole, and to do more than we have asked. In short, I cannot write further upon this subject at present; only assure my mother that all will go on well. And I have again observed, my dear friend, in this trifling affair, that misunderstandings and neglect occasion more mischief in the world than even malice and wickedness. At all events, the two latter are of less frequent occurrence. In other respects I am very well off here. Solitude in this terrestrial paradise is a genial balm to my mind, and the young spring cheers with its bounteous promises my oftentimes misgiving heart. Every tree, every bush, is full of flowers; and one might wish himself transformed into a butterfly, to float about in this ocean of perfume, and find his whole existence in it. The town itself is disagreeable; but then, all around, you find an inexpressible beauty of nature. This induced the late Count M to lay out a garden on one of the sloping hills which here intersect each other with the most charming variety, and form the most lovely valleys. The garden is simple; and it is easy to perceive, even upon your first entrance, that the plan was not designed by a scientific gardener, but by a man who wished to give himself up here to the enjoyment of his own sensitive heart. Many a tear have I already shed to the memory of its departed master in a summer-house which is now reduced to ruins, but was his favourite resort, and now is mine. I shall soon be master of the place. The gardener has become attached to me within the last few days, and he will lose nothing thereby. MAY 10. A wonderful serenity has taken possession of my entire soul, like these sweet mornings of spring which I enjoy with my whole heart. I am alone, and feel the charm of existence in this spot, which was created for the bliss of souls like mine. I am so happy, my dear friend, so absorbed in the exquisite sense of mere tranquil existence, that I neglect my talents. I should be incapable of drawing a single stroke at the present moment; and yet I feel that I never was a greater artist than now. When, while the lovely valley teems with vapour around me, and the meridian sun strikes the upper surface of the impenetrable foliage of my trees, and but a few stray gleams steal into the inner sanctuary, I throw myself down among the tall grass by the trickling stream; and, as I lie close to the earth, a thousand unknown plants are noticed by me: when I hear the buzz of the little world among the stalks, and grow familiar with the countless indescribable forms of the insects and flies, then I feel the presence of the Almighty, who formed us in his own image, and the breath of that universal love which bears and sustains us, as it floats around us in an eternity of bliss; and then, my friend, when darkness overspreads my eyes, and heaven and earth seem to dwell in my soul and absorb its power, like the form of a beloved mistress, then I often think with longing, Oh, would I could describe these conceptions, could impress upon paper all that is living so full and warm within me, that it might be the mirror of my soul, as my soul is the mirror of the infinite God! O my friend--but it is too much for my strength--I sink under the weight of the splendour of these visions! MAY 12. I know not whether some deceitful spirits haunt this spot, or whether it be the warm, celestial fancy in my own heart which makes everything around me seem like paradise. In front of the house is a fountain,--a fountain to which I am bound by a charm like Melusina and her sisters. Descending a gentle slope, you come to an arch, where, some twenty steps lower down, water of the clearest crystal gushes from the marble rock. The narrow wall which encloses it above, the tall trees which encircle the spot, and the coolness of the place itself,--everything imparts a pleasant but sublime impression. Not a day passes on which I do not spend an hour there. The young maidens come from the town to fetch water,--innocent and necessary employment, and formerly the occupation of the daughters of kings. As I take my rest there, the idea of the old patriarchal life is awakened around me. I see them, our old ancestors, how they formed their friendships and contracted alliances at the fountain-side; and I feel how fountains and streams were guarded by beneficent spirits. He who is a stranger to these sensations has never really enjoyed cool repose at the side of a fountain after the fatigue of a weary summer day. MAY 13. You ask if you shall send me books. My dear friend, I beseech you, for the love of God, relieve me from such a yoke! I need no more to be guided, agitated, heated. My heart ferments sufficiently of itself. I want strains to lull me, and I find them to perfection in my Homer. Often do I strive to allay the burning fever of my blood; and you have never witnessed anything so unsteady, so uncertain, as my heart. But need I confess this to you, my dear friend, who have so often endured the anguish of witnessing my sudden transitions from sorrow to immoderate joy, and from sweet melancholy to violent passions? I treat my poor heart like a sick child, and gratify its every fancy. Do not mention this again: there are people who would censure me for it. MAY 15. The common people of the place know me already, and love me, particularly the children. When at first I associated with them, and inquired in a friendly tone about their various trifles, some fancied that I wished to ridicule them, and turned from me in exceeding ill-humour. I did not allow that circumstance to grieve me: I only felt most keenly what I have often before observed. Persons who can claim a certain rank keep themselves coldly aloof from the common people, as though they feared to lose their importance by the contact; whilst wanton idlers, and such as are prone to bad joking, affect to descend to their level, only to make the poor people feel their impertinence all the more keenly. I know very well that we are not all equal, nor can be so; but it is my opinion that he who avoids the common people, in order not to lose their respect, is as much to blame as a coward who hides himself from his enemy because he fears defeat. The other day I went to the fountain, and found a young servant-girl, who had set her pitcher on the lowest step, and looked around to see if one of her companions was approaching to place it on her head. I ran down, and looked at her. "Shall I help you, pretty lass?" said I. She blushed deeply. "Oh, sir!" she exclaimed. "No ceremony!" I replied. She adjusted her head-gear, and I helped her. She thanked me, and ascended the steps. MAY 17. I have made all sorts of acquaintances, but have as yet found no society. I know not what attraction I possess for the people, so many of them like me, and attach themselves to me; and then I feel sorry when the road we pursue together goes only a short distance. If you inquire what the people are like here, I must answer, "The same as everywhere." The human race is but a monotonous affair. Most of them labour the greater part of their time for mere subsistence; and the scanty portion of freedom which remains to them so troubles them that they use every exertion to get rid of it. Oh, the destiny of man! But they are a right good sort of people. If I occasionally forget myself, and take part in the innocent pleasures which are not yet forbidden to the peasantry, and enjoy myself, for instance, with genuine freedom and sincerity, round a well-covered table, or arrange an excursion or a dance opportunely, and so forth, all this produces a good effect upon my disposition; only I must forget that there lie dormant within me so many other qualities which moulder uselessly, and which I am obliged to keep carefully concealed. Ah! this thought affects my spirits fearfully. And yet to be misunderstood is the fate of the like of us. Alas, that the friend of my youth is gone! Alas, that I ever knew her! I might say to myself, "You are a dreamer to seek what is not to be found here below." But she has been mine. I have possessed that heart, that noble soul, in whose presence I seemed to be more than I really was, because I was all that I could be. Good heavens! did then a single power of my soul remain unexercised? In her presence could I not display, to its full extent, that mysterious feeling with which my heart embraces nature? Was not our intercourse a perpetual web of the finest emotions, of the keenest wit, the varieties of which, even in their very eccentricity, bore the stamp of genius? Alas! the few years by which she was my senior brought her to the grave before me. Never can I forget her firm mind or her heavenly patience. A few days ago I met a certain young V--, a frank, open fellow, with a most pleasing countenance. He has just left the university, does not deem himself overwise, but believes he knows more than other people. He has worked hard, as I can perceive from many circumstances, and, in short, possesses a large stock of information. When he heard that I am drawing a good deal, and that I know Greek (two wonderful things for this part of the country), he came to see me, and displayed his whole store of learning, from Batteaux to Wood, from De Piles to Winkelmann: he assured me he had read through the first part of Sultzer's theory, and also possessed a manuscript of Heyne's work on the study of the antique. I allowed it all to pass. I have become acquainted, also, with a very worthy person, the district judge, a frank and open-hearted man. I am told it is a most delightful thing to see him in the midst of his children, of whom he has nine. His eldest daughter especially is highly spoken of. He has invited me to go and see him, and I intend to do so on the first opportunity. He lives at one of the royal hunting-lodges, which can be reached from here in an hour and a half by walking, and which he obtained leave to inhabit after the loss of his wife, as it is so painful to him to reside in town and at the court. There have also come in my way a few other originals of a questionable sort, who are in all respects undesirable, and most intolerable in their demonstration of friendship. Good-bye. This letter will please you: it is quite historical. MAY 22. That the life of man is but a dream, many a man has surmised heretofore; and I, too, am everywhere pursued by this feeling. When I consider the narrow limits within which our active and inquiring faculties are confined; when I see how all our energies are wasted in providing for mere necessities, which again have no further end than to prolong a wretched existence; and then that all our satisfaction concerning certain subjects of investigation ends in nothing better than a passive resignation, whilst we amuse ourselves painting our prison-walls with bright figures and brilliant landscapes,--when I consider all this, Wilhelm, I am silent. I examine my own being, and find there a world, but a world rather of imagination and dim desires, than of distinctness and living power. Then everything swims before my senses, and I smile and dream while pursuing my way through the world. All learned professors and doctors are agreed that children do not comprehend the cause of their desires; but that the grown-up should wander about this earth like children, without knowing whence they come, or whither they go, influenced as little by fixed motives, but guided like them by biscuits, sugar-plums, and the rod,--this is what nobody is willing to acknowledge; and yet I think it is palpable. I know what you will say in reply; for I am ready to admit that they are happiest, who, like children, amuse themselves with their playthings, dress and undress their dolls, and attentively watch the cupboard, where mamma has locked up her sweet things, and, when at last they get a delicious morsel, eat it greedily, and exclaim, "More!" These are certainly happy beings; but others also are objects of envy, who dignify their paltry employments, and sometimes even their passions, with pompous titles, representing them to mankind as gigantic achievements performed for their welfare and glory. But the man who humbly acknowledges the vanity of all this, who observes with what pleasure the thriving citizen converts his little garden into a paradise, and how patiently even the poor man pursues his weary way under his burden, and how all wish equally to behold the light of the sun a little longer,--yes, such a man is at peace, and creates his own world within himself; and he is also happy, because he is a man. And then, however limited his sphere, he still preserves in his bosom the sweet feeling of liberty, and knows that he can quit his prison whenever he likes. MAY 26. You know of old my ways of settling anywhere, of selecting a little cottage in some cosy spot, and of putting up in it with every inconvenience. Here, too, I have discovered such a snug, comfortable place, which possesses peculiar charms for me. About a league from the town is a place called Walheim. (The reader need not take the trouble to look for the place thus designated. We have found it necessary to change the names given in the original.) It is delightfully situated on the side of a hill; and, by proceeding along one of the footpaths which lead out of the village, you can have a view of the whole valley. A good old woman lives there, who keeps a small inn. She sells wine, beer, and coffee, and is cheerful and pleasant notwithstanding her age. The chief charm of this spot consists in two linden-trees, spreading their enormous branches over the little green before the church, which is entirely surrounded by peasants' cottages, barns, and homesteads. I have seldom seen a place so retired and peaceable; and there often have my table and chair brought out from the little inn, and drink my coffee there, and read my Homer. Accident brought me to the spot one fine afternoon, and I found it perfectly deserted. Everybody was in the fields except a little boy about four years of age, who was sitting on the ground, and held between his knees a child about six months old: he pressed it to his bosom with both arms, which thus formed a sort of arm-chair; and, notwithstanding the liveliness which sparkled in its black eyes, it remained perfectly still. The sight charmed me. I sat down upon a plough opposite, and sketched with great delight this little picture of brotherly tenderness. I added the neighbouring hedge, the barn-door, and some broken cart-wheels, just as they happened to lie; and I found in about an hour that I had made a very correct and interesting drawing, without putting in the slightest thing of my own. This confirmed me in my resolution of adhering, for the future, entirely to nature. She alone is inexhaustible, and capable of forming the greatest masters. Much may be alleged in favour of rules, as much may be likewise advanced in favour of the laws of society: an artist formed upon them will never produce anything absolutely bad or disgusting; as a man who observes the laws, and obeys decorum, can never be an absolutely intolerable neighbour, nor a decided villain: but yet, say what you will of rules, they destroy the genuine feeling of nature, as well as its true expression. Do not tell me "that this is too hard, that they only restrain and prune superfluous branches, etc." My good friend, I will illustrate this by an analogy. These things resemble love. A warmhearted youth becomes strongly attached to a maiden: he spends every hour of the day in her company, wears out his health, and lavishes his fortune, to afford continual proof that he is wholly devoted to her. Then comes a man of the world, a man of place and respectability, and addresses him thus: "My good young friend, love is natural; but you must love within bounds. Divide your time: devote a portion to business, and give the hours of recreation to your mistress. Calculate your fortune; and out of the superfluity you may make her a present, only not too often,--on her birthday, and such occasions." Pursuing this advice, he may become a useful member of society, and I should advise every prince to give him an appointment; but it is all up with his love, and with his genius if he be an artist. O my friend! why is it that the torrent of genius so seldom bursts forth, so seldom rolls in full-flowing stream, overwhelming your astounded soul? Because, on either side of this stream, cold and respectable persons have taken up their abodes, and, forsooth, their summer-houses and tulip-beds would suffer from the torrent; wherefore they dig trenches, and raise embankments betimes, in order to avert the impending danger. MAY 27. I find I have fallen into raptures, declamation, and similes, and have forgotten, in consequence, to tell you what became of the children. Absorbed in my artistic contemplations, which I briefly described in my letter of yesterday, I continued sitting on the plough for two hours. Toward evening a young woman, with a basket on her arm, came running toward the children, who had not moved all that time. She exclaimed from a distance, "You are a good boy, Philip!" She gave me greeting: I returned it, rose, and approached her. I inquired if she were the mother of those pretty children. "Yes," she said; and, giving the eldest a piece of bread, she took the little one in her arms and kissed it with a mother's tenderness. "I left my child in Philip's care," she said, "whilst I went into the town with my eldest boy to buy some wheaten bread, some sugar, and an earthen pot." I saw the various articles in the basket, from which the cover had fallen. "I shall make some broth to-night for my little Hans (which was the name of the youngest): that wild fellow, the big one, broke my pot yesterday, whilst he was scrambling with Philip for what remained of the contents." I inquired for the eldest; and she had scarcely time to tell me that he was driving a couple of geese home from the meadow, when he ran up, and handed Philip an osier-twig. I talked a little longer with the woman, and found that she was the daughter of the schoolmaster, and that her husband was gone on a journey into Switzerland for some money a relation had left him. "They wanted to cheat him," she said, "and would not answer his letters; so he is gone there himself. I hope he has met with no accident, as I have heard nothing of him since his departure." I left the woman, with regret, giving each of the children a kreutzer, with an additional one for the youngest, to buy some wheaten bread for his broth when she went to town next; and so we parted. I assure you, my dear friend, when my thoughts are all in tumult, the sight of such a creature as this tranquillises my disturbed mind. She moves in a happy thoughtlessness within the confined circle of her existence; she supplies her wants from day to day; and, when she sees the leaves fall, they raise no other idea in her mind than that winter is approaching. Since that time I have gone out there frequently. The children have become quite familiar with me; and each gets a lump of sugar when I drink my coffee, and they share my milk and bread and butter in the evening. They always receive their kreutzer on Sundays, for the good woman has orders to give it to them when I do not go there after evening service. They are quite at home with me, tell me everything; and I am particularly amused with observing their tempers, and the simplicity of their behaviour, when some of the other village children are assembled with them. It has given me a deal of trouble to satisfy the anxiety of the mother, lest (as she says) "they should inconvenience the gentleman." MAY 30. What I have lately said of painting is equally true with respect to poetry. It is only necessary for us to know what is really excellent, and venture to give it expression; and that is saying much in few words. To-day I have had a scene, which, if literally related, would, make the most beautiful idyl in the world. But why should I talk of poetry and scenes and idyls? Can we never take pleasure in nature without having recourse to art? If you expect anything grand or magnificent from this introduction, you will be sadly mistaken. It relates merely to a peasant-lad, who has excited in me the warmest interest. As usual, I shall tell my story badly; and you, as usual, will think me extravagant. It is Walheim once more--always Walheim--which produces these wonderful phenomena. A party had assembled outside the house under the linden-trees, to drink coffee. The company did not exactly please me; and, under one pretext or another, I lingered behind. A peasant came from an adjoining house, and set to work arranging some part of the same plough which I had lately sketched. His appearance pleased me; and I spoke to him, inquired about his circumstances, made his acquaintance, and, as is my wont with persons of that class, was soon admitted into his confidence. He said he was in the service of a young widow, who set great store by him. He spoke so much of his mistress, and praised her so extravagantly, that I could soon see he was desperately in love with her. "She is no longer young," he said: "and she was treated so badly by her former husband that she does not mean to marry again." From his account it was so evident what incomparable charms she possessed for him, and how ardently he wished she would select him to extinguish the recollection of her first husband's misconduct, that I should have to repeat his own words in order to describe the depth of the poor fellow's attachment, truth, and devotion. It would, in fact, require the gifts of a great poet to convey the expression of his features, the harmony of his voice, and the heavenly fire of his eye. No words can portray the tenderness of his every movement and of every feature: no effort of mine could do justice to the scene. His alarm lest I should misconceive his position with regard to his mistress, or question the propriety of her conduct, touched me particularly. The charming manner with which he described her form and person, which, without possessing the graces of youth, won and attached him to her, is inexpressible, and must be left to the imagination. I have never in my life witnessed or fancied or conceived the possibility of such intense devotion, such ardent affections, united with so much purity. Do not blame me if I say that the recollection of this innocence and truth is deeply impressed upon my very soul; that this picture of fidelity and tenderness haunts me everywhere; and that my own heart, as though enkindled by the flame, glows and burns within me. I mean now to try and see her as soon as I can: or perhaps, on second thoughts, I had better not; it is better I should behold her through the eyes of her lover. To my sight, perhaps, she would not appear as she now stands before me; and why should I destroy so sweet a picture? JUNE 16. "Why do I not write to you?" You lay claim to learning, and ask such a question. You should have guessed that I am well--that is to say--in a word, I have made an acquaintance who has won my heart: I have--I know not. To give you a regular account of the manner in which I have become acquainted with the most amiable of women would be a difficult task. I am a happy and contented mortal, but a poor historian. An angel! Nonsense! Everybody so describes his mistress; and yet I find it impossible to tell you how perfect she is, or why she is so perfect: suffice it to say she has captivated all my senses. So much simplicity with so much understanding--so mild, and yet so resolute--a mind so placid, and a life so active. But all this is ugly balderdash, which expresses not a single character nor feature. Some other time--but no, not some other time, now, this very instant, will I tell you all about it. Now or never. Well, between ourselves, since I commenced my letter, I have been three times on the point of throwing down my pen, of ordering my horse, and riding out. And yet I vowed this morning that I would not ride to-day, and yet every moment I am rushing to the window to see how high the sun is. I could not restrain myself--go to her I must. I have just returned, Wilhelm; and whilst I am taking supper I will write to you. What a delight it was for my soul to see her in the midst of her dear, beautiful children,--eight brothers and sisters! But, if I proceed thus, you will be no wiser at the end of my letter than you were at the beginning. Attend, then, and I will compel myself to give you the details. I mentioned to you the other day that I had become acquainted with S--, the district judge, and that he had invited me to go and visit him in his retirement, or rather in his little kingdom. But I neglected going, and perhaps should never have gone, if chance had not discovered to me the treasure which lay concealed in that retired spot. Some of our young people had proposed giving a ball in the country, at which I consented to be present. I offered my hand for the evening to a pretty and agreeable, but rather commonplace, sort of girl from the immediate neighbourhood; and it was agreed that I should engage a carriage, and call upon Charlotte, with my partner and her aunt, to convey them to the ball. My companion informed me, as we drove along through the park to the hunting-lodge, that I should make the acquaintance of a very charming young lady. "Take care," added the aunt, "that you do not lose your heart." "Why?" said I. "Because she is already engaged to a very worthy man," she replied, "who is gone to settle his affairs upon the death of his father, and will succeed to a very considerable inheritance." This information possessed no interest for me. When we arrived at the gate, the sun was setting behind the tops of the mountains. The atmosphere was heavy; and the ladies expressed their fears of an approaching storm, as masses of low black clouds were gathering in the horizon. I relieved their anxieties by pretending to be weather-wise, although I myself had some apprehensions lest our pleasure should be interrupted. I alighted; and a maid came to the door, and requested us to wait a moment for her mistress. I walked across the court to a well-built house, and, ascending the flight of steps in front, opened the door, and saw before me the most charming spectacle I had ever witnessed. Six children, from eleven to two years old, were running about the hall, and surrounding a lady of middle height, with a lovely figure, dressed in a robe of simple white, trimmed with pink ribbons. She was holding a rye loaf in her hand, and was cutting slices for the little ones all around, in proportion to their age and appetite. She performed her task in a graceful and affectionate manner; each claimant awaiting his turn with outstretched hands, and boisterously shouting his thanks. Some of them ran away at once, to enjoy their evening meal; whilst others, of a gentler disposition, retired to the courtyard to see the strangers, and to survey the carriage in which their Charlotte was to drive away. "Pray forgive me for giving you the trouble to come for me, and for keeping the ladies waiting: but dressing, and arranging some household duties before I leave, had made me forget my children's supper; and they do not like to take it from any one but me." I uttered some indifferent compliment: but my whole soul was absorbed by her air, her voice, her manner; and I had scarcely recovered myself when she ran into her room to fetch her gloves and fan. The young ones threw inquiring glances at me from a distance; whilst I approached the youngest, a most delicious little creature. He drew back; and Charlotte, entering at the very moment, said, "Louis, shake hands with your cousin." The little fellow obeyed willingly; and I could not resist giving him a hearty kiss, notwithstanding his rather dirty face. "Cousin," said I to Charlotte, as I handed her down, "do you think I deserve the happiness of being related to you?" She replied, with a ready smile, "Oh! I have such a number of cousins, that I should be sorry if you were the most undeserving of them." In taking leave, she desired her next sister, Sophy, a girl about eleven years old, to take great care of the children, and to say good-bye to papa for her when he came home from his ride. She enjoined to the little ones to obey their sister Sophy as they would herself, upon which some promised that they would; but a little fair-haired girl, about six years old, looked discontented, and said, "But Sophy is not you, Charlotte; and we like you best." The two eldest boys had clambered up the carriage; and, at my request, she permitted them to accompany us a little way through the forest, upon their promising to sit very still, and hold fast. We were hardly seated, and the ladies had scarcely exchanged compliments, making the usual remarks upon each other's dress, and upon the company they expected to meet, when Charlotte stopped the carriage, and made her brothers get down. They insisted upon kissing her hands once more; which the eldest did with all the tenderness of a youth of fifteen, but the other in a lighter and more careless manner. She desired them again to give her love to the children, and we drove off. The aunt inquired of Charlotte whether she had finished the book she had last sent her. "No," said Charlotte; "I did not like it: you can have it again. And the one before was not much better." I was surprised, upon asking the title, to hear that it was ____. (We feel obliged to suppress the passage in the letter, to prevent any one from feeling aggrieved; although no author need pay much attention to the opinion of a mere girl, or that of an unsteady young man.) I found penetration and character in everything she said: every expression seemed to brighten her features with new charms,--with new rays of genius,--which unfolded by degrees, as she felt herself understood. "When I was younger," she observed, "I loved nothing so much as romances. Nothing could equal my delight when, on some holiday, I could settle down quietly in a corner, and enter with my whole heart and soul into the joys or sorrows of some fictitious Leonora. I do not deny that they even possess some charms for me yet. But I read so seldom, that I prefer books suited exactly to my taste. And I like those authors best whose scenes describe my own situation in life,--and the friends who are about me, whose stories touch me with interest, from resembling my own homely existence,--which, without being absolutely paradise, is, on the whole, a source of indescribable happiness." I endeavoured to conceal the emotion which these words occasioned, but it was of slight avail; for, when she had expressed so truly her opinion of "The Vicar of Wakefield," and of other works, the names of which I omit (Though the names are omitted, yet the authors mentioned deserve Charlotte's approbation, and will feel it in their hearts when they read this passage. It concerns no other person.), I could no longer contain myself, but gave full utterance to what I thought of it: and it was not until Charlotte had addressed herself to the two other ladies, that I remembered their presence, and observed them sitting mute with astonishment. The aunt looked at me several times with an air of raillery, which, however, I did not at all mind. We talked of the pleasures of dancing. "If it is a fault to love it," said Charlotte, "I am ready to confess that I prize it above all other amusements. If anything disturbs me, I go to the piano, play an air to which I have danced, and all goes right again directly." You, who know me, can fancy how steadfastly I gazed upon her rich dark eyes during these remarks, how my very soul gloated over her warm lips and fresh, glowing cheeks, how I became quite lost in the delightful meaning of her words, so much so, that I scarcely heard the actual expressions. In short, I alighted from the carriage like a person in a dream, and was so lost to the dim world around me, that I scarcely heard the music which resounded from the illuminated ballroom. The two Messrs. Andran and a certain N. N. (I cannot trouble myself with the names), who were the aunt's and Charlotte's partners, received us at the carriage-door, and took possession of their ladies, whilst I followed with mine. We commenced with a minuet. I led out one lady after another, and precisely those who were the most disagreeable could not bring themselves to leave off. Charlotte and her partner began an English country dance, and you must imagine my delight when it was their turn to dance the figure with us. You should see Charlotte dance. She dances with her whole heart and soul: her figure is all harmony, elegance, and grace, as if she were conscious of nothing else, and had no other thought or feeling; and, doubtless, for the moment, every other sensation is extinct. She was engaged for the second country dance, but promised me the third, and assured me, with the most agreeable freedom, that she was very fond of waltzing. "It is the custom here," she said, "for the previous partners to waltz together; but my partner is an indifferent waltzer, and will feel delighted if I save him the trouble. Your partner is not allowed to waltz, and, indeed, is equally incapable: but I observed during the country dance that you waltz well; so, if you will waltz with me, I beg you would propose it to my partner, and I will propose it to yours." We agreed, and it was arranged that our partners should mutually entertain each other. We set off, and, at first, delighted ourselves with the usual graceful motions of the arms. With what grace, with what ease, she moved! When the waltz commenced, and the dancers whirled around each other in the giddy maze, there was some confusion, owing to the incapacity of some of the dancers. We judiciously remained still, allowing the others to weary themselves; and, when the awkward dancers had withdrawn, we joined in, and kept it up famously together with one other couple,--Andran and his partner. Never did I dance more lightly. I felt myself more than mortal, holding this loveliest of creatures in my arms, flying, with her as rapidly as the wind, till I lost sight of every other object; and O Wilhelm, I vowed at that moment, that a maiden whom I loved, or for whom I felt the slightest attachment, never, never should waltz with any one else but with me, if I went to perdition for it!--you will understand this. We took a few turns in the room to recover our breath. Charlotte sat down, and felt refreshed by partaking of some oranges which I had had secured,--the only ones that had been left; but at every slice which, from politeness, she offered to her neighbours, I felt as though a dagger went through my heart. We were the second couple in the third country dance. As we were going down (and Heaven knows with what ecstasy I gazed at her arms and eyes, beaming with the sweetest feeling of pure and genuine enjoyment), we passed a lady whom I had noticed for her charming expression of countenance; although she was no longer young. She looked at Charlotte with a smile, then, holding up her finger in a threatening attitude, repeated twice in a very significant tone of voice the name of "Albert." "Who is Albert," said I to Charlotte, "if it is not impertinent to ask?" She was about to answer, when we were obliged to separate, in order to execute a figure in the dance; and, as we crossed over again in front of each other, I perceived she looked somewhat pensive. "Why need I conceal it from you?" she said, as she gave me her hand for the promenade. "Albert is a worthy man, to whom I am engaged." Now, there was nothing new to me in this (for the girls had told me of it on the way); but it was so far new that I had not thought of it in connection with her whom, in so short a time, I had learned to prize so highly. Enough, I became confused, got out in the figure, and occasioned general confusion; so that it required all Charlotte's presence of mind to set me right by pulling and pushing me into my proper place. The dance was not yet finished when the lightning which had for some time been seen in the horizon, and which I had asserted to proceed entirely from heat, grew more violent; and the thunder was heard above the music. When any distress or terror surprises us in the midst of our amusements, it naturally makes a deeper impression than at other times, either because the contrast makes us more keenly susceptible, or rather perhaps because our senses are then more open to impressions, and the shock is consequently stronger. To this cause I must ascribe the fright and shrieks of the ladies. One sagaciously sat down in a corner with her back to the window, and held her fingers to her ears; a second knelt down before her, and hid her face in her lap; a third threw herself between them, and embraced her sister with a thousand tears; some insisted on going home; others, unconscious of their actions, wanted sufficient presence of mind to repress the impertinence of their young partners, who sought to direct to themselves those sighs which the lips of our agitated beauties intended for heaven. Some of the gentlemen had gone down-stairs to smoke a quiet cigar, and the rest of the company gladly embraced a happy suggestion of the hostess to retire into another room which was provided with shutters and curtains. We had hardly got there, when Charlotte placed the chairs in a circle; and, when the company had sat down in compliance with her request, she forthwith proposed a round game. I noticed some of the company prepare their mouths and draw themselves up at the prospect of some agreeable forfeit. "Let us play at counting," said Charlotte. "Now, pay attention: I shall go round the circle from right to left; and each person is to count, one after the other, the number that comes to him, and must count fast; whoever stops or mistakes is to have a box on the ear, and so on, till we have counted a thousand." It was delightful to see the fun. She went round the circle with upraised arm. "One," said the first; "two," the second; "three," the third; and so on, till Charlotte went faster and faster. One made a mistake, instantly a box on the ear; and, amid the laughter that ensued, came another box; and so on, faster and faster. I myself came in for two. I fancied they were harder than the rest, and felt quite delighted. A general laughter and confusion put an end to the game long before we had counted as far as a thousand. The party broke up into little separate knots: the storm had ceased, and I followed Charlotte into the ballroom. On the way she said, "The game banished their fears of the storm." I could make no reply. "I myself," she continued, "was as much frightened as any of them; but by affecting courage, to keep up the spirits of the others, I forgot my apprehensions." We went to the window. It was still thundering at a distance: a soft rain was pouring down over the country, and filled the air around us with delicious odours. Charlotte leaned forward on her arm; her eyes wandered over the scene; she raised them to the sky, and then turned them upon me; they were moistened with tears; she placed her hand on mine and said, "Klopstock!" at once I remembered the magnificent ode which was in her thoughts: I felt oppressed with the weight of my sensations, and sank under them. It was more than I could bear. I bent over her hand, kissed it in a stream of delicious tears, and again looked up to her eyes. Divine Klopstock! why didst thou not see thy apotheosis in those eyes? And thy name so often profaned, would that I never heard it repeated! JUNE 19. I no longer remember where I stopped in my narrative: I only know it was two in the morning when I went to bed; and if you had been with me, that I might have talked instead of writing to you, I should, in all probability, have kept you up till daylight. I think I have not yet related what happened as we rode home from the ball, nor have I time to tell you now. It was a most magnificent sunrise: the whole country was refreshed, and the rain fell drop by drop from the trees in the forest. Our companions were asleep. Charlotte asked me if I did not wish to sleep also, and begged of me not to make any ceremony on her account. Looking steadfastly at her, I answered, "As long as I see those eyes open, there is no fear of my falling asleep." We both continued awake till we reached her door. The maid opened it softly, and assured her, in answer to her inquiries, that her father and the children were well, and still sleeping. I left her asking permission to visit her in the course of the day. She consented, and I went, and, since that time, sun, moon, and stars may pursue their course: I know not whether it is day or night; the whole world is nothing to me. JUNE 21. My days are as happy as those reserved by God for his elect; and, whatever be my fate hereafter, I can never say that I have not tasted joy,--the purest joy of life. You know Walheim. I am now completely settled there. In that spot I am only half a league from Charlotte; and there I enjoy myself, and taste all the pleasure which can fall to the lot of man. Little did I imagine, when I selected Walheim for my pedestrian excursions, that all heaven lay so near it. How often in my wanderings from the hillside or from the meadows across the river, have I beheld this hunting-lodge, which now contains within it all the joy of my heart! I have often, my dear Wilhelm, reflected on the eagerness men feel to wander and make new discoveries, and upon that secret impulse which afterward inclines them to return to their narrow circle, conform to the laws of custom, and embarrass themselves no longer with what passes around them. It is so strange how, when I came here first, and gazed upon that lovely valley from the hillside, I felt charmed with the entire scene surrounding me. The little wood opposite--how delightful to sit under its shade! How fine the view from that point of rock! Then, that delightful chain of hills, and the exquisite valleys at their feet! Could I but wander and lose myself amongst them! I went, and returned without finding what I wished. Distance, my friend, is like futurity. A dim vastness is spread before our souls: the perceptions of our mind are as obscure as those of our vision; and we desire earnestly to surrender up our whole being, that it may be filled with the complete and perfect bliss of one glorious emotion. But alas! when we have attained our object, when the distant there becomes the present here, all is changed: we are as poor and circumscribed as ever, and our souls still languish for unattainable happiness. So does the restless traveller pant for his native soil, and find in his own cottage, in the arms of his wife, in the affections of his children, and in the labour necessary for their support, that happiness which he had sought in vain through the wide world. When, in the morning at sunrise, I go out to Walheim, and with my own hands gather in the garden the pease which are to serve for my dinner, when I sit down to shell them, and read my Homer during the intervals, and then, selecting a saucepan from the kitchen, fetch my own butter, put my mess on the fire, cover it up, and sit down to stir it as occasion requires, I figure to myself the illustrious suitors of Penelope, killing, dressing, and preparing their own oxen and swine. Nothing fills me with a more pure and genuine sense of happiness than those traits of patriarchal life which, thank Heaven! I can imitate without affectation. Happy is it, indeed, for me that my heart is capable of feeling the same simple and innocent pleasure as the peasant whose table is covered with food of his own rearing, and who not only enjoys his meal, but remembers with delight the happy days and sunny mornings when he planted it, the soft evenings when he watered it, and the pleasure he experienced in watching its daily growth. JUNE 29. The day before yesterday, the physician came from the town to pay a visit to the judge. He found me on the floor playing with Charlotte's children. Some of them were scrambling over me, and others romped with me; and, as I caught and tickled them, they made a great noise. The doctor is a formal sort of personage: he adjusts the plaits of his ruffles, and continually settles his frill whilst he is talking to you; and he thought my conduct beneath the dignity of a sensible man. I could perceive this by his countenance. But I did not suffer myself to be disturbed. I allowed him to continue his wise conversation, whilst I rebuilt the children's card houses for them as fast as they threw them down. He went about the town afterward, complaining that the judge's children were spoiled enough before, but that now Werther was completely ruining them. Yes, my dear Wilhelm, nothing on this earth affects my heart so much as children. When I look on at their doings; when I mark in the little creatures the seeds of all those virtues and qualities which they will one day find so indispensable; when I behold in the obstinate all the future firmness and constancy of a noble character; in the capricious, that levity and gaiety of temper which will carry them lightly over the dangers and troubles of life, their whole nature simple and unpolluted,--then I call to mind the golden words of the Great Teacher of mankind, "Unless ye become like one of these!" And now, my friend, these children, who are our equals, whom we ought to consider as our models, we treat them as though they were our subjects. They are allowed no will of their own. And have we, then, none ourselves? Whence comes our exclusive right? Is it because we are older and more experienced? Great God! from the height of thy heaven thou beholdest great children and little children, and no others; and thy Son has long since declared which afford thee greatest pleasure. But they believe in him, and hear him not,--that, too, is an old story; and they train their children after their own image, etc. Adieu, Wilhelm: I will not further bewilder myself with this subject. JULY 1. The consolation Charlotte can bring to an invalid I experience from my own heart, which suffers more from her absence than many a poor creature lingering on a bed of sickness. She is gone to spend a few days in the town with a very worthy woman, who is given over by the physicians, and wishes to have Charlotte near her in her last moments. I accompanied her last week on a visit to the Vicar of S--, a small village in the mountains, about a league hence. We arrived about four o'clock: Charlotte had taken her little sister with her. When we entered the vicarage court, we found the good old man sitting on a bench before the door, under the shade of two large walnut-trees. At the sight of Charlotte he seemed to gain new life, rose, forgot his stick, and ventured to walk toward her. She ran to him, and made him sit down again; then, placing herself by his side, she gave him a number of messages from her father, and then caught up his youngest child, a dirty, ugly little thing, the joy of his old age, and kissed it. I wish you could have witnessed her attention to this old man,--how she raised her voice on account of his deafness; how she told him of healthy young people, who had been carried off when it was least expected; praised the virtues of Carlsbad, and commended his determination to spend the ensuing summer there; and assured him that he looked better and stronger than he did when she saw him last. I, in the meantime, paid attention to his good lady. The old man seemed quite in spirits; and as I could not help admiring the beauty of the walnut-trees, which formed such an agreeable shade over our heads, he began, though with some little difficulty, to tell us their history. "As to the oldest," said he, "we do not know who planted it,--some say one clergyman, and some another: but the younger one, there behind us, is exactly the age of my wife, fifty years old next October; her father planted it in the morning, and in the evening she came into the world. My wife's father was my predecessor here, and I cannot tell you how fond he was of that tree; and it is fully as dear to me. Under the shade of that very tree, upon a log of wood, my wife was seated knitting, when I, a poor student, came into this court for the first time, just seven and twenty years ago." Charlotte inquired for his daughter. He said she was gone with Herr Schmidt to the meadows, and was with the haymakers. The old man then resumed his story, and told us how his predecessor had taken a fancy to him, as had his daughter likewise; and how he had become first his curate, and subsequently his successor. He had scarcely finished his story when his daughter returned through the garden, accompanied by the above-mentioned Herr Schmidt. She welcomed Charlotte affectionately, and I confess I was much taken with her appearance. She was a lively-looking, good-humoured brunette, quite competent to amuse one for a short time in the country. Her lover (for such Herr Schmidt evidently appeared to be) was a polite, reserved personage, and would not join our conversation, notwithstanding all Charlotte's endeavours to draw him out. I was much annoyed at observing, by his countenance, that his silence did not arise from want of talent, but from caprice and ill-humour. This subsequently became very evident, when we set out to take a walk, and Frederica joining Charlotte, with whom I was talking, the worthy gentleman's face, which was naturally rather sombre, became so dark and angry that Charlotte was obliged to touch my arm, and remind me that I was talking too much to Frederica. Nothing distresses me more than to see men torment each other; particularly when in the flower of their age, in the very season of pleasure, they waste their few short days of sunshine in quarrels and disputes, and only perceive their error when it is too late to repair it. This thought dwelt upon my mind; and in the evening, when we returned to the vicar's, and were sitting round the table with our bread end milk, the conversation turned on the joys and sorrows of the world, I could not resist the temptation to inveigh bitterly against ill-humour. "We are apt," said I, "to complain, but--with very little cause, that our happy days are few, and our evil days many. If our hearts were always disposed to receive the benefits Heaven sends us, we should acquire strength to support evil when it comes." "But," observed the vicar's wife, "we cannot always command our tempers, so much depends upon the constitution: when the body suffers, the mind is ill at ease." "I acknowledge that," I continued; "but we must consider such a disposition in the light of a disease, and inquire whether there is no remedy for it." "I should be glad to hear one," said Charlotte: "at least, I think very much depends upon ourselves; I know it is so with me. When anything annoys me, and disturbs my temper, I hasten into the garden, hum a couple of country dances, and it is all right with me directly." "That is what I meant," I replied; "ill-humour resembles indolence: it is natural to us; but if once we have courage to exert ourselves, we find our work run fresh from our hands, and we experience in the activity from which we shrank a real enjoyment." Frederica listened very attentively: and the young man objected, that we were not masters of ourselves, and still less so of our feelings. "The question is about a disagreeable feeling," I added, "from which every one would willingly escape, but none know their own power without trial. Invalids are glad to consult physicians, and submit to the most scrupulous regimen, the most nauseous medicines, in order to recover their health." I observed that the good old man inclined his head, and exerted himself to hear our discourse; so I raised my voice, and addressed myself directly to him. "We preach against a great many crimes," I observed, "but I never remember a sermon delivered against ill-humour." "That may do very well for your town clergymen," said he: "country people are never ill-humoured; though, indeed, it might be useful, occasionally, to my wife for instance, and the judge." We all laughed, as did he likewise very cordially, till he fell into a fit of coughing, which interrupted our conversation for a time. Herr Schmidt resumed the subject. "You call ill humour a crime," he remarked, "but I think you use too strong a term." "Not at all," I replied, "if that deserves the name which is so pernicious to ourselves and our neighbours. Is it not enough that we want the power to make one another happy, must we deprive each other of the pleasure which we can all make for ourselves? Show me the man who has the courage to hide his ill-humour, who bears the whole burden himself, without disturbing the peace of those around him. No: ill-humour arises from an inward consciousness of our own want of merit, from a discontent which ever accompanies that envy which foolish vanity engenders. We see people happy, whom we have not made so, and cannot endure the sight." Charlotte looked at me with a smile; she observed the emotion with which I spoke: and a tear in the eyes of Frederica stimulated me to proceed. "Woe unto those," I said, "who use their power over a human heart to destroy the simple pleasures it would naturally enjoy! All the favours, all the attentions, in the world cannot compensate for the loss of that happiness which a cruel tyranny has destroyed." My heart was full as I spoke. A recollection of many things which had happened pressed upon my mind, and filled my eyes with tears. "We should daily repeat to ourselves," I exclaimed, "that we should not interfere with our friends, unless to leave them in possession of their own joys, and increase their happiness by sharing it with them! But when their souls are tormented by a violent passion, or their hearts rent with grief, is it in your power to afford them the slightest consolation? "And when the last fatal malady seizes the being whose untimely grave you have prepared, when she lies languid and exhausted before you, her dim eyes raised to heaven, and the damp of death upon her pallid brow, there you stand at her bedside like a condemned criminal, with the bitter feeling that your whole fortune could not save her; and the agonising thought wrings you, that all your efforts are powerless to impart even a moment's strength to the departing soul, or quicken her with a transitory consolation." At these words the remembrance of a similar scene at which I had been once present fell with full force upon my heart. I buried my face in my handkerchief, and hastened from the room, and was only recalled to my recollection by Charlotte's voice, who reminded me that it was time to return home. With what tenderness she chid me on the way for the too eager interest I took in everything! She declared it would do me injury, and that I ought to spare myself. Yes, my angel! I will do so for your sake. JULY 6. She is still with her dying friend, and is still the same bright, beautiful creature whose presence softens pain, and sheds happiness around whichever way she turns. She went out yesterday with her little sisters: I knew it, and went to meet them; and we walked together. In about an hour and a half we returned to the town. We stopped at the spring I am so fond of, and which is now a thousand times dearer to me than ever. Charlotte seated herself upon the low wall, and we gathered about her. I looked around, and recalled the time when my heart was unoccupied and free. "Dear fountain!" I said, "since that time I have no more come to enjoy cool repose by thy fresh stream: I have passed thee with careless steps, and scarcely bestowed a glance upon thee." I looked down, and observed Charlotte's little sister, Jane, coming up the steps with a glass of water. I turned toward Charlotte, and I felt her influence over me. Jane at the moment approached with the glass. Her sister, Marianne, wished to take it from her. "No!" cried the child, with the sweetest expression of face, "Charlotte must drink first." The affection and simplicity with which this was uttered so charmed me, that I sought to express my feelings by catching up the child and kissing her heartily. She was frightened, and began to cry. "You should not do that," said Charlotte: I felt perplexed. "Come, Jane," she continued, taking her hand, and leading her down the steps again, "it is no matter: wash yourself quickly in the fresh water." I stood and watched them; and when I saw the little dear rubbing her cheeks with her wet hands, in full belief that all the impurities contracted from my ugly beard would be washed off by the miraculous water, and how, though Charlotte said it would do, she continued still to wash with all her might, as though she thought too much were better than too little, I assure you, Wilhelm, I never attended a baptism with greater reverence; and, when Charlotte came up from the well, I could have prostrated myself as before the prophet of an Eastern nation. In the evening I would not resist telling the story to a person who, I thought, possessed some natural feeling, because he was a man of understanding. But what a mistake I made. He maintained it was very wrong of Charlotte, that we should not deceive children, that such things occasioned countless mistakes and superstitions, from which we were bound to protect the young. It occurred to me then, that this very man had been baptised only a week before; so I said nothing further, but maintained the justice of my own convictions. We should deal with children as God deals with us, we are happiest under the influence of innocent delusions. JULY 8. What a child is man that he should be so solicitous about a look! What a child is man! We had been to Walheim: the ladies went in a carriage; but during our walk I thought I saw in Charlotte's dark eyes--I am a fool--but forgive me! you should see them,--those eyes.--However, to be brief (for my own eyes are weighed down with sleep), you must know, when the ladies stepped into their carriage again, young W. Seldstadt, Andran, and I were standing about the door. They are a merry set of fellows, and they were all laughing and joking together. I watched Charlotte's eyes. They wandered from one to the other; but they did not light on me, on me, who stood there motionless, and who saw nothing but her! My heart bade her a thousand times adieu, but she noticed me not. The carriage drove off; and my eyes filled with tears. I looked after her: suddenly I saw Charlotte's bonnet leaning out of the window, and she turned to look back, was it at me? My dear friend, I know not; and in this uncertainty I find consolation. Perhaps she turned to look at me. Perhaps! Good-night--what a child I am! JULY 10. You should see how foolish I look in company when her name is mentioned, particularly when I am asked plainly how I like her. How I like her! I detest the phrase. What sort of creature must he be who merely liked Charlotte, whose whole heart and senses were not entirely absorbed by her. Like her! Some one asked me lately how I liked Ossian. JULY 11. Madame M--is very ill. I pray for her recovery, because Charlotte shares my sufferings. I see her occasionally at my friend's house, and to-day she has told me the strangest circumstance. Old M--is a covetous, miserly fellow, who has long worried and annoyed the poor lady sadly; but she has borne her afflictions patiently. A few days ago, when the physician informed us that her recovery was hopeless, she sent for her husband (Charlotte was present), and addressed him thus: "I have something to confess, which, after my decease, may occasion trouble and confusion. I have hitherto conducted your household as frugally and economically as possible, but you must pardon me for having defrauded you for thirty years. At the commencement of our married life, you allowed a small sum for the wants of the kitchen, and the other household expenses. When our establishment increased and our property grew larger, I could not persuade you to increase the weekly allowance in proportion: in short, you know, that, when our wants were greatest, you required me to supply everything with seven florins a week. I took the money from you without an observation, but made up the weekly deficiency from the money-chest; as nobody would suspect your wife of robbing the household bank. But I have wasted nothing, and should have been content to meet my eternal Judge without this confession, if she, upon whom the management of your establishment will devolve after my decease, would be free from embarrassment upon your insisting that the allowance made to me, your former wife, was sufficient." I talked with Charlotte of the inconceivable manner in which men allow themselves to be blinded; how any one could avoid suspecting some deception, when seven florins only were allowed to defray expenses twice as great. But I have myself known people who believed, without any visible astonishment, that their house possessed the prophet's never-failing cruse of oil. JULY 13. No, I am not deceived. In her dark eyes I read a genuine interest in me and in my fortunes. Yes, I feel it; and I may believe my own heart which tells me--dare I say it?--dare I pronounce the divine words?--that she loves me! That she loves me! How the idea exalts me in my own eyes! And, as you can understand my feelings, I may say to you, how I honour myself since she loves me! Is this presumption, or is it a consciousness of the truth? I do not know a man able to supplant me in the heart of Charlotte; and yet when she speaks of her betrothed with so much warmth and affection, I feel like the soldier who has been stripped of his honours and titles, and deprived of his sword. JULY 16. How my heart beats when by accident I touch her finger, or my feet meet hers under the table! I draw back as if from a furnace; but a secret force impels me forward again, and my senses become disordered. Her innocent, unconscious heart never knows what agony these little familiarities inflict upon me. Sometimes when we are talking she lays her hand upon mine, and in the eagerness of conversation comes closer to me, and her balmy breath reaches my lips,--when I feel as if lightning had struck me, and that I could sink into the earth. And yet, Wilhelm, with all this heavenly confidence,--if I know myself, and should ever dare--you understand me. No, no! my heart is not so corrupt, it is weak, weak enough but is not that a degree of corruption? She is to me a sacred being. All passion is still in her presence: I cannot express my sensations when I am near her. I feel as if my soul beat in every nerve of my body. There is a melody which she plays on the piano with angelic skill,--so simple is it, and yet so spiritual! It is her favourite air; and, when she plays the first note, all pain, care, and sorrow disappear from me in a moment. I believe every word that is said of the magic of ancient music. How her simple song enchants me! Sometimes, when I am ready to commit suicide, she sings that air; and instantly the gloom and madness which hung over me are dispersed, and I breathe freely again. JULY 18. Wilhelm, what is the world to our hearts without love? What is a magic-lantern without light? You have but to kindle the flame within, and the brightest figures shine on the white wall; and, if love only show us fleeting shadows, we are yet happy, when, like mere children, we behold them, and are transported with the splendid phantoms. I have not been able to see Charlotte to-day. I was prevented by company from which I could not disengage myself. What was to be done? I sent my servant to her house, that I might at least see somebody to-day who had been near her. Oh, the impatience with which I waited for his return! the joy with which I welcomed him! I should certainly have caught him in my arms, and kissed him, if I had not been ashamed. It is said that the Bonona stone, when placed in the sun, attracts the rays, and for a time appears luminous in the dark. So was it with me and this servant. The idea that Charlotte's eyes had dwelt on his countenance, his cheek, his very apparel, endeared them all inestimably to me, so that at the moment I would not have parted from him for a thousand crowns. His presence made me so happy! Beware of laughing at me, Wilhelm. Can that be a delusion which makes us happy? JULY 19. "I shall see her today!" I exclaim with delight, when I rise in the morning, and look out with gladness of heart at the bright, beautiful sun. "I shall see her today!" And then I have no further wish to form: all, all is included in that one thought. JULY 20. I cannot assent to your proposal that I should accompany the ambassador to ------. I do not love subordination; and we all know that he is a rough, disagreeable person to be connected with. You say my mother wishes me to be employed. I could not help laughing at that. Am I not sufficiently employed? And is it not in reality the same, whether I shell peas or count lentils? The world runs on from one folly to another; and the man who, solely from regard to the opinion of others, and without any wish or necessity of his own, toils after gold, honour, or any other phantom, is no better than a fool. JULY 24. You insist so much on my not neglecting my drawing, that it would be as well for me to say nothing as to confess how little I have lately done. I never felt happier, I never understood nature better, even down to the veriest stem or smallest blade of grass; and yet I am unable to express myself: my powers of execution are so weak, everything seems to swim and float before me, so that I cannot make a clear, bold outline. But I fancy I should succeed better if I had some clay or wax to model. I shall try, if this state of mind continues much longer, and will take to modelling, if I only knead dough. I have commenced Charlotte's portrait three times, and have as often disgraced myself. This is the more annoying, as I was formerly very happy in taking likenesses. I have since sketched her profile, and must content myself with that. JULY 25. Yes, dear Charlotte! I will order and arrange everything. Only give me more commissions, the more the better. One thing, however, I must request: use no more writing-sand with the dear notes you send me. Today I raised your letter hastily to my lips, and it set my teeth on edge. JULY 26. I have often determined not to see her so frequently. But who could keep such a resolution? Every day I am exposed to the temptation, and promise faithfully that to-morrow I will really stay away: but, when tomorrow comes, I find some irresistible reason for seeing her; and, before I can account for it, I am with her again. Either she has said on the previous evening "You will be sure to call to-morrow,"--and who could stay away then?--or she gives me some commission, and I find it essential to take her the answer in person; or the day is fine, and I walk to Walheim; and, when I am there, it is only half a league farther to her. I am within the charmed atmosphere, and soon find myself at her side. My grandmother used to tell us a story of a mountain of loadstone. When any vessels came near it, they were instantly deprived of their ironwork: the nails flew to the mountain, and the unhappy crew perished amidst the disjointed planks. JULY 30. Albert is arrived, and I must take my departure. Were he the best and noblest of men, and I in every respect his inferior, I could not endure to see him in possession of such a perfect being. Possession!--enough, Wilhelm: her betrothed is here,--a fine, worthy fellow, whom one cannot help liking. Fortunately I was not present at their meeting. It would have broken my heart! And he is so considerate: he has not given Charlotte one kiss in my presence. Heaven reward him for it! I must love him for the respect with which he treats her. He shows a regard for me, but for this I suspect I am more indebted to Charlotte than to his own fancy for me. Women have a delicate tact in such matters, and it should be so. They cannot always succeed in keeping two rivals on terms with each other; but, when they do, they are the only gainers. I cannot help esteeming Albert. The coolness of his temper contrasts strongly with the impetuosity of mine, which I cannot conceal. He has a great deal of feeling, and is fully sensible of the treasure he possesses in Charlotte. He is free from ill-humour, which you know is the fault I detest most. He regards me as a man of sense; and my attachment to Charlotte, and the interest I take in all that concerns her, augment his triumph and his love. I shall not inquire whether he may not at times tease her with some little jealousies; as I know, that, were I in his place, I should not be entirely free from such sensations. But, be that as it may, my pleasure with Charlotte is over. Call it folly or infatuation, what signifies a name? The thing speaks for itself. Before Albert came, I knew all that I know now. I knew I could make no pretensions to her, nor did I offer any, that is, as far as it was possible, in the presence of so much loveliness, not to pant for its enjoyment. And now, behold me like a silly fellow, staring with astonishment when another comes in, and deprives me of my love. I bite my lips, and feel infinite scorn for those who tell me to be resigned, because there is no help for it. Let me escape from the yoke of such silly subterfuges! I ramble through the woods; and when I return to Charlotte, and find Albert sitting by her side in the summer-house in the garden, I am unable to bear it, behave like a fool, and commit a thousand extravagances. "For Heaven's sake," said Charlotte today, "let us have no more scenes like those of last night! You terrify me when you are so violent." Between ourselves, I am always away now when he visits her: and I feel delighted when I find her alone. AUGUST 8. Believe me, dear Wilhelm, I did not allude to you when I spoke so severely of those who advise resignation to inevitable fate. I did not think it possible for you to indulge such a sentiment. But in fact you are right. I only suggest one objection. In this world one is seldom reduced to make a selection between two alternatives. There are as many varieties of conduct and opinion as there are turns of feature between an aquiline nose and a flat one. You will, therefore, permit me to concede your entire argument, and yet contrive means to escape your dilemma. Your position is this, I hear you say: "Either you have hopes of obtaining Charlotte, or you have none. Well, in the first case, pursue your course, and press on to the fulfilment of your wishes. In the second, be a man, and shake off a miserable passion, which will enervate and destroy you." My dear friend, this is well and easily said. But would you require a wretched being, whose life is slowly wasting under a lingering disease, to despatch himself at once by the stroke of a dagger? Does not the very disorder which consumes his strength deprive him of the courage to effect his deliverance? You may answer me, if you please, with a similar analogy, "Who would not prefer the amputation of an arm to the periling of life by doubt and procrastination!" But I know not if I am right, and let us leave these comparisons. Enough! There are moments, Wilhelm, when I could rise up and shake it all off, and when, if I only knew where to go, I could fly from this place. THE SAME EVENING. My diary, which I have for some time neglected, came before me today; and I am amazed to see how deliberately I have entangled myself step by step. To have seen my position so clearly, and yet to have acted so like a child! Even still I behold the result plainly, and yet have no thought of acting with greater prudence. AUGUST 10. If I were not a fool, I could spend the happiest and most delightful life here. So many agreeable circumstances, and of a kind to ensure a worthy man's happiness, are seldom united. Alas! I feel it too sensibly,--the heart alone makes our happiness! To be admitted into this most charming family, to be loved by the father as a son, by the children as a father, and by Charlotte! then the noble Albert, who never disturbs my happiness by any appearance of ill-humour, receiving me with the heartiest affection, and loving me, next to Charlotte, better than all the world! Wilhelm, you would be delighted to hear us in our rambles, and conversations about Charlotte. Nothing in the world can be more absurd than our connection, and yet the thought of it often moves me to tears. He tells me sometimes of her excellent mother; how, upon her death-bed, she had committed her house and children to Charlotte, and had given Charlotte herself in charge to him; how, since that time, a new spirit had taken possession of her; how, in care and anxiety for their welfare, she became a real mother to them; how every moment of her time was devoted to some labour of love in their behalf,--and yet her mirth and cheerfulness had never forsaken her. I walk by his side, pluck flowers by the way, arrange them carefully into a nosegay, then fling them into the first stream I pass, and watch them as they float gently away. I forget whether I told you that Albert is to remain here. He has received a government appointment, with a very good salary; and I understand he is in high favour at court. I have met few persons so punctual and methodical in business. AUGUST 12. Certainly Albert is the best fellow in the world. I had a strange scene with him yesterday. I went to take leave of him; for I took it into my head to spend a few days in these mountains, from where I now write to you. As I was walking up and down his room, my eye fell upon his pistols. "Lend me those pistols," said I, "for my journey." "By all means," he replied, "if you will take the trouble to load them; for they only hang there for form." I took down one of them; and he continued, "Ever since I was near suffering for my extreme caution, I will have nothing to do with such things." I was curious to hear the story. "I was staying," said he, "some three months ago, at a friend's house in the country. I had a brace of pistols with me, unloaded; and I slept without any anxiety. One rainy afternoon I was sitting by myself, doing nothing, when it occurred to me I do not know how that the house might be attacked, that we might require the pistols, that we might in short, you know how we go on fancying, when we have nothing better to do. I gave the pistols to the servant, to clean and load. He was playing with the maid, and trying to frighten her, when the pistol went off--God knows how!--the ramrod was in the barrel; and it went straight through her right hand, and shattered the thumb. I had to endure all the lamentation, and to pay the surgeon's bill; so, since that time, I have kept all my weapons unloaded. But, my dear friend, what is the use of prudence? We can never be on our guard against all possible dangers. However,"--now, you must know I can tolerate all men till they come to "however;"--for it is self-evident that every universal rule must have its exceptions. But he is so exceedingly accurate, that, if he only fancies he has said a word too precipitate, or too general, or only half true, he never ceases to qualify, to modify, and extenuate, till at last he appears to have said nothing at all. Upon this occasion, Albert was deeply immersed in his subject: I ceased to listen to him, and became lost in reverie. With a sudden motion, I pointed the mouth of the pistol to my forehead, over the right eye. "What do you mean?" cried Albert, turning back the pistol. "It is not loaded," said I. "And even if not," he answered with impatience, "what can you mean? I cannot comprehend how a man can be so mad as to shoot himself, and the bare idea of it shocks me." "But why should any one," said I, "in speaking of an action, venture to pronounce it mad or wise, or good or bad? What is the meaning of all this? Have you carefully studied the secret motives of our actions? Do you understand--can you explain the causes which occasion them, and make them inevitable? If you can, you will be less hasty with your decision." "But you will allow," said Albert; "that some actions are criminal, let them spring from whatever motives they may." I granted it, and shrugged my shoulders. "But still, my good friend," I continued, "there are some exceptions here too. Theft is a crime; but the man who commits it from extreme poverty, with no design but to save his family from perishing, is he an object of pity, or of punishment? Who shall throw the first stone at a husband, who, in the heat of just resentment, sacrifices his faithless wife and her perfidious seducer? or at the young maiden, who, in her weak hour of rapture, forgets herself in the impetuous joys of love? Even our laws, cold and cruel as they are, relent in such cases, and withhold their punishment." "That is quite another thing," said Albert; "because a man under the influence of violent passion loses all power of reflection, and is regarded as intoxicated or insane." "Oh! you people of sound understandings," I replied, smiling, "are ever ready to exclaim 'Extravagance, and madness, and intoxication!' You moral men are so calm and so subdued! You abhor the drunken man, and detest the extravagant; you pass by, like the Levite, and thank God, like the Pharisee, that you are not like one of them. I have been more than once intoxicated, my passions have always bordered on extravagance: I am not ashamed to confess it; for I have learned, by my own experience, that all extraordinary men, who have accomplished great and astonishing actions, have ever been decried by the world as drunken or insane. And in private life, too, is it not intolerable that no one can undertake the execution of a noble or generous deed, without giving rise to the exclamation that the doer is intoxicated or mad? Shame upon you, ye sages!" "This is another of your extravagant humours," said Albert: "you always exaggerate a case, and in this matter you are undoubtedly wrong; for we were speaking of suicide, which you compare with great actions, when it is impossible to regard it as anything but a weakness. It is much easier to die than to bear a life of misery with fortitude." I was on the point of breaking off the conversation, for nothing puts me so completely out of patience as the utterance of a wretched commonplace when I am talking from my inmost heart. However, I composed myself, for I had often heard the same observation with sufficient vexation; and I answered him, therefore, with a little warmth, "You call this a weakness--beware of being led astray by appearances. When a nation, which has long groaned under the intolerable yoke of a tyrant, rises at last and throws off its chains, do you call that weakness? The man who, to rescue his house from the flames, finds his physical strength redoubled, so that he lifts burdens with ease, which, in the absence of excitement, he could scarcely move; he who, under the rage of an insult, attacks and puts to flight half a score of his enemies, are such persons to be called weak? My good friend, if resistance be strength, how can the highest degree of resistance be a weakness?" Albert looked steadfastly at me, and said, "Pray forgive me, but I do not see that the examples you have adduced bear any relation to the question." "Very likely," I answered; "for I have often been told that my style of illustration borders a little on the absurd. But let us see if we cannot place the matter in another point of view, by inquiring what can be a man's state of mind who resolves to free himself from the burden of life,--a burden often so pleasant to bear,--for we cannot otherwise reason fairly upon the subject. "Human nature," I continued, "has its limits. It is able to endure a certain degree of joy, sorrow, and pain, but becomes annihilated as soon as this measure is exceeded. The question, therefore, is, not whether a man is strong or weak, but whether he is able to endure the measure of his sufferings. The suffering may be moral or physical; and in my opinion it is just as absurd to call a man a coward who destroys himself, as to call a man a coward who dies of a malignant fever." "Paradox, all paradox!" exclaimed Albert. "Not so paradoxical as you imagine," I replied. "You allow that we designate a disease as mortal when nature is so severely attacked, and her strength so far exhausted, that she cannot possibly recover her former condition under any change that may take place. "Now, my good friend, apply this to the mind; observe a man in his natural, isolated condition; consider how ideas work, and how impressions fasten on him, till at length a violent passion seizes him, destroying all his powers of calm reflection, and utterly ruining him. "It is in vain that a man of sound mind and cool temper understands the condition of such a wretched being, in vain he counsels him. He can no more communicate his own wisdom to him than a healthy man can instil his strength into the invalid, by whose bedside he is seated." Albert thought this too general. I reminded him of a girl who had drowned herself a short time previously, and I related her history. She was a good creature, who had grown up in the narrow sphere of household industry and weekly appointed labour; one who knew no pleasure beyond indulging in a walk on Sundays, arrayed in her best attire, accompanied by her friends, or perhaps joining in the dance now and then at some festival, and chatting away her spare hours with a neighbour, discussing the scandal or the quarrels of the village, trifles sufficient to occupy her heart. At length the warmth of her nature is influenced by certain new and unknown wishes. Inflamed by the flatteries of men, her former pleasures become by degrees insipid, till at length she meets with a youth to whom she is attracted by an indescribable feeling; upon him she now rests all her hopes; she forgets the world around her; she sees, hears, desires nothing but him, and him only. He alone occupies all her thoughts. Uncorrupted by the idle indulgence of an enervating vanity, her affection moving steadily toward its object, she hopes to become his, and to realise, in an everlasting union with him, all that happiness which she sought, all that bliss for which she longed. His repeated promises confirm her hopes: embraces and endearments, which increase the ardour of her desires, overmaster her soul. She floats in a dim, delusive anticipation of her happiness; and her feelings become excited to their utmost tension. She stretches out her arms finally to embrace the object of all her wishes and her lover forsakes her. Stunned and bewildered, she stands upon a precipice. All is darkness around her. No prospect, no hope, no consolation--forsaken by him in whom her existence was centred! She sees nothing of the wide world before her, thinks nothing of the many individuals who might supply the void in her heart; she feels herself deserted, forsaken by the world; and, blinded and impelled by the agony which wrings her soul, she plunges into the deep, to end her sufferings in the broad embrace of death. See here, Albert, the history of thousands; and tell me, is not this a case of physical infirmity? Nature has no way to escape from the labyrinth: her powers are exhausted: she can contend no longer, and the poor soul must die. "Shame upon him who can look on calmly, and exclaim, 'The foolish girl! she should have waited; she should have allowed time to wear off the impression; her despair would have been softened, and she would have found another lover to comfort her.' One might as well say, 'The fool, to die of a fever! why did he not wait till his strength was restored, till his blood became calm? all would then have gone well, and he would have been alive now.'" Albert, who could not see the justice of the comparison, offered some further objections, and, amongst others, urged that I had taken the case of a mere ignorant girl. But how any man of sense, of more enlarged views and experience, could be excused, he was unable to comprehend. "My friend!" I exclaimed, "man is but man; and, whatever be the extent of his reasoning powers, they are of little avail when passion rages within, and he feels himself confined by the narrow limits of nature. It were better, then--but we will talk of this some other time," I said, and caught up my hat. Alas! my heart was full; and we parted without conviction on either side. How rarely in this world do men understand each other! AUGUST 15. There can be no doubt that in this world nothing is so indispensable as love. I observe that Charlotte could not lose me without a pang, and the very children have but one wish; that is, that I should visit them again to-morrow. I went this afternoon to tune Charlotte's piano. But I could not do it, for the little ones insisted on my telling them a story; and Charlotte herself urged me to satisfy them. I waited upon them at tea, and they are now as fully contented with me as with Charlotte; and I told them my very best tale of the princess who was waited upon by dwarfs. I improve myself by this exercise, and am quite surprised at the impression my stories create. If I sometimes invent an incident which I forget upon the next narration, they remind one directly that the story was different before; so that I now endeavour to relate with exactness the same anecdote in the same monotonous tone, which never changes. I find by this, how much an author injures his works by altering them, even though they be improved in a poetical point of view. The first impression is readily received. We are so constituted that we believe the most incredible things; and, once they are engraved upon the memory, woe to him who would endeavour to efface them. AUGUST 18. Must it ever be thus,--that the source of our happiness must also be the fountain of our misery? The full and ardent sentiment which animated my heart with the love of nature, overwhelming me with a torrent of delight, and which brought all paradise before me, has now become an insupportable torment, a demon which perpetually pursues and harasses me. When in bygone days I gazed from these rocks upon yonder mountains across the river, and upon the green, flowery valley before me, and saw all nature budding and bursting around; the hills clothed from foot to peak with tall, thick forest trees; the valleys in all their varied windings, shaded with the loveliest woods; and the soft river gliding along amongst the lisping reeds, mirroring the beautiful clouds which the soft evening breeze wafted across the sky,--when I heard the groves about me melodious with the music of birds, and saw the million swarms of insects dancing in the last golden beams of the sun, whose setting rays awoke the humming beetles from their grassy beds, whilst the subdued tumult around directed my attention to the ground, and I there observed the arid rock compelled to yield nutriment to the dry moss, whilst the heath flourished upon the barren sands below me, all this displayed to me the inner warmth which animates all nature, and filled and glowed within my heart. I felt myself exalted by this overflowing fulness to the perception of the Godhead, and the glorious forms of an infinite universe became visible to my soul! Stupendous mountains encompassed me, abysses yawned at my feet, and cataracts fell headlong down before me; impetuous rivers rolled through the plain, and rocks and mountains resounded from afar. In the depths of the earth I saw innumerable powers in motion, and multiplying to infinity; whilst upon its surface, and beneath the heavens, there teemed ten thousand varieties of living creatures. Everything around is alive with an infinite number of forms; while mankind fly for security to their petty houses, from the shelter of which they rule in their imaginations over the wide-extended universe. Poor fool! in whose petty estimation all things are little. From the inaccessible mountains, across the desert which no mortal foot has trod, far as the confines of the unknown ocean, breathes the spirit of the eternal Creator; and every atom to which he has given existence finds favour in his sight. Ah, how often at that time has the flight of a bird, soaring above my head, inspired me with the desire of being transported to the shores of the immeasurable waters, there to quaff the pleasures of life from the foaming goblet of the Infinite, and to partake, if but for a moment even, with the confined powers of my soul, the beatitude of that Creator who accomplishes all things in himself, and through himself! My dear friend, the bare recollection of those hours still consoles me. Even this effort to recall those ineffable sensations, and give them utterance, exalts my soul above itself, and makes me doubly feel the intensity of my present anguish. It is as if a curtain had been drawn from before my eyes, and, instead of prospects of eternal life, the abyss of an ever open grave yawned before me. Can we say of anything that it exists when all passes away, when time, with the speed of a storm, carries all things onward,--and our transitory existence, hurried along by the torrent, is either swallowed up by the waves or dashed against the rocks? There is not a moment but preys upon you,--and upon all around you, not a moment in which you do not yourself become a destroyer. The most innocent walk deprives of life thousands of poor insects: one step destroys the fabric of the industrious ant, and converts a little world into chaos. No: it is not the great and rare calamities of the world, the floods which sweep away whole villages, the earthquakes which swallow up our towns, that affect me. My heart is wasted by the thought of that destructive power which lies concealed in every part of universal nature. Nature has formed nothing that does not consume itself, and every object near it: so that, surrounded by earth and air, and all the active powers, I wander on my way with aching heart; and the universe is to me a fearful monster, for ever devouring its own offspring. AUGUST 21. In vain do I stretch out my arms toward her when I awaken in the morning from my weary slumbers. In vain do I seek for her at night in my bed, when some innocent dream has happily deceived me, and placed her near me in the fields, when I have seized her hand and covered it with countless kisses. And when I feel for her in the half confusion of sleep, with the happy sense that she is near, tears flow from my oppressed heart; and, bereft of all comfort, I weep over my future woes. AUGUST 22. What a misfortune, Wilhelm! My active spirits have degenerated into contented indolence. I cannot be idle, and yet I am unable to set to work. I cannot think: I have no longer any feeling for the beauties of nature, and books are distasteful to me. Once we give ourselves up, we are totally lost. Many a time and oft I wish I were a common labourer; that, awakening in the morning, I might have but one prospect, one pursuit, one hope, for the day which has dawned. I often envy Albert when I see him buried in a heap of papers and parchments, and I fancy I should be happy were I in his place. Often impressed with this feeling I have been on the point of writing to you and to the minister, for the appointment at the embassy, which you think I might obtain. I believe I might procure it. The minister has long shown a regard for me, and has frequently urged me to seek employment. It is the business of an hour only. Now and then the fable of the horse recurs to me. Weary of liberty, he suffered himself to be saddled and bridled, and was ridden to death for his pains. I know not what to determine upon. For is not this anxiety for change the consequence of that restless spirit which would pursue me equally in every situation of life? AUGUST 28. If my ills would admit of any cure, they would certainly be cured here. This is my birthday, and early in the morning I received a packet from Albert. Upon opening it, I found one of the pink ribbons which Charlotte wore in her dress the first time I saw her, and which I had several times asked her to give me. With it were two volumes in duodecimo of Wetstein's "Homer," a book I had often wished for, to save me the inconvenience of carrying the large Ernestine edition with me upon my walks. You see how they anticipate my wishes, how well they understand all those little attentions of friendship, so superior to the costly presents of the great, which are humiliating. I kissed the ribbon a thousand times, and in every breath inhaled the remembrance of those happy and irrevocable days which filled me with the keenest joy. Such, Wilhelm, is our fate. I do not murmur at it: the flowers of life are but visionary. How many pass away, and leave no trace behind--how few yield any fruit--and the fruit itself, how rarely does it ripen! And yet there are flowers enough! and is it not strange, my friend, that we should suffer the little that does really ripen, to rot, decay, and perish unenjoyed? Farewell! This is a glorious summer. I often climb into the trees in Charlotte's orchard, and shake down the pears that hang on the highest branches. She stands below, and catches them as they fall. AUGUST 30. Unhappy being that I am! Why do I thus deceive myself? What is to come of all this wild, aimless, endless passion? I cannot pray except to her. My imagination sees nothing but her: all surrounding objects are of no account, except as they relate to her. In this dreamy state I enjoy many happy hours, till at length I feel compelled to tear myself away from her. Ah, Wilhelm, to what does not my heart often compel me! When I have spent several hours in her company, till I feel completely absorbed by her figure, her grace, the divine expression of her thoughts, my mind becomes gradually excited to the highest excess, my sight grows dim, my hearing confused, my breathing oppressed as if by the hand of a murderer, and my beating heart seeks to obtain relief for my aching senses. I am sometimes unconscious whether I really exist. If in such moments I find no sympathy, and Charlotte does not allow me to enjoy the melancholy consolation of bathing her hand with my tears, I feel compelled to tear myself from her, when I either wander through the country, climb some precipitous cliff, or force a path through the trackless thicket, where I am lacerated and torn by thorns and briers; and thence I find relief. Sometimes I lie stretched on the ground, overcome with fatigue and dying with thirst; sometimes, late in the night, when the moon shines above me, I recline against an aged tree in some sequestered forest, to rest my weary limbs, when, exhausted and worn, I sleep till break of day. O Wilhelm! the hermit's cell, his sackcloth, and girdle of thorns would be luxury and indulgence compared with what I suffer. Adieu! I see no end to this wretchedness except the grave. SEPTEMBER 3. I must away. Thank you, Wilhelm, for determining my wavering purpose. For a whole fortnight I have thought of leaving her. I must away. She has returned to town, and is at the house of a friend. And then, Albert--yes, I must go. SEPTEMBER 10. Oh, what a night, Wilhelm! I can henceforth bear anything. I shall never see her again. Oh, why cannot I fall on your neck, and, with floods of tears and raptures, give utterance to all the passions which distract my heart! Here I sit gasping for breath, and struggling to compose myself. I wait for day, and at sunrise the horses are to be at the door. And she is sleeping calmly, little suspecting that she has seen me for the last time. I am free. I have had the courage, in an interview of two hours' duration, not to betray my intention. And O Wilhelm, what a conversation it was! Albert had promised to come to Charlotte in the garden immediately after supper. I was upon the terrace under the tall chestnut trees, and watched the setting sun. I saw him sink for the last time beneath this delightful valley and silent stream. I had often visited the same spot with Charlotte, and witnessed that glorious sight; and now--I was walking up and down the very avenue which was so dear to me. A secret sympathy had frequently drawn me thither before I knew Charlotte; and we were delighted when, in our early acquaintance, we discovered that we each loved the same spot, which is indeed as romantic as any that ever captivated the fancy of an artist. From beneath the chestnut trees, there is an extensive view. But I remember that I have mentioned all this in a former letter, and have described the tall mass of beech trees at the end, and how the avenue grows darker and darker as it winds its way among them, till it ends in a gloomy recess, which has all the charm of a mysterious solitude. I still remember the strange feeling of melancholy which came over me the first time I entered that dark retreat, at bright midday. I felt some secret foreboding that it would, one day, be to me the scene of some happiness or misery. I had spent half an hour struggling between the contending thoughts of going and returning, when I heard them coming up the terrace. I ran to meet them. I trembled as I took her hand, and kissed it. As we reached the top of the terrace, the moon rose from behind the wooded hill. We conversed on many subjects, and, without perceiving it, approached the gloomy recess. Charlotte entered, and sat down. Albert seated himself beside her. I did the same, but my agitation did not suffer me to remain long seated. I got up, and stood before her, then walked backward and forward, and sat down again. I was restless and miserable. Charlotte drew our attention to the beautiful effect of the moonlight, which threw a silver hue over the terrace in front of us, beyond the beech trees. It was a glorious sight, and was rendered more striking by the darkness which surrounded the spot where we were. We remained for some time silent, when Charlotte observed, "Whenever I walk by moonlight, it brings to my remembrance all my beloved and departed friends, and I am filled with thoughts of death and futurity. We shall live again, Werther!" she continued, with a firm but feeling voice; "but shall we know one another again what do you think? what do you say?" "Charlotte," I said, as I took her hand in mine, and my eyes filled with tears, "we shall see each other again--here and hereafter we shall meet again." I could say no more. Why, Wilhelm, should she put this question to me, just at the moment when the fear of our cruel separation filled my heart? "And oh! do those departed ones know how we are employed here? do they know when we are well and happy? do they know when we recall their memories with the fondest love? In the silent hour of evening the shade of my mother hovers around me; when seated in the midst of my children, I see them assembled near me, as they used to assemble near her; and then I raise my anxious eyes to heaven, and wish she could look down upon us, and witness how I fulfil the promise I made to her in her last moments, to be a mother to her children. With what emotion do I then exclaim, 'Pardon, dearest of mothers, pardon me, if I do not adequately supply your place! Alas! I do my utmost. They are clothed and fed; and, still better, they are loved and educated. Could you but see, sweet saint! the peace and harmony that dwells amongst us, you would glorify God with the warmest feelings of gratitude, to whom, in your last hour, you addressed such fervent prayers for our happiness.'" Thus did she express herself; but O Wilhelm! who can do justice to her language? how can cold and passionless words convey the heavenly expressions of the spirit? Albert interrupted her gently. "This affects you too deeply, my dear Charlotte. I know your soul dwells on such recollections with intense delight; but I implore--" "O Albert!" she continued, "I am sure you do not forget the evenings when we three used to sit at the little round table, when papa was absent, and the little ones had retired. You often had a good book with you, but seldom read it; the conversation of that noble being was preferable to everything,--that beautiful, bright, gentle, and yet ever-toiling woman. God alone knows how I have supplicated with tears on my nightly couch, that I might be like her." I threw myself at her feet, and, seizing her hand, bedewed it with a thousand tears. "Charlotte!" I exclaimed, "God's blessing and your mother's spirit are upon you." "Oh! that you had known her," she said, with a warm pressure of the hand. "She was worthy of being known to you." I thought I should have fainted: never had I received praise so flattering. She continued, "And yet she was doomed to die in the flower of her youth, when her youngest child was scarcely six months old. Her illness was but short, but she was calm and resigned; and it was only for her children, especially the youngest, that she felt unhappy. When her end drew nigh, she bade me bring them to her. I obeyed. The younger ones knew nothing of their approaching loss, while the elder ones were quite overcome with grief. They stood around the bed; and she raised her feeble hands to heaven, and prayed over them; then, kissing them in turn, she dismissed them, and said to me, 'Be you a mother to them.' I gave her my hand. 'You are promising much, my child,' she said: 'a mother's fondness and a mother's care! I have often witnessed, by your tears of gratitude, that you know what is a mother's tenderness: show it to your brothers and sisters, and be dutiful and faithful to your father as a wife; you will be his comfort.' She inquired for him. He had retired to conceal his intolerable anguish,--he was heartbroken, 'Albert, you were in the room.' She heard some one moving: she inquired who it was, and desired you to approach. She surveyed us both with a look of composure and satisfaction, expressive of her conviction that we should be happy,--happy with one another." Albert fell upon her neck, and kissed her, and exclaimed, "We are so, and we shall be so!" Even Albert, generally so tranquil, had quite lost his composure; and I was excited beyond expression. "And such a being," She continued, "was to leave us, Werther! Great God, must we thus part with everything we hold dear in this world? Nobody felt this more acutely than the children: they cried and lamented for a long time afterward, complaining that men had carried away their dear mamma." Charlotte rose. It aroused me; but I continued sitting, and held her hand. "Let us go," she said: "it grows late." She attempted to withdraw her hand: I held it still. "We shall see each other again," I exclaimed: "we shall recognise each other under every possible change! I am going," I continued, "going willingly; but, should I say for ever, perhaps I may not keep my word. Adieu, Charlotte; adieu, Albert. We shall meet again." "Yes: tomorrow, I think," she answered with a smile. Tomorrow! how I felt the word! Ah! she little thought, when she drew her hand away from mine. They walked down the avenue. I stood gazing after them in the moonlight. I threw myself upon the ground, and wept: I then sprang up, and ran out upon the terrace, and saw, under the shade of the linden-trees, her white dress disappearing near the garden-gate. I stretched out my arms, and she vanished.

Book One: Letters of May 4-May 30

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After a very short note from the editor encouraging the reader to sympathize with Werther's tragic fate, The Sorrows of Young Werther begins with Werther in an ebullient mood, having escaped a young woman named Leonora, whom he implies was madly in love with him. Werther has retreated to a quiet country setting in Germany with the intention of spending his time drawing. He has left behind both his best friend, Wilhelm, and his mother, who is left unnamed. Werther and his mother do not seem to get along particularly well - a fact that we can assume because he never addresses her directly, instead speaking to her through Wilhelm. He notes, however, that he has taken care of some family business stemming from a disagreement between his mother and his aunt. Werther is not a very diligent artist; he spends most of his time wandering the nearby rural regions and observing the customs of the peasant class. He finds the peasants enchanting and watches them as they go about their daily tasks. When he sees young women fetching water from a local well, Werther is reminded of the women in the Bible who do the same. In general, he sees the countryside as operating according to an ancient patriarchal code, untainted by the influence of erudition. Several more examples reveal how Werther has had enough of book-learning. He tells Wilhelm not to send his library, saying that he is happy to read his Bible and his Homer - nothing more. Later, Werther dryly relates a conversation with a young man he calls V., who is enthusiastic about the latest Enlightenment thinkers and theories. Werther likes V. but is rather condescending toward his learnedness. Another acquaintance Werther makes is the Prince's bailiff, S. He notes that the bailiff's eldest daughter is much admired-Werther, too, will come to admire her, to say the least. Although he takes joy in his surroundings, Werther's gloomy side is apparent right from the start. He writes that he finds many of the people he meets "thoroughly repulsive and quite intolerable in their demonstrations of friendship." He also states that the happiest people are the most ignorant - those who lack the intelligence or the curiosity to see the injustice of the world. This haughty note is complemented by an obsession with death. In the letter of May 22, Werther alludes to suicide, saying that through it one can "leave this prison whenever he likes." Werther writes that he has taken to wandering over to a charming nearby village, Wahlheim. While there, he makes the acquaintance of the local landlady and some of the peasant children. He makes a sketch of two peasant brothers that depicts the elder allowing the younger to rest in his arms. Werther thinks his sketch is marvelous and attributes its success to the spontaneous beauty of nature. He also meets the brothers' mother, whose husband has gone to Switzerland to retrieve his inheritance from an obstinate cousin. Also in Wahlheim, Werther meets a young "country lad" who has a rather tragic story to tell: he is in love with the widow he works for and pines all day long for her. Werther finds the rustic eloquence of the country lad as he talks about his beloved just as beautiful as the most perfectly crafted poems of the intelligentsia. He admires spontaneous passion that is imperfectly expressed and channeled through raw nature.

First, a word about the editor's note with which the novel opens. Elizabeth Mayer and Louise Bogan's otherwise very good translation of Werther leaves out this opening note, to the detriment of the work. The note is important because it serves as a framework for the novel. First of all, it spoils the "surprise" of the ending, as it suggests that Werther meets an untimely fate. This is important to a full reading of the novel, however, as the reader should have no illusions that Werther's tale might end happily. Second, the epigraph exhorts those who might follow Werther's example to take solace in their pain by reading about Werther's. Goethe presents his book as a friend and companion - essentially the equivalent of a living pen pal like Wilhelm. Of course, historically, Werther probably incited more suicides than it prevented, but Goethe included the note specifically to warn readers against this possibility. Finally, the epigraph emphasizes the fact that this volume is edited. This is Goethe's ambiguous gesture toward verisimilitude-he pretends that an "editor," either he or someone else, has collected all of the available documents about Werther's tragic end. It is important to keep in mind while reading Werther that Goethe wants us to know that the story is edited and organized from a perspective other than Werther's. In the original 1764 edition of Werther this editorial hand was quite subdued, but he especially emphasizes the role of the editor in the revised edition of 1787, the version that is almost always read today. At the close of the novel, the editorial perspective will become especially important. Just as the editor's note contains the seed of tragedy that will grow over the course of the novel, so the first six weeks of letters provide us with a fairly complete portrait of Werther, emphasizing his shortsightedness as well as his likeability. Werther does not, in truth, change a great deal over the course of the novel; his tragic potential and suicidal personality merely unfold according to their own logic. Goethe is the master of the Bildungsroman , a novel form in which the kernel of nature in a protagonist comes into its own through narrative action. Even in this, his first work of fiction, Goethe operates according to the rule of the Bildungsroman. Werther does not do anything unlike him; the possibility of his suicide is present from the first words of the book, in the editor's note. Lotte's rejection merely catalyzes his natural chemistry. However, in the first letters that he writes to Wilhelm, Werther is nearly always happy. He observes the world with acute sensitivity, always aware that all observations must come from himself. Indeed, Werther's own subjectivity fascinates him. For example, in his letter of May 10, Werther writes, "I am so happy, dear friend, so completely sunk in the sensation of sheer being, that my art suffers. I could not draw anything just now, not a line, and yet I have never been a greater painter than at the present moment." What, one might ask, does Werther mean by that? Werther uses this paradox to illustrate his reflective state. For Werther-and for Romantics in general, of all eras and ages-perception of nature itself is a kind of painting. Because we always play an active role in interpreting the world-through our eyes, ears, noses, tongues, and flesh-we are, in a way, painting the world. This deep inner communion with outer and inner nature, in all its confusion, is the most emblematic attribute of the Sturm und Drang movement in Germanic literature, of which Werther is the preeminent example. Werther's intense subjectivity provides a basis for his theory of art, which he outlines extensively in his letters of May 26 and May 30. The dominant aesthetic theory at the time of Werther's publication held that beauty was revealed through rules-that it is through form and constraint that art comes to be. Werther admits that there is some truth in this opinion, but contends that truly overwhelming beauty follows from nature itself. In the simple-yet-profound, unstaged charity of one peasant brother caring for another, for example, Werther sees a glimpse of the infinite, the sublime. He is so passionate in his feeling that truth and beauty reveal themselves best in unadorned nature that he mocks anyone who attempts to learn about these absolutes through schoolbooks or theories . The Enlightenment, he thinks, has got it all wrong. The true locus of beauty is not in the intellect or in reason, but in natural feeling and passion. It is worth adding that Goethe himself, though certainly sympathetic to Werther's passion, does not see things so simply; his novel, in fact, is a work of form, "rules," and intellect just as much as it is a passionate, unadorned outpouring of the heart. Werther is undeniably a very interesting fellow: he rejects the erudition and rationality popular during his age, and has lovely, poetic things to say about himself. However, one cannot overlook his many obvious flaws. Remember, for example, that the novel is composed almost entirely of letters to Wilhelm. How often does he ask about Wilhelm, or about his mother? How much genuine interest does he show in anyone except himself? Even when he praises others, Werther is primarily praising his own perception of that person. Werther's standard for judging whether someone is worth his time is quite simple: he asks himself, "How brilliant does this person think I am?" Also, Werther has a complicated relationship with the lower classes. He is a youth of obvious privilege. Though he is estranged from his mother, he is financially dependant on her, and spends his days doing essentially nothing-pretending to draw. Of course the laborers fascinate him: he hasn't done a day's work in his life. Furthermore, his idealization of lower class workers actually disguises a strain of snobbery. He writes of the peasants, "I know quite well that we are not and cannot ever be equal; but I am convinced that anyone who thinks it is necessary to keep his distance from the so-called mob in order to gain its respect is as much to blame as the coward who hides from his enemy because he fears to be defeated." Werther considers himself superior to the peasants he draws and converses with; they are like a spoiled boy's playthings, valued for their charming, poetic ignorance, useful because they offer Werther opportunities to feel liberal and wise. This example and several others, including the whole of the letter of May 22, suggest a lurking misanthropy beneath Werther's romantic facade, which will become more prevalent as the novel continues.

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all_chapterized_books/2062-chapters/2.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/All for Love/section_0_part_0.txt

All for Love.act 1.scene 1

act 1, scene 1

{"name": "Part 1", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210630170925/https://www.gradesaver.com/all-for-love/study-guide/summary-part-1", "summary": "The play opens with a preface outlining the liberties that Dryden, the playwright, will take with the familiar story of Antony and Cleopatra. Act 1, Scene 1 takes place in the Temple of Isis, where Serapion and Myris, priests of Isis, are discussing recent portents of doom, most notably the flooding of the Nile, whirlwinds, and various storms, that have brought sea creatures onto the land. Alexas, Cleopatra's eunuch, enters and asks if Serapion has only imagined these things, but he insists they are real. \"A foolish dream,/Bred from the fumes of indigested feasts,/And holy luxury,\" says Alexas, dismissively. The men discuss the fact that Antony has been disgraced by his defeat at the hands of Octavius in the Battle of Actium. Alexas, Serapion, and Myris are all worried that Cleopatra is losing favor with Antony. Serapion describes the ways that Antony and Cleopatra's union has benefited the nation: \"If he be vanquished,/Or make his peace, Egypt is doomed to be/A Roman province; and our plenteous harvests/Must then redeem the scarceness of their soil./While Antony stood firm, our Alexandria/Rivalled proud Rome ,/And fortune striding, like a vast Colossus,/Could fix an equal foot of empire here.\" We learn that Antony has locked himself away in hopes that solitude will cure him of his love for Cleopatra, which is why Alexas is worried about the fate of their relationship. Ventidius, one of Antony's generals, enters and speaks to one of Antony's gentlemen about Antony's state. The gentleman tells him that Antony is not eating, sleeping, or drinking. Even after the priests and the gentlemen have left, Ventidius dares to stay and speak with the reclusive Antony, who has insisted on receiving no visitors. Serapion calls on the Egyptians to throw Antony a feast for his birthday, in order to strengthen the union between him and Cleopatra. Antony enters in despair, without seeing Ventidius, and mourns his loss at Actium, and his floundering reputation. Suddenly, Ventidius makes himself known to Antony, and Antony is mad that Ventidius would visit him at this time. Ventidius compliments him, and tries to convince Antony that he is still powerful and can achieve greatness once again. Ventidius tells Antony that there is an army of 12 legions waiting for him in Syria that have remained loyal to him. Antony requests that the armies come to him in Egypt, but Ventidius tells him that they are only willing to fight on his behalf if he ends his affair with Cleopatra. They feel that he is being disloyal to the Roman cause by staying in Egypt. Eventually, Ventidius restores Antony's spirit and convinces him to leave Egypt and join his army. Antony says to Ventidius, \"Oh, thou hast fired me; my soul's up in arms,/And mans each part about me: Once again,/That noble eagerness of fight has seized me;/That eagerness with which I darted upward/To Cassius' camp: In vain the steepy hill/Opposed my way; in vain a war of spears/Sung round my head, and planted on my shield;/I won the trenches, while my foremost men/Lagged on the plain below.\"", "analysis": "John Dryden takes on very well-known source material for his play All For Love: the affair between Antony and Cleopatra. As the story of Antony and Cleopatra already served as inspiration for Shakespeare's play at the beginning of the 17th century, Dryden was undertaking less to tell a new story than to tell it with his own spin. In his preface, he outlines the fact that he will be telling a different kind of story, introducing new characters and focusing on a specific part of the story. The play opens with Serapion and Myris, two Egyptian priests, and Alexas, Cleopatra's eunuch, discussing dramatic omens that have been cropping up lately. They discuss the fact that the turmoil taking place politically and romantically in Egypt is manifesting in the natural world. Dryden drops the audience into the middle of the drama, rather than building up to the dramatic conflict of the play. This is one element that sets his rendering of the story apart from Shakespeare's. From the start, the romantic and erotic connection between Antony and Cleopatra is framed as explicitly political. The fact that Antony has shacked up with Cleopatra in Egypt has had major repercussions on his career as a general, and the characters, in speaking about him, frame him as having not only been seduced by Cleopatra herself, but by Egypt as a nation. His affair, the distraction of his erotic relationship with Cleopatra, is what has led to his political downfall. Thus, it is his general Ventidius' obligation to convince him not only to believe in himself more and fight for his reputation, but to leave his love affair with Cleopatra behind. When he visits Antony, Ventidius speaks to him about the 12 legions that have remained loyal to him, but are only willing to fight with him if he denounces his love for Cleopatra and no longer fights on behalf of Egypt. He outlines the explicitly political ramifications of their affair when he says, \"Why should they fight indeed, to make her conquer,/And make you more a slave? to gain you kingdoms,/Which, for a kiss, at your next midnight feast,/You'll sell to her? Then she new-names her jewels,/And calls this diamond such or such a tax;/Each pendant in her ear shall be a province.\" Antony is defined several times--first in the preface by Dryden and then by Ventidius--as a good and virtuous man who is often misguided and gets off track. When talking to a gentleman of Antony's, Ventidius says, \"Virtue's his path; but sometimes 'tis too narrow/For his vast soul; and then he starts out wide,/And bounds into a vice, that bears him far/From his first course, and plunges him in ills.\" In this, we see that Antony is defined by his \"vast soul,\" his boldness and his bravery, but also by the ways that he is inconsistent."}

Act I Scene I.--The Temple of Isis Enter SERAPION, MYRIS, Priests of Isis SERAPION. Portents and prodigies have grown so frequent, That they have lost their name. Our fruitful Nile Flowed ere the wonted season, with a torrent So unexpected, and so wondrous fierce, That the wild deluge overtook the haste Even of the hinds that watched it: Men and beasts Were borne above the tops of trees, that grew On the utmost margin of the water-mark. Then, with so swift an ebb the flood drove backward, It slipt from underneath the scaly herd: Here monstrous phocae panted on the shore; Forsaken dolphins there with their broad tails, Lay lashing the departing waves: hard by them, Sea horses floundering in the slimy mud, Tossed up their heads, and dashed the ooze about them. Enter ALEXAS behind them MYRIS. Avert these omens, Heaven! SERAPION. Last night, between the hours of twelve and one, In a lone aisle of the temple while I walked, A whirlwind rose, that, with a violent blast, Shook all the dome: the doors around me clapt; The iron wicket, that defends the vault, Where the long race of Ptolemies is laid, Burst open, and disclosed the mighty dead. From out each monument, in order placed, An armed ghost starts up: the boy-king last Reared his inglorious head. A peal of groans Then followed, and a lamentable voice Cried, Egypt is no more! My blood ran back, My shaking knees against each other knocked; On the cold pavement down I fell entranced, And so unfinished left the horrid scene. ALEXAS. And dreamed you this? or did invent the story, [Showing himself.] To frighten our Egyptian boys withal, And train them up, betimes, in fear of priesthood? SERAPION. My lord, I saw you not, Nor meant my words should reach you ears; but what I uttered was most true. ALEXAS. A foolish dream, Bred from the fumes of indigested feasts, And holy luxury. SERAPION. I know my duty: This goes no further. ALEXAS. 'Tis not fit it should; Nor would the times now bear it, were it true. All southern, from yon hills, the Roman camp Hangs o'er us black and threatening like a storm Just breaking on our heads. SERAPION. Our faint Egyptians pray for Antony; But in their servile hearts they own Octavius. MYRIS. Why then does Antony dream out his hours, And tempts not fortune for a noble day, Which might redeem what Actium lost? ALEXAS. He thinks 'tis past recovery. SERAPION. Yet the foe Seems not to press the siege. ALEXAS. Oh, there's the wonder. Maecenas and Agrippa, who can most With Caesar, are his foes. His wife Octavia, Driven from his house, solicits her revenge; And Dolabella, who was once his friend, Upon some private grudge, now seeks his ruin: Yet still war seems on either side to sleep. SERAPION. 'Tis strange that Antony, for some days past, Has not beheld the face of Cleopatra; But here, in Isis' temple, lives retired, And makes his heart a prey to black despair. ALEXAS. 'Tis true; and we much fear he hopes by absence To cure his mind of love. SERAPION. If he be vanquished, Or make his peace, Egypt is doomed to be A Roman province; and our plenteous harvests Must then redeem the scarceness of their soil. While Antony stood firm, our Alexandria Rivalled proud Rome (dominion's other seat), And fortune striding, like a vast Colossus, Could fix an equal foot of empire here. ALEXAS. Had I my wish, these tyrants of all nature, Who lord it o'er mankind, rhould perish,--perish, Each by the other's sword; But, since our will Is lamely followed by our power, we must Depend on one; with him to rise or fall. SERAPION. How stands the queen affected? ALEXAS. Oh, she dotes, She dotes, Serapion, on this vanquished man, And winds herself about his mighty ruins; Whom would she yet forsake, yet yield him up, This hunted prey, to his pursuer's hands, She might preserve us all: but 'tis in vain-- This changes my designs, this blasts my counsels, And makes me use all means to keep him here. Whom I could wish divided from her arms, Far as the earth's deep centre. Well, you know The state of things; no more of your ill omens And black prognostics; labour to confirm The people's hearts. Enter VENTIDIUS, talking aside with a Gentleman of ANTONY'S SERAPION. These Romans will o'erhear us. But who's that stranger? By his warlike port, His fierce demeanour, and erected look, He's of no vulgar note. ALEXAS. Oh, 'tis Ventidius, Our emperor's great lieutenant in the East, Who first showed Rome that Parthia could be conquered. When Antony returned from Syria last, He left this man to guard the Roman frontiers. SERAPION. You seem to know him well. ALEXAS. Too well. I saw him at Cilicia first, When Cleopatra there met Antony: A mortal foe was to us, and Egypt. But,--let me witness to the worth I hate,-- A braver Roman never drew a sword; Firm to his prince, but as a friend, not slave, He ne'er was of his pleasures; but presides O'er all his cooler hours, and morning counsels: In short the plainness, fierceness, rugged virtue, Of an old true-stampt Roman lives in him. His coming bodes I know not what of ill To our affairs. Withdraw to mark him better; And I'll acquaint you why I sought you here, And what's our present work. [They withdraw to a corner of the stage; and VENTIDIUS, with the other, comes forward to the front.] VENTIDIUS. Not see him; say you? I say, I must, and will. GENTLEMAN. He has commanded, On pain of death, none should approach his presence. VENTIDIUS. I bring him news will raise his drooping spirits, Give him new life. GENTLEMAN. He sees not Cleopatra. VENTIDIUS. Would he had never seen her! GENTLEMAN. He eats not, drinks not, sleeps not, has no use Of anything, but thought; or if he talks, 'Tis to himself, and then 'tis perfect raving: Then he defies the world, and bids it pass, Sometimes he gnaws his lips, and curses loud The boy Octavius; then he draws his mouth Into a scornful smile, and cries, "Take all, The world's not worth my care." VENTIDIUS. Just, just his nature. Virtue's his path; but sometimes 'tis too narrow For his vast soul; and then he starts out wide, And bounds into a vice, that bears him far From his first course, and plunges him in ills: But, when his danger makes him find his faults, Quick to observe, and full of sharp remorse, He censures eagerly his own misdeeds, Judging himself with malice to himself, And not forgiving what as man he did, Because his other parts are more than man.-- He must not thus be lost. [ALEXAS and the Priests come forward.] ALEXAS. You have your full instructions, now advance, Proclaim your orders loudly. SERAPION. Romans, Egyptians, hear the queen's command. Thus Cleopatra bids: Let labour cease; To pomp and triumphs give this happy day, That gave the world a lord: 'tis Antony's. Live, Antony; and Cleopatra live! Be this the general voice sent up to heaven, And every public place repeat this echo. VENTIDIUS. Fine pageantry! [Aside.] SERAPION. Set out before your doors The images of all your sleeping fathers, With laurels crowned; with laurels wreath your posts, And strew with flowers the pavement; let the priests Do present sacrifice; pour out the wine, And call the gods to join with you in gladness. VENTIDIUS. Curse on the tongue that bids this general joy! Can they be friends of Antony, who revel When Antony's in danger? Hide, for shame, You Romans, your great grandsires' images, For fear their souls should animate their marbles, To blush at their degenerate progeny. ALEXAS. A love, which knows no bounds, to Antony, Would mark the day with honours, when all heaven Laboured for him, when each propitious star Stood wakeful in his orb, to watch that hour And shed his better influence. Her own birthday Our queen neglected like a vulgar fate, That passed obscurely by. VENTIDIUS. Would it had slept, Divided far from his; till some remote And future age had called it out, to ruin Some other prince, not him! ALEXAS. Your emperor, Though grown unkind, would be more gentle, than To upbraid my queen for loving him too well. VENTIDIUS. Does the mute sacrifice upbraid the priest! He knows him not his executioner. Oh, she has decked his ruin with her love, Led him in golden bands to gaudy slaughter, And made perdition pleasing: She has left him The blank of what he was. I tell thee, eunuch, she has quite unmanned him. Can any Roman see, and know him now, Thus altered from the lord of half mankind, Unbent, unsinewed, made a woman's toy, Shrunk from the vast extent of all his honours, And crampt within a corner of the world? O Antony! Thou bravest soldier, and thou best of friends! Bounteous as nature; next to nature's God! Couldst thou but make new worlds, so wouldst thou give them, As bounty were thy being! rough in battle, As the first Romans when they went to war; Yet after victory more pitiful Than all their praying virgins left at home! ALEXAS. Would you could add, to those more shining virtues, His truth to her who loves him. VENTIDIUS. Would I could not! But wherefore waste I precious hours with thee! Thou art her darling mischief, her chief engine, Antony's other fate. Go, tell thy queen, Ventidius is arrived, to end her charms. Let your Egyptian timbrels play alone, Nor mix effeminate sounds with Roman trumpets, You dare not fight for Antony; go pray And keep your cowards' holiday in temples. [Exeunt ALEXAS, SERAPION.] Re-enter the Gentleman of M. ANTONY 2 Gent. The emperor approaches, and commands, On pain of death, that none presume to stay. 1 Gent. I dare not disobey him. [Going out with the other.] VENTIDIUS. Well, I dare. But I'll observe him first unseen, and find Which way his humour drives: The rest I'll venture. [Withdraws.] Enter ANTONY, walking with a disturbed motion before he speaks ANTONY. They tell me, 'tis my birthday, and I'll keep it With double pomp of sadness. 'Tis what the day deserves, which gave me breath. Why was I raised the meteor of the world, Hung in the skies, and blazing as I travelled, 'Till all my fires were spent; and then cast downward, To be trod out by Caesar? VENTIDIUS. [aside.] On my soul, 'Tis mournful, wondrous mournful! ANTONY. Count thy gains. Now, Antony, wouldst thou be born for this? Glutton of fortune, thy devouring youth Has starved thy wanting age. VENTIDIUS. How sorrow shakes him! [Aside.] So, now the tempest tears him up by the roots, And on the ground extends the noble ruin. [ANTONY having thrown himself down.] Lie there, thou shadow of an emperor; The place thou pressest on thy mother earth Is all thy empire now: now it contains thee; Some few days hence, and then 'twill be too large, When thou'rt contracted in thy narrow urn, Shrunk to a few ashes; then Octavia (For Cleopatra will not live to see it), Octavia then will have thee all her own, And bear thee in her widowed hand to Caesar; Caesar will weep, the crocodile will weep, To see his rival of the universe Lie still and peaceful there. I'll think no more on't. ANTONY. Give me some music, look that it be sad. I'll soothe my melancholy, till I swell, And burst myself with sighing.-- [Soft music.] 'Tis somewhat to my humour; stay, I fancy I'm now turned wild, a commoner of nature; Of all forsaken, and forsaking all; Live in a shady forest's sylvan scene, Stretched at my length beneath some blasted oak, I lean my head upon the mossy bark, And look just of a piece as I grew from it; My uncombed locks, matted like mistletoe, Hang o'er my hoary face; a murm'ring brook Runs at my foot. VENTIDIUS. Methinks I fancy Myself there too. ANTONY. The herd come jumping by me, And fearless, quench their thirst, while I look on, And take me for their fellow-citizen. More of this image, more; it lulls my thoughts. [Soft music again.] VENTIDIUS. I must disturb him; I can hold no longer. [Stands before him.] ANTONY. [starting up]. Art thou Ventidius? VENTIDIUS. Are you Antony? I'm liker what I was, than you to him I left you last. ANTONY. I'm angry. VENTIDIUS. So am I. ANTONY. I would be private: leave me. VENTIDIUS. Sir, I love you, And therefore will not leave you. ANTONY. Will not leave me! Where have you learnt that answer? Who am I? VENTIDIUS. My emperor; the man I love next Heaven: If I said more, I think 'twere scare a sin: You're all that's good, and god-like. ANTONY. All that's wretched. You will not leave me then? VENTIDIUS. 'Twas too presuming To say I would not; but I dare not leave you: And, 'tis unkind in you to chide me hence So soon, when I so far have come to see you. ANTONY. Now thou hast seen me, art thou satisfied? For, if a friend, thou hast beheld enough; And, if a foe, too much. VENTIDIUS. Look, emperor, this is no common dew. [Weeping.] I have not wept this forty years; but now My mother comes afresh into my eyes; I cannot help her softness. ANTONY. By heavens, he weeps! poor good old man, he weeps! The big round drops course one another down The furrows of his cheeks.--Stop them, Ventidius, Or I shall blush to death, they set my shame, That caused them, full before me. VENTIDIUS. I'll do my best. ANTONY. Sure there's contagion in the tears of friends: See, I have caught it too. Believe me, 'tis not For my own griefs, but thine.--Nay, father! VENTIDIUS. Emperor. ANTONY. Emperor! Why, that's the style of victory; The conqu'ring soldier, red with unfelt wounds, Salutes his general so; but never more Shall that sound reach my ears. VENTIDIUS. I warrant you. ANTONY. Actium, Actium! Oh!-- VENTIDIUS. It sits too near you. ANTONY. Here, here it lies a lump of lead by day, And, in my short, distracted, nightly slumbers, The hag that rides my dreams.-- VENTIDIUS. Out with it; give it vent. ANTONY. Urge not my shame. I lost a battle,-- VENTIDIUS. So has Julius done. ANTONY. Thou favour'st me, and speak'st not half thou think'st; For Julius fought it out, and lost it fairly. But Antony-- VENTIDIUS. Nay, stop not. ANTONY. Antony-- Well, thou wilt have it,--like a coward, fled, Fled while his soldiers fought; fled first, Ventidius. Thou long'st to curse me, and I give thee leave. I know thou cam'st prepared to rail. VENTIDIUS. I did. ANTONY. I'll help thee.--I have been a man, Ventidius. VENTIDIUS. Yes, and a brave one! but-- ANTONY. I know thy meaning. But I have lost my reason, have disgraced The name of soldier, with inglorious ease. In the full vintage of my flowing honours, Sat still, and saw it prest by other hands. Fortune came smiling to my youth, and wooed it, And purple greatness met my ripened years. When first I came to empire, I was borne On tides of people, crowding to my triumphs; The wish of nations, and the willing world Received me as its pledge of future peace; I was so great, so happy, so beloved, Fate could not ruin me; till I took pains, And worked against my fortune, child her from me, And returned her loose; yet still she came again. My careless days, and my luxurious nights, At length have wearied her, and now she's gone, Gone, gone, divorced for ever. Help me, soldier, To curse this madman, this industrious fool, Who laboured to be wretched: Pr'ythee, curse me. VENTIDIUS. No. ANTONY. Why? VENTIDIUS. You are too sensible already Of what you've done, too conscious of your failings; And, like a scorpion, whipt by others first To fury, sting yourself in mad revenge. I would bring balm, and pour it in your wounds, Cure your distempered mind, and heal your fortunes. ANTONY. I know thou would'st. VENTIDIUS. I will. ANTONY. Ha, ha, ha, ha! VENTIDIUS. You laugh. ANTONY. I do, to see officious love. Give cordials to the dead. VENTIDIUS. You would be lost, then? ANTONY. I am. VENTIDIUS. I say you are not. Try your fortune. ANTONY. I have, to the utmost. Dost thou think me desperate, Without just cause? No, when I found all lost Beyond repair, I hid me from the world, And learnt to scorn it here; which now I do So heartily, I think it is not worth The cost of keeping. VENTIDIUS. Caesar thinks not so; He'll thank you for the gift he could not take. You would be killed like Tully, would you? do, Hold out your throat to Caesar, and die tamely. ANTONY. No, I can kill myself; and so resolve. VENTIDIUS. I can die with you too, when time shall serve; But fortune calls upon us now to live, To fight, to conquer. ANTONY. Sure thou dream'st, Ventidius. VENTIDIUS. No; 'tis you dream; you sleep away your hours In desperate sloth, miscalled philosophy. Up, up, for honour's sake; twelve legions wait you, And long to call you chief: By painful journeys I led them, patient both of heat and hunger, Down form the Parthian marches to the Nile. 'Twill do you good to see their sunburnt faces, Their scarred cheeks, and chopt hands: there's virtue in them. They'll sell those mangled limbs at dearer rates Than yon trim bands can buy. ANTONY. Where left you them? VENTIDIUS. I said in Lower Syria. ANTONY. Bring them hither; There may be life in these. VENTIDIUS. They will not come. ANTONY. Why didst thou mock my hopes with promised aids, To double my despair? They're mutinous. VENTIDIUS. Most firm and loyal. ANTONY. Yet they will not march To succour me. O trifler! VENTIDIUS. They petition You would make haste to head them. ANTONY. I'm besieged. VENTIDIUS. There's but one way shut up: How came I hither? ANTONY. I will not stir. VENTIDIUS. They would perhaps desire A better reason. ANTONY. I have never used My soldiers to demand a reason of My actions. Why did they refuse to march? VENTIDIUS. They said they would not fight for Cleopatra. ANTONY. What was't they said? VENTIDIUS. They said they would not fight for Cleopatra. Why should they fight indeed, to make her conquer, And make you more a slave? to gain you kingdoms, Which, for a kiss, at your next midnight feast, You'll sell to her? Then she new-names her jewels, And calls this diamond such or such a tax; Each pendant in her ear shall be a province. ANTONY. Ventidius, I allow your tongue free licence On all my other faults; but, on your life, No word of Cleopatra: she deserves More worlds than I can lose. VENTIDIUS. Behold, you Powers, To whom you have intrusted humankind! See Europe, Afric, Asia, put in balance, And all weighed down by one light, worthless woman! I think the gods are Antonies, and give, Like prodigals, this nether world away To none but wasteful hands. ANTONY. You grow presumptuous. VENTIDIUS. I take the privilege of plain love to speak. ANTONY. Plain love! plain arrogance, plain insolence! Thy men are cowards; thou, an envious traitor; Who, under seeming honesty, hast vented The burden of thy rank, o'erflowing gall. O that thou wert my equal; great in arms As the first Caesar was, that I might kill thee Without a stain to honour! VENTIDIUS. You may kill me; You have done more already,--called me traitor. ANTONY. Art thou not one? VENTIDIUS. For showing you yourself, Which none else durst have done? but had I been That name, which I disdain to speak again, I needed not have sought your abject fortunes, Come to partake your fate, to die with you. What hindered me to have led my conquering eagles To fill Octavius' bands? I could have been A traitor then, a glorious, happy traitor, And not have been so called. ANTONY. Forgive me, soldier; I've been too passionate. VENTIDIUS. You thought me false; Thought my old age betrayed you: Kill me, sir, Pray, kill me; yet you need not, your unkindness Has left your sword no work. ANTONY. I did not think so; I said it in my rage: Pr'ythee, forgive me. Why didst thou tempt my anger, by discovery Of what I would not hear? VENTIDIUS. No prince but you Could merit that sincerity I used, Nor durst another man have ventured it; But you, ere love misled your wandering eyes, Were sure the chief and best of human race, Framed in the very pride and boast of nature; So perfect, that the gods, who formed you, wondered At their own skill, and cried--A lucky hit Has mended our design. Their envy hindered, Else you had been immortal, and a pattern, When Heaven would work for ostentation's sake To copy out again. ANTONY. But Cleopatra-- Go on; for I can bear it now. VENTIDIUS. No more. ANTONY. Thou dar'st not trust my passion, but thou may'st; Thou only lov'st, the rest have flattered me. VENTIDIUS. Heaven's blessing on your heart for that kind word! May I believe you love me? Speak again. ANTONY. Indeed I do. Speak this, and this, and this. [Hugging him.] Thy praises were unjust; but, I'll deserve them, And yet mend all. Do with me what thou wilt; Lead me to victory! thou know'st the way. VENTIDIUS. And, will you leave this-- ANTONY. Pr'ythee, do not curse her, And I will leave her; though, Heaven knows, I love Beyond life, conquest, empire, all, but honour; But I will leave her. VENTIDIUS. That's my royal master; And, shall we fight? ANTONY. I warrant thee, old soldier. Thou shalt behold me once again in iron; And at the head of our old troops, that beat The Parthians, cry aloud--Come, follow me! VENTIDIUS. Oh, now I hear my emperor! in that word Octavius fell. Gods, let me see that day, And, if I have ten years behind, take all: I'll thank you for the exchange. ANTONY. O Cleopatra! VENTIDIUS. Again? ANTONY. I've done: In that last sigh she went. Caesar shall know what 'tis to force a lover From all he holds most dear. VENTIDIUS. Methinks, you breathe Another soul: Your looks are more divine; You speak a hero, and you move a god. ANTONY. Oh, thou hast fired me; my soul's up in arms, And mans each part about me: Once again, That noble eagerness of fight has seized me; That eagerness with which I darted upward To Cassius' camp: In vain the steepy hill Opposed my way; in vain a war of spears Sung round my head, and planted on my shield; I won the trenches, while my foremost men Lagged on the plain below. VENTIDIUS. Ye gods, ye gods, For such another honour! ANTONY. Come on, my soldier! Our hearts and arms are still the same: I long Once more to meet our foes; that thou and I, Like Time and Death, marching before our troops, May taste fate to them; mow them out a passage, And, entering where the foremost squadrons yield, Begin the noble harvest of the field. [Exeunt.]

Part 1

https://web.archive.org/web/20210630170925/https://www.gradesaver.com/all-for-love/study-guide/summary-part-1

The play opens with a preface outlining the liberties that Dryden, the playwright, will take with the familiar story of Antony and Cleopatra. Act 1, Scene 1 takes place in the Temple of Isis, where Serapion and Myris, priests of Isis, are discussing recent portents of doom, most notably the flooding of the Nile, whirlwinds, and various storms, that have brought sea creatures onto the land. Alexas, Cleopatra's eunuch, enters and asks if Serapion has only imagined these things, but he insists they are real. "A foolish dream,/Bred from the fumes of indigested feasts,/And holy luxury," says Alexas, dismissively. The men discuss the fact that Antony has been disgraced by his defeat at the hands of Octavius in the Battle of Actium. Alexas, Serapion, and Myris are all worried that Cleopatra is losing favor with Antony. Serapion describes the ways that Antony and Cleopatra's union has benefited the nation: "If he be vanquished,/Or make his peace, Egypt is doomed to be/A Roman province; and our plenteous harvests/Must then redeem the scarceness of their soil./While Antony stood firm, our Alexandria/Rivalled proud Rome ,/And fortune striding, like a vast Colossus,/Could fix an equal foot of empire here." We learn that Antony has locked himself away in hopes that solitude will cure him of his love for Cleopatra, which is why Alexas is worried about the fate of their relationship. Ventidius, one of Antony's generals, enters and speaks to one of Antony's gentlemen about Antony's state. The gentleman tells him that Antony is not eating, sleeping, or drinking. Even after the priests and the gentlemen have left, Ventidius dares to stay and speak with the reclusive Antony, who has insisted on receiving no visitors. Serapion calls on the Egyptians to throw Antony a feast for his birthday, in order to strengthen the union between him and Cleopatra. Antony enters in despair, without seeing Ventidius, and mourns his loss at Actium, and his floundering reputation. Suddenly, Ventidius makes himself known to Antony, and Antony is mad that Ventidius would visit him at this time. Ventidius compliments him, and tries to convince Antony that he is still powerful and can achieve greatness once again. Ventidius tells Antony that there is an army of 12 legions waiting for him in Syria that have remained loyal to him. Antony requests that the armies come to him in Egypt, but Ventidius tells him that they are only willing to fight on his behalf if he ends his affair with Cleopatra. They feel that he is being disloyal to the Roman cause by staying in Egypt. Eventually, Ventidius restores Antony's spirit and convinces him to leave Egypt and join his army. Antony says to Ventidius, "Oh, thou hast fired me; my soul's up in arms,/And mans each part about me: Once again,/That noble eagerness of fight has seized me;/That eagerness with which I darted upward/To Cassius' camp: In vain the steepy hill/Opposed my way; in vain a war of spears/Sung round my head, and planted on my shield;/I won the trenches, while my foremost men/Lagged on the plain below."

John Dryden takes on very well-known source material for his play All For Love: the affair between Antony and Cleopatra. As the story of Antony and Cleopatra already served as inspiration for Shakespeare's play at the beginning of the 17th century, Dryden was undertaking less to tell a new story than to tell it with his own spin. In his preface, he outlines the fact that he will be telling a different kind of story, introducing new characters and focusing on a specific part of the story. The play opens with Serapion and Myris, two Egyptian priests, and Alexas, Cleopatra's eunuch, discussing dramatic omens that have been cropping up lately. They discuss the fact that the turmoil taking place politically and romantically in Egypt is manifesting in the natural world. Dryden drops the audience into the middle of the drama, rather than building up to the dramatic conflict of the play. This is one element that sets his rendering of the story apart from Shakespeare's. From the start, the romantic and erotic connection between Antony and Cleopatra is framed as explicitly political. The fact that Antony has shacked up with Cleopatra in Egypt has had major repercussions on his career as a general, and the characters, in speaking about him, frame him as having not only been seduced by Cleopatra herself, but by Egypt as a nation. His affair, the distraction of his erotic relationship with Cleopatra, is what has led to his political downfall. Thus, it is his general Ventidius' obligation to convince him not only to believe in himself more and fight for his reputation, but to leave his love affair with Cleopatra behind. When he visits Antony, Ventidius speaks to him about the 12 legions that have remained loyal to him, but are only willing to fight with him if he denounces his love for Cleopatra and no longer fights on behalf of Egypt. He outlines the explicitly political ramifications of their affair when he says, "Why should they fight indeed, to make her conquer,/And make you more a slave? to gain you kingdoms,/Which, for a kiss, at your next midnight feast,/You'll sell to her? Then she new-names her jewels,/And calls this diamond such or such a tax;/Each pendant in her ear shall be a province." Antony is defined several times--first in the preface by Dryden and then by Ventidius--as a good and virtuous man who is often misguided and gets off track. When talking to a gentleman of Antony's, Ventidius says, "Virtue's his path; but sometimes 'tis too narrow/For his vast soul; and then he starts out wide,/And bounds into a vice, that bears him far/From his first course, and plunges him in ills." In this, we see that Antony is defined by his "vast soul," his boldness and his bravery, but also by the ways that he is inconsistent.

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All for Love.act 2.scene 1

act 2, scene 1

{"name": "Part 2", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210630170925/https://www.gradesaver.com/all-for-love/study-guide/summary-part-2", "summary": "Cleopatra, Iras, and Alexas are in her chamber, where Cleopatra is mourning the fact that Antony plans to go with Ventidius and leave her. \"He goes to fight for you,\" Alexas says, to comfort her, but she does not buy it. She describes how her love for Antony has rendered her somewhat insane, saying, \"My love's a noble madness,/Which shows the cause deserved it. Moderate sorrow/Fits vulgar love, and for a vulgar man:/But I have loved with such transcendent passion,/I soared, at first, quite out of reason's view,/And now am lost above it.\" Iras urges Cleopatra to forget Antony, but she refuses. Charmion, Cleopatra's maid, enters to report on what happened when she brought Cleopatra's message to Antony. She tells her that Antony said he would not be able to resist Cleopatra were he to see her, and so refuses to see her. He sends his \"respect,\" a word which angers Cleopatra. She rails against the word respect, saying, \"Respect is for a wife: Am I that thing,/That dull, insipid lump, without desires,/And without power to give them?\" Alexas tells Cleopatra that he thinks Antony wants to be rescued from Ventidius. He offers to convince Antony to come to Cleopatra, and they leave. Antony, Ventidius, and some commanders enter. They discuss the fact that Antony recently challenged Octavius, and the fact that Octavius is not particularly brave. Antony tells Ventidius to give the word to the troops to march, and confirms that he plans to leave Egypt, when Alexas enters with a message from Cleopatra. \"Smooth sycophant!\" says a frustrated Ventidius, in an aside. Alexas pulls out some jewels that Cleopatra wants the commanders to wear. Ventidius refuses, saying, \"Not all the diamonds of the east can bribe/Ventidius from his faith. I hope to see/These and the rest of all her sparkling store,/Where they shall more deservingly be placed.\" Alexas then presents Antony with a bracelet that Cleopatra has sent him. When Antony has a hard time tying it, Alexas says that only Cleopatra is fit to tie it. In spite of Ventidius' protestations, Alexas convinces Antony to see Cleopatra one last time, so that she can put the bracelet on his wrist. Ventidius is suspicious of this visit and tells Antony not to, but Antony ignores him. Cleopatra enters and Antony is authoritative and strong with her at first, which makes Ventidius happy. Antony remembers when he first encountered Cleopatra, and the fact that Caesar was first to sleep with her. He says that he loved Cleopatra, which angered his first wife, Fulvia, who started a war to call him back to Italy. When Fulvia died, Antony says, he married Octavia, Caesar's sister, but was soon seduced back into her arms. \"All this you caused./And, would you multiply more ruins on me?\" he says. Cleopatra makes an impassioned speech about her sadness, how ruined she is by his coldness towards her. She tells him that even if Caesar had her first sexually, she has only ever loved Antony. She tries to convince him to stay, even though he is sure he will perish if he does. She tells him that she is refusing an offer from Octavius to join forces and take control of both Egypt and Syria. \"Oh, let me die but with you!\" she exclaims, and makes a show of how she will perish if he leaves her. This wins Antony over, and he decides to stay with Cleopatra. Ventidius is furious and leaves saying, \"O women! women! women! all the gods/Have not such power of doing good to man,/As you of doing harm.\"", "analysis": "No sooner has Antony vowed to leave Egypt behind than the scene shifts to Cleopatra, who is completely heartbroken to learn about Antony's intention to leave. The primary conflict of the play emerges as the push and pull between Antony and Cleopatra, and between Antony's sense of duty to the woman he loves and his sense of duty to his country. The introduction of Cleopatra shows the ways in which the two lovers are well-matched; Cleopatra is just as prone to dramatics and self-doubt as Antony, and their affair is defined by both its passion as well as its melodrama. Cleopatra is self-aware about her dramatic love for Antony, and knows that their love transcends political considerations. When one of her attendants urges her to exercise some presence of mind, she insists, \"My love's a noble madness.\" She knows that she is being illogical by loving so fiercely, but she also knows that she is powerless to stop her feelings, and now is unable to reacquaint herself with reason. She cares only for the feelings in her heart, and is confident that Antony returns them. A major influence in the conflict of the play--the push and pull between Cleopatra and Antony--is Alexas, Cleopatra's eunuch. In moments when Cleopatra is discouraged, he offers to go and find Antony for her and convince him to come to her. He offers to \"work him first/That he may bend more easy,\" suggesting that he will be the one to soften Antony and weaken him. Dryden frames Alexas as an important meddler, someone who is able to strategize, identify weakness, and exploit it. Cleopatra's earnest love for Antony, and his for her, quickly overpowers Antony's intentions to leave Egypt. As soon as Cleopatra proclaims her desire for him, and tells him that she has denied Octavius' offer to join forces, Antony is rendered powerless and decides to stay. Antony and Cleopatra have such a heated affair that they behave impulsively and emotionally, rather than thinking strategically or logically, much to the despair of Ventidius. The play examines the ways that love and passion, while pure and simple from the perspective of the two lovers, is often much more complex and impure than meets the eye. In Cleopatra and Antony's eyes, their affair is unavoidable and pure-hearted, a connection so perfect that it cannot be denied. Yet, on the world stage, the affair is destructive and irresponsible, and threatens to completely unravel any power Antony has amassed as a general. The play examines the disorganizing and destructive implications of unchecked passion."}

Act II Scene I Enter CLEOPATRA, IRAS, and ALEXAS CLEOPATRA. What shall I do, or whither shall I turn? Ventidius has o'ercome, and he will go. ALEXAS. He goes to fight for you. CLEOPATRA. Then he would see me, ere he went to fight: Flatter me not: If once he goes, he's lost, And all my hopes destroyed. ALEXAS. Does this weak passion Become a mighty queen? CLEOPATRA. I am no queen: Is this to be a queen, to be besieged By yon insulting Roman, and to wait Each hour the victor's chain? These ills are small: For Antony is lost, and I can mourn For nothing else but him. Now come, Octavius, I have no more to lose! prepare thy bands; I'm fit to be a captive: Antony Has taught my mind the fortune of a slave. IRAS. Call reason to assist you. CLEOPATRA. I have none, And none would have: My love's a noble madness, Which shows the cause deserved it. Moderate sorrow Fits vulgar love, and for a vulgar man: But I have loved with such transcendent passion, I soared, at first, quite out of reason's view, And now am lost above it. No, I'm proud 'Tis thus: Would Antony could see me now Think you he would not sigh, though he must leave me? Sure he would sigh; for he is noble-natured, And bears a tender heart: I know him well. Ah, no, I know him not; I knew him once, But now 'tis past. IRAS. Let it be past with you: Forget him, madam. CLEOPATRA. Never, never, Iras. He once was mine; and once, though now 'tis gone, Leaves a faint image of possession still. ALEXAS. Think him inconstant, cruel, and ungrateful. CLEOPATRA. I cannot: If I could, those thoughts were vain. Faithless, ungrateful, cruel, though he be, I still must love him. Enter CHARMION Now, what news, my Charmion? Will he be kind? and will he not forsake me? Am I to live, or die?--nay, do I live? Or am I dead? for when he gave his answer, Fate took the word, and then I lived or died. CHARMION. I found him, madam-- CLEOPATRA. A long speech preparing? If thou bring'st comfort, haste, and give it me, For never was more need. IRAS. I know he loves you. CLEOPATRA. Had he been kind, her eyes had told me so, Before her tongue could speak it: Now she studies, To soften what he said; but give me death, Just as he sent it, Charmion, undisguised, And in the words he spoke. CHARMION. I found him, then, Encompassed round, I think, with iron statues; So mute, so motionless his soldiers stood, While awfully he cast his eyes about, And every leader's hopes or fears surveyed: Methought he looked resolved, and yet not pleased. When he beheld me struggling in the crowd, He blushed, and bade make way. ALEXAS. There's comfort yet. CHARMION. Ventidius fixed his eyes upon my passage Severely, as he meant to frown me back, And sullenly gave place: I told my message, Just as you gave it, broken and disordered; I numbered in it all your sighs and tears, And while I moved your pitiful request, That you but only begged a last farewell, He fetched an inward groan; and every time I named you, sighed, as if his heart were breaking, But, shunned my eyes, and guiltily looked down: He seemed not now that awful Antony, Who shook and armed assembly with his nod; But, making show as he would rub his eyes, Disguised and blotted out a falling tear. CLEOPATRA. Did he then weep? And was I worth a tear? If what thou hast to say be not as pleasing, Tell me no more, but let me die contented. CHARMION. He bid me say,--He knew himself so well, He could deny you nothing, if he saw you; And therefore-- CLEOPATRA. Thou wouldst say, he would not see me? CHARMION. And therefore begged you not to use a power, Which he could ill resist; yet he should ever Respect you, as he ought. CLEOPATRA. Is that a word For Antony to use to Cleopatra? O that faint word, RESPECT! how I disdain it! Disdain myself, for loving after it! He should have kept that word for cold Octavia. Respect is for a wife: Am I that thing, That dull, insipid lump, without desires, And without power to give them? ALEXAS. You misjudge; You see through love, and that deludes your sight; As, what is straight, seems crooked through the water: But I, who bear my reason undisturbed, Can see this Antony, this dreaded man, A fearful slave, who fain would run away, And shuns his master's eyes: If you pursue him, My life on't, he still drags a chain along. That needs must clog his flight. CLEOPATRA. Could I believe thee!-- ALEXAS. By every circumstance I know he loves. True, he's hard prest, by interest and by honour; Yet he but doubts, and parleys, and casts out Many a long look for succour. CLEOPATRA. He sends word, He fears to see my face. ALEXAS. And would you more? He shows his weakness who declines the combat, And you must urge your fortune. Could he speak More plainly? To my ears, the message sounds-- Come to my rescue, Cleopatra, come; Come, free me from Ventidius; from my tyrant: See me, and give me a pretence to leave him!-- I hear his trumpets. This way he must pass. Please you, retire a while; I'll work him first, That he may bend more easy. CLEOPATRA. You shall rule me; But all, I fear, in vain. [Exit with CHARMION and IRAS.] ALEXAS. I fear so too; Though I concealed my thoughts, to make her bold; But 'tis our utmost means, and fate befriend it! [Withdraws.] Enter Lictors with Fasces; one bearing the Eagle; then enter ANTONY with VENTIDIUS, followed by other Commanders ANTONY. Octavius is the minion of blind chance, But holds from virtue nothing. VENTIDIUS. Has he courage? ANTONY. But just enough to season him from coward. Oh, 'tis the coldest youth upon a charge, The most deliberate fighter! if he ventures (As in Illyria once, they say, he did, To storm a town), 'tis when he cannot choose; When all the world have fixt their eyes upon him; And then he lives on that for seven years after; But, at a close revenge he never fails. VENTIDIUS. I heard you challenged him. ANTONY. I did, Ventidius. What think'st thou was his answer? 'Twas so tame!-- He said, he had more ways than one to die; I had not. VENTIDIUS. Poor! ANTONY. He has more ways than one; But he would choose them all before that one. VENTIDIUS. He first would choose an ague, or a fever. ANTONY. No; it must be an ague, not a fever; He Has not warmth enough to die by that. VENTIDIUS. Or old age and a bed. ANTONY. Ay, there's his choice, He would live, like a lamp, to the last wink, And crawl the utmost verge of life. O Hercules! Why should a man like this, Who dares not trust his fate for one great action, Be all the care of Heaven? Why should he lord it O'er fourscore thousand men, of whom each one Is braver than himself? VENTIDIUS. You conquered for him: Philippi knows it; there you shared with him That empire, which your sword made all your own. ANTONY. Fool that I was, upon my eagle's wings I bore this wren, till I was tired with soaring, And now he mounts above me. Good heavens, is this,--is this the man who braves me? Who bids my age make way? Drives me before him, To the world's ridge, and sweeps me off like rubbish? VENTIDIUS. Sir, we lose time; the troops are mounted all. ANTONY. Then give the word to march: I long to leave this prison of a town, To join thy legions; and, in open field, Once more to show my face. Lead, my deliverer. Enter ALEXAS ALEXAS. Great emperor, In mighty arms renowned above mankind, But, in soft pity to the opprest, a god; This message sends the mournful Cleopatra To her departing lord. VENTIDIUS. Smooth sycophant! ALEXAS. A thousand wishes, and ten thousand prayers, Millions of blessings wait you to the wars; Millions of sighs and tears she sends you too, And would have sent As many dear embraces to your arms, As many parting kisses to your lips; But those, she fears, have wearied you already. VENTIDIUS. [aside.] False crocodile! ALEXAS. And yet she begs not now, you would not leave her; That were a wish too mighty for her hopes, Too presuming For her low fortune, and your ebbing love; That were a wish for her more prosperous days, Her blooming beauty, and your growing kindness. ANTONY. [aside.] Well, I must man it out:--What would the queen? ALEXAS. First, to these noble warriors, who attend Your daring courage in the chase of fame,-- Too daring, and too dangerous for her quiet,-- She humbly recommends all she holds dear, All her own cares and fears,--the care of you. VENTIDIUS. Yes, witness Actium. ANTONY. Let him speak, Ventidius. ALEXAS. You, when his matchless valour bears him forward, With ardour too heroic, on his foes, Fall down, as she would do, before his feet; Lie in his way, and stop the paths of death: Tell him, this god is not invulnerable; That absent Cleopatra bleeds in him; And, that you may remember her petition, She begs you wear these trifles, as a pawn, Which, at your wished return, she will redeem [Gives jewels to the Commanders.] With all the wealth of Egypt: This to the great Ventidius she presents, Whom she can never count her enemy, Because he loves her lord. VENTIDIUS. Tell her, I'll none on't; I'm not ashamed of honest poverty; Not all the diamonds of the east can bribe Ventidius from his faith. I hope to see These and the rest of all her sparkling store, Where they shall more deservingly be placed. ANTONY. And who must wear them then? VENTIDIUS. The wronged Octavia. ANTONY. You might have spared that word. VENTIDIUS. And he that bribe. ANTONY. But have I no remembrance? ALEXAS. Yes, a dear one; Your slave the queen-- ANTONY. My mistress. ALEXAS. Then your mistress; Your mistress would, she says, have sent her soul, But that you had long since; she humbly begs This ruby bracelet, set with bleeding hearts, The emblems of her own, may bind your arm. [Presenting a bracelet.] VENTIDIUS. Now, my best lord,--in honour's name, I ask you, For manhood's sake, and for your own dear safety,-- Touch not these poisoned gifts, Infected by the sender; touch them not; Myriads of bluest plagues lie underneath them, And more than aconite has dipt the silk. ANTONY. Nay, now you grow too cynical, Ventidius: A lady's favours may be worn with honour. What, to refuse her bracelet! On my soul, When I lie pensive in my tent alone, 'Twill pass the wakeful hours of winter nights, To tell these pretty beads upon my arm, To count for every one a soft embrace, A melting kiss at such and such a time: And now and then the fury of her love, When----And what harm's in this? ALEXAS. None, none, my lord, But what's to her, that now 'tis past for ever. ANTONY. [going to tie it.] We soldiers are so awkward--help me tie it. ALEXAS. In faith, my lord, we courtiers too are awkward In these affairs: so are all men indeed: Even I, who am not one. But shall I speak? ANTONY. Yes, freely. ALEXAS. Then, my lord, fair hands alone Are fit to tie it; she, who sent it can. VENTIDIUS. Hell, death! this eunuch pander ruins you. You will not see her? [ALEXAS whispers an ATTENDANT, who goes out.] ANTONY. But to take my leave. VENTIDIUS. Then I have washed an Aethiop. You're undone; Y' are in the toils; y' are taken; y' are destroyed: Her eyes do Caesar's work. ANTONY. You fear too soon. I'm constant to myself: I know my strength; And yet she shall not think me barbarous neither, Born in the depths of Afric: I am a Roman, Bred in the rules of soft humanity. A guest, and kindly used, should bid farewell. VENTIDIUS. You do not know How weak you are to her, how much an infant: You are not proof against a smile, or glance: A sigh will quite disarm you. ANTONY. See, she comes! Now you shall find your error.--Gods, I thank you: I formed the danger greater than it was, And now 'tis near, 'tis lessened. VENTIDIUS. Mark the end yet. Enter CLEOPATRA, CHARMION, and IRAS ANTONY. Well, madam, we are met. CLEOPATRA. Is this a meeting? Then, we must part? ANTONY. We must. CLEOPATRA. Who says we must? ANTONY. Our own hard fates. CLEOPATRA. We make those fates ourselves. ANTONY. Yes, we have made them; we have loved each other, Into our mutual ruin. CLEOPATRA. The gods have seen my joys with envious eyes; I have no friends in heaven; and all the world, As 'twere the business of mankind to part us, Is armed against my love: even you yourself Join with the rest; you, you are armed against me. ANTONY. I will be justified in all I do To late posterity, and therefore hear me. If I mix a lie With any truth, reproach me freely with it; Else, favour me with silence. CLEOPATRA. You command me, And I am dumb. VENTIDIUS. I like this well; he shows authority. ANTONY. That I derive my ruin From you alone---- CLEOPATRA. O heavens! I ruin you! ANTONY. You promised me your silence, and you break it Ere I have scarce begun. CLEOPATRA. Well, I obey you. ANTONY. When I beheld you first, it was in Egypt. Ere Caesar saw your eyes, you gave me love, And were too young to know it; that I settled Your father in his throne, was for your sake; I left the acknowledgment for time to ripen. Caesar stept in, and, with a greedy hand, Plucked the green fruit, ere the first blush of red, Yet cleaving to the bough. He was my lord, And was, beside, too great for me to rival; But, I deserved you first, though he enjoyed you. When, after, I beheld you in Cilicia, An enemy to Rome, I pardoned you. CLEOPATRA. I cleared myself---- ANTONY. Again you break your promise. I loved you still, and took your weak excuses, Took you into my bosom, stained by Caesar, And not half mine: I went to Egypt with you, And hid me from the business of the world, Shut out inquiring nations from my sight, To give whole years to you. VENTIDIUS. Yes, to your shame be't spoken. [Aside.] ANTONY. How I loved. Witness, ye days and nights, and all ye hours, That danced away with down upon your feet, As all your business were to count my passion! One day passed by, and nothing saw but love; Another came, and still 'twas only love: The suns were wearied out with looking on, And I untired with loving. I saw you every day, and all the day; And every day was still but as the first, So eager was I still to see you more. VENTIDIUS. 'Tis all too true. ANTONY. Fulvia, my wife, grew jealous, (As she indeed had reason) raised a war In Italy, to call me back. VENTIDIUS. But yet You went not. ANTONY. While within your arms I lay, The world fell mouldering from my hands each hour, And left me scarce a grasp--I thank your love for't. VENTIDIUS. Well pushed: that last was home. CLEOPATRA. Yet may I speak? ANTONY. If I have urged a falsehood, yes; else, not. Your silence says, I have not. Fulvia died, (Pardon, you gods, with my unkindness died); To set the world at peace, I took Octavia, This Caesar's sister; in her pride of youth, And flower of beauty, did I wed that lady, Whom blushing I must praise, because I left her. You called; my love obeyed the fatal summons: This raised the Roman arms; the cause was yours. I would have fought by land, where I was stronger; You hindered it: yet, when I fought at sea, Forsook me fighting; and (O stain to honour! O lasting shame!) I knew not that I fled; But fled to follow you. VENTIDIUS. What haste she made to hoist her purple sails! And, to appear magnificent in flight, Drew half our strength away. ANTONY. All this you caused. And, would you multiply more ruins on me? This honest man, my best, my only friend, Has gathered up the shipwreck of my fortunes; Twelve legions I have left, my last recruits. And you have watched the news, and bring your eyes To seize them too. If you have aught to answer, Now speak, you have free leave. ALEXAS. [aside.] She stands confounded: Despair is in her eyes. VENTIDIUS. Now lay a sigh in the way to stop his passage: Prepare a tear, and bid it for his legions; 'Tis like they shall be sold. CLEOPATRA. How shall I plead my cause, when you, my judge, Already have condemned me? Shall I bring The love you bore me for my advocate? That now is turned against me, that destroys me; For love, once past, is, at the best, forgotten; But oftener sours to hate: 'twill please my lord To ruin me, and therefore I'll be guilty. But, could I once have thought it would have pleased you, That you would pry, with narrow searching eyes, Into my faults, severe to my destruction, And watching all advantages with care, That serve to make me wretched? Speak, my lord, For I end here. Though I deserved this usage, Was it like you to give it? ANTONY. Oh, you wrong me, To think I sought this parting, or desired To accuse you more than what will clear myself, And justify this breach. CLEOPATRA. Thus low I thank you; And, since my innocence will not offend, I shall not blush to own it. VENTIDIUS. After this, I think she'll blush at nothing. CLEOPATRA. You seem grieved (And therein you are kind) that Caesar first Enjoyed my love, though you deserved it better: I grieve for that, my lord, much more than you; For, had I first been yours, it would have saved My second choice: I never had been his, And ne'er had been but yours. But Caesar first, You say, possessed my love. Not so, my lord: He first possessed my person; you, my love: Caesar loved me; but I loved Antony. If I endured him after, 'twas because I judged it due to the first name of men; And, half constrained, I gave, as to a tyrant, What he would take by force. VENTIDIUS. O Syren! Syren! Yet grant that all the love she boasts were true, Has she not ruined you? I still urge that, The fatal consequence. CLEOPATRA. The consequence indeed-- For I dare challenge him, my greatest foe, To say it was designed: 'tis true, I loved you, And kept you far from an uneasy wife,-- Such Fulvia was. Yes, but he'll say, you left Octavia for me;-- And, can you blame me to receive that love, Which quitted such desert, for worthless me? How often have I wished some other Caesar, Great as the first, and as the second young, Would court my love, to be refused for you! VENTIDIUS. Words, words; but Actium, sir; remember Actium. CLEOPATRA. Even there, I dare his malice. True, I counselled To fight at sea; but I betrayed you not. I fled, but not to the enemy. 'Twas fear; Would I had been a man, not to have feared! For none would then have envied me your friendship, Who envy me your love. ANTONY. We are both unhappy: If nothing else, yet our ill fortune parts us. Speak; would you have me perish by my stay? CLEOPATRA. If, as a friend, you ask my judgment, go; If, as a lover, stay. If you must perish-- 'Tis a hard word--but stay. VENTIDIUS. See now the effects of her so boasted love! She strives to drag you down to ruin with her; But, could she 'scape without you, oh, how soon Would she let go her hold, and haste to shore, And never look behind! CLEOPATRA. Then judge my love by this. [Giving ANTONY a writing.] Could I have borne A life or death, a happiness or woe, From yours divided, this had given me means. ANTONY. By Hercules, the writing of Octavius! I know it well: 'tis that proscribing hand, Young as it was, that led the way to mine, And left me but the second place in murder.-- See, see, Ventidius! here he offers Egypt, And joins all Syria to it, as a present; So, in requital, she forsake my fortunes, And join her arms with his. CLEOPATRA. And yet you leave me! You leave me, Antony; and yet I love you, Indeed I do: I have refused a kingdom; That is a trifle; For I could part with life, with anything, But only you. Oh, let me die but with you! Is that a hard request? ANTONY. Next living with you, 'Tis all that Heaven can give. ALEXAS. He melts; we conquer. [Aside.] CLEOPATRA. No; you shall go: your interest calls you hence; Yes; your dear interest pulls too strong, for these Weak arms to hold you here. [Takes his hand.] Go; leave me, soldier (For you're no more a lover): leave me dying: Push me, all pale and panting, from your bosom, And, when your march begins, let one run after, Breathless almost for joy, and cry--She's dead. The soldiers shout; you then, perhaps, may sigh, And muster all your Roman gravity: Ventidius chides; and straight your brow clears up, As I had never been. ANTONY. Gods, 'tis too much; too much for man to bear. CLEOPATRA. What is't for me then, A weak, forsaken woman, and a lover?-- Here let me breathe my last: envy me not This minute in your arms: I'll die apace, As fast as e'er I can, and end your trouble. ANTONY. Die! rather let me perish; loosened nature Leap from its hinges, sink the props of heaven, And fall the skies, to crush the nether world! My eyes, my soul, my all! [Embraces her.] VENTIDIUS. And what's this toy, In balance with your fortune, honour, fame? ANTONY. What is't, Ventidius?--it outweighs them all; Why, we have more than conquered Caesar now: My queen's not only innocent, but loves me. This, this is she, who drags me down to ruin! "But, could she 'scape without me, with what haste Would she let slip her hold, and make to shore, And never look behind!" Down on thy knees, blasphemer as thou art, And ask forgiveness of wronged innocence. VENTIDIUS. I'll rather die, than take it. Will you go? ANTONY. Go! whither? Go from all that's excellent? Faith, honour, virtue, all good things forbid, That I should go from her, who sets my love Above the price of kingdoms! Give, you gods, Give to your boy, your Caesar, This rattle of a globe to play withal, This gewgaw world, and put him cheaply off: I'll not be pleased with less than Cleopatra. CLEOPATRA. She's wholly yours. My heart's so full of joy, That I shall do some wild extravagance Of love, in public; and the foolish world, Which knows not tenderness, will think me mad. VENTIDIUS. O women! women! women! all the gods Have not such power of doing good to man, As you of doing harm. [Exit.] ANTONY. Our men are armed:-- Unbar the gate that looks to Caesar's camp: I would revenge the treachery he meant me; And long security makes conquest easy. I'm eager to return before I go; For, all the pleasures I have known beat thick On my remembrance.--How I long for night! That both the sweets of mutual love may try, And triumph once o'er Caesar ere we die. [Exeunt.]

Part 2

https://web.archive.org/web/20210630170925/https://www.gradesaver.com/all-for-love/study-guide/summary-part-2

Cleopatra, Iras, and Alexas are in her chamber, where Cleopatra is mourning the fact that Antony plans to go with Ventidius and leave her. "He goes to fight for you," Alexas says, to comfort her, but she does not buy it. She describes how her love for Antony has rendered her somewhat insane, saying, "My love's a noble madness,/Which shows the cause deserved it. Moderate sorrow/Fits vulgar love, and for a vulgar man:/But I have loved with such transcendent passion,/I soared, at first, quite out of reason's view,/And now am lost above it." Iras urges Cleopatra to forget Antony, but she refuses. Charmion, Cleopatra's maid, enters to report on what happened when she brought Cleopatra's message to Antony. She tells her that Antony said he would not be able to resist Cleopatra were he to see her, and so refuses to see her. He sends his "respect," a word which angers Cleopatra. She rails against the word respect, saying, "Respect is for a wife: Am I that thing,/That dull, insipid lump, without desires,/And without power to give them?" Alexas tells Cleopatra that he thinks Antony wants to be rescued from Ventidius. He offers to convince Antony to come to Cleopatra, and they leave. Antony, Ventidius, and some commanders enter. They discuss the fact that Antony recently challenged Octavius, and the fact that Octavius is not particularly brave. Antony tells Ventidius to give the word to the troops to march, and confirms that he plans to leave Egypt, when Alexas enters with a message from Cleopatra. "Smooth sycophant!" says a frustrated Ventidius, in an aside. Alexas pulls out some jewels that Cleopatra wants the commanders to wear. Ventidius refuses, saying, "Not all the diamonds of the east can bribe/Ventidius from his faith. I hope to see/These and the rest of all her sparkling store,/Where they shall more deservingly be placed." Alexas then presents Antony with a bracelet that Cleopatra has sent him. When Antony has a hard time tying it, Alexas says that only Cleopatra is fit to tie it. In spite of Ventidius' protestations, Alexas convinces Antony to see Cleopatra one last time, so that she can put the bracelet on his wrist. Ventidius is suspicious of this visit and tells Antony not to, but Antony ignores him. Cleopatra enters and Antony is authoritative and strong with her at first, which makes Ventidius happy. Antony remembers when he first encountered Cleopatra, and the fact that Caesar was first to sleep with her. He says that he loved Cleopatra, which angered his first wife, Fulvia, who started a war to call him back to Italy. When Fulvia died, Antony says, he married Octavia, Caesar's sister, but was soon seduced back into her arms. "All this you caused./And, would you multiply more ruins on me?" he says. Cleopatra makes an impassioned speech about her sadness, how ruined she is by his coldness towards her. She tells him that even if Caesar had her first sexually, she has only ever loved Antony. She tries to convince him to stay, even though he is sure he will perish if he does. She tells him that she is refusing an offer from Octavius to join forces and take control of both Egypt and Syria. "Oh, let me die but with you!" she exclaims, and makes a show of how she will perish if he leaves her. This wins Antony over, and he decides to stay with Cleopatra. Ventidius is furious and leaves saying, "O women! women! women! all the gods/Have not such power of doing good to man,/As you of doing harm."

No sooner has Antony vowed to leave Egypt behind than the scene shifts to Cleopatra, who is completely heartbroken to learn about Antony's intention to leave. The primary conflict of the play emerges as the push and pull between Antony and Cleopatra, and between Antony's sense of duty to the woman he loves and his sense of duty to his country. The introduction of Cleopatra shows the ways in which the two lovers are well-matched; Cleopatra is just as prone to dramatics and self-doubt as Antony, and their affair is defined by both its passion as well as its melodrama. Cleopatra is self-aware about her dramatic love for Antony, and knows that their love transcends political considerations. When one of her attendants urges her to exercise some presence of mind, she insists, "My love's a noble madness." She knows that she is being illogical by loving so fiercely, but she also knows that she is powerless to stop her feelings, and now is unable to reacquaint herself with reason. She cares only for the feelings in her heart, and is confident that Antony returns them. A major influence in the conflict of the play--the push and pull between Cleopatra and Antony--is Alexas, Cleopatra's eunuch. In moments when Cleopatra is discouraged, he offers to go and find Antony for her and convince him to come to her. He offers to "work him first/That he may bend more easy," suggesting that he will be the one to soften Antony and weaken him. Dryden frames Alexas as an important meddler, someone who is able to strategize, identify weakness, and exploit it. Cleopatra's earnest love for Antony, and his for her, quickly overpowers Antony's intentions to leave Egypt. As soon as Cleopatra proclaims her desire for him, and tells him that she has denied Octavius' offer to join forces, Antony is rendered powerless and decides to stay. Antony and Cleopatra have such a heated affair that they behave impulsively and emotionally, rather than thinking strategically or logically, much to the despair of Ventidius. The play examines the ways that love and passion, while pure and simple from the perspective of the two lovers, is often much more complex and impure than meets the eye. In Cleopatra and Antony's eyes, their affair is unavoidable and pure-hearted, a connection so perfect that it cannot be denied. Yet, on the world stage, the affair is destructive and irresponsible, and threatens to completely unravel any power Antony has amassed as a general. The play examines the disorganizing and destructive implications of unchecked passion.

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all_chapterized_books/2062-chapters/4.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/All for Love/section_2_part_0.txt

All for Love.act 3.scene 1

act 3, scene 1

{"name": "Part 3", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210630170925/https://www.gradesaver.com/all-for-love/study-guide/summary-part-3", "summary": "Cleopatra, Charmion, Iras, and Alexas enter from one door. Antony and the Romans enter from another. Trumpets sound on Antony's side, which are answered by timbrels on Cleopatra's. Charmion and Iras are holding a laurel wreath, and there an Egyptian dance and ceremony are performed. At the end, Cleopatra puts a crown on Antony's head. Antony has just returned from battles in which he has fought well against Octavius. Antony speaks lovingly of Cleopatra, saying, \"Enjoyed, thou still art new; perpetual spring/Is in thy arms; the ripened fruit but falls,/And blossoms rise to fill its empty place;/And I grow rich by giving.\" Ventidius enters and stands apart, looking disapproving, which Alexas says has to do with his envy of Antony's success. Antony tries to avoid the general, but Ventidius pulls him by the robe. Antony manages to break free, and Ventidius gives a brief soliloquy about Antony's character. Antony enters and tells Ventidius that his army has managed to defeat Octavius without the help of the legions in Syria. Ventidius worries that Octavius is keeping control of his main troops and asks if Antony might make an arrangement with some fellow Romans like Maecenas or Agrippa. Antony tells Ventidius that he knows \"the bravest youth of Rome,/Whom Caesar loves beyond the love of women,\" a young man named Dolabella. Ventidius tells Antony that Dolabella is now in Caesar's camp. Antony discusses the fact that he suspected Dolabella of loving Cleopatra and so forbade him from ever seeing her. Ventidius contends that Dolabella loves Antony and announces the arrival of a messenger that Dolabella sent with letters. Ventidius brings Dolabella into the room, and Antony embraces him, overjoyed to see him. When Antony confronts Dolabella about his feelings towards Cleopatra, Dolabella contends that his affections were a symptom of his youthfulness, and jokes that Antony has no excuse. He then talks about the fact that Antony lost legions and the love of his family all for the sake of Cleopatra. He tells him that he has brought conditions from Caesar. When Ventidius next leaves the room, he brings back Octavia, Antony's wife, and Antony's two young daughters. Octavia asks who she is to Antony and he responds, \"Caesar's sister.\" She asks him to return to her, but he refuses. Still, she wants to reconcile, and tells him, \"I have a soul like yours; I cannot take/Your love as alms, nor beg what I deserve./I'll tell my brother we are reconciled;/He shall draw back his troops, and you shall march/To rule the East: I may be dropt at Athens;/No matter where. I never will complain,/But only keep the barren name of wife,/And rid you of the trouble.\" Antony asks Dolabella for advice, and Ventidius tells Antony that Cleopatra has offered him nothing but ruin, while Octavia has been ruined by him, but is offering mercy. When Octavia sends their children to hug Antony, he agrees to go with them. Suddenly, Alexas enters and worries that he will die as a result of his queen's failure to hold onto Antony. When Cleopatra enters soon after, she mourns the fact that Antony has returned to Octavia. When Octavia comes into the room with Ventidius, Cleopatra remains there to confront her. Octavia insults Cleopatra for being immodest and practiced at sex, while Cleopatra belittles Octavia for not being able to keep her husband. When Octavia leaves, Cleopatra is hopeless and depressed about her fate. Act 4. Antony and Dolabella discuss the fact that Antony has enlisted Dolabella to tell Cleopatra he is leaving. \"I dare not trust my tongue to tell her so:/One look of hers would thaw me into tears,/And I should melt, till I were lost again,\" says Antony. Dolabella wants Ventidius to do it because of his rough nature, but Antony thinks Ventidius is too harsh. Dolabella then tells Antony that he worries that he is too soft for the job and will start crying. Antony insists that this makes him perfect for the job, and tells Dolabella to inform Cleopatra that he will try and preserve her throne by convincing Caesar to be merciful. He goes to leave, then comes back to tell Antony to deliver the message that his heart will break if he hears Cleopatra has taken another lover. When Antony has gone, Ventidius comes in, then Cleopatra and Alexas. Alexas advises Cleopatra to seduce Dolabella as a way of making Antony jealous, a plot to which she hesitantly and remorsefully agrees.", "analysis": "At the start of Act 3, we see that Antony, in his love for Cleopatra, is made stronger as a warrior. He returns to Cleopatra's court having had some minor victories in his battles against Octavius. This seems to disprove Ventidius and others' assessment that Antony's love for Cleopatra has weakened him in some way; indeed, it seems that the passion he feels towards the Egyptian ruler only motivates him to fight more fiercely and effectively. Ventidius is the character who perhaps sees Antony the most clearly, as his old friend, and once again invokes the particularities of Antony's character in this act. In a brief soliloquy he says, \"His virtues lie so mingled with his crimes, As would confound their choice to punish one, And not reward the other.\" In this, he once again raises the idea that the very qualities that make Antony such a good and virtuous man--his tendency to feel things so strongly and go for them with passion--are also what unravel his character and lead him to make such grave mistakes as a ruler. Antony's fortune is changed in this act when Ventidius brings not only his dearest friend Dolabella, but his wife and children to the court of Cleopatra in order to try and convince Antony to give up his affair. Antony is very pleased to see Dolabella, but Dolabella soon makes it known that he is disappointed in Antony, as is the rest of Rome, for abandoning his family and sacrificing armies for the sake of his love. Soon after, Antony's wife and two daughters enter; Octavia requests that he returns home, but he refuses. A major element of the conflict in the play is the fact that the other characters give Antony many different chances to right his wrongs and return to Rome. His army waits for him to join them and leave Cleopatra behind in the previous act. Then, in this act, both Dolabella, Antony's best friend, and his wife, Octavia, come to implore him to return to Rome. They ask him with open hearts and no sense of malice. While it seems as though, given his actions, Antony ought not to be given more chances to do right, characters keep appearing to do just that. Even though Antony is given many opportunities to leave his mistress, Cleopatra and Alexas, the eunuch, devise just as many plots to keep him ensnared. When Antony is just about to leave again to go back to Rome and sends Dolabella to deliver the news, Alexas advises Cleopatra to seduce Dolabella as a way of getting Antony jealous. Just at the very moment when it seems that Antony is free, Cleopatra comes up with a new way to entice him to stay, no matter how deceitful. The queen and her eunuch attendant are framed as particularly scheming and nefarious figures in the dramatic arc of the play."}

Act III Scene I At one door enter CLEOPATRA, CHARMION, IRAS, and ALEXAS, a Train of EGYPTIANS: at the other ANTONY and ROMANS. The entrance on both sides is prepared by music; the trumpets first sounding on Antony's part: then answered by timbrels, etc., on CLEOPATRA'S. CHARMION and IRAS hold a laurel wreath betwixt them. A Dance of EGYPTIANS. After the ceremony, CLEOPATRA crowns ANTONY. ANTONY. I thought how those white arms would fold me in, And strain me close, and melt me into love; So pleased with that sweet image, I sprung forwards, And added all my strength to every blow. CLEOPATRA. Come to me, come, my soldier, to my arms! You've been too long away from my embraces; But, when I have you fast, and all my own, With broken murmurs, and with amorous sighs, I'll say, you were unkind, and punish you, And mark you red with many an eager kiss. ANTONY. My brighter Venus! CLEOPATRA. O my greater Mars! ANTONY. Thou join'st us well, my love! Suppose me come from the Phlegraean plains, Where gasping giants lay, cleft by my sword, And mountain-tops paired off each other blow, To bury those I slew. Receive me, goddess! Let Caesar spread his subtle nets; like Vulcan, In thy embraces I would be beheld By heaven and earth at once; And make their envy what they meant their sport Let those, who took us, blush; I would love on, With awful state, regardless of their frowns, As their superior gods. There's no satiety of love in thee: Enjoyed, thou still art new; perpetual spring Is in thy arms; the ripened fruit but falls, And blossoms rise to fill its empty place; And I grow rich by giving. Enter VENTIDIUS, and stands apart ALEXAS. Oh, now the danger's past, your general comes! He joins not in your joys, nor minds your triumphs; But, with contracted brows, looks frowning on, As envying your success. ANTONY. Now, on my soul, he loves me; truly loves me: He never flattered me in any vice, But awes me with his virtue: even this minute, Methinks, he has a right of chiding me. Lead to the temple: I'll avoid his presence; It checks too strong upon me. [Exeunt the rest.] [As ANTONY is going, VENTIDIUS pulls him by the robe.] VENTIDIUS. Emperor! ANTONY. 'Tis the old argument; I pr'ythee, spare me. [Looking back.] VENTIDIUS. But this one hearing, emperor. ANTONY. Let go My robe; or, by my father Hercules-- VENTIDIUS. By Hercules' father, that's yet greater, I bring you somewhat you would wish to know. ANTONY. Thou see'st we are observed; attend me here, And I'll return. [Exit.] VENTIDIUS. I am waning in his favour, yet I love him; I love this man, who runs to meet his ruin; And sure the gods, like me, are fond of him: His virtues lie so mingled with his crimes, As would confound their choice to punish one, And not reward the other. Enter ANTONY ANTONY. We can conquer, You see, without your aid. We have dislodged their troops; They look on us at distance, and, like curs Scaped from the lion's paws, they bay far off, And lick their wounds, and faintly threaten war. Five thousand Romans, with their faces upward, Lie breathless on the plain. VENTIDIUS. 'Tis well; and he, Who lost them, could have spared ten thousand more. Yet if, by this advantage, you could gain An easier peace, while Caesar doubts the chance Of arms-- ANTONY. Oh, think not on't, Ventidius! The boy pursues my ruin, he'll no peace; His malice is considerable in advantage. Oh, he's the coolest murderer! so staunch, He kills, and keeps his temper. VENTIDIUS. Have you no friend In all his army, who has power to move him? Maecenas, or Agrippa, might do much. ANTONY. They're both too deep in Caesar's interests. We'll work it out by dint of sword, or perish. VENTIDIUS. Fain I would find some other. ANTONY. Thank thy love. Some four or five such victories as this Will save thy further pains. VENTIDIUS. Expect no more; Caesar is on his guard: I know, sir, you have conquered against odds; But still you draw supplies from one poor town, And of Egyptians: he has all the world, And, at his beck, nations come pouring in, To fill the gaps you make. Pray, think again. ANTONY. Why dost thou drive me from myself, to search For foreign aids?--to hunt my memory, And range all o'er a waste and barren place, To find a friend? The wretched have no friends. Yet I had one, the bravest youth of Rome, Whom Caesar loves beyond the love of women: He could resolve his mind, as fire does wax, From that hard rugged image melt him down, And mould him in what softer form he pleased. VENTIDIUS. Him would I see; that man, of all the world; Just such a one we want. ANTONY. He loved me too; I was his soul; he lived not but in me: We were so closed within each other's breasts, The rivets were not found, that joined us first. That does not reach us yet: we were so mixt, As meeting streams, both to ourselves were lost; We were one mass; we could not give or take, But from the same; for he was I, I he. VENTIDIUS. He moves as I would wish him. [Aside.] ANTONY. After this, I need not tell his name;--'twas Dolabella. VENTIDIUS. He's now in Caesar's camp. ANTONY. No matter where, Since he's no longer mine. He took unkindly, That I forbade him Cleopatra's sight, Because I feared he loved her: he confessed, He had a warmth, which, for my sake, he stifled; For 'twere impossible that two, so one, Should not have loved the same. When he departed, He took no leave; and that confirmed my thoughts. VENTIDIUS. It argues, that he loved you more than her, Else he had stayed; but he perceived you jealous, And would not grieve his friend: I know he loves you. ANTONY. I should have seen him, then, ere now. VENTIDIUS. Perhaps He has thus long been labouring for your peace. ANTONY. Would he were here! VENTIDIUS. Would you believe he loved you? I read your answer in your eyes, you would. Not to conceal it longer, he has sent A messenger from Caesar's camp, with letters. ANTONY. Let him appear. VENTIDIUS. I'll bring him instantly. [Exit VENTIDIUS, and re-enters immediately with DOLABELLA.] ANTONY. 'Tis he himself! himself, by holy friendship! [Runs to embrace him.] Art thou returned at last, my better half? Come, give me all myself! Let me not live, If the young bridegroom, longing for his night, Was ever half so fond. DOLABELLA. I must be silent, for my soul is busy About a nobler work; she's new come home, Like a long-absent man, and wanders o'er Each room, a stranger to her own, to look If all be safe. ANTONY. Thou hast what's left of me; For I am now so sunk from what I was, Thou find'st me at my lowest water-mark. The rivers that ran in, and raised my fortunes, Are all dried up, or take another course: What I have left is from my native spring; I've still a heart that swells, in scorn of fate, And lifts me to my banks. DOLABELLA. Still you are lord of all the world to me. ANTONY. Why, then I yet am so; for thou art all. If I had any joy when thou wert absent, I grudged it to myself; methought I robbed Thee of thy part. But, O my Dolabella! Thou has beheld me other than I am. Hast thou not seen my morning chambers filled With sceptred slaves, who waited to salute me? With eastern monarchs, who forgot the sun, To worship my uprising?--menial kings Ran coursing up and down my palace-yard, Stood silent in my presence, watched my eyes, And, at my least command, all started out, Like racers to the goal. DOLABELLA. Slaves to your fortune. ANTONY. Fortune is Caesar's now; and what am I? VENTIDIUS. What you have made yourself; I will not flatter. ANTONY. Is this friendly done? DOLABELLA. Yes; when his end is so, I must join with him; Indeed I must, and yet you must not chide; Why am I else your friend? ANTONY. Take heed, young man, How thou upbraid'st my love: The queen has eyes, And thou too hast a soul. Canst thou remember, When, swelled with hatred, thou beheld'st her first, As accessary to thy brother's death? DOLABELLA. Spare my remembrance; 'twas a guilty day, And still the blush hangs here. ANTONY. To clear herself, For sending him no aid, she came from Egypt. Her galley down the silver Cydnus rowed, The tackling silk, the streamers waved with gold; The gentle winds were lodged in purple sails: Her nymphs, like Nereids, round her couch were placed; Where she, another sea-born Venus, lay. DOLABELLA. No more; I would not hear it. ANTONY. Oh, you must! She lay, and leant her cheek upon her hand, And cast a look so languishingly sweet, As if, secure of all beholders' hearts, Neglecting, she could take them: boys, like Cupids, Stood fanning, with their painted wings, the winds. That played about her face. But if she smiled A darting glory seemed to blaze abroad, That men's desiring eyes were never wearied, But hung upon the object: To soft flutes The silver oars kept time; and while they played, The hearing gave new pleasure to the sight; And both to thought. 'Twas heaven, or somewhat more; For she so charmed all hearts, that gazing crowds Stood panting on the shore, and wanted breath To give their welcome voice. Then, Dolabella, where was then thy soul? Was not thy fury quite disarmed with wonder? Didst thou not shrink behind me from those eyes And whisper in my ear--Oh, tell her not That I accused her with my brother's death? DOLABELLA. And should my weakness be a plea for yours? Mine was an age when love might be excused, When kindly warmth, and when my springing youth Made it a debt to nature. Yours-- VENTIDIUS. Speak boldly. Yours, he would say, in your declining age, When no more heat was left but what you forced, When all the sap was needful for the trunk, When it went down, then you constrained the course, And robbed from nature, to supply desire; In you (I would not use so harsh a word) 'Tis but plain dotage. ANTONY. Ha! DOLABELLA. 'Twas urged too home.-- But yet the loss was private, that I made; 'Twas but myself I lost: I lost no legions; I had no world to lose, no people's love. ANTONY. This from a friend? DOLABELLA. Yes, Antony, a true one; A friend so tender, that each word I speak Stabs my own heart, before it reach your ear. Oh, judge me not less kind, because I chide! To Caesar I excuse you. ANTONY. O ye gods! Have I then lived to be excused to Caesar? DOLABELLA. As to your equal. ANTONY. Well, he's but my equal: While I wear this he never shall be more. DOLABELLA. I bring conditions from him. ANTONY. Are they noble? Methinks thou shouldst not bring them else; yet he Is full of deep dissembling; knows no honour Divided from his interest. Fate mistook him; For nature meant him for an usurer: He's fit indeed to buy, not conquer kingdoms. VENTIDIUS. Then, granting this, What power was theirs, who wrought so hard a temper To honourable terms? ANTONY. I was my Dolabella, or some god. DOLABELLA. Nor I, nor yet Maecenas, nor Agrippa: They were your enemies; and I, a friend, Too weak alone; yet 'twas a Roman's deed. ANTONY. 'Twas like a Roman done: show me that man, Who has preserved my life, my love, my honour; Let me but see his face. VENTIDIUS. That task is mine, And, Heaven, thou know'st how pleasing. [Exit VENTIDIUS.] DOLABELLA. You'll remember To whom you stand obliged? ANTONY. When I forget it Be thou unkind, and that's my greatest curse. My queen shall thank him too, DOLABELLA. I fear she will not. ANTONY. But she shall do it: The queen, my Dolabella! Hast thou not still some grudgings of thy fever? DOLABELLA. I would not see her lost. ANTONY. When I forsake her, Leave me my better stars! for she has truth Beyond her beauty. Caesar tempted her, At no less price than kingdoms, to betray me; But she resisted all: and yet thou chidest me For loving her too well. Could I do so? DOLABELLA. Yes; there's my reason. Re-enter VENTIDIUS, with OCTAVIA, leading ANTONY'S two little DAUGHTERS ANTONY. Where?--Octavia there! [Starting back.] VENTIDIUS. What, is she poison to you?--a disease? Look on her, view her well, and those she brings: Are they all strangers to your eyes? has nature No secret call, no whisper they are yours? DOLABELLA. For shame, my lord, if not for love, receive them With kinder eyes. If you confess a man, Meet them, embrace them, bid them welcome to you. Your arms should open, even without your knowledge, To clasp them in; your feet should turn to wings, To bear you to them; and your eyes dart out And aim a kiss, ere you could reach the lips. ANTONY. I stood amazed, to think how they came hither. VENTIDIUS. I sent for them; I brought them in unknown To Cleopatra's guards. DOLABELLA. Yet, are you cold? OCTAVIA. Thus long I have attended for my welcome; Which, as a stranger, sure I might expect. Who am I? ANTONY. Caesar's sister. OCTAVIA. That's unkind. Had I been nothing more than Caesar's sister, Know, I had still remained in Caesar's camp: But your Octavia, your much injured wife, Though banished from your bed, driven from your house, In spite of Caesar's sister, still is yours. 'Tis true, I have a heart disdains your coldness, And prompts me not to seek what you should offer; But a wife's virtue still surmounts that pride. I come to claim you as my own; to show My duty first; to ask, nay beg, your kindness: Your hand, my lord; 'tis mine, and I will have it. [Taking his hand.] VENTIDIUS. Do, take it; thou deserv'st it. DOLABELLA. On my soul, And so she does: she's neither too submissive, Nor yet too haughty; but so just a mean Shows, as it ought, a wife and Roman too. ANTONY. I fear, Octavia, you have begged my life. OCTAVIA. Begged it, my lord? ANTONY. Yes, begged it, my ambassadress; Poorly and basely begged it of your brother. OCTAVIA. Poorly and basely I could never beg: Nor could my brother grant. ANTONY. Shall I, who, to my kneeling slave, could say, Rise up, and be a king; shall I fall down And cry,--Forgive me, Caesar! Shall I set A man, my equal, in the place of Jove, As he could give me being? No; that word, Forgive, would choke me up, And die upon my tongue. DOLABELLA. You shall not need it. ANTONY. I will not need it. Come, you've all betrayed me,-- My friend too!--to receive some vile conditions. My wife has bought me, with her prayers and tears; And now I must become her branded slave. In every peevish mood, she will upbraid The life she gave: if I but look awry, She cries--I'll tell my brother. OCTAVIA. My hard fortune Subjects me still to your unkind mistakes. But the conditions I have brought are such, Your need not blush to take: I love your honour, Because 'tis mine; it never shall be said, Octavia's husband was her brother's slave. Sir, you are free; free, even from her you loathe; For, though my brother bargains for your love, Makes me the price and cement of your peace, I have a soul like yours; I cannot take Your love as alms, nor beg what I deserve. I'll tell my brother we are reconciled; He shall draw back his troops, and you shall march To rule the East: I may be dropt at Athens; No matter where. I never will complain, But only keep the barren name of wife, And rid you of the trouble. VENTIDIUS. Was ever such a strife of sullen honour! [Apart] Both scorn to be obliged. DOLABELLA. Oh, she has touched him in the tenderest part;[Apart] See how he reddens with despite and shame, To be outdone in generosity! VENTIDIUS. See how he winks! how he dries up a tear, [Apart] That fain would fall! ANTONY. Octavia, I have heard you, and must praise The greatness of your soul; But cannot yield to what you have proposed: For I can ne'er be conquered but by love; And you do all for duty. You would free me, And would be dropt at Athens; was't not so? OCTAVIA. It was, my lord. ANTONY. Then I must be obliged To one who loves me not; who, to herself, May call me thankless and ungrateful man:-- I'll not endure it; no. VENTIDIUS. I am glad it pinches there. [Aside.] OCTAVIA. Would you triumph o'er poor Octavia's virtue? That pride was all I had to bear me up; That you might think you owed me for your life, And owed it to my duty, not my love. I have been injured, and my haughty soul Could brook but ill the man who slights my bed. ANTONY. Therefore you love me not. OCTAVIA. Therefore, my lord, I should not love you. ANTONY. Therefore you would leave me? OCTAVIA. And therefore I should leave you--if I could. DOLABELLA. Her soul's too great, after such injuries, To say she loves; and yet she lets you see it. Her modesty and silence plead her cause. ANTONY. O Dolabella, which way shall I turn? I find a secret yielding in my soul; But Cleopatra, who would die with me, Must she be left? Pity pleads for Octavia; But does it not plead more for Cleopatra? VENTIDIUS. Justice and pity both plead for Octavia; For Cleopatra, neither. One would be ruined with you; but she first Had ruined you: The other, you have ruined, And yet she would preserve you. In everything their merits are unequal. ANTONY. O my distracted soul! OCTAVIA. Sweet Heaven compose it!-- Come, come, my lord, if I can pardon you, Methinks you should accept it. Look on these; Are they not yours? or stand they thus neglected, As they are mine? Go to him, children, go; Kneel to him, take him by the hand, speak to him; For you may speak, and he may own you too, Without a blush; and so he cannot all His children: go, I say, and pull him to me, And pull him to yourselves, from that bad woman. You, Agrippina, hang upon his arms; And you, Antonia, clasp about his waist: If he will shake you off, if he will dash you Against the pavement, you must bear it, children; For you are mine, and I was born to suffer. [Here the CHILDREN go to him, etc.] VENTIDIUS. Was ever sight so moving?--Emperor! DOLABELLA. Friend! OCTAVIA. Husband! BOTH CHILDREN. Father! ANTONY. I am vanquished: take me, Octavia; take me, children; share me all. [Embracing them.] I've been a thriftless debtor to your loves, And run out much, in riot, from your stock; But all shall be amended. OCTAVIA. O blest hour! DOLABELLA. O happy change! VENTIDIUS. My joy stops at my tongue; But it has found two channels here for one, And bubbles out above. ANTONY. [to OCTAVIA] This is thy triumph; lead me where thou wilt; Even to thy brother's camp. OCTAVIA. All there are yours. Enter ALEXAS hastily ALEXAS. The queen, my mistress, sir, and yours-- ANTONY. 'Tis past.-- Octavia, you shall stay this night: To-morrow, Caesar and we are one. [Exit leading OCTAVIA; DOLABELLA and the CHILDREN follow.] VENTIDIUS. There's news for you; run, my officious eunuch, Be sure to be the first; haste forward: Haste, my dear eunuch, haste. [Exit.] ALEXAS. This downright fighting fool, this thick-skulled hero, This blunt, unthinking instrument of death, With plain dull virtue has outgone my wit. Pleasure forsook my earliest infancy; The luxury of others robbed my cradle, And ravished thence the promise of a man. Cast out from nature, disinherited Of what her meanest children claim by kind, Yet greatness kept me from contempt: that's gone. Had Cleopatra followed my advice, Then he had been betrayed who now forsakes. She dies for love; but she has known its joys: Gods, is this just, that I, who know no joys, Must die, because she loves? Enter CLEOPATRA, CHARMION, IRAS, and Train O madam, I have seen what blasts my eyes! Octavia's here. CLEOPATRA. Peace with that raven's note. I know it too; and now am in The pangs of death. ALEXAS. You are no more a queen; Egypt is lost. CLEOPATRA. What tell'st thou me of Egypt? My life, my soul is lost! Octavia has him!-- O fatal name to Cleopatra's love! My kisses, my embraces now are hers; While I--But thou hast seen my rival; speak, Does she deserve this blessing? Is she fair? Bright as a goddess? and is all perfection Confined to her? It is. Poor I was made Of that coarse matter, which, when she was finished, The gods threw by for rubbish. ALEXAS. She is indeed a very miracle. CLEOPATRA. Death to my hopes, a miracle! ALEXAS. A miracle; [Bowing.] I mean of goodness; for in beauty, madam, You make all wonders cease. CLEOPATRA. I was too rash: Take this in part of recompense. But, oh! [Giving a ring.] I fear thou flatterest me. CHARMION. She comes! she's here! IRAS. Fly, madam, Caesar's sister! CLEOPATRA. Were she the sister of the thunderer Jove, And bore her brother's lightning in her eyes, Thus would I face my rival. [Meets OCTAVIA with VENTIDIUS. OCTAVIA bears up to her. Their Trains come up on either side.] OCTAVIA. I need not ask if you are Cleopatra; Your haughty carriage-- CLEOPATRA. Shows I am a queen: Nor need I ask you, who you are. OCTAVIA. A Roman: A name, that makes and can unmake a queen. CLEOPATRA. Your lord, the man who serves me, is a Roman. OCTAVIA. He was a Roman, till he lost that name, To be a slave in Egypt; but I come To free him thence. CLEOPATRA. Peace, peace, my lover's Juno. When he grew weary of that household clog, He chose my easier bonds. OCTAVIA. I wonder not Your bonds are easy: you have long been practised In that lascivious art: He's not the first For whom you spread your snares: Let Caesar witness. CLEOPATRA. I loved not Caesar; 'twas but gratitude I paid his love: The worst your malice can, Is but to say the greatest of mankind Has been my slave. The next, but far above him In my esteem, is he whom law calls yours, But whom his love made mine. OCTAVIA. I would view nearer. [Coming up close to her.] That face, which has so long usurped my right, To find the inevitable charms, that catch Mankind so sure, that ruined my dear lord. CLEOPATRA. Oh, you do well to search; for had you known But half these charms, you had not lost his heart. OCTAVIA. Far be their knowledge from a Roman lady, Far from a modest wife! Shame of our sex, Dost thou not blush to own those black endearments, That make sin pleasing? CLEOPATRA. You may blush, who want them. If bounteous nature, if indulgent Heaven Have given me charms to please the bravest man, Should I not thank them? Should I be ashamed, And not be proud? I am, that he has loved me; And, when I love not him, Heaven change this face For one like that. OCTAVIA. Thou lov'st him not so well. CLEOPATRA. I love him better, and deserve him more. OCTAVIA. You do not; cannot: You have been his ruin. Who made him cheap at Rome, but Cleopatra? Who made him scorned abroad, but Cleopatra? At Actium, who betrayed him? Cleopatra. Who made his children orphans, and poor me A wretched widow? only Cleopatra. CLEOPATRA. Yet she, who loves him best, is Cleopatra. If you have suffered, I have suffered more. You bear the specious title of a wife, To gild your cause, and draw the pitying world To favour it: the world condemns poor me. For I have lost my honour, lost my fame, And stained the glory of my royal house, And all to bear the branded name of mistress. There wants but life, and that too I would lose For him I love. OCTAVIA. Be't so, then; take thy wish. [Exit with her Train.] CLEOPATRA. And 'tis my wish, Now he is lost for whom alone I lived. My sight grows dim, and every object dances, And swims before me, in the maze of death. My spirits, while they were opposed, kept up; They could not sink beneath a rival's scorn! But now she's gone, they faint. ALEXAS. Mine have had leisure To recollect their strength, and furnish counsel, To ruin her, who else must ruin you. CLEOPATRA. Vain promiser! Lead me, my Charmion; nay, your hand too, Iras. My grief has weight enough to sink you both. Conduct me to some solitary chamber, And draw the curtains round; Then leave me to myself, to take alone My fill of grief: There I till death will his unkindness weep; As harmless infants moan themselves asleep. [Exeunt.]

Part 3

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Cleopatra, Charmion, Iras, and Alexas enter from one door. Antony and the Romans enter from another. Trumpets sound on Antony's side, which are answered by timbrels on Cleopatra's. Charmion and Iras are holding a laurel wreath, and there an Egyptian dance and ceremony are performed. At the end, Cleopatra puts a crown on Antony's head. Antony has just returned from battles in which he has fought well against Octavius. Antony speaks lovingly of Cleopatra, saying, "Enjoyed, thou still art new; perpetual spring/Is in thy arms; the ripened fruit but falls,/And blossoms rise to fill its empty place;/And I grow rich by giving." Ventidius enters and stands apart, looking disapproving, which Alexas says has to do with his envy of Antony's success. Antony tries to avoid the general, but Ventidius pulls him by the robe. Antony manages to break free, and Ventidius gives a brief soliloquy about Antony's character. Antony enters and tells Ventidius that his army has managed to defeat Octavius without the help of the legions in Syria. Ventidius worries that Octavius is keeping control of his main troops and asks if Antony might make an arrangement with some fellow Romans like Maecenas or Agrippa. Antony tells Ventidius that he knows "the bravest youth of Rome,/Whom Caesar loves beyond the love of women," a young man named Dolabella. Ventidius tells Antony that Dolabella is now in Caesar's camp. Antony discusses the fact that he suspected Dolabella of loving Cleopatra and so forbade him from ever seeing her. Ventidius contends that Dolabella loves Antony and announces the arrival of a messenger that Dolabella sent with letters. Ventidius brings Dolabella into the room, and Antony embraces him, overjoyed to see him. When Antony confronts Dolabella about his feelings towards Cleopatra, Dolabella contends that his affections were a symptom of his youthfulness, and jokes that Antony has no excuse. He then talks about the fact that Antony lost legions and the love of his family all for the sake of Cleopatra. He tells him that he has brought conditions from Caesar. When Ventidius next leaves the room, he brings back Octavia, Antony's wife, and Antony's two young daughters. Octavia asks who she is to Antony and he responds, "Caesar's sister." She asks him to return to her, but he refuses. Still, she wants to reconcile, and tells him, "I have a soul like yours; I cannot take/Your love as alms, nor beg what I deserve./I'll tell my brother we are reconciled;/He shall draw back his troops, and you shall march/To rule the East: I may be dropt at Athens;/No matter where. I never will complain,/But only keep the barren name of wife,/And rid you of the trouble." Antony asks Dolabella for advice, and Ventidius tells Antony that Cleopatra has offered him nothing but ruin, while Octavia has been ruined by him, but is offering mercy. When Octavia sends their children to hug Antony, he agrees to go with them. Suddenly, Alexas enters and worries that he will die as a result of his queen's failure to hold onto Antony. When Cleopatra enters soon after, she mourns the fact that Antony has returned to Octavia. When Octavia comes into the room with Ventidius, Cleopatra remains there to confront her. Octavia insults Cleopatra for being immodest and practiced at sex, while Cleopatra belittles Octavia for not being able to keep her husband. When Octavia leaves, Cleopatra is hopeless and depressed about her fate. Act 4. Antony and Dolabella discuss the fact that Antony has enlisted Dolabella to tell Cleopatra he is leaving. "I dare not trust my tongue to tell her so:/One look of hers would thaw me into tears,/And I should melt, till I were lost again," says Antony. Dolabella wants Ventidius to do it because of his rough nature, but Antony thinks Ventidius is too harsh. Dolabella then tells Antony that he worries that he is too soft for the job and will start crying. Antony insists that this makes him perfect for the job, and tells Dolabella to inform Cleopatra that he will try and preserve her throne by convincing Caesar to be merciful. He goes to leave, then comes back to tell Antony to deliver the message that his heart will break if he hears Cleopatra has taken another lover. When Antony has gone, Ventidius comes in, then Cleopatra and Alexas. Alexas advises Cleopatra to seduce Dolabella as a way of making Antony jealous, a plot to which she hesitantly and remorsefully agrees.

At the start of Act 3, we see that Antony, in his love for Cleopatra, is made stronger as a warrior. He returns to Cleopatra's court having had some minor victories in his battles against Octavius. This seems to disprove Ventidius and others' assessment that Antony's love for Cleopatra has weakened him in some way; indeed, it seems that the passion he feels towards the Egyptian ruler only motivates him to fight more fiercely and effectively. Ventidius is the character who perhaps sees Antony the most clearly, as his old friend, and once again invokes the particularities of Antony's character in this act. In a brief soliloquy he says, "His virtues lie so mingled with his crimes, As would confound their choice to punish one, And not reward the other." In this, he once again raises the idea that the very qualities that make Antony such a good and virtuous man--his tendency to feel things so strongly and go for them with passion--are also what unravel his character and lead him to make such grave mistakes as a ruler. Antony's fortune is changed in this act when Ventidius brings not only his dearest friend Dolabella, but his wife and children to the court of Cleopatra in order to try and convince Antony to give up his affair. Antony is very pleased to see Dolabella, but Dolabella soon makes it known that he is disappointed in Antony, as is the rest of Rome, for abandoning his family and sacrificing armies for the sake of his love. Soon after, Antony's wife and two daughters enter; Octavia requests that he returns home, but he refuses. A major element of the conflict in the play is the fact that the other characters give Antony many different chances to right his wrongs and return to Rome. His army waits for him to join them and leave Cleopatra behind in the previous act. Then, in this act, both Dolabella, Antony's best friend, and his wife, Octavia, come to implore him to return to Rome. They ask him with open hearts and no sense of malice. While it seems as though, given his actions, Antony ought not to be given more chances to do right, characters keep appearing to do just that. Even though Antony is given many opportunities to leave his mistress, Cleopatra and Alexas, the eunuch, devise just as many plots to keep him ensnared. When Antony is just about to leave again to go back to Rome and sends Dolabella to deliver the news, Alexas advises Cleopatra to seduce Dolabella as a way of getting Antony jealous. Just at the very moment when it seems that Antony is free, Cleopatra comes up with a new way to entice him to stay, no matter how deceitful. The queen and her eunuch attendant are framed as particularly scheming and nefarious figures in the dramatic arc of the play.

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All for Love.act 4.scene 1

act 4, scene 1

{"name": "Part 4", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210630170925/https://www.gradesaver.com/all-for-love/study-guide/summary-part-4", "summary": "Cleopatra approaches Dolabella and he flatters her. Cleopatra replies, \"You flatter me./But, 'tis your nation's vice: All of your country/Are flatterers, and all false.\" As Dolabella begins to give her the news, she begins to seduce him. \"Some men are constant,\" Dolabella says, alluding to the fact that he is steadfast in his affections and would make a truer lover than Antony. This frustrates Ventidius, who flees the room to plot how to stop the seduction. Dolabella, overcome with feeling, tells Cleopatra that Antony had harsh words for her, and she begins to faint. He quickly clarifies that he lied, and that Antony had only kind words to send to her. This leads Cleopatra to reveal that she was inviting his love by being gentle and trying to make Antony jealous. As Cleopatra begs for more time with Antony, Ventidius and Octavia enter. Dolabella takes Cleopatra's hand, then tells Ventidius that he must find Antony. When Dolabella and Cleopatra exit, Octavia and Ventidius discuss the fact that Antony still feels tenderness towards Cleopatra. Octavia is angered by this realization and is prepared to try and break the connection. When Antony enters, he pulls Ventidius aside and asks about Dolabella's message. Ventidius intimates that Cleopatra was not especially saddened to hear of his departure. Octavia joins the conversation to confirm that Dolabella and Cleopatra seemed very intimate in the moment the message was transmitted. Antony does not believe them, insistent that she would never do such a thing. When Alexas enters, Ventidius asks him whether or not Cleopatra and Dolabella are having an affair, and he lies that she has indeed fallen for Dolabella. Distressed to see that Antony has not gotten over his love for Cleopatra, Octavia vows to leave Antony once and for all, and never return. \"You shall no more be haunted with this Fury,\" she says, leaving him for good. Antony bemoans the fact that he could not hide his feelings for Cleopatra. Dolabella enters and informs Antony, \"She loves you, even to madness,\" before presenting him with Cleopatra herself. Antony accuses them both of betraying him, and they beg him for forgiveness. Cleopatra tells him that she could not pretend to love Dolabella to make him jealous. Still, Antony does not believe them, and mourns the betrayal of both a friend and a mistress.", "analysis": "Ventidius is perhaps the only character who remains objective throughout the play. He often must bear witness to the inconstancy and machinations of the other characters, and in asides, bemoans the fact that he can always see what is going on far sooner than other characters. This is true in this section when he watches Cleopatra begin to seduce the impressionable Dolabella, and feels powerless to stop it. While the other characters are swayed by their passions, particularly by their sexual passions, Ventidius remains firm, if rather hard-hearted. In the midst of Dolabella and Cleopatra's meeting, they both prove unable to deceive one another. As soon as Cleopatra begins to seduce Dolabella, he feels so guilty about betraying his friend Antony that he admits that Antony still feels tender towards her, and she admits that she had hoped to lure him back by making him jealous. Neither is able to participate in such dishonesty, even though Ventidius suspects them both of deceit. A moment of dramatic irony occurs when Ventidius and Octavia try and convince Antony that Cleopatra has seduced Dolabella. While we know that both Dolabella and Cleopatra found it impossible to betray Antony, Ventidius and Octavia insist that Antony ought not trust Cleopatra, but he does not believe that she has been \"tainted.\" The dramatic irony in this moment comes from the fact that the audience knows that Cleopatra is remaining true to Antony, and that Ventidius and Octavia have misconstrued the events. Antony's greatest flaw, in his eyes and in the eyes of those around him, is how earnest and unable to conceal his emotions he is. After Octavia leaves him once and for all, he bemoans his fate, saying, \"Why was I framed with this plain, honest heart,/Which knows not to disguise its griefs and weakness,/But bears its workings outward to the world?/I should have kept the mighty anguish in,/And forced a smile at Cleopatra's falsehood:/Octavia had believed it, and had stayed.\" In his eyes, had he been able to conceal his emotions and pretend not to love Cleopatra, he might have kept Octavia as his wife, but he is unable to lie or conceal his real emotions. The act ends with Antony in a state of emotional confusion, convinced that Dolabella and Cleopatra have both betrayed him. He no longer has the promise of honorably returning to Rome with his wife, and he is bereft in his belief that Dolabella and Cleopatra would disrespect him by having an affair. His mistrust and unhappiness are rock-solid, and no matter how much the queen and his old friend try to convince him otherwise, Antony refuses to believe them."}

Act IV Scene I Enter ANTONY and DOLABELLA DOLABELLA. Why would you shift it from yourself on me? Can you not tell her, you must part? ANTONY. I cannot. I could pull out an eye, and bid it go, And t'other should not weep. O Dolabella, How many deaths are in this word, DEPART! I dare not trust my tongue to tell her so: One look of hers would thaw me into tears, And I should melt, till I were lost again. DOLABELLA. Then let Ventidius; He's rough by nature. ANTONY. Oh, he'll speak too harshly; He'll kill her with the news: Thou, only thou. DOLABELLA. Nature has cast me in so soft a mould, That but to hear a story, feigned for pleasure, Of some sad lover's death, moistens my eyes, And robs me of my manhood. I should speak So faintly, with such fear to grieve her heart, She'd not believe it earnest. ANTONY. Therefore,--therefore Thou only, thou art fit: Think thyself me; And when thou speak'st (but let it first be long), Take off the edge from every sharper sound, And let our parting be as gently made, As other loves begin: Wilt thou do this? DOLABELLA. What you have said so sinks into my soul, That, if I must speak, I shall speak just so. ANTONY. I leave you then to your sad task: Farewell. I sent her word to meet you. [Goes to the door, and comes back.] I forgot; Let her be told, I'll make her peace with mine, Her crown and dignity shall be preserved, If I have power with Caesar.--Oh, be sure To think on that. DOLABELLA. Fear not, I will remember. [ANTONY goes again to the door, and comes back.] ANTONY. And tell her, too, how much I was constrained; I did not this, but with extremest force. Desire her not to hate my memory, For I still cherish hers:--insist on that. DOLABELLA. Trust me. I'll not forget it. ANTONY. Then that's all. [Goes out, and returns again.] Wilt thou forgive my fondness this once more? Tell her, though we shall never meet again, If I should hear she took another love, The news would break my heart.--Now I must go; For every time I have returned, I feel My soul more tender; and my next command Would be, to bid her stay, and ruin both. [Exit.] DOLABELLA. Men are but children of a larger growth; Our appetites as apt to change as theirs, And full as craving too, and full as vain; And yet the soul, shut up in her dark room, Viewing so clear abroad, at home sees nothing: But, like a mole in earth, busy and blind, Works all her folly up, and casts it outward To the world's open view: Thus I discovered, And blamed the love of ruined Antony: Yet wish that I were he, to be so ruined. Enter VENTIDIUS above VENTIDIUS. Alone, and talking to himself? concerned too? Perhaps my guess is right; he loved her once, And may pursue it still. DOLABELLA. O friendship! friendship! Ill canst thou answer this; and reason, worse: Unfaithful in the attempt; hopeless to win; And if I win, undone: mere madness all. And yet the occasion's fair. What injury To him, to wear the robe which he throws by! VENTIDIUS. None, none at all. This happens as I wish, To ruin her yet more with Antony. Enter CLEOPATRA talking with ALEXAS; CHARMION, IRAS on the other side. DOLABELLA. She comes! What charms have sorrow on that face! Sorrow seems pleased to dwell with so much sweetness; Yet, now and then, a melancholy smile Breaks loose, like lightning in a winter's night, And shows a moment's day. VENTIDIUS. If she should love him too! her eunuch there? That porc'pisce bodes ill weather. Draw, draw nearer, Sweet devil, that I may hear. ALEXAS. Believe me; try [DOLABELLA goes over to CHARMION and IRAS; seems to talk with them.] To make him jealous; jealousy is like A polished glass held to the lips when life's in doubt; If there be breath, 'twill catch the damp, and show it. CLEOPATRA. I grant you, jealousy's a proof of love, But 'tis a weak and unavailing medicine; It puts out the disease, and makes it show, But has no power to cure. ALEXAS. 'Tis your last remedy, and strongest too: And then this Dolabella, who so fit To practise on? He's handsome, valiant, young, And looks as he were laid for nature's bait, To catch weak women's eyes. He stands already more than half suspected Of loving you: the least kind word or glance, You give this youth, will kindle him with love: Then, like a burning vessel set adrift, You'll send him down amain before the wind, To fire the heart of jealous Antony. CLEOPATRA. Can I do this? Ah, no, my love's so true, That I can neither hide it where it is, Nor show it where it is not. Nature meant me A wife; a silly, harmless, household dove, Fond without art, and kind without deceit; But Fortune, that has made a mistress of me, Has thrust me out to the wide world, unfurnished Of falsehood to be happy. ALEXAS. Force yourself. The event will be, your lover will return, Doubly desirous to possess the good Which once he feared to lose. CLEOPATRA. I must attempt it; But oh, with what regret! [Exit ALEXAS. She comes up to DOLABELLA.] VENTIDIUS. So, now the scene draws near; they're in my reach. CLEOPATRA. [to DOLABELLA.] Discoursing with my women! might not I Share in your entertainment? CHARMION. You have been The subject of it, madam. CLEOPATRA. How! and how! IRAS. Such praises of your beauty! CLEOPATRA. Mere poetry. Your Roman wits, your Gallus and Tibullus, Have taught you this from Cytheris and Delia. DOLABELLA. Those Roman wits have never been in Egypt; Cytheris and Delia else had been unsung: I, who have seen--had I been born a poet, Should choose a nobler name. CLEOPATRA. You flatter me. But, 'tis your nation's vice: All of your country Are flatterers, and all false. Your friend's like you. I'm sure, he sent you not to speak these words. DOLABELLA. No, madam; yet he sent me-- CLEOPATRA. Well, he sent you-- DOLABELLA. Of a less pleasing errand. CLEOPATRA. How less pleasing? Less to yourself, or me? DOLABELLA. Madam, to both; For you must mourn, and I must grieve to cause it. CLEOPATRA. You, Charmion, and your fellow, stand at distance.-- Hold up, my spirits. [Aside.]--Well, now your mournful matter; For I'm prepared, perhaps can guess it too. DOLABELLA. I wish you would; for 'tis a thankless office, To tell ill news: And I, of all your sex, Most fear displeasing you. CLEOPATRA. Of all your sex, I soonest could forgive you, if you should. VENTIDIUS. Most delicate advances! Women! women! Dear, damned, inconstant sex! CLEOPATRA. In the first place, I am to be forsaken; is't not so? DOLABELLA. I wish I could not answer to that question. CLEOPATRA. Then pass it o'er, because it troubles you: I should have been more grieved another time. Next I'm to lose my kingdom--Farewell, Egypt! Yet, is there ary more? DOLABELLA. Madam, I fear Your too deep sense of grief has turned your reason. CLEOPATRA. No, no, I'm not run mad; I can bear fortune: And love may be expelled by other love, As poisons are by poisons. DOLABELLA. You o'erjoy me, madam, To find your griefs so moderately borne. You've heard the worst; all are not false like him. CLEOPATRA. No; Heaven forbid they should. DOLABELLA. Some men are constant. CLEOPATRA. And constancy deserves reward, that's certain. DOLABELLA. Deserves it not; but give it leave to hope. VENTIDIUS. I'll swear, thou hast my leave. I have enough: But how to manage this! Well, I'll consider. [Exit.] DOLABELLA. I came prepared To tell you heavy news; news, which I thought Would fright the blood from your pale cheeks to hear: But you have met it with a cheerfulness, That makes my task more easy; and my tongue, Which on another's message was employed, Would gladly speak its own. CLEOPATRA. Hold, Dolabella. First tell me, were you chosen by my lord? Or sought you this employment? DOLABELLA. He picked me out; and, as his bosom friend, He charged me with his words. CLEOPATRA. The message then I know was tender, and each accent smooth, To mollify that rugged word, DEPART. DOLABELLA. Oh, you mistake: He chose the harshest words; With fiery eyes, and contracted brows, He coined his face in the severest stamp; And fury shook his fabric, like an earthquake; He heaved for vent, and burst like bellowing Aetna, In sounds scarce human--"Hence away for ever, Let her begone, the blot of my renown, And bane of all my hopes!" [All the time of this speech, CLEOPATRA seems more and more concerned, till she sinks quite down.] "Let her be driven, as far as men can think, From man's commerce! she'll poison to the centre." CLEOPATRA. Oh, I can bear no more! DOLABELLA. Help, help!--O wretch! O cursed, cursed wretch! What have I done! CHARMION. Help, chafe her temples, Iras. IRAS. Bend, bend her forward quickly. CHARMION. Heaven be praised, She comes again. CLEOPATRA. Oh, let him not approach me. Why have you brought me back to this loathed being; The abode of falsehood, violated vows, And injured love? For pity, let me go; For, if there be a place of long repose, I'm sure I want it. My disdainful lord Can never break that quiet; nor awake The sleeping soul, with hollowing in my tomb Such words as fright her hence.--Unkind, unkind! DOLABELLA. Believe me, 'tis against myself I speak; [Kneeling.] That sure desires belief; I injured him: My friend ne'er spoke those words. Oh, had you seen How often he came back, and every time With something more obliging and more kind, To add to what he said; what dear farewells; How almost vanquished by his love he parted, And leaned to what unwillingly he left! I, traitor as I was, for love of you (But what can you not do, who made me false?) I forged that lie; for whose forgiveness kneels This self-accused, self-punished criminal. CLEOPATRA. With how much ease believe we what we wish! Rise, Dolabella; if you have been guilty, I have contributed, and too much love Has made me guilty too. The advance of kindness, which I made, was feigned, To call back fleeting love by jealousy; But 'twould not last. Oh, rather let me lose, Than so ignobly trifle with his heart. DOLABELLA. I find your breast fenced round from human reach, Transparent as a rock of solid crystal; Seen through, but never pierced. My friend, my friend, What endless treasure hast thou thrown away; And scattered, like an infant, in the ocean, Vain sums of wealth, which none can gather thence! CLEOPATRA. Could you not beg An hour's admittance to his private ear? Like one, who wanders through long barren wilds And yet foreknows no hospitable inn Is near to succour hunger, eats his fill, Before his painful march; So would I feed a while my famished eyes Before we part; for I have far to go, If death be far, and never must return. VENTIDIUS with OCTAVIA, behind VENTIDIUS. From hence you may discover--oh, sweet, sweet! Would you indeed? The pretty hand in earnest? DOLABELLA. I will, for this reward. [Takes her hand.] Draw it not back. 'Tis all I e'er will beg. VENTIDIUS. They turn upon us. OCTAVIA. What quick eyes has guilt! VENTIDIUS. Seem not to have observed them, and go on. [They enter.] DOLABELLA. Saw you the emperor, Ventidius? VENTIDIUS. No. I sought him; but I heard that he was private, None with him but Hipparchus, his freedman. DOLABELLA. Know you his business? VENTIDIUS. Giving him instructions, And letters to his brother Caesar. DOLABELLA. Well, He must be found. [Exeunt DOLABELLA and CLEOPATRA.] OCTAVIA. Most glorious impudence! VENTIDIUS. She looked, methought, As she would say--Take your old man, Octavia; Thank you, I'm better here.-- Well, but what use Make we of this discovery? OCTAVIA. Let it die. VENTIDIUS. I pity Dolabella; but she's dangerous: Her eyes have power beyond Thessalian charms, To draw the moon from heaven; for eloquence, The sea-green Syrens taught her voice their flattery; And, while she speaks, night steals upon the day, Unmarked of those that hear. Then she's so charming, Age buds at sight of her, and swells to youth: The holy priests gaze on her when she smiles; And with heaved hands, forgetting gravity, They bless her wanton eyes: Even I, who hate her, With a malignant joy behold such beauty; And, while I curse, desire it. Antony Must needs have some remains of passion still, Which may ferment into a worse relapse, If now not fully cured. I know, this minute, With Caesar he's endeavouring her peace. OCTAVIA. You have prevailed:--But for a further purpose [Walks off.] I'll prove how he will relish this discovery. What, make a strumpet's peace! it swells my heart: It must not, shall not be. VENTIDIUS. His guards appear. Let me begin, and you shall second me. Enter ANTONY ANTONY. Octavia, I was looking you, my love: What, are your letters ready? I have given My last instructions. OCTAVIA. Mine, my lord, are written. ANTONY. Ventidius. [Drawing him aside.] VENTIDIUS. My lord? ANTONY. A word in private.-- When saw you Dolabella? VENTIDIUS. Now, my lord, He parted hence; and Cleopatra with him. ANTONY. Speak softly.--'Twas by my command he went, To bear my last farewell. VENTIDIUS. It looked indeed [Aloud.] Like your farewell. ANTONY. More softly.--My farewell? What secret meaning have you in those words Of--My farewell? He did it by my order. VENTIDIUS. Then he obeyed your order. I suppose [Aloud.] You bid him do it with all gentleness, All kindness, and all--love. ANTONY. How she mourned, The poor forsaken creature! VENTIDIUS. She took it as she ought; she bore your parting As she did Caesar's, as she would another's, Were a new love to come. ANTONY. Thou dost belie her; [Aloud.] Most basely, and maliciously belie her. VENTIDIUS. I thought not to displease you; I have done. OCTAVIA. You seemed disturbed, my Lord. [Coming up.] ANTONY. A very trifle. Retire, my love. VENTIDIUS. It was indeed a trifle. He sent-- ANTONY. No more. Look how thou disobey'st me; [Angrily.] Thy life shall answer it. OCTAVIA. Then 'tis no trifle. VENTIDIUS. [to OCTAVIA.] 'Tis less; a very nothing: You too saw it, As well as I, and therefore 'tis no secret. ANTONY. She saw it! VENTIDIUS. Yes: She saw young Dolabella-- ANTONY. Young Dolabella! VENTIDIUS. Young, I think him young, And handsome too; and so do others think him. But what of that? He went by your command, Indeed 'tis probable, with some kind message; For she received it graciously; she smiled; And then he grew familiar with her hand, Squeezed it, and worried it with ravenous kisses; She blushed, and sighed, and smiled, and blushed again; At last she took occasion to talk softly, And brought her cheek up close, and leaned on his; At which, he whispered kisses back on hers; And then she cried aloud--That constancy Should be rewarded. OCTAVIA. This I saw and heard. ANTONY. What woman was it, whom you heard and saw So playful with my friend? Not Cleopatra? VENTIDIUS. Even she, my lord. ANTONY. My Cleopatra? VENTIDIUS. Your Cleopatra; Dolabella's Cleopatra; every man's Cleopatra. ANTONY. Thou liest. VENTIDIUS. I do not lie, my lord. Is this so strange? Should mistresses be left, And not provide against a time of change? You know she's not much used to lonely nights. ANTONY. I'll think no more on't. I know 'tis false, and see the plot betwixt you.-- You needed not have gone this way, Octavia. What harms it you that Cleopatra's just? She's mine no more. I see, and I forgive: Urge it no further, love. OCTAVIA. Are you concerned, That she's found false? ANTONY. I should be, were it so; For, though 'tis past, I would not that the world Should tax my former choice, that I loved one Of so light note; but I forgive you both. VENTIDIUS. What has my age deserved, that you should think I would abuse your ears with perjury? If Heaven be true, she's false. ANTONY. Though heaven and earth Should witness it, I'll not believe her tainted. VENTIDIUS. I'll bring you, then, a witness From hell, to prove her so.--Nay, go not back; [Seeing ALEXAS just entering, and starting back.] For stay you must and shall. ALEXAS. What means my lord? VENTIDIUS. To make you do what most you hate,--speak truth. You are of Cleopatra's private counsel, Of her bed-counsel, her lascivious hours; Are conscious of each nightly change she makes, And watch her, as Chaldaeans do the moon, Can tell what signs she passes through, what day. ALEXAS. My noble lord! VENTIDIUS. My most illustrious pander, No fine set speech, no cadence, no turned periods, But a plain homespun truth, is what I ask. I did, myself, o'erhear your queen make love To Dolabella. Speak; for I will know, By your confession, what more passed betwixt them; How near the business draws to your employment; And when the happy hour. ANTONY. Speak truth, Alexas; whether it offend Or please Ventidius, care not: Justify Thy injured queen from malice: Dare his worst. OCTAVIA. [aside.] See how he gives him courage! how he fears To find her false! and shuts his eyes to truth, Willing to be misled! ALEXAS. As far as love may plead for woman's frailty, Urged by desert and greatness of the lover, So far, divine Octavia, may my queen Stand even excused to you for loving him Who is your lord: so far, from brave Ventidius, May her past actions hope a fair report. ANTONY. 'Tis well, and truly spoken: mark, Ventidius. ALEXAS. To you, most noble emperor, her strong passion Stands not excused, but wholly justified. Her beauty's charms alone, without her crown, From Ind and Meroe drew the distant vows Of sighing kings; and at her feet were laid The sceptres of the earth, exposed on heaps, To choose where she would reign: She thought a Roman only could deserve her, And, of all Romans, only Antony; And, to be less than wife to you, disdained Their lawful passion. ANTONY. 'Tis but truth. ALEXAS. And yet, though love, and your unmatched desert, Have drawn her from the due regard of honour, At last Heaven opened her unwilling eyes To see the wrongs she offered fair Octavia, Whose holy bed she lawlessly usurped. The sad effects of this improsperous war Confirmed those pious thoughts. VENTIDIUS. [aside.] Oh, wheel you there? Observe him now; the man begins to mend, And talk substantial reason.--Fear not, eunuch; The emperor has given thee leave to speak. ALEXAS. Else had I never dared to offend his ears With what the last necessity has urged On my forsaken mistress; yet I must not Presume to say, her heart is wholly altered. ANTONY. No, dare not for thy life, I charge thee dare not Pronounce that fatal word! OCTAVIA. Must I bear this? Good Heaven, afford me patience. [Aside.] VENTIDIUS. On, sweet eunuch; my dear half-man, proceed. ALEXAS. Yet Dolabella Has loved her long; he, next my god-like lord, Deserves her best; and should she meet his passion, Rejected, as she is, by him she loved---- ANTONY. Hence from my sight! for I can bear no more: Let furies drag thee quick to hell; let all The longer damned have rest; each torturing hand Do thou employ, till Cleopatra comes; Then join thou too, and help to torture her! [Exit ALEXAS, thrust out by ANTONY.] OCTAVIA. 'Tis not well. Indeed, my lord, 'tis much unkind to me, To show this passion, this extreme concernment, For an abandoned, faithless prostitute. ANTONY. Octavia, leave me; I am much disordered: Leave me, I say. OCTAVIA. My lord! ANTONY. I bid you leave me. VENTIDIUS. Obey him, madam: best withdraw a while, And see how this will work. OCTAVIA. Wherein have I offended you, my lord, That I am bid to leave you? Am I false, Or infamous? Am I a Cleopatra? Were I she, Base as she is, you would not bid me leave you; But hang upon my neck, take slight excuses, And fawn upon my falsehood. ANTONY. 'Tis too much. Too much, Octavia; I am pressed with sorrows Too heavy to be borne; and you add more: I would retire, and recollect what's left Of man within, to aid me. OCTAVIA. You would mourn, In private, for your love, who has betrayed you. You did but half return to me: your kindness Lingered behind with her, I hear, my lord, You make conditions for her, And would include her treaty. Wondrous proofs Of love to me! ANTONY. Are you my friend, Ventidius? Or are you turned a Dolabella too, And let this fury loose? VENTIDIUS. Oh, be advised, Sweet madam, and retire. OCTAVIA. Yes, I will go; but never to return. You shall no more be haunted with this Fury. My lord, my lord, love will not always last, When urged with long unkindness and disdain: Take her again, whom you prefer to me; She stays but to be called. Poor cozened man! Let a feigned parting give her back your heart, Which a feigned love first got; for injured me, Though my just sense of wrongs forbid my stay, My duty shall be yours. To the dear pledges of our former love My tenderness and care shall be transferred, And they shall cheer, by turns, my widowed nights: So, take my last farewell; for I despair To have you whole, and scorn to take you half. [Exit.] VENTIDIUS. I combat Heaven, which blasts my best designs; My last attempt must be to win her back; But oh! I fear in vain. [Exit.] ANTONY. Why was I framed with this plain, honest heart, Which knows not to disguise its griefs and weakness, But bears its workings outward to the world? I should have kept the mighty anguish in, And forced a smile at Cleopatra's falsehood: Octavia had believed it, and had stayed. But I am made a shallow-forded stream, Seen to the bottom: all my clearness scorned, And all my faults exposed.--See where he comes, Enter DOLLABELLA Who has profaned the sacred name of friend, And worn it into vileness! With how secure a brow, and specious form, He gilds the secret villain! Sure that face Was meant for honesty; but Heaven mismatched it, And furnished treason out with nature's pomp, To make its work more easy. DOLABELLA. O my friend! ANTONY. Well, Dolabella, you performed my message? DOLABELLA. I did, unwillingly. ANTONY. Unwillingly? Was it so hard for you to bear our parting? You should have wished it. DOLABELLA. Why? ANTONY. Because you love me. And she received my message with as true, With as unfeigned a sorrow as you brought it? DOLABELLA. She loves you, even to madness. ANTONY. Oh, I know it. You, Dolabella, do not better know How much she loves me. And should I Forsake this beauty? This all-perfect creature? DOLABELLA. I could not, were she mine. ANTONY. And yet you first Persuaded me: How come you altered since? DOLABELLA. I said at first I was not fit to go: I could not hear her sighs, and see her tears, But pity must prevail: And so, perhaps, It may again with you; for I have promised, That she should take her last farewell: And, see, She comes to claim my word. Enter CLEOPATRA ANTONY. False Dolabella! DOLABELLA. What's false, my lord? ANTONY. Why, Dolabella's false, And Cleopatra's false; both false and faithless. Draw near, you well-joined wickedness, you serpents, Whom I have in my kindly bosom warmed, Till I am stung to death. DOLABELLA. My lord, have I Deserved to be thus used? CLEOPATRA. Can Heaven prepare A newer torment? Can it find a curse Beyond our separation? ANTONY. Yes, if fate Be just, much greater: Heaven should be ingenious In punishing such crimes. The rolling stone, And gnawing vulture, were slight pains, invented When Jove was young, and no examples known Of mighty ills; but you have ripened sin, To such a monstrous growth, 'twill pose the gods To find an equal torture. Two, two such!-- Oh, there's no further name,--two such! to me, To me, who locked my soul within your breasts, Had no desires, no joys, no life, but you; When half the globe was mine, I gave it you In dowry with my heart; I had no use, No fruit of all, but you: A friend and mistress Was what the world could give. O Cleopatra! O Dolabella! how could you betray This tender heart, which with an infant fondness Lay lulled betwixt your bosoms, and there slept, Secure of injured faith? DOLABELLA. If she has wronged you, Heaven, hell, and you revenge it. ANTONY. If she has wronged me! Thou wouldst evade thy part of guilt; but swear Thou lov'st not her. DOLABELLA. Not so as I love you. ANTONY. Not so? Swear, swear, I say, thou dost not love her. DOLABELLA. No more than friendship will allow. ANTONY. No more? Friendship allows thee nothing: Thou art perjured-- And yet thou didst not swear thou lov'st her not; But not so much, no more. O trifling hypocrite, Who dar'st not own to her, thou dost not love, Nor own to me, thou dost! Ventidius heard it; Octavia saw it. CLEOPATRA. They are enemies. ANTONY. Alexas is not so: He, he confessed it; He, who, next hell, best knew it, he avowed it. Why do I seek a proof beyond yourself? [To DOLABELLA.] You, whom I sent to bear my last farewell, Returned, to plead her stay. DOLABELLA. What shall I answer? If to have loved be guilt, then I have sinned; But if to have repented of that love Can wash away my crime, I have repented. Yet, if I have offended past forgiveness, Let not her suffer: She is innocent. CLEOPATRA. Ah, what will not a woman do, who loves? What means will she refuse, to keep that heart, Where all her joys are placed? 'Twas I encouraged, 'Twas I blew up the fire that scorched his soul, To make you jealous, and by that regain you. But all in vain; I could not counterfeit: In spite of all the dams my love broke o'er, And drowned by heart again: fate took the occasion; And thus one minute's feigning has destroyed My whole life's truth. ANTONY. Thin cobweb arts of falsehood; Seen, and broke through at first. DOLABELLA. Forgive your mistress. CLEOPATRA. Forgive your friend. ANTONY. You have convinced yourselves. You plead each other's cause: What witness have you, That you but meant to raise my jealousy? CLEOPATRA. Ourselves, and Heaven. ANTONY. Guilt witnesses for guilt. Hence, love and friendship! You have no longer place in human breasts, These two have driven you out: Avoid my sight! I would not kill the man whom I have loved, And cannot hurt the woman; but avoid me: I do not know how long I can be tame; For, if I stay one minute more, to think How I am wronged, my justice and revenge Will cry so loud within me, that my pity Will not be heard for either. DOLABELLA. Heaven has but Our sorrow for our sins; and then delights To pardon erring man: Sweet mercy seems Its darling attribute, which limits justice; As if there were degrees in infinite, And infinite would rather want perfection Than punish to extent. ANTONY. I can forgive A foe; but not a mistress and a friend. Treason is there in its most horrid shape, Where trust is greatest; and the soul resigned, Is stabbed by its own guards: I'll hear no more; Hence from my sight for ever! CLEOPATRA. How? for ever! I cannot go one moment from your sight, And must I go for ever? My joys, my only joys, are centred here: What place have I to go to? My own kingdom? That I have lost for you: Or to the Romans? They hate me for your sake: Or must I wander The wide world o'er, a helpless, banished woman, Banished for love of you; banished from you? Ay, there's the banishment! Oh, hear me; hear me, With strictest justice: For I beg no favour; And if I have offended you, then kill me, But do not banish me. ANTONY. I must not hear you. I have a fool within me takes your part; But honour stops my ears. CLEOPATRA. For pity hear me! Would you cast off a slave who followed you? Who crouched beneath your spurn?--He has no pity! See, if he gives one tear to my departure; One look, one kind farewell: O iron heart! Let all the gods look down, and judge betwixt us, If he did ever love! ANTONY. No more: Alexas! DOLABELLA. A perjured villain! ANTONY. [to CLEOPATRA.] Your Alexas; yours. CLEOPATRA. Oh, 'twas his plot; his ruinous design, To engage you in my love by jealousy. Hear him; confront him with me; let him speak. ANTONY. I have; I have. CLEOPATRA. And if he clear me not-- ANTONY. Your creature! one, who hangs upon your smiles! Watches your eye, to say or to unsay, Whate'er you please! I am not to be moved. CLEOPATRA. Then must we part? Farewell, my cruel lord! The appearance is against me; and I go, Unjustified, for ever from your sight. How I have loved, you know; how yet I love, My only comfort is, I know myself: I love you more, even now you are unkind, Then when you loved me most; so well, so truly I'll never strive against it; but die pleased, To think you once were mine. ANTONY. Good heaven, they weep at parting! Must I weep too? that calls them innocent. I must not weep; and yet I must, to think That I must not forgive.-- Live, but live wretched; 'tis but just you should, Who made me so: Live from each other's sight: Let me not hear you meet. Set all the earth, And all the seas, betwixt your sundered loves: View nothing common but the sun and skies. Now, all take several ways; And each your own sad fate, with mine, deplore; That you were false, and I could trust no more. [Exeunt severally.]

Part 4

https://web.archive.org/web/20210630170925/https://www.gradesaver.com/all-for-love/study-guide/summary-part-4

Cleopatra approaches Dolabella and he flatters her. Cleopatra replies, "You flatter me./But, 'tis your nation's vice: All of your country/Are flatterers, and all false." As Dolabella begins to give her the news, she begins to seduce him. "Some men are constant," Dolabella says, alluding to the fact that he is steadfast in his affections and would make a truer lover than Antony. This frustrates Ventidius, who flees the room to plot how to stop the seduction. Dolabella, overcome with feeling, tells Cleopatra that Antony had harsh words for her, and she begins to faint. He quickly clarifies that he lied, and that Antony had only kind words to send to her. This leads Cleopatra to reveal that she was inviting his love by being gentle and trying to make Antony jealous. As Cleopatra begs for more time with Antony, Ventidius and Octavia enter. Dolabella takes Cleopatra's hand, then tells Ventidius that he must find Antony. When Dolabella and Cleopatra exit, Octavia and Ventidius discuss the fact that Antony still feels tenderness towards Cleopatra. Octavia is angered by this realization and is prepared to try and break the connection. When Antony enters, he pulls Ventidius aside and asks about Dolabella's message. Ventidius intimates that Cleopatra was not especially saddened to hear of his departure. Octavia joins the conversation to confirm that Dolabella and Cleopatra seemed very intimate in the moment the message was transmitted. Antony does not believe them, insistent that she would never do such a thing. When Alexas enters, Ventidius asks him whether or not Cleopatra and Dolabella are having an affair, and he lies that she has indeed fallen for Dolabella. Distressed to see that Antony has not gotten over his love for Cleopatra, Octavia vows to leave Antony once and for all, and never return. "You shall no more be haunted with this Fury," she says, leaving him for good. Antony bemoans the fact that he could not hide his feelings for Cleopatra. Dolabella enters and informs Antony, "She loves you, even to madness," before presenting him with Cleopatra herself. Antony accuses them both of betraying him, and they beg him for forgiveness. Cleopatra tells him that she could not pretend to love Dolabella to make him jealous. Still, Antony does not believe them, and mourns the betrayal of both a friend and a mistress.

Ventidius is perhaps the only character who remains objective throughout the play. He often must bear witness to the inconstancy and machinations of the other characters, and in asides, bemoans the fact that he can always see what is going on far sooner than other characters. This is true in this section when he watches Cleopatra begin to seduce the impressionable Dolabella, and feels powerless to stop it. While the other characters are swayed by their passions, particularly by their sexual passions, Ventidius remains firm, if rather hard-hearted. In the midst of Dolabella and Cleopatra's meeting, they both prove unable to deceive one another. As soon as Cleopatra begins to seduce Dolabella, he feels so guilty about betraying his friend Antony that he admits that Antony still feels tender towards her, and she admits that she had hoped to lure him back by making him jealous. Neither is able to participate in such dishonesty, even though Ventidius suspects them both of deceit. A moment of dramatic irony occurs when Ventidius and Octavia try and convince Antony that Cleopatra has seduced Dolabella. While we know that both Dolabella and Cleopatra found it impossible to betray Antony, Ventidius and Octavia insist that Antony ought not trust Cleopatra, but he does not believe that she has been "tainted." The dramatic irony in this moment comes from the fact that the audience knows that Cleopatra is remaining true to Antony, and that Ventidius and Octavia have misconstrued the events. Antony's greatest flaw, in his eyes and in the eyes of those around him, is how earnest and unable to conceal his emotions he is. After Octavia leaves him once and for all, he bemoans his fate, saying, "Why was I framed with this plain, honest heart,/Which knows not to disguise its griefs and weakness,/But bears its workings outward to the world?/I should have kept the mighty anguish in,/And forced a smile at Cleopatra's falsehood:/Octavia had believed it, and had stayed." In his eyes, had he been able to conceal his emotions and pretend not to love Cleopatra, he might have kept Octavia as his wife, but he is unable to lie or conceal his real emotions. The act ends with Antony in a state of emotional confusion, convinced that Dolabella and Cleopatra have both betrayed him. He no longer has the promise of honorably returning to Rome with his wife, and he is bereft in his belief that Dolabella and Cleopatra would disrespect him by having an affair. His mistrust and unhappiness are rock-solid, and no matter how much the queen and his old friend try to convince him otherwise, Antony refuses to believe them.

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all_chapterized_books/2062-chapters/6.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/All for Love/section_4_part_0.txt

All for Love.act 5.scene 1

act 5, scene 1

{"name": "Part 5", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210630170925/https://www.gradesaver.com/all-for-love/study-guide/summary-part-5", "summary": "Cleopatra, Charmion, and Iras enter, and Cleopatra bemoans how hard it has been to keep Antony. She pulls out a dagger, but Charmion and Iras prevent her from killing herself. When Alexas enters, Cleopatra is angry at him, and he admits that he deserves this treatment. They discuss the fact that Octavia has left and Antony has banished Dolabella. Alexas tries to tell Cleopatra that Antony never left her and that they are still together and in love. He then tells her that Antony is preparing to fight with Caesar's army. Suddenly, Serapion enters and tells Cleopatra that the Egyptian army did not fight because Antony's army greeted Caesar's army as old friends, before joining together to turn on Egypt. When Serapion details how upset Antony is, Cleopatra's attendants urge her to hide from him, but she insists that she will stay. Alexas offers to go to Caesar and ensure that Antony perishes, but Cleopatra forbids him from doing so. Cleopatra remains confident that Antony will be just with her, saying, \"I know him noble: when he banished me,/And thought me false, he scorned to take my life;/But I'll be justified, and then die with him.\" Alexas begs for mercy, but Cleopatra leaves with her attendants. Left alone, Alexas tries to plot how he might save his own life. When he hears Antony and Ventidius coming, he flees the room. Ventidius and Antony enter and prepare to fight, worried about their fate. When Alexas comes back in, he begs for mercy. Then, when Antony goes to kill him, he lies that Cleopatra has killed herself. Antony is, predictably, devastated, and bemoans the loss. He dismisses Alexas, who suspects that he has saved not only himself, but also Cleopatra, whom Antony will be overjoyed to find is actually alive. He flees, fearing getting killed by the Romans. Ventidius tries to encourage Antony to fight Caesar, but Antony is completely unmotivated. \"What should I fight for now?--my queen is dead,\" he says. He tells Ventidius he wants to kill himself before Caesar has a chance to kill him. Ventidius says that he too wants to die, but Antony tries to convince him to live. \"Wilt thou not live, to speak some good of me?\" Antony asks, to which Ventidius replies, \"If we die well, our deaths will speak themselves/And need no living witness.\" They both wish each other goodbye and plan to die. Ventidius goes to stab Antony, but then kills himself instead. Antony then falls on his sword, missing his heart. Cleopatra enters with Charmion and Iras. Antony is surprised to see her alive, and she tells him that Alexas lied about her death and she ran to find him. They express their love for one another and Antony dies. Charmion urges Cleopatra not to kill herself, telling her that Caesar will be merciful, but Cleopatra would rather die with dignity than live in disgrace. Cleopatra tells Charmion and Iras to bring aspics, poisonous snakes. As Serapion comes in to announce the arrival of Caesar, Cleopatra lets one of the aspics bite her arm. Charmion and Iras follow suit to show their loyalty to their queen. They all die, as Serapion, various priests, and Alexas all enter. They discuss the fact that Cleopatra died happy to be reunited with her lover.", "analysis": "The chaos that results from Alexas' meddling in the previous act only continues in the fifth act, as Antony's army goes to fight with Caesar and then refuses to fight. Antony's disloyalty to Rome renders him completely ineffectual as a general, which then puts Egypt in grave danger. With her country at risk of invasion, Cleopatra has no choice but to denounce her relationship with Antony and try and save herself from the consequences. While the plot in the previous acts has been upheld through lies, deceit, and plotting, this final act shows each of the characters in a state of desperation. Even the ever-scheming Alexas is at a loss for how to spare his own life, and comes to grips with his deceptive ways. Dryden presents him as uncharacteristically sympathetic in this moment, as Alexas bemoans his fate: \"My gift of lying's gone;/And this court-devil, which I so oft have raised,/Forsakes me at my need. I dare not stay;/Yet cannot far go hence.\" In this moment, he speaks about the fact that all of his deceptions were for the sake of his country, and that now he will be punished for that. Alexas' redemption narrative, and his lost gift for lying, do not last long, however. As soon as Antony and Ventidius arrive, he is back to his scheming ways. Once again manipulating the volatility of the love between Antony and Cleopatra, Alexas devises a lie that Cleopatra has killed herself. Knowing that this will devastate Antony, Alexas is able to save himself in a hopeless moment. An interesting dimension of Antony and Cleopatra's relationship emerges in this section when--after hearing the false news that Cleopatra is dead--Antony tells Ventidius that all his motivation as a political and military leader came from his desire for her. He says, \"I was but great for her; my power, my empire,/Were but my merchandise to buy her love;/And conquered kings, my factors.\" In this, he entwines sexuality and politics even more than other characters have, suggesting that not only is his love for Cleopatra caught up in their political positions, but that she is the origin of any power he has achieved. In other words, their relationship is not a symptom of political machinations in Antony's eyes; rather, it is what has enabled and created any political success that Antony found. The play, as was to be expected, ends tragically, with both Antony and Cleopatra killing themselves as a result of some devastating dramatic irony. Alexas lies to Antony that Cleopatra is dead in order to save himself, without realizing that Antony will so hastily kill himself as a result. Just as Antony is dying, Cleopatra runs in and reveals that she is in fact alive. When Antony dies, she resolves that she would rather die than face Caesar, and so kills herself with a poisonous snake."}

Act V Scene I Enter CLEOPATRA, CHARMION, and IRAS CHARMION. Be juster, Heaven; such virtue punished thus, Will make us think that chance rules all above, And shuffles, with a random hand, the lots, Which man is forced to draw. CLEOPATRA. I could tear out these eyes, that gained his heart, And had not power to keep it. O the curse Of doting on, even when I find it dotage! Bear witness, gods, you heard him bid me go; You, whom he mocked with imprecating vows Of promised faith!--I'll die; I will not bear it. You may hold me-- [She pulls out her dagger, and they hold her.] But I can keep my breath; I can die inward, And choke this love. Enter ALEXAS IRAS. Help, O Alexas, help! The queen grows desperate; her soul struggles in her With all the agonies of love and rage, And strives to force its passage. CLEOPATRA. Let me go. Art thou there, traitor!--O, O for a little breath, to vent my rage, Give, give me way, and let me loose upon him. ALEXAS. Yes, I deserve it, for my ill-timed truth. Was it for me to prop The ruins of a falling majesty? To place myself beneath the mighty flaw, Thus to be crushed, and pounded into atoms, By its o'erwhelming weight? 'Tis too presuming For subjects to preserve that wilful power, Which courts its own destruction. CLEOPATRA. I would reason More calmly with you. Did not you o'errule, And force my plain, direct, and open love, Into these crooked paths of jealousy? Now, what's the event? Octavia is removed; But Cleopatra's banished. Thou, thou villain, Hast pushed my boat to open sea; to prove, At my sad cost, if thou canst steer it back. It cannot be; I'm lost too far; I'm ruined: Hence, thou impostor, traitor, monster, devil!-- I can no more: Thou, and my griefs, have sunk Me down so low, that I want voice to curse thee. ALEXAS. Suppose some shipwrecked seaman near the shore, Dropping and faint, with climbing up the cliff, If, from above, some charitable hand Pull him to safety, hazarding himself, To draw the other's weight; would he look back, And curse him for his pains? The case is yours; But one step more, and you have gained the height. CLEOPATRA. Sunk, never more to rise. ALEXAS. Octavia's gone, and Dolabella banished. Believe me, madam, Antony is yours. His heart was never lost, but started off To jealousy, love's last retreat and covert; Where it lies hid in shades, watchful in silence, And listening for the sound that calls it back. Some other, any man ('tis so advanced), May perfect this unfinished work, which I (Unhappy only to myself) have left So easy to his hand. CLEOPATRA. Look well thou do't; else-- ALEXAS. Else, what your silence threatens.--Antony Is mounted up the Pharos; from whose turret, He stands surveying our Egyptian galleys, Engaged with Caesar's fleet. Now death or conquest! If the first happen, fate acquits my promise; If we o'ercome, the conqueror is yours. [A distant shout within.] CHARMION. Have comfort, madam: Did you mark that shout? [Second shout nearer.] IRAS. Hark! they redouble it. ALEXAS. 'Tis from the port. The loudness shows it near: Good news, kind heavens! CLEOPATRA. Osiris make it so! Enter SERAPION SERAPION. Where, where's the queen? ALEXAS. How frightfully the holy coward stares As if not yet recovered of the assault, When all his gods, and, what's more dear to him, His offerings, were at stake. SERAPION. O horror, horror! Egypt has been; our latest hour has come: The queen of nations, from her ancient seat, Is sunk for ever in the dark abyss: Time has unrolled her glories to the last, And now closed up the volume. CLEOPATRA. Be more plain: Say, whence thou comest; though fate is in thy face, Which from the haggard eyes looks wildly out, And threatens ere thou speakest. SERAPION. I came from Pharos; From viewing (spare me, and imagine it) Our land's last hope, your navy-- CLEOPATRA. Vanquished? SERAPION. No: They fought not. CLEOPATRA. Then they fled. SERAPION. Nor that. I saw, With Antony, your well-appointed fleet Row out; and thrice he waved his hand on high, And thrice with cheerful cries they shouted back: 'Twas then false Fortune, like a fawning strumpet, About to leave the bankrupt prodigal, With a dissembled smile would kiss at parting, And flatter to the last; the well-timed oars, Now dipt from every bank, now smoothly run To meet the foe; and soon indeed they met, But not as foes. In few, we saw their caps On either side thrown up; the Egyptian galleys, Received like friends, passed through, and fell behind The Roman rear: And now, they all come forward, And ride within the port. CLEOPATRA. Enough, Serapion: I've heard my doom.--This needed not, you gods: When I lost Antony, your work was done; 'Tis but superfluous malice.--Where's my lord? How bears he this last blow? SERAPION. His fury cannot be expressed by words: Thrice he attempted headlong to have fallen Full on his foes, and aimed at Caesar's galley: Withheld, he raves on you; cries,--He's betrayed. Should he now find you-- ALEXAS. Shun him; seek your safety, Till you can clear your innocence. CLEOPATRA. I'll stay. ALEXAS. You must not; haste you to your monument, While I make speed to Caesar. CLEOPATRA. Caesar! No, I have no business with him. ALEXAS. I can work him To spare your life, and let this madman perish. CLEOPATRA. Base fawning wretch! wouldst thou betray him too? Hence from my sight! I will not hear a traitor; 'Twas thy design brought all this ruin on us.-- Serapion, thou art honest; counsel me: But haste, each moment's precious. SERAPION. Retire; you must not yet see Antony. He who began this mischief, 'Tis just he tempt the danger; let him clear you: And, since he offered you his servile tongue, To gain a poor precarious life from Caesar, Let him expose that fawning eloquence, And speak to Antony. ALEXAS. O heavens! I dare not; I meet my certain death. CLEOPATRA. Slave, thou deservest it.-- Not that I fear my lord, will I avoid him; I know him noble: when he banished me, And thought me false, he scorned to take my life; But I'll be justified, and then die with him. ALEXAS. O pity me, and let me follow you. CLEOPATRA. To death, if thou stir hence. Speak, if thou canst, Now for thy life, which basely thou wouldst save; While mine I prize at--this! Come, good Serapion. [Exeunt CLEOPATRA, SERAPION, CHARMION, and IRAS.] ALEXAS. O that I less could fear to lose this being, Which, like a snowball in my coward hand, The more 'tis grasped, the faster melts away. Poor reason! what a wretched aid art thou! For still, in spite of thee, These two long lovers, soul and body, dread Their final separation. Let me think: What can I say, to save myself from death? No matter what becomes of Cleopatra. ANTONY. Which way? where? [Within.] VENTIDIUS. This leads to the monument. [Within.] ALEXAS. Ah me! I hear him; yet I'm unprepared: My gift of lying's gone; And this court-devil, which I so oft have raised, Forsakes me at my need. I dare not stay; Yet cannot far go hence. [Exit.] Enter ANTONY and VENTIDIUS ANTONY. O happy Caesar! thou hast men to lead: Think not 'tis thou hast conquered Antony; But Rome has conquered Egypt. I'm betrayed. VENTIDIUS. Curse on this treacherous train! Their soil and heaven infect them all with baseness: And their young souls come tainted to the world With the first breath they draw. ANTONY. The original villain sure no god created; He was a bastard of the sun, by Nile, Aped into man; with all his mother's mud Crusted about his soul. VENTIDIUS. The nation is One universal traitor; and their queen The very spirit and extract of them all. ANTONY. Is there yet left A possibility of aid from valour? Is there one god unsworn to my destruction? The least unmortgaged hope? for, if there be, Methinks I cannot fall beneath the fate Of such a boy as Caesar. The world's one half is yet in Antony; And from each limb of it, that's hewed away, The soul comes back to me. VENTIDIUS. There yet remain Three legions in the town. The last assault Lopt off the rest; if death be your design,-- As I must wish it now,--these are sufficient To make a heap about us of dead foes, An honest pile for burial. ANTONY. They are enough. We'll not divide our stars; but, side by side, Fight emulous, and with malicious eyes Survey each other's acts: So every death Thou giv'st, I'll take on me, as a just debt, And pay thee back a soul. VENTIDIUS. Now you shall see I love you. Not a word Of chiding more. By my few hours of life, I am so pleased with this brave Roman fate, That I would not be Caesar, to outlive you. When we put off this flesh, and mount together, I shall be shown to all the ethereal crowd,-- Lo, this is he who died with Antony! ANTONY. Who knows, but we may pierce through all their troops, And reach my veterans yet? 'tis worth the 'tempting, To o'erleap this gulf of fate, And leave our wandering destinies behind. Enter ALEXAS, trembling VENTIDIUS. See, see, that villain! See Cleopatra stamped upon that face, With all her cunning, all her arts of falsehood! How she looks out through those dissembling eyes! How he sets his countenance for deceit, And promises a lie, before he speaks! Let me despatch him first. [Drawing.] ALEXAS. O spare me, spare me! ANTONY. Hold; he's not worth your killing.--On thy life, Which thou may'st keep, because I scorn to take it, No syllable to justify thy queen; Save thy base tongue its office. ALEXAS. Sir, she is gone. Where she shall never be molested more By love, or you. ANTONY. Fled to her Dolabella! Die, traitor! I revoke my promise! die! [Going to kill him.] ALEXAS. O hold! she is not fled. ANTONY. She is: my eyes Are open to her falsehood; my whole life Has been a golden dream of love and friendship; But, now I wake, I'm like a merchant, roused From soft repose, to see his vessel sinking, And all his wealth cast over. Ungrateful woman! Who followed me, but as the swallow summer, Hatching her young ones in my kindly beams, Singing her flatteries to my morning wake: But, now my winter comes, she spreads her wings, And seeks the spring of Caesar. ALEXAS. Think not so; Her fortunes have, in all things, mixed with yours. Had she betrayed her naval force to Rome, How easily might she have gone to Caesar, Secure by such a bribe! VENTIDIUS. She sent it first, To be more welcome after. ANTONY. 'Tis too plain; Else would she have appeared, to clear herself. ALEXAS. Too fatally she has: she could not bear To be accused by you; but shut herself Within her monument; looked down and sighed; While, from her unchanged face, the silent tears Dropt, as they had not leave, but stole their parting. Some indistinguished words she only murmured; At last, she raised her eyes; and, with such looks As dying Lucrece cast-- ANTONY. My heart forebodes-- VENTIDIUS. All for the best:--Go on. ALEXAS. She snatched her poniard, And, ere we could prevent the fatal blow, Plunged it within her breast; then turned to me: Go, bear my lord, said she, my last farewell; And ask him, if he yet suspect my faith. More she was saying, but death rushed betwixt. She half pronounced your name with her last breath, And buried half within her. VENTIDIUS. Heaven be praised! ANTONY. Then art thou innocent, my poor dear love, And art thou dead? O those two words! their sound should be divided: Hadst thou been false, and died; or hadst thou lived, And hadst been true--But innocence and death! This shows not well above. Then what am I, The murderer of this truth, this innocence! Thoughts cannot form themselves in words so horrid As can express my guilt! VENTIDIUS. Is't come to this? The gods have been too gracious; And thus you thank them for it! ANTONY. [to ALEXAS.] Why stayest thou here? Is it for thee to spy upon my soul, And see its inward mourning? Get thee hence; Thou art not worthy to behold, what now Becomes a Roman emperor to perform. ALEXAS. He loves her still: His grief betrays it. Good! the joy to find She's yet alive, completes the reconcilement. I've saved myself, and her. But, oh! the Romans! Fate comes too fast upon my wit, Hunts me too hard, and meets me at each double. [Aside.] [Exit.] VENTIDIUS. Would she had died a little sooner, though! Before Octavia went, you might have treated: Now 'twill look tame, and would not be received. Come, rouse yourself, and let's die warm together. ANTONY. I will not fight: there's no more work for war. The business of my angry hours is done. VENTIDIUS. Caesar is at your gates. ANTONY. Why, let him enter; He's welcome now. VENTIDIUS. What lethargy has crept into your soul? ANTONY. 'Tis but a scorn of life, and just desire To free myself from bondage. VENTIDIUS. Do it bravely. ANTONY. I will; but not by fighting. O Ventidius! What should I fight for now?--my queen is dead. I was but great for her; my power, my empire, Were but my merchandise to buy her love; And conquered kings, my factors. Now she's dead, Let Caesar take the world,-- An empty circle, since the jewel's gone Which made it worth my strife: my being's nauseous; For all the bribes of life are gone away. VENTIDIUS. Would you be taken? ANTONY. Yes, I would be taken; But, as a Roman ought,--dead, my Ventidius: For I'll convey my soul from Caesar's reach, And lay down life myself. 'Tis time the world Should have a lord, and know whom to obey. We two have kept its homage in suspense, And bent the globe, on whose each side we trod, Till it was dented inwards. Let him walk Alone upon't: I'm weary of my part. My torch is out; and the world stands before me, Like a black desert at the approach of night: I'll lay me down, and stray no farther on. VENTIDIUS. I could be grieved, But that I'll not outlive you: choose your death; For, I have seen him in such various shapes, I care not which I take: I'm only troubled, The life I bear is worn to such a rag, 'Tis scarce worth giving. I could wish, indeed, We threw it from us with a better grace; That, like two lions taken in the toils, We might at last thrust out our paws, and wound The hunters that inclose us. ANTONY. I have thought on it. Ventidius, you must live. VENTIDIUS. I must not, sir. ANTONY. Wilt thou not live, to speak some good of me? To stand by my fair fame, and guard the approaches From the ill tongues of men? VENTIDIUS. Who shall guard mine, For living after you? ANTONY. Say, I command it. VENTIDIUS. If we die well, our deaths will speak themselves And need no living witness. ANTONY. Thou hast loved me, And fain I would reward thee. I must die; Kill me, and take the merit of my death, To make thee friends with Caesar. VENTIDIUS. Thank your kindness. You said I loved you; and in recompense, You bid me turn a traitor: Did I think You would have used me thus?--that I should die With a hard thought of you? ANTONY. Forgive me, Roman. Since I have heard of Cleopatra's death, My reason bears no rule upon my tongue, But lets my thoughts break all at random out. I've thought better; do not deny me twice. VENTIDIUS. By Heaven I will not. Let it not be to outlive you. ANTONY. Kill me first, And then die thou; for 'tis but just thou serve Thy friend, before thyself. VENTIDIUS. Give me your hand. We soon shall meet again. Now, farewell, emperor!-- [Embrace.] Methinks that word's too cold to be my last: Since death sweeps all distinctions, farewell, friend! That's all-- I will not make a business of a trifle; And yet I cannot look on you, and kill you; Pray turn your face. ANTONY. I do: strike home, be sure. VENTIDIUS. Home as my sword will reach. [Kills himself.] ANTONY. Oh, thou mistak'st; That wound was not of thine; give it me back: Thou robb'st me of my death. VENTIDIUS. I do indeed; But think 'tis the first time I e'er deceived you, If that may plead my pardon.--And you, gods, Forgive me, if you will; for I die perjured, Rather than kill my friend. [Dies.] ANTONY. Farewell! Ever my leader, even in death! My queen and thou have got the start of me, And I'm the lag of honour.--Gone so soon? Is Death no more? he used him carelessly, With a familiar kindness: ere he knocked, Ran to the door, and took him in his arms, As who should say--You're welcome at all hours, A friend need give no warning. Books had spoiled him; For all the learned are cowards by profession. 'Tis not worth My further thought; for death, for aught I know, Is but to think no more. Here's to be satisfied. [Falls on his sword.] I've missed my heart. O unperforming hand! Thou never couldst have erred in a worse time. My fortune jades me to the last; and death, Like a great man, takes state, and makes me wait For my admittance.-- [Trampling within.] Some, perhaps, from Caesar: If he should find me living, and suspect That I played booty with my life! I'll mend My work, ere they can reach me. [Rises upon his knees.] Enter CLEOPATRA, CHARMION, and IRAS CLEOPATRA. Where is my lord? where is he? CHARMION. There he lies, And dead Ventidius by him. CLEOPATRA. My tears were prophets; I am come too late. O that accursed Alexas! [Runs to him.] ANTONY. Art thou living? Or am I dead before I knew, and thou The first kind ghost that meets me? CLEOPATRA. Help me seat him. Send quickly, send for help! [They place him in a chair.] ANTONY. I am answered. We live both. Sit thee down, my Cleopatra: I'll make the most I can of life, to stay A moment more with thee. CLEOPATRA. How is it with you? ANTONY. 'Tis as with a man Removing in a hurry; all packed up, But one dear jewel that his haste forgot; And he, for that, returns upon the spur: So I come back for thee. CLEOPATRA. Too long, ye heavens, you have been cruel to me: Now show your mended faith, and give me back His fleeting life! ANTONY. It will not be, my love; I keep my soul by force. Say but, thou art not false. CLEOPATRA. 'Tis now too late To say I'm true: I'll prove it, and die with you. Unknown to me, Alexas feigned my death: Which, when I knew, I hasted to prevent This fatal consequence. My fleet betrayed Both you and me. ANTONY. And Dolabella-- CLEOPATRA. Scarce Esteemed before he loved; but hated now. ANTONY. Enough: my life's not long enough for more. Thou say'st, thou wilt come after: I believe thee; For I can now believe whate'er thou sayest, That we may part more kindly. CLEOPATRA. I will come: Doubt not, my life, I'll come, and quickly too: Caesar shall triumph o'er no part of thee. ANTONY. But grieve not, while thou stayest, My last disastrous times: Think we have had a clear and glorious day And Heaven did kindly to delay the storm, Just till our close of evening. Ten years' love, And not a moment lost, but all improved To the utmost joys,--what ages have we lived? And now to die each other's; and, so dying, While hand in hand we walk in groves below, Whole troops of lovers' ghosts shall flock about us, And all the train be ours. CLEOPATRA. Your words are like the notes of dying swans, Too sweet to last. Were there so many hours For your unkindness, and not one for love? ANTONY. No, not a minute.--This one kiss--more worth Than all I leave to Caesar. [Dies.] CLEOPATRA. O tell me so again, And take ten thousand kisses for that word. My lord, my lord! speak, if you yet have being; Sign to me, if you cannot speak; or cast One look! Do anything that shows you live. IRAS. He's gone too far to hear you; And this you see, a lump of senseless clay, The leavings of a soul. CHARMION. Remember, madam, He charged you not to grieve. CLEOPATRA. And I'll obey him. I have not loved a Roman, not to know What should become his wife; his wife, my Charmion! For 'tis to that high title I aspire; And now I'll not die less. Let dull Octavia Survive, to mourn him dead: My nobler fate Shall knit our spousals with a tie, too strong For Roman laws to break. IRAS. Will you then die? CLEOPATRA. Why shouldst thou make that question? IRAS. Caesar is merciful. CLEOPATRA. Let him be so To those that want his mercy: My poor lord Made no such covenant with him, to spare me When he was dead. Yield me to Caesar's pride? What! to be led in triumph through the streets, A spectacle to base plebeian eyes; While some dejected friend of Antony's, Close in a corner, shakes his head, and mutters A secret curse on her who ruined him! I'll none of that. CHARMION. Whatever you resolve, I'll follow, even to death. IRAS. I only feared For you; but more should fear to live without you. CLEOPATRA. Why, now, 'tis as it should be. Quick, my friends, Despatch; ere this, the town's in Caesar's hands: My lord looks down concerned, and fears my stay, Lest I should be surprised; Keep him not waiting for his love too long. You, Charmion, bring my crown and richest jewels; With them, the wreath of victory I made (Vain augury!) for him, who now lies dead: You, Iras, bring the cure of all our ills. IRAS. The aspics, madam? CLEOPATRA. Must I bid you twice? [Exit CHARMION and IRAS.] 'Tis sweet to die, when they would force life on me, To rush into the dark abode of death, And seize him first; if he be like my love, He is not frightful, sure. We're now alone, in secrecy and silence; And is not this like lovers? I may kiss These pale, cold lips; Octavia does not see me: And, oh! 'tis better far to have him thus, Than see him in her arms.--Oh, welcome, welcome! Enter CHARMION and IRAS CHARMION. What must be done? CLEOPATRA. Short ceremony, friends; But yet it must be decent. First, this laurel Shall crown my hero's head: he fell not basely, Nor left his shield behind him.--Only thou Couldst triumph o'er thyself; and thou alone Wert worthy so to triumph. CHARMION. To what end These ensigns of your pomp and royalty? CLEOPATRA. Dull, that thou art! why 'tis to meet my love; As when I saw him first, on Cydnus' bank, All sparkling, like a goddess: so adorned, I'll find him once again; my second spousals Shall match my first in glory. Haste, haste, both, And dress the bride of Antony. CHARMION. 'Tis done. CLEOPATRA. Now seat me by my lord. I claim this place, For I must conquer Caesar too, like him, And win my share of the world.--Hail, you dear relics Of my immortal love! O let no impious hand remove you hence: But rest for ever here! Let Egypt give His death that peace, which it denied his life.-- Reach me the casket. IRAS. Underneath the fruit The aspic lies. CLEOPATRA. Welcome, thou kind deceiver! [Putting aside the leaves.] Thou best of thieves: who, with an easy key, Dost open life, and, unperceived by us, Even steal us from ourselves; discharging so Death's dreadful office, better than himself; Touching our limbs so gently into slumber, That Death stands by, deceived by his own image, And thinks himself but sleep. SERAPION. The queen, where is she? [Within.] The town is yielded, Caesar's at the gates. CLEOPATRA. He comes too late to invade the rights of death! Haste, bare my arm, and rouse the serpent's fury. [Holds out her arm, and draws it back.] Coward flesh, Wouldst thou conspire with Caesar to betray me, As thou wert none of mine? I'll force thee to it, And not be sent by him, But bring, myself, my soul to Antony. [Turns aside, and then shows her arm bloody.] Take hence; the work is done. SERAPION. Break ope the door, [Within.] And guard the traitor well. CHARMION. The next is ours. IRAS. Now, Charmion, to be worthy Of our great queen and mistress. [They apply the aspics.] CLEOPATRA. Already, death, I feel thee in my veins: I go with such a will to find my lord, That we shall quickly meet. A heavy numbness creeps through every limb, And now 'tis at my head: My eyelids fall, And my dear love is vanquished in a mist. Where shall I find him, where? O turn me to him, And lay me on his breast!--Caesar, thy worst; Now part us, if thou canst. [Dies.] [IRAS sinks down at her feet, and dies; CHARMION stands behind her chair, as dressing her head.] Enter SERAPION, two PRIESTS, ALEXAS bound, EGYPTIANS PRIEST. Behold, Serapion, What havoc death has made! SERAPION. 'Twas what I feared.-- Charmion, is this well done? CHARMION. Yes, 'tis well done, and like a queen, the last Of her great race: I follow her. [Sinks down: dies.] ALEXAS. 'Tis true, She has done well: Much better thus to die, Than live to make a holiday in Rome. SERAPION. See how the lovers sit in state together, As they were giving laws to half mankind! The impression of a smile, left in her face, Shows she died pleased with him for whom she lived, And went to charm him in another world. Caesar's just entering: grief has now no leisure. Secure that villain, as our pledge of safety, To grace the imperial triumph.--Sleep, blest pair, Secure from human chance, long ages out, While all the storms of fate fly o'er your tomb; And fame to late posterity shall tell, No lovers lived so great, or died so well. [Exeunt.]

Part 5

https://web.archive.org/web/20210630170925/https://www.gradesaver.com/all-for-love/study-guide/summary-part-5

Cleopatra, Charmion, and Iras enter, and Cleopatra bemoans how hard it has been to keep Antony. She pulls out a dagger, but Charmion and Iras prevent her from killing herself. When Alexas enters, Cleopatra is angry at him, and he admits that he deserves this treatment. They discuss the fact that Octavia has left and Antony has banished Dolabella. Alexas tries to tell Cleopatra that Antony never left her and that they are still together and in love. He then tells her that Antony is preparing to fight with Caesar's army. Suddenly, Serapion enters and tells Cleopatra that the Egyptian army did not fight because Antony's army greeted Caesar's army as old friends, before joining together to turn on Egypt. When Serapion details how upset Antony is, Cleopatra's attendants urge her to hide from him, but she insists that she will stay. Alexas offers to go to Caesar and ensure that Antony perishes, but Cleopatra forbids him from doing so. Cleopatra remains confident that Antony will be just with her, saying, "I know him noble: when he banished me,/And thought me false, he scorned to take my life;/But I'll be justified, and then die with him." Alexas begs for mercy, but Cleopatra leaves with her attendants. Left alone, Alexas tries to plot how he might save his own life. When he hears Antony and Ventidius coming, he flees the room. Ventidius and Antony enter and prepare to fight, worried about their fate. When Alexas comes back in, he begs for mercy. Then, when Antony goes to kill him, he lies that Cleopatra has killed herself. Antony is, predictably, devastated, and bemoans the loss. He dismisses Alexas, who suspects that he has saved not only himself, but also Cleopatra, whom Antony will be overjoyed to find is actually alive. He flees, fearing getting killed by the Romans. Ventidius tries to encourage Antony to fight Caesar, but Antony is completely unmotivated. "What should I fight for now?--my queen is dead," he says. He tells Ventidius he wants to kill himself before Caesar has a chance to kill him. Ventidius says that he too wants to die, but Antony tries to convince him to live. "Wilt thou not live, to speak some good of me?" Antony asks, to which Ventidius replies, "If we die well, our deaths will speak themselves/And need no living witness." They both wish each other goodbye and plan to die. Ventidius goes to stab Antony, but then kills himself instead. Antony then falls on his sword, missing his heart. Cleopatra enters with Charmion and Iras. Antony is surprised to see her alive, and she tells him that Alexas lied about her death and she ran to find him. They express their love for one another and Antony dies. Charmion urges Cleopatra not to kill herself, telling her that Caesar will be merciful, but Cleopatra would rather die with dignity than live in disgrace. Cleopatra tells Charmion and Iras to bring aspics, poisonous snakes. As Serapion comes in to announce the arrival of Caesar, Cleopatra lets one of the aspics bite her arm. Charmion and Iras follow suit to show their loyalty to their queen. They all die, as Serapion, various priests, and Alexas all enter. They discuss the fact that Cleopatra died happy to be reunited with her lover.

The chaos that results from Alexas' meddling in the previous act only continues in the fifth act, as Antony's army goes to fight with Caesar and then refuses to fight. Antony's disloyalty to Rome renders him completely ineffectual as a general, which then puts Egypt in grave danger. With her country at risk of invasion, Cleopatra has no choice but to denounce her relationship with Antony and try and save herself from the consequences. While the plot in the previous acts has been upheld through lies, deceit, and plotting, this final act shows each of the characters in a state of desperation. Even the ever-scheming Alexas is at a loss for how to spare his own life, and comes to grips with his deceptive ways. Dryden presents him as uncharacteristically sympathetic in this moment, as Alexas bemoans his fate: "My gift of lying's gone;/And this court-devil, which I so oft have raised,/Forsakes me at my need. I dare not stay;/Yet cannot far go hence." In this moment, he speaks about the fact that all of his deceptions were for the sake of his country, and that now he will be punished for that. Alexas' redemption narrative, and his lost gift for lying, do not last long, however. As soon as Antony and Ventidius arrive, he is back to his scheming ways. Once again manipulating the volatility of the love between Antony and Cleopatra, Alexas devises a lie that Cleopatra has killed herself. Knowing that this will devastate Antony, Alexas is able to save himself in a hopeless moment. An interesting dimension of Antony and Cleopatra's relationship emerges in this section when--after hearing the false news that Cleopatra is dead--Antony tells Ventidius that all his motivation as a political and military leader came from his desire for her. He says, "I was but great for her; my power, my empire,/Were but my merchandise to buy her love;/And conquered kings, my factors." In this, he entwines sexuality and politics even more than other characters have, suggesting that not only is his love for Cleopatra caught up in their political positions, but that she is the origin of any power he has achieved. In other words, their relationship is not a symptom of political machinations in Antony's eyes; rather, it is what has enabled and created any political success that Antony found. The play, as was to be expected, ends tragically, with both Antony and Cleopatra killing themselves as a result of some devastating dramatic irony. Alexas lies to Antony that Cleopatra is dead in order to save himself, without realizing that Antony will so hastily kill himself as a result. Just as Antony is dying, Cleopatra runs in and reveals that she is in fact alive. When Antony dies, she resolves that she would rather die than face Caesar, and so kills herself with a poisonous snake.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/3790-chapters/act_1.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/Major Barbara/section_0_part_0.txt

Major Barbara.act 1

act 1

{"name": "Act 1", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201219172439/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/major-barbara/summary/act-1", "summary": "Lady Britomart and her son Stephen sit down to discuss the family's finances. Although Lady Brit seems to have plenty of confidence in her own opinions, she claims she wants Stephen's help working through a tricky issue. Lady Brit's two daughters--Sarah and Barbara--are now engaged, and she is concerned about their ability to support themselves in their married lifestyles. Stephen then gets taken into Lady Brit's confidence and learns a whole lot more than he ever wanted to know about the family history/finances. It seems that his father, Andrew Undershaft, was a foundling adopted by the Undershaft family and groomed to take over its munitions businesses. The tradition of doing just that--leaving the family business to an adopted foundling rather than any of the family's biological children--had been going on for generations. So, Stephen would be skipped as well. Apparently, this tradition was the reason Lady Brit and Andrew separated some years ago--she wasn't into the idea that her son would be disinherited. Despite her issues with her husband, Lady Brit tries to push Stephen into \"advising\" her to take Andrew's money to make sure the girls have a suitable living once they're married. However, having heard all these new details of his father's past/behavior, Stephen is not inclined to be involved with his father at all. However, Lady Brit basically bullies him into making that his \"advice.\" Which is a good thing--since Lady Brit has already invited Andrew over to ask him about it. This will be the first time the kids have seen their father in a long time. Then, Sarah and Barbara enter with their fiances, Charles and Adolphus, and hear that their father is on his way to see them. When Andrew arrives, there's a great deal of hilarity as he attempts to figure out who is who--it seems he doesn't actually remember how many kids he has . . . Eventually, formal introductions happen and he gets his own offspring straight in his mind. They then all sit down to chat and learn more about each other. This leads into a discussion of everyone's different views on religion and morality--and Andrew's profession as a weapons manufacturer/dealer. During all this chatter, Barbara and her father make a deal: Her father will visit the Salvation Army, where she works, if she visits his munitions factory. Lady Brit gets annoyed that they keep talking about religion, so she decides to do it \"properly\" by holding formal prayers. At this point, the rest excuse themselves to do a different kind of service in the drawing room. Lady Brit is annoyed at being abandoned, but even she eventually gets up and joins them. Stephen refuses.", "analysis": ""}

ACT I It is after dinner on a January night, in the library in Lady Britomart Undershaft's house in Wilton Crescent. A large and comfortable settee is in the middle of the room, upholstered in dark leather. A person sitting on it [it is vacant at present] would have, on his right, Lady Britomart's writing table, with the lady herself busy at it; a smaller writing table behind him on his left; the door behind him on Lady Britomart's side; and a window with a window seat directly on his left. Near the window is an armchair. Lady Britomart is a woman of fifty or thereabouts, well dressed and yet careless of her dress, well bred and quite reckless of her breeding, well mannered and yet appallingly outspoken and indifferent to the opinion of her interlocutory, amiable and yet peremptory, arbitrary, and high-tempered to the last bearable degree, and withal a very typical managing matron of the upper class, treated as a naughty child until she grew into a scolding mother, and finally settling down with plenty of practical ability and worldly experience, limited in the oddest way with domestic and class limitations, conceiving the universe exactly as if it were a large house in Wilton Crescent, though handling her corner of it very effectively on that assumption, and being quite enlightened and liberal as to the books in the library, the pictures on the walls, the music in the portfolios, and the articles in the papers. Her son, Stephen, comes in. He is a gravely correct young man under 25, taking himself very seriously, but still in some awe of his mother, from childish habit and bachelor shyness rather than from any weakness of character. STEPHEN. What's the matter? LADY BRITOMART. Presently, Stephen. Stephen submissively walks to the settee and sits down. He takes up The Speaker. LADY BRITOMART. Don't begin to read, Stephen. I shall require all your attention. STEPHEN. It was only while I was waiting-- LADY BRITOMART. Don't make excuses, Stephen. [He puts down The Speaker]. Now! [She finishes her writing; rises; and comes to the settee]. I have not kept you waiting very long, I think. STEPHEN. Not at all, mother. LADY BRITOMART. Bring me my cushion. [He takes the cushion from the chair at the desk and arranges it for her as she sits down on the settee]. Sit down. [He sits down and fingers his tie nervously]. Don't fiddle with your tie, Stephen: there is nothing the matter with it. STEPHEN. I beg your pardon. [He fiddles with his watch chain instead]. LADY BRITOMART. Now are you attending to me, Stephen? STEPHEN. Of course, mother. LADY BRITOMART. No: it's not of course. I want something much more than your everyday matter-of-course attention. I am going to speak to you very seriously, Stephen. I wish you would let that chain alone. STEPHEN [hastily relinquishing the chain] Have I done anything to annoy you, mother? If so, it was quite unintentional. LADY BRITOMART [astonished] Nonsense! [With some remorse] My poor boy, did you think I was angry with you? STEPHEN. What is it, then, mother? You are making me very uneasy. LADY BRITOMART [squaring herself at him rather aggressively] Stephen: may I ask how soon you intend to realize that you are a grown-up man, and that I am only a woman? STEPHEN [amazed] Only a-- LADY BRITOMART. Don't repeat my words, please: It is a most aggravating habit. You must learn to face life seriously, Stephen. I really cannot bear the whole burden of our family affairs any longer. You must advise me: you must assume the responsibility. STEPHEN. I! LADY BRITOMART. Yes, you, of course. You were 24 last June. You've been at Harrow and Cambridge. You've been to India and Japan. You must know a lot of things now; unless you have wasted your time most scandalously. Well, advise me. STEPHEN [much perplexed] You know I have never interfered in the household-- LADY BRITOMART. No: I should think not. I don't want you to order the dinner. STEPHEN. I mean in our family affairs. LADY BRITOMART. Well, you must interfere now; for they are getting quite beyond me. STEPHEN [troubled] I have thought sometimes that perhaps I ought; but really, mother, I know so little about them; and what I do know is so painful--it is so impossible to mention some things to you--[he stops, ashamed]. LADY BRITOMART. I suppose you mean your father. STEPHEN [almost inaudibly] Yes. LADY BRITOMART. My dear: we can't go on all our lives not mentioning him. Of course you were quite right not to open the subject until I asked you to; but you are old enough now to be taken into my confidence, and to help me to deal with him about the girls. STEPHEN. But the girls are all right. They are engaged. LADY BRITOMART [complacently] Yes: I have made a very good match for Sarah. Charles Lomax will be a millionaire at 35. But that is ten years ahead; and in the meantime his trustees cannot under the terms of his father's will allow him more than 800 pounds a year. STEPHEN. But the will says also that if he increases his income by his own exertions, they may double the increase. LADY BRITOMART. Charles Lomax's exertions are much more likely to decrease his income than to increase it. Sarah will have to find at least another 800 pounds a year for the next ten years; and even then they will be as poor as church mice. And what about Barbara? I thought Barbara was going to make the most brilliant career of all of you. And what does she do? Joins the Salvation Army; discharges her maid; lives on a pound a week; and walks in one evening with a professor of Greek whom she has picked up in the street, and who pretends to be a Salvationist, and actually plays the big drum for her in public because he has fallen head over ears in love with her. STEPHEN. I was certainly rather taken aback when I heard they were engaged. Cusins is a very nice fellow, certainly: nobody would ever guess that he was born in Australia; but-- LADY BRITOMART. Oh, Adolphus Cusins will make a very good husband. After all, nobody can say a word against Greek: it stamps a man at once as an educated gentleman. And my family, thank Heaven, is not a pig-headed Tory one. We are Whigs, and believe in liberty. Let snobbish people say what they please: Barbara shall marry, not the man they like, but the man I like. STEPHEN. Of course I was thinking only of his income. However, he is not likely to be extravagant. LADY BRITOMART. Don't be too sure of that, Stephen. I know your quiet, simple, refined, poetic people like Adolphus--quite content with the best of everything! They cost more than your extravagant people, who are always as mean as they are second rate. No: Barbara will need at least 2000 pounds a year. You see it means two additional households. Besides, my dear, you must marry soon. I don't approve of the present fashion of philandering bachelors and late marriages; and I am trying to arrange something for you. STEPHEN. It's very good of you, mother; but perhaps I had better arrange that for myself. LADY BRITOMART. Nonsense! you are much too young to begin matchmaking: you would be taken in by some pretty little nobody. Of course I don't mean that you are not to be consulted: you know that as well as I do. [Stephen closes his lips and is silent]. Now don't sulk, Stephen. STEPHEN. I am not sulking, mother. What has all this got to do with--with--with my father? LADY BRITOMART. My dear Stephen: where is the money to come from? It is easy enough for you and the other children to live on my income as long as we are in the same house; but I can't keep four families in four separate houses. You know how poor my father is: he has barely seven thousand a year now; and really, if he were not the Earl of Stevenage, he would have to give up society. He can do nothing for us: he says, naturally enough, that it is absurd that he should be asked to provide for the children of a man who is rolling in money. You see, Stephen, your father must be fabulously wealthy, because there is always a war going on somewhere. STEPHEN. You need not remind me of that, mother. I have hardly ever opened a newspaper in my life without seeing our name in it. The Undershaft torpedo! The Undershaft quick firers! The Undershaft ten inch! the Undershaft disappearing rampart gun! the Undershaft submarine! and now the Undershaft aerial battleship! At Harrow they called me the Woolwich Infant. At Cambridge it was the same. A little brute at King's who was always trying to get up revivals, spoilt my Bible--your first birthday present to me--by writing under my name, "Son and heir to Undershaft and Lazarus, Death and Destruction Dealers: address, Christendom and Judea." But that was not so bad as the way I was kowtowed to everywhere because my father was making millions by selling cannons. LADY BRITOMART. It is not only the cannons, but the war loans that Lazarus arranges under cover of giving credit for the cannons. You know, Stephen, it's perfectly scandalous. Those two men, Andrew Undershaft and Lazarus, positively have Europe under their thumbs. That is why your father is able to behave as he does. He is above the law. Do you think Bismarck or Gladstone or Disraeli could have openly defied every social and moral obligation all their lives as your father has? They simply wouldn't have dared. I asked Gladstone to take it up. I asked The Times to take it up. I asked the Lord Chamberlain to take it up. But it was just like asking them to declare war on the Sultan. They WOULDN'T. They said they couldn't touch him. I believe they were afraid. STEPHEN. What could they do? He does not actually break the law. LADY BRITOMART. Not break the law! He is always breaking the law. He broke the law when he was born: his parents were not married. STEPHEN. Mother! Is that true? LADY BRITOMART. Of course it's true: that was why we separated. STEPHEN. He married without letting you know this! LADY BRITOMART [rather taken aback by this inference] Oh no. To do Andrew justice, that was not the sort of thing he did. Besides, you know the Undershaft motto: Unashamed. Everybody knew. STEPHEN. But you said that was why you separated. LADY BRITOMART. Yes, because he was not content with being a foundling himself: he wanted to disinherit you for another foundling. That was what I couldn't stand. STEPHEN [ashamed] Do you mean for--for--for-- LADY BRITOMART. Don't stammer, Stephen. Speak distinctly. STEPHEN. But this is so frightful to me, mother. To have to speak to you about such things! LADY BRITOMART. It's not pleasant for me, either, especially if you are still so childish that you must make it worse by a display of embarrassment. It is only in the middle classes, Stephen, that people get into a state of dumb helpless horror when they find that there are wicked people in the world. In our class, we have to decide what is to be done with wicked people; and nothing should disturb our self possession. Now ask your question properly. STEPHEN. Mother: you have no consideration for me. For Heaven's sake either treat me as a child, as you always do, and tell me nothing at all; or tell me everything and let me take it as best I can. LADY BRITOMART. Treat you as a child! What do you mean? It is most unkind and ungrateful of you to say such a thing. You know I have never treated any of you as children. I have always made you my companions and friends, and allowed you perfect freedom to do and say whatever you liked, so long as you liked what I could approve of. STEPHEN [desperately] I daresay we have been the very imperfect children of a very perfect mother; but I do beg you to let me alone for once, and tell me about this horrible business of my father wanting to set me aside for another son. LADY BRITOMART [amazed] Another son! I never said anything of the kind. I never dreamt of such a thing. This is what comes of interrupting me. STEPHEN. But you said-- LADY BRITOMART [cutting him short] Now be a good boy, Stephen, and listen to me patiently. The Undershafts are descended from a foundling in the parish of St. Andrew Undershaft in the city. That was long ago, in the reign of James the First. Well, this foundling was adopted by an armorer and gun-maker. In the course of time the foundling succeeded to the business; and from some notion of gratitude, or some vow or something, he adopted another foundling, and left the business to him. And that foundling did the same. Ever since that, the cannon business has always been left to an adopted foundling named Andrew Undershaft. STEPHEN. But did they never marry? Were there no legitimate sons? LADY BRITOMART. Oh yes: they married just as your father did; and they were rich enough to buy land for their own children and leave them well provided for. But they always adopted and trained some foundling to succeed them in the business; and of course they always quarrelled with their wives furiously over it. Your father was adopted in that way; and he pretends to consider himself bound to keep up the tradition and adopt somebody to leave the business to. Of course I was not going to stand that. There may have been some reason for it when the Undershafts could only marry women in their own class, whose sons were not fit to govern great estates. But there could be no excuse for passing over my son. STEPHEN [dubiously] I am afraid I should make a poor hand of managing a cannon foundry. LADY BRITOMART. Nonsense! you could easily get a manager and pay him a salary. STEPHEN. My father evidently had no great opinion of my capacity. LADY BRITOMART. Stuff, child! you were only a baby: it had nothing to do with your capacity. Andrew did it on principle, just as he did every perverse and wicked thing on principle. When my father remonstrated, Andrew actually told him to his face that history tells us of only two successful institutions: one the Undershaft firm, and the other the Roman Empire under the Antonines. That was because the Antonine emperors all adopted their successors. Such rubbish! The Stevenages are as good as the Antonines, I hope; and you are a Stevenage. But that was Andrew all over. There you have the man! Always clever and unanswerable when he was defending nonsense and wickedness: always awkward and sullen when he had to behave sensibly and decently! STEPHEN. Then it was on my account that your home life was broken up, mother. I am sorry. LADY BRITOMART. Well, dear, there were other differences. I really cannot bear an immoral man. I am not a Pharisee, I hope; and I should not have minded his merely doing wrong things: we are none of us perfect. But your father didn't exactly do wrong things: he said them and thought them: that was what was so dreadful. He really had a sort of religion of wrongness just as one doesn't mind men practising immorality so long as they own that they are in the wrong by preaching morality; so I couldn't forgive Andrew for preaching immorality while he practised morality. You would all have grown up without principles, without any knowledge of right and wrong, if he had been in the house. You know, my dear, your father was a very attractive man in some ways. Children did not dislike him; and he took advantage of it to put the wickedest ideas into their heads, and make them quite unmanageable. I did not dislike him myself: very far from it; but nothing can bridge over moral disagreement. STEPHEN. All this simply bewilders me, mother. People may differ about matters of opinion, or even about religion; but how can they differ about right and wrong? Right is right; and wrong is wrong; and if a man cannot distinguish them properly, he is either a fool or a rascal: that's all. LADY BRITOMART [touched] That's my own boy [she pats his cheek]! Your father never could answer that: he used to laugh and get out of it under cover of some affectionate nonsense. And now that you understand the situation, what do you advise me to do? STEPHEN. Well, what can you do? LADY BRITOMART. I must get the money somehow. STEPHEN. We cannot take money from him. I had rather go and live in some cheap place like Bedford Square or even Hampstead than take a farthing of his money. LADY BRITOMART. But after all, Stephen, our present income comes from Andrew. STEPHEN [shocked] I never knew that. LADY BRITOMART. Well, you surely didn't suppose your grandfather had anything to give me. The Stevenages could not do everything for you. We gave you social position. Andrew had to contribute something. He had a very good bargain, I think. STEPHEN [bitterly] We are utterly dependent on him and his cannons, then! LADY BRITOMART. Certainly not: the money is settled. But he provided it. So you see it is not a question of taking money from him or not: it is simply a question of how much. I don't want any more for myself. STEPHEN. Nor do I. LADY BRITOMART. But Sarah does; and Barbara does. That is, Charles Lomax and Adolphus Cusins will cost them more. So I must put my pride in my pocket and ask for it, I suppose. That is your advice, Stephen, is it not? STEPHEN. No. LADY BRITOMART [sharply] Stephen! STEPHEN. Of course if you are determined-- LADY BRITOMART. I am not determined: I ask your advice; and I am waiting for it. I will not have all the responsibility thrown on my shoulders. STEPHEN [obstinately] I would die sooner than ask him for another penny. LADY BRITOMART [resignedly] You mean that I must ask him. Very well, Stephen: It shall be as you wish. You will be glad to know that your grandfather concurs. But he thinks I ought to ask Andrew to come here and see the girls. After all, he must have some natural affection for them. STEPHEN. Ask him here!!! LADY BRITOMART. Do not repeat my words, Stephen. Where else can I ask him? STEPHEN. I never expected you to ask him at all. LADY BRITOMART. Now don't tease, Stephen. Come! you see that it is necessary that he should pay us a visit, don't you? STEPHEN [reluctantly] I suppose so, if the girls cannot do without his money. LADY BRITOMART. Thank you, Stephen: I knew you would give me the right advice when it was properly explained to you. I have asked your father to come this evening. [Stephen bounds from his seat] Don't jump, Stephen: it fidgets me. STEPHEN [in utter consternation] Do you mean to say that my father is coming here to-night--that he may be here at any moment? LADY BRITOMART [looking at her watch] I said nine. [He gasps. She rises]. Ring the bell, please. [Stephen goes to the smaller writing table; presses a button on it; and sits at it with his elbows on the table and his head in his hands, outwitted and overwhelmed]. It is ten minutes to nine yet; and I have to prepare the girls. I asked Charles Lomax and Adolphus to dinner on purpose that they might be here. Andrew had better see them in case he should cherish any delusions as to their being capable of supporting their wives. [The butler enters: Lady Britomart goes behind the settee to speak to him]. Morrison: go up to the drawingroom and tell everybody to come down here at once. [Morrison withdraws. Lady Britomart turns to Stephen]. Now remember, Stephen, I shall need all your countenance and authority. [He rises and tries to recover some vestige of these attributes]. Give me a chair, dear. [He pushes a chair forward from the wall to where she stands, near the smaller writing table. She sits down; and he goes to the armchair, into which he throws himself]. I don't know how Barbara will take it. Ever since they made her a major in the Salvation Army she has developed a propensity to have her own way and order people about which quite cows me sometimes. It's not ladylike: I'm sure I don't know where she picked it up. Anyhow, Barbara shan't bully me; but still it's just as well that your father should be here before she has time to refuse to meet him or make a fuss. Don't look nervous, Stephen, it will only encourage Barbara to make difficulties. I am nervous enough, goodness knows; but I don't show it. Sarah and Barbara come in with their respective young men, Charles Lomax and Adolphus Cusins. Sarah is slender, bored, and mundane. Barbara is robuster, jollier, much more energetic. Sarah is fashionably dressed: Barbara is in Salvation Army uniform. Lomax, a young man about town, is like many other young men about town. He is affected with a frivolous sense of humor which plunges him at the most inopportune moments into paroxysms of imperfectly suppressed laughter. Cusins is a spectacled student, slight, thin haired, and sweet voiced, with a more complex form of Lomax's complaint. His sense of humor is intellectual and subtle, and is complicated by an appalling temper. The lifelong struggle of a benevolent temperament and a high conscience against impulses of inhuman ridicule and fierce impatience has set up a chronic strain which has visibly wrecked his constitution. He is a most implacable, determined, tenacious, intolerant person who by mere force of character presents himself as--and indeed actually is--considerate, gentle, explanatory, even mild and apologetic, capable possibly of murder, but not of cruelty or coarseness. By the operation of some instinct which is not merciful enough to blind him with the illusions of love, he is obstinately bent on marrying Barbara. Lomax likes Sarah and thinks it will be rather a lark to marry her. Consequently he has not attempted to resist Lady Britomart's arrangements to that end. All four look as if they had been having a good deal of fun in the drawingroom. The girls enter first, leaving the swains outside. Sarah comes to the settee. Barbara comes in after her and stops at the door. BARBARA. Are Cholly and Dolly to come in? LADY BRITOMART [forcibly] Barbara: I will not have Charles called Cholly: the vulgarity of it positively makes me ill. BARBARA. It's all right, mother. Cholly is quite correct nowadays. Are they to come in? LADY BRITOMART. Yes, if they will behave themselves. BARBARA [through the door] Come in, Dolly, and behave yourself. Barbara comes to her mother's writing table. Cusins enters smiling, and wanders towards Lady Britomart. SARAH [calling] Come in, Cholly. [Lomax enters, controlling his features very imperfectly, and places himself vaguely between Sarah and Barbara]. LADY BRITOMART [peremptorily] Sit down, all of you. [They sit. Cusins crosses to the window and seats himself there. Lomax takes a chair. Barbara sits at the writing table and Sarah on the settee]. I don't in the least know what you are laughing at, Adolphus. I am surprised at you, though I expected nothing better from Charles Lomax. CUSINS [in a remarkably gentle voice] Barbara has been trying to teach me the West Ham Salvation March. LADY BRITOMART. I see nothing to laugh at in that; nor should you if you are really converted. CUSINS [sweetly] You were not present. It was really funny, I believe. LOMAX. Ripping. LADY BRITOMART. Be quiet, Charles. Now listen to me, children. Your father is coming here this evening. [General stupefaction]. LOMAX [remonstrating] Oh I say! LADY BRITOMART. You are not called on to say anything, Charles. SARAH. Are you serious, mother? LADY BRITOMART. Of course I am serious. It is on your account, Sarah, and also on Charles's. [Silence. Charles looks painfully unworthy]. I hope you are not going to object, Barbara. BARBARA. I! why should I? My father has a soul to be saved like anybody else. He's quite welcome as far as I am concerned. LOMAX [still remonstrant] But really, don't you know! Oh I say! LADY BRITOMART [frigidly] What do you wish to convey, Charles? LOMAX. Well, you must admit that this is a bit thick. LADY BRITOMART [turning with ominous suavity to Cusins] Adolphus: you are a professor of Greek. Can you translate Charles Lomax's remarks into reputable English for us? CUSINS [cautiously] If I may say so, Lady Brit, I think Charles has rather happily expressed what we all feel. Homer, speaking of Autolycus, uses the same phrase. LOMAX [handsomely] Not that I mind, you know, if Sarah don't. LADY BRITOMART [crushingly] Thank you. Have I your permission, Adolphus, to invite my own husband to my own house? CUSINS [gallantly] You have my unhesitating support in everything you do. LADY BRITOMART. Sarah: have you nothing to say? SARAH. Do you mean that he is coming regularly to live here? LADY BRITOMART. Certainly not. The spare room is ready for him if he likes to stay for a day or two and see a little more of you; but there are limits. SARAH. Well, he can't eat us, I suppose. I don't mind. LOMAX [chuckling] I wonder how the old man will take it. LADY BRITOMART. Much as the old woman will, no doubt, Charles. LOMAX [abashed] I didn't mean--at least-- LADY BRITOMART. You didn't think, Charles. You never do; and the result is, you never mean anything. And now please attend to me, children. Your father will be quite a stranger to us. LOMAX. I suppose he hasn't seen Sarah since she was a little kid. LADY BRITOMART. Not since she was a little kid, Charles, as you express it with that elegance of diction and refinement of thought that seem never to desert you. Accordingly--er-- [impatiently] Now I have forgotten what I was going to say. That comes of your provoking me to be sarcastic, Charles. Adolphus: will you kindly tell me where I was. CUSINS [sweetly] You were saying that as Mr Undershaft has not seen his children since they were babies, he will form his opinion of the way you have brought them up from their behavior to-night, and that therefore you wish us all to be particularly careful to conduct ourselves well, especially Charles. LOMAX. Look here: Lady Brit didn't say that. LADY BRITOMART [vehemently] I did, Charles. Adolphus's recollection is perfectly correct. It is most important that you should be good; and I do beg you for once not to pair off into opposite corners and giggle and whisper while I am speaking to your father. BARBARA. All right, mother. We'll do you credit. LADY BRITOMART. Remember, Charles, that Sarah will want to feel proud of you instead of ashamed of you. LOMAX. Oh I say! There's nothing to be exactly proud of, don't you know. LADY BRITOMART. Well, try and look as if there was. Morrison, pale and dismayed, breaks into the room in unconcealed disorder. MORRISON. Might I speak a word to you, my lady? LADY BRITOMART. Nonsense! Show him up. MORRISON. Yes, my lady. [He goes]. LOMAX. Does Morrison know who he is? LADY BRITOMART. Of course. Morrison has always been with us. LOMAX. It must be a regular corker for him, don't you know. LADY BRITOMART. Is this a moment to get on my nerves, Charles, with your outrageous expressions? LOMAX. But this is something out of the ordinary, really-- MORRISON [at the door] The--er--Mr Undershaft. [He retreats in confusion]. Andrew Undershaft comes in. All rise. Lady Britomart meets him in the middle of the room behind the settee. Andrew is, on the surface, a stoutish, easygoing elderly man, with kindly patient manners, and an engaging simplicity of character. But he has a watchful, deliberate, waiting, listening face, and formidable reserves of power, both bodily and mental, in his capacious chest and long head. His gentleness is partly that of a strong man who has learnt by experience that his natural grip hurts ordinary people unless he handles them very carefully, and partly the mellowness of age and success. He is also a little shy in his present very delicate situation. LADY BRITOMART. Good evening, Andrew. UNDERSHAFT. How d'ye do, my dear. LADY BRITOMART. You look a good deal older. UNDERSHAFT [apologetically] I AM somewhat older. [With a touch of courtship] Time has stood still with you. LADY BRITOMART [promptly] Rubbish! This is your family. UNDERSHAFT [surprised] Is it so large? I am sorry to say my memory is failing very badly in some things. [He offers his hand with paternal kindness to Lomax]. LOMAX [jerkily shaking his hand] Ahdedoo. UNDERSHAFT. I can see you are my eldest. I am very glad to meet you again, my boy. LOMAX [remonstrating] No but look here don't you know--[Overcome] Oh I say! LADY BRITOMART [recovering from momentary speechlessness] Andrew: do you mean to say that you don't remember how many children you have? UNDERSHAFT. Well, I am afraid I--. They have grown so much--er. Am I making any ridiculous mistake? I may as well confess: I recollect only one son. But so many things have happened since, of course--er-- LADY BRITOMART [decisively] Andrew: you are talking nonsense. Of course you have only one son. UNDERSHAFT. Perhaps you will be good enough to introduce me, my dear. LADY BRITOMART. That is Charles Lomax, who is engaged to Sarah. UNDERSHAFT. My dear sir, I beg your pardon. LOMAX. Not at all. Delighted, I assure you. LADY BRITOMART. This is Stephen. UNDERSHAFT [bowing] Happy to make your acquaintance, Mr Stephen. Then [going to Cusins] you must be my son. [Taking Cusins' hands in his] How are you, my young friend? [To Lady Britomart] He is very like you, my love. CUSINS. You flatter me, Mr Undershaft. My name is Cusins: engaged to Barbara. [Very explicitly] That is Major Barbara Undershaft, of the Salvation Army. That is Sarah, your second daughter. This is Stephen Undershaft, your son. UNDERSHAFT. My dear Stephen, I beg your pardon. STEPHEN. Not at all. UNDERSHAFT. Mr Cusins: I am much indebted to you for explaining so precisely. [Turning to Sarah] Barbara, my dear-- SARAH [prompting him] Sarah. UNDERSHAFT. Sarah, of course. [They shake hands. He goes over to Barbara] Barbara--I am right this time, I hope. BARBARA. Quite right. [They shake hands]. LADY BRITOMART [resuming command] Sit down, all of you. Sit down, Andrew. [She comes forward and sits on the settle. Cusins also brings his chair forward on her left. Barbara and Stephen resume their seats. Lomax gives his chair to Sarah and goes for another]. UNDERSHAFT. Thank you, my love. LOMAX [conversationally, as he brings a chair forward between the writing table and the settee, and offers it to Undershaft] Takes you some time to find out exactly where you are, don't it? UNDERSHAFT [accepting the chair] That is not what embarrasses me, Mr Lomax. My difficulty is that if I play the part of a father, I shall produce the effect of an intrusive stranger; and if I play the part of a discreet stranger, I may appear a callous father. LADY BRITOMART. There is no need for you to play any part at all, Andrew. You had much better be sincere and natural. UNDERSHAFT [submissively] Yes, my dear: I daresay that will be best. [Making himself comfortable] Well, here I am. Now what can I do for you all? LADY BRITOMART. You need not do anything, Andrew. You are one of the family. You can sit with us and enjoy yourself. Lomax's too long suppressed mirth explodes in agonized neighings. LADY BRITOMART [outraged] Charles Lomax: if you can behave yourself, behave yourself. If not, leave the room. LOMAX. I'm awfully sorry, Lady Brit; but really, you know, upon my soul! [He sits on the settee between Lady Britomart and Undershaft, quite overcome]. BARBARA. Why don't you laugh if you want to, Cholly? It's good for your inside. LADY BRITOMART. Barbara: you have had the education of a lady. Please let your father see that; and don't talk like a street girl. UNDERSHAFT. Never mind me, my dear. As you know, I am not a gentleman; and I was never educated. LOMAX [encouragingly] Nobody'd know it, I assure you. You look all right, you know. CUSINS. Let me advise you to study Greek, Mr Undershaft. Greek scholars are privileged men. Few of them know Greek; and none of them know anything else; but their position is unchallengeable. Other languages are the qualifications of waiters and commercial travellers: Greek is to a man of position what the hallmark is to silver. BARBARA. Dolly: don't be insincere. Cholly: fetch your concertina and play something for us. LOMAX [doubtfully to Undershaft] Perhaps that sort of thing isn't in your line, eh? UNDERSHAFT. I am particularly fond of music. LOMAX [delighted] Are you? Then I'll get it. [He goes upstairs for the instrument]. UNDERSHAFT. Do you play, Barbara? BARBARA. Only the tambourine. But Cholly's teaching me the concertina. UNDERSHAFT. Is Cholly also a member of the Salvation Army? BARBARA. No: he says it's bad form to be a dissenter. But I don't despair of Cholly. I made him come yesterday to a meeting at the dock gates, and take the collection in his hat. LADY BRITOMART. It is not my doing, Andrew. Barbara is old enough to take her own way. She has no father to advise her. BARBARA. Oh yes she has. There are no orphans in the Salvation Army. UNDERSHAFT. Your father there has a great many children and plenty of experience, eh? BARBARA [looking at him with quick interest and nodding] Just so. How did you come to understand that? [Lomax is heard at the door trying the concertina]. LADY BRITOMART. Come in, Charles. Play us something at once. LOMAX. Righto! [He sits down in his former place, and preludes]. UNDERSHAFT. One moment, Mr Lomax. I am rather interested in the Salvation Army. Its motto might be my own: Blood and Fire. LOMAX [shocked] But not your sort of blood and fire, you know. UNDERSHAFT. My sort of blood cleanses: my sort of fire purifies. BARBARA. So do ours. Come down to-morrow to my shelter--the West Ham shelter--and see what we're doing. We're going to march to a great meeting in the Assembly Hall at Mile End. Come and see the shelter and then march with us: it will do you a lot of good. Can you play anything? UNDERSHAFT. In my youth I earned pennies, and even shillings occasionally, in the streets and in public house parlors by my natural talent for stepdancing. Later on, I became a member of the Undershaft orchestral society, and performed passably on the tenor trombone. LOMAX [scandalized] Oh I say! BARBARA. Many a sinner has played himself into heaven on the trombone, thanks to the Army. LOMAX [to Barbara, still rather shocked] Yes; but what about the cannon business, don't you know? [To Undershaft] Getting into heaven is not exactly in your line, is it? LADY BRITOMART. Charles!!! LOMAX. Well; but it stands to reason, don't it? The cannon business may be necessary and all that: we can't get on without cannons; but it isn't right, you know. On the other hand, there may be a certain amount of tosh about the Salvation Army--I belong to the Established Church myself--but still you can't deny that it's religion; and you can't go against religion, can you? At least unless you're downright immoral, don't you know. UNDERSHAFT. You hardly appreciate my position, Mr Lomax-- LOMAX [hastily] I'm not saying anything against you personally, you know. UNDERSHAFT. Quite so, quite so. But consider for a moment. Here I am, a manufacturer of mutilation and murder. I find myself in a specially amiable humor just now because, this morning, down at the foundry, we blew twenty-seven dummy soldiers into fragments with a gun which formerly destroyed only thirteen. LOMAX [leniently] Well, the more destructive war becomes, the sooner it will be abolished, eh? UNDERSHAFT. Not at all. The more destructive war becomes the more fascinating we find it. No, Mr Lomax, I am obliged to you for making the usual excuse for my trade; but I am not ashamed of it. I am not one of those men who keep their morals and their business in watertight compartments. All the spare money my trade rivals spend on hospitals, cathedrals and other receptacles for conscience money, I devote to experiments and researches in improved methods of destroying life and property. I have always done so; and I always shall. Therefore your Christmas card moralities of peace on earth and goodwill among men are of no use to me. Your Christianity, which enjoins you to resist not evil, and to turn the other cheek, would make me a bankrupt. My morality--my religion--must have a place for cannons and torpedoes in it. STEPHEN [coldly--almost sullenly] You speak as if there were half a dozen moralities and religions to choose from, instead of one true morality and one true religion. UNDERSHAFT. For me there is only one true morality; but it might not fit you, as you do not manufacture aerial battleships. There is only one true morality for every man; but every man has not the same true morality. LOMAX [overtaxed] Would you mind saying that again? I didn't quite follow it. CUSINS. It's quite simple. As Euripides says, one man's meat is another man's poison morally as well as physically. UNDERSHAFT. Precisely. LOMAX. Oh, that. Yes, yes, yes. True. True. STEPHEN. In other words, some men are honest and some are scoundrels. BARBARA. Bosh. There are no scoundrels. UNDERSHAFT. Indeed? Are there any good men? BARBARA. No. Not one. There are neither good men nor scoundrels: there are just children of one Father; and the sooner they stop calling one another names the better. You needn't talk to me: I know them. I've had scores of them through my hands: scoundrels, criminals, infidels, philanthropists, missionaries, county councillors, all sorts. They're all just the same sort of sinner; and there's the same salvation ready for them all. UNDERSHAFT. May I ask have you ever saved a maker of cannons? BARBARA. No. Will you let me try? UNDERSHAFT. Well, I will make a bargain with you. If I go to see you to-morrow in your Salvation Shelter, will you come the day after to see me in my cannon works? BARBARA. Take care. It may end in your giving up the cannons for the sake of the Salvation Army. UNDERSHAFT. Are you sure it will not end in your giving up the Salvation Army for the sake of the cannons? BARBARA. I will take my chance of that. UNDERSHAFT. And I will take my chance of the other. [They shake hands on it]. Where is your shelter? BARBARA. In West Ham. At the sign of the cross. Ask anybody in Canning Town. Where are your works? UNDERSHAFT. In Perivale St Andrews. At the sign of the sword. Ask anybody in Europe. LOMAX. Hadn't I better play something? BARBARA. Yes. Give us Onward, Christian Soldiers. LOMAX. Well, that's rather a strong order to begin with, don't you know. Suppose I sing Thou'rt passing hence, my brother. It's much the same tune. BARBARA. It's too melancholy. You get saved, Cholly; and you'll pass hence, my brother, without making such a fuss about it. LADY BRITOMART. Really, Barbara, you go on as if religion were a pleasant subject. Do have some sense of propriety. UNDERSHAFT. I do not find it an unpleasant subject, my dear. It is the only one that capable people really care for. LADY BRITOMART [looking at her watch] Well, if you are determined to have it, I insist on having it in a proper and respectable way. Charles: ring for prayers. [General amazement. Stephen rises in dismay]. LOMAX [rising] Oh I say! UNDERSHAFT [rising] I am afraid I must be going. LADY BRITOMART. You cannot go now, Andrew: it would be most improper. Sit down. What will the servants think? UNDERSHAFT. My dear: I have conscientious scruples. May I suggest a compromise? If Barbara will conduct a little service in the drawingroom, with Mr Lomax as organist, I will attend it willingly. I will even take part, if a trombone can be procured. LADY BRITOMART. Don't mock, Andrew. UNDERSHAFT [shocked--to Barbara] You don't think I am mocking, my love, I hope. BARBARA. No, of course not; and it wouldn't matter if you were: half the Army came to their first meeting for a lark. [Rising] Come along. Come, Dolly. Come, Cholly. [She goes out with Undershaft, who opens the door for her. Cusins rises]. LADY BRITOMART. I will not be disobeyed by everybody. Adolphus: sit down. Charles: you may go. You are not fit for prayers: you cannot keep your countenance. LOMAX. Oh I say! [He goes out]. LADY BRITOMART [continuing] But you, Adolphus, can behave yourself if you choose to. I insist on your staying. CUSINS. My dear Lady Brit: there are things in the family prayer book that I couldn't bear to hear you say. LADY BRITOMART. What things, pray? CUSINS. Well, you would have to say before all the servants that we have done things we ought not to have done, and left undone things we ought to have done, and that there is no health in us. I cannot bear to hear you doing yourself such an unjustice, and Barbara such an injustice. As for myself, I flatly deny it: I have done my best. I shouldn't dare to marry Barbara--I couldn't look you in the face--if it were true. So I must go to the drawingroom. LADY BRITOMART [offended] Well, go. [He starts for the door]. And remember this, Adolphus [he turns to listen]: I have a very strong suspicion that you went to the Salvation Army to worship Barbara and nothing else. And I quite appreciate the very clever way in which you systematically humbug me. I have found you out. Take care Barbara doesn't. That's all. CUSINS [with unruffled sweetness] Don't tell on me. [He goes out]. LADY BRITOMART. Sarah: if you want to go, go. Anything's better than to sit there as if you wished you were a thousand miles away. SARAH [languidly] Very well, mamma. [She goes]. Lady Britomart, with a sudden flounce, gives way to a little gust of tears. STEPHEN [going to her] Mother: what's the matter? LADY BRITOMART [swishing away her tears with her handkerchief] Nothing. Foolishness. You can go with him, too, if you like, and leave me with the servants. STEPHEN. Oh, you mustn't think that, mother. I--I don't like him. LADY BRITOMART. The others do. That is the injustice of a woman's lot. A woman has to bring up her children; and that means to restrain them, to deny them things they want, to set them tasks, to punish them when they do wrong, to do all the unpleasant things. And then the father, who has nothing to do but pet them and spoil them, comes in when all her work is done and steals their affection from her. STEPHEN. He has not stolen our affection from you. It is only curiosity. LADY BRITOMART [violently] I won't be consoled, Stephen. There is nothing the matter with me. [She rises and goes towards the door]. STEPHEN. Where are you going, mother? LADY BRITOMART. To the drawingroom, of course. [She goes out. Onward, Christian Soldiers, on the concertina, with tambourine accompaniment, is heard when the door opens]. Are you coming, Stephen? STEPHEN. No. Certainly not. [She goes. He sits down on the settee, with compressed lips and an expression of strong dislike].

Act 1

https://web.archive.org/web/20201219172439/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/major-barbara/summary/act-1

Lady Britomart and her son Stephen sit down to discuss the family's finances. Although Lady Brit seems to have plenty of confidence in her own opinions, she claims she wants Stephen's help working through a tricky issue. Lady Brit's two daughters--Sarah and Barbara--are now engaged, and she is concerned about their ability to support themselves in their married lifestyles. Stephen then gets taken into Lady Brit's confidence and learns a whole lot more than he ever wanted to know about the family history/finances. It seems that his father, Andrew Undershaft, was a foundling adopted by the Undershaft family and groomed to take over its munitions businesses. The tradition of doing just that--leaving the family business to an adopted foundling rather than any of the family's biological children--had been going on for generations. So, Stephen would be skipped as well. Apparently, this tradition was the reason Lady Brit and Andrew separated some years ago--she wasn't into the idea that her son would be disinherited. Despite her issues with her husband, Lady Brit tries to push Stephen into "advising" her to take Andrew's money to make sure the girls have a suitable living once they're married. However, having heard all these new details of his father's past/behavior, Stephen is not inclined to be involved with his father at all. However, Lady Brit basically bullies him into making that his "advice." Which is a good thing--since Lady Brit has already invited Andrew over to ask him about it. This will be the first time the kids have seen their father in a long time. Then, Sarah and Barbara enter with their fiances, Charles and Adolphus, and hear that their father is on his way to see them. When Andrew arrives, there's a great deal of hilarity as he attempts to figure out who is who--it seems he doesn't actually remember how many kids he has . . . Eventually, formal introductions happen and he gets his own offspring straight in his mind. They then all sit down to chat and learn more about each other. This leads into a discussion of everyone's different views on religion and morality--and Andrew's profession as a weapons manufacturer/dealer. During all this chatter, Barbara and her father make a deal: Her father will visit the Salvation Army, where she works, if she visits his munitions factory. Lady Brit gets annoyed that they keep talking about religion, so she decides to do it "properly" by holding formal prayers. At this point, the rest excuse themselves to do a different kind of service in the drawing room. Lady Brit is annoyed at being abandoned, but even she eventually gets up and joins them. Stephen refuses.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/3790-chapters/act_2.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/Major Barbara/section_1_part_0.txt

Major Barbara.act 2

act 2

{"name": "Act 2", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201219172439/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/major-barbara/summary/act-2", "summary": "The second act picks up at the yard at the Salvation Army, where a man and a woman are sitting there chatting. Their names are \"Snobby\" Price and \"Rummy\" Mitchens. Then Jenny, a young girl who works at the Army, and a man named Peter Shirley walk in. She's trying to cheer Shirley up and promising him something to eat. It seems he's a bit down on his luck, like the others who come to the Army. Jenny is about to get back to work, but then a young guy named Bill walks in and recognizes Jenny as the person who supposedly took away his girl. Can someone inform him that women aren't toys that get snatched, please? When Rummy tries to intervene, Bill hits her. Then, he pulls Jenny around by the hair demanding that she go get his girlfriend and then, when she tries to send someone to tell Major Barbara something , he gets really mad and hits her. And then tells her to go show Barbara her face. She leaves. Then, Shirley and Bill start arguing. Shirley taunts him by asking if Bill would fight someone who could actually fight back, like some guy named Todger Fairmile, who is apparently quite the fighter. Barbara then comes out, and she, Bill, and Shirley start talking. Since Shirley is new, she interviews him a bit about his story. Then she moves on to questioning Bill. She ends up revealing that the \"girl\" he's looking for has found a new dude--Sergeant Todger Fairmile. Bill was raring to fight the guy who had stolen his girl until he hears the guy is the famous fighter Shirley was talking about. Rummy and Jenny come back in, and then Price comes in to announce that Andrew is here . Barbara, Andrew, Rummy, Shirley, and Bill then engage in conversations on a whole slew of topics, including religion and poverty. Dolly enters partway through the chat. Bill goes to fight Fairmile, resigned to getting his face bashed in--which he now believes he deserves, after hitting Jenny. Adolphus and Undershaft end up sitting in the yard on their own. Dolly and Undershaft have a heart-to-heart about Dolly's feelings for Barbara and actual commitment to the Army . They also talk about Undershaft's philosophies of religion, wealth, etc. Then Jenny, Price, and Barbara reenter. Barbara talks about their triumphs in converting others with Price telling his story. They didn't quite make enough from their outing, though, so Andrew offers to make up the difference. Since Barbara doesn't approve of the way her father makes his money, she refuses his offer. However, she remains pretty stressed about how to feed her converts on the money the Army does have. Bill comes back to report that he just spent some time pinned under Todger while the fighter prayed for him. Since Todger didn't actually hit him, Bill still feels he needs to atone for hitting Jenny. So, he tries to donate some money to make things right. Barbara says they must refuse it--they want his soul instead. Nonetheless, he ends up dropping a sovereign on Dolly's drum as a donation. However, Price has his eye on the money . . . . Then Mrs. Baines, the Army commissioner, enters. Price exits, stealing the sovereign on his way out. Mrs. Baines announces that her prayers for money to keep the Army shelters open have been answered: someone named Lord Saxmundham has pledged five thousand pounds as long as five other gentlemen will give a thousand each to make it an even ten. It then comes out that this newly minted lord is Sir Horace Bodger, a distiller. Knowing who the dude is, Andrew relishes the idea of making sure that he has to pay out the five thousand, so he promises Mrs. Baines the other five. Barbara, of course, is horrified that her precious Army is going to be saved by whisky and munitions money. Baines, Dolly, and Undershaft all give their arguments in favor of accepting the money--including the fact that Bodger and Undershaft are basically giving to a cause that works against their interests/for Barbara's. Barbara ends up outnumbered and upset. Dolly, Undershaft, and Mrs. Baines leave to go out on the march while Barbara hangs back and cries. Then she, Shirley, and Bill chat... with some interjections from Rummy screaming from the loft. Bill is being his usual taunting self, and Barbara laments that she was unable to convert him. He then realizes his sovereign is gone... and isn't pleased. Bill leaves, and Barbara asks Shirley to come have a bite to eat with her.", "analysis": ""}

ACT II The yard of the West Ham shelter of the Salvation Army is a cold place on a January morning. The building itself, an old warehouse, is newly whitewashed. Its gabled end projects into the yard in the middle, with a door on the ground floor, and another in the loft above it without any balcony or ladder, but with a pulley rigged over it for hoisting sacks. Those who come from this central gable end into the yard have the gateway leading to the street on their left, with a stone horse-trough just beyond it, and, on the right, a penthouse shielding a table from the weather. There are forms at the table; and on them are seated a man and a woman, both much down on their luck, finishing a meal of bread [one thick slice each, with margarine and golden syrup] and diluted milk. The man, a workman out of employment, is young, agile, a talker, a poser, sharp enough to be capable of anything in reason except honesty or altruistic considerations of any kind. The woman is a commonplace old bundle of poverty and hard-worn humanity. She looks sixty and probably is forty-five. If they were rich people, gloved and muffed and well wrapped up in furs and overcoats, they would be numbed and miserable; for it is a grindingly cold, raw, January day; and a glance at the background of grimy warehouses and leaden sky visible over the whitewashed walls of the yard would drive any idle rich person straight to the Mediterranean. But these two, being no more troubled with visions of the Mediterranean than of the moon, and being compelled to keep more of their clothes in the pawnshop, and less on their persons, in winter than in summer, are not depressed by the cold: rather are they stung into vivacity, to which their meal has just now given an almost jolly turn. The man takes a pull at his mug, and then gets up and moves about the yard with his hands deep in his pockets, occasionally breaking into a stepdance. THE WOMAN. Feel better otter your meal, sir? THE MAN. No. Call that a meal! Good enough for you, props; but wot is it to me, an intelligent workin man. THE WOMAN. Workin man! Wot are you? THE MAN. Painter. THE WOMAN [sceptically] Yus, I dessay. THE MAN. Yus, you dessay! I know. Every loafer that can't do nothink calls isself a painter. Well, I'm a real painter: grainer, finisher, thirty-eight bob a week when I can get it. THE WOMAN. Then why don't you go and get it? THE MAN. I'll tell you why. Fust: I'm intelligent--fffff! it's rotten cold here [he dances a step or two]--yes: intelligent beyond the station o life into which it has pleased the capitalists to call me; and they don't like a man that sees through em. Second, an intelligent bein needs a doo share of appiness; so I drink somethink cruel when I get the chawnce. Third, I stand by my class and do as little as I can so's to leave arf the job for me fellow workers. Fourth, I'm fly enough to know wots inside the law and wots outside it; and inside it I do as the capitalists do: pinch wot I can lay me ands on. In a proper state of society I am sober, industrious and honest: in Rome, so to speak, I do as the Romans do. Wots the consequence? When trade is bad--and it's rotten bad just now--and the employers az to sack arf their men, they generally start on me. THE WOMAN. What's your name? THE MAN. Price. Bronterre O'Brien Price. Usually called Snobby Price, for short. THE WOMAN. Snobby's a carpenter, ain't it? You said you was a painter. PRICE. Not that kind of snob, but the genteel sort. I'm too uppish, owing to my intelligence, and my father being a Chartist and a reading, thinking man: a stationer, too. I'm none of your common hewers of wood and drawers of water; and don't you forget it. [He returns to his seat at the table, and takes up his mug]. Wots YOUR name? THE WOMAN. Rummy Mitchens, sir. PRICE [quaffing the remains of his milk to her] Your elth, Miss Mitchens. RUMMY [correcting him] Missis Mitchens. PRICE. Wot! Oh Rummy, Rummy! Respectable married woman, Rummy, gittin rescued by the Salvation Army by pretendin to be a bad un. Same old game! RUMMY. What am I to do? I can't starve. Them Salvation lasses is dear good girls; but the better you are, the worse they likes to think you were before they rescued you. Why shouldn't they av a bit o credit, poor loves? They're worn to rags by their work. And where would they get the money to rescue us if we was to let on we're no worse than other people? You know what ladies and gentlemen are. PRICE. Thievin swine! Wish I ad their job, Rummy, all the same. Wot does Rummy stand for? Pet name props? RUMMY. Short for Romola. PRICE. For wot!? RUMMY. Romola. It was out of a new book. Somebody me mother wanted me to grow up like. PRICE. We're companions in misfortune, Rummy. Both on us got names that nobody cawnt pronounce. Consequently I'm Snobby and you're Rummy because Bill and Sally wasn't good enough for our parents. Such is life! RUMMY. Who saved you, Mr. Price? Was it Major Barbara? PRICE. No: I come here on my own. I'm goin to be Bronterre O'Brien Price, the converted painter. I know wot they like. I'll tell em how I blasphemed and gambled and wopped my poor old mother-- RUMMY [shocked] Used you to beat your mother? PRICE. Not likely. She used to beat me. No matter: you come and listen to the converted painter, and you'll hear how she was a pious woman that taught me me prayers at er knee, an how I used to come home drunk and drag her out o bed be er snow white airs, an lam into er with the poker. RUMMY. That's what's so unfair to us women. Your confessions is just as big lies as ours: you don't tell what you really done no more than us; but you men can tell your lies right out at the meetins and be made much of for it; while the sort o confessions we az to make az to be wispered to one lady at a time. It ain't right, spite of all their piety. PRICE. Right! Do you spose the Army'd be allowed if it went and did right? Not much. It combs our air and makes us good little blokes to be robbed and put upon. But I'll play the game as good as any of em. I'll see somebody struck by lightnin, or hear a voice sayin "Snobby Price: where will you spend eternity?" I'll ave a time of it, I tell you. RUMMY. You won't be let drink, though. PRICE. I'll take it out in gorspellin, then. I don't want to drink if I can get fun enough any other way. Jenny Hill, a pale, overwrought, pretty Salvation lass of 18, comes in through the yard gate, leading Peter Shirley, a half hardened, half worn-out elderly man, weak with hunger. JENNY [supporting him] Come! pluck up. I'll get you something to eat. You'll be all right then. PRICE [rising and hurrying officiously to take the old man off Jenny's hands] Poor old man! Cheer up, brother: you'll find rest and peace and appiness ere. Hurry up with the food, miss: e's fair done. [Jenny hurries into the shelter]. Ere, buck up, daddy! She's fetchin y'a thick slice o breadn treacle, an a mug o skyblue. [He seats him at the corner of the table]. RUMMY [gaily] Keep up your old art! Never say die! SHIRLEY. I'm not an old man. I'm ony 46. I'm as good as ever I was. The grey patch come in my hair before I was thirty. All it wants is three pennorth o hair dye: am I to be turned on the streets to starve for it? Holy God! I've worked ten to twelve hours a day since I was thirteen, and paid my way all through; and now am I to be thrown into the gutter and my job given to a young man that can do it no better than me because I've black hair that goes white at the first change? PRICE [cheerfully] No good jawrin about it. You're ony a jumped-up, jerked-off, orspittle-turned-out incurable of an ole workin man: who cares about you? Eh? Make the thievin swine give you a meal: they've stole many a one from you. Get a bit o your own back. [Jenny returns with the usual meal]. There you are, brother. Awsk a blessin an tuck that into you. SHIRLEY [looking at it ravenously but not touching it, and crying like a child] I never took anything before. JENNY [petting him] Come, come! the Lord sends it to you: he wasn't above taking bread from his friends; and why should you be? Besides, when we find you a job you can pay us for it if you like. SHIRLEY [eagerly] Yes, yes: that's true. I can pay you back: it's only a loan. [Shivering] Oh Lord! oh Lord! [He turns to the table and attacks the meal ravenously]. JENNY. Well, Rummy, are you more comfortable now? RUMMY. God bless you, lovey! You've fed my body and saved my soul, haven't you? [Jenny, touched, kisses her] Sit down and rest a bit: you must be ready to drop. JENNY. I've been going hard since morning. But there's more work than we can do. I mustn't stop. RUMMY. Try a prayer for just two minutes. You'll work all the better after. JENNY [her eyes lighting up] Oh isn't it wonderful how a few minutes prayer revives you! I was quite lightheaded at twelve o'clock, I was so tired; but Major Barbara just sent me to pray for five minutes; and I was able to go on as if I had only just begun. [To Price] Did you have a piece of bread? PAIGE [with unction] Yes, miss; but I've got the piece that I value more; and that's the peace that passeth hall hannerstennin. RUMMY [fervently] Glory Hallelujah! Bill Walker, a rough customer of about 25, appears at the yard gate and looks malevolently at Jenny. JENNY. That makes me so happy. When you say that, I feel wicked for loitering here. I must get to work again. She is hurrying to the shelter, when the new-comer moves quickly up to the door and intercepts her. His manner is so threatening that she retreats as he comes at her truculently, driving her down the yard. BILL. I know you. You're the one that took away my girl. You're the one that set er agen me. Well, I'm goin to av er out. Not that I care a curse for her or you: see? But I'll let er know; and I'll let you know. I'm goin to give er a doin that'll teach er to cut away from me. Now in with you and tell er to come out afore I come in and kick er out. Tell er Bill Walker wants er. She'll know what that means; and if she keeps me waitin it'll be worse. You stop to jaw back at me; and I'll start on you: d'ye hear? There's your way. In you go. [He takes her by the arm and slings her towards the door of the shelter. She falls on her hand and knee. Rummy helps her up again]. PRICE [rising, and venturing irresolutely towards Bill]. Easy there, mate. She ain't doin you no arm. BILL. Who are you callin mate? [Standing over him threateningly]. You're goin to stand up for her, are you? Put up your ands. RUMMY [running indignantly to him to scold him]. Oh, you great brute-- [He instantly swings his left hand back against her face. She screams and reels back to the trough, where she sits down, covering her bruised face with her hands and rocking and moaning with pain]. JENNY [going to her]. Oh God forgive you! How could you strike an old woman like that? BILL [seizing her by the hair so violently that she also screams, and tearing her away from the old woman]. You Gawd forgive me again and I'll Gawd forgive you one on the jaw that'll stop you prayin for a week. [Holding her and turning fiercely on Price]. Av you anything to say agen it? Eh? PRICE [intimidated]. No, matey: she ain't anything to do with me. BILL. Good job for you! I'd put two meals into you and fight you with one finger after, you starved cur. [To Jenny] Now are you goin to fetch out Mog Habbijam; or am I to knock your face off you and fetch her myself? JENNY [writhing in his grasp] Oh please someone go in and tell Major Barbara--[she screams again as he wrenches her head down; and Price and Rummy, flee into the shelter]. BILL. You want to go in and tell your Major of me, do you? JENNY. Oh please don't drag my hair. Let me go. BILL. Do you or don't you? [She stifles a scream]. Yes or no. JENNY. God give me strength-- BILL [striking her with his fist in the face] Go and show her that, and tell her if she wants one like it to come and interfere with me. [Jenny, crying with pain, goes into the shed. He goes to the form and addresses the old man]. Here: finish your mess; and get out o my way. SHIRLEY [springing up and facing him fiercely, with the mug in his hand] You take a liberty with me, and I'll smash you over the face with the mug and cut your eye out. Ain't you satisfied--young whelps like you--with takin the bread out o the mouths of your elders that have brought you up and slaved for you, but you must come shovin and cheekin and bullyin in here, where the bread o charity is sickenin in our stummicks? BILL [contemptuously, but backing a little] Wot good are you, you old palsy mug? Wot good are you? SHIRLEY. As good as you and better. I'll do a day's work agen you or any fat young soaker of your age. Go and take my job at Horrockses, where I worked for ten year. They want young men there: they can't afford to keep men over forty-five. They're very sorry--give you a character and happy to help you to get anything suited to your years--sure a steady man won't be long out of a job. Well, let em try you. They'll find the differ. What do you know? Not as much as how to beeyave yourself--layin your dirty fist across the mouth of a respectable woman! BILL. Don't provoke me to lay it acrost yours: d'ye hear? SHIRLEY [with blighting contempt] Yes: you like an old man to hit, don't you, when you've finished with the women. I ain't seen you hit a young one yet. BILL [stung] You lie, you old soupkitchener, you. There was a young man here. Did I offer to hit him or did I not? SHIRLEY. Was he starvin or was he not? Was he a man or only a crosseyed thief an a loafer? Would you hit my son-in-law's brother? BILL. Who's he? SHIRLEY. Todger Fairmile o Balls Pond. Him that won 20 pounds off the Japanese wrastler at the music hall by standin out 17 minutes 4 seconds agen him. BILL [sullenly] I'm no music hall wrastler. Can he box? SHIRLEY. Yes: an you can't. BILL. Wot! I can't, can't I? Wot's that you say [threatening him]? SHIRLEY [not budging an inch] Will you box Todger Fairmile if I put him on to you? Say the word. BILL. [subsiding with a slouch] I'll stand up to any man alive, if he was ten Todger Fairmiles. But I don't set up to be a perfessional. SHIRLEY [looking down on him with unfathomable disdain] YOU box! Slap an old woman with the back o your hand! You hadn't even the sense to hit her where a magistrate couldn't see the mark of it, you silly young lump of conceit and ignorance. Hit a girl in the jaw and ony make her cry! If Todger Fairmile'd done it, she wouldn't a got up inside o ten minutes, no more than you would if he got on to you. Yah! I'd set about you myself if I had a week's feedin in me instead o two months starvation. [He returns to the table to finish his meal]. BILL [following him and stooping over him to drive the taunt in] You lie! you have the bread and treacle in you that you come here to beg. SHIRLEY [bursting into tears] Oh God! it's true: I'm only an old pauper on the scrap heap. [Furiously] But you'll come to it yourself; and then you'll know. You'll come to it sooner than a teetotaller like me, fillin yourself with gin at this hour o the mornin! BILL. I'm no gin drinker, you old liar; but when I want to give my girl a bloomin good idin I like to av a bit o devil in me: see? An here I am, talkin to a rotten old blighter like you sted o givin her wot for. [Working himself into a rage] I'm goin in there to fetch her out. [He makes vengefully for the shelter door]. SHIRLEY. You're goin to the station on a stretcher, more likely; and they'll take the gin and the devil out of you there when they get you inside. You mind what you're about: the major here is the Earl o Stevenage's granddaughter. BILL [checked] Garn! SHIRLEY. You'll see. BILL [his resolution oozing] Well, I ain't done nothin to er. SHIRLEY. Spose she said you did! who'd believe you? BILL [very uneasy, skulking back to the corner of the penthouse] Gawd! There's no jastice in this country. To think wot them people can do! I'm as good as er. SHIRLEY. Tell her so. It's just what a fool like you would do. Barbara, brisk and businesslike, comes from the shelter with a note book, and addresses herself to Shirley. Bill, cowed, sits down in the corner on a form, and turns his back on them. BARBARA. Good morning. SHIRLEY [standing up and taking off his hat] Good morning, miss. BARBARA. Sit down: make yourself at home. [He hesitates; but she puts a friendly hand on his shoulder and makes him obey]. Now then! since you've made friends with us, we want to know all about you. Names and addresses and trades. SHIRLEY. Peter Shirley. Fitter. Chucked out two months ago because I was too old. BARBARA [not at all surprised] You'd pass still. Why didn't you dye your hair? SHIRLEY. I did. Me age come out at a coroner's inquest on me daughter. BARBARA. Steady? SHIRLEY. Teetotaller. Never out of a job before. Good worker. And sent to the knockers like an old horse! BARBARA. No matter: if you did your part God will do his. SHIRLEY [suddenly stubborn] My religion's no concern of anybody but myself. BARBARA [guessing] I know. Secularist? SHIRLEY [hotly] Did I offer to deny it? BARBARA. Why should you? My own father's a Secularist, I think. Our Father--yours and mine--fulfils himself in many ways; and I daresay he knew what he was about when he made a Secularist of you. So buck up, Peter! we can always find a job for a steady man like you. [Shirley, disarmed, touches his hat. She turns from him to Bill]. What's your name? BILL [insolently] Wot's that to you? BARBARA [calmly making a note] Afraid to give his name. Any trade? BILL. Who's afraid to give his name? [Doggedly, with a sense of heroically defying the House of Lords in the person of Lord Stevenage] If you want to bring a charge agen me, bring it. [She waits, unruffled]. My name's Bill Walker. BARBARA [as if the name were familiar: trying to remember how] Bill Walker? [Recollecting] Oh, I know: you're the man that Jenny Hill was praying for inside just now. [She enters his name in her note book]. BILL. Who's Jenny Hill? And what call has she to pray for me? BARBARA. I don't know. Perhaps it was you that cut her lip. BILL [defiantly] Yes, it was me that cut her lip. I ain't afraid o you. BARBARA. How could you be, since you're not afraid of God? You're a brave man, Mr. Walker. It takes some pluck to do our work here; but none of us dare lift our hand against a girl like that, for fear of her father in heaven. BILL [sullenly] I want none o your cantin jaw. I suppose you think I come here to beg from you, like this damaged lot here. Not me. I don't want your bread and scrape and catlap. I don't believe in your Gawd, no more than you do yourself. BARBARA [sunnily apologetic and ladylike, as on a new footing with him] Oh, I beg your pardon for putting your name down, Mr. Walker. I didn't understand. I'll strike it out. BILL [taking this as a slight, and deeply wounded by it] Eah! you let my name alone. Ain't it good enough to be in your book? BARBARA [considering] Well, you see, there's no use putting down your name unless I can do something for you, is there? What's your trade? BILL [still smarting] That's no concern o yours. BARBARA. Just so. [very businesslike] I'll put you down as [writing] the man who--struck--poor little Jenny Hill--in the mouth. BILL [rising threateningly] See here. I've ad enough o this. BARBARA [quite sunny and fearless] What did you come to us for? BILL. I come for my girl, see? I come to take her out o this and to break er jaws for her. BARBARA [complacently] You see I was right about your trade. [Bill, on the point of retorting furiously, finds himself, to his great shame and terror, in danger of crying instead. He sits down again suddenly]. What's her name? BILL [dogged] Er name's Mog Abbijam: thats wot her name is. BARBARA. Oh, she's gone to Canning Town, to our barracks there. BILL [fortified by his resentment of Mog's perfidy] is she? [Vindictively] Then I'm goin to Kennintahn arter her. [He crosses to the gate; hesitates; finally comes back at Barbara]. Are you lyin to me to get shut o me? BARBARA. I don't want to get shut of you. I want to keep you here and save your soul. You'd better stay: you're going to have a bad time today, Bill. BILL. Who's goin to give it to me? You, props. BARBARA. Someone you don't believe in. But you'll be glad afterwards. BILL [slinking off] I'll go to Kennintahn to be out o the reach o your tongue. [Suddenly turning on her with intense malice] And if I don't find Mog there, I'll come back and do two years for you, selp me Gawd if I don't! BARBARA [a shade kindlier, if possible] It's no use, Bill. She's got another bloke. BILL. Wot! BARBARA. One of her own converts. He fell in love with her when he saw her with her soul saved, and her face clean, and her hair washed. BILL [surprised] Wottud she wash it for, the carroty slut? It's red. BARBARA. It's quite lovely now, because she wears a new look in her eyes with it. It's a pity you're too late. The new bloke has put your nose out of joint, Bill. BILL. I'll put his nose out o joint for him. Not that I care a curse for her, mind that. But I'll teach her to drop me as if I was dirt. And I'll teach him to meddle with my Judy. Wots iz bleedin name? BARBARA. Sergeant Todger Fairmile. SHIRLEY [rising with grim joy] I'll go with him, miss. I want to see them two meet. I'll take him to the infirmary when it's over. BILL [to Shirley, with undissembled misgiving] Is that im you was speakin on? SHIRLEY. That's him. BILL. Im that wrastled in the music all? SHIRLEY. The competitions at the National Sportin Club was worth nigh a hundred a year to him. He's gev em up now for religion; so he's a bit fresh for want of the exercise he was accustomed to. He'll be glad to see you. Come along. BILL. Wots is weight? SHIRLEY. Thirteen four. [Bill's last hope expires]. BARBARA. Go and talk to him, Bill. He'll convert you. SHIRLEY. He'll convert your head into a mashed potato. BILL [sullenly] I ain't afraid of him. I ain't afraid of ennybody. But he can lick me. She's done me. [He sits down moodily on the edge of the horse trough]. SHIRLEY. You ain't goin. I thought not. [He resumes his seat]. BARBARA [calling] Jenny! JENNY [appearing at the shelter door with a plaster on the corner of her mouth] Yes, Major. BARBARA. Send Rummy Mitchens out to clear away here. JENNY. I think she's afraid. BARBARA [her resemblance to her mother flashing out for a moment] Nonsense! she must do as she's told. JENNY [calling into the shelter] Rummy: the Major says you must come. Jenny comes to Barbara, purposely keeping on the side next Bill, lest he should suppose that she shrank from him or bore malice. BARBARA. Poor little Jenny! Are you tired? [Looking at the wounded cheek] Does it hurt? JENNY. No: it's all right now. It was nothing. BARBARA [critically] It was as hard as he could hit, I expect. Poor Bill! You don't feel angry with him, do you? JENNY. Oh no, no, no: indeed I don't, Major, bless his poor heart! [Barbara kisses her; and she runs away merrily into the shelter. Bill writhes with an agonizing return of his new and alarming symptoms, but says nothing. Rummy Mitchens comes from the shelter]. BARBARA [going to meet Rummy] Now Rummy, bustle. Take in those mugs and plates to be washed; and throw the crumbs about for the birds. Rummy takes the three plates and mugs; but Shirley takes back his mug from her, as there it still come milk left in it. RUMMY. There ain't any crumbs. This ain't a time to waste good bread on birds. PRICE [appearing at the shelter door] Gentleman come to see the shelter, Major. Says he's your father. BARBARA. All right. Coming. [Snobby goes back into the shelter, followed by Barbara]. RUMMY [stealing across to Bill and addressing him in a subdued voice, but with intense conviction] I'd av the lor of you, you flat eared pignosed potwalloper, if she'd let me. You're no gentleman, to hit a lady in the face. [Bill, with greater things moving in him, takes no notice]. SHIRLEY [following her] Here! in with you and don't get yourself into more trouble by talking. RUMMY [with hauteur] I ain't ad the pleasure o being hintroduced to you, as I can remember. [She goes into the shelter with the plates]. BILL [savagely] Don't you talk to me, d'ye hear. You lea me alone, or I'll do you a mischief. I'm not dirt under your feet, anyway. SHIRLEY [calmly] Don't you be afeerd. You ain't such prime company that you need expect to be sought after. [He is about to go into the shelter when Barbara comes out, with Undershaft on her right]. BARBARA. Oh there you are, Mr Shirley! [Between them] This is my father: I told you he was a Secularist, didn't I? Perhaps you'll be able to comfort one another. UNDERSHAFT [startled] A Secularist! Not the least in the world: on the contrary, a confirmed mystic. BARBARA. Sorry, I'm sure. By the way, papa, what is your religion--in case I have to introduce you again? UNDERSHAFT. My religion? Well, my dear, I am a Millionaire. That is my religion. BARBARA. Then I'm afraid you and Mr Shirley wont be able to comfort one another after all. You're not a Millionaire, are you, Peter? SHIRLEY. No; and proud of it. UNDERSHAFT [gravely] Poverty, my friend, is not a thing to be proud of. SHIRLEY [angrily] Who made your millions for you? Me and my like. What's kep us poor? Keepin you rich. I wouldn't have your conscience, not for all your income. UNDERSHAFT. I wouldn't have your income, not for all your conscience, Mr Shirley. [He goes to the penthouse and sits down on a form]. BARBARA [stopping Shirley adroitly as he is about to retort] You wouldn't think he was my father, would you, Peter? Will you go into the shelter and lend the lasses a hand for a while: we're worked off our feet. SHIRLEY [bitterly] Yes: I'm in their debt for a meal, ain't I? BARBARA. Oh, not because you're in their debt; but for love of them, Peter, for love of them. [He cannot understand, and is rather scandalized]. There! Don't stare at me. In with you; and give that conscience of yours a holiday [bustling him into the shelter]. SHIRLEY [as he goes in] Ah! it's a pity you never was trained to use your reason, miss. You'd have been a very taking lecturer on Secularism. Barbara turns to her father. UNDERSHAFT. Never mind me, my dear. Go about your work; and let me watch it for a while. BARBARA. All right. UNDERSHAFT. For instance, what's the matter with that out-patient over there? BARBARA [looking at Bill, whose attitude has never changed, and whose expression of brooding wrath has deepened] Oh, we shall cure him in no time. Just watch. [She goes over to Bill and waits. He glances up at her and casts his eyes down again, uneasy, but grimmer than ever]. It would be nice to just stamp on Mog Habbijam's face, wouldn't it, Bill? BILL [starting up from the trough in consternation] It's a lie: I never said so. [She shakes her head]. Who told you wot was in my mind? BARBARA. Only your new friend. BILL. Wot new friend? BARBARA. The devil, Bill. When he gets round people they get miserable, just like you. HILL [with a heartbreaking attempt at devil-may-care cheerfulness] I ain't miserable. [He sits down again, and stretches his legs in an attempt to seem indifferent]. BARBARA. Well, if you're happy, why don't you look happy, as we do? BILL [his legs curling back in spite of him] I'm appy enough, I tell you. Why don't you lea me alown? Wot av I done to you? I ain't smashed your face, av I? BARBARA [softly: wooing his soul] It's not me that's getting at you, Bill. BILL. Who else is it? BARBARA. Somebody that doesn't intend you to smash women's faces, I suppose. Somebody or something that wants to make a man of you. BILL [blustering] Make a man o ME! Ain't I a man? eh? ain't I a man? Who sez I'm not a man? BARBARA. There's a man in you somewhere, I suppose. But why did he let you hit poor little Jenny Hill? That wasn't very manly of him, was it? BILL [tormented] Av done with it, I tell you. Chock it. I'm sick of your Jenny Ill and er silly little face. BARBARA. Then why do you keep thinking about it? Why does it keep coming up against you in your mind? You're not getting converted, are you? BILL [with conviction] Not ME. Not likely. Not arf. BARBARA. That's right, Bill. Hold out against it. Put out your strength. Don't let's get you cheap. Todger Fairmile said he wrestled for three nights against his Salvation harder than he ever wrestled with the Jap at the music hall. He gave in to the Jap when his arm was going to break. But he didn't give in to his salvation until his heart was going to break. Perhaps you'll escape that. You haven't any heart, have you? BILL. Wot dye mean? Wy ain't I got a art the same as ennybody else? BARBARA. A man with a heart wouldn't have bashed poor little Jenny's face, would he? BILL [almost crying] Ow, will you lea me alown? Av I ever offered to meddle with you, that you come noggin and provowkin me lawk this? [He writhes convulsively from his eyes to his toes]. BARBARA [with a steady soothing hand on his arm and a gentle voice that never lets him go] It's your soul that's hurting you, Bill, and not me. We've been through it all ourselves. Come with us, Bill. [He looks wildly round]. To brave manhood on earth and eternal glory in heaven. [He is on the point of breaking down]. Come. [A drum is heard in the shelter; and Bill, with a gasp, escapes from the spell as Barbara turns quickly. Adolphus enters from the shelter with a big drum]. Oh! there you are, Dolly. Let me introduce a new friend of mine, Mr Bill Walker. This is my bloke, Bill: Mr Cusins. [Cusins salutes with his drumstick]. BILL. Goin to marry im? BARBARA. Yes. BILL [fervently] Gawd elp im! Gawd elp im! BARBARA. Why? Do you think he won't be happy with me? BILL. I've only ad to stand it for a mornin: e'll av to stand it for a lifetime. CUSINS. That is a frightful reflection, Mr Walker. But I can't tear myself away from her. BILL. Well, I can. [To Barbara] Eah! do you know where I'm goin to, and wot I'm goin to do? BARBARA. Yes: you're going to heaven; and you're coming back here before the week's out to tell me so. BILL. You lie. I'm goin to Kennintahn, to spit in Todger Fairmile's eye. I bashed Jenny Ill's face; and now I'll get me own face bashed and come back and show it to er. E'll it me ardern I it er. That'll make us square. [To Adolphus] Is that fair or is it not? You're a genlmn: you oughter know. BARBARA. Two black eyes wont make one white one, Bill. BILL. I didn't ast you. Cawn't you never keep your mahth shut? I ast the genlmn. CUSINS [reflectively] Yes: I think you're right, Mr Walker. Yes: I should do it. It's curious: it's exactly what an ancient Greek would have done. BARBARA. But what good will it do? CUSINS. Well, it will give Mr Fairmile some exercise; and it will satisfy Mr Walker's soul. BILL. Rot! there ain't no sach a thing as a soul. Ah kin you tell wether I've a soul or not? You never seen it. BARBARA. I've seen it hurting you when you went against it. BILL [with compressed aggravation] If you was my girl and took the word out o me mahth lawk thet, I'd give you suthink you'd feel urtin, so I would. [To Adolphus] You take my tip, mate. Stop er jawr; or you'll die afore your time. [With intense expression] Wore aht: thets wot you'll be: wore aht. [He goes away through the gate]. CUSINS [looking after him] I wonder! BARBARA. Dolly! [indignant, in her mother's manner]. CUSINS. Yes, my dear, it's very wearing to be in love with you. If it lasts, I quite think I shall die young. BARBARA. Should you mind? CUSINS. Not at all. [He is suddenly softened, and kisses her over the drum, evidently not for the first time, as people cannot kiss over a big drum without practice. Undershaft coughs]. BARBARA. It's all right, papa, we've not forgotten you. Dolly: explain the place to papa: I haven't time. [She goes busily into the shelter]. Undershaft and Adolpbus now have the yard to themselves. Undershaft, seated on a form, and still keenly attentive, looks hard at Adolphus. Adolphus looks hard at him. UNDERSHAFT. I fancy you guess something of what is in my mind, Mr Cusins. [Cusins flourishes his drumsticks as if in the art of beating a lively rataplan, but makes no sound]. Exactly so. But suppose Barbara finds you out! CUSINS. You know, I do not admit that I am imposing on Barbara. I am quite genuinely interested in the views of the Salvation Army. The fact is, I am a sort of collector of religions; and the curious thing is that I find I can believe them all. By the way, have you any religion? UNDERSHAFT. Yes. CUSINS. Anything out of the common? UNDERSHAFT. Only that there are two things necessary to Salvation. CUSINS [disappointed, but polite] Ah, the Church Catechism. Charles Lomax also belongs to the Established Church. UNDERSHAFT. The two things are-- CUSINS. Baptism and-- UNDERSHAFT. No. Money and gunpowder. CUSINS [surprised, but interested] That is the general opinion of our governing classes. The novelty is in hearing any man confess it. UNDERSHAFT. Just so. CUSINS. Excuse me: is there any place in your religion for honor, justice, truth, love, mercy and so forth? UNDERSHAFT. Yes: they are the graces and luxuries of a rich, strong, and safe life. CUSINS. Suppose one is forced to choose between them and money or gunpowder? UNDERSHAFT. Choose money and gunpowder; for without enough of both you cannot afford the others. CUSINS. That is your religion? UNDERSHAFT. Yes. The cadence of this reply makes a full close in the conversation. Cusins twists his face dubiously and contemplates Undershaft. Undershaft contemplates him. CUSINS. Barbara won't stand that. You will have to choose between your religion and Barbara. UNDERSHAFT. So will you, my friend. She will find out that that drum of yours is hollow. CUSINS. Father Undershaft: you are mistaken: I am a sincere Salvationist. You do not understand the Salvation Army. It is the army of joy, of love, of courage: it has banished the fear and remorse and despair of the old hellridden evangelical sects: it marches to fight the devil with trumpet and drum, with music and dancing, with banner and palm, as becomes a sally from heaven by its happy garrison. It picks the waster out of the public house and makes a man of him: it finds a worm wriggling in a back kitchen, and lo! a woman! Men and women of rank too, sons and daughters of the Highest. It takes the poor professor of Greek, the most artificial and self-suppressed of human creatures, from his meal of roots, and lets loose the rhapsodist in him; reveals the true worship of Dionysos to him; sends him down the public street drumming dithyrambs [he plays a thundering flourish on the drum]. UNDERSHAFT. You will alarm the shelter. CUSINS. Oh, they are accustomed to these sudden ecstasies of piety. However, if the drum worries you-- [he pockets the drumsticks; unhooks the drum; and stands it on the ground opposite the gateway]. UNDERSHAFT. Thank you. CUSINS. You remember what Euripides says about your money and gunpowder? UNDERSHAFT. No. CUSINS [declaiming] One and another In money and guns may outpass his brother; And men in their millions float and flow And seethe with a million hopes as leaven; And they win their will; or they miss their will; And their hopes are dead or are pined for still: But whoe'er can know As the long days go That to live is happy, has found his heaven. My translation: what do you think of it? UNDERSHAFT. I think, my friend, that if you wish to know, as the long days go, that to live is happy, you must first acquire money enough for a decent life, and power enough to be your own master. CUSINS. You are damnably discouraging. [He resumes his declamation]. Is it so hard a thing to see That the spirit of God--whate'er it be-- The Law that abides and changes not, ages long, The Eternal and Nature-born: these things be strong. What else is Wisdom? What of Man's endeavor, Or God's high grace so lovely and so great? To stand from fear set free? to breathe and wait? To hold a hand uplifted over Fate? And shall not Barbara be loved for ever? UNDERSHAFT. Euripides mentions Barbara, does he? CUSINS. It is a fair translation. The word means Loveliness. UNDERSHAFT. May I ask--as Barbara's father--how much a year she is to be loved for ever on? CUSINS. As Barbara's father, that is more your affair than mine. I can feed her by teaching Greek: that is about all. UNDERSHAFT. Do you consider it a good match for her? CUSINS [with polite obstinacy] Mr Undershaft: I am in many ways a weak, timid, ineffectual person; and my health is far from satisfactory. But whenever I feel that I must have anything, I get it, sooner or later. I feel that way about Barbara. I don't like marriage: I feel intensely afraid of it; and I don't know what I shall do with Barbara or what she will do with me. But I feel that I and nobody else must marry her. Please regard that as settled.--Not that I wish to be arbitrary; but why should I waste your time in discussing what is inevitable? UNDERSHAFT. You mean that you will stick at nothing not even the conversion of the Salvation Army to the worship of Dionysos. CUSINS. The business of the Salvation Army is to save, not to wrangle about the name of the pathfinder. Dionysos or another: what does it matter? UNDERSHAFT [rising and approaching him] Professor Cusins you are a young man after my own heart. CUSINS. Mr Undershaft: you are, as far as I am able to gather, a most infernal old rascal; but you appeal very strongly to my sense of ironic humor. Undershaft mutely offers his hand. They shake. UNDERSHAFT [suddenly concentrating himself] And now to business. CUSINS. Pardon me. We were discussing religion. Why go back to such an uninteresting and unimportant subject as business? UNDERSHAFT. Religion is our business at present, because it is through religion alone that we can win Barbara. CUSINS. Have you, too, fallen in love with Barbara? UNDERSHAFT. Yes, with a father's love. CUSINS. A father's love for a grown-up daughter is the most dangerous of all infatuations. I apologize for mentioning my own pale, coy, mistrustful fancy in the same breath with it. UNDERSHAFT. Keep to the point. We have to win her; and we are neither of us Methodists. CUSINS. That doesn't matter. The power Barbara wields here--the power that wields Barbara herself--is not Calvinism, not Presbyterianism, not Methodism-- UNDERSHAFT. Not Greek Paganism either, eh? CUSINS. I admit that. Barbara is quite original in her religion. UNDERSHAFT [triumphantly] Aha! Barbara Undershaft would be. Her inspiration comes from within herself. CUSINS. How do you suppose it got there? UNDERSHAFT [in towering excitement] It is the Undershaft inheritance. I shall hand on my torch to my daughter. She shall make my converts and preach my gospel. CUSINS. What! Money and gunpowder! UNDERSHAFT. Yes, money and gunpowder; freedom and power; command of life and command of death. CUSINS [urbanely: trying to bring him down to earth] This is extremely interesting, Mr Undershaft. Of course you know that you are mad. UNDERSHAFT [with redoubled force] And you? CUSINS. Oh, mad as a hatter. You are welcome to my secret since I have discovered yours. But I am astonished. Can a madman make cannons? UNDERSHAFT. Would anyone else than a madman make them? And now [with surging energy] question for question. Can a sane man translate Euripides? CUSINS. No. UNDERSHAFT [reining him by the shoulder] Can a sane woman make a man of a waster or a woman of a worm? CUSINS [reeling before the storm] Father Colossus--Mammoth Millionaire-- UNDERSHAFT [pressing him] Are there two mad people or three in this Salvation shelter to-day? CUSINS. You mean Barbara is as mad as we are! UNDERSHAFT [pushing him lightly off and resuming his equanimity suddenly and completely] Pooh, Professor! let us call things by their proper names. I am a millionaire; you are a poet; Barbara is a savior of souls. What have we three to do with the common mob of slaves and idolaters? [He sits down again with a shrug of contempt for the mob]. CUSINS. Take care! Barbara is in love with the common people. So am I. Have you never felt the romance of that love? UNDERSHAFT [cold and sardonic] Have you ever been in love with Poverty, like St Francis? Have you ever been in love with Dirt, like St Simeon? Have you ever been in love with disease and suffering, like our nurses and philanthropists? Such passions are not virtues, but the most unnatural of all the vices. This love of the common people may please an earl's granddaughter and a university professor; but I have been a common man and a poor man; and it has no romance for me. Leave it to the poor to pretend that poverty is a blessing: leave it to the coward to make a religion of his cowardice by preaching humility: we know better than that. We three must stand together above the common people: how else can we help their children to climb up beside us? Barbara must belong to us, not to the Salvation Army. CUSINS. Well, I can only say that if you think you will get her away from the Salvation Army by talking to her as you have been talking to me, you don't know Barbara. UNDERSHAFT. My friend: I never ask for what I can buy. CUSINS [in a white fury] Do I understand you to imply that you can buy Barbara? UNDERSHAFT. No; but I can buy the Salvation Army. CUSINS. Quite impossible. UNDERSHAFT. You shall see. All religious organizations exist by selling themselves to the rich. CUSINS. Not the Army. That is the Church of the poor. UNDERSHAFT. All the more reason for buying it. CUSINS. I don't think you quite know what the Army does for the poor. UNDERSHAFT. Oh yes I do. It draws their teeth: that is enough for me--as a man of business-- CUSINS. Nonsense! It makes them sober-- UNDERSHAFT. I prefer sober workmen. The profits are larger. CUSINS. --honest-- UNDERSHAFT. Honest workmen are the most economical. CUSINS. --attached to their homes-- UNDERSHAFT. So much the better: they will put up with anything sooner than change their shop. CUSINS. --happy-- UNDERSHAFT. An invaluable safeguard against revolution. CUSINS. --unselfish-- UNDERSHAFT. Indifferent to their own interests, which suits me exactly. CUSINS. --with their thoughts on heavenly things-- UNDERSHAFT [rising] And not on Trade Unionism nor Socialism. Excellent. CUSINS [revolted] You really are an infernal old rascal. UNDERSHAFT [indicating Peter Shirley, who has just came from the shelter and strolled dejectedly down the yard between them] And this is an honest man! SHIRLEY. Yes; and what av I got by it? [he passes on bitterly and sits on the form, in the corner of the penthouse]. Snobby Price, beaming sanctimoniously, and Jenny Hill, with a tambourine full of coppers, come from the shelter and go to the drum, on which Jenny begins to count the money. UNDERSHAFT [replying to Shirley] Oh, your employers must have got a good deal by it from first to last. [He sits on the table, with one foot on the side form. Cusins, overwhelmed, sits down on the same form nearer the shelter. Barbara comes from the shelter to the middle of the yard. She is excited and a little overwrought]. BARBARA. We've just had a splendid experience meeting at the other gate in Cripps's lane. I've hardly ever seen them so much moved as they were by your confession, Mr Price. PRICE. I could almost be glad of my past wickedness if I could believe that it would elp to keep hathers stright. BARBARA. So it will, Snobby. How much, Jenny? JENNY. Four and tenpence, Major. BARBARA. Oh Snobby, if you had given your poor mother just one more kick, we should have got the whole five shillings! PRICE. If she heard you say that, miss, she'd be sorry I didn't. But I'm glad. Oh what a joy it will be to her when she hears I'm saved! UNDERSHAFT. Shall I contribute the odd twopence, Barbara? The millionaire's mite, eh? [He takes a couple of pennies from his pocket.] BARBARA. How did you make that twopence? UNDERSHAFT. As usual. By selling cannons, torpedoes, submarines, and my new patent Grand Duke hand grenade. BARBARA. Put it back in your pocket. You can't buy your Salvation here for twopence: you must work it out. UNDERSHAFT. Is twopence not enough? I can afford a little more, if you press me. BARBARA. Two million millions would not be enough. There is bad blood on your hands; and nothing but good blood can cleanse them. Money is no use. Take it away. [She turns to Cusins]. Dolly: you must write another letter for me to the papers. [He makes a wry face]. Yes: I know you don't like it; but it must be done. The starvation this winter is beating us: everybody is unemployed. The General says we must close this shelter if we cant get more money. I force the collections at the meetings until I am ashamed, don't I, Snobby? PRICE. It's a fair treat to see you work it, miss. The way you got them up from three-and-six to four-and-ten with that hymn, penny by penny and verse by verse, was a caution. Not a Cheap Jack on Mile End Waste could touch you at it. BARBARA. Yes; but I wish we could do without it. I am getting at last to think more of the collection than of the people's souls. And what are those hatfuls of pence and halfpence? We want thousands! tens of thousands! hundreds of thousands! I want to convert people, not to be always begging for the Army in a way I'd die sooner than beg for myself. UNDERSHAFT [in profound irony] Genuine unselfishness is capable of anything, my dear. BARBARA [unsuspectingly, as she turns away to take the money from the drum and put it in a cash bag she carries] Yes, isn't it? [Undershaft looks sardonically at Cusins]. CUSINS [aside to Undershaft] Mephistopheles! Machiavelli! BARBARA [tears coming into her eyes as she ties the bag and pockets it] How are we to feed them? I can't talk religion to a man with bodily hunger in his eyes. [Almost breaking down] It's frightful. JENNY [running to her] Major, dear-- BARBARA [rebounding] No: don't comfort me. It will be all right. We shall get the money. UNDERSHAFT. How? JENNY. By praying for it, of course. Mrs Baines says she prayed for it last night; and she has never prayed for it in vain: never once. [She goes to the gate and looks out into the street]. BARBARA [who has dried her eyes and regained her composure] By the way, dad, Mrs Baines has come to march with us to our big meeting this afternoon; and she is very anxious to meet you, for some reason or other. Perhaps she'll convert you. UNDERSHAFT. I shall be delighted, my dear. JENNY [at the gate: excitedly] Major! Major! Here's that man back again. BARBARA. What man? JENNY. The man that hit me. Oh, I hope he's coming back to join us. Bill Walker, with frost on his jacket, comes through the gate, his hands deep in his pockets and his chin sunk between his shoulders, like a cleaned-out gambler. He halts between Barbara and the drum. BARBARA. Hullo, Bill! Back already! BILL [nagging at her] Bin talkin ever sense, av you? BARBARA. Pretty nearly. Well, has Todger paid you out for poor Jenny's jaw? BILL. NO he ain't. BARBARA. I thought your jacket looked a bit snowy. BILL. So it is snowy. You want to know where the snow come from, don't you? BARBARA. Yes. BILL. Well, it come from off the ground in Parkinses Corner in Kennintahn. It got rubbed off be my shoulders see? BARBARA. Pity you didn't rub some off with your knees, Bill! That would have done you a lot of good. BILL [with your mirthless humor] I was saving another man's knees at the time. E was kneelin on my ed, so e was. JENNY. Who was kneeling on your head? BILL. Todger was. E was prayin for me: prayin comfortable with me as a carpet. So was Mog. So was the ole bloomin meetin. Mog she sez "O Lord break is stubborn spirit; but don't urt is dear art." That was wot she said. "Don't urt is dear art"! An er bloke--thirteen stun four!--kneelin wiv all is weight on me. Funny, ain't it? JENNY. Oh no. We're so sorry, Mr Walker. BARBARA [enjoying it frankly] Nonsense! of course it's funny. Served you right, Bill! You must have done something to him first. BILL [doggedly] I did wot I said I'd do. I spit in is eye. E looks up at the sky and sez, "O that I should be fahnd worthy to be spit upon for the gospel's sake!" a sez; an Mog sez "Glory Allelloolier!"; an then a called me Brother, an dahned me as if I was a kid and a was me mother washin me a Setterda nawt. I adn't just no show wiv im at all. Arf the street prayed; an the tother arf larfed fit to split theirselves. [To Barbara] There! are you settisfawd nah? BARBARA [her eyes dancing] Wish I'd been there, Bill. BILL. Yes: you'd a got in a hextra bit o talk on me, wouldn't you? JENNY. I'm so sorry, Mr. Walker. BILL [fiercely] Don't you go bein sorry for me: you've no call. Listen ere. I broke your jawr. JENNY. No, it didn't hurt me: indeed it didn't, except for a moment. It was only that I was frightened. BILL. I don't want to be forgive be you, or be ennybody. Wot I did I'll pay for. I tried to get me own jawr broke to settisfaw you-- JENNY [distressed] Oh no-- BILL [impatiently] Tell y'I did: cawn't you listen to wot's bein told you? All I got be it was bein made a sight of in the public street for me pains. Well, if I cawn't settisfaw you one way, I can another. Listen ere! I ad two quid saved agen the frost; an I've a pahnd of it left. A mate n mine last week ad words with the Judy e's goin to marry. E give er wot-for; an e's bin fined fifteen bob. E ad a right to it er because they was goin to be marrid; but I adn't no right to it you; so put anather fawv bob on an call it a pahnd's worth. [He produces a sovereign]. Ere's the money. Take it; and let's av no more o your forgivin an prayin and your Major jawrin me. Let wot I done be done and paid for; and let there be a end of it. JENNY. Oh, I couldn't take it, Mr. Walker. But if you would give a shilling or two to poor Rummy Mitchens! you really did hurt her; and she's old. BILL [contemptuously] Not likely. I'd give her anather as soon as look at er. Let her av the lawr o me as she threatened! She ain't forgiven me: not mach. Wot I done to er is not on me mawnd--wot she [indicating Barbara] might call on me conscience--no more than stickin a pig. It's this Christian game o yours that I won't av played agen me: this bloomin forgivin an noggin an jawrin that makes a man that sore that iz lawf's a burdn to im. I won't av it, I tell you; so take your money and stop throwin your silly bashed face hup agen me. JENNY. Major: may I take a little of it for the Army? BARBARA. No: the Army is not to be bought. We want your soul, Bill; and we'll take nothing less. BILL [bitterly] I know. It ain't enough. Me an me few shillins is not good enough for you. You're a earl's grendorter, you are. Nothin less than a underd pahnd for you. UNDERSHAFT. Come, Barbara! you could do a great deal of good with a hundred pounds. If you will set this gentleman's mind at ease by taking his pound, I will give the other ninety-nine [Bill, astounded by such opulence, instinctively touches his cap]. BARBARA. Oh, you're too extravagant, papa. Bill offers twenty pieces of silver. All you need offer is the other ten. That will make the standard price to buy anybody who's for sale. I'm not; and the Army's not. [To Bill] You'll never have another quiet moment, Bill, until you come round to us. You can't stand out against your salvation. BILL [sullenly] I cawn't stend aht agen music all wrastlers and artful tongued women. I've offered to pay. I can do no more. Take it or leave it. There it is. [He throws the sovereign on the drum, and sits down on the horse-trough. The coin fascinates Snobby Price, who takes an early opportunity of dropping his cap on it]. Mrs Baines comes from the shelter. She is dressed as a Salvation Army Commissioner. She is an earnest looking woman of about 40, with a caressing, urgent voice, and an appealing manner. BARBARA. This is my father, Mrs Baines. [Undershaft comes from the table, taking his hat off with marked civility]. Try what you can do with him. He won't listen to me, because he remembers what a fool I was when I was a baby. [She leaves them together and chats with Jenny]. MRS BAINES. Have you been shown over the shelter, Mr Undershaft? You know the work we're doing, of course. UNDERSHAFT [very civilly] The whole nation knows it, Mrs Baines. MRS BAINES. No, Sir: the whole nation does not know it, or we should not be crippled as we are for want of money to carry our work through the length and breadth of the land. Let me tell you that there would have been rioting this winter in London but for us. UNDERSHAFT. You really think so? MRS BAINES. I know it. I remember 1886, when you rich gentlemen hardened your hearts against the cry of the poor. They broke the windows of your clubs in Pall Mall. UNDERSHAFT [gleaming with approval of their method] And the Mansion House Fund went up next day from thirty thousand pounds to seventy-nine thousand! I remember quite well. MRS BAINES. Well, won't you help me to get at the people? They won't break windows then. Come here, Price. Let me show you to this gentleman [Price comes to be inspected]. Do you remember the window breaking? PRICE. My ole father thought it was the revolution, ma'am. MRS BAINES. Would you break windows now? PRICE. Oh no ma'm. The windows of eaven av bin opened to me. I know now that the rich man is a sinner like myself. RUMMY [appearing above at the loft door] Snobby Price! SNOBBY. Wot is it? RUMMY. Your mother's askin for you at the other gate in Crippses Lane. She's heard about your confession [Price turns pale]. MRS BAINES. Go, Mr. Price; and pray with her. JENNY. You can go through the shelter, Snobby. PRICE [to Mrs Baines] I couldn't face her now; ma'am, with all the weight of my sins fresh on me. Tell her she'll find her son at ome, waitin for her in prayer. [He skulks off through the gate, incidentally stealing the sovereign on his way out by picking up his cap from the drum]. MRS BAINES [with swimming eyes] You see how we take the anger and the bitterness against you out of their hearts, Mr Undershaft. UNDERSHAFT. It is certainly most convenient and gratifying to all large employers of labor, Mrs Baines. MRS BAINES. Barbara: Jenny: I have good news: most wonderful news. [Jenny runs to her]. My prayers have been answered. I told you they would, Jenny, didn't I? JENNY. Yes, yes. BARBARA [moving nearer to the drum] Have we got money enough to keep the shelter open? MRS BAINES. I hope we shall have enough to keep all the shelters open. Lord Saxmundham has promised us five thousand pounds-- BARBARA. Hooray! JENNY. Glory! MRS BAINES. --if-- BARBARA. "If!" If what? MRS BAINES. If five other gentlemen will give a thousand each to make it up to ten thousand. BARBARA. Who is Lord Saxmundham? I never heard of him. UNDERSHAFT [who has pricked up his ears at the peer's name, and is now watching Barbara curiously] A new creation, my dear. You have heard of Sir Horace Bodger? BARBARA. Bodger! Do you mean the distiller? Bodger's whisky! UNDERSHAFT. That is the man. He is one of the greatest of our public benefactors. He restored the cathedral at Hakington. They made him a baronet for that. He gave half a million to the funds of his party: they made him a baron for that. SHIRLEY. What will they give him for the five thousand? UNDERSHAFT. There is nothing left to give him. So the five thousand, I should think, is to save his soul. MRS BAINES. Heaven grant it may! Oh Mr. Undershaft, you have some very rich friends. Can't you help us towards the other five thousand? We are going to hold a great meeting this afternoon at the Assembly Hall in the Mile End Road. If I could only announce that one gentleman had come forward to support Lord Saxmundham, others would follow. Don't you know somebody? Couldn't you? Wouldn't you? [her eyes fill with tears] oh, think of those poor people, Mr Undershaft: think of how much it means to them, and how little to a great man like you. UNDERSHAFT [sardonically gallant] Mrs Baines: you are irresistible. I can't disappoint you; and I can't deny myself the satisfaction of making Bodger pay up. You shall have your five thousand pounds. MRS BAINES. Thank God! UNDERSHAFT. You don't thank me? MRS BAINES. Oh sir, don't try to be cynical: don't be ashamed of being a good man. The Lord will bless you abundantly; and our prayers will be like a strong fortification round you all the days of your life. [With a touch of caution] You will let me have the cheque to show at the meeting, won't you? Jenny: go in and fetch a pen and ink. [Jenny runs to the shelter door]. UNDERSHAFT. Do not disturb Miss Hill: I have a fountain pen. [Jenny halts. He sits at the table and writes the cheque. Cusins rises to make more room for him. They all watch him silently]. BILL [cynically, aside to Barbara, his voice and accent horribly debased] Wot prawce Selvytion nah? BARBARA. Stop. [Undershaft stops writing: they all turn to her in surprise]. Mrs Baines: are you really going to take this money? MRS BAINES [astonished] Why not, dear? BARBARA. Why not! Do you know what my father is? Have you forgotten that Lord Saxmundham is Bodger the whisky man? Do you remember how we implored the County Council to stop him from writing Bodger's Whisky in letters of fire against the sky; so that the poor drinkruined creatures on the embankment could not wake up from their snatches of sleep without being reminded of their deadly thirst by that wicked sky sign? Do you know that the worst thing I have had to fight here is not the devil, but Bodger, Bodger, Bodger, with his whisky, his distilleries, and his tied houses? Are you going to make our shelter another tied house for him, and ask me to keep it? BILL. Rotten drunken whisky it is too. MRS BAINES. Dear Barbara: Lord Saxmundham has a soul to be saved like any of us. If heaven has found the way to make a good use of his money, are we to set ourselves up against the answer to our prayers? BARBARA. I know he has a soul to be saved. Let him come down here; and I'll do my best to help him to his salvation. But he wants to send his cheque down to buy us, and go on being as wicked as ever. UNDERSHAFT [with a reasonableness which Cusins alone perceives to be ironical] My dear Barbara: alcohol is a very necessary article. It heals the sick-- BARBARA. It does nothing of the sort. UNDERSHAFT. Well, it assists the doctor: that is perhaps a less questionable way of putting it. It makes life bearable to millions of people who could not endure their existence if they were quite sober. It enables Parliament to do things at eleven at night that no sane person would do at eleven in the morning. Is it Bodger's fault that this inestimable gift is deplorably abused by less than one per cent of the poor? [He turns again to the table; signs the cheque; and crosses it]. MRS BAINES. Barbara: will there be less drinking or more if all those poor souls we are saving come to-morrow and find the doors of our shelters shut in their faces? Lord Saxmundham gives us the money to stop drinking--to take his own business from him. CUSINS [impishly] Pure self-sacrifice on Bodger's part, clearly! Bless dear Bodger! [Barbara almost breaks down as Adolpbus, too, fails her]. UNDERSHAFT [tearing out the cheque and pocketing the book as he rises and goes past Cusins to Mrs Baines] I also, Mrs Baines, may claim a little disinterestedness. Think of my business! think of the widows and orphans! the men and lads torn to pieces with shrapnel and poisoned with lyddite [Mrs Baines shrinks; but he goes on remorselessly]! the oceans of blood, not one drop of which is shed in a really just cause! the ravaged crops! the peaceful peasants forced, women and men, to till their fields under the fire of opposing armies on pain of starvation! the bad blood of the fierce little cowards at home who egg on others to fight for the gratification of their national vanity! All this makes money for me: I am never richer, never busier than when the papers are full of it. Well, it is your work to preach peace on earth and goodwill to men. [Mrs Baines's face lights up again]. Every convert you make is a vote against war. [Her lips move in prayer]. Yet I give you this money to help you to hasten my own commercial ruin. [He gives her the cheque]. CUSINS [mounting the form in an ecstasy of mischief] The millennium will be inaugurated by the unselfishness of Undershaft and Bodger. Oh be joyful! [He takes the drumsticks from his pockets and flourishes them]. MRS BAINES [taking the cheque] The longer I live the more proof I see that there is an Infinite Goodness that turns everything to the work of salvation sooner or later. Who would have thought that any good could have come out of war and drink? And yet their profits are brought today to the feet of salvation to do its blessed work. [She is affected to tears]. JENNY [running to Mrs Baines and throwing her arms round her] Oh dear! how blessed, how glorious it all is! CUSINS [in a convulsion of irony] Let us seize this unspeakable moment. Let us march to the great meeting at once. Excuse me just an instant. [He rushes into the shelter. Jenny takes her tambourine from the drum head]. MRS BAINES. Mr Undershaft: have you ever seen a thousand people fall on their knees with one impulse and pray? Come with us to the meeting. Barbara shall tell them that the Army is saved, and saved through you. CUSINS [returning impetuously from the shelter with a flag and a trombone, and coming between Mrs Baines and Undershaft] You shall carry the flag down the first street, Mrs Baines [he gives her the flag]. Mr Undershaft is a gifted trombonist: he shall intone an Olympian diapason to the West Ham Salvation March. [Aside to Undershaft, as he forces the trombone on him] Blow, Machiavelli, blow. UNDERSHAFT [aside to him, as he takes the trombone] The trumpet in Zion! [Cusins rushes to the drum, which he takes up and puts on. Undershaft continues, aloud] I will do my best. I could vamp a bass if I knew the tune. CUSINS. It is a wedding chorus from one of Donizetti's operas; but we have converted it. We convert everything to good here, including Bodger. You remember the chorus. "For thee immense rejoicing--immenso giubilo--immenso giubilo." [With drum obbligato] Rum tum ti tum tum, tum tum ti ta-- BARBARA. Dolly: you are breaking my heart. CUSINS. What is a broken heart more or less here? Dionysos Undershaft has descended. I am possessed. MRS BAINES. Come, Barbara: I must have my dear Major to carry the flag with me. JENNY. Yes, yes, Major darling. CUSINS [snatches the tambourine out of Jenny's hand and mutely offers it to Barbara]. BARBARA [coming forward a little as she puts the offer behind her with a shudder, whilst Cusins recklessly tosses the tambourine back to Jenny and goes to the gate] I can't come. JENNY. Not come! MRS BAINES [with tears in her eyes] Barbara: do you think I am wrong to take the money? BARBARA [impulsively going to her and kissing her] No, no: God help you, dear, you must: you are saving the Army. Go; and may you have a great meeting! JENNY. But arn't you coming? BARBARA. No. [She begins taking off the silver brooch from her collar]. MRS BAINES. Barbara: what are you doing? JENNY. Why are you taking your badge off? You can't be going to leave us, Major. BARBARA [quietly] Father: come here. UNDERSHAFT [coming to her] My dear! [Seeing that she is going to pin the badge on his collar, he retreats to the penthouse in some alarm]. BARBARA [following him] Don't be frightened. [She pins the badge on and steps back towards the table, showing him to the others] There! It's not much for 5000 pounds is it? MRS BAINES. Barbara: if you won't come and pray with us, promise me you will pray for us. BARBARA. I can't pray now. Perhaps I shall never pray again. MRS BAINES. Barbara! JENNY. Major! BARBARA [almost delirious] I can't bear any more. Quick march! CUSINS [calling to the procession in the street outside] Off we go. Play up, there! Immenso giubilo. [He gives the time with his drum; and the band strikes up the march, which rapidly becomes more distant as the procession moves briskly away]. MRS BAINES. I must go, dear. You're overworked: you will be all right tomorrow. We'll never lose you. Now Jenny: step out with the old flag. Blood and Fire! [She marches out through the gate with her flag]. JENNY. Glory Hallelujah! [flourishing her tambourine and marching]. UNDERSHAFT [to Cusins, as he marches out past him easing the slide of his trombone] "My ducats and my daughter"! CUSINS [following him out] Money and gunpowder! BARBARA. Drunkenness and Murder! My God: why hast thou forsaken me? She sinks on the form with her face buried in her hands. The march passes away into silence. Bill Walker steals across to her. BILL [taunting] Wot prawce Selvytion nah? SHIRLEY. Don't you hit her when she's down. BILL. She it me wen aw wiz dahn. Waw shouldn't I git a bit o me own back? BARBARA [raising her head] I didn't take your money, Bill. [She crosses the yard to the gate and turns her back on the two men to hide her face from them]. BILL [sneering after her] Naow, it warn't enough for you. [Turning to the drum, he misses the money]. Ellow! If you ain't took it summun else az. Were's it gorn? Blame me if Jenny Ill didn't take it arter all! RUMMY [screaming at him from the loft] You lie, you dirty blackguard! Snobby Price pinched it off the drum wen e took ap iz cap. I was ap ere all the time an see im do it. BILL. Wot! Stowl maw money! Waw didn't you call thief on him, you silly old mucker you? RUMMY. To serve you aht for ittin me acrost the face. It's cost y'pahnd, that az. [Raising a paean of squalid triumph] I done you. I'm even with you. I've ad it aht o y--. [Bill snatches up Shirley's mug and hurls it at her. She slams the loft door and vanishes. The mug smashes against the door and falls in fragments]. BILL [beginning to chuckle] Tell us, ole man, wot o'clock this morrun was it wen im as they call Snobby Prawce was sived? BARBARA [turning to him more composedly, and with unspoiled sweetness] About half past twelve, Bill. And he pinched your pound at a quarter to two. I know. Well, you can't afford to lose it. I'll send it to you. BILL [his voice and accent suddenly improving] Not if I was to starve for it. I ain't to be bought. SHIRLEY. Ain't you? You'd sell yourself to the devil for a pint o beer; ony there ain't no devil to make the offer. BILL [unshamed] So I would, mate, and often av, cheerful. But she cawn't buy me. [Approaching Barbara] You wanted my soul, did you? Well, you ain't got it. BARBARA. I nearly got it, Bill. But we've sold it back to you for ten thousand pounds. SHIRLEY. And dear at the money! BARBARA. No, Peter: it was worth more than money. BILL [salvationproof] It's no good: you cawn't get rahnd me nah. I don't blieve in it; and I've seen today that I was right. [Going] So long, old soupkitchener! Ta, ta, Major Earl's Grendorter! [Turning at the gate] Wot prawce Selvytion nah? Snobby Prawce! Ha! ha! BARBARA [offering her hand] Goodbye, Bill. BILL [taken aback, half plucks his cap off then shoves it on again defiantly] Git aht. [Barbara drops her hand, discouraged. He has a twinge of remorse]. But thet's aw rawt, you knaow. Nathink pasnl. Naow mellice. So long, Judy. [He goes]. BARBARA. No malice. So long, Bill. SHIRLEY [shaking his head] You make too much of him, miss, in your innocence. BARBARA [going to him] Peter: I'm like you now. Cleaned out, and lost my job. SHIRLEY. You've youth an hope. That's two better than me. That's hope for you. BARBARA. I'll get you a job, Peter, the youth will have to be enough for me. [She counts her money]. I have just enough left for two teas at Lockharts, a Rowton doss for you, and my tram and bus home. [He frowns and rises with offended pride. She takes his arm]. Don't be proud, Peter: it's sharing between friends. And promise me you'll talk to me and not let me cry. [She draws him towards the gate]. SHIRLEY. Well, I'm not accustomed to talk to the like of you-- BARBARA [urgently] Yes, yes: you must talk to me. Tell me about Tom Paine's books and Bradlaugh's lectures. Come along. SHIRLEY. Ah, if you would only read Tom Paine in the proper spirit, miss! [They go out through the gate together].

Act 2

https://web.archive.org/web/20201219172439/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/major-barbara/summary/act-2

The second act picks up at the yard at the Salvation Army, where a man and a woman are sitting there chatting. Their names are "Snobby" Price and "Rummy" Mitchens. Then Jenny, a young girl who works at the Army, and a man named Peter Shirley walk in. She's trying to cheer Shirley up and promising him something to eat. It seems he's a bit down on his luck, like the others who come to the Army. Jenny is about to get back to work, but then a young guy named Bill walks in and recognizes Jenny as the person who supposedly took away his girl. Can someone inform him that women aren't toys that get snatched, please? When Rummy tries to intervene, Bill hits her. Then, he pulls Jenny around by the hair demanding that she go get his girlfriend and then, when she tries to send someone to tell Major Barbara something , he gets really mad and hits her. And then tells her to go show Barbara her face. She leaves. Then, Shirley and Bill start arguing. Shirley taunts him by asking if Bill would fight someone who could actually fight back, like some guy named Todger Fairmile, who is apparently quite the fighter. Barbara then comes out, and she, Bill, and Shirley start talking. Since Shirley is new, she interviews him a bit about his story. Then she moves on to questioning Bill. She ends up revealing that the "girl" he's looking for has found a new dude--Sergeant Todger Fairmile. Bill was raring to fight the guy who had stolen his girl until he hears the guy is the famous fighter Shirley was talking about. Rummy and Jenny come back in, and then Price comes in to announce that Andrew is here . Barbara, Andrew, Rummy, Shirley, and Bill then engage in conversations on a whole slew of topics, including religion and poverty. Dolly enters partway through the chat. Bill goes to fight Fairmile, resigned to getting his face bashed in--which he now believes he deserves, after hitting Jenny. Adolphus and Undershaft end up sitting in the yard on their own. Dolly and Undershaft have a heart-to-heart about Dolly's feelings for Barbara and actual commitment to the Army . They also talk about Undershaft's philosophies of religion, wealth, etc. Then Jenny, Price, and Barbara reenter. Barbara talks about their triumphs in converting others with Price telling his story. They didn't quite make enough from their outing, though, so Andrew offers to make up the difference. Since Barbara doesn't approve of the way her father makes his money, she refuses his offer. However, she remains pretty stressed about how to feed her converts on the money the Army does have. Bill comes back to report that he just spent some time pinned under Todger while the fighter prayed for him. Since Todger didn't actually hit him, Bill still feels he needs to atone for hitting Jenny. So, he tries to donate some money to make things right. Barbara says they must refuse it--they want his soul instead. Nonetheless, he ends up dropping a sovereign on Dolly's drum as a donation. However, Price has his eye on the money . . . . Then Mrs. Baines, the Army commissioner, enters. Price exits, stealing the sovereign on his way out. Mrs. Baines announces that her prayers for money to keep the Army shelters open have been answered: someone named Lord Saxmundham has pledged five thousand pounds as long as five other gentlemen will give a thousand each to make it an even ten. It then comes out that this newly minted lord is Sir Horace Bodger, a distiller. Knowing who the dude is, Andrew relishes the idea of making sure that he has to pay out the five thousand, so he promises Mrs. Baines the other five. Barbara, of course, is horrified that her precious Army is going to be saved by whisky and munitions money. Baines, Dolly, and Undershaft all give their arguments in favor of accepting the money--including the fact that Bodger and Undershaft are basically giving to a cause that works against their interests/for Barbara's. Barbara ends up outnumbered and upset. Dolly, Undershaft, and Mrs. Baines leave to go out on the march while Barbara hangs back and cries. Then she, Shirley, and Bill chat... with some interjections from Rummy screaming from the loft. Bill is being his usual taunting self, and Barbara laments that she was unable to convert him. He then realizes his sovereign is gone... and isn't pleased. Bill leaves, and Barbara asks Shirley to come have a bite to eat with her.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/3790-chapters/act_3.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/Major Barbara/section_2_part_0.txt

Major Barbara.act 3

act 3

{"name": "Act 3", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201219172439/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/major-barbara/summary/act-3", "summary": "It's the following day and Barbara, Sarah, and Lady Brit are hanging out in the library at Lady Brit's house. Charles comes in and is surprised to find Barbara there, lounging around in fine clothes . Dolly arrives in rough shape--it seems he was up and out late drinking with Andrew. Once everyone gets over their shock at that news, Dolly reports on how the evening went after they left Barbara at the Army. Then Barbara, Dolly, Charles, and Sarah leave the room, and Andrew arrives. Lady Brit quickly gets him to agree to make sure Barbara and Sarah are provided for, and then the subject switches to Stephen. Andrew is hanging firm on not wanting to bring Stephen into his business, despite the fact that he hasn't yet found a suitable foundling to do the job. Then Stephen enters, and they discuss his career prospects. Stephen assures his father that he doesn't want anything to do with his father's trade. They have some heated talk about what Stephen might actually be suited for. Sarah, Barbara, Charles, and Dolly return, and Lady Brit goes to get ready to leave to walk to the Undershaft factory. They convince Stephen to tag along as well. Then Barbara and her father get on the topic of how he's basically ruined her career, since the fact that the Army could be bought has drained all the enthusiasm from her. Barbara is especially mad that she was unable to convert Bill--which she partially attributes to her father's interference. Undershaft tells her to buck up, suggesting that she probably had planted the seeds of conversion in him. And that does cheer her up. They then transition over to the factory. When that part of the scene opens, Barbara is standing there alone. Dolly then enters, having just explored the town. He reports Peter Shirley has been hired as a gatekeeper. Then Stephen comes in fresh from having been to the town. He seems pretty excited about what he's seen so far. Sarah and her father enter. When Undershaft asks Stephen for his opinion, we learn he's basically done a 180 as far as his views of his father/his industry go--he's super impressed. Then, Charles exits one of the explosives sheds, where he has just scared the daylights out of Bilton, one of the foremen, by lighting up a cigarette. Then Lady Brit enters. The town and its houses have also impressed her. She is angry to have been cut out of this part of Undershaft's fortune, since she likes that kind of stuff. Then the talk turns back to the question of who will inherit the Undershaft fortune. Lady Brit suggests Dolly, and Undershaft said that would be fine, if only Dolly were a foundling... Then Dolly reveals that, in fact, he is kind of a foundling, since his parents aren't legally married in England, only in Australia. Once they've determined that Dolly can inherit the business, he and Undershaft start negotiating terms to see if he will do it. They haggle and eventually get a number that works for both. Then Barbara and her father go back and forth about their different philosophies/attitudes toward religion. Lady Brit is pretty grossed out by her estranged husband's views and implores Barbara not to listen. In fact, she's so appalled she wants to take all her children and leave right that second. When no one else seems willing to follow, she sits down and resigns herself to her family's moral corruption, it seems. There's some more banter, and then the topic turns back to Dolly joining the Undershaft firm. Andrew wants to confirm that Dolly is going to start working for him under the terms already agreed upon. Dolly hems and haws, since he's afraid Barbara won't marry him if he says yes... Undershaft then takes the rest of the family to the gun cotton shed, leaving Barbara and Dolly to talk. Dolly tells Barbara he plans to say yes. He wanted to make the decision before consulting her, since he didn't want to put that on her. To his surprise, she's totally fine with that--in fact, she would have dumped him if he had turned it down, she says, and married the guy who ended up taking the job. She is looking forward to the project of saving the souls of people who aren't desperate but rather well fed, and there are plenty in the Undershaft factory and its village... The play ends with Undershaft demanding that Dolly be there at 6 a.m. the next day.", "analysis": ""}

ACT III Next day after lunch Lady Britomart is writing in the library in Wilton Crescent. Sarah is reading in the armchair near the window. Barbara, in ordinary dresss, pale and brooding, is on the settee. Charley Lomax enters. Coming forward between the settee and the writing table, he starts on seeing Barbara fashionably attired and in low spirits. LOMAX. You've left off your uniform! Barbara says nothing; but an expression of pain passes over her face. LADY BRITOMART [warning him in low tones to be careful] Charles! LOMAX [much concerned, sitting down sympathetically on the settee beside Barbara] I'm awfully sorry, Barbara. You know I helped you all I could with the concertina and so forth. [Momentously] Still, I have never shut my eyes to the fact that there is a certain amount of tosh about the Salvation Army. Now the claims of the Church of England-- LADY BRITOMART. That's enough, Charles. Speak of something suited to your mental capacity. LOMAX. But surely the Church of England is suited to all our capacities. BARBARA [pressing his hand] Thank you for your sympathy, Cholly. Now go and spoon with Sarah. LOMAX [rising and going to Sarah] How is my ownest today? SARAH. I wish you wouldn't tell Cholly to do things, Barbara. He always comes straight and does them. Cholly: we're going to the works at Perivale St. Andrews this afternoon. LOMAX. What works? SARAH. The cannon works. LOMAX. What! Your governor's shop! SARAH. Yes. LOMAX. Oh I say! Cusins enters in poor condition. He also starts visibly when he sees Barbara without her uniform. BARBARA. I expected you this morning, Dolly. Didn't you guess that? CUSINS [sitting down beside her] I'm sorry. I have only just breakfasted. SARAH. But we've just finished lunch. BARBARA. Have you had one of your bad nights? CUSINS. No: I had rather a good night: in fact, one of the most remarkable nights I have ever passed. BARBARA. The meeting? CUSINS. No: after the meeting. LADY BRITOMART. You should have gone to bed after the meeting. What were you doing? CUSINS. Drinking. LADY BRITOMART. }{ Adolphus! SARAH. }{ Dolly! BARBARA. }{ Dolly! LOMAX. }{ Oh I say! LADY BRITOMART. What were you drinking, may I ask? CUSINS. A most devilish kind of Spanish burgundy, warranted free from added alcohol: a Temperance burgundy in fact. Its richness in natural alcohol made any addition superfluous. BARBARA. Are you joking, Dolly? CUSINS [patiently] No. I have been making a night of it with the nominal head of this household: that is all. LADY BRITOMART. Andrew made you drunk! CUSINS. No: he only provided the wine. I think it was Dionysos who made me drunk. [To Barbara] I told you I was possessed. LADY BRITOMART. You're not sober yet. Go home to bed at once. CUSINS. I have never before ventured to reproach you, Lady Brit; but how could you marry the Prince of Darkness? LADY BRITOMART. It was much more excusable to marry him than to get drunk with him. That is a new accomplishment of Andrew's, by the way. He usen't to drink. CUSINS. He doesn't now. He only sat there and completed the wreck of my moral basis, the rout of my convictions, the purchase of my soul. He cares for you, Barbara. That is what makes him so dangerous to me. BARBARA. That has nothing to do with it, Dolly. There are larger loves and diviner dreams than the fireside ones. You know that, don't you? CUSINS. Yes: that is our understanding. I know it. I hold to it. Unless he can win me on that holier ground he may amuse me for a while; but he can get no deeper hold, strong as he is. BARBARA. Keep to that; and the end will be right. Now tell me what happened at the meeting? CUSINS. It was an amazing meeting. Mrs Baines almost died of emotion. Jenny Hill went stark mad with hysteria. The Prince of Darkness played his trombone like a madman: its brazen roarings were like the laughter of the damned. 117 conversions took place then and there. They prayed with the most touching sincerity and gratitude for Bodger, and for the anonymous donor of the 5000 pounds. Your father would not let his name be given. LOMAX. That was rather fine of the old man, you know. Most chaps would have wanted the advertisement. CUSINS. He said all the charitable institutions would be down on him like kites on a battle field if he gave his name. LADY BRITOMART. That's Andrew all over. He never does a proper thing without giving an improper reason for it. CUSINS. He convinced me that I have all my life been doing improper things for proper reasons. LADY BRITOMART. Adolphus: now that Barbara has left the Salvation Army, you had better leave it too. I will not have you playing that drum in the streets. CUSINS. Your orders are already obeyed, Lady Brit. BARBARA. Dolly: were you ever really in earnest about it? Would you have joined if you had never seen me? CUSINS [disingenuously] Well--er--well, possibly, as a collector of religions-- LOMAX [cunningly] Not as a drummer, though, you know. You are a very clearheaded brainy chap, Cholly; and it must have been apparent to you that there is a certain amount of tosh about-- LADY BRITOMART. Charles: if you must drivel, drivel like a grown-up man and not like a schoolboy. LOMAX [out of countenance] Well, drivel is drivel, don't you know, whatever a man's age. LADY BRITOMART. In good society in England, Charles, men drivel at all ages by repeating silly formulas with an air of wisdom. Schoolboys make their own formulas out of slang, like you. When they reach your age, and get political private secretaryships and things of that sort, they drop slang and get their formulas out of The Spectator or The Times. You had better confine yourself to The Times. You will find that there is a certain amount of tosh about The Times; but at least its language is reputable. LOMAX [overwhelmed] You are so awfully strong-minded, Lady Brit-- LADY BRITOMART. Rubbish! [Morrison comes in]. What is it? MORRISON. If you please, my lady, Mr Undershaft has just drove up to the door. LADY BRITOMART. Well, let him in. [Morrison hesitates]. What's the matter with you? MORRISON. Shall I announce him, my lady; or is he at home here, so to speak, my lady? LADY BRITOMART. Announce him. MORRISON. Thank you, my lady. You won't mind my asking, I hope. The occasion is in a manner of speaking new to me. LADY BRITOMART. Quite right. Go and let him in. MORRISON. Thank you, my lady. [He withdraws]. LADY BRITOMART. Children: go and get ready. [Sarah and Barbara go upstairs for their out-of-door wrap]. Charles: go and tell Stephen to come down here in five minutes: you will find him in the drawing room. [Charles goes]. Adolphus: tell them to send round the carriage in about fifteen minutes. [Adolphus goes]. MORRISON [at the door] Mr Undershaft. Undershaft comes in. Morrison goes out. UNDERSHAFT. Alone! How fortunate! LADY BRITOMART [rising] Don't be sentimental, Andrew. Sit down. [She sits on the settee: he sits beside her, on her left. She comes to the point before he has time to breathe]. Sarah must have 800 pounds a year until Charles Lomax comes into his property. Barbara will need more, and need it permanently, because Adolphus hasn't any property. UNDERSHAFT [resignedly] Yes, my dear: I will see to it. Anything else? for yourself, for instance? LADY BRITOMART. I want to talk to you about Stephen. UNDERSHAFT [rather wearily] Don't, my dear. Stephen doesn't interest me. LADY BRITOMART. He does interest me. He is our son. UNDERSHAFT. Do you really think so? He has induced us to bring him into the world; but he chose his parents very incongruously, I think. I see nothing of myself in him, and less of you. LADY BRITOMART. Andrew: Stephen is an excellent son, and a most steady, capable, highminded young man. YOU are simply trying to find an excuse for disinheriting him. UNDERSHAFT. My dear Biddy: the Undershaft tradition disinherits him. It would be dishonest of me to leave the cannon foundry to my son. LADY BRITOMART. It would be most unnatural and improper of you to leave it to anyone else, Andrew. Do you suppose this wicked and immoral tradition can be kept up for ever? Do you pretend that Stephen could not carry on the foundry just as well as all the other sons of the big business houses? UNDERSHAFT. Yes: he could learn the office routine without understanding the business, like all the other sons; and the firm would go on by its own momentum until the real Undershaft--probably an Italian or a German--would invent a new method and cut him out. LADY BRITOMART. There is nothing that any Italian or German could do that Stephen could not do. And Stephen at least has breeding. UNDERSHAFT. The son of a foundling! nonsense! LADY BRITOMART. My son, Andrew! And even you may have good blood in your veins for all you know. UNDERSHAFT. True. Probably I have. That is another argument in favor of a foundling. LADY BRITOMART. Andrew: don't be aggravating. And don't be wicked. At present you are both. UNDERSHAFT. This conversation is part of the Undershaft tradition, Biddy. Every Undershaft's wife has treated him to it ever since the house was founded. It is mere waste of breath. If the tradition be ever broken it will be for an abler man than Stephen. LADY BRITOMART [pouting] Then go away. UNDERSHAFT [deprecatory] Go away! LADY BRITOMART. Yes: go away. If you will do nothing for Stephen, you are not wanted here. Go to your foundling, whoever he is; and look after him. UNDERSHAFT. The fact is, Biddy-- LADY BRITOMART. Don't call me Biddy. I don't call you Andy. UNDERSHAFT. I will not call my wife Britomart: it is not good sense. Seriously, my love, the Undershaft tradition has landed me in a difficulty. I am getting on in years; and my partner Lazarus has at last made a stand and insisted that the succession must be settled one way or the other; and of course he is quite right. You see, I haven't found a fit successor yet. LADY BRITOMART [obstinately] There is Stephen. UNDERSHAFT. That's just it: all the foundlings I can find are exactly like Stephen. LADY BRITOMART. Andrew!! UNDERSHAFT. I want a man with no relations and no schooling: that is, a man who would be out of the running altogether if he were not a strong man. And I can't find him. Every blessed foundling nowadays is snapped up in his infancy by Barnardo homes, or School Board officers, or Boards of Guardians; and if he shows the least ability, he is fastened on by schoolmasters; trained to win scholarships like a racehorse; crammed with secondhand ideas; drilled and disciplined in docility and what they call good taste; and lamed for life so that he is fit for nothing but teaching. If you want to keep the foundry in the family, you had better find an eligible foundling and marry him to Barbara. LADY BRITOMART. Ah! Barbara! Your pet! You would sacrifice Stephen to Barbara. UNDERSHAFT. Cheerfully. And you, my dear, would boil Barbara to make soup for Stephen. LADY BRITOMART. Andrew: this is not a question of our likings and dislikings: it is a question of duty. It is your duty to make Stephen your successor. UNDERSHAFT. Just as much as it is your duty to submit to your husband. Come, Biddy! these tricks of the governing class are of no use with me. I am one of the governing class myself; and it is waste of time giving tracts to a missionary. I have the power in this matter; and I am not to be humbugged into using it for your purposes. LADY BRITOMART. Andrew: you can talk my head off; but you can't change wrong into right. And your tie is all on one side. Put it straight. UNDERSHAFT [disconcerted] It won't stay unless it's pinned [he fumbles at it with childish grimaces]-- Stephen comes in. STEPHEN [at the door] I beg your pardon [about to retire]. LADY BRITOMART. No: come in, Stephen. [Stephen comes forward to his mother's writing table.] UNDERSHAFT [not very cordially] Good afternoon. STEPHEN [coldly] Good afternoon. UNDERSHAFT [to Lady Britomart] He knows all about the tradition, I suppose? LADY BRITOMART. Yes. [To Stephen] It is what I told you last night, Stephen. UNDERSHAFT [sulkily] I understand you want to come into the cannon business. STEPHEN. _I_ go into trade! Certainly not. UNDERSHAFT [opening his eyes, greatly eased in mind and manner] Oh! in that case--! LADY BRITOMART. Cannons are not trade, Stephen. They are enterprise. STEPHEN. I have no intention of becoming a man of business in any sense. I have no capacity for business and no taste for it. I intend to devote myself to politics. UNDERSHAFT [rising] My dear boy: this is an immense relief to me. And I trust it may prove an equally good thing for the country. I was afraid you would consider yourself disparaged and slighted. [He moves towards Stephen as if to shake hands with him]. LADY BRITOMART [rising and interposing] Stephen: I cannot allow you to throw away an enormous property like this. STEPHEN [stiffly] Mother: there must be an end of treating me as a child, if you please. [Lady Britomart recoils, deeply wounded by his tone]. Until last night I did not take your attitude seriously, because I did not think you meant it seriously. But I find now that you left me in the dark as to matters which you should have explained to me years ago. I am extremely hurt and offended. Any further discussion of my intentions had better take place with my father, as between one man and another. LADY BRITOMART. Stephen! [She sits down again; and her eyes fill with tears]. UNDERSHAFT [with grave compassion] You see, my dear, it is only the big men who can be treated as children. STEPHEN. I am sorry, mother, that you have forced me-- UNDERSHAFT [stopping him] Yes, yes, yes, yes: that's all right, Stephen. She wont interfere with you any more: your independence is achieved: you have won your latchkey. Don't rub it in; and above all, don't apologize. [He resumes his seat]. Now what about your future, as between one man and another--I beg your pardon, Biddy: as between two men and a woman. LADY BRITOMART [who has pulled herself together strongly] I quite understand, Stephen. By all means go your own way if you feel strong enough. [Stephen sits down magisterially in the chair at the writing table with an air of affirming his majority]. UNDERSHAFT. It is settled that you do not ask for the succession to the cannon business. STEPHEN. I hope it is settled that I repudiate the cannon business. UNDERSHAFT. Come, come! Don't be so devilishly sulky: it's boyish. Freedom should be generous. Besides, I owe you a fair start in life in exchange for disinheriting you. You can't become prime minister all at once. Haven't you a turn for something? What about literature, art and so forth? STEPHEN. I have nothing of the artist about me, either in faculty or character, thank Heaven! UNDERSHAFT. A philosopher, perhaps? Eh? STEPHEN. I make no such ridiculous pretension. UNDERSHAFT. Just so. Well, there is the army, the navy, the Church, the Bar. The Bar requires some ability. What about the Bar? STEPHEN. I have not studied law. And I am afraid I have not the necessary push--I believe that is the name barristers give to their vulgarity--for success in pleading. UNDERSHAFT. Rather a difficult case, Stephen. Hardly anything left but the stage, is there? [Stephen makes an impatient movement]. Well, come! is there anything you know or care for? STEPHEN [rising and looking at him steadily] I know the difference between right and wrong. UNDERSHAFT [hugely tickled] You don't say so! What! no capacity for business, no knowledge of law, no sympathy with art, no pretension to philosophy; only a simple knowledge of the secret that has puzzled all the philosophers, baffled all the lawyers, muddled all the men of business, and ruined most of the artists: the secret of right and wrong. Why, man, you're a genius, master of masters, a god! At twenty-four, too! STEPHEN [keeping his temper with difficulty] You are pleased to be facetious. I pretend to nothing more than any honorable English gentleman claims as his birthright [he sits down angrily]. UNDERSHAFT. Oh, that's everybody's birthright. Look at poor little Jenny Hill, the Salvation lassie! she would think you were laughing at her if you asked her to stand up in the street and teach grammar or geography or mathematics or even drawingroom dancing; but it never occurs to her to doubt that she can teach morals and religion. You are all alike, you respectable people. You can't tell me the bursting strain of a ten-inch gun, which is a very simple matter; but you all think you can tell me the bursting strain of a man under temptation. You daren't handle high explosives; but you're all ready to handle honesty and truth and justice and the whole duty of man, and kill one another at that game. What a country! what a world! LADY BRITOMART [uneasily] What do you think he had better do, Andrew? UNDERSHAFT. Oh, just what he wants to do. He knows nothing; and he thinks he knows everything. That points clearly to a political career. Get him a private secretaryship to someone who can get him an Under Secretaryship; and then leave him alone. He will find his natural and proper place in the end on the Treasury bench. STEPHEN [springing up again] I am sorry, sir, that you force me to forget the respect due to you as my father. I am an Englishman; and I will not hear the Government of my country insulted. [He thrusts his hands in his pockets, and walks angrily across to the window]. UNDERSHAFT [with a touch of brutality] The government of your country! _I_ am the government of your country: I, and Lazarus. Do you suppose that you and half a dozen amateurs like you, sitting in a row in that foolish gabble shop, can govern Undershaft and Lazarus? No, my friend: you will do what pays US. You will make war when it suits us, and keep peace when it doesn't. You will find out that trade requires certain measures when we have decided on those measures. When I want anything to keep my dividends up, you will discover that my want is a national need. When other people want something to keep my dividends down, you will call out the police and military. And in return you shall have the support and applause of my newspapers, and the delight of imagining that you are a great statesman. Government of your country! Be off with you, my boy, and play with your caucuses and leading articles and historic parties and great leaders and burning questions and the rest of your toys. _I_ am going back to my counting house to pay the piper and call the tune. STEPHEN [actually smiling, and putting his hand on his father's shoulder with indulgent patronage] Really, my dear father, it is impossible to be angry with you. You don't know how absurd all this sounds to ME. You are very properly proud of having been industrious enough to make money; and it is greatly to your credit that you have made so much of it. But it has kept you in circles where you are valued for your money and deferred to for it, instead of in the doubtless very oldfashioned and behind-the-times public school and university where I formed my habits of mind. It is natural for you to think that money governs England; but you must allow me to think I know better. UNDERSHAFT. And what does govern England, pray? STEPHEN. Character, father, character. UNDERSHAFT. Whose character? Yours or mine? STEPHEN. Neither yours nor mine, father, but the best elements in the English national character. UNDERSHAFT. Stephen: I've found your profession for you. You're a born journalist. I'll start you with a hightoned weekly review. There! Stephen goes to the smaller writing table and busies himself with his letters. Sarah, Barbara, Lomax, and Cusins come in ready for walking. Barbara crosses the room to the window and looks out. Cusins drifts amiably to the armchair, and Lomax remains near the door, whilst Sarah comes to her mother. SARAH. Go and get ready, mamma: the carriage is waiting. [Lady Britomart leaves the room.] UNDERSHAFT [to Sarah] Good day, my dear. Good afternoon, Mr. Lomax. LOMAX [vaguely] Ahdedoo. UNDERSHAFT [to Cusins] quite well after last night, Euripides, eh? CUSINS. As well as can be expected. UNDERSHAFT. That's right. [To Barbara] So you are coming to see my death and devastation factory, Barbara? BARBARA [at the window] You came yesterday to see my salvation factory. I promised you a return visit. LOMAX [coming forward between Sarah and Undershaft] You'll find it awfully interesting. I've been through the Woolwich Arsenal; and it gives you a ripping feeling of security, you know, to think of the lot of beggars we could kill if it came to fighting. [To Undershaft, with sudden solemnity] Still, it must be rather an awful reflection for you, from the religious point of view as it were. You're getting on, you know, and all that. SARAH. You don't mind Cholly's imbecility, papa, do you? LOMAX [much taken aback] Oh I say! UNDERSHAFT. Mr Lomax looks at the matter in a very proper spirit, my dear. LOMAX. Just so. That's all I meant, I assure you. SARAH. Are you coming, Stephen? STEPHEN. Well, I am rather busy--er-- [Magnanimously] Oh well, yes: I'll come. That is, if there is room for me. UNDERSHAFT. I can take two with me in a little motor I am experimenting with for field use. You won't mind its being rather unfashionable. It's not painted yet; but it's bullet proof. LOMAX [appalled at the prospect of confronting Wilton Crescent in an unpainted motor] Oh I say! SARAH. The carriage for me, thank you. Barbara doesn't mind what she's seen in. LOMAX. I say, Dolly old chap: do you really mind the car being a guy? Because of course if you do I'll go in it. Still-- CUSINS. I prefer it. LOMAX. Thanks awfully, old man. Come, Sarah. [He hurries out to secure his seat in the carriage. Sarah follows him]. CUSINS. [moodily walking across to Lady Britomart's writing table] Why are we two coming to this Works Department of Hell? that is what I ask myself. BARBARA. I have always thought of it as a sort of pit where lost creatures with blackened faces stirred up smoky fires and were driven and tormented by my father? Is it like that, dad? UNDERSHAFT [scandalized] My dear! It is a spotlessly clean and beautiful hillside town. CUSINS. With a Methodist chapel? Oh do say there's a Methodist chapel. UNDERSHAFT. There are two: a primitive one and a sophisticated one. There is even an Ethical Society; but it is not much patronized, as my men are all strongly religious. In the High Explosives Sheds they object to the presence of Agnostics as unsafe. CUSINS. And yet they don't object to you! BARBARA. Do they obey all your orders? UNDERSHAFT. I never give them any orders. When I speak to one of them it is "Well, Jones, is the baby doing well? and has Mrs Jones made a good recovery?" "Nicely, thank you, sir." And that's all. CUSINS. But Jones has to be kept in order. How do you maintain discipline among your men? UNDERSHAFT. I don't. They do. You see, the one thing Jones won't stand is any rebellion from the man under him, or any assertion of social equality between the wife of the man with 4 shillings a week less than himself and Mrs Jones! Of course they all rebel against me, theoretically. Practically, every man of them keeps the man just below him in his place. I never meddle with them. I never bully them. I don't even bully Lazarus. I say that certain things are to be done; but I don't order anybody to do them. I don't say, mind you, that there is no ordering about and snubbing and even bullying. The men snub the boys and order them about; the carmen snub the sweepers; the artisans snub the unskilled laborers; the foremen drive and bully both the laborers and artisans; the assistant engineers find fault with the foremen; the chief engineers drop on the assistants; the departmental managers worry the chiefs; and the clerks have tall hats and hymnbooks and keep up the social tone by refusing to associate on equal terms with anybody. The result is a colossal profit, which comes to me. CUSINS [revolted] You really are a--well, what I was saying yesterday. BARBARA. What was he saying yesterday? UNDERSHAFT. Never mind, my dear. He thinks I have made you unhappy. Have I? BARBARA. Do you think I can be happy in this vulgar silly dress? I! who have worn the uniform. Do you understand what you have done to me? Yesterday I had a man's soul in my hand. I set him in the way of life with his face to salvation. But when we took your money he turned back to drunkenness and derision. [With intense conviction] I will never forgive you that. If I had a child, and you destroyed its body with your explosives--if you murdered Dolly with your horrible guns--I could forgive you if my forgiveness would open the gates of heaven to you. But to take a human soul from me, and turn it into the soul of a wolf! that is worse than any murder. UNDERSHAFT. Does my daughter despair so easily? Can you strike a man to the heart and leave no mark on him? BARBARA [her face lighting up] Oh, you are right: he can never be lost now: where was my faith? CUSINS. Oh, clever clever devil! BARBARA. You may be a devil; but God speaks through you sometimes. [She takes her father's hands and kisses them]. You have given me back my happiness: I feel it deep down now, though my spirit is troubled. UNDERSHAFT. You have learnt something. That always feels at first as if you had lost something. BARBARA. Well, take me to the factory of death, and let me learn something more. There must be some truth or other behind all this frightful irony. Come, Dolly. [She goes out]. CUSINS. My guardian angel! [To Undershaft] Avaunt! [He follows Barbara]. STEPHEN [quietly, at the writing table] You must not mind Cusins, father. He is a very amiable good fellow; but he is a Greek scholar and naturally a little eccentric. UNDERSHAFT. Ah, quite so. Thank you, Stephen. Thank you. [He goes out]. Stephen smiles patronizingly; buttons his coat responsibly; and crosses the room to the door. Lady Britomart, dressed for out-of-doors, opens it before he reaches it. She looks round far the others; looks at Stephen; and turns to go without a word. STEPHEN [embarrassed] Mother-- LADY BRITOMART. Don't be apologetic, Stephen. And don't forget that you have outgrown your mother. [She goes out]. Perivale St Andrews lies between two Middlesex hills, half climbing the northern one. It is an almost smokeless town of white walls, roofs of narrow green slates or red tiles, tall trees, domes, campaniles, and slender chimney shafts, beautifully situated and beautiful in itself. The best view of it is obtained from the crest of a slope about half a mile to the east, where the high explosives are dealt with. The foundry lies hidden in the depths between, the tops of its chimneys sprouting like huge skittles into the middle distance. Across the crest runs a platform of concrete, with a parapet which suggests a fortification, because there is a huge cannon of the obsolete Woolwich Infant pattern peering across it at the town. The cannon is mounted on an experimental gun carriage: possibly the original model of the Undershaft disappearing rampart gun alluded to by Stephen. The parapet has a high step inside which serves as a seat. Barbara is leaning over the parapet, looking towards the town. On her right is the cannon; on her left the end of a shed raised on piles, with a ladder of three or four steps up to the door, which opens outwards and has a little wooden landing at the threshold, with a fire bucket in the corner of the landing. The parapet stops short of the shed, leaving a gap which is the beginning of the path down the hill through the foundry to the town. Behind the cannon is a trolley carrying a huge conical bombshell, with a red band painted on it. Further from the parapet, on the same side, is a deck chair, near the door of an office, which, like the sheds, is of the lightest possible construction. Cusins arrives by the path from the town. BARBARA. Well? CUSINS. Not a ray of hope. Everything perfect, wonderful, real. It only needs a cathedral to be a heavenly city instead of a hellish one. BARBARA. Have you found out whether they have done anything for old Peter Shirley. CUSINS. They have found him a job as gatekeeper and timekeeper. He's frightfully miserable. He calls the timekeeping brainwork, and says he isn't used to it; and his gate lodge is so splendid that he's ashamed to use the rooms, and skulks in the scullery. BARBARA. Poor Peter! Stephen arrives from the town. He carries a fieldglass. STEPHEN [enthusiastically] Have you two seen the place? Why did you leave us? CUSINS. I wanted to see everything I was not intended to see; and Barbara wanted to make the men talk. STEPHEN. Have you found anything discreditable? CUSINS. No. They call him Dandy Andy and are proud of his being a cunning old rascal; but it's all horribly, frightfully, immorally, unanswerably perfect. Sarah arrives. SARAH. Heavens! what a place! [She crosses to the trolley]. Did you see the nursing home!? [She sits down on the shell]. STEPHEN. Did you see the libraries and schools!? SARAH. Did you see the ballroom and the banqueting chamber in the Town Hall!? STEPHEN. Have you gone into the insurance fund, the pension fund, the building society, the various applications of co-operation!? Undershaft comes from the office, with a sheaf of telegrams in his hands. UNDERSHAFT. Well, have you seen everything? I'm sorry I was called away. [Indicating the telegrams] News from Manchuria. STEPHEN. Good news, I hope. UNDERSHAFT. Very. STEPHEN. Another Japanese victory? UNDERSHAFT. Oh, I don't know. Which side wins does not concern us here. No: the good news is that the aerial battleship is a tremendous success. At the first trial it has wiped out a fort with three hundred soldiers in it. CUSINS [from the platform] Dummy soldiers? UNDERSHAFT. No: the real thing. [Cusins and Barbara exchange glances. Then Cusins sits on the step and buries his face in his hands. Barbara gravely lays her hand on his shoulder, and he looks up at her in a sort of whimsical desperation]. Well, Stephen, what do you think of the place? STEPHEN. Oh, magnificent. A perfect triumph of organization. Frankly, my dear father, I have been a fool: I had no idea of what it all meant--of the wonderful forethought, the power of organization, the administrative capacity, the financial genius, the colossal capital it represents. I have been repeating to myself as I came through your streets "Peace hath her victories no less renowned than War." I have only one misgiving about it all. UNDERSHAFT. Out with it. STEPHEN. Well, I cannot help thinking that all this provision for every want of your workmen may sap their independence and weaken their sense of responsibility. And greatly as we enjoyed our tea at that splendid restaurant--how they gave us all that luxury and cake and jam and cream for threepence I really cannot imagine!--still you must remember that restaurants break up home life. Look at the continent, for instance! Are you sure so much pampering is really good for the men's characters? UNDERSHAFT. Well you see, my dear boy, when you are organizing civilization you have to make up your mind whether trouble and anxiety are good things or not. If you decide that they are, then, I take it, you simply don't organize civilization; and there you are, with trouble and anxiety enough to make us all angels! But if you decide the other way, you may as well go through with it. However, Stephen, our characters are safe here. A sufficient dose of anxiety is always provided by the fact that we may be blown to smithereens at any moment. SARAH. By the way, papa, where do you make the explosives? UNDERSHAFT. In separate little sheds, like that one. When one of them blows up, it costs very little; and only the people quite close to it are killed. Stephen, who is quite close to it, looks at it rather scaredly, and moves away quickly to the cannon. At the same moment the door of the shed is thrown abruptly open; and a foreman in overalls and list slippers comes out on the little landing and holds the door open for Lomax, who appears in the doorway. LOMAX [with studied coolness] My good fellow: you needn't get into a state of nerves. Nothing's going to happen to you; and I suppose it wouldn't be the end of the world if anything did. A little bit of British pluck is what you want, old chap. [He descends and strolls across to Sarah]. UNDERSHAFT [to the foreman] Anything wrong, Bilton? BILTON [with ironic calm] Gentleman walked into the high explosives shed and lit a cigaret, sir: that's all. UNDERSHAFT. Ah, quite so. [To Lomax] Do you happen to remember what you did with the match? LOMAX. Oh come! I'm not a fool. I took jolly good care to blow it out before I chucked it away. BILTON. The top of it was red hot inside, sir. LOMAX. Well, suppose it was! I didn't chuck it into any of your messes. UNDERSHAFT. Think no more of it, Mr Lomax. By the way, would you mind lending me your matches? LOMAX [offering his box] Certainly. UNDERSHAFT. Thanks. [He pockets the matches]. LOMAX [lecturing to the company generally] You know, these high explosives don't go off like gunpowder, except when they're in a gun. When they're spread loose, you can put a match to them without the least risk: they just burn quietly like a bit of paper. [Warming to the scientific interest of the subject] Did you know that Undershaft? Have you ever tried? UNDERSHAFT. Not on a large scale, Mr Lomax. Bilton will give you a sample of gun cotton when you are leaving if you ask him. You can experiment with it at home. [Bilton looks puzzled]. SARAH. Bilton will do nothing of the sort, papa. I suppose it's your business to blow up the Russians and Japs; but you might really stop short of blowing up poor Cholly. [Bilton gives it up and retires into the shed]. LOMAX. My ownest, there is no danger. [He sits beside her on the shell]. Lady Britomart arrives from the town with a bouquet. LADY BRITOMART [coming impetuously between Undershaft and the deck chair] Andrew: you shouldn't have let me see this place. UNDERSHAFT. Why, my dear? LADY BRITOMART. Never mind why: you shouldn't have: that's all. To think of all that [indicating the town] being yours! and that you have kept it to yourself all these years! UNDERSHAFT. It does not belong to me. I belong to it. It is the Undershaft inheritance. LADY BRITOMART. It is not. Your ridiculous cannons and that noisy banging foundry may be the Undershaft inheritance; but all that plate and linen, all that furniture and those houses and orchards and gardens belong to us. They belong to me: they are not a man's business. I won't give them up. You must be out of your senses to throw them all away; and if you persist in such folly, I will call in a doctor. UNDERSHAFT [stooping to smell the bouquet] Where did you get the flowers, my dear? LADY BRITOMART. Your men presented them to me in your William Morris Labor Church. CUSINS [springing up] Oh! It needed only that. A Labor Church! LADY BRITOMART. Yes, with Morris's words in mosaic letters ten feet high round the dome. NO MAN IS GOOD ENOUGH TO BE ANOTHER MAN'S MASTER. The cynicism of it! UNDERSHAFT. It shocked the men at first, I am afraid. But now they take no more notice of it than of the ten commandments in church. LADY BRITOMART. Andrew: you are trying to put me off the subject of the inheritance by profane jokes. Well, you shan't. I don't ask it any longer for Stephen: he has inherited far too much of your perversity to be fit for it. But Barbara has rights as well as Stephen. Why should not Adolphus succeed to the inheritance? I could manage the town for him; and he can look after the cannons, if they are really necessary. UNDERSHAFT. I should ask nothing better if Adolphus were a foundling. He is exactly the sort of new blood that is wanted in English business. But he's not a foundling; and there's an end of it. CUSINS [diplomatically] Not quite. [They all turn and stare at him. He comes from the platform past the shed to Undershaft]. I think--Mind! I am not committing myself in any way as to my future course--but I think the foundling difficulty can be got over. UNDERSHAFT. What do you mean? CUSINS. Well, I have something to say which is in the nature of a confession. SARAH. } LADY BRITOMART. } Confession! BARBARA. } STEPHEN. } LOMAX. Oh I say! CUSINS. Yes, a confession. Listen, all. Until I met Barbara I thought myself in the main an honorable, truthful man, because I wanted the approval of my conscience more than I wanted anything else. But the moment I saw Barbara, I wanted her far more than the approval of my conscience. LADY BRITOMART. Adolphus! CUSINS. It is true. You accused me yourself, Lady Brit, of joining the Army to worship Barbara; and so I did. She bought my soul like a flower at a street corner; but she bought it for herself. UNDERSHAFT. What! Not for Dionysos or another? CUSINS. Dionysos and all the others are in herself. I adored what was divine in her, and was therefore a true worshipper. But I was romantic about her too. I thought she was a woman of the people, and that a marriage with a professor of Greek would be far beyond the wildest social ambitions of her rank. LADY BRITOMART. Adolphus!! LOMAX. Oh I say!!! CUSINS. When I learnt the horrible truth-- LADY BRITOMART. What do you mean by the horrible truth, pray? CUSINS. That she was enormously rich; that her grandfather was an earl; that her father was the Prince of Darkness-- UNDERSHAFT. Chut! CUSINS.--and that I was only an adventurer trying to catch a rich wife, then I stooped to deceive about my birth. LADY BRITOMART. Your birth! Now Adolphus, don't dare to make up a wicked story for the sake of these wretched cannons. Remember: I have seen photographs of your parents; and the Agent General for South Western Australia knows them personally and has assured me that they are most respectable married people. CUSINS. So they are in Australia; but here they are outcasts. Their marriage is legal in Australia, but not in England. My mother is my father's deceased wife's sister; and in this island I am consequently a foundling. [Sensation]. Is the subterfuge good enough, Machiavelli? UNDERSHAFT [thoughtfully] Biddy: this may be a way out of the difficulty. LADY BRITOMART. Stuff! A man can't make cannons any the better for being his own cousin instead of his proper self [she sits down in the deck chair with a bounce that expresses her downright contempt for their casuistry.] UNDERSHAFT [to Cusins] You are an educated man. That is against the tradition. CUSINS. Once in ten thousand times it happens that the schoolboy is a born master of what they try to teach him. Greek has not destroyed my mind: it has nourished it. Besides, I did not learn it at an English public school. UNDERSHAFT. Hm! Well, I cannot afford to be too particular: you have cornered the foundling market. Let it pass. You are eligible, Euripides: you are eligible. BARBARA [coming from the platform and interposing between Cusins and Undershaft] Dolly: yesterday morning, when Stephen told us all about the tradition, you became very silent; and you have been strange and excited ever since. Were you thinking of your birth then? CUSINS. When the finger of Destiny suddenly points at a man in the middle of his breakfast, it makes him thoughtful. [Barbara turns away sadly and stands near her mother, listening perturbedly]. UNDERSHAFT. Aha! You have had your eye on the business, my young friend, have you? CUSINS. Take care! There is an abyss of moral horror between me and your accursed aerial battleships. UNDERSHAFT. Never mind the abyss for the present. Let us settle the practical details and leave your final decision open. You know that you will have to change your name. Do you object to that? CUSINS. Would any man named Adolphus--any man called Dolly!--object to be called something else? UNDERSHAFT. Good. Now, as to money! I propose to treat you handsomely from the beginning. You shall start at a thousand a year. CUSINS. [with sudden heat, his spectacles twinkling with mischief] A thousand! You dare offer a miserable thousand to the son-in-law of a millionaire! No, by Heavens, Machiavelli! you shall not cheat me. You cannot do without me; and I can do without you. I must have two thousand five hundred a year for two years. At the end of that time, if I am a failure, I go. But if I am a success, and stay on, you must give me the other five thousand. UNDERSHAFT. What other five thousand? CUSINS. To make the two years up to five thousand a year. The two thousand five hundred is only half pay in case I should turn out a failure. The third year I must have ten per cent on the profits. UNDERSHAFT [taken aback] Ten per cent! Why, man, do you know what my profits are? CUSINS. Enormous, I hope: otherwise I shall require twenty-five per cent. UNDERSHAFT. But, Mr Cusins, this is a serious matter of business. You are not bringing any capital into the concern. CUSINS. What! no capital! Is my mastery of Greek no capital? Is my access to the subtlest thought, the loftiest poetry yet attained by humanity, no capital? my character! my intellect! my life! my career! what Barbara calls my soul! are these no capital? Say another word; and I double my salary. UNDERSHAFT. Be reasonable-- CUSINS [peremptorily] Mr Undershaft: you have my terms. Take them or leave them. UNDERSHAFT [recovering himself] Very well. I note your terms; and I offer you half. CUSINS [disgusted] Half! UNDERSHAFT [firmly] Half. CUSINS. You call yourself a gentleman; and you offer me half!! UNDERSHAFT. I do not call myself a gentleman; but I offer you half. CUSINS. This to your future partner! your successor! your son-in-law! BARBARA. You are selling your own soul, Dolly, not mine. Leave me out of the bargain, please. UNDERSHAFT. Come! I will go a step further for Barbara's sake. I will give you three fifths; but that is my last word. CUSINS. Done! LOMAX. Done in the eye. Why, _I_ only get eight hundred, you know. CUSINS. By the way, Mac, I am a classical scholar, not an arithmetical one. Is three fifths more than half or less? UNDERSHAFT. More, of course. CUSINS. I would have taken two hundred and fifty. How you can succeed in business when you are willing to pay all that money to a University don who is obviously not worth a junior clerk's wages!--well! What will Lazarus say? UNDERSHAFT. Lazarus is a gentle romantic Jew who cares for nothing but string quartets and stalls at fashionable theatres. He will get the credit of your rapacity in money matters, as he has hitherto had the credit of mine. You are a shark of the first order, Euripides. So much the better for the firm! BARBARA. Is the bargain closed, Dolly? Does your soul belong to him now? CUSINS. No: the price is settled: that is all. The real tug of war is still to come. What about the moral question? LADY BRITOMART. There is no moral question in the matter at all, Adolphus. You must simply sell cannons and weapons to people whose cause is right and just, and refuse them to foreigners and criminals. UNDERSHAFT [determinedly] No: none of that. You must keep the true faith of an Armorer, or you don't come in here. CUSINS. What on earth is the true faith of an Armorer? UNDERSHAFT. To give arms to all men who offer an honest price for them, without respect of persons or principles: to aristocrat and republican, to Nihilist and Tsar, to Capitalist and Socialist, to Protestant and Catholic, to burglar and policeman, to black man white man and yellow man, to all sorts and conditions, all nationalities, all faiths, all follies, all causes and all crimes. The first Undershaft wrote up in his shop IF GOD GAVE THE HAND, LET NOT MAN WITHHOLD THE SWORD. The second wrote up ALL HAVE THE RIGHT TO FIGHT: NONE HAVE THE RIGHT TO JUDGE. The third wrote up TO MAN THE WEAPON: TO HEAVEN THE VICTORY. The fourth had no literary turn; so he did not write up anything; but he sold cannons to Napoleon under the nose of George the Third. The fifth wrote up PEACE SHALL NOT PREVAIL SAVE WITH A SWORD IN HER HAND. The sixth, my master, was the best of all. He wrote up NOTHING IS EVER DONE IN THIS WORLD UNTIL MEN ARE PREPARED TO KILL ONE ANOTHER IF IT IS NOT DONE. After that, there was nothing left for the seventh to say. So he wrote up, simply, UNASHAMED. CUSINS. My good Machiavelli, I shall certainly write something up on the wall; only, as I shall write it in Greek, you won't be able to read it. But as to your Armorer's faith, if I take my neck out of the noose of my own morality I am not going to put it into the noose of yours. I shall sell cannons to whom I please and refuse them to whom I please. So there! UNDERSHAFT. From the moment when you become Andrew Undershaft, you will never do as you please again. Don't come here lusting for power, young man. CUSINS. If power were my aim I should not come here for it. YOU have no power. UNDERSHAFT. None of my own, certainly. CUSINS. I have more power than you, more will. You do not drive this place: it drives you. And what drives the place? UNDERSHAFT [enigmatically] A will of which I am a part. BARBARA [startled] Father! Do you know what you are saying; or are you laying a snare for my soul? CUSINS. Don't listen to his metaphysics, Barbara. The place is driven by the most rascally part of society, the money hunters, the pleasure hunters, the military promotion hunters; and he is their slave. UNDERSHAFT. Not necessarily. Remember the Armorer's Faith. I will take an order from a good man as cheerfully as from a bad one. If you good people prefer preaching and shirking to buying my weapons and fighting the rascals, don't blame me. I can make cannons: I cannot make courage and conviction. Bah! You tire me, Euripides, with your morality mongering. Ask Barbara: SHE understands. [He suddenly takes Barbara's hands, and looks powerfully into her eyes]. Tell him, my love, what power really means. BARBARA [hypnotized] Before I joined the Salvation Army, I was in my own power; and the consequence was that I never knew what to do with myself. When I joined it, I had not time enough for all the things I had to do. UNDERSHAFT [approvingly] Just so. And why was that, do you suppose? BARBARA. Yesterday I should have said, because I was in the power of God. [She resumes her self-possession, withdrawing her hands from his with a power equal to his own]. But you came and showed me that I was in the power of Bodger and Undershaft. Today I feel--oh! how can I put it into words? Sarah: do you remember the earthquake at Cannes, when we were little children?--how little the surprise of the first shock mattered compared to the dread and horror of waiting for the second? That is how I feel in this place today. I stood on the rock I thought eternal; and without a word of warning it reeled and crumbled under me. I was safe with an infinite wisdom watching me, an army marching to Salvation with me; and in a moment, at a stroke of your pen in a cheque book, I stood alone; and the heavens were empty. That was the first shock of the earthquake: I am waiting for the second. UNDERSHAFT. Come, come, my daughter! Don't make too much of your little tinpot tragedy. What do we do here when we spend years of work and thought and thousands of pounds of solid cash on a new gun or an aerial battleship that turns out just a hairsbreadth wrong after all? Scrap it. Scrap it without wasting another hour or another pound on it. Well, you have made for yourself something that you call a morality or a religion or what not. It doesn't fit the facts. Well, scrap it. Scrap it and get one that does fit. That is what is wrong with the world at present. It scraps its obsolete steam engines and dynamos; but it won't scrap its old prejudices and its old moralities and its old religions and its old political constitutions. What's the result? In machinery it does very well; but in morals and religion and politics it is working at a loss that brings it nearer bankruptcy every year. Don't persist in that folly. If your old religion broke down yesterday, get a newer and a better one for tomorrow. BARBARA. Oh how gladly I would take a better one to my soul! But you offer me a worse one. [Turning on him with sudden vehemence]. Justify yourself: show me some light through the darkness of this dreadful place, with its beautifully clean workshops, and respectable workmen, and model homes. UNDERSHAFT. Cleanliness and respectability do not need justification, Barbara: they justify themselves. I see no darkness here, no dreadfulness. In your Salvation shelter I saw poverty, misery, cold and hunger. You gave them bread and treacle and dreams of heaven. I give from thirty shillings a week to twelve thousand a year. They find their own dreams; but I look after the drainage. BARBARA. And their souls? UNDERSHAFT. I save their souls just as I saved yours. BARBARA [revolted] You saved my soul! What do you mean? UNDERSHAFT. I fed you and clothed you and housed you. I took care that you should have money enough to live handsomely--more than enough; so that you could be wasteful, careless, generous. That saved your soul from the seven deadly sins. BARBARA [bewildered] The seven deadly sins! UNDERSHAFT. Yes, the deadly seven. [Counting on his fingers] Food, clothing, firing, rent, taxes, respectability and children. Nothing can lift those seven millstones from Man's neck but money; and the spirit cannot soar until the millstones are lifted. I lifted them from your spirit. I enabled Barbara to become Major Barbara; and I saved her from the crime of poverty. CUSINS. Do you call poverty a crime? UNDERSHAFT. The worst of crimes. All the other crimes are virtues beside it: all the other dishonors are chivalry itself by comparison. Poverty blights whole cities; spreads horrible pestilences; strikes dead the very souls of all who come within sight, sound or smell of it. What you call crime is nothing: a murder here and a theft there, a blow now and a curse then: what do they matter? they are only the accidents and illnesses of life: there are not fifty genuine professional criminals in London. But there are millions of poor people, abject people, dirty people, ill fed, ill clothed people. They poison us morally and physically: they kill the happiness of society: they force us to do away with our own liberties and to organize unnatural cruelties for fear they should rise against us and drag us down into their abyss. Only fools fear crime: we all fear poverty. Pah! [turning on Barbara] you talk of your half-saved ruffian in West Ham: you accuse me of dragging his soul back to perdition. Well, bring him to me here; and I will drag his soul back again to salvation for you. Not by words and dreams; but by thirty-eight shillings a week, a sound house in a handsome street, and a permanent job. In three weeks he will have a fancy waistcoat; in three months a tall hat and a chapel sitting; before the end of the year he will shake hands with a duchess at a Primrose League meeting, and join the Conservative Party. BARBARA. And will he be the better for that? UNDERSHAFT. You know he will. Don't be a hypocrite, Barbara. He will be better fed, better housed, better clothed, better behaved; and his children will be pounds heavier and bigger. That will be better than an American cloth mattress in a shelter, chopping firewood, eating bread and treacle, and being forced to kneel down from time to time to thank heaven for it: knee drill, I think you call it. It is cheap work converting starving men with a Bible in one hand and a slice of bread in the other. I will undertake to convert West Ham to Mahometanism on the same terms. Try your hand on my men: their souls are hungry because their bodies are full. BARBARA. And leave the east end to starve? UNDERSHAFT [his energetic tone dropping into one of bitter and brooding remembrance] I was an east ender. I moralized and starved until one day I swore that I would be a fullfed free man at all costs--that nothing should stop me except a bullet, neither reason nor morals nor the lives of other men. I said "Thou shalt starve ere I starve"; and with that word I became free and great. I was a dangerous man until I had my will: now I am a useful, beneficent, kindly person. That is the history of most self-made millionaires, I fancy. When it is the history of every Englishman we shall have an England worth living in. LADY BRITOMART. Stop making speeches, Andrew. This is not the place for them. UNDERSHAFT [punctured] My dear: I have no other means of conveying my ideas. LADY BRITOMART. Your ideas are nonsense. You got oil because you were selfish and unscrupulous. UNDERSHAFT. Not at all. I had the strongest scruples about poverty and starvation. Your moralists are quite unscrupulous about both: they make virtues of them. I had rather be a thief than a pauper. I had rather be a murderer than a slave. I don't want to be either; but if you force the alternative on me, then, by Heaven, I'll choose the braver and more moral one. I hate poverty and slavery worse than any other crimes whatsoever. And let me tell you this. Poverty and slavery have stood up for centuries to your sermons and leading articles: they will not stand up to my machine guns. Don't preach at them: don't reason with them. Kill them. BARBARA. Killing. Is that your remedy for everything? UNDERSHAFT. It is the final test of conviction, the only lever strong enough to overturn a social system, the only way of saying Must. Let six hundred and seventy fools loose in the street; and three policemen can scatter them. But huddle them together in a certain house in Westminster; and let them go through certain ceremonies and call themselves certain names until at last they get the courage to kill; and your six hundred and seventy fools become a government. Your pious mob fills up ballot papers and imagines it is governing its masters; but the ballot paper that really governs is the paper that has a bullet wrapped up in it. CUSINS. That is perhaps why, like most intelligent people, I never vote. UNDERSHAFT Vote! Bah! When you vote, you only change the names of the cabinet. When you shoot, you pull down governments, inaugurate new epochs, abolish old orders and set up new. Is that historically true, Mr Learned Man, or is it not? CUSINS. It is historically true. I loathe having to admit it. I repudiate your sentiments. I abhor your nature. I defy you in every possible way. Still, it is true. But it ought not to be true. UNDERSHAFT. Ought, ought, ought, ought, ought! Are you going to spend your life saying ought, like the rest of our moralists? Turn your oughts into shalls, man. Come and make explosives with me. Whatever can blow men up can blow society up. The history of the world is the history of those who had courage enough to embrace this truth. Have you the courage to embrace it, Barbara? LADY BRITOMART. Barbara, I positively forbid you to listen to your father's abominable wickedness. And you, Adolphus, ought to know better than to go about saying that wrong things are true. What does it matter whether they are true if they are wrong? UNDERSHAFT. What does it matter whether they are wrong if they are true? LADY BRITOMART [rising] Children: come home instantly. Andrew: I am exceedingly sorry I allowed you to call on us. You are wickeder than ever. Come at once. BARBARA [shaking her head] It's no use running away from wicked people, mamma. LADY BRITOMART. It is every use. It shows your disapprobation of them. BARBARA. It does not save them. LADY BRITOMART. I can see that you are going to disobey me. Sarah: are you coming home or are you not? SARAH. I daresay it's very wicked of papa to make cannons; but I don't think I shall cut him on that account. LOMAX [pouring oil on the troubled waters] The fact is, you know, there is a certain amount of tosh about this notion of wickedness. It doesn't work. You must look at facts. Not that I would say a word in favor of anything wrong; but then, you see, all sorts of chaps are always doing all sorts of things; and we have to fit them in somehow, don't you know. What I mean is that you can't go cutting everybody; and that's about what it comes to. [Their rapt attention to his eloquence makes him nervous] Perhaps I don't make myself clear. LADY BRITOMART. You are lucidity itself, Charles. Because Andrew is successful and has plenty of money to give to Sarah, you will flatter him and encourage him in his wickedness. LOMAX [unruffled] Well, where the carcase is, there will the eagles be gathered, don't you know. [To Undershaft] Eh? What? UNDERSHAFT. Precisely. By the way, may I call you Charles? LOMAX. Delighted. Cholly is the usual ticket. UNDERSHAFT [to Lady Britomart] Biddy-- LADY BRITOMART [violently] Don't dare call me Biddy. Charles Lomax: you are a fool. Adolphus Cusins: you are a Jesuit. Stephen: you are a prig. Barbara: you are a lunatic. Andrew: you are a vulgar tradesman. Now you all know my opinion; and my conscience is clear, at all events [she sits down again with a vehemence that almost wrecks the chair]. UNDERSHAFT. My dear, you are the incarnation of morality. [She snorts]. Your conscience is clear and your duty done when you have called everybody names. Come, Euripides! it is getting late; and we all want to get home. Make up your mind. CUSINS. Understand this, you old demon-- LADY BRITOMART. Adolphus! UNDERSHAFT. Let him alone, Biddy. Proceed, Euripides. CUSINS. You have me in a horrible dilemma. I want Barbara. UNDERSHAFT. Like all young men, you greatly exaggerate the difference between one young woman and another. BARBARA. Quite true, Dolly. CUSINS. I also want to avoid being a rascal. UNDERSHAFT [with biting contempt] You lust for personal righteousness, for self-approval, for what you call a good conscience, for what Barbara calls salvation, for what I call patronizing people who are not so lucky as yourself. CUSINS. I do not: all the poet in me recoils from being a good man. But there are things in me that I must reckon with: pity-- UNDERSHAFT. Pity! The scavenger of misery. CUSINS. Well, love. UNDERSHAFT. I know. You love the needy and the outcast: you love the oppressed races, the negro, the Indian ryot, the Pole, the Irishman. Do you love the Japanese? Do you love the Germans? Do you love the English? CUSINS. No. Every true Englishman detests the English. We are the wickedest nation on earth; and our success is a moral horror. UNDERSHAFT. That is what comes of your gospel of love, is it? CUSINS. May I not love even my father-in-law? UNDERSHAFT. Who wants your love, man? By what right do you take the liberty of offering it to me? I will have your due heed and respect, or I will kill you. But your love! Damn your impertinence! CUSINS [grinning] I may not be able to control my affections, Mac. UNDERSHAFT. You are fencing, Euripides. You are weakening: your grip is slipping. Come! try your last weapon. Pity and love have broken in your hand: forgiveness is still left. CUSINS. No: forgiveness is a beggar's refuge. I am with you there: we must pay our debts. UNDERSHAFT. Well said. Come! you will suit me. Remember the words of Plato. CUSINS [starting] Plato! You dare quote Plato to me! UNDERSHAFT. Plato says, my friend, that society cannot be saved until either the Professors of Greek take to making gunpowder, or else the makers of gunpowder become Professors of Greek. CUSINS. Oh, tempter, cunning tempter! UNDERSHAFT. Come! choose, man, choose. CUSINS. But perhaps Barbara will not marry me if I make the wrong choice. BARBARA. Perhaps not. CUSINS [desperately perplexed] You hear-- BARBARA. Father: do you love nobody? UNDERSHAFT. I love my best friend. LADY BRITOMART. And who is that, pray? UNDERSHAFT. My bravest enemy. That is the man who keeps me up to the mark. CUSINS. You know, the creature is really a sort of poet in his way. Suppose he is a great man, after all! UNDERSHAFT. Suppose you stop talking and make up your mind, my young friend. CUSINS. But you are driving me against my nature. I hate war. UNDERSHAFT. Hatred is the coward's revenge for being intimidated. Dare you make war on war? Here are the means: my friend Mr Lomax is sitting on them. LOMAX [springing up] Oh I say! You don't mean that this thing is loaded, do you? My ownest: come off it. SARAH [sitting placidly on the shell] If I am to be blown up, the more thoroughly it is done the better. Don't fuss, Cholly. LOMAX [to Undershaft, strongly remonstrant] Your own daughter, you know. UNDERSHAFT. So I see. [To Cusins] Well, my friend, may we expect you here at six tomorrow morning? CUSINS [firmly] Not on any account. I will see the whole establishment blown up with its own dynamite before I will get up at five. My hours are healthy, rational hours eleven to five. UNDERSHAFT. Come when you please: before a week you will come at six and stay until I turn you out for the sake of your health. [Calling] Bilton! [He turns to Lady Britomart, who rises]. My dear: let us leave these two young people to themselves for a moment. [Bilton comes from the shed]. I am going to take you through the gun cotton shed. BILTON [barring the way] You can't take anything explosive in here, Sir. LADY BRITOMART. What do you mean? Are you alluding to me? BILTON [unmoved] No, ma'am. Mr Undershaft has the other gentleman's matches in his pocket. LADY BRITOMART [abruptly] Oh! I beg your pardon. [She goes into the shed]. UNDERSHAFT. Quite right, Bilton, quite right: here you are. [He gives Bilton the box of matches]. Come, Stephen. Come, Charles. Bring Sarah. [He passes into the shed]. Bilton opens the box and deliberately drops the matches into the fire-bucket. LOMAX. Oh I say! [Bilton stolidly hands him the empty box]. Infernal nonsense! Pure scientific ignorance! [He goes in]. SARAH. Am I all right, Bilton? BILTON. You'll have to put on list slippers, miss: that's all. We've got em inside. [She goes in]. STEPHEN [very seriously to Cusins] Dolly, old fellow, think. Think before you decide. Do you feel that you are a sufficiently practical man? It is a huge undertaking, an enormous responsibility. All this mass of business will be Greek to you. CUSINS. Oh, I think it will be much less difficult than Greek. STEPHEN. Well, I just want to say this before I leave you to yourselves. Don't let anything I have said about right and wrong prejudice you against this great chance in life. I have satisfied myself that the business is one of the highest character and a credit to our country. [Emotionally] I am very proud of my father. I-- [Unable to proceed, he presses Cusins' hand and goes hastily into the shed, followed by Bilton]. Barbara and Cusins, left alone together, look at one another silently. CUSINS. Barbara: I am going to accept this offer. BARBARA. I thought you would. CUSINS. You understand, don't you, that I had to decide without consulting you. If I had thrown the burden of the choice on you, you would sooner or later have despised me for it. BARBARA. Yes: I did not want you to sell your soul for me any more than for this inheritance. CUSINS. It is not the sale of my soul that troubles me: I have sold it too often to care about that. I have sold it for a professorship. I have sold it for an income. I have sold it to escape being imprisoned for refusing to pay taxes for hangmen's ropes and unjust wars and things that I abhor. What is all human conduct but the daily and hourly sale of our souls for trifles? What I am now selling it for is neither money nor position nor comfort, but for reality and for power. BARBARA. You know that you will have no power, and that he has none. CUSINS. I know. It is not for myself alone. I want to make power for the world. BARBARA. I want to make power for the world too; but it must be spiritual power. CUSINS. I think all power is spiritual: these cannons will not go off by themselves. I have tried to make spiritual power by teaching Greek. But the world can never be really touched by a dead language and a dead civilization. The people must have power; and the people cannot have Greek. Now the power that is made here can be wielded by all men. BARBARA. Power to burn women's houses down and kill their sons and tear their husbands to pieces. CUSINS. You cannot have power for good without having power for evil too. Even mother's milk nourishes murderers as well as heroes. This power which only tears men's bodies to pieces has never been so horribly abused as the intellectual power, the imaginative power, the poetic, religious power that can enslave men's souls. As a teacher of Greek I gave the intellectual man weapons against the common man. I now want to give the common man weapons against the intellectual man. I love the common people. I want to arm them against the lawyer, the doctor, the priest, the literary man, the professor, the artist, and the politician, who, once in authority, are the most dangerous, disastrous, and tyrannical of all the fools, rascals, and impostors. I want a democratic power strong enough to force the intellectual oligarchy to use its genius for the general good or else perish. BARBARA. Is there no higher power than that [pointing to the shell]? CUSINS. Yes: but that power can destroy the higher powers just as a tiger can destroy a man: therefore man must master that power first. I admitted this when the Turks and Greeks were last at war. My best pupil went out to fight for Hellas. My parting gift to him was not a copy of Plato's Republic, but a revolver and a hundred Undershaft cartridges. The blood of every Turk he shot--if he shot any--is on my head as well as on Undershaft's. That act committed me to this place for ever. Your father's challenge has beaten me. Dare I make war on war? I dare. I must. I will. And now, is it all over between us? BARBARA [touched by his evident dread of her answer] Silly baby Dolly! How could it be? CUSINS [overjoyed] Then you--you--you-- Oh for my drum! [He flourishes imaginary drumsticks]. BARBARA [angered by his levity] Take care, Dolly, take care. Oh, if only I could get away from you and from father and from it all! if I could have the wings of a dove and fly away to heaven! CUSINS. And leave me! BARBARA. Yes, you, and all the other naughty mischievous children of men. But I can't. I was happy in the Salvation Army for a moment. I escaped from the world into a paradise of enthusiasm and prayer and soul saving; but the moment our money ran short, it all came back to Bodger: it was he who saved our people: he, and the Prince of Darkness, my papa. Undershaft and Bodger: their hands stretch everywhere: when we feed a starving fellow creature, it is with their bread, because there is no other bread; when we tend the sick, it is in the hospitals they endow; if we turn from the churches they build, we must kneel on the stones of the streets they pave. As long as that lasts, there is no getting away from them. Turning our backs on Bodger and Undershaft is turning our backs on life. CUSINS. I thought you were determined to turn your back on the wicked side of life. BARBARA. There is no wicked side: life is all one. And I never wanted to shirk my share in whatever evil must be endured, whether it be sin or suffering. I wish I could cure you of middle-class ideas, Dolly. CUSINS [gasping] Middle cl--! A snub! A social snub to ME! from the daughter of a foundling! BARBARA. That is why I have no class, Dolly: I come straight out of the heart of the whole people. If I were middle-class I should turn my back on my father's business; and we should both live in an artistic drawingroom, with you reading the reviews in one corner, and I in the other at the piano, playing Schumann: both very superior persons, and neither of us a bit of use. Sooner than that, I would sweep out the guncotton shed, or be one of Bodger's barmaids. Do you know what would have happened if you had refused papa's offer? CUSINS. I wonder! BARBARA. I should have given you up and married the man who accepted it. After all, my dear old mother has more sense than any of you. I felt like her when I saw this place--felt that I must have it--that never, never, never could I let it go; only she thought it was the houses and the kitchen ranges and the linen and china, when it was really all the human souls to be saved: not weak souls in starved bodies, crying with gratitude or a scrap of bread and treacle, but fullfed, quarrelsome, snobbish, uppish creatures, all standing on their little rights and dignities, and thinking that my father ought to be greatly obliged to them for making so much money for him--and so he ought. That is where salvation is really wanted. My father shall never throw it in my teeth again that my converts were bribed with bread. [She is transfigured]. I have got rid of the bribe of bread. I have got rid of the bribe of heaven. Let God's work be done for its own sake: the work he had to create us to do because it cannot be done by living men and women. When I die, let him be in my debt, not I in his; and let me forgive him as becomes a woman of my rank. CUSINS. Then the way of life lies through the factory of death? BARBARA. Yes, through the raising of hell to heaven and of man to God, through the unveiling of an eternal light in the Valley of The Shadow. [Seizing him with both hands] Oh, did you think my courage would never come back? did you believe that I was a deserter? that I, who have stood in the streets, and taken my people to my heart, and talked of the holiest and greatest things with them, could ever turn back and chatter foolishly to fashionable people about nothing in a drawingroom? Never, never, never, never: Major Barbara will die with the colors. Oh! and I have my dear little Dolly boy still; and he has found me my place and my work. Glory Hallelujah! [She kisses him]. CUSINS. My dearest: consider my delicate health. I cannot stand as much happiness as you can. BARBARA. Yes: it is not easy work being in love with me, is it? But it's good for you. [She runs to the shed, and calls, childlike] Mamma! Mamma! [Bilton comes out of the shed, followed by Undershaft]. I want Mamma. UNDERSHAFT. She is taking off her list slippers, dear. [He passes on to Cusins]. Well? What does she say? CUSINS. She has gone right up into the skies. LADY BRITOMART [coming from the shed and stopping on the steps, obstructing Sarah, who follows with Lomax. Barbara clutches like a baby at her mother's skirt]. Barbara: when will you learn to be independent and to act and think for yourself? I know as well as possible what that cry of "Mamma, Mamma," means. Always running to me! SARAH [touching Lady Britomart's ribs with her finger tips and imitating a bicycle horn] Pip! Pip! LADY BRITOMART [highly indignant] How dare you say Pip! pip! to me, Sarah? You are both very naughty children. What do you want, Barbara? BARBARA. I want a house in the village to live in with Dolly. [Dragging at the skirt] Come and tell me which one to take. UNDERSHAFT [to Cusins] Six o'clock tomorrow morning, my young friend.

Act 3

https://web.archive.org/web/20201219172439/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/major-barbara/summary/act-3

It's the following day and Barbara, Sarah, and Lady Brit are hanging out in the library at Lady Brit's house. Charles comes in and is surprised to find Barbara there, lounging around in fine clothes . Dolly arrives in rough shape--it seems he was up and out late drinking with Andrew. Once everyone gets over their shock at that news, Dolly reports on how the evening went after they left Barbara at the Army. Then Barbara, Dolly, Charles, and Sarah leave the room, and Andrew arrives. Lady Brit quickly gets him to agree to make sure Barbara and Sarah are provided for, and then the subject switches to Stephen. Andrew is hanging firm on not wanting to bring Stephen into his business, despite the fact that he hasn't yet found a suitable foundling to do the job. Then Stephen enters, and they discuss his career prospects. Stephen assures his father that he doesn't want anything to do with his father's trade. They have some heated talk about what Stephen might actually be suited for. Sarah, Barbara, Charles, and Dolly return, and Lady Brit goes to get ready to leave to walk to the Undershaft factory. They convince Stephen to tag along as well. Then Barbara and her father get on the topic of how he's basically ruined her career, since the fact that the Army could be bought has drained all the enthusiasm from her. Barbara is especially mad that she was unable to convert Bill--which she partially attributes to her father's interference. Undershaft tells her to buck up, suggesting that she probably had planted the seeds of conversion in him. And that does cheer her up. They then transition over to the factory. When that part of the scene opens, Barbara is standing there alone. Dolly then enters, having just explored the town. He reports Peter Shirley has been hired as a gatekeeper. Then Stephen comes in fresh from having been to the town. He seems pretty excited about what he's seen so far. Sarah and her father enter. When Undershaft asks Stephen for his opinion, we learn he's basically done a 180 as far as his views of his father/his industry go--he's super impressed. Then, Charles exits one of the explosives sheds, where he has just scared the daylights out of Bilton, one of the foremen, by lighting up a cigarette. Then Lady Brit enters. The town and its houses have also impressed her. She is angry to have been cut out of this part of Undershaft's fortune, since she likes that kind of stuff. Then the talk turns back to the question of who will inherit the Undershaft fortune. Lady Brit suggests Dolly, and Undershaft said that would be fine, if only Dolly were a foundling... Then Dolly reveals that, in fact, he is kind of a foundling, since his parents aren't legally married in England, only in Australia. Once they've determined that Dolly can inherit the business, he and Undershaft start negotiating terms to see if he will do it. They haggle and eventually get a number that works for both. Then Barbara and her father go back and forth about their different philosophies/attitudes toward religion. Lady Brit is pretty grossed out by her estranged husband's views and implores Barbara not to listen. In fact, she's so appalled she wants to take all her children and leave right that second. When no one else seems willing to follow, she sits down and resigns herself to her family's moral corruption, it seems. There's some more banter, and then the topic turns back to Dolly joining the Undershaft firm. Andrew wants to confirm that Dolly is going to start working for him under the terms already agreed upon. Dolly hems and haws, since he's afraid Barbara won't marry him if he says yes... Undershaft then takes the rest of the family to the gun cotton shed, leaving Barbara and Dolly to talk. Dolly tells Barbara he plans to say yes. He wanted to make the decision before consulting her, since he didn't want to put that on her. To his surprise, she's totally fine with that--in fact, she would have dumped him if he had turned it down, she says, and married the guy who ended up taking the job. She is looking forward to the project of saving the souls of people who aren't desperate but rather well fed, and there are plenty in the Undershaft factory and its village... The play ends with Undershaft demanding that Dolly be there at 6 a.m. the next day.

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/3790-chapters/act_1.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/Major Barbara/section_1_part_0.txt

Major Barbara.act 1

act 1

{"name": "Act I (The opening scene between Stephen Undershaft and his mother, Lady Britomart)", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201201082228/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/m/major-barbara/summary-and-analysis/act-i-the-opening-scene-between-stephen-undershaft-and-his-mother-lady-britomart", "summary": "The play begins when the estranged wife of Andrew Undershaft, Lady Britomart, calls Stephen, her son, in for a conference. Lady Britomart is so domineering and Stephen is so intimidated that he is virtually speechless. She immediately corrects his behavior and reminds him that he is now twenty-four years old and thus a grown man, and that he has traveled throughout most of the world; therefore, it is now time that he take over some of the responsibilities of conducting the family's business affairs. Stephen becomes increasingly more intimidated by his mother and maintains that he has deliberately avoided entering into the family's affairs. Stephen, out of respect for his mother's feelings, has been especially reluctant to mention his father's name; Stephen's father, however, is exactly the topic that Lady Britomart wants to discuss. She says, \"We can't go on all our lives not mentioning him.\" She then begins to lay out the problems facing them and the necessity for talking about Stephen's father, Andrew Undershaft, the fabulously wealthy munitions manufacturer who has not seen any of his family since the children were very small. As Lady Britomart outlines the \"family problem,\" we learn that Stephen's two sisters are planning on marriage. Sarah Undershaft has made a good match, but her fiance cannot come into his millions until he is thirty-five years old. In the meantime, the couple will have to have more than his present eight-hundred-a-year allowance in order to live in the manner to which they are accustomed. Even worse, Barbara Undershaft, who showed such promise of making a brilliant match, has, instead, joined the Salvation Army, and she spends her evenings with a \"professor of Greek,\" whom, according to Lady Britomart, Barbara \"picked up in the street\" and who pretends to be a Salvationist and plays the big Army drum for Barbara in public because he has \"fallen head over ears in love with her.\" Lady Britomart, however, maintains -- indeed, she insists -- that she herself is not a snob; therefore, a professor of Greek will make a respectable and presentable husband because no one objects to classical Greek, but this pair will also need money because professors are notoriously as \"poor as church mice.\" And, furthermore, it is a known \"fact,\" according to Lady Britomart, that refined, poetic people like Adolphus Cusins need more money than other people do because they are too esoteric to understand money; thus, they will need a large sum of money for their marriage. Finally, Lady Britomart tells Stephen that she expects him to get married soon; he has been a bachelor long enough. With the above explanations and with the knowledge that Lady Britomart's father, the Earl of Stevenage, needs all of his resources to keep up his position in society, she wonders: Where is the money to come from? She then points out to Stephen that because there is always a war going on somewhere, Stephen's father surely must be fabulously wealthy. Stephen agrees and points out how well known the Undershaft name is and how he has been the victim of many unpleasant comments because his name is associated with the \"blood and destruction\" of the Undershaft munitions. In fact, they both agree, the firm of Undershaft and Lazarus controls most of the munitions of Europe , and it is beyond the arm of the law; thus, Andrew has used his power to establish his own eccentric concepts of morals and ethics. Here, it is important to note that Lady Britomart explains that she left Andrew Undershaft because he became head of the Undershaft corporations for one reason only -- because he was not a legal heir: He was illegitimate, a foundling -- and it has been a centuries-old tradition to leave the business to another foundling. Therefore, Lady Britomart became highly indignant when Andrew insisted that he would leave his wealth to another foundling rather than to his natural son, Stephen. Furthermore, while Andrew has lived a perfectly moral life himself, he has nevertheless advocated things that his wife considers immoral: \"So I couldn't forgive Andrew for preaching immorality while he practiced morality.\" Therefore, she left Andrew to protect the children from his outrageous and unconventional morals and opinions. However, they have always been dependent on him financially, and even though Stephen is naively shocked to hear his mother speak so boldly, Lady Britomart points out that she has asked Undershaft to come here this very evening to discuss the financial arrangements which will be necessary for the marriages. Thus, Undershaft is due to arrive any minute. This impending appearance, as might be expected, causes further dismay for Stephen.", "analysis": "This first scene conventionally and economically sets up some of the main conflicts in the drama; that is, we learn who is to inherit the munitions factory and the facts about Andrew Undershaft's immense wealth. In traditional dramatic terms, this scene would be called \"the exposition scene\"; Shaw's technique is influenced by the famous Norwegian dramatist Henrik Ibsen, whom Shaw admired and wrote about . \"Exposition\" means, basically, presenting those matters which inform the audience about the situation of the play and explain the main issues that are to become the central core of the drama. Thus, the play opens with a confrontation between a mother and her son, and through their conversation, we learn a great deal. For example, the entire conversation takes place because of the necessity of arranging financial support for Stephen's two sisters, and therefore the subject of Stephen's and his sisters' father must be brought up. This, in turn, allows the audience to know that the father's name has never been discussed by Lady Britomart and her children; thus, the topic is a highly embarrassing one for her son. While Shaw is technically presenting his audience with the necessary background information for the drama which is to follow, he is also able, at the same time, to entertain his audience by playing up the conflict and the contrast between mother and son. Lady Britomart is a marvelous character; she is liberal enough to accept other peoples' opinions but only if they agree with her preconceived ideas. She adores advice from her son but only if it is the formulation of a course of action which she has already planned. As her name implies, Lady Britomart is the epitome of everything that is British. In a classic work of early English literature, Spenser's Faerie Queene, one of the central characters is Britomart, a female knight, symbolizing militant chastity; thus, Lady Britomart becomes Shaw's symbol of militant upper-class English morality. She has been exasperated with her husband -- not for anything immoral that he has done, but simply for the reason that he will not conform to what she considers to be the \"proper\" behavior for a person in his position. After all, he has proposed to disinherit his son in favor of a foundling, someone whom he has not even discovered yet -- and all for the sake of a principle. Lady Britomart, in contrast, stands firmly within the philosophy of the English aristocracy, assured that no foundling can possess the qualities that a member of a noble family can have; her son is, after all, the grandson of a English earl, and yet while espousing these views, Lady Britomart is able to caustically castigate her future son-in-law, Charles Lomax, a member of the nobility, because of his basic incompetence. In fact, it is Charles Lomax's incompetence and his inability to earn money that makes it necessary to call upon Undershaft for future financial aid. Furthermore, Lady Britomart sees no discrepancy between disapproving of Undershaft and the manner in which he makes money and the fact that she has been completely dependent upon his money throughout all of these years. Even her son Stephen is shocked to realize that all of their present income comes from Andrew Undershaft. Consequently, this conflict between the family's reliance upon this money for their existence introduces one of the main themes of the drama -- that is, the domestic dilemma will later be correlated with the dilemma of the Salvation Army when the Army will, finally, decide to gladly accept \"tainted\" money from \"tainted\" sources in order to insure its continued existence, and then it will pray for the \"tainted\" people who donated the money. Consequently, the domestic dilemma introduced in this first scene parallels one of the central themes of the drama. This scene also prepares us for the appearance of other characters. Even though Lady Britomart is sharply opinionated, we are ready to accept her evaluations of some of the other characters. Later, we see that her future son-in-law, Charles Lomax, has been described by her in perfect terms; he is, indeed, something of a \"noodle\" -- a rather fashionable but incompetent member of the aristocracy. Likewise, she snobbishly approves of having a scholar of Greek literature as a son-in-law, but she is also very practical and knows that one cannot live on prestige and snobbery. Consequently, she has undertaken the practical steps of calling her former husband to meet his family for the sole purpose of getting additional commitments for financial support for their children."}

ACT I It is after dinner on a January night, in the library in Lady Britomart Undershaft's house in Wilton Crescent. A large and comfortable settee is in the middle of the room, upholstered in dark leather. A person sitting on it [it is vacant at present] would have, on his right, Lady Britomart's writing table, with the lady herself busy at it; a smaller writing table behind him on his left; the door behind him on Lady Britomart's side; and a window with a window seat directly on his left. Near the window is an armchair. Lady Britomart is a woman of fifty or thereabouts, well dressed and yet careless of her dress, well bred and quite reckless of her breeding, well mannered and yet appallingly outspoken and indifferent to the opinion of her interlocutory, amiable and yet peremptory, arbitrary, and high-tempered to the last bearable degree, and withal a very typical managing matron of the upper class, treated as a naughty child until she grew into a scolding mother, and finally settling down with plenty of practical ability and worldly experience, limited in the oddest way with domestic and class limitations, conceiving the universe exactly as if it were a large house in Wilton Crescent, though handling her corner of it very effectively on that assumption, and being quite enlightened and liberal as to the books in the library, the pictures on the walls, the music in the portfolios, and the articles in the papers. Her son, Stephen, comes in. He is a gravely correct young man under 25, taking himself very seriously, but still in some awe of his mother, from childish habit and bachelor shyness rather than from any weakness of character. STEPHEN. What's the matter? LADY BRITOMART. Presently, Stephen. Stephen submissively walks to the settee and sits down. He takes up The Speaker. LADY BRITOMART. Don't begin to read, Stephen. I shall require all your attention. STEPHEN. It was only while I was waiting-- LADY BRITOMART. Don't make excuses, Stephen. [He puts down The Speaker]. Now! [She finishes her writing; rises; and comes to the settee]. I have not kept you waiting very long, I think. STEPHEN. Not at all, mother. LADY BRITOMART. Bring me my cushion. [He takes the cushion from the chair at the desk and arranges it for her as she sits down on the settee]. Sit down. [He sits down and fingers his tie nervously]. Don't fiddle with your tie, Stephen: there is nothing the matter with it. STEPHEN. I beg your pardon. [He fiddles with his watch chain instead]. LADY BRITOMART. Now are you attending to me, Stephen? STEPHEN. Of course, mother. LADY BRITOMART. No: it's not of course. I want something much more than your everyday matter-of-course attention. I am going to speak to you very seriously, Stephen. I wish you would let that chain alone. STEPHEN [hastily relinquishing the chain] Have I done anything to annoy you, mother? If so, it was quite unintentional. LADY BRITOMART [astonished] Nonsense! [With some remorse] My poor boy, did you think I was angry with you? STEPHEN. What is it, then, mother? You are making me very uneasy. LADY BRITOMART [squaring herself at him rather aggressively] Stephen: may I ask how soon you intend to realize that you are a grown-up man, and that I am only a woman? STEPHEN [amazed] Only a-- LADY BRITOMART. Don't repeat my words, please: It is a most aggravating habit. You must learn to face life seriously, Stephen. I really cannot bear the whole burden of our family affairs any longer. You must advise me: you must assume the responsibility. STEPHEN. I! LADY BRITOMART. Yes, you, of course. You were 24 last June. You've been at Harrow and Cambridge. You've been to India and Japan. You must know a lot of things now; unless you have wasted your time most scandalously. Well, advise me. STEPHEN [much perplexed] You know I have never interfered in the household-- LADY BRITOMART. No: I should think not. I don't want you to order the dinner. STEPHEN. I mean in our family affairs. LADY BRITOMART. Well, you must interfere now; for they are getting quite beyond me. STEPHEN [troubled] I have thought sometimes that perhaps I ought; but really, mother, I know so little about them; and what I do know is so painful--it is so impossible to mention some things to you--[he stops, ashamed]. LADY BRITOMART. I suppose you mean your father. STEPHEN [almost inaudibly] Yes. LADY BRITOMART. My dear: we can't go on all our lives not mentioning him. Of course you were quite right not to open the subject until I asked you to; but you are old enough now to be taken into my confidence, and to help me to deal with him about the girls. STEPHEN. But the girls are all right. They are engaged. LADY BRITOMART [complacently] Yes: I have made a very good match for Sarah. Charles Lomax will be a millionaire at 35. But that is ten years ahead; and in the meantime his trustees cannot under the terms of his father's will allow him more than 800 pounds a year. STEPHEN. But the will says also that if he increases his income by his own exertions, they may double the increase. LADY BRITOMART. Charles Lomax's exertions are much more likely to decrease his income than to increase it. Sarah will have to find at least another 800 pounds a year for the next ten years; and even then they will be as poor as church mice. And what about Barbara? I thought Barbara was going to make the most brilliant career of all of you. And what does she do? Joins the Salvation Army; discharges her maid; lives on a pound a week; and walks in one evening with a professor of Greek whom she has picked up in the street, and who pretends to be a Salvationist, and actually plays the big drum for her in public because he has fallen head over ears in love with her. STEPHEN. I was certainly rather taken aback when I heard they were engaged. Cusins is a very nice fellow, certainly: nobody would ever guess that he was born in Australia; but-- LADY BRITOMART. Oh, Adolphus Cusins will make a very good husband. After all, nobody can say a word against Greek: it stamps a man at once as an educated gentleman. And my family, thank Heaven, is not a pig-headed Tory one. We are Whigs, and believe in liberty. Let snobbish people say what they please: Barbara shall marry, not the man they like, but the man I like. STEPHEN. Of course I was thinking only of his income. However, he is not likely to be extravagant. LADY BRITOMART. Don't be too sure of that, Stephen. I know your quiet, simple, refined, poetic people like Adolphus--quite content with the best of everything! They cost more than your extravagant people, who are always as mean as they are second rate. No: Barbara will need at least 2000 pounds a year. You see it means two additional households. Besides, my dear, you must marry soon. I don't approve of the present fashion of philandering bachelors and late marriages; and I am trying to arrange something for you. STEPHEN. It's very good of you, mother; but perhaps I had better arrange that for myself. LADY BRITOMART. Nonsense! you are much too young to begin matchmaking: you would be taken in by some pretty little nobody. Of course I don't mean that you are not to be consulted: you know that as well as I do. [Stephen closes his lips and is silent]. Now don't sulk, Stephen. STEPHEN. I am not sulking, mother. What has all this got to do with--with--with my father? LADY BRITOMART. My dear Stephen: where is the money to come from? It is easy enough for you and the other children to live on my income as long as we are in the same house; but I can't keep four families in four separate houses. You know how poor my father is: he has barely seven thousand a year now; and really, if he were not the Earl of Stevenage, he would have to give up society. He can do nothing for us: he says, naturally enough, that it is absurd that he should be asked to provide for the children of a man who is rolling in money. You see, Stephen, your father must be fabulously wealthy, because there is always a war going on somewhere. STEPHEN. You need not remind me of that, mother. I have hardly ever opened a newspaper in my life without seeing our name in it. The Undershaft torpedo! The Undershaft quick firers! The Undershaft ten inch! the Undershaft disappearing rampart gun! the Undershaft submarine! and now the Undershaft aerial battleship! At Harrow they called me the Woolwich Infant. At Cambridge it was the same. A little brute at King's who was always trying to get up revivals, spoilt my Bible--your first birthday present to me--by writing under my name, "Son and heir to Undershaft and Lazarus, Death and Destruction Dealers: address, Christendom and Judea." But that was not so bad as the way I was kowtowed to everywhere because my father was making millions by selling cannons. LADY BRITOMART. It is not only the cannons, but the war loans that Lazarus arranges under cover of giving credit for the cannons. You know, Stephen, it's perfectly scandalous. Those two men, Andrew Undershaft and Lazarus, positively have Europe under their thumbs. That is why your father is able to behave as he does. He is above the law. Do you think Bismarck or Gladstone or Disraeli could have openly defied every social and moral obligation all their lives as your father has? They simply wouldn't have dared. I asked Gladstone to take it up. I asked The Times to take it up. I asked the Lord Chamberlain to take it up. But it was just like asking them to declare war on the Sultan. They WOULDN'T. They said they couldn't touch him. I believe they were afraid. STEPHEN. What could they do? He does not actually break the law. LADY BRITOMART. Not break the law! He is always breaking the law. He broke the law when he was born: his parents were not married. STEPHEN. Mother! Is that true? LADY BRITOMART. Of course it's true: that was why we separated. STEPHEN. He married without letting you know this! LADY BRITOMART [rather taken aback by this inference] Oh no. To do Andrew justice, that was not the sort of thing he did. Besides, you know the Undershaft motto: Unashamed. Everybody knew. STEPHEN. But you said that was why you separated. LADY BRITOMART. Yes, because he was not content with being a foundling himself: he wanted to disinherit you for another foundling. That was what I couldn't stand. STEPHEN [ashamed] Do you mean for--for--for-- LADY BRITOMART. Don't stammer, Stephen. Speak distinctly. STEPHEN. But this is so frightful to me, mother. To have to speak to you about such things! LADY BRITOMART. It's not pleasant for me, either, especially if you are still so childish that you must make it worse by a display of embarrassment. It is only in the middle classes, Stephen, that people get into a state of dumb helpless horror when they find that there are wicked people in the world. In our class, we have to decide what is to be done with wicked people; and nothing should disturb our self possession. Now ask your question properly. STEPHEN. Mother: you have no consideration for me. For Heaven's sake either treat me as a child, as you always do, and tell me nothing at all; or tell me everything and let me take it as best I can. LADY BRITOMART. Treat you as a child! What do you mean? It is most unkind and ungrateful of you to say such a thing. You know I have never treated any of you as children. I have always made you my companions and friends, and allowed you perfect freedom to do and say whatever you liked, so long as you liked what I could approve of. STEPHEN [desperately] I daresay we have been the very imperfect children of a very perfect mother; but I do beg you to let me alone for once, and tell me about this horrible business of my father wanting to set me aside for another son. LADY BRITOMART [amazed] Another son! I never said anything of the kind. I never dreamt of such a thing. This is what comes of interrupting me. STEPHEN. But you said-- LADY BRITOMART [cutting him short] Now be a good boy, Stephen, and listen to me patiently. The Undershafts are descended from a foundling in the parish of St. Andrew Undershaft in the city. That was long ago, in the reign of James the First. Well, this foundling was adopted by an armorer and gun-maker. In the course of time the foundling succeeded to the business; and from some notion of gratitude, or some vow or something, he adopted another foundling, and left the business to him. And that foundling did the same. Ever since that, the cannon business has always been left to an adopted foundling named Andrew Undershaft. STEPHEN. But did they never marry? Were there no legitimate sons? LADY BRITOMART. Oh yes: they married just as your father did; and they were rich enough to buy land for their own children and leave them well provided for. But they always adopted and trained some foundling to succeed them in the business; and of course they always quarrelled with their wives furiously over it. Your father was adopted in that way; and he pretends to consider himself bound to keep up the tradition and adopt somebody to leave the business to. Of course I was not going to stand that. There may have been some reason for it when the Undershafts could only marry women in their own class, whose sons were not fit to govern great estates. But there could be no excuse for passing over my son. STEPHEN [dubiously] I am afraid I should make a poor hand of managing a cannon foundry. LADY BRITOMART. Nonsense! you could easily get a manager and pay him a salary. STEPHEN. My father evidently had no great opinion of my capacity. LADY BRITOMART. Stuff, child! you were only a baby: it had nothing to do with your capacity. Andrew did it on principle, just as he did every perverse and wicked thing on principle. When my father remonstrated, Andrew actually told him to his face that history tells us of only two successful institutions: one the Undershaft firm, and the other the Roman Empire under the Antonines. That was because the Antonine emperors all adopted their successors. Such rubbish! The Stevenages are as good as the Antonines, I hope; and you are a Stevenage. But that was Andrew all over. There you have the man! Always clever and unanswerable when he was defending nonsense and wickedness: always awkward and sullen when he had to behave sensibly and decently! STEPHEN. Then it was on my account that your home life was broken up, mother. I am sorry. LADY BRITOMART. Well, dear, there were other differences. I really cannot bear an immoral man. I am not a Pharisee, I hope; and I should not have minded his merely doing wrong things: we are none of us perfect. But your father didn't exactly do wrong things: he said them and thought them: that was what was so dreadful. He really had a sort of religion of wrongness just as one doesn't mind men practising immorality so long as they own that they are in the wrong by preaching morality; so I couldn't forgive Andrew for preaching immorality while he practised morality. You would all have grown up without principles, without any knowledge of right and wrong, if he had been in the house. You know, my dear, your father was a very attractive man in some ways. Children did not dislike him; and he took advantage of it to put the wickedest ideas into their heads, and make them quite unmanageable. I did not dislike him myself: very far from it; but nothing can bridge over moral disagreement. STEPHEN. All this simply bewilders me, mother. People may differ about matters of opinion, or even about religion; but how can they differ about right and wrong? Right is right; and wrong is wrong; and if a man cannot distinguish them properly, he is either a fool or a rascal: that's all. LADY BRITOMART [touched] That's my own boy [she pats his cheek]! Your father never could answer that: he used to laugh and get out of it under cover of some affectionate nonsense. And now that you understand the situation, what do you advise me to do? STEPHEN. Well, what can you do? LADY BRITOMART. I must get the money somehow. STEPHEN. We cannot take money from him. I had rather go and live in some cheap place like Bedford Square or even Hampstead than take a farthing of his money. LADY BRITOMART. But after all, Stephen, our present income comes from Andrew. STEPHEN [shocked] I never knew that. LADY BRITOMART. Well, you surely didn't suppose your grandfather had anything to give me. The Stevenages could not do everything for you. We gave you social position. Andrew had to contribute something. He had a very good bargain, I think. STEPHEN [bitterly] We are utterly dependent on him and his cannons, then! LADY BRITOMART. Certainly not: the money is settled. But he provided it. So you see it is not a question of taking money from him or not: it is simply a question of how much. I don't want any more for myself. STEPHEN. Nor do I. LADY BRITOMART. But Sarah does; and Barbara does. That is, Charles Lomax and Adolphus Cusins will cost them more. So I must put my pride in my pocket and ask for it, I suppose. That is your advice, Stephen, is it not? STEPHEN. No. LADY BRITOMART [sharply] Stephen! STEPHEN. Of course if you are determined-- LADY BRITOMART. I am not determined: I ask your advice; and I am waiting for it. I will not have all the responsibility thrown on my shoulders. STEPHEN [obstinately] I would die sooner than ask him for another penny. LADY BRITOMART [resignedly] You mean that I must ask him. Very well, Stephen: It shall be as you wish. You will be glad to know that your grandfather concurs. But he thinks I ought to ask Andrew to come here and see the girls. After all, he must have some natural affection for them. STEPHEN. Ask him here!!! LADY BRITOMART. Do not repeat my words, Stephen. Where else can I ask him? STEPHEN. I never expected you to ask him at all. LADY BRITOMART. Now don't tease, Stephen. Come! you see that it is necessary that he should pay us a visit, don't you? STEPHEN [reluctantly] I suppose so, if the girls cannot do without his money. LADY BRITOMART. Thank you, Stephen: I knew you would give me the right advice when it was properly explained to you. I have asked your father to come this evening. [Stephen bounds from his seat] Don't jump, Stephen: it fidgets me. STEPHEN [in utter consternation] Do you mean to say that my father is coming here to-night--that he may be here at any moment? LADY BRITOMART [looking at her watch] I said nine. [He gasps. She rises]. Ring the bell, please. [Stephen goes to the smaller writing table; presses a button on it; and sits at it with his elbows on the table and his head in his hands, outwitted and overwhelmed]. It is ten minutes to nine yet; and I have to prepare the girls. I asked Charles Lomax and Adolphus to dinner on purpose that they might be here. Andrew had better see them in case he should cherish any delusions as to their being capable of supporting their wives. [The butler enters: Lady Britomart goes behind the settee to speak to him]. Morrison: go up to the drawingroom and tell everybody to come down here at once. [Morrison withdraws. Lady Britomart turns to Stephen]. Now remember, Stephen, I shall need all your countenance and authority. [He rises and tries to recover some vestige of these attributes]. Give me a chair, dear. [He pushes a chair forward from the wall to where she stands, near the smaller writing table. She sits down; and he goes to the armchair, into which he throws himself]. I don't know how Barbara will take it. Ever since they made her a major in the Salvation Army she has developed a propensity to have her own way and order people about which quite cows me sometimes. It's not ladylike: I'm sure I don't know where she picked it up. Anyhow, Barbara shan't bully me; but still it's just as well that your father should be here before she has time to refuse to meet him or make a fuss. Don't look nervous, Stephen, it will only encourage Barbara to make difficulties. I am nervous enough, goodness knows; but I don't show it. Sarah and Barbara come in with their respective young men, Charles Lomax and Adolphus Cusins. Sarah is slender, bored, and mundane. Barbara is robuster, jollier, much more energetic. Sarah is fashionably dressed: Barbara is in Salvation Army uniform. Lomax, a young man about town, is like many other young men about town. He is affected with a frivolous sense of humor which plunges him at the most inopportune moments into paroxysms of imperfectly suppressed laughter. Cusins is a spectacled student, slight, thin haired, and sweet voiced, with a more complex form of Lomax's complaint. His sense of humor is intellectual and subtle, and is complicated by an appalling temper. The lifelong struggle of a benevolent temperament and a high conscience against impulses of inhuman ridicule and fierce impatience has set up a chronic strain which has visibly wrecked his constitution. He is a most implacable, determined, tenacious, intolerant person who by mere force of character presents himself as--and indeed actually is--considerate, gentle, explanatory, even mild and apologetic, capable possibly of murder, but not of cruelty or coarseness. By the operation of some instinct which is not merciful enough to blind him with the illusions of love, he is obstinately bent on marrying Barbara. Lomax likes Sarah and thinks it will be rather a lark to marry her. Consequently he has not attempted to resist Lady Britomart's arrangements to that end. All four look as if they had been having a good deal of fun in the drawingroom. The girls enter first, leaving the swains outside. Sarah comes to the settee. Barbara comes in after her and stops at the door. BARBARA. Are Cholly and Dolly to come in? LADY BRITOMART [forcibly] Barbara: I will not have Charles called Cholly: the vulgarity of it positively makes me ill. BARBARA. It's all right, mother. Cholly is quite correct nowadays. Are they to come in? LADY BRITOMART. Yes, if they will behave themselves. BARBARA [through the door] Come in, Dolly, and behave yourself. Barbara comes to her mother's writing table. Cusins enters smiling, and wanders towards Lady Britomart. SARAH [calling] Come in, Cholly. [Lomax enters, controlling his features very imperfectly, and places himself vaguely between Sarah and Barbara]. LADY BRITOMART [peremptorily] Sit down, all of you. [They sit. Cusins crosses to the window and seats himself there. Lomax takes a chair. Barbara sits at the writing table and Sarah on the settee]. I don't in the least know what you are laughing at, Adolphus. I am surprised at you, though I expected nothing better from Charles Lomax. CUSINS [in a remarkably gentle voice] Barbara has been trying to teach me the West Ham Salvation March. LADY BRITOMART. I see nothing to laugh at in that; nor should you if you are really converted. CUSINS [sweetly] You were not present. It was really funny, I believe. LOMAX. Ripping. LADY BRITOMART. Be quiet, Charles. Now listen to me, children. Your father is coming here this evening. [General stupefaction]. LOMAX [remonstrating] Oh I say! LADY BRITOMART. You are not called on to say anything, Charles. SARAH. Are you serious, mother? LADY BRITOMART. Of course I am serious. It is on your account, Sarah, and also on Charles's. [Silence. Charles looks painfully unworthy]. I hope you are not going to object, Barbara. BARBARA. I! why should I? My father has a soul to be saved like anybody else. He's quite welcome as far as I am concerned. LOMAX [still remonstrant] But really, don't you know! Oh I say! LADY BRITOMART [frigidly] What do you wish to convey, Charles? LOMAX. Well, you must admit that this is a bit thick. LADY BRITOMART [turning with ominous suavity to Cusins] Adolphus: you are a professor of Greek. Can you translate Charles Lomax's remarks into reputable English for us? CUSINS [cautiously] If I may say so, Lady Brit, I think Charles has rather happily expressed what we all feel. Homer, speaking of Autolycus, uses the same phrase. LOMAX [handsomely] Not that I mind, you know, if Sarah don't. LADY BRITOMART [crushingly] Thank you. Have I your permission, Adolphus, to invite my own husband to my own house? CUSINS [gallantly] You have my unhesitating support in everything you do. LADY BRITOMART. Sarah: have you nothing to say? SARAH. Do you mean that he is coming regularly to live here? LADY BRITOMART. Certainly not. The spare room is ready for him if he likes to stay for a day or two and see a little more of you; but there are limits. SARAH. Well, he can't eat us, I suppose. I don't mind. LOMAX [chuckling] I wonder how the old man will take it. LADY BRITOMART. Much as the old woman will, no doubt, Charles. LOMAX [abashed] I didn't mean--at least-- LADY BRITOMART. You didn't think, Charles. You never do; and the result is, you never mean anything. And now please attend to me, children. Your father will be quite a stranger to us. LOMAX. I suppose he hasn't seen Sarah since she was a little kid. LADY BRITOMART. Not since she was a little kid, Charles, as you express it with that elegance of diction and refinement of thought that seem never to desert you. Accordingly--er-- [impatiently] Now I have forgotten what I was going to say. That comes of your provoking me to be sarcastic, Charles. Adolphus: will you kindly tell me where I was. CUSINS [sweetly] You were saying that as Mr Undershaft has not seen his children since they were babies, he will form his opinion of the way you have brought them up from their behavior to-night, and that therefore you wish us all to be particularly careful to conduct ourselves well, especially Charles. LOMAX. Look here: Lady Brit didn't say that. LADY BRITOMART [vehemently] I did, Charles. Adolphus's recollection is perfectly correct. It is most important that you should be good; and I do beg you for once not to pair off into opposite corners and giggle and whisper while I am speaking to your father. BARBARA. All right, mother. We'll do you credit. LADY BRITOMART. Remember, Charles, that Sarah will want to feel proud of you instead of ashamed of you. LOMAX. Oh I say! There's nothing to be exactly proud of, don't you know. LADY BRITOMART. Well, try and look as if there was. Morrison, pale and dismayed, breaks into the room in unconcealed disorder. MORRISON. Might I speak a word to you, my lady? LADY BRITOMART. Nonsense! Show him up. MORRISON. Yes, my lady. [He goes]. LOMAX. Does Morrison know who he is? LADY BRITOMART. Of course. Morrison has always been with us. LOMAX. It must be a regular corker for him, don't you know. LADY BRITOMART. Is this a moment to get on my nerves, Charles, with your outrageous expressions? LOMAX. But this is something out of the ordinary, really-- MORRISON [at the door] The--er--Mr Undershaft. [He retreats in confusion]. Andrew Undershaft comes in. All rise. Lady Britomart meets him in the middle of the room behind the settee. Andrew is, on the surface, a stoutish, easygoing elderly man, with kindly patient manners, and an engaging simplicity of character. But he has a watchful, deliberate, waiting, listening face, and formidable reserves of power, both bodily and mental, in his capacious chest and long head. His gentleness is partly that of a strong man who has learnt by experience that his natural grip hurts ordinary people unless he handles them very carefully, and partly the mellowness of age and success. He is also a little shy in his present very delicate situation. LADY BRITOMART. Good evening, Andrew. UNDERSHAFT. How d'ye do, my dear. LADY BRITOMART. You look a good deal older. UNDERSHAFT [apologetically] I AM somewhat older. [With a touch of courtship] Time has stood still with you. LADY BRITOMART [promptly] Rubbish! This is your family. UNDERSHAFT [surprised] Is it so large? I am sorry to say my memory is failing very badly in some things. [He offers his hand with paternal kindness to Lomax]. LOMAX [jerkily shaking his hand] Ahdedoo. UNDERSHAFT. I can see you are my eldest. I am very glad to meet you again, my boy. LOMAX [remonstrating] No but look here don't you know--[Overcome] Oh I say! LADY BRITOMART [recovering from momentary speechlessness] Andrew: do you mean to say that you don't remember how many children you have? UNDERSHAFT. Well, I am afraid I--. They have grown so much--er. Am I making any ridiculous mistake? I may as well confess: I recollect only one son. But so many things have happened since, of course--er-- LADY BRITOMART [decisively] Andrew: you are talking nonsense. Of course you have only one son. UNDERSHAFT. Perhaps you will be good enough to introduce me, my dear. LADY BRITOMART. That is Charles Lomax, who is engaged to Sarah. UNDERSHAFT. My dear sir, I beg your pardon. LOMAX. Not at all. Delighted, I assure you. LADY BRITOMART. This is Stephen. UNDERSHAFT [bowing] Happy to make your acquaintance, Mr Stephen. Then [going to Cusins] you must be my son. [Taking Cusins' hands in his] How are you, my young friend? [To Lady Britomart] He is very like you, my love. CUSINS. You flatter me, Mr Undershaft. My name is Cusins: engaged to Barbara. [Very explicitly] That is Major Barbara Undershaft, of the Salvation Army. That is Sarah, your second daughter. This is Stephen Undershaft, your son. UNDERSHAFT. My dear Stephen, I beg your pardon. STEPHEN. Not at all. UNDERSHAFT. Mr Cusins: I am much indebted to you for explaining so precisely. [Turning to Sarah] Barbara, my dear-- SARAH [prompting him] Sarah. UNDERSHAFT. Sarah, of course. [They shake hands. He goes over to Barbara] Barbara--I am right this time, I hope. BARBARA. Quite right. [They shake hands]. LADY BRITOMART [resuming command] Sit down, all of you. Sit down, Andrew. [She comes forward and sits on the settle. Cusins also brings his chair forward on her left. Barbara and Stephen resume their seats. Lomax gives his chair to Sarah and goes for another]. UNDERSHAFT. Thank you, my love. LOMAX [conversationally, as he brings a chair forward between the writing table and the settee, and offers it to Undershaft] Takes you some time to find out exactly where you are, don't it? UNDERSHAFT [accepting the chair] That is not what embarrasses me, Mr Lomax. My difficulty is that if I play the part of a father, I shall produce the effect of an intrusive stranger; and if I play the part of a discreet stranger, I may appear a callous father. LADY BRITOMART. There is no need for you to play any part at all, Andrew. You had much better be sincere and natural. UNDERSHAFT [submissively] Yes, my dear: I daresay that will be best. [Making himself comfortable] Well, here I am. Now what can I do for you all? LADY BRITOMART. You need not do anything, Andrew. You are one of the family. You can sit with us and enjoy yourself. Lomax's too long suppressed mirth explodes in agonized neighings. LADY BRITOMART [outraged] Charles Lomax: if you can behave yourself, behave yourself. If not, leave the room. LOMAX. I'm awfully sorry, Lady Brit; but really, you know, upon my soul! [He sits on the settee between Lady Britomart and Undershaft, quite overcome]. BARBARA. Why don't you laugh if you want to, Cholly? It's good for your inside. LADY BRITOMART. Barbara: you have had the education of a lady. Please let your father see that; and don't talk like a street girl. UNDERSHAFT. Never mind me, my dear. As you know, I am not a gentleman; and I was never educated. LOMAX [encouragingly] Nobody'd know it, I assure you. You look all right, you know. CUSINS. Let me advise you to study Greek, Mr Undershaft. Greek scholars are privileged men. Few of them know Greek; and none of them know anything else; but their position is unchallengeable. Other languages are the qualifications of waiters and commercial travellers: Greek is to a man of position what the hallmark is to silver. BARBARA. Dolly: don't be insincere. Cholly: fetch your concertina and play something for us. LOMAX [doubtfully to Undershaft] Perhaps that sort of thing isn't in your line, eh? UNDERSHAFT. I am particularly fond of music. LOMAX [delighted] Are you? Then I'll get it. [He goes upstairs for the instrument]. UNDERSHAFT. Do you play, Barbara? BARBARA. Only the tambourine. But Cholly's teaching me the concertina. UNDERSHAFT. Is Cholly also a member of the Salvation Army? BARBARA. No: he says it's bad form to be a dissenter. But I don't despair of Cholly. I made him come yesterday to a meeting at the dock gates, and take the collection in his hat. LADY BRITOMART. It is not my doing, Andrew. Barbara is old enough to take her own way. She has no father to advise her. BARBARA. Oh yes she has. There are no orphans in the Salvation Army. UNDERSHAFT. Your father there has a great many children and plenty of experience, eh? BARBARA [looking at him with quick interest and nodding] Just so. How did you come to understand that? [Lomax is heard at the door trying the concertina]. LADY BRITOMART. Come in, Charles. Play us something at once. LOMAX. Righto! [He sits down in his former place, and preludes]. UNDERSHAFT. One moment, Mr Lomax. I am rather interested in the Salvation Army. Its motto might be my own: Blood and Fire. LOMAX [shocked] But not your sort of blood and fire, you know. UNDERSHAFT. My sort of blood cleanses: my sort of fire purifies. BARBARA. So do ours. Come down to-morrow to my shelter--the West Ham shelter--and see what we're doing. We're going to march to a great meeting in the Assembly Hall at Mile End. Come and see the shelter and then march with us: it will do you a lot of good. Can you play anything? UNDERSHAFT. In my youth I earned pennies, and even shillings occasionally, in the streets and in public house parlors by my natural talent for stepdancing. Later on, I became a member of the Undershaft orchestral society, and performed passably on the tenor trombone. LOMAX [scandalized] Oh I say! BARBARA. Many a sinner has played himself into heaven on the trombone, thanks to the Army. LOMAX [to Barbara, still rather shocked] Yes; but what about the cannon business, don't you know? [To Undershaft] Getting into heaven is not exactly in your line, is it? LADY BRITOMART. Charles!!! LOMAX. Well; but it stands to reason, don't it? The cannon business may be necessary and all that: we can't get on without cannons; but it isn't right, you know. On the other hand, there may be a certain amount of tosh about the Salvation Army--I belong to the Established Church myself--but still you can't deny that it's religion; and you can't go against religion, can you? At least unless you're downright immoral, don't you know. UNDERSHAFT. You hardly appreciate my position, Mr Lomax-- LOMAX [hastily] I'm not saying anything against you personally, you know. UNDERSHAFT. Quite so, quite so. But consider for a moment. Here I am, a manufacturer of mutilation and murder. I find myself in a specially amiable humor just now because, this morning, down at the foundry, we blew twenty-seven dummy soldiers into fragments with a gun which formerly destroyed only thirteen. LOMAX [leniently] Well, the more destructive war becomes, the sooner it will be abolished, eh? UNDERSHAFT. Not at all. The more destructive war becomes the more fascinating we find it. No, Mr Lomax, I am obliged to you for making the usual excuse for my trade; but I am not ashamed of it. I am not one of those men who keep their morals and their business in watertight compartments. All the spare money my trade rivals spend on hospitals, cathedrals and other receptacles for conscience money, I devote to experiments and researches in improved methods of destroying life and property. I have always done so; and I always shall. Therefore your Christmas card moralities of peace on earth and goodwill among men are of no use to me. Your Christianity, which enjoins you to resist not evil, and to turn the other cheek, would make me a bankrupt. My morality--my religion--must have a place for cannons and torpedoes in it. STEPHEN [coldly--almost sullenly] You speak as if there were half a dozen moralities and religions to choose from, instead of one true morality and one true religion. UNDERSHAFT. For me there is only one true morality; but it might not fit you, as you do not manufacture aerial battleships. There is only one true morality for every man; but every man has not the same true morality. LOMAX [overtaxed] Would you mind saying that again? I didn't quite follow it. CUSINS. It's quite simple. As Euripides says, one man's meat is another man's poison morally as well as physically. UNDERSHAFT. Precisely. LOMAX. Oh, that. Yes, yes, yes. True. True. STEPHEN. In other words, some men are honest and some are scoundrels. BARBARA. Bosh. There are no scoundrels. UNDERSHAFT. Indeed? Are there any good men? BARBARA. No. Not one. There are neither good men nor scoundrels: there are just children of one Father; and the sooner they stop calling one another names the better. You needn't talk to me: I know them. I've had scores of them through my hands: scoundrels, criminals, infidels, philanthropists, missionaries, county councillors, all sorts. They're all just the same sort of sinner; and there's the same salvation ready for them all. UNDERSHAFT. May I ask have you ever saved a maker of cannons? BARBARA. No. Will you let me try? UNDERSHAFT. Well, I will make a bargain with you. If I go to see you to-morrow in your Salvation Shelter, will you come the day after to see me in my cannon works? BARBARA. Take care. It may end in your giving up the cannons for the sake of the Salvation Army. UNDERSHAFT. Are you sure it will not end in your giving up the Salvation Army for the sake of the cannons? BARBARA. I will take my chance of that. UNDERSHAFT. And I will take my chance of the other. [They shake hands on it]. Where is your shelter? BARBARA. In West Ham. At the sign of the cross. Ask anybody in Canning Town. Where are your works? UNDERSHAFT. In Perivale St Andrews. At the sign of the sword. Ask anybody in Europe. LOMAX. Hadn't I better play something? BARBARA. Yes. Give us Onward, Christian Soldiers. LOMAX. Well, that's rather a strong order to begin with, don't you know. Suppose I sing Thou'rt passing hence, my brother. It's much the same tune. BARBARA. It's too melancholy. You get saved, Cholly; and you'll pass hence, my brother, without making such a fuss about it. LADY BRITOMART. Really, Barbara, you go on as if religion were a pleasant subject. Do have some sense of propriety. UNDERSHAFT. I do not find it an unpleasant subject, my dear. It is the only one that capable people really care for. LADY BRITOMART [looking at her watch] Well, if you are determined to have it, I insist on having it in a proper and respectable way. Charles: ring for prayers. [General amazement. Stephen rises in dismay]. LOMAX [rising] Oh I say! UNDERSHAFT [rising] I am afraid I must be going. LADY BRITOMART. You cannot go now, Andrew: it would be most improper. Sit down. What will the servants think? UNDERSHAFT. My dear: I have conscientious scruples. May I suggest a compromise? If Barbara will conduct a little service in the drawingroom, with Mr Lomax as organist, I will attend it willingly. I will even take part, if a trombone can be procured. LADY BRITOMART. Don't mock, Andrew. UNDERSHAFT [shocked--to Barbara] You don't think I am mocking, my love, I hope. BARBARA. No, of course not; and it wouldn't matter if you were: half the Army came to their first meeting for a lark. [Rising] Come along. Come, Dolly. Come, Cholly. [She goes out with Undershaft, who opens the door for her. Cusins rises]. LADY BRITOMART. I will not be disobeyed by everybody. Adolphus: sit down. Charles: you may go. You are not fit for prayers: you cannot keep your countenance. LOMAX. Oh I say! [He goes out]. LADY BRITOMART [continuing] But you, Adolphus, can behave yourself if you choose to. I insist on your staying. CUSINS. My dear Lady Brit: there are things in the family prayer book that I couldn't bear to hear you say. LADY BRITOMART. What things, pray? CUSINS. Well, you would have to say before all the servants that we have done things we ought not to have done, and left undone things we ought to have done, and that there is no health in us. I cannot bear to hear you doing yourself such an unjustice, and Barbara such an injustice. As for myself, I flatly deny it: I have done my best. I shouldn't dare to marry Barbara--I couldn't look you in the face--if it were true. So I must go to the drawingroom. LADY BRITOMART [offended] Well, go. [He starts for the door]. And remember this, Adolphus [he turns to listen]: I have a very strong suspicion that you went to the Salvation Army to worship Barbara and nothing else. And I quite appreciate the very clever way in which you systematically humbug me. I have found you out. Take care Barbara doesn't. That's all. CUSINS [with unruffled sweetness] Don't tell on me. [He goes out]. LADY BRITOMART. Sarah: if you want to go, go. Anything's better than to sit there as if you wished you were a thousand miles away. SARAH [languidly] Very well, mamma. [She goes]. Lady Britomart, with a sudden flounce, gives way to a little gust of tears. STEPHEN [going to her] Mother: what's the matter? LADY BRITOMART [swishing away her tears with her handkerchief] Nothing. Foolishness. You can go with him, too, if you like, and leave me with the servants. STEPHEN. Oh, you mustn't think that, mother. I--I don't like him. LADY BRITOMART. The others do. That is the injustice of a woman's lot. A woman has to bring up her children; and that means to restrain them, to deny them things they want, to set them tasks, to punish them when they do wrong, to do all the unpleasant things. And then the father, who has nothing to do but pet them and spoil them, comes in when all her work is done and steals their affection from her. STEPHEN. He has not stolen our affection from you. It is only curiosity. LADY BRITOMART [violently] I won't be consoled, Stephen. There is nothing the matter with me. [She rises and goes towards the door]. STEPHEN. Where are you going, mother? LADY BRITOMART. To the drawingroom, of course. [She goes out. Onward, Christian Soldiers, on the concertina, with tambourine accompaniment, is heard when the door opens]. Are you coming, Stephen? STEPHEN. No. Certainly not. [She goes. He sits down on the settee, with compressed lips and an expression of strong dislike].

Act I (The opening scene between Stephen Undershaft and his mother, Lady Britomart)

https://web.archive.org/web/20201201082228/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/m/major-barbara/summary-and-analysis/act-i-the-opening-scene-between-stephen-undershaft-and-his-mother-lady-britomart

The play begins when the estranged wife of Andrew Undershaft, Lady Britomart, calls Stephen, her son, in for a conference. Lady Britomart is so domineering and Stephen is so intimidated that he is virtually speechless. She immediately corrects his behavior and reminds him that he is now twenty-four years old and thus a grown man, and that he has traveled throughout most of the world; therefore, it is now time that he take over some of the responsibilities of conducting the family's business affairs. Stephen becomes increasingly more intimidated by his mother and maintains that he has deliberately avoided entering into the family's affairs. Stephen, out of respect for his mother's feelings, has been especially reluctant to mention his father's name; Stephen's father, however, is exactly the topic that Lady Britomart wants to discuss. She says, "We can't go on all our lives not mentioning him." She then begins to lay out the problems facing them and the necessity for talking about Stephen's father, Andrew Undershaft, the fabulously wealthy munitions manufacturer who has not seen any of his family since the children were very small. As Lady Britomart outlines the "family problem," we learn that Stephen's two sisters are planning on marriage. Sarah Undershaft has made a good match, but her fiance cannot come into his millions until he is thirty-five years old. In the meantime, the couple will have to have more than his present eight-hundred-a-year allowance in order to live in the manner to which they are accustomed. Even worse, Barbara Undershaft, who showed such promise of making a brilliant match, has, instead, joined the Salvation Army, and she spends her evenings with a "professor of Greek," whom, according to Lady Britomart, Barbara "picked up in the street" and who pretends to be a Salvationist and plays the big Army drum for Barbara in public because he has "fallen head over ears in love with her." Lady Britomart, however, maintains -- indeed, she insists -- that she herself is not a snob; therefore, a professor of Greek will make a respectable and presentable husband because no one objects to classical Greek, but this pair will also need money because professors are notoriously as "poor as church mice." And, furthermore, it is a known "fact," according to Lady Britomart, that refined, poetic people like Adolphus Cusins need more money than other people do because they are too esoteric to understand money; thus, they will need a large sum of money for their marriage. Finally, Lady Britomart tells Stephen that she expects him to get married soon; he has been a bachelor long enough. With the above explanations and with the knowledge that Lady Britomart's father, the Earl of Stevenage, needs all of his resources to keep up his position in society, she wonders: Where is the money to come from? She then points out to Stephen that because there is always a war going on somewhere, Stephen's father surely must be fabulously wealthy. Stephen agrees and points out how well known the Undershaft name is and how he has been the victim of many unpleasant comments because his name is associated with the "blood and destruction" of the Undershaft munitions. In fact, they both agree, the firm of Undershaft and Lazarus controls most of the munitions of Europe , and it is beyond the arm of the law; thus, Andrew has used his power to establish his own eccentric concepts of morals and ethics. Here, it is important to note that Lady Britomart explains that she left Andrew Undershaft because he became head of the Undershaft corporations for one reason only -- because he was not a legal heir: He was illegitimate, a foundling -- and it has been a centuries-old tradition to leave the business to another foundling. Therefore, Lady Britomart became highly indignant when Andrew insisted that he would leave his wealth to another foundling rather than to his natural son, Stephen. Furthermore, while Andrew has lived a perfectly moral life himself, he has nevertheless advocated things that his wife considers immoral: "So I couldn't forgive Andrew for preaching immorality while he practiced morality." Therefore, she left Andrew to protect the children from his outrageous and unconventional morals and opinions. However, they have always been dependent on him financially, and even though Stephen is naively shocked to hear his mother speak so boldly, Lady Britomart points out that she has asked Undershaft to come here this very evening to discuss the financial arrangements which will be necessary for the marriages. Thus, Undershaft is due to arrive any minute. This impending appearance, as might be expected, causes further dismay for Stephen.

This first scene conventionally and economically sets up some of the main conflicts in the drama; that is, we learn who is to inherit the munitions factory and the facts about Andrew Undershaft's immense wealth. In traditional dramatic terms, this scene would be called "the exposition scene"; Shaw's technique is influenced by the famous Norwegian dramatist Henrik Ibsen, whom Shaw admired and wrote about . "Exposition" means, basically, presenting those matters which inform the audience about the situation of the play and explain the main issues that are to become the central core of the drama. Thus, the play opens with a confrontation between a mother and her son, and through their conversation, we learn a great deal. For example, the entire conversation takes place because of the necessity of arranging financial support for Stephen's two sisters, and therefore the subject of Stephen's and his sisters' father must be brought up. This, in turn, allows the audience to know that the father's name has never been discussed by Lady Britomart and her children; thus, the topic is a highly embarrassing one for her son. While Shaw is technically presenting his audience with the necessary background information for the drama which is to follow, he is also able, at the same time, to entertain his audience by playing up the conflict and the contrast between mother and son. Lady Britomart is a marvelous character; she is liberal enough to accept other peoples' opinions but only if they agree with her preconceived ideas. She adores advice from her son but only if it is the formulation of a course of action which she has already planned. As her name implies, Lady Britomart is the epitome of everything that is British. In a classic work of early English literature, Spenser's Faerie Queene, one of the central characters is Britomart, a female knight, symbolizing militant chastity; thus, Lady Britomart becomes Shaw's symbol of militant upper-class English morality. She has been exasperated with her husband -- not for anything immoral that he has done, but simply for the reason that he will not conform to what she considers to be the "proper" behavior for a person in his position. After all, he has proposed to disinherit his son in favor of a foundling, someone whom he has not even discovered yet -- and all for the sake of a principle. Lady Britomart, in contrast, stands firmly within the philosophy of the English aristocracy, assured that no foundling can possess the qualities that a member of a noble family can have; her son is, after all, the grandson of a English earl, and yet while espousing these views, Lady Britomart is able to caustically castigate her future son-in-law, Charles Lomax, a member of the nobility, because of his basic incompetence. In fact, it is Charles Lomax's incompetence and his inability to earn money that makes it necessary to call upon Undershaft for future financial aid. Furthermore, Lady Britomart sees no discrepancy between disapproving of Undershaft and the manner in which he makes money and the fact that she has been completely dependent upon his money throughout all of these years. Even her son Stephen is shocked to realize that all of their present income comes from Andrew Undershaft. Consequently, this conflict between the family's reliance upon this money for their existence introduces one of the main themes of the drama -- that is, the domestic dilemma will later be correlated with the dilemma of the Salvation Army when the Army will, finally, decide to gladly accept "tainted" money from "tainted" sources in order to insure its continued existence, and then it will pray for the "tainted" people who donated the money. Consequently, the domestic dilemma introduced in this first scene parallels one of the central themes of the drama. This scene also prepares us for the appearance of other characters. Even though Lady Britomart is sharply opinionated, we are ready to accept her evaluations of some of the other characters. Later, we see that her future son-in-law, Charles Lomax, has been described by her in perfect terms; he is, indeed, something of a "noodle" -- a rather fashionable but incompetent member of the aristocracy. Likewise, she snobbishly approves of having a scholar of Greek literature as a son-in-law, but she is also very practical and knows that one cannot live on prestige and snobbery. Consequently, she has undertaken the practical steps of calling her former husband to meet his family for the sole purpose of getting additional commitments for financial support for their children.

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/3790-chapters/act_2.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/Major Barbara/section_4_part_0.txt

Major Barbara.act 2

act 2

{"name": "Act II (Opening Scene)", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201201082228/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/m/major-barbara/summary-and-analysis/act-ii-opening-scene", "summary": "Act II takes place in the Salvation Army Shelter, an old warehouse which has recently been whitewashed. Two people are seen seated in the shelter; one is a man quite \"capable of anything in reason except honesty,\" whose name is Snobby Price. The other is a woman named Rummy Mitchens, who looks sixty due to the severity of her life but is probably only forty-five. As the curtain rises, Rummy asks Snobby what sort of trade he is in. Snobby, a painter with questionable socialist leanings, uses this opportunity to launch into an attack against the capitalistic system and in doing so shows himself to be a poor specimen of humanity, intent more on stealing, boasting, drinking, and lying that he is in doing an honest day's work. Rummy Mitchens then confesses that she pretends to be a worse sinner than she is because the girls at the Salvation Army love to fuss over a real sinner. Snobby then confesses that he is also playing the same game by making up stories about how he abuses his \"poor old mother\" when, in reality, his \"poor old mother\" actually beats him up. This playacting doesn't bother either one of them, however, for their public confessions help bring in charitable contributions and donations; thus, they are a benefit to the Army. Jenny Hill, a \"pretty Salvation lass of eighteen,\" enters with Peter Shirley, a workman who is half-starved and looks half-worn out even though he is only forty-six. He is bitter over the loss of his job to a younger man. He is very proud and will accept food only when he is assured that he can repay it later. Then suddenly, a young ruffian named Bill Walker appears in the door, blocking Jenny's exit, and he accuses her of turning his girlfriend against him. He is out for revenge, and he begins by roughhousing Jenny. When Rummy tries to protest, Bill Walker knocks her down with the back of his hand; then after manhandling Jenny further, he sends Jenny, Snobby, and Rummy retreating to the kitchen. Peter Shirley, however, stands up to the young bully, and he challenges him to fight someone his own age and size instead of picking on old men and women and young girls. Shirley then taunts Bill Walker by daring him to fight against a man named Todger Fairmile, a fellow who recently joined the Salvation Army after having won a wrestling match in a public contest. Bill Walker is not so anxious to confront a professional and so Shirley continues to taunt him. Just before Major Barbara enters, Shirley reminds Bill Walker that Barbara is the granddaughter of an earl.", "analysis": "The first part of Act II presents some of the typical inhabitants of the Salvation Army Shelter. The first two, Snobby Price and Rummy Mitchens, reveal themselves to be frauds. Shaw's point is not just to point out the hypocrisy; it is more directly aimed at suggesting that there is nothing noble or romantic about poverty. Instead of creating an atmosphere of independence, poverty breeds various types of hypocrisy, and the Salvation Army often attracts hypocrites who take advantage of the shelters. In fact, ironically, these hypocrites contribute to the success of the shelters because by publicly testifying their made-up confessions to sins which they never committed, they are able to enlarge the coffers of the collection plates. Shaw is also taking a sarcastic dig at a type of religion which emphasizes atonement through public confession because once the sinner confesses and is forgiven for his sins, he is then free to sin again. In addition, Shaw disliked the theatrical aspect of public confession, which encouraged the individual to soak up the public's attention by exaggerating his own unworthiness, as is seen in the case of both Snobby Price and Rummy Mitchens. The opening scene, furthermore, lends additional credence to Undershaft's theories later in the play -- that is, by presenting us with two hypocrites who use the Salvation Army as a crutch, Undershaft's point later on that the best way to help the poor is to find them jobs and make them independent will be more convincing in the light of Snobby's and Rummy's deceit. Furthermore, when Undershaft speaks of the evils of poverty, we will already have seen this example of two people who demean themselves by confessing to lies in order to ingratiate themselves to the Army. We must constantly remember that, for Shaw, the greatest crime was poverty, and in this scene, he presents no romantic view of it; instead, he shows us the misery of the people who are gathered in an old shelter in mid-January, shivering and hungry and lying and quarrelling. With the arrival of Peter Shirley, we have an example of an honest poor man who has been a victim of the capitalistic class, the class which Shaw is attacking. Peter Shirley, unlike Snobby, sincerely desires to work, and he resents a system which will deny him the opportunity to work simply because he is now forty-six years old. Furthermore, it is difficult for a man who has earned his own way for his entire life to now take charity. Peter Shirley will stand, then, as a contrast to Snobby and Rummy, and he will also be a living illustration of the type of society that is needed in Undershaft's ideal socialist village, as will be revealed in the final act -- a village where no one like Shirley will have to suffer the humiliation of accepting charity or will have his self-respect threatened by forces which he doesn't understand. With the entrance of Bill Walker, Shaw introduces us to yet another type of human being, someone who will be even more instrumental to the shelter in terms of Major Barbara's theories. He is first presented as a hardened ruffian who will tolerate no other person's opinion and who resorts to violence at a moment's notice. He will be the toughest person to convert because of his great physical power and because of his stubbornness. Through him, we will see how Barbara is the most effective person in the Salvation Army."}

ACT II The yard of the West Ham shelter of the Salvation Army is a cold place on a January morning. The building itself, an old warehouse, is newly whitewashed. Its gabled end projects into the yard in the middle, with a door on the ground floor, and another in the loft above it without any balcony or ladder, but with a pulley rigged over it for hoisting sacks. Those who come from this central gable end into the yard have the gateway leading to the street on their left, with a stone horse-trough just beyond it, and, on the right, a penthouse shielding a table from the weather. There are forms at the table; and on them are seated a man and a woman, both much down on their luck, finishing a meal of bread [one thick slice each, with margarine and golden syrup] and diluted milk. The man, a workman out of employment, is young, agile, a talker, a poser, sharp enough to be capable of anything in reason except honesty or altruistic considerations of any kind. The woman is a commonplace old bundle of poverty and hard-worn humanity. She looks sixty and probably is forty-five. If they were rich people, gloved and muffed and well wrapped up in furs and overcoats, they would be numbed and miserable; for it is a grindingly cold, raw, January day; and a glance at the background of grimy warehouses and leaden sky visible over the whitewashed walls of the yard would drive any idle rich person straight to the Mediterranean. But these two, being no more troubled with visions of the Mediterranean than of the moon, and being compelled to keep more of their clothes in the pawnshop, and less on their persons, in winter than in summer, are not depressed by the cold: rather are they stung into vivacity, to which their meal has just now given an almost jolly turn. The man takes a pull at his mug, and then gets up and moves about the yard with his hands deep in his pockets, occasionally breaking into a stepdance. THE WOMAN. Feel better otter your meal, sir? THE MAN. No. Call that a meal! Good enough for you, props; but wot is it to me, an intelligent workin man. THE WOMAN. Workin man! Wot are you? THE MAN. Painter. THE WOMAN [sceptically] Yus, I dessay. THE MAN. Yus, you dessay! I know. Every loafer that can't do nothink calls isself a painter. Well, I'm a real painter: grainer, finisher, thirty-eight bob a week when I can get it. THE WOMAN. Then why don't you go and get it? THE MAN. I'll tell you why. Fust: I'm intelligent--fffff! it's rotten cold here [he dances a step or two]--yes: intelligent beyond the station o life into which it has pleased the capitalists to call me; and they don't like a man that sees through em. Second, an intelligent bein needs a doo share of appiness; so I drink somethink cruel when I get the chawnce. Third, I stand by my class and do as little as I can so's to leave arf the job for me fellow workers. Fourth, I'm fly enough to know wots inside the law and wots outside it; and inside it I do as the capitalists do: pinch wot I can lay me ands on. In a proper state of society I am sober, industrious and honest: in Rome, so to speak, I do as the Romans do. Wots the consequence? When trade is bad--and it's rotten bad just now--and the employers az to sack arf their men, they generally start on me. THE WOMAN. What's your name? THE MAN. Price. Bronterre O'Brien Price. Usually called Snobby Price, for short. THE WOMAN. Snobby's a carpenter, ain't it? You said you was a painter. PRICE. Not that kind of snob, but the genteel sort. I'm too uppish, owing to my intelligence, and my father being a Chartist and a reading, thinking man: a stationer, too. I'm none of your common hewers of wood and drawers of water; and don't you forget it. [He returns to his seat at the table, and takes up his mug]. Wots YOUR name? THE WOMAN. Rummy Mitchens, sir. PRICE [quaffing the remains of his milk to her] Your elth, Miss Mitchens. RUMMY [correcting him] Missis Mitchens. PRICE. Wot! Oh Rummy, Rummy! Respectable married woman, Rummy, gittin rescued by the Salvation Army by pretendin to be a bad un. Same old game! RUMMY. What am I to do? I can't starve. Them Salvation lasses is dear good girls; but the better you are, the worse they likes to think you were before they rescued you. Why shouldn't they av a bit o credit, poor loves? They're worn to rags by their work. And where would they get the money to rescue us if we was to let on we're no worse than other people? You know what ladies and gentlemen are. PRICE. Thievin swine! Wish I ad their job, Rummy, all the same. Wot does Rummy stand for? Pet name props? RUMMY. Short for Romola. PRICE. For wot!? RUMMY. Romola. It was out of a new book. Somebody me mother wanted me to grow up like. PRICE. We're companions in misfortune, Rummy. Both on us got names that nobody cawnt pronounce. Consequently I'm Snobby and you're Rummy because Bill and Sally wasn't good enough for our parents. Such is life! RUMMY. Who saved you, Mr. Price? Was it Major Barbara? PRICE. No: I come here on my own. I'm goin to be Bronterre O'Brien Price, the converted painter. I know wot they like. I'll tell em how I blasphemed and gambled and wopped my poor old mother-- RUMMY [shocked] Used you to beat your mother? PRICE. Not likely. She used to beat me. No matter: you come and listen to the converted painter, and you'll hear how she was a pious woman that taught me me prayers at er knee, an how I used to come home drunk and drag her out o bed be er snow white airs, an lam into er with the poker. RUMMY. That's what's so unfair to us women. Your confessions is just as big lies as ours: you don't tell what you really done no more than us; but you men can tell your lies right out at the meetins and be made much of for it; while the sort o confessions we az to make az to be wispered to one lady at a time. It ain't right, spite of all their piety. PRICE. Right! Do you spose the Army'd be allowed if it went and did right? Not much. It combs our air and makes us good little blokes to be robbed and put upon. But I'll play the game as good as any of em. I'll see somebody struck by lightnin, or hear a voice sayin "Snobby Price: where will you spend eternity?" I'll ave a time of it, I tell you. RUMMY. You won't be let drink, though. PRICE. I'll take it out in gorspellin, then. I don't want to drink if I can get fun enough any other way. Jenny Hill, a pale, overwrought, pretty Salvation lass of 18, comes in through the yard gate, leading Peter Shirley, a half hardened, half worn-out elderly man, weak with hunger. JENNY [supporting him] Come! pluck up. I'll get you something to eat. You'll be all right then. PRICE [rising and hurrying officiously to take the old man off Jenny's hands] Poor old man! Cheer up, brother: you'll find rest and peace and appiness ere. Hurry up with the food, miss: e's fair done. [Jenny hurries into the shelter]. Ere, buck up, daddy! She's fetchin y'a thick slice o breadn treacle, an a mug o skyblue. [He seats him at the corner of the table]. RUMMY [gaily] Keep up your old art! Never say die! SHIRLEY. I'm not an old man. I'm ony 46. I'm as good as ever I was. The grey patch come in my hair before I was thirty. All it wants is three pennorth o hair dye: am I to be turned on the streets to starve for it? Holy God! I've worked ten to twelve hours a day since I was thirteen, and paid my way all through; and now am I to be thrown into the gutter and my job given to a young man that can do it no better than me because I've black hair that goes white at the first change? PRICE [cheerfully] No good jawrin about it. You're ony a jumped-up, jerked-off, orspittle-turned-out incurable of an ole workin man: who cares about you? Eh? Make the thievin swine give you a meal: they've stole many a one from you. Get a bit o your own back. [Jenny returns with the usual meal]. There you are, brother. Awsk a blessin an tuck that into you. SHIRLEY [looking at it ravenously but not touching it, and crying like a child] I never took anything before. JENNY [petting him] Come, come! the Lord sends it to you: he wasn't above taking bread from his friends; and why should you be? Besides, when we find you a job you can pay us for it if you like. SHIRLEY [eagerly] Yes, yes: that's true. I can pay you back: it's only a loan. [Shivering] Oh Lord! oh Lord! [He turns to the table and attacks the meal ravenously]. JENNY. Well, Rummy, are you more comfortable now? RUMMY. God bless you, lovey! You've fed my body and saved my soul, haven't you? [Jenny, touched, kisses her] Sit down and rest a bit: you must be ready to drop. JENNY. I've been going hard since morning. But there's more work than we can do. I mustn't stop. RUMMY. Try a prayer for just two minutes. You'll work all the better after. JENNY [her eyes lighting up] Oh isn't it wonderful how a few minutes prayer revives you! I was quite lightheaded at twelve o'clock, I was so tired; but Major Barbara just sent me to pray for five minutes; and I was able to go on as if I had only just begun. [To Price] Did you have a piece of bread? PAIGE [with unction] Yes, miss; but I've got the piece that I value more; and that's the peace that passeth hall hannerstennin. RUMMY [fervently] Glory Hallelujah! Bill Walker, a rough customer of about 25, appears at the yard gate and looks malevolently at Jenny. JENNY. That makes me so happy. When you say that, I feel wicked for loitering here. I must get to work again. She is hurrying to the shelter, when the new-comer moves quickly up to the door and intercepts her. His manner is so threatening that she retreats as he comes at her truculently, driving her down the yard. BILL. I know you. You're the one that took away my girl. You're the one that set er agen me. Well, I'm goin to av er out. Not that I care a curse for her or you: see? But I'll let er know; and I'll let you know. I'm goin to give er a doin that'll teach er to cut away from me. Now in with you and tell er to come out afore I come in and kick er out. Tell er Bill Walker wants er. She'll know what that means; and if she keeps me waitin it'll be worse. You stop to jaw back at me; and I'll start on you: d'ye hear? There's your way. In you go. [He takes her by the arm and slings her towards the door of the shelter. She falls on her hand and knee. Rummy helps her up again]. PRICE [rising, and venturing irresolutely towards Bill]. Easy there, mate. She ain't doin you no arm. BILL. Who are you callin mate? [Standing over him threateningly]. You're goin to stand up for her, are you? Put up your ands. RUMMY [running indignantly to him to scold him]. Oh, you great brute-- [He instantly swings his left hand back against her face. She screams and reels back to the trough, where she sits down, covering her bruised face with her hands and rocking and moaning with pain]. JENNY [going to her]. Oh God forgive you! How could you strike an old woman like that? BILL [seizing her by the hair so violently that she also screams, and tearing her away from the old woman]. You Gawd forgive me again and I'll Gawd forgive you one on the jaw that'll stop you prayin for a week. [Holding her and turning fiercely on Price]. Av you anything to say agen it? Eh? PRICE [intimidated]. No, matey: she ain't anything to do with me. BILL. Good job for you! I'd put two meals into you and fight you with one finger after, you starved cur. [To Jenny] Now are you goin to fetch out Mog Habbijam; or am I to knock your face off you and fetch her myself? JENNY [writhing in his grasp] Oh please someone go in and tell Major Barbara--[she screams again as he wrenches her head down; and Price and Rummy, flee into the shelter]. BILL. You want to go in and tell your Major of me, do you? JENNY. Oh please don't drag my hair. Let me go. BILL. Do you or don't you? [She stifles a scream]. Yes or no. JENNY. God give me strength-- BILL [striking her with his fist in the face] Go and show her that, and tell her if she wants one like it to come and interfere with me. [Jenny, crying with pain, goes into the shed. He goes to the form and addresses the old man]. Here: finish your mess; and get out o my way. SHIRLEY [springing up and facing him fiercely, with the mug in his hand] You take a liberty with me, and I'll smash you over the face with the mug and cut your eye out. Ain't you satisfied--young whelps like you--with takin the bread out o the mouths of your elders that have brought you up and slaved for you, but you must come shovin and cheekin and bullyin in here, where the bread o charity is sickenin in our stummicks? BILL [contemptuously, but backing a little] Wot good are you, you old palsy mug? Wot good are you? SHIRLEY. As good as you and better. I'll do a day's work agen you or any fat young soaker of your age. Go and take my job at Horrockses, where I worked for ten year. They want young men there: they can't afford to keep men over forty-five. They're very sorry--give you a character and happy to help you to get anything suited to your years--sure a steady man won't be long out of a job. Well, let em try you. They'll find the differ. What do you know? Not as much as how to beeyave yourself--layin your dirty fist across the mouth of a respectable woman! BILL. Don't provoke me to lay it acrost yours: d'ye hear? SHIRLEY [with blighting contempt] Yes: you like an old man to hit, don't you, when you've finished with the women. I ain't seen you hit a young one yet. BILL [stung] You lie, you old soupkitchener, you. There was a young man here. Did I offer to hit him or did I not? SHIRLEY. Was he starvin or was he not? Was he a man or only a crosseyed thief an a loafer? Would you hit my son-in-law's brother? BILL. Who's he? SHIRLEY. Todger Fairmile o Balls Pond. Him that won 20 pounds off the Japanese wrastler at the music hall by standin out 17 minutes 4 seconds agen him. BILL [sullenly] I'm no music hall wrastler. Can he box? SHIRLEY. Yes: an you can't. BILL. Wot! I can't, can't I? Wot's that you say [threatening him]? SHIRLEY [not budging an inch] Will you box Todger Fairmile if I put him on to you? Say the word. BILL. [subsiding with a slouch] I'll stand up to any man alive, if he was ten Todger Fairmiles. But I don't set up to be a perfessional. SHIRLEY [looking down on him with unfathomable disdain] YOU box! Slap an old woman with the back o your hand! You hadn't even the sense to hit her where a magistrate couldn't see the mark of it, you silly young lump of conceit and ignorance. Hit a girl in the jaw and ony make her cry! If Todger Fairmile'd done it, she wouldn't a got up inside o ten minutes, no more than you would if he got on to you. Yah! I'd set about you myself if I had a week's feedin in me instead o two months starvation. [He returns to the table to finish his meal]. BILL [following him and stooping over him to drive the taunt in] You lie! you have the bread and treacle in you that you come here to beg. SHIRLEY [bursting into tears] Oh God! it's true: I'm only an old pauper on the scrap heap. [Furiously] But you'll come to it yourself; and then you'll know. You'll come to it sooner than a teetotaller like me, fillin yourself with gin at this hour o the mornin! BILL. I'm no gin drinker, you old liar; but when I want to give my girl a bloomin good idin I like to av a bit o devil in me: see? An here I am, talkin to a rotten old blighter like you sted o givin her wot for. [Working himself into a rage] I'm goin in there to fetch her out. [He makes vengefully for the shelter door]. SHIRLEY. You're goin to the station on a stretcher, more likely; and they'll take the gin and the devil out of you there when they get you inside. You mind what you're about: the major here is the Earl o Stevenage's granddaughter. BILL [checked] Garn! SHIRLEY. You'll see. BILL [his resolution oozing] Well, I ain't done nothin to er. SHIRLEY. Spose she said you did! who'd believe you? BILL [very uneasy, skulking back to the corner of the penthouse] Gawd! There's no jastice in this country. To think wot them people can do! I'm as good as er. SHIRLEY. Tell her so. It's just what a fool like you would do. Barbara, brisk and businesslike, comes from the shelter with a note book, and addresses herself to Shirley. Bill, cowed, sits down in the corner on a form, and turns his back on them. BARBARA. Good morning. SHIRLEY [standing up and taking off his hat] Good morning, miss. BARBARA. Sit down: make yourself at home. [He hesitates; but she puts a friendly hand on his shoulder and makes him obey]. Now then! since you've made friends with us, we want to know all about you. Names and addresses and trades. SHIRLEY. Peter Shirley. Fitter. Chucked out two months ago because I was too old. BARBARA [not at all surprised] You'd pass still. Why didn't you dye your hair? SHIRLEY. I did. Me age come out at a coroner's inquest on me daughter. BARBARA. Steady? SHIRLEY. Teetotaller. Never out of a job before. Good worker. And sent to the knockers like an old horse! BARBARA. No matter: if you did your part God will do his. SHIRLEY [suddenly stubborn] My religion's no concern of anybody but myself. BARBARA [guessing] I know. Secularist? SHIRLEY [hotly] Did I offer to deny it? BARBARA. Why should you? My own father's a Secularist, I think. Our Father--yours and mine--fulfils himself in many ways; and I daresay he knew what he was about when he made a Secularist of you. So buck up, Peter! we can always find a job for a steady man like you. [Shirley, disarmed, touches his hat. She turns from him to Bill]. What's your name? BILL [insolently] Wot's that to you? BARBARA [calmly making a note] Afraid to give his name. Any trade? BILL. Who's afraid to give his name? [Doggedly, with a sense of heroically defying the House of Lords in the person of Lord Stevenage] If you want to bring a charge agen me, bring it. [She waits, unruffled]. My name's Bill Walker. BARBARA [as if the name were familiar: trying to remember how] Bill Walker? [Recollecting] Oh, I know: you're the man that Jenny Hill was praying for inside just now. [She enters his name in her note book]. BILL. Who's Jenny Hill? And what call has she to pray for me? BARBARA. I don't know. Perhaps it was you that cut her lip. BILL [defiantly] Yes, it was me that cut her lip. I ain't afraid o you. BARBARA. How could you be, since you're not afraid of God? You're a brave man, Mr. Walker. It takes some pluck to do our work here; but none of us dare lift our hand against a girl like that, for fear of her father in heaven. BILL [sullenly] I want none o your cantin jaw. I suppose you think I come here to beg from you, like this damaged lot here. Not me. I don't want your bread and scrape and catlap. I don't believe in your Gawd, no more than you do yourself. BARBARA [sunnily apologetic and ladylike, as on a new footing with him] Oh, I beg your pardon for putting your name down, Mr. Walker. I didn't understand. I'll strike it out. BILL [taking this as a slight, and deeply wounded by it] Eah! you let my name alone. Ain't it good enough to be in your book? BARBARA [considering] Well, you see, there's no use putting down your name unless I can do something for you, is there? What's your trade? BILL [still smarting] That's no concern o yours. BARBARA. Just so. [very businesslike] I'll put you down as [writing] the man who--struck--poor little Jenny Hill--in the mouth. BILL [rising threateningly] See here. I've ad enough o this. BARBARA [quite sunny and fearless] What did you come to us for? BILL. I come for my girl, see? I come to take her out o this and to break er jaws for her. BARBARA [complacently] You see I was right about your trade. [Bill, on the point of retorting furiously, finds himself, to his great shame and terror, in danger of crying instead. He sits down again suddenly]. What's her name? BILL [dogged] Er name's Mog Abbijam: thats wot her name is. BARBARA. Oh, she's gone to Canning Town, to our barracks there. BILL [fortified by his resentment of Mog's perfidy] is she? [Vindictively] Then I'm goin to Kennintahn arter her. [He crosses to the gate; hesitates; finally comes back at Barbara]. Are you lyin to me to get shut o me? BARBARA. I don't want to get shut of you. I want to keep you here and save your soul. You'd better stay: you're going to have a bad time today, Bill. BILL. Who's goin to give it to me? You, props. BARBARA. Someone you don't believe in. But you'll be glad afterwards. BILL [slinking off] I'll go to Kennintahn to be out o the reach o your tongue. [Suddenly turning on her with intense malice] And if I don't find Mog there, I'll come back and do two years for you, selp me Gawd if I don't! BARBARA [a shade kindlier, if possible] It's no use, Bill. She's got another bloke. BILL. Wot! BARBARA. One of her own converts. He fell in love with her when he saw her with her soul saved, and her face clean, and her hair washed. BILL [surprised] Wottud she wash it for, the carroty slut? It's red. BARBARA. It's quite lovely now, because she wears a new look in her eyes with it. It's a pity you're too late. The new bloke has put your nose out of joint, Bill. BILL. I'll put his nose out o joint for him. Not that I care a curse for her, mind that. But I'll teach her to drop me as if I was dirt. And I'll teach him to meddle with my Judy. Wots iz bleedin name? BARBARA. Sergeant Todger Fairmile. SHIRLEY [rising with grim joy] I'll go with him, miss. I want to see them two meet. I'll take him to the infirmary when it's over. BILL [to Shirley, with undissembled misgiving] Is that im you was speakin on? SHIRLEY. That's him. BILL. Im that wrastled in the music all? SHIRLEY. The competitions at the National Sportin Club was worth nigh a hundred a year to him. He's gev em up now for religion; so he's a bit fresh for want of the exercise he was accustomed to. He'll be glad to see you. Come along. BILL. Wots is weight? SHIRLEY. Thirteen four. [Bill's last hope expires]. BARBARA. Go and talk to him, Bill. He'll convert you. SHIRLEY. He'll convert your head into a mashed potato. BILL [sullenly] I ain't afraid of him. I ain't afraid of ennybody. But he can lick me. She's done me. [He sits down moodily on the edge of the horse trough]. SHIRLEY. You ain't goin. I thought not. [He resumes his seat]. BARBARA [calling] Jenny! JENNY [appearing at the shelter door with a plaster on the corner of her mouth] Yes, Major. BARBARA. Send Rummy Mitchens out to clear away here. JENNY. I think she's afraid. BARBARA [her resemblance to her mother flashing out for a moment] Nonsense! she must do as she's told. JENNY [calling into the shelter] Rummy: the Major says you must come. Jenny comes to Barbara, purposely keeping on the side next Bill, lest he should suppose that she shrank from him or bore malice. BARBARA. Poor little Jenny! Are you tired? [Looking at the wounded cheek] Does it hurt? JENNY. No: it's all right now. It was nothing. BARBARA [critically] It was as hard as he could hit, I expect. Poor Bill! You don't feel angry with him, do you? JENNY. Oh no, no, no: indeed I don't, Major, bless his poor heart! [Barbara kisses her; and she runs away merrily into the shelter. Bill writhes with an agonizing return of his new and alarming symptoms, but says nothing. Rummy Mitchens comes from the shelter]. BARBARA [going to meet Rummy] Now Rummy, bustle. Take in those mugs and plates to be washed; and throw the crumbs about for the birds. Rummy takes the three plates and mugs; but Shirley takes back his mug from her, as there it still come milk left in it. RUMMY. There ain't any crumbs. This ain't a time to waste good bread on birds. PRICE [appearing at the shelter door] Gentleman come to see the shelter, Major. Says he's your father. BARBARA. All right. Coming. [Snobby goes back into the shelter, followed by Barbara]. RUMMY [stealing across to Bill and addressing him in a subdued voice, but with intense conviction] I'd av the lor of you, you flat eared pignosed potwalloper, if she'd let me. You're no gentleman, to hit a lady in the face. [Bill, with greater things moving in him, takes no notice]. SHIRLEY [following her] Here! in with you and don't get yourself into more trouble by talking. RUMMY [with hauteur] I ain't ad the pleasure o being hintroduced to you, as I can remember. [She goes into the shelter with the plates]. BILL [savagely] Don't you talk to me, d'ye hear. You lea me alone, or I'll do you a mischief. I'm not dirt under your feet, anyway. SHIRLEY [calmly] Don't you be afeerd. You ain't such prime company that you need expect to be sought after. [He is about to go into the shelter when Barbara comes out, with Undershaft on her right]. BARBARA. Oh there you are, Mr Shirley! [Between them] This is my father: I told you he was a Secularist, didn't I? Perhaps you'll be able to comfort one another. UNDERSHAFT [startled] A Secularist! Not the least in the world: on the contrary, a confirmed mystic. BARBARA. Sorry, I'm sure. By the way, papa, what is your religion--in case I have to introduce you again? UNDERSHAFT. My religion? Well, my dear, I am a Millionaire. That is my religion. BARBARA. Then I'm afraid you and Mr Shirley wont be able to comfort one another after all. You're not a Millionaire, are you, Peter? SHIRLEY. No; and proud of it. UNDERSHAFT [gravely] Poverty, my friend, is not a thing to be proud of. SHIRLEY [angrily] Who made your millions for you? Me and my like. What's kep us poor? Keepin you rich. I wouldn't have your conscience, not for all your income. UNDERSHAFT. I wouldn't have your income, not for all your conscience, Mr Shirley. [He goes to the penthouse and sits down on a form]. BARBARA [stopping Shirley adroitly as he is about to retort] You wouldn't think he was my father, would you, Peter? Will you go into the shelter and lend the lasses a hand for a while: we're worked off our feet. SHIRLEY [bitterly] Yes: I'm in their debt for a meal, ain't I? BARBARA. Oh, not because you're in their debt; but for love of them, Peter, for love of them. [He cannot understand, and is rather scandalized]. There! Don't stare at me. In with you; and give that conscience of yours a holiday [bustling him into the shelter]. SHIRLEY [as he goes in] Ah! it's a pity you never was trained to use your reason, miss. You'd have been a very taking lecturer on Secularism. Barbara turns to her father. UNDERSHAFT. Never mind me, my dear. Go about your work; and let me watch it for a while. BARBARA. All right. UNDERSHAFT. For instance, what's the matter with that out-patient over there? BARBARA [looking at Bill, whose attitude has never changed, and whose expression of brooding wrath has deepened] Oh, we shall cure him in no time. Just watch. [She goes over to Bill and waits. He glances up at her and casts his eyes down again, uneasy, but grimmer than ever]. It would be nice to just stamp on Mog Habbijam's face, wouldn't it, Bill? BILL [starting up from the trough in consternation] It's a lie: I never said so. [She shakes her head]. Who told you wot was in my mind? BARBARA. Only your new friend. BILL. Wot new friend? BARBARA. The devil, Bill. When he gets round people they get miserable, just like you. HILL [with a heartbreaking attempt at devil-may-care cheerfulness] I ain't miserable. [He sits down again, and stretches his legs in an attempt to seem indifferent]. BARBARA. Well, if you're happy, why don't you look happy, as we do? BILL [his legs curling back in spite of him] I'm appy enough, I tell you. Why don't you lea me alown? Wot av I done to you? I ain't smashed your face, av I? BARBARA [softly: wooing his soul] It's not me that's getting at you, Bill. BILL. Who else is it? BARBARA. Somebody that doesn't intend you to smash women's faces, I suppose. Somebody or something that wants to make a man of you. BILL [blustering] Make a man o ME! Ain't I a man? eh? ain't I a man? Who sez I'm not a man? BARBARA. There's a man in you somewhere, I suppose. But why did he let you hit poor little Jenny Hill? That wasn't very manly of him, was it? BILL [tormented] Av done with it, I tell you. Chock it. I'm sick of your Jenny Ill and er silly little face. BARBARA. Then why do you keep thinking about it? Why does it keep coming up against you in your mind? You're not getting converted, are you? BILL [with conviction] Not ME. Not likely. Not arf. BARBARA. That's right, Bill. Hold out against it. Put out your strength. Don't let's get you cheap. Todger Fairmile said he wrestled for three nights against his Salvation harder than he ever wrestled with the Jap at the music hall. He gave in to the Jap when his arm was going to break. But he didn't give in to his salvation until his heart was going to break. Perhaps you'll escape that. You haven't any heart, have you? BILL. Wot dye mean? Wy ain't I got a art the same as ennybody else? BARBARA. A man with a heart wouldn't have bashed poor little Jenny's face, would he? BILL [almost crying] Ow, will you lea me alown? Av I ever offered to meddle with you, that you come noggin and provowkin me lawk this? [He writhes convulsively from his eyes to his toes]. BARBARA [with a steady soothing hand on his arm and a gentle voice that never lets him go] It's your soul that's hurting you, Bill, and not me. We've been through it all ourselves. Come with us, Bill. [He looks wildly round]. To brave manhood on earth and eternal glory in heaven. [He is on the point of breaking down]. Come. [A drum is heard in the shelter; and Bill, with a gasp, escapes from the spell as Barbara turns quickly. Adolphus enters from the shelter with a big drum]. Oh! there you are, Dolly. Let me introduce a new friend of mine, Mr Bill Walker. This is my bloke, Bill: Mr Cusins. [Cusins salutes with his drumstick]. BILL. Goin to marry im? BARBARA. Yes. BILL [fervently] Gawd elp im! Gawd elp im! BARBARA. Why? Do you think he won't be happy with me? BILL. I've only ad to stand it for a mornin: e'll av to stand it for a lifetime. CUSINS. That is a frightful reflection, Mr Walker. But I can't tear myself away from her. BILL. Well, I can. [To Barbara] Eah! do you know where I'm goin to, and wot I'm goin to do? BARBARA. Yes: you're going to heaven; and you're coming back here before the week's out to tell me so. BILL. You lie. I'm goin to Kennintahn, to spit in Todger Fairmile's eye. I bashed Jenny Ill's face; and now I'll get me own face bashed and come back and show it to er. E'll it me ardern I it er. That'll make us square. [To Adolphus] Is that fair or is it not? You're a genlmn: you oughter know. BARBARA. Two black eyes wont make one white one, Bill. BILL. I didn't ast you. Cawn't you never keep your mahth shut? I ast the genlmn. CUSINS [reflectively] Yes: I think you're right, Mr Walker. Yes: I should do it. It's curious: it's exactly what an ancient Greek would have done. BARBARA. But what good will it do? CUSINS. Well, it will give Mr Fairmile some exercise; and it will satisfy Mr Walker's soul. BILL. Rot! there ain't no sach a thing as a soul. Ah kin you tell wether I've a soul or not? You never seen it. BARBARA. I've seen it hurting you when you went against it. BILL [with compressed aggravation] If you was my girl and took the word out o me mahth lawk thet, I'd give you suthink you'd feel urtin, so I would. [To Adolphus] You take my tip, mate. Stop er jawr; or you'll die afore your time. [With intense expression] Wore aht: thets wot you'll be: wore aht. [He goes away through the gate]. CUSINS [looking after him] I wonder! BARBARA. Dolly! [indignant, in her mother's manner]. CUSINS. Yes, my dear, it's very wearing to be in love with you. If it lasts, I quite think I shall die young. BARBARA. Should you mind? CUSINS. Not at all. [He is suddenly softened, and kisses her over the drum, evidently not for the first time, as people cannot kiss over a big drum without practice. Undershaft coughs]. BARBARA. It's all right, papa, we've not forgotten you. Dolly: explain the place to papa: I haven't time. [She goes busily into the shelter]. Undershaft and Adolpbus now have the yard to themselves. Undershaft, seated on a form, and still keenly attentive, looks hard at Adolphus. Adolphus looks hard at him. UNDERSHAFT. I fancy you guess something of what is in my mind, Mr Cusins. [Cusins flourishes his drumsticks as if in the art of beating a lively rataplan, but makes no sound]. Exactly so. But suppose Barbara finds you out! CUSINS. You know, I do not admit that I am imposing on Barbara. I am quite genuinely interested in the views of the Salvation Army. The fact is, I am a sort of collector of religions; and the curious thing is that I find I can believe them all. By the way, have you any religion? UNDERSHAFT. Yes. CUSINS. Anything out of the common? UNDERSHAFT. Only that there are two things necessary to Salvation. CUSINS [disappointed, but polite] Ah, the Church Catechism. Charles Lomax also belongs to the Established Church. UNDERSHAFT. The two things are-- CUSINS. Baptism and-- UNDERSHAFT. No. Money and gunpowder. CUSINS [surprised, but interested] That is the general opinion of our governing classes. The novelty is in hearing any man confess it. UNDERSHAFT. Just so. CUSINS. Excuse me: is there any place in your religion for honor, justice, truth, love, mercy and so forth? UNDERSHAFT. Yes: they are the graces and luxuries of a rich, strong, and safe life. CUSINS. Suppose one is forced to choose between them and money or gunpowder? UNDERSHAFT. Choose money and gunpowder; for without enough of both you cannot afford the others. CUSINS. That is your religion? UNDERSHAFT. Yes. The cadence of this reply makes a full close in the conversation. Cusins twists his face dubiously and contemplates Undershaft. Undershaft contemplates him. CUSINS. Barbara won't stand that. You will have to choose between your religion and Barbara. UNDERSHAFT. So will you, my friend. She will find out that that drum of yours is hollow. CUSINS. Father Undershaft: you are mistaken: I am a sincere Salvationist. You do not understand the Salvation Army. It is the army of joy, of love, of courage: it has banished the fear and remorse and despair of the old hellridden evangelical sects: it marches to fight the devil with trumpet and drum, with music and dancing, with banner and palm, as becomes a sally from heaven by its happy garrison. It picks the waster out of the public house and makes a man of him: it finds a worm wriggling in a back kitchen, and lo! a woman! Men and women of rank too, sons and daughters of the Highest. It takes the poor professor of Greek, the most artificial and self-suppressed of human creatures, from his meal of roots, and lets loose the rhapsodist in him; reveals the true worship of Dionysos to him; sends him down the public street drumming dithyrambs [he plays a thundering flourish on the drum]. UNDERSHAFT. You will alarm the shelter. CUSINS. Oh, they are accustomed to these sudden ecstasies of piety. However, if the drum worries you-- [he pockets the drumsticks; unhooks the drum; and stands it on the ground opposite the gateway]. UNDERSHAFT. Thank you. CUSINS. You remember what Euripides says about your money and gunpowder? UNDERSHAFT. No. CUSINS [declaiming] One and another In money and guns may outpass his brother; And men in their millions float and flow And seethe with a million hopes as leaven; And they win their will; or they miss their will; And their hopes are dead or are pined for still: But whoe'er can know As the long days go That to live is happy, has found his heaven. My translation: what do you think of it? UNDERSHAFT. I think, my friend, that if you wish to know, as the long days go, that to live is happy, you must first acquire money enough for a decent life, and power enough to be your own master. CUSINS. You are damnably discouraging. [He resumes his declamation]. Is it so hard a thing to see That the spirit of God--whate'er it be-- The Law that abides and changes not, ages long, The Eternal and Nature-born: these things be strong. What else is Wisdom? What of Man's endeavor, Or God's high grace so lovely and so great? To stand from fear set free? to breathe and wait? To hold a hand uplifted over Fate? And shall not Barbara be loved for ever? UNDERSHAFT. Euripides mentions Barbara, does he? CUSINS. It is a fair translation. The word means Loveliness. UNDERSHAFT. May I ask--as Barbara's father--how much a year she is to be loved for ever on? CUSINS. As Barbara's father, that is more your affair than mine. I can feed her by teaching Greek: that is about all. UNDERSHAFT. Do you consider it a good match for her? CUSINS [with polite obstinacy] Mr Undershaft: I am in many ways a weak, timid, ineffectual person; and my health is far from satisfactory. But whenever I feel that I must have anything, I get it, sooner or later. I feel that way about Barbara. I don't like marriage: I feel intensely afraid of it; and I don't know what I shall do with Barbara or what she will do with me. But I feel that I and nobody else must marry her. Please regard that as settled.--Not that I wish to be arbitrary; but why should I waste your time in discussing what is inevitable? UNDERSHAFT. You mean that you will stick at nothing not even the conversion of the Salvation Army to the worship of Dionysos. CUSINS. The business of the Salvation Army is to save, not to wrangle about the name of the pathfinder. Dionysos or another: what does it matter? UNDERSHAFT [rising and approaching him] Professor Cusins you are a young man after my own heart. CUSINS. Mr Undershaft: you are, as far as I am able to gather, a most infernal old rascal; but you appeal very strongly to my sense of ironic humor. Undershaft mutely offers his hand. They shake. UNDERSHAFT [suddenly concentrating himself] And now to business. CUSINS. Pardon me. We were discussing religion. Why go back to such an uninteresting and unimportant subject as business? UNDERSHAFT. Religion is our business at present, because it is through religion alone that we can win Barbara. CUSINS. Have you, too, fallen in love with Barbara? UNDERSHAFT. Yes, with a father's love. CUSINS. A father's love for a grown-up daughter is the most dangerous of all infatuations. I apologize for mentioning my own pale, coy, mistrustful fancy in the same breath with it. UNDERSHAFT. Keep to the point. We have to win her; and we are neither of us Methodists. CUSINS. That doesn't matter. The power Barbara wields here--the power that wields Barbara herself--is not Calvinism, not Presbyterianism, not Methodism-- UNDERSHAFT. Not Greek Paganism either, eh? CUSINS. I admit that. Barbara is quite original in her religion. UNDERSHAFT [triumphantly] Aha! Barbara Undershaft would be. Her inspiration comes from within herself. CUSINS. How do you suppose it got there? UNDERSHAFT [in towering excitement] It is the Undershaft inheritance. I shall hand on my torch to my daughter. She shall make my converts and preach my gospel. CUSINS. What! Money and gunpowder! UNDERSHAFT. Yes, money and gunpowder; freedom and power; command of life and command of death. CUSINS [urbanely: trying to bring him down to earth] This is extremely interesting, Mr Undershaft. Of course you know that you are mad. UNDERSHAFT [with redoubled force] And you? CUSINS. Oh, mad as a hatter. You are welcome to my secret since I have discovered yours. But I am astonished. Can a madman make cannons? UNDERSHAFT. Would anyone else than a madman make them? And now [with surging energy] question for question. Can a sane man translate Euripides? CUSINS. No. UNDERSHAFT [reining him by the shoulder] Can a sane woman make a man of a waster or a woman of a worm? CUSINS [reeling before the storm] Father Colossus--Mammoth Millionaire-- UNDERSHAFT [pressing him] Are there two mad people or three in this Salvation shelter to-day? CUSINS. You mean Barbara is as mad as we are! UNDERSHAFT [pushing him lightly off and resuming his equanimity suddenly and completely] Pooh, Professor! let us call things by their proper names. I am a millionaire; you are a poet; Barbara is a savior of souls. What have we three to do with the common mob of slaves and idolaters? [He sits down again with a shrug of contempt for the mob]. CUSINS. Take care! Barbara is in love with the common people. So am I. Have you never felt the romance of that love? UNDERSHAFT [cold and sardonic] Have you ever been in love with Poverty, like St Francis? Have you ever been in love with Dirt, like St Simeon? Have you ever been in love with disease and suffering, like our nurses and philanthropists? Such passions are not virtues, but the most unnatural of all the vices. This love of the common people may please an earl's granddaughter and a university professor; but I have been a common man and a poor man; and it has no romance for me. Leave it to the poor to pretend that poverty is a blessing: leave it to the coward to make a religion of his cowardice by preaching humility: we know better than that. We three must stand together above the common people: how else can we help their children to climb up beside us? Barbara must belong to us, not to the Salvation Army. CUSINS. Well, I can only say that if you think you will get her away from the Salvation Army by talking to her as you have been talking to me, you don't know Barbara. UNDERSHAFT. My friend: I never ask for what I can buy. CUSINS [in a white fury] Do I understand you to imply that you can buy Barbara? UNDERSHAFT. No; but I can buy the Salvation Army. CUSINS. Quite impossible. UNDERSHAFT. You shall see. All religious organizations exist by selling themselves to the rich. CUSINS. Not the Army. That is the Church of the poor. UNDERSHAFT. All the more reason for buying it. CUSINS. I don't think you quite know what the Army does for the poor. UNDERSHAFT. Oh yes I do. It draws their teeth: that is enough for me--as a man of business-- CUSINS. Nonsense! It makes them sober-- UNDERSHAFT. I prefer sober workmen. The profits are larger. CUSINS. --honest-- UNDERSHAFT. Honest workmen are the most economical. CUSINS. --attached to their homes-- UNDERSHAFT. So much the better: they will put up with anything sooner than change their shop. CUSINS. --happy-- UNDERSHAFT. An invaluable safeguard against revolution. CUSINS. --unselfish-- UNDERSHAFT. Indifferent to their own interests, which suits me exactly. CUSINS. --with their thoughts on heavenly things-- UNDERSHAFT [rising] And not on Trade Unionism nor Socialism. Excellent. CUSINS [revolted] You really are an infernal old rascal. UNDERSHAFT [indicating Peter Shirley, who has just came from the shelter and strolled dejectedly down the yard between them] And this is an honest man! SHIRLEY. Yes; and what av I got by it? [he passes on bitterly and sits on the form, in the corner of the penthouse]. Snobby Price, beaming sanctimoniously, and Jenny Hill, with a tambourine full of coppers, come from the shelter and go to the drum, on which Jenny begins to count the money. UNDERSHAFT [replying to Shirley] Oh, your employers must have got a good deal by it from first to last. [He sits on the table, with one foot on the side form. Cusins, overwhelmed, sits down on the same form nearer the shelter. Barbara comes from the shelter to the middle of the yard. She is excited and a little overwrought]. BARBARA. We've just had a splendid experience meeting at the other gate in Cripps's lane. I've hardly ever seen them so much moved as they were by your confession, Mr Price. PRICE. I could almost be glad of my past wickedness if I could believe that it would elp to keep hathers stright. BARBARA. So it will, Snobby. How much, Jenny? JENNY. Four and tenpence, Major. BARBARA. Oh Snobby, if you had given your poor mother just one more kick, we should have got the whole five shillings! PRICE. If she heard you say that, miss, she'd be sorry I didn't. But I'm glad. Oh what a joy it will be to her when she hears I'm saved! UNDERSHAFT. Shall I contribute the odd twopence, Barbara? The millionaire's mite, eh? [He takes a couple of pennies from his pocket.] BARBARA. How did you make that twopence? UNDERSHAFT. As usual. By selling cannons, torpedoes, submarines, and my new patent Grand Duke hand grenade. BARBARA. Put it back in your pocket. You can't buy your Salvation here for twopence: you must work it out. UNDERSHAFT. Is twopence not enough? I can afford a little more, if you press me. BARBARA. Two million millions would not be enough. There is bad blood on your hands; and nothing but good blood can cleanse them. Money is no use. Take it away. [She turns to Cusins]. Dolly: you must write another letter for me to the papers. [He makes a wry face]. Yes: I know you don't like it; but it must be done. The starvation this winter is beating us: everybody is unemployed. The General says we must close this shelter if we cant get more money. I force the collections at the meetings until I am ashamed, don't I, Snobby? PRICE. It's a fair treat to see you work it, miss. The way you got them up from three-and-six to four-and-ten with that hymn, penny by penny and verse by verse, was a caution. Not a Cheap Jack on Mile End Waste could touch you at it. BARBARA. Yes; but I wish we could do without it. I am getting at last to think more of the collection than of the people's souls. And what are those hatfuls of pence and halfpence? We want thousands! tens of thousands! hundreds of thousands! I want to convert people, not to be always begging for the Army in a way I'd die sooner than beg for myself. UNDERSHAFT [in profound irony] Genuine unselfishness is capable of anything, my dear. BARBARA [unsuspectingly, as she turns away to take the money from the drum and put it in a cash bag she carries] Yes, isn't it? [Undershaft looks sardonically at Cusins]. CUSINS [aside to Undershaft] Mephistopheles! Machiavelli! BARBARA [tears coming into her eyes as she ties the bag and pockets it] How are we to feed them? I can't talk religion to a man with bodily hunger in his eyes. [Almost breaking down] It's frightful. JENNY [running to her] Major, dear-- BARBARA [rebounding] No: don't comfort me. It will be all right. We shall get the money. UNDERSHAFT. How? JENNY. By praying for it, of course. Mrs Baines says she prayed for it last night; and she has never prayed for it in vain: never once. [She goes to the gate and looks out into the street]. BARBARA [who has dried her eyes and regained her composure] By the way, dad, Mrs Baines has come to march with us to our big meeting this afternoon; and she is very anxious to meet you, for some reason or other. Perhaps she'll convert you. UNDERSHAFT. I shall be delighted, my dear. JENNY [at the gate: excitedly] Major! Major! Here's that man back again. BARBARA. What man? JENNY. The man that hit me. Oh, I hope he's coming back to join us. Bill Walker, with frost on his jacket, comes through the gate, his hands deep in his pockets and his chin sunk between his shoulders, like a cleaned-out gambler. He halts between Barbara and the drum. BARBARA. Hullo, Bill! Back already! BILL [nagging at her] Bin talkin ever sense, av you? BARBARA. Pretty nearly. Well, has Todger paid you out for poor Jenny's jaw? BILL. NO he ain't. BARBARA. I thought your jacket looked a bit snowy. BILL. So it is snowy. You want to know where the snow come from, don't you? BARBARA. Yes. BILL. Well, it come from off the ground in Parkinses Corner in Kennintahn. It got rubbed off be my shoulders see? BARBARA. Pity you didn't rub some off with your knees, Bill! That would have done you a lot of good. BILL [with your mirthless humor] I was saving another man's knees at the time. E was kneelin on my ed, so e was. JENNY. Who was kneeling on your head? BILL. Todger was. E was prayin for me: prayin comfortable with me as a carpet. So was Mog. So was the ole bloomin meetin. Mog she sez "O Lord break is stubborn spirit; but don't urt is dear art." That was wot she said. "Don't urt is dear art"! An er bloke--thirteen stun four!--kneelin wiv all is weight on me. Funny, ain't it? JENNY. Oh no. We're so sorry, Mr Walker. BARBARA [enjoying it frankly] Nonsense! of course it's funny. Served you right, Bill! You must have done something to him first. BILL [doggedly] I did wot I said I'd do. I spit in is eye. E looks up at the sky and sez, "O that I should be fahnd worthy to be spit upon for the gospel's sake!" a sez; an Mog sez "Glory Allelloolier!"; an then a called me Brother, an dahned me as if I was a kid and a was me mother washin me a Setterda nawt. I adn't just no show wiv im at all. Arf the street prayed; an the tother arf larfed fit to split theirselves. [To Barbara] There! are you settisfawd nah? BARBARA [her eyes dancing] Wish I'd been there, Bill. BILL. Yes: you'd a got in a hextra bit o talk on me, wouldn't you? JENNY. I'm so sorry, Mr. Walker. BILL [fiercely] Don't you go bein sorry for me: you've no call. Listen ere. I broke your jawr. JENNY. No, it didn't hurt me: indeed it didn't, except for a moment. It was only that I was frightened. BILL. I don't want to be forgive be you, or be ennybody. Wot I did I'll pay for. I tried to get me own jawr broke to settisfaw you-- JENNY [distressed] Oh no-- BILL [impatiently] Tell y'I did: cawn't you listen to wot's bein told you? All I got be it was bein made a sight of in the public street for me pains. Well, if I cawn't settisfaw you one way, I can another. Listen ere! I ad two quid saved agen the frost; an I've a pahnd of it left. A mate n mine last week ad words with the Judy e's goin to marry. E give er wot-for; an e's bin fined fifteen bob. E ad a right to it er because they was goin to be marrid; but I adn't no right to it you; so put anather fawv bob on an call it a pahnd's worth. [He produces a sovereign]. Ere's the money. Take it; and let's av no more o your forgivin an prayin and your Major jawrin me. Let wot I done be done and paid for; and let there be a end of it. JENNY. Oh, I couldn't take it, Mr. Walker. But if you would give a shilling or two to poor Rummy Mitchens! you really did hurt her; and she's old. BILL [contemptuously] Not likely. I'd give her anather as soon as look at er. Let her av the lawr o me as she threatened! She ain't forgiven me: not mach. Wot I done to er is not on me mawnd--wot she [indicating Barbara] might call on me conscience--no more than stickin a pig. It's this Christian game o yours that I won't av played agen me: this bloomin forgivin an noggin an jawrin that makes a man that sore that iz lawf's a burdn to im. I won't av it, I tell you; so take your money and stop throwin your silly bashed face hup agen me. JENNY. Major: may I take a little of it for the Army? BARBARA. No: the Army is not to be bought. We want your soul, Bill; and we'll take nothing less. BILL [bitterly] I know. It ain't enough. Me an me few shillins is not good enough for you. You're a earl's grendorter, you are. Nothin less than a underd pahnd for you. UNDERSHAFT. Come, Barbara! you could do a great deal of good with a hundred pounds. If you will set this gentleman's mind at ease by taking his pound, I will give the other ninety-nine [Bill, astounded by such opulence, instinctively touches his cap]. BARBARA. Oh, you're too extravagant, papa. Bill offers twenty pieces of silver. All you need offer is the other ten. That will make the standard price to buy anybody who's for sale. I'm not; and the Army's not. [To Bill] You'll never have another quiet moment, Bill, until you come round to us. You can't stand out against your salvation. BILL [sullenly] I cawn't stend aht agen music all wrastlers and artful tongued women. I've offered to pay. I can do no more. Take it or leave it. There it is. [He throws the sovereign on the drum, and sits down on the horse-trough. The coin fascinates Snobby Price, who takes an early opportunity of dropping his cap on it]. Mrs Baines comes from the shelter. She is dressed as a Salvation Army Commissioner. She is an earnest looking woman of about 40, with a caressing, urgent voice, and an appealing manner. BARBARA. This is my father, Mrs Baines. [Undershaft comes from the table, taking his hat off with marked civility]. Try what you can do with him. He won't listen to me, because he remembers what a fool I was when I was a baby. [She leaves them together and chats with Jenny]. MRS BAINES. Have you been shown over the shelter, Mr Undershaft? You know the work we're doing, of course. UNDERSHAFT [very civilly] The whole nation knows it, Mrs Baines. MRS BAINES. No, Sir: the whole nation does not know it, or we should not be crippled as we are for want of money to carry our work through the length and breadth of the land. Let me tell you that there would have been rioting this winter in London but for us. UNDERSHAFT. You really think so? MRS BAINES. I know it. I remember 1886, when you rich gentlemen hardened your hearts against the cry of the poor. They broke the windows of your clubs in Pall Mall. UNDERSHAFT [gleaming with approval of their method] And the Mansion House Fund went up next day from thirty thousand pounds to seventy-nine thousand! I remember quite well. MRS BAINES. Well, won't you help me to get at the people? They won't break windows then. Come here, Price. Let me show you to this gentleman [Price comes to be inspected]. Do you remember the window breaking? PRICE. My ole father thought it was the revolution, ma'am. MRS BAINES. Would you break windows now? PRICE. Oh no ma'm. The windows of eaven av bin opened to me. I know now that the rich man is a sinner like myself. RUMMY [appearing above at the loft door] Snobby Price! SNOBBY. Wot is it? RUMMY. Your mother's askin for you at the other gate in Crippses Lane. She's heard about your confession [Price turns pale]. MRS BAINES. Go, Mr. Price; and pray with her. JENNY. You can go through the shelter, Snobby. PRICE [to Mrs Baines] I couldn't face her now; ma'am, with all the weight of my sins fresh on me. Tell her she'll find her son at ome, waitin for her in prayer. [He skulks off through the gate, incidentally stealing the sovereign on his way out by picking up his cap from the drum]. MRS BAINES [with swimming eyes] You see how we take the anger and the bitterness against you out of their hearts, Mr Undershaft. UNDERSHAFT. It is certainly most convenient and gratifying to all large employers of labor, Mrs Baines. MRS BAINES. Barbara: Jenny: I have good news: most wonderful news. [Jenny runs to her]. My prayers have been answered. I told you they would, Jenny, didn't I? JENNY. Yes, yes. BARBARA [moving nearer to the drum] Have we got money enough to keep the shelter open? MRS BAINES. I hope we shall have enough to keep all the shelters open. Lord Saxmundham has promised us five thousand pounds-- BARBARA. Hooray! JENNY. Glory! MRS BAINES. --if-- BARBARA. "If!" If what? MRS BAINES. If five other gentlemen will give a thousand each to make it up to ten thousand. BARBARA. Who is Lord Saxmundham? I never heard of him. UNDERSHAFT [who has pricked up his ears at the peer's name, and is now watching Barbara curiously] A new creation, my dear. You have heard of Sir Horace Bodger? BARBARA. Bodger! Do you mean the distiller? Bodger's whisky! UNDERSHAFT. That is the man. He is one of the greatest of our public benefactors. He restored the cathedral at Hakington. They made him a baronet for that. He gave half a million to the funds of his party: they made him a baron for that. SHIRLEY. What will they give him for the five thousand? UNDERSHAFT. There is nothing left to give him. So the five thousand, I should think, is to save his soul. MRS BAINES. Heaven grant it may! Oh Mr. Undershaft, you have some very rich friends. Can't you help us towards the other five thousand? We are going to hold a great meeting this afternoon at the Assembly Hall in the Mile End Road. If I could only announce that one gentleman had come forward to support Lord Saxmundham, others would follow. Don't you know somebody? Couldn't you? Wouldn't you? [her eyes fill with tears] oh, think of those poor people, Mr Undershaft: think of how much it means to them, and how little to a great man like you. UNDERSHAFT [sardonically gallant] Mrs Baines: you are irresistible. I can't disappoint you; and I can't deny myself the satisfaction of making Bodger pay up. You shall have your five thousand pounds. MRS BAINES. Thank God! UNDERSHAFT. You don't thank me? MRS BAINES. Oh sir, don't try to be cynical: don't be ashamed of being a good man. The Lord will bless you abundantly; and our prayers will be like a strong fortification round you all the days of your life. [With a touch of caution] You will let me have the cheque to show at the meeting, won't you? Jenny: go in and fetch a pen and ink. [Jenny runs to the shelter door]. UNDERSHAFT. Do not disturb Miss Hill: I have a fountain pen. [Jenny halts. He sits at the table and writes the cheque. Cusins rises to make more room for him. They all watch him silently]. BILL [cynically, aside to Barbara, his voice and accent horribly debased] Wot prawce Selvytion nah? BARBARA. Stop. [Undershaft stops writing: they all turn to her in surprise]. Mrs Baines: are you really going to take this money? MRS BAINES [astonished] Why not, dear? BARBARA. Why not! Do you know what my father is? Have you forgotten that Lord Saxmundham is Bodger the whisky man? Do you remember how we implored the County Council to stop him from writing Bodger's Whisky in letters of fire against the sky; so that the poor drinkruined creatures on the embankment could not wake up from their snatches of sleep without being reminded of their deadly thirst by that wicked sky sign? Do you know that the worst thing I have had to fight here is not the devil, but Bodger, Bodger, Bodger, with his whisky, his distilleries, and his tied houses? Are you going to make our shelter another tied house for him, and ask me to keep it? BILL. Rotten drunken whisky it is too. MRS BAINES. Dear Barbara: Lord Saxmundham has a soul to be saved like any of us. If heaven has found the way to make a good use of his money, are we to set ourselves up against the answer to our prayers? BARBARA. I know he has a soul to be saved. Let him come down here; and I'll do my best to help him to his salvation. But he wants to send his cheque down to buy us, and go on being as wicked as ever. UNDERSHAFT [with a reasonableness which Cusins alone perceives to be ironical] My dear Barbara: alcohol is a very necessary article. It heals the sick-- BARBARA. It does nothing of the sort. UNDERSHAFT. Well, it assists the doctor: that is perhaps a less questionable way of putting it. It makes life bearable to millions of people who could not endure their existence if they were quite sober. It enables Parliament to do things at eleven at night that no sane person would do at eleven in the morning. Is it Bodger's fault that this inestimable gift is deplorably abused by less than one per cent of the poor? [He turns again to the table; signs the cheque; and crosses it]. MRS BAINES. Barbara: will there be less drinking or more if all those poor souls we are saving come to-morrow and find the doors of our shelters shut in their faces? Lord Saxmundham gives us the money to stop drinking--to take his own business from him. CUSINS [impishly] Pure self-sacrifice on Bodger's part, clearly! Bless dear Bodger! [Barbara almost breaks down as Adolpbus, too, fails her]. UNDERSHAFT [tearing out the cheque and pocketing the book as he rises and goes past Cusins to Mrs Baines] I also, Mrs Baines, may claim a little disinterestedness. Think of my business! think of the widows and orphans! the men and lads torn to pieces with shrapnel and poisoned with lyddite [Mrs Baines shrinks; but he goes on remorselessly]! the oceans of blood, not one drop of which is shed in a really just cause! the ravaged crops! the peaceful peasants forced, women and men, to till their fields under the fire of opposing armies on pain of starvation! the bad blood of the fierce little cowards at home who egg on others to fight for the gratification of their national vanity! All this makes money for me: I am never richer, never busier than when the papers are full of it. Well, it is your work to preach peace on earth and goodwill to men. [Mrs Baines's face lights up again]. Every convert you make is a vote against war. [Her lips move in prayer]. Yet I give you this money to help you to hasten my own commercial ruin. [He gives her the cheque]. CUSINS [mounting the form in an ecstasy of mischief] The millennium will be inaugurated by the unselfishness of Undershaft and Bodger. Oh be joyful! [He takes the drumsticks from his pockets and flourishes them]. MRS BAINES [taking the cheque] The longer I live the more proof I see that there is an Infinite Goodness that turns everything to the work of salvation sooner or later. Who would have thought that any good could have come out of war and drink? And yet their profits are brought today to the feet of salvation to do its blessed work. [She is affected to tears]. JENNY [running to Mrs Baines and throwing her arms round her] Oh dear! how blessed, how glorious it all is! CUSINS [in a convulsion of irony] Let us seize this unspeakable moment. Let us march to the great meeting at once. Excuse me just an instant. [He rushes into the shelter. Jenny takes her tambourine from the drum head]. MRS BAINES. Mr Undershaft: have you ever seen a thousand people fall on their knees with one impulse and pray? Come with us to the meeting. Barbara shall tell them that the Army is saved, and saved through you. CUSINS [returning impetuously from the shelter with a flag and a trombone, and coming between Mrs Baines and Undershaft] You shall carry the flag down the first street, Mrs Baines [he gives her the flag]. Mr Undershaft is a gifted trombonist: he shall intone an Olympian diapason to the West Ham Salvation March. [Aside to Undershaft, as he forces the trombone on him] Blow, Machiavelli, blow. UNDERSHAFT [aside to him, as he takes the trombone] The trumpet in Zion! [Cusins rushes to the drum, which he takes up and puts on. Undershaft continues, aloud] I will do my best. I could vamp a bass if I knew the tune. CUSINS. It is a wedding chorus from one of Donizetti's operas; but we have converted it. We convert everything to good here, including Bodger. You remember the chorus. "For thee immense rejoicing--immenso giubilo--immenso giubilo." [With drum obbligato] Rum tum ti tum tum, tum tum ti ta-- BARBARA. Dolly: you are breaking my heart. CUSINS. What is a broken heart more or less here? Dionysos Undershaft has descended. I am possessed. MRS BAINES. Come, Barbara: I must have my dear Major to carry the flag with me. JENNY. Yes, yes, Major darling. CUSINS [snatches the tambourine out of Jenny's hand and mutely offers it to Barbara]. BARBARA [coming forward a little as she puts the offer behind her with a shudder, whilst Cusins recklessly tosses the tambourine back to Jenny and goes to the gate] I can't come. JENNY. Not come! MRS BAINES [with tears in her eyes] Barbara: do you think I am wrong to take the money? BARBARA [impulsively going to her and kissing her] No, no: God help you, dear, you must: you are saving the Army. Go; and may you have a great meeting! JENNY. But arn't you coming? BARBARA. No. [She begins taking off the silver brooch from her collar]. MRS BAINES. Barbara: what are you doing? JENNY. Why are you taking your badge off? You can't be going to leave us, Major. BARBARA [quietly] Father: come here. UNDERSHAFT [coming to her] My dear! [Seeing that she is going to pin the badge on his collar, he retreats to the penthouse in some alarm]. BARBARA [following him] Don't be frightened. [She pins the badge on and steps back towards the table, showing him to the others] There! It's not much for 5000 pounds is it? MRS BAINES. Barbara: if you won't come and pray with us, promise me you will pray for us. BARBARA. I can't pray now. Perhaps I shall never pray again. MRS BAINES. Barbara! JENNY. Major! BARBARA [almost delirious] I can't bear any more. Quick march! CUSINS [calling to the procession in the street outside] Off we go. Play up, there! Immenso giubilo. [He gives the time with his drum; and the band strikes up the march, which rapidly becomes more distant as the procession moves briskly away]. MRS BAINES. I must go, dear. You're overworked: you will be all right tomorrow. We'll never lose you. Now Jenny: step out with the old flag. Blood and Fire! [She marches out through the gate with her flag]. JENNY. Glory Hallelujah! [flourishing her tambourine and marching]. UNDERSHAFT [to Cusins, as he marches out past him easing the slide of his trombone] "My ducats and my daughter"! CUSINS [following him out] Money and gunpowder! BARBARA. Drunkenness and Murder! My God: why hast thou forsaken me? She sinks on the form with her face buried in her hands. The march passes away into silence. Bill Walker steals across to her. BILL [taunting] Wot prawce Selvytion nah? SHIRLEY. Don't you hit her when she's down. BILL. She it me wen aw wiz dahn. Waw shouldn't I git a bit o me own back? BARBARA [raising her head] I didn't take your money, Bill. [She crosses the yard to the gate and turns her back on the two men to hide her face from them]. BILL [sneering after her] Naow, it warn't enough for you. [Turning to the drum, he misses the money]. Ellow! If you ain't took it summun else az. Were's it gorn? Blame me if Jenny Ill didn't take it arter all! RUMMY [screaming at him from the loft] You lie, you dirty blackguard! Snobby Price pinched it off the drum wen e took ap iz cap. I was ap ere all the time an see im do it. BILL. Wot! Stowl maw money! Waw didn't you call thief on him, you silly old mucker you? RUMMY. To serve you aht for ittin me acrost the face. It's cost y'pahnd, that az. [Raising a paean of squalid triumph] I done you. I'm even with you. I've ad it aht o y--. [Bill snatches up Shirley's mug and hurls it at her. She slams the loft door and vanishes. The mug smashes against the door and falls in fragments]. BILL [beginning to chuckle] Tell us, ole man, wot o'clock this morrun was it wen im as they call Snobby Prawce was sived? BARBARA [turning to him more composedly, and with unspoiled sweetness] About half past twelve, Bill. And he pinched your pound at a quarter to two. I know. Well, you can't afford to lose it. I'll send it to you. BILL [his voice and accent suddenly improving] Not if I was to starve for it. I ain't to be bought. SHIRLEY. Ain't you? You'd sell yourself to the devil for a pint o beer; ony there ain't no devil to make the offer. BILL [unshamed] So I would, mate, and often av, cheerful. But she cawn't buy me. [Approaching Barbara] You wanted my soul, did you? Well, you ain't got it. BARBARA. I nearly got it, Bill. But we've sold it back to you for ten thousand pounds. SHIRLEY. And dear at the money! BARBARA. No, Peter: it was worth more than money. BILL [salvationproof] It's no good: you cawn't get rahnd me nah. I don't blieve in it; and I've seen today that I was right. [Going] So long, old soupkitchener! Ta, ta, Major Earl's Grendorter! [Turning at the gate] Wot prawce Selvytion nah? Snobby Prawce! Ha! ha! BARBARA [offering her hand] Goodbye, Bill. BILL [taken aback, half plucks his cap off then shoves it on again defiantly] Git aht. [Barbara drops her hand, discouraged. He has a twinge of remorse]. But thet's aw rawt, you knaow. Nathink pasnl. Naow mellice. So long, Judy. [He goes]. BARBARA. No malice. So long, Bill. SHIRLEY [shaking his head] You make too much of him, miss, in your innocence. BARBARA [going to him] Peter: I'm like you now. Cleaned out, and lost my job. SHIRLEY. You've youth an hope. That's two better than me. That's hope for you. BARBARA. I'll get you a job, Peter, the youth will have to be enough for me. [She counts her money]. I have just enough left for two teas at Lockharts, a Rowton doss for you, and my tram and bus home. [He frowns and rises with offended pride. She takes his arm]. Don't be proud, Peter: it's sharing between friends. And promise me you'll talk to me and not let me cry. [She draws him towards the gate]. SHIRLEY. Well, I'm not accustomed to talk to the like of you-- BARBARA [urgently] Yes, yes: you must talk to me. Tell me about Tom Paine's books and Bradlaugh's lectures. Come along. SHIRLEY. Ah, if you would only read Tom Paine in the proper spirit, miss! [They go out through the gate together].

Act II (Opening Scene)

https://web.archive.org/web/20201201082228/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/m/major-barbara/summary-and-analysis/act-ii-opening-scene

Act II takes place in the Salvation Army Shelter, an old warehouse which has recently been whitewashed. Two people are seen seated in the shelter; one is a man quite "capable of anything in reason except honesty," whose name is Snobby Price. The other is a woman named Rummy Mitchens, who looks sixty due to the severity of her life but is probably only forty-five. As the curtain rises, Rummy asks Snobby what sort of trade he is in. Snobby, a painter with questionable socialist leanings, uses this opportunity to launch into an attack against the capitalistic system and in doing so shows himself to be a poor specimen of humanity, intent more on stealing, boasting, drinking, and lying that he is in doing an honest day's work. Rummy Mitchens then confesses that she pretends to be a worse sinner than she is because the girls at the Salvation Army love to fuss over a real sinner. Snobby then confesses that he is also playing the same game by making up stories about how he abuses his "poor old mother" when, in reality, his "poor old mother" actually beats him up. This playacting doesn't bother either one of them, however, for their public confessions help bring in charitable contributions and donations; thus, they are a benefit to the Army. Jenny Hill, a "pretty Salvation lass of eighteen," enters with Peter Shirley, a workman who is half-starved and looks half-worn out even though he is only forty-six. He is bitter over the loss of his job to a younger man. He is very proud and will accept food only when he is assured that he can repay it later. Then suddenly, a young ruffian named Bill Walker appears in the door, blocking Jenny's exit, and he accuses her of turning his girlfriend against him. He is out for revenge, and he begins by roughhousing Jenny. When Rummy tries to protest, Bill Walker knocks her down with the back of his hand; then after manhandling Jenny further, he sends Jenny, Snobby, and Rummy retreating to the kitchen. Peter Shirley, however, stands up to the young bully, and he challenges him to fight someone his own age and size instead of picking on old men and women and young girls. Shirley then taunts Bill Walker by daring him to fight against a man named Todger Fairmile, a fellow who recently joined the Salvation Army after having won a wrestling match in a public contest. Bill Walker is not so anxious to confront a professional and so Shirley continues to taunt him. Just before Major Barbara enters, Shirley reminds Bill Walker that Barbara is the granddaughter of an earl.

The first part of Act II presents some of the typical inhabitants of the Salvation Army Shelter. The first two, Snobby Price and Rummy Mitchens, reveal themselves to be frauds. Shaw's point is not just to point out the hypocrisy; it is more directly aimed at suggesting that there is nothing noble or romantic about poverty. Instead of creating an atmosphere of independence, poverty breeds various types of hypocrisy, and the Salvation Army often attracts hypocrites who take advantage of the shelters. In fact, ironically, these hypocrites contribute to the success of the shelters because by publicly testifying their made-up confessions to sins which they never committed, they are able to enlarge the coffers of the collection plates. Shaw is also taking a sarcastic dig at a type of religion which emphasizes atonement through public confession because once the sinner confesses and is forgiven for his sins, he is then free to sin again. In addition, Shaw disliked the theatrical aspect of public confession, which encouraged the individual to soak up the public's attention by exaggerating his own unworthiness, as is seen in the case of both Snobby Price and Rummy Mitchens. The opening scene, furthermore, lends additional credence to Undershaft's theories later in the play -- that is, by presenting us with two hypocrites who use the Salvation Army as a crutch, Undershaft's point later on that the best way to help the poor is to find them jobs and make them independent will be more convincing in the light of Snobby's and Rummy's deceit. Furthermore, when Undershaft speaks of the evils of poverty, we will already have seen this example of two people who demean themselves by confessing to lies in order to ingratiate themselves to the Army. We must constantly remember that, for Shaw, the greatest crime was poverty, and in this scene, he presents no romantic view of it; instead, he shows us the misery of the people who are gathered in an old shelter in mid-January, shivering and hungry and lying and quarrelling. With the arrival of Peter Shirley, we have an example of an honest poor man who has been a victim of the capitalistic class, the class which Shaw is attacking. Peter Shirley, unlike Snobby, sincerely desires to work, and he resents a system which will deny him the opportunity to work simply because he is now forty-six years old. Furthermore, it is difficult for a man who has earned his own way for his entire life to now take charity. Peter Shirley will stand, then, as a contrast to Snobby and Rummy, and he will also be a living illustration of the type of society that is needed in Undershaft's ideal socialist village, as will be revealed in the final act -- a village where no one like Shirley will have to suffer the humiliation of accepting charity or will have his self-respect threatened by forces which he doesn't understand. With the entrance of Bill Walker, Shaw introduces us to yet another type of human being, someone who will be even more instrumental to the shelter in terms of Major Barbara's theories. He is first presented as a hardened ruffian who will tolerate no other person's opinion and who resorts to violence at a moment's notice. He will be the toughest person to convert because of his great physical power and because of his stubbornness. Through him, we will see how Barbara is the most effective person in the Salvation Army.

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/3790-chapters/act_3.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/Major Barbara/section_9_part_0.txt

Major Barbara.act 3

act 3

{"name": "Act III (Lady Britomart's Library)", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201201082228/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/m/major-barbara/summary-and-analysis/act-iii-lady-britomarts-library", "summary": "This act opens the next morning in Lady Britomart's library, and we are immediately astonished to see Major Barbara dressed not in her Salvation Army uniform but in an \"ordinary fashionable dress.\" Charles Lomax, trying to console Barbara, makes an inopportune remark about there being \"a certain amount of tosh about the Salvation Army.\" Adolphus enters in a questionable state of sobriety and announces that he has \"been making a night of it\" with Andrew Undershaft, whom he calls \"the Prince of Darkness\" and who, he says, has plied Adolphus with plentiful amounts of Spanish burgundy even though Undershaft himself is a teetotaler. Barbara inquires about the Salvation Army meeting and learns that it was a tremendous success with a hundred and seventeen conversions in addition to many prayers said for Bodger, as well as prayers for the anonymous donor of five thousand pounds to the Army. At this moment, Morrison, the butler, announces the arrival of Andrew Undershaft, and Lady Britomart sends everyone out so that she can confront Andrew alone about the family's affairs. Andrew Undershaft genially concedes to Lady Britomart's stipulation about Barbara and Sarah's need for money. But when Lady Britomart broaches the subject of their son, Stephen, Undershaft loses all interest, maintaining that Stephen doesn't show the slightest resemblance to either of them; moreover, he asserts that Stephen might be able to learn the rudimentary mechanics of running the office routines of the munitions foundry but that he certainly has no aptitude for managing the entire Undershaft and Lazarus empire. Furthermore, Undershaft is determined to remain true to the Undershaft tradition of leaving the foundry to a foundling -- a \"tradition\" that has never been broken. He admits, however, that he has not yet found a suitable successor; everyone whom he has found is \"exactly like Stephen\" -- inept. Undershaft is searching for a man who has not yet been corrupted by conventional ideas -- a man whose outstanding qualities are a strong will and an independent turn of mind. He tells Lady Britomart to find such a foundling, and he will be willing to marry him off to Barbara, thus keeping \"the foundry in the family.\" Stephen enters then, and after some sharp conversational exchanges, he makes it quite clear -- to both his father and his mother -- that he has absolutely no interest and absolutely no capacity for managing such a business as the munitions foundry: \"I repudiate the cannon business.\" Undershaft is so relieved that he promises to help Stephen get established in another career; after all, Undershaft says, \"I owe you a fair start in life in exchange for disinheriting you.\" After further discussion concerning Stephen's aptitudes, Stephen confesses that his supreme quality is that he knows \"the difference between right and wrong.\" This statement utterly fascinates Undershaft since this is the single philosophical distinction that has baffled all of the wisest philosophers and intellects throughout the ages. He scoffs at his son, but Stephen manages to keep his temper, even if with difficulty. Yet Stephen objects to a derogatory statement which his father makes about politics, for Undershaft begins lecturing his son upon the reality of who it is who really runs the country; the real rulers, Undershaft says, are the people who have power and use it to control the masses. Stephen responds -- as best he can -- with a few well-chosen cliches about the importance of national character as being the true power responsible for the operation of the government, and Undershaft announces that Stephen has just discovered his career: Stephen will be a journalist, and, in this way, Stephen can profit from his high-sounding moral cliches. Before Stephen has a chance to retaliate to this suggestion, the others return ready for their journey to the Lazarus and Undershaft Munitions Foundry. Barbara and Cusins will go with Undershaft in a new bulletproof vehicle which he is experimenting with; the others will follow in the carriage. Before they leave, Barbara is convinced that she is about to experience some infernal \"pit where lost creatures with blackened faces stir up smoky fires and are driven and tormented by my father.\" Undershaft explains that it is quite the contrary: \"It is a spotless clean and beautiful hillside town,\" where it is not necessary that he ever give any orders because of the natural propensity of the Englishman to keep people below them in tow and to have such awe for rank and privilege that he never feels a need to be dictatorial. Barbara then tells him that although she will keep her bargain and visit his \"factory of death,\" she will never forgive him for destroying the soul of a man whom she was on the verge of saving only the day before; to kill physically with cannons, Barbara says, is one thing, but to kill another person's soul is unforgivable. When Undershaft very cleverly reminds her that one cannot \"strike a man to the heart and leave no mark on him,\" Barbara then joyfully realizes that her father is right -- even though Cusins sees it as the cunning of \"the Prince of Darkness.\"", "analysis": "This first scene presents the results of last night's breakup. While the scene is partly light social comedy, yet all of the serious themes of the play are reinforced. With the entrance of Cusins, we learn, for example, that last night's rally was a tremendous success and that Cusins spent the evening drinking wine with Undershaft, who is a teetotaler. Essentially, Shaw's men of purpose are often more concerned with destiny and their own force on life than with wasting their time drinking. Thus, Undershaft's purpose last night was apparently to influence Cusins and to discover how Cusins could be \"used\" by Undershaft. But Cusins does not admit that it was Undershaft who made him drunk; instead, he insists that it was Dionysus who possessed him. Instead of Cusins' gaining salvation through the Salvation Army, we now see that Cusins is going to achieve salvation through an emotional, Dionysian wisdom; that is, through a rejection of moral conformity. The contrast is comic: Into the very proper drawing room comes an intellectual drunk, rejecting propriety and social decorum in favor of some sort of wild Dionysian power. In the brief scene between Lady Britomart and Undershaft, we have the final turn of the plot introduced. Undershaft has admitted that he cannot find a foundling to take over the foundry, and he asks Lady Britomart to find one, and then they can marry off the foundling to Barbara and thus keep the foundry in the family. This prepares the plot for the unique way that Cusins -- as a foundling -- will be able to both marry Barbara and keep the foundry in the family. The scene between Stephen and his father is high comedy. In spite of Lady Britomart's protestations that breeding is more important than anything , yet everything that Stephen says or does shows him to be completely inept and incapable of doing anything except uttering high-sounding cliches. When he maintains that he, at least, knows the difference between \"right and wrong,\" he is not even intelligent enough to know that since the very beginning of philosophy, that very subject has been among the main concerns of humanity's greatest minds. For Stephen to be so flippant is comic; for Stephen not to even know how absurd he is is incredulous. Thus, Andrew Undershaft is only more confirmed than ever in his decision to be faithful to the Undershaft tradition and find a man of unusual potential; Stephen is clearly fit only to spout high-toned cliches. Shaw also uses this scene for another of his attacks on politics. One should remember this point when Undershaft tells Stephen that if he can't do anything else, then he should go into politics; Shaw was keenly aware that there would probably be many members of Parliament in the audience. In addition, Shaw is being brutally realistic when he points out that it is power and money which influence government -- not individuals and character. We should remember that this is the turning point for Barbara. As the great tempters of the past have come from infernal pits of hellfire and damnation, Barbara envisions the Undershaft foundry in images of smoky fires. The image, of course, is also the image of the ugly nineteenth-century factory -- a very real place of death and destruction. Barbara's soul, then, will be won when she sees that the town, as described by her father, really does exist -- that the \"death and destruction\" factory has created an ideal social community where everyone is happy and contented with their lives."}

ACT III Next day after lunch Lady Britomart is writing in the library in Wilton Crescent. Sarah is reading in the armchair near the window. Barbara, in ordinary dresss, pale and brooding, is on the settee. Charley Lomax enters. Coming forward between the settee and the writing table, he starts on seeing Barbara fashionably attired and in low spirits. LOMAX. You've left off your uniform! Barbara says nothing; but an expression of pain passes over her face. LADY BRITOMART [warning him in low tones to be careful] Charles! LOMAX [much concerned, sitting down sympathetically on the settee beside Barbara] I'm awfully sorry, Barbara. You know I helped you all I could with the concertina and so forth. [Momentously] Still, I have never shut my eyes to the fact that there is a certain amount of tosh about the Salvation Army. Now the claims of the Church of England-- LADY BRITOMART. That's enough, Charles. Speak of something suited to your mental capacity. LOMAX. But surely the Church of England is suited to all our capacities. BARBARA [pressing his hand] Thank you for your sympathy, Cholly. Now go and spoon with Sarah. LOMAX [rising and going to Sarah] How is my ownest today? SARAH. I wish you wouldn't tell Cholly to do things, Barbara. He always comes straight and does them. Cholly: we're going to the works at Perivale St. Andrews this afternoon. LOMAX. What works? SARAH. The cannon works. LOMAX. What! Your governor's shop! SARAH. Yes. LOMAX. Oh I say! Cusins enters in poor condition. He also starts visibly when he sees Barbara without her uniform. BARBARA. I expected you this morning, Dolly. Didn't you guess that? CUSINS [sitting down beside her] I'm sorry. I have only just breakfasted. SARAH. But we've just finished lunch. BARBARA. Have you had one of your bad nights? CUSINS. No: I had rather a good night: in fact, one of the most remarkable nights I have ever passed. BARBARA. The meeting? CUSINS. No: after the meeting. LADY BRITOMART. You should have gone to bed after the meeting. What were you doing? CUSINS. Drinking. LADY BRITOMART. }{ Adolphus! SARAH. }{ Dolly! BARBARA. }{ Dolly! LOMAX. }{ Oh I say! LADY BRITOMART. What were you drinking, may I ask? CUSINS. A most devilish kind of Spanish burgundy, warranted free from added alcohol: a Temperance burgundy in fact. Its richness in natural alcohol made any addition superfluous. BARBARA. Are you joking, Dolly? CUSINS [patiently] No. I have been making a night of it with the nominal head of this household: that is all. LADY BRITOMART. Andrew made you drunk! CUSINS. No: he only provided the wine. I think it was Dionysos who made me drunk. [To Barbara] I told you I was possessed. LADY BRITOMART. You're not sober yet. Go home to bed at once. CUSINS. I have never before ventured to reproach you, Lady Brit; but how could you marry the Prince of Darkness? LADY BRITOMART. It was much more excusable to marry him than to get drunk with him. That is a new accomplishment of Andrew's, by the way. He usen't to drink. CUSINS. He doesn't now. He only sat there and completed the wreck of my moral basis, the rout of my convictions, the purchase of my soul. He cares for you, Barbara. That is what makes him so dangerous to me. BARBARA. That has nothing to do with it, Dolly. There are larger loves and diviner dreams than the fireside ones. You know that, don't you? CUSINS. Yes: that is our understanding. I know it. I hold to it. Unless he can win me on that holier ground he may amuse me for a while; but he can get no deeper hold, strong as he is. BARBARA. Keep to that; and the end will be right. Now tell me what happened at the meeting? CUSINS. It was an amazing meeting. Mrs Baines almost died of emotion. Jenny Hill went stark mad with hysteria. The Prince of Darkness played his trombone like a madman: its brazen roarings were like the laughter of the damned. 117 conversions took place then and there. They prayed with the most touching sincerity and gratitude for Bodger, and for the anonymous donor of the 5000 pounds. Your father would not let his name be given. LOMAX. That was rather fine of the old man, you know. Most chaps would have wanted the advertisement. CUSINS. He said all the charitable institutions would be down on him like kites on a battle field if he gave his name. LADY BRITOMART. That's Andrew all over. He never does a proper thing without giving an improper reason for it. CUSINS. He convinced me that I have all my life been doing improper things for proper reasons. LADY BRITOMART. Adolphus: now that Barbara has left the Salvation Army, you had better leave it too. I will not have you playing that drum in the streets. CUSINS. Your orders are already obeyed, Lady Brit. BARBARA. Dolly: were you ever really in earnest about it? Would you have joined if you had never seen me? CUSINS [disingenuously] Well--er--well, possibly, as a collector of religions-- LOMAX [cunningly] Not as a drummer, though, you know. You are a very clearheaded brainy chap, Cholly; and it must have been apparent to you that there is a certain amount of tosh about-- LADY BRITOMART. Charles: if you must drivel, drivel like a grown-up man and not like a schoolboy. LOMAX [out of countenance] Well, drivel is drivel, don't you know, whatever a man's age. LADY BRITOMART. In good society in England, Charles, men drivel at all ages by repeating silly formulas with an air of wisdom. Schoolboys make their own formulas out of slang, like you. When they reach your age, and get political private secretaryships and things of that sort, they drop slang and get their formulas out of The Spectator or The Times. You had better confine yourself to The Times. You will find that there is a certain amount of tosh about The Times; but at least its language is reputable. LOMAX [overwhelmed] You are so awfully strong-minded, Lady Brit-- LADY BRITOMART. Rubbish! [Morrison comes in]. What is it? MORRISON. If you please, my lady, Mr Undershaft has just drove up to the door. LADY BRITOMART. Well, let him in. [Morrison hesitates]. What's the matter with you? MORRISON. Shall I announce him, my lady; or is he at home here, so to speak, my lady? LADY BRITOMART. Announce him. MORRISON. Thank you, my lady. You won't mind my asking, I hope. The occasion is in a manner of speaking new to me. LADY BRITOMART. Quite right. Go and let him in. MORRISON. Thank you, my lady. [He withdraws]. LADY BRITOMART. Children: go and get ready. [Sarah and Barbara go upstairs for their out-of-door wrap]. Charles: go and tell Stephen to come down here in five minutes: you will find him in the drawing room. [Charles goes]. Adolphus: tell them to send round the carriage in about fifteen minutes. [Adolphus goes]. MORRISON [at the door] Mr Undershaft. Undershaft comes in. Morrison goes out. UNDERSHAFT. Alone! How fortunate! LADY BRITOMART [rising] Don't be sentimental, Andrew. Sit down. [She sits on the settee: he sits beside her, on her left. She comes to the point before he has time to breathe]. Sarah must have 800 pounds a year until Charles Lomax comes into his property. Barbara will need more, and need it permanently, because Adolphus hasn't any property. UNDERSHAFT [resignedly] Yes, my dear: I will see to it. Anything else? for yourself, for instance? LADY BRITOMART. I want to talk to you about Stephen. UNDERSHAFT [rather wearily] Don't, my dear. Stephen doesn't interest me. LADY BRITOMART. He does interest me. He is our son. UNDERSHAFT. Do you really think so? He has induced us to bring him into the world; but he chose his parents very incongruously, I think. I see nothing of myself in him, and less of you. LADY BRITOMART. Andrew: Stephen is an excellent son, and a most steady, capable, highminded young man. YOU are simply trying to find an excuse for disinheriting him. UNDERSHAFT. My dear Biddy: the Undershaft tradition disinherits him. It would be dishonest of me to leave the cannon foundry to my son. LADY BRITOMART. It would be most unnatural and improper of you to leave it to anyone else, Andrew. Do you suppose this wicked and immoral tradition can be kept up for ever? Do you pretend that Stephen could not carry on the foundry just as well as all the other sons of the big business houses? UNDERSHAFT. Yes: he could learn the office routine without understanding the business, like all the other sons; and the firm would go on by its own momentum until the real Undershaft--probably an Italian or a German--would invent a new method and cut him out. LADY BRITOMART. There is nothing that any Italian or German could do that Stephen could not do. And Stephen at least has breeding. UNDERSHAFT. The son of a foundling! nonsense! LADY BRITOMART. My son, Andrew! And even you may have good blood in your veins for all you know. UNDERSHAFT. True. Probably I have. That is another argument in favor of a foundling. LADY BRITOMART. Andrew: don't be aggravating. And don't be wicked. At present you are both. UNDERSHAFT. This conversation is part of the Undershaft tradition, Biddy. Every Undershaft's wife has treated him to it ever since the house was founded. It is mere waste of breath. If the tradition be ever broken it will be for an abler man than Stephen. LADY BRITOMART [pouting] Then go away. UNDERSHAFT [deprecatory] Go away! LADY BRITOMART. Yes: go away. If you will do nothing for Stephen, you are not wanted here. Go to your foundling, whoever he is; and look after him. UNDERSHAFT. The fact is, Biddy-- LADY BRITOMART. Don't call me Biddy. I don't call you Andy. UNDERSHAFT. I will not call my wife Britomart: it is not good sense. Seriously, my love, the Undershaft tradition has landed me in a difficulty. I am getting on in years; and my partner Lazarus has at last made a stand and insisted that the succession must be settled one way or the other; and of course he is quite right. You see, I haven't found a fit successor yet. LADY BRITOMART [obstinately] There is Stephen. UNDERSHAFT. That's just it: all the foundlings I can find are exactly like Stephen. LADY BRITOMART. Andrew!! UNDERSHAFT. I want a man with no relations and no schooling: that is, a man who would be out of the running altogether if he were not a strong man. And I can't find him. Every blessed foundling nowadays is snapped up in his infancy by Barnardo homes, or School Board officers, or Boards of Guardians; and if he shows the least ability, he is fastened on by schoolmasters; trained to win scholarships like a racehorse; crammed with secondhand ideas; drilled and disciplined in docility and what they call good taste; and lamed for life so that he is fit for nothing but teaching. If you want to keep the foundry in the family, you had better find an eligible foundling and marry him to Barbara. LADY BRITOMART. Ah! Barbara! Your pet! You would sacrifice Stephen to Barbara. UNDERSHAFT. Cheerfully. And you, my dear, would boil Barbara to make soup for Stephen. LADY BRITOMART. Andrew: this is not a question of our likings and dislikings: it is a question of duty. It is your duty to make Stephen your successor. UNDERSHAFT. Just as much as it is your duty to submit to your husband. Come, Biddy! these tricks of the governing class are of no use with me. I am one of the governing class myself; and it is waste of time giving tracts to a missionary. I have the power in this matter; and I am not to be humbugged into using it for your purposes. LADY BRITOMART. Andrew: you can talk my head off; but you can't change wrong into right. And your tie is all on one side. Put it straight. UNDERSHAFT [disconcerted] It won't stay unless it's pinned [he fumbles at it with childish grimaces]-- Stephen comes in. STEPHEN [at the door] I beg your pardon [about to retire]. LADY BRITOMART. No: come in, Stephen. [Stephen comes forward to his mother's writing table.] UNDERSHAFT [not very cordially] Good afternoon. STEPHEN [coldly] Good afternoon. UNDERSHAFT [to Lady Britomart] He knows all about the tradition, I suppose? LADY BRITOMART. Yes. [To Stephen] It is what I told you last night, Stephen. UNDERSHAFT [sulkily] I understand you want to come into the cannon business. STEPHEN. _I_ go into trade! Certainly not. UNDERSHAFT [opening his eyes, greatly eased in mind and manner] Oh! in that case--! LADY BRITOMART. Cannons are not trade, Stephen. They are enterprise. STEPHEN. I have no intention of becoming a man of business in any sense. I have no capacity for business and no taste for it. I intend to devote myself to politics. UNDERSHAFT [rising] My dear boy: this is an immense relief to me. And I trust it may prove an equally good thing for the country. I was afraid you would consider yourself disparaged and slighted. [He moves towards Stephen as if to shake hands with him]. LADY BRITOMART [rising and interposing] Stephen: I cannot allow you to throw away an enormous property like this. STEPHEN [stiffly] Mother: there must be an end of treating me as a child, if you please. [Lady Britomart recoils, deeply wounded by his tone]. Until last night I did not take your attitude seriously, because I did not think you meant it seriously. But I find now that you left me in the dark as to matters which you should have explained to me years ago. I am extremely hurt and offended. Any further discussion of my intentions had better take place with my father, as between one man and another. LADY BRITOMART. Stephen! [She sits down again; and her eyes fill with tears]. UNDERSHAFT [with grave compassion] You see, my dear, it is only the big men who can be treated as children. STEPHEN. I am sorry, mother, that you have forced me-- UNDERSHAFT [stopping him] Yes, yes, yes, yes: that's all right, Stephen. She wont interfere with you any more: your independence is achieved: you have won your latchkey. Don't rub it in; and above all, don't apologize. [He resumes his seat]. Now what about your future, as between one man and another--I beg your pardon, Biddy: as between two men and a woman. LADY BRITOMART [who has pulled herself together strongly] I quite understand, Stephen. By all means go your own way if you feel strong enough. [Stephen sits down magisterially in the chair at the writing table with an air of affirming his majority]. UNDERSHAFT. It is settled that you do not ask for the succession to the cannon business. STEPHEN. I hope it is settled that I repudiate the cannon business. UNDERSHAFT. Come, come! Don't be so devilishly sulky: it's boyish. Freedom should be generous. Besides, I owe you a fair start in life in exchange for disinheriting you. You can't become prime minister all at once. Haven't you a turn for something? What about literature, art and so forth? STEPHEN. I have nothing of the artist about me, either in faculty or character, thank Heaven! UNDERSHAFT. A philosopher, perhaps? Eh? STEPHEN. I make no such ridiculous pretension. UNDERSHAFT. Just so. Well, there is the army, the navy, the Church, the Bar. The Bar requires some ability. What about the Bar? STEPHEN. I have not studied law. And I am afraid I have not the necessary push--I believe that is the name barristers give to their vulgarity--for success in pleading. UNDERSHAFT. Rather a difficult case, Stephen. Hardly anything left but the stage, is there? [Stephen makes an impatient movement]. Well, come! is there anything you know or care for? STEPHEN [rising and looking at him steadily] I know the difference between right and wrong. UNDERSHAFT [hugely tickled] You don't say so! What! no capacity for business, no knowledge of law, no sympathy with art, no pretension to philosophy; only a simple knowledge of the secret that has puzzled all the philosophers, baffled all the lawyers, muddled all the men of business, and ruined most of the artists: the secret of right and wrong. Why, man, you're a genius, master of masters, a god! At twenty-four, too! STEPHEN [keeping his temper with difficulty] You are pleased to be facetious. I pretend to nothing more than any honorable English gentleman claims as his birthright [he sits down angrily]. UNDERSHAFT. Oh, that's everybody's birthright. Look at poor little Jenny Hill, the Salvation lassie! she would think you were laughing at her if you asked her to stand up in the street and teach grammar or geography or mathematics or even drawingroom dancing; but it never occurs to her to doubt that she can teach morals and religion. You are all alike, you respectable people. You can't tell me the bursting strain of a ten-inch gun, which is a very simple matter; but you all think you can tell me the bursting strain of a man under temptation. You daren't handle high explosives; but you're all ready to handle honesty and truth and justice and the whole duty of man, and kill one another at that game. What a country! what a world! LADY BRITOMART [uneasily] What do you think he had better do, Andrew? UNDERSHAFT. Oh, just what he wants to do. He knows nothing; and he thinks he knows everything. That points clearly to a political career. Get him a private secretaryship to someone who can get him an Under Secretaryship; and then leave him alone. He will find his natural and proper place in the end on the Treasury bench. STEPHEN [springing up again] I am sorry, sir, that you force me to forget the respect due to you as my father. I am an Englishman; and I will not hear the Government of my country insulted. [He thrusts his hands in his pockets, and walks angrily across to the window]. UNDERSHAFT [with a touch of brutality] The government of your country! _I_ am the government of your country: I, and Lazarus. Do you suppose that you and half a dozen amateurs like you, sitting in a row in that foolish gabble shop, can govern Undershaft and Lazarus? No, my friend: you will do what pays US. You will make war when it suits us, and keep peace when it doesn't. You will find out that trade requires certain measures when we have decided on those measures. When I want anything to keep my dividends up, you will discover that my want is a national need. When other people want something to keep my dividends down, you will call out the police and military. And in return you shall have the support and applause of my newspapers, and the delight of imagining that you are a great statesman. Government of your country! Be off with you, my boy, and play with your caucuses and leading articles and historic parties and great leaders and burning questions and the rest of your toys. _I_ am going back to my counting house to pay the piper and call the tune. STEPHEN [actually smiling, and putting his hand on his father's shoulder with indulgent patronage] Really, my dear father, it is impossible to be angry with you. You don't know how absurd all this sounds to ME. You are very properly proud of having been industrious enough to make money; and it is greatly to your credit that you have made so much of it. But it has kept you in circles where you are valued for your money and deferred to for it, instead of in the doubtless very oldfashioned and behind-the-times public school and university where I formed my habits of mind. It is natural for you to think that money governs England; but you must allow me to think I know better. UNDERSHAFT. And what does govern England, pray? STEPHEN. Character, father, character. UNDERSHAFT. Whose character? Yours or mine? STEPHEN. Neither yours nor mine, father, but the best elements in the English national character. UNDERSHAFT. Stephen: I've found your profession for you. You're a born journalist. I'll start you with a hightoned weekly review. There! Stephen goes to the smaller writing table and busies himself with his letters. Sarah, Barbara, Lomax, and Cusins come in ready for walking. Barbara crosses the room to the window and looks out. Cusins drifts amiably to the armchair, and Lomax remains near the door, whilst Sarah comes to her mother. SARAH. Go and get ready, mamma: the carriage is waiting. [Lady Britomart leaves the room.] UNDERSHAFT [to Sarah] Good day, my dear. Good afternoon, Mr. Lomax. LOMAX [vaguely] Ahdedoo. UNDERSHAFT [to Cusins] quite well after last night, Euripides, eh? CUSINS. As well as can be expected. UNDERSHAFT. That's right. [To Barbara] So you are coming to see my death and devastation factory, Barbara? BARBARA [at the window] You came yesterday to see my salvation factory. I promised you a return visit. LOMAX [coming forward between Sarah and Undershaft] You'll find it awfully interesting. I've been through the Woolwich Arsenal; and it gives you a ripping feeling of security, you know, to think of the lot of beggars we could kill if it came to fighting. [To Undershaft, with sudden solemnity] Still, it must be rather an awful reflection for you, from the religious point of view as it were. You're getting on, you know, and all that. SARAH. You don't mind Cholly's imbecility, papa, do you? LOMAX [much taken aback] Oh I say! UNDERSHAFT. Mr Lomax looks at the matter in a very proper spirit, my dear. LOMAX. Just so. That's all I meant, I assure you. SARAH. Are you coming, Stephen? STEPHEN. Well, I am rather busy--er-- [Magnanimously] Oh well, yes: I'll come. That is, if there is room for me. UNDERSHAFT. I can take two with me in a little motor I am experimenting with for field use. You won't mind its being rather unfashionable. It's not painted yet; but it's bullet proof. LOMAX [appalled at the prospect of confronting Wilton Crescent in an unpainted motor] Oh I say! SARAH. The carriage for me, thank you. Barbara doesn't mind what she's seen in. LOMAX. I say, Dolly old chap: do you really mind the car being a guy? Because of course if you do I'll go in it. Still-- CUSINS. I prefer it. LOMAX. Thanks awfully, old man. Come, Sarah. [He hurries out to secure his seat in the carriage. Sarah follows him]. CUSINS. [moodily walking across to Lady Britomart's writing table] Why are we two coming to this Works Department of Hell? that is what I ask myself. BARBARA. I have always thought of it as a sort of pit where lost creatures with blackened faces stirred up smoky fires and were driven and tormented by my father? Is it like that, dad? UNDERSHAFT [scandalized] My dear! It is a spotlessly clean and beautiful hillside town. CUSINS. With a Methodist chapel? Oh do say there's a Methodist chapel. UNDERSHAFT. There are two: a primitive one and a sophisticated one. There is even an Ethical Society; but it is not much patronized, as my men are all strongly religious. In the High Explosives Sheds they object to the presence of Agnostics as unsafe. CUSINS. And yet they don't object to you! BARBARA. Do they obey all your orders? UNDERSHAFT. I never give them any orders. When I speak to one of them it is "Well, Jones, is the baby doing well? and has Mrs Jones made a good recovery?" "Nicely, thank you, sir." And that's all. CUSINS. But Jones has to be kept in order. How do you maintain discipline among your men? UNDERSHAFT. I don't. They do. You see, the one thing Jones won't stand is any rebellion from the man under him, or any assertion of social equality between the wife of the man with 4 shillings a week less than himself and Mrs Jones! Of course they all rebel against me, theoretically. Practically, every man of them keeps the man just below him in his place. I never meddle with them. I never bully them. I don't even bully Lazarus. I say that certain things are to be done; but I don't order anybody to do them. I don't say, mind you, that there is no ordering about and snubbing and even bullying. The men snub the boys and order them about; the carmen snub the sweepers; the artisans snub the unskilled laborers; the foremen drive and bully both the laborers and artisans; the assistant engineers find fault with the foremen; the chief engineers drop on the assistants; the departmental managers worry the chiefs; and the clerks have tall hats and hymnbooks and keep up the social tone by refusing to associate on equal terms with anybody. The result is a colossal profit, which comes to me. CUSINS [revolted] You really are a--well, what I was saying yesterday. BARBARA. What was he saying yesterday? UNDERSHAFT. Never mind, my dear. He thinks I have made you unhappy. Have I? BARBARA. Do you think I can be happy in this vulgar silly dress? I! who have worn the uniform. Do you understand what you have done to me? Yesterday I had a man's soul in my hand. I set him in the way of life with his face to salvation. But when we took your money he turned back to drunkenness and derision. [With intense conviction] I will never forgive you that. If I had a child, and you destroyed its body with your explosives--if you murdered Dolly with your horrible guns--I could forgive you if my forgiveness would open the gates of heaven to you. But to take a human soul from me, and turn it into the soul of a wolf! that is worse than any murder. UNDERSHAFT. Does my daughter despair so easily? Can you strike a man to the heart and leave no mark on him? BARBARA [her face lighting up] Oh, you are right: he can never be lost now: where was my faith? CUSINS. Oh, clever clever devil! BARBARA. You may be a devil; but God speaks through you sometimes. [She takes her father's hands and kisses them]. You have given me back my happiness: I feel it deep down now, though my spirit is troubled. UNDERSHAFT. You have learnt something. That always feels at first as if you had lost something. BARBARA. Well, take me to the factory of death, and let me learn something more. There must be some truth or other behind all this frightful irony. Come, Dolly. [She goes out]. CUSINS. My guardian angel! [To Undershaft] Avaunt! [He follows Barbara]. STEPHEN [quietly, at the writing table] You must not mind Cusins, father. He is a very amiable good fellow; but he is a Greek scholar and naturally a little eccentric. UNDERSHAFT. Ah, quite so. Thank you, Stephen. Thank you. [He goes out]. Stephen smiles patronizingly; buttons his coat responsibly; and crosses the room to the door. Lady Britomart, dressed for out-of-doors, opens it before he reaches it. She looks round far the others; looks at Stephen; and turns to go without a word. STEPHEN [embarrassed] Mother-- LADY BRITOMART. Don't be apologetic, Stephen. And don't forget that you have outgrown your mother. [She goes out]. Perivale St Andrews lies between two Middlesex hills, half climbing the northern one. It is an almost smokeless town of white walls, roofs of narrow green slates or red tiles, tall trees, domes, campaniles, and slender chimney shafts, beautifully situated and beautiful in itself. The best view of it is obtained from the crest of a slope about half a mile to the east, where the high explosives are dealt with. The foundry lies hidden in the depths between, the tops of its chimneys sprouting like huge skittles into the middle distance. Across the crest runs a platform of concrete, with a parapet which suggests a fortification, because there is a huge cannon of the obsolete Woolwich Infant pattern peering across it at the town. The cannon is mounted on an experimental gun carriage: possibly the original model of the Undershaft disappearing rampart gun alluded to by Stephen. The parapet has a high step inside which serves as a seat. Barbara is leaning over the parapet, looking towards the town. On her right is the cannon; on her left the end of a shed raised on piles, with a ladder of three or four steps up to the door, which opens outwards and has a little wooden landing at the threshold, with a fire bucket in the corner of the landing. The parapet stops short of the shed, leaving a gap which is the beginning of the path down the hill through the foundry to the town. Behind the cannon is a trolley carrying a huge conical bombshell, with a red band painted on it. Further from the parapet, on the same side, is a deck chair, near the door of an office, which, like the sheds, is of the lightest possible construction. Cusins arrives by the path from the town. BARBARA. Well? CUSINS. Not a ray of hope. Everything perfect, wonderful, real. It only needs a cathedral to be a heavenly city instead of a hellish one. BARBARA. Have you found out whether they have done anything for old Peter Shirley. CUSINS. They have found him a job as gatekeeper and timekeeper. He's frightfully miserable. He calls the timekeeping brainwork, and says he isn't used to it; and his gate lodge is so splendid that he's ashamed to use the rooms, and skulks in the scullery. BARBARA. Poor Peter! Stephen arrives from the town. He carries a fieldglass. STEPHEN [enthusiastically] Have you two seen the place? Why did you leave us? CUSINS. I wanted to see everything I was not intended to see; and Barbara wanted to make the men talk. STEPHEN. Have you found anything discreditable? CUSINS. No. They call him Dandy Andy and are proud of his being a cunning old rascal; but it's all horribly, frightfully, immorally, unanswerably perfect. Sarah arrives. SARAH. Heavens! what a place! [She crosses to the trolley]. Did you see the nursing home!? [She sits down on the shell]. STEPHEN. Did you see the libraries and schools!? SARAH. Did you see the ballroom and the banqueting chamber in the Town Hall!? STEPHEN. Have you gone into the insurance fund, the pension fund, the building society, the various applications of co-operation!? Undershaft comes from the office, with a sheaf of telegrams in his hands. UNDERSHAFT. Well, have you seen everything? I'm sorry I was called away. [Indicating the telegrams] News from Manchuria. STEPHEN. Good news, I hope. UNDERSHAFT. Very. STEPHEN. Another Japanese victory? UNDERSHAFT. Oh, I don't know. Which side wins does not concern us here. No: the good news is that the aerial battleship is a tremendous success. At the first trial it has wiped out a fort with three hundred soldiers in it. CUSINS [from the platform] Dummy soldiers? UNDERSHAFT. No: the real thing. [Cusins and Barbara exchange glances. Then Cusins sits on the step and buries his face in his hands. Barbara gravely lays her hand on his shoulder, and he looks up at her in a sort of whimsical desperation]. Well, Stephen, what do you think of the place? STEPHEN. Oh, magnificent. A perfect triumph of organization. Frankly, my dear father, I have been a fool: I had no idea of what it all meant--of the wonderful forethought, the power of organization, the administrative capacity, the financial genius, the colossal capital it represents. I have been repeating to myself as I came through your streets "Peace hath her victories no less renowned than War." I have only one misgiving about it all. UNDERSHAFT. Out with it. STEPHEN. Well, I cannot help thinking that all this provision for every want of your workmen may sap their independence and weaken their sense of responsibility. And greatly as we enjoyed our tea at that splendid restaurant--how they gave us all that luxury and cake and jam and cream for threepence I really cannot imagine!--still you must remember that restaurants break up home life. Look at the continent, for instance! Are you sure so much pampering is really good for the men's characters? UNDERSHAFT. Well you see, my dear boy, when you are organizing civilization you have to make up your mind whether trouble and anxiety are good things or not. If you decide that they are, then, I take it, you simply don't organize civilization; and there you are, with trouble and anxiety enough to make us all angels! But if you decide the other way, you may as well go through with it. However, Stephen, our characters are safe here. A sufficient dose of anxiety is always provided by the fact that we may be blown to smithereens at any moment. SARAH. By the way, papa, where do you make the explosives? UNDERSHAFT. In separate little sheds, like that one. When one of them blows up, it costs very little; and only the people quite close to it are killed. Stephen, who is quite close to it, looks at it rather scaredly, and moves away quickly to the cannon. At the same moment the door of the shed is thrown abruptly open; and a foreman in overalls and list slippers comes out on the little landing and holds the door open for Lomax, who appears in the doorway. LOMAX [with studied coolness] My good fellow: you needn't get into a state of nerves. Nothing's going to happen to you; and I suppose it wouldn't be the end of the world if anything did. A little bit of British pluck is what you want, old chap. [He descends and strolls across to Sarah]. UNDERSHAFT [to the foreman] Anything wrong, Bilton? BILTON [with ironic calm] Gentleman walked into the high explosives shed and lit a cigaret, sir: that's all. UNDERSHAFT. Ah, quite so. [To Lomax] Do you happen to remember what you did with the match? LOMAX. Oh come! I'm not a fool. I took jolly good care to blow it out before I chucked it away. BILTON. The top of it was red hot inside, sir. LOMAX. Well, suppose it was! I didn't chuck it into any of your messes. UNDERSHAFT. Think no more of it, Mr Lomax. By the way, would you mind lending me your matches? LOMAX [offering his box] Certainly. UNDERSHAFT. Thanks. [He pockets the matches]. LOMAX [lecturing to the company generally] You know, these high explosives don't go off like gunpowder, except when they're in a gun. When they're spread loose, you can put a match to them without the least risk: they just burn quietly like a bit of paper. [Warming to the scientific interest of the subject] Did you know that Undershaft? Have you ever tried? UNDERSHAFT. Not on a large scale, Mr Lomax. Bilton will give you a sample of gun cotton when you are leaving if you ask him. You can experiment with it at home. [Bilton looks puzzled]. SARAH. Bilton will do nothing of the sort, papa. I suppose it's your business to blow up the Russians and Japs; but you might really stop short of blowing up poor Cholly. [Bilton gives it up and retires into the shed]. LOMAX. My ownest, there is no danger. [He sits beside her on the shell]. Lady Britomart arrives from the town with a bouquet. LADY BRITOMART [coming impetuously between Undershaft and the deck chair] Andrew: you shouldn't have let me see this place. UNDERSHAFT. Why, my dear? LADY BRITOMART. Never mind why: you shouldn't have: that's all. To think of all that [indicating the town] being yours! and that you have kept it to yourself all these years! UNDERSHAFT. It does not belong to me. I belong to it. It is the Undershaft inheritance. LADY BRITOMART. It is not. Your ridiculous cannons and that noisy banging foundry may be the Undershaft inheritance; but all that plate and linen, all that furniture and those houses and orchards and gardens belong to us. They belong to me: they are not a man's business. I won't give them up. You must be out of your senses to throw them all away; and if you persist in such folly, I will call in a doctor. UNDERSHAFT [stooping to smell the bouquet] Where did you get the flowers, my dear? LADY BRITOMART. Your men presented them to me in your William Morris Labor Church. CUSINS [springing up] Oh! It needed only that. A Labor Church! LADY BRITOMART. Yes, with Morris's words in mosaic letters ten feet high round the dome. NO MAN IS GOOD ENOUGH TO BE ANOTHER MAN'S MASTER. The cynicism of it! UNDERSHAFT. It shocked the men at first, I am afraid. But now they take no more notice of it than of the ten commandments in church. LADY BRITOMART. Andrew: you are trying to put me off the subject of the inheritance by profane jokes. Well, you shan't. I don't ask it any longer for Stephen: he has inherited far too much of your perversity to be fit for it. But Barbara has rights as well as Stephen. Why should not Adolphus succeed to the inheritance? I could manage the town for him; and he can look after the cannons, if they are really necessary. UNDERSHAFT. I should ask nothing better if Adolphus were a foundling. He is exactly the sort of new blood that is wanted in English business. But he's not a foundling; and there's an end of it. CUSINS [diplomatically] Not quite. [They all turn and stare at him. He comes from the platform past the shed to Undershaft]. I think--Mind! I am not committing myself in any way as to my future course--but I think the foundling difficulty can be got over. UNDERSHAFT. What do you mean? CUSINS. Well, I have something to say which is in the nature of a confession. SARAH. } LADY BRITOMART. } Confession! BARBARA. } STEPHEN. } LOMAX. Oh I say! CUSINS. Yes, a confession. Listen, all. Until I met Barbara I thought myself in the main an honorable, truthful man, because I wanted the approval of my conscience more than I wanted anything else. But the moment I saw Barbara, I wanted her far more than the approval of my conscience. LADY BRITOMART. Adolphus! CUSINS. It is true. You accused me yourself, Lady Brit, of joining the Army to worship Barbara; and so I did. She bought my soul like a flower at a street corner; but she bought it for herself. UNDERSHAFT. What! Not for Dionysos or another? CUSINS. Dionysos and all the others are in herself. I adored what was divine in her, and was therefore a true worshipper. But I was romantic about her too. I thought she was a woman of the people, and that a marriage with a professor of Greek would be far beyond the wildest social ambitions of her rank. LADY BRITOMART. Adolphus!! LOMAX. Oh I say!!! CUSINS. When I learnt the horrible truth-- LADY BRITOMART. What do you mean by the horrible truth, pray? CUSINS. That she was enormously rich; that her grandfather was an earl; that her father was the Prince of Darkness-- UNDERSHAFT. Chut! CUSINS.--and that I was only an adventurer trying to catch a rich wife, then I stooped to deceive about my birth. LADY BRITOMART. Your birth! Now Adolphus, don't dare to make up a wicked story for the sake of these wretched cannons. Remember: I have seen photographs of your parents; and the Agent General for South Western Australia knows them personally and has assured me that they are most respectable married people. CUSINS. So they are in Australia; but here they are outcasts. Their marriage is legal in Australia, but not in England. My mother is my father's deceased wife's sister; and in this island I am consequently a foundling. [Sensation]. Is the subterfuge good enough, Machiavelli? UNDERSHAFT [thoughtfully] Biddy: this may be a way out of the difficulty. LADY BRITOMART. Stuff! A man can't make cannons any the better for being his own cousin instead of his proper self [she sits down in the deck chair with a bounce that expresses her downright contempt for their casuistry.] UNDERSHAFT [to Cusins] You are an educated man. That is against the tradition. CUSINS. Once in ten thousand times it happens that the schoolboy is a born master of what they try to teach him. Greek has not destroyed my mind: it has nourished it. Besides, I did not learn it at an English public school. UNDERSHAFT. Hm! Well, I cannot afford to be too particular: you have cornered the foundling market. Let it pass. You are eligible, Euripides: you are eligible. BARBARA [coming from the platform and interposing between Cusins and Undershaft] Dolly: yesterday morning, when Stephen told us all about the tradition, you became very silent; and you have been strange and excited ever since. Were you thinking of your birth then? CUSINS. When the finger of Destiny suddenly points at a man in the middle of his breakfast, it makes him thoughtful. [Barbara turns away sadly and stands near her mother, listening perturbedly]. UNDERSHAFT. Aha! You have had your eye on the business, my young friend, have you? CUSINS. Take care! There is an abyss of moral horror between me and your accursed aerial battleships. UNDERSHAFT. Never mind the abyss for the present. Let us settle the practical details and leave your final decision open. You know that you will have to change your name. Do you object to that? CUSINS. Would any man named Adolphus--any man called Dolly!--object to be called something else? UNDERSHAFT. Good. Now, as to money! I propose to treat you handsomely from the beginning. You shall start at a thousand a year. CUSINS. [with sudden heat, his spectacles twinkling with mischief] A thousand! You dare offer a miserable thousand to the son-in-law of a millionaire! No, by Heavens, Machiavelli! you shall not cheat me. You cannot do without me; and I can do without you. I must have two thousand five hundred a year for two years. At the end of that time, if I am a failure, I go. But if I am a success, and stay on, you must give me the other five thousand. UNDERSHAFT. What other five thousand? CUSINS. To make the two years up to five thousand a year. The two thousand five hundred is only half pay in case I should turn out a failure. The third year I must have ten per cent on the profits. UNDERSHAFT [taken aback] Ten per cent! Why, man, do you know what my profits are? CUSINS. Enormous, I hope: otherwise I shall require twenty-five per cent. UNDERSHAFT. But, Mr Cusins, this is a serious matter of business. You are not bringing any capital into the concern. CUSINS. What! no capital! Is my mastery of Greek no capital? Is my access to the subtlest thought, the loftiest poetry yet attained by humanity, no capital? my character! my intellect! my life! my career! what Barbara calls my soul! are these no capital? Say another word; and I double my salary. UNDERSHAFT. Be reasonable-- CUSINS [peremptorily] Mr Undershaft: you have my terms. Take them or leave them. UNDERSHAFT [recovering himself] Very well. I note your terms; and I offer you half. CUSINS [disgusted] Half! UNDERSHAFT [firmly] Half. CUSINS. You call yourself a gentleman; and you offer me half!! UNDERSHAFT. I do not call myself a gentleman; but I offer you half. CUSINS. This to your future partner! your successor! your son-in-law! BARBARA. You are selling your own soul, Dolly, not mine. Leave me out of the bargain, please. UNDERSHAFT. Come! I will go a step further for Barbara's sake. I will give you three fifths; but that is my last word. CUSINS. Done! LOMAX. Done in the eye. Why, _I_ only get eight hundred, you know. CUSINS. By the way, Mac, I am a classical scholar, not an arithmetical one. Is three fifths more than half or less? UNDERSHAFT. More, of course. CUSINS. I would have taken two hundred and fifty. How you can succeed in business when you are willing to pay all that money to a University don who is obviously not worth a junior clerk's wages!--well! What will Lazarus say? UNDERSHAFT. Lazarus is a gentle romantic Jew who cares for nothing but string quartets and stalls at fashionable theatres. He will get the credit of your rapacity in money matters, as he has hitherto had the credit of mine. You are a shark of the first order, Euripides. So much the better for the firm! BARBARA. Is the bargain closed, Dolly? Does your soul belong to him now? CUSINS. No: the price is settled: that is all. The real tug of war is still to come. What about the moral question? LADY BRITOMART. There is no moral question in the matter at all, Adolphus. You must simply sell cannons and weapons to people whose cause is right and just, and refuse them to foreigners and criminals. UNDERSHAFT [determinedly] No: none of that. You must keep the true faith of an Armorer, or you don't come in here. CUSINS. What on earth is the true faith of an Armorer? UNDERSHAFT. To give arms to all men who offer an honest price for them, without respect of persons or principles: to aristocrat and republican, to Nihilist and Tsar, to Capitalist and Socialist, to Protestant and Catholic, to burglar and policeman, to black man white man and yellow man, to all sorts and conditions, all nationalities, all faiths, all follies, all causes and all crimes. The first Undershaft wrote up in his shop IF GOD GAVE THE HAND, LET NOT MAN WITHHOLD THE SWORD. The second wrote up ALL HAVE THE RIGHT TO FIGHT: NONE HAVE THE RIGHT TO JUDGE. The third wrote up TO MAN THE WEAPON: TO HEAVEN THE VICTORY. The fourth had no literary turn; so he did not write up anything; but he sold cannons to Napoleon under the nose of George the Third. The fifth wrote up PEACE SHALL NOT PREVAIL SAVE WITH A SWORD IN HER HAND. The sixth, my master, was the best of all. He wrote up NOTHING IS EVER DONE IN THIS WORLD UNTIL MEN ARE PREPARED TO KILL ONE ANOTHER IF IT IS NOT DONE. After that, there was nothing left for the seventh to say. So he wrote up, simply, UNASHAMED. CUSINS. My good Machiavelli, I shall certainly write something up on the wall; only, as I shall write it in Greek, you won't be able to read it. But as to your Armorer's faith, if I take my neck out of the noose of my own morality I am not going to put it into the noose of yours. I shall sell cannons to whom I please and refuse them to whom I please. So there! UNDERSHAFT. From the moment when you become Andrew Undershaft, you will never do as you please again. Don't come here lusting for power, young man. CUSINS. If power were my aim I should not come here for it. YOU have no power. UNDERSHAFT. None of my own, certainly. CUSINS. I have more power than you, more will. You do not drive this place: it drives you. And what drives the place? UNDERSHAFT [enigmatically] A will of which I am a part. BARBARA [startled] Father! Do you know what you are saying; or are you laying a snare for my soul? CUSINS. Don't listen to his metaphysics, Barbara. The place is driven by the most rascally part of society, the money hunters, the pleasure hunters, the military promotion hunters; and he is their slave. UNDERSHAFT. Not necessarily. Remember the Armorer's Faith. I will take an order from a good man as cheerfully as from a bad one. If you good people prefer preaching and shirking to buying my weapons and fighting the rascals, don't blame me. I can make cannons: I cannot make courage and conviction. Bah! You tire me, Euripides, with your morality mongering. Ask Barbara: SHE understands. [He suddenly takes Barbara's hands, and looks powerfully into her eyes]. Tell him, my love, what power really means. BARBARA [hypnotized] Before I joined the Salvation Army, I was in my own power; and the consequence was that I never knew what to do with myself. When I joined it, I had not time enough for all the things I had to do. UNDERSHAFT [approvingly] Just so. And why was that, do you suppose? BARBARA. Yesterday I should have said, because I was in the power of God. [She resumes her self-possession, withdrawing her hands from his with a power equal to his own]. But you came and showed me that I was in the power of Bodger and Undershaft. Today I feel--oh! how can I put it into words? Sarah: do you remember the earthquake at Cannes, when we were little children?--how little the surprise of the first shock mattered compared to the dread and horror of waiting for the second? That is how I feel in this place today. I stood on the rock I thought eternal; and without a word of warning it reeled and crumbled under me. I was safe with an infinite wisdom watching me, an army marching to Salvation with me; and in a moment, at a stroke of your pen in a cheque book, I stood alone; and the heavens were empty. That was the first shock of the earthquake: I am waiting for the second. UNDERSHAFT. Come, come, my daughter! Don't make too much of your little tinpot tragedy. What do we do here when we spend years of work and thought and thousands of pounds of solid cash on a new gun or an aerial battleship that turns out just a hairsbreadth wrong after all? Scrap it. Scrap it without wasting another hour or another pound on it. Well, you have made for yourself something that you call a morality or a religion or what not. It doesn't fit the facts. Well, scrap it. Scrap it and get one that does fit. That is what is wrong with the world at present. It scraps its obsolete steam engines and dynamos; but it won't scrap its old prejudices and its old moralities and its old religions and its old political constitutions. What's the result? In machinery it does very well; but in morals and religion and politics it is working at a loss that brings it nearer bankruptcy every year. Don't persist in that folly. If your old religion broke down yesterday, get a newer and a better one for tomorrow. BARBARA. Oh how gladly I would take a better one to my soul! But you offer me a worse one. [Turning on him with sudden vehemence]. Justify yourself: show me some light through the darkness of this dreadful place, with its beautifully clean workshops, and respectable workmen, and model homes. UNDERSHAFT. Cleanliness and respectability do not need justification, Barbara: they justify themselves. I see no darkness here, no dreadfulness. In your Salvation shelter I saw poverty, misery, cold and hunger. You gave them bread and treacle and dreams of heaven. I give from thirty shillings a week to twelve thousand a year. They find their own dreams; but I look after the drainage. BARBARA. And their souls? UNDERSHAFT. I save their souls just as I saved yours. BARBARA [revolted] You saved my soul! What do you mean? UNDERSHAFT. I fed you and clothed you and housed you. I took care that you should have money enough to live handsomely--more than enough; so that you could be wasteful, careless, generous. That saved your soul from the seven deadly sins. BARBARA [bewildered] The seven deadly sins! UNDERSHAFT. Yes, the deadly seven. [Counting on his fingers] Food, clothing, firing, rent, taxes, respectability and children. Nothing can lift those seven millstones from Man's neck but money; and the spirit cannot soar until the millstones are lifted. I lifted them from your spirit. I enabled Barbara to become Major Barbara; and I saved her from the crime of poverty. CUSINS. Do you call poverty a crime? UNDERSHAFT. The worst of crimes. All the other crimes are virtues beside it: all the other dishonors are chivalry itself by comparison. Poverty blights whole cities; spreads horrible pestilences; strikes dead the very souls of all who come within sight, sound or smell of it. What you call crime is nothing: a murder here and a theft there, a blow now and a curse then: what do they matter? they are only the accidents and illnesses of life: there are not fifty genuine professional criminals in London. But there are millions of poor people, abject people, dirty people, ill fed, ill clothed people. They poison us morally and physically: they kill the happiness of society: they force us to do away with our own liberties and to organize unnatural cruelties for fear they should rise against us and drag us down into their abyss. Only fools fear crime: we all fear poverty. Pah! [turning on Barbara] you talk of your half-saved ruffian in West Ham: you accuse me of dragging his soul back to perdition. Well, bring him to me here; and I will drag his soul back again to salvation for you. Not by words and dreams; but by thirty-eight shillings a week, a sound house in a handsome street, and a permanent job. In three weeks he will have a fancy waistcoat; in three months a tall hat and a chapel sitting; before the end of the year he will shake hands with a duchess at a Primrose League meeting, and join the Conservative Party. BARBARA. And will he be the better for that? UNDERSHAFT. You know he will. Don't be a hypocrite, Barbara. He will be better fed, better housed, better clothed, better behaved; and his children will be pounds heavier and bigger. That will be better than an American cloth mattress in a shelter, chopping firewood, eating bread and treacle, and being forced to kneel down from time to time to thank heaven for it: knee drill, I think you call it. It is cheap work converting starving men with a Bible in one hand and a slice of bread in the other. I will undertake to convert West Ham to Mahometanism on the same terms. Try your hand on my men: their souls are hungry because their bodies are full. BARBARA. And leave the east end to starve? UNDERSHAFT [his energetic tone dropping into one of bitter and brooding remembrance] I was an east ender. I moralized and starved until one day I swore that I would be a fullfed free man at all costs--that nothing should stop me except a bullet, neither reason nor morals nor the lives of other men. I said "Thou shalt starve ere I starve"; and with that word I became free and great. I was a dangerous man until I had my will: now I am a useful, beneficent, kindly person. That is the history of most self-made millionaires, I fancy. When it is the history of every Englishman we shall have an England worth living in. LADY BRITOMART. Stop making speeches, Andrew. This is not the place for them. UNDERSHAFT [punctured] My dear: I have no other means of conveying my ideas. LADY BRITOMART. Your ideas are nonsense. You got oil because you were selfish and unscrupulous. UNDERSHAFT. Not at all. I had the strongest scruples about poverty and starvation. Your moralists are quite unscrupulous about both: they make virtues of them. I had rather be a thief than a pauper. I had rather be a murderer than a slave. I don't want to be either; but if you force the alternative on me, then, by Heaven, I'll choose the braver and more moral one. I hate poverty and slavery worse than any other crimes whatsoever. And let me tell you this. Poverty and slavery have stood up for centuries to your sermons and leading articles: they will not stand up to my machine guns. Don't preach at them: don't reason with them. Kill them. BARBARA. Killing. Is that your remedy for everything? UNDERSHAFT. It is the final test of conviction, the only lever strong enough to overturn a social system, the only way of saying Must. Let six hundred and seventy fools loose in the street; and three policemen can scatter them. But huddle them together in a certain house in Westminster; and let them go through certain ceremonies and call themselves certain names until at last they get the courage to kill; and your six hundred and seventy fools become a government. Your pious mob fills up ballot papers and imagines it is governing its masters; but the ballot paper that really governs is the paper that has a bullet wrapped up in it. CUSINS. That is perhaps why, like most intelligent people, I never vote. UNDERSHAFT Vote! Bah! When you vote, you only change the names of the cabinet. When you shoot, you pull down governments, inaugurate new epochs, abolish old orders and set up new. Is that historically true, Mr Learned Man, or is it not? CUSINS. It is historically true. I loathe having to admit it. I repudiate your sentiments. I abhor your nature. I defy you in every possible way. Still, it is true. But it ought not to be true. UNDERSHAFT. Ought, ought, ought, ought, ought! Are you going to spend your life saying ought, like the rest of our moralists? Turn your oughts into shalls, man. Come and make explosives with me. Whatever can blow men up can blow society up. The history of the world is the history of those who had courage enough to embrace this truth. Have you the courage to embrace it, Barbara? LADY BRITOMART. Barbara, I positively forbid you to listen to your father's abominable wickedness. And you, Adolphus, ought to know better than to go about saying that wrong things are true. What does it matter whether they are true if they are wrong? UNDERSHAFT. What does it matter whether they are wrong if they are true? LADY BRITOMART [rising] Children: come home instantly. Andrew: I am exceedingly sorry I allowed you to call on us. You are wickeder than ever. Come at once. BARBARA [shaking her head] It's no use running away from wicked people, mamma. LADY BRITOMART. It is every use. It shows your disapprobation of them. BARBARA. It does not save them. LADY BRITOMART. I can see that you are going to disobey me. Sarah: are you coming home or are you not? SARAH. I daresay it's very wicked of papa to make cannons; but I don't think I shall cut him on that account. LOMAX [pouring oil on the troubled waters] The fact is, you know, there is a certain amount of tosh about this notion of wickedness. It doesn't work. You must look at facts. Not that I would say a word in favor of anything wrong; but then, you see, all sorts of chaps are always doing all sorts of things; and we have to fit them in somehow, don't you know. What I mean is that you can't go cutting everybody; and that's about what it comes to. [Their rapt attention to his eloquence makes him nervous] Perhaps I don't make myself clear. LADY BRITOMART. You are lucidity itself, Charles. Because Andrew is successful and has plenty of money to give to Sarah, you will flatter him and encourage him in his wickedness. LOMAX [unruffled] Well, where the carcase is, there will the eagles be gathered, don't you know. [To Undershaft] Eh? What? UNDERSHAFT. Precisely. By the way, may I call you Charles? LOMAX. Delighted. Cholly is the usual ticket. UNDERSHAFT [to Lady Britomart] Biddy-- LADY BRITOMART [violently] Don't dare call me Biddy. Charles Lomax: you are a fool. Adolphus Cusins: you are a Jesuit. Stephen: you are a prig. Barbara: you are a lunatic. Andrew: you are a vulgar tradesman. Now you all know my opinion; and my conscience is clear, at all events [she sits down again with a vehemence that almost wrecks the chair]. UNDERSHAFT. My dear, you are the incarnation of morality. [She snorts]. Your conscience is clear and your duty done when you have called everybody names. Come, Euripides! it is getting late; and we all want to get home. Make up your mind. CUSINS. Understand this, you old demon-- LADY BRITOMART. Adolphus! UNDERSHAFT. Let him alone, Biddy. Proceed, Euripides. CUSINS. You have me in a horrible dilemma. I want Barbara. UNDERSHAFT. Like all young men, you greatly exaggerate the difference between one young woman and another. BARBARA. Quite true, Dolly. CUSINS. I also want to avoid being a rascal. UNDERSHAFT [with biting contempt] You lust for personal righteousness, for self-approval, for what you call a good conscience, for what Barbara calls salvation, for what I call patronizing people who are not so lucky as yourself. CUSINS. I do not: all the poet in me recoils from being a good man. But there are things in me that I must reckon with: pity-- UNDERSHAFT. Pity! The scavenger of misery. CUSINS. Well, love. UNDERSHAFT. I know. You love the needy and the outcast: you love the oppressed races, the negro, the Indian ryot, the Pole, the Irishman. Do you love the Japanese? Do you love the Germans? Do you love the English? CUSINS. No. Every true Englishman detests the English. We are the wickedest nation on earth; and our success is a moral horror. UNDERSHAFT. That is what comes of your gospel of love, is it? CUSINS. May I not love even my father-in-law? UNDERSHAFT. Who wants your love, man? By what right do you take the liberty of offering it to me? I will have your due heed and respect, or I will kill you. But your love! Damn your impertinence! CUSINS [grinning] I may not be able to control my affections, Mac. UNDERSHAFT. You are fencing, Euripides. You are weakening: your grip is slipping. Come! try your last weapon. Pity and love have broken in your hand: forgiveness is still left. CUSINS. No: forgiveness is a beggar's refuge. I am with you there: we must pay our debts. UNDERSHAFT. Well said. Come! you will suit me. Remember the words of Plato. CUSINS [starting] Plato! You dare quote Plato to me! UNDERSHAFT. Plato says, my friend, that society cannot be saved until either the Professors of Greek take to making gunpowder, or else the makers of gunpowder become Professors of Greek. CUSINS. Oh, tempter, cunning tempter! UNDERSHAFT. Come! choose, man, choose. CUSINS. But perhaps Barbara will not marry me if I make the wrong choice. BARBARA. Perhaps not. CUSINS [desperately perplexed] You hear-- BARBARA. Father: do you love nobody? UNDERSHAFT. I love my best friend. LADY BRITOMART. And who is that, pray? UNDERSHAFT. My bravest enemy. That is the man who keeps me up to the mark. CUSINS. You know, the creature is really a sort of poet in his way. Suppose he is a great man, after all! UNDERSHAFT. Suppose you stop talking and make up your mind, my young friend. CUSINS. But you are driving me against my nature. I hate war. UNDERSHAFT. Hatred is the coward's revenge for being intimidated. Dare you make war on war? Here are the means: my friend Mr Lomax is sitting on them. LOMAX [springing up] Oh I say! You don't mean that this thing is loaded, do you? My ownest: come off it. SARAH [sitting placidly on the shell] If I am to be blown up, the more thoroughly it is done the better. Don't fuss, Cholly. LOMAX [to Undershaft, strongly remonstrant] Your own daughter, you know. UNDERSHAFT. So I see. [To Cusins] Well, my friend, may we expect you here at six tomorrow morning? CUSINS [firmly] Not on any account. I will see the whole establishment blown up with its own dynamite before I will get up at five. My hours are healthy, rational hours eleven to five. UNDERSHAFT. Come when you please: before a week you will come at six and stay until I turn you out for the sake of your health. [Calling] Bilton! [He turns to Lady Britomart, who rises]. My dear: let us leave these two young people to themselves for a moment. [Bilton comes from the shed]. I am going to take you through the gun cotton shed. BILTON [barring the way] You can't take anything explosive in here, Sir. LADY BRITOMART. What do you mean? Are you alluding to me? BILTON [unmoved] No, ma'am. Mr Undershaft has the other gentleman's matches in his pocket. LADY BRITOMART [abruptly] Oh! I beg your pardon. [She goes into the shed]. UNDERSHAFT. Quite right, Bilton, quite right: here you are. [He gives Bilton the box of matches]. Come, Stephen. Come, Charles. Bring Sarah. [He passes into the shed]. Bilton opens the box and deliberately drops the matches into the fire-bucket. LOMAX. Oh I say! [Bilton stolidly hands him the empty box]. Infernal nonsense! Pure scientific ignorance! [He goes in]. SARAH. Am I all right, Bilton? BILTON. You'll have to put on list slippers, miss: that's all. We've got em inside. [She goes in]. STEPHEN [very seriously to Cusins] Dolly, old fellow, think. Think before you decide. Do you feel that you are a sufficiently practical man? It is a huge undertaking, an enormous responsibility. All this mass of business will be Greek to you. CUSINS. Oh, I think it will be much less difficult than Greek. STEPHEN. Well, I just want to say this before I leave you to yourselves. Don't let anything I have said about right and wrong prejudice you against this great chance in life. I have satisfied myself that the business is one of the highest character and a credit to our country. [Emotionally] I am very proud of my father. I-- [Unable to proceed, he presses Cusins' hand and goes hastily into the shed, followed by Bilton]. Barbara and Cusins, left alone together, look at one another silently. CUSINS. Barbara: I am going to accept this offer. BARBARA. I thought you would. CUSINS. You understand, don't you, that I had to decide without consulting you. If I had thrown the burden of the choice on you, you would sooner or later have despised me for it. BARBARA. Yes: I did not want you to sell your soul for me any more than for this inheritance. CUSINS. It is not the sale of my soul that troubles me: I have sold it too often to care about that. I have sold it for a professorship. I have sold it for an income. I have sold it to escape being imprisoned for refusing to pay taxes for hangmen's ropes and unjust wars and things that I abhor. What is all human conduct but the daily and hourly sale of our souls for trifles? What I am now selling it for is neither money nor position nor comfort, but for reality and for power. BARBARA. You know that you will have no power, and that he has none. CUSINS. I know. It is not for myself alone. I want to make power for the world. BARBARA. I want to make power for the world too; but it must be spiritual power. CUSINS. I think all power is spiritual: these cannons will not go off by themselves. I have tried to make spiritual power by teaching Greek. But the world can never be really touched by a dead language and a dead civilization. The people must have power; and the people cannot have Greek. Now the power that is made here can be wielded by all men. BARBARA. Power to burn women's houses down and kill their sons and tear their husbands to pieces. CUSINS. You cannot have power for good without having power for evil too. Even mother's milk nourishes murderers as well as heroes. This power which only tears men's bodies to pieces has never been so horribly abused as the intellectual power, the imaginative power, the poetic, religious power that can enslave men's souls. As a teacher of Greek I gave the intellectual man weapons against the common man. I now want to give the common man weapons against the intellectual man. I love the common people. I want to arm them against the lawyer, the doctor, the priest, the literary man, the professor, the artist, and the politician, who, once in authority, are the most dangerous, disastrous, and tyrannical of all the fools, rascals, and impostors. I want a democratic power strong enough to force the intellectual oligarchy to use its genius for the general good or else perish. BARBARA. Is there no higher power than that [pointing to the shell]? CUSINS. Yes: but that power can destroy the higher powers just as a tiger can destroy a man: therefore man must master that power first. I admitted this when the Turks and Greeks were last at war. My best pupil went out to fight for Hellas. My parting gift to him was not a copy of Plato's Republic, but a revolver and a hundred Undershaft cartridges. The blood of every Turk he shot--if he shot any--is on my head as well as on Undershaft's. That act committed me to this place for ever. Your father's challenge has beaten me. Dare I make war on war? I dare. I must. I will. And now, is it all over between us? BARBARA [touched by his evident dread of her answer] Silly baby Dolly! How could it be? CUSINS [overjoyed] Then you--you--you-- Oh for my drum! [He flourishes imaginary drumsticks]. BARBARA [angered by his levity] Take care, Dolly, take care. Oh, if only I could get away from you and from father and from it all! if I could have the wings of a dove and fly away to heaven! CUSINS. And leave me! BARBARA. Yes, you, and all the other naughty mischievous children of men. But I can't. I was happy in the Salvation Army for a moment. I escaped from the world into a paradise of enthusiasm and prayer and soul saving; but the moment our money ran short, it all came back to Bodger: it was he who saved our people: he, and the Prince of Darkness, my papa. Undershaft and Bodger: their hands stretch everywhere: when we feed a starving fellow creature, it is with their bread, because there is no other bread; when we tend the sick, it is in the hospitals they endow; if we turn from the churches they build, we must kneel on the stones of the streets they pave. As long as that lasts, there is no getting away from them. Turning our backs on Bodger and Undershaft is turning our backs on life. CUSINS. I thought you were determined to turn your back on the wicked side of life. BARBARA. There is no wicked side: life is all one. And I never wanted to shirk my share in whatever evil must be endured, whether it be sin or suffering. I wish I could cure you of middle-class ideas, Dolly. CUSINS [gasping] Middle cl--! A snub! A social snub to ME! from the daughter of a foundling! BARBARA. That is why I have no class, Dolly: I come straight out of the heart of the whole people. If I were middle-class I should turn my back on my father's business; and we should both live in an artistic drawingroom, with you reading the reviews in one corner, and I in the other at the piano, playing Schumann: both very superior persons, and neither of us a bit of use. Sooner than that, I would sweep out the guncotton shed, or be one of Bodger's barmaids. Do you know what would have happened if you had refused papa's offer? CUSINS. I wonder! BARBARA. I should have given you up and married the man who accepted it. After all, my dear old mother has more sense than any of you. I felt like her when I saw this place--felt that I must have it--that never, never, never could I let it go; only she thought it was the houses and the kitchen ranges and the linen and china, when it was really all the human souls to be saved: not weak souls in starved bodies, crying with gratitude or a scrap of bread and treacle, but fullfed, quarrelsome, snobbish, uppish creatures, all standing on their little rights and dignities, and thinking that my father ought to be greatly obliged to them for making so much money for him--and so he ought. That is where salvation is really wanted. My father shall never throw it in my teeth again that my converts were bribed with bread. [She is transfigured]. I have got rid of the bribe of bread. I have got rid of the bribe of heaven. Let God's work be done for its own sake: the work he had to create us to do because it cannot be done by living men and women. When I die, let him be in my debt, not I in his; and let me forgive him as becomes a woman of my rank. CUSINS. Then the way of life lies through the factory of death? BARBARA. Yes, through the raising of hell to heaven and of man to God, through the unveiling of an eternal light in the Valley of The Shadow. [Seizing him with both hands] Oh, did you think my courage would never come back? did you believe that I was a deserter? that I, who have stood in the streets, and taken my people to my heart, and talked of the holiest and greatest things with them, could ever turn back and chatter foolishly to fashionable people about nothing in a drawingroom? Never, never, never, never: Major Barbara will die with the colors. Oh! and I have my dear little Dolly boy still; and he has found me my place and my work. Glory Hallelujah! [She kisses him]. CUSINS. My dearest: consider my delicate health. I cannot stand as much happiness as you can. BARBARA. Yes: it is not easy work being in love with me, is it? But it's good for you. [She runs to the shed, and calls, childlike] Mamma! Mamma! [Bilton comes out of the shed, followed by Undershaft]. I want Mamma. UNDERSHAFT. She is taking off her list slippers, dear. [He passes on to Cusins]. Well? What does she say? CUSINS. She has gone right up into the skies. LADY BRITOMART [coming from the shed and stopping on the steps, obstructing Sarah, who follows with Lomax. Barbara clutches like a baby at her mother's skirt]. Barbara: when will you learn to be independent and to act and think for yourself? I know as well as possible what that cry of "Mamma, Mamma," means. Always running to me! SARAH [touching Lady Britomart's ribs with her finger tips and imitating a bicycle horn] Pip! Pip! LADY BRITOMART [highly indignant] How dare you say Pip! pip! to me, Sarah? You are both very naughty children. What do you want, Barbara? BARBARA. I want a house in the village to live in with Dolly. [Dragging at the skirt] Come and tell me which one to take. UNDERSHAFT [to Cusins] Six o'clock tomorrow morning, my young friend.

Act III (Lady Britomart's Library)

https://web.archive.org/web/20201201082228/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/m/major-barbara/summary-and-analysis/act-iii-lady-britomarts-library

This act opens the next morning in Lady Britomart's library, and we are immediately astonished to see Major Barbara dressed not in her Salvation Army uniform but in an "ordinary fashionable dress." Charles Lomax, trying to console Barbara, makes an inopportune remark about there being "a certain amount of tosh about the Salvation Army." Adolphus enters in a questionable state of sobriety and announces that he has "been making a night of it" with Andrew Undershaft, whom he calls "the Prince of Darkness" and who, he says, has plied Adolphus with plentiful amounts of Spanish burgundy even though Undershaft himself is a teetotaler. Barbara inquires about the Salvation Army meeting and learns that it was a tremendous success with a hundred and seventeen conversions in addition to many prayers said for Bodger, as well as prayers for the anonymous donor of five thousand pounds to the Army. At this moment, Morrison, the butler, announces the arrival of Andrew Undershaft, and Lady Britomart sends everyone out so that she can confront Andrew alone about the family's affairs. Andrew Undershaft genially concedes to Lady Britomart's stipulation about Barbara and Sarah's need for money. But when Lady Britomart broaches the subject of their son, Stephen, Undershaft loses all interest, maintaining that Stephen doesn't show the slightest resemblance to either of them; moreover, he asserts that Stephen might be able to learn the rudimentary mechanics of running the office routines of the munitions foundry but that he certainly has no aptitude for managing the entire Undershaft and Lazarus empire. Furthermore, Undershaft is determined to remain true to the Undershaft tradition of leaving the foundry to a foundling -- a "tradition" that has never been broken. He admits, however, that he has not yet found a suitable successor; everyone whom he has found is "exactly like Stephen" -- inept. Undershaft is searching for a man who has not yet been corrupted by conventional ideas -- a man whose outstanding qualities are a strong will and an independent turn of mind. He tells Lady Britomart to find such a foundling, and he will be willing to marry him off to Barbara, thus keeping "the foundry in the family." Stephen enters then, and after some sharp conversational exchanges, he makes it quite clear -- to both his father and his mother -- that he has absolutely no interest and absolutely no capacity for managing such a business as the munitions foundry: "I repudiate the cannon business." Undershaft is so relieved that he promises to help Stephen get established in another career; after all, Undershaft says, "I owe you a fair start in life in exchange for disinheriting you." After further discussion concerning Stephen's aptitudes, Stephen confesses that his supreme quality is that he knows "the difference between right and wrong." This statement utterly fascinates Undershaft since this is the single philosophical distinction that has baffled all of the wisest philosophers and intellects throughout the ages. He scoffs at his son, but Stephen manages to keep his temper, even if with difficulty. Yet Stephen objects to a derogatory statement which his father makes about politics, for Undershaft begins lecturing his son upon the reality of who it is who really runs the country; the real rulers, Undershaft says, are the people who have power and use it to control the masses. Stephen responds -- as best he can -- with a few well-chosen cliches about the importance of national character as being the true power responsible for the operation of the government, and Undershaft announces that Stephen has just discovered his career: Stephen will be a journalist, and, in this way, Stephen can profit from his high-sounding moral cliches. Before Stephen has a chance to retaliate to this suggestion, the others return ready for their journey to the Lazarus and Undershaft Munitions Foundry. Barbara and Cusins will go with Undershaft in a new bulletproof vehicle which he is experimenting with; the others will follow in the carriage. Before they leave, Barbara is convinced that she is about to experience some infernal "pit where lost creatures with blackened faces stir up smoky fires and are driven and tormented by my father." Undershaft explains that it is quite the contrary: "It is a spotless clean and beautiful hillside town," where it is not necessary that he ever give any orders because of the natural propensity of the Englishman to keep people below them in tow and to have such awe for rank and privilege that he never feels a need to be dictatorial. Barbara then tells him that although she will keep her bargain and visit his "factory of death," she will never forgive him for destroying the soul of a man whom she was on the verge of saving only the day before; to kill physically with cannons, Barbara says, is one thing, but to kill another person's soul is unforgivable. When Undershaft very cleverly reminds her that one cannot "strike a man to the heart and leave no mark on him," Barbara then joyfully realizes that her father is right -- even though Cusins sees it as the cunning of "the Prince of Darkness."

This first scene presents the results of last night's breakup. While the scene is partly light social comedy, yet all of the serious themes of the play are reinforced. With the entrance of Cusins, we learn, for example, that last night's rally was a tremendous success and that Cusins spent the evening drinking wine with Undershaft, who is a teetotaler. Essentially, Shaw's men of purpose are often more concerned with destiny and their own force on life than with wasting their time drinking. Thus, Undershaft's purpose last night was apparently to influence Cusins and to discover how Cusins could be "used" by Undershaft. But Cusins does not admit that it was Undershaft who made him drunk; instead, he insists that it was Dionysus who possessed him. Instead of Cusins' gaining salvation through the Salvation Army, we now see that Cusins is going to achieve salvation through an emotional, Dionysian wisdom; that is, through a rejection of moral conformity. The contrast is comic: Into the very proper drawing room comes an intellectual drunk, rejecting propriety and social decorum in favor of some sort of wild Dionysian power. In the brief scene between Lady Britomart and Undershaft, we have the final turn of the plot introduced. Undershaft has admitted that he cannot find a foundling to take over the foundry, and he asks Lady Britomart to find one, and then they can marry off the foundling to Barbara and thus keep the foundry in the family. This prepares the plot for the unique way that Cusins -- as a foundling -- will be able to both marry Barbara and keep the foundry in the family. The scene between Stephen and his father is high comedy. In spite of Lady Britomart's protestations that breeding is more important than anything , yet everything that Stephen says or does shows him to be completely inept and incapable of doing anything except uttering high-sounding cliches. When he maintains that he, at least, knows the difference between "right and wrong," he is not even intelligent enough to know that since the very beginning of philosophy, that very subject has been among the main concerns of humanity's greatest minds. For Stephen to be so flippant is comic; for Stephen not to even know how absurd he is is incredulous. Thus, Andrew Undershaft is only more confirmed than ever in his decision to be faithful to the Undershaft tradition and find a man of unusual potential; Stephen is clearly fit only to spout high-toned cliches. Shaw also uses this scene for another of his attacks on politics. One should remember this point when Undershaft tells Stephen that if he can't do anything else, then he should go into politics; Shaw was keenly aware that there would probably be many members of Parliament in the audience. In addition, Shaw is being brutally realistic when he points out that it is power and money which influence government -- not individuals and character. We should remember that this is the turning point for Barbara. As the great tempters of the past have come from infernal pits of hellfire and damnation, Barbara envisions the Undershaft foundry in images of smoky fires. The image, of course, is also the image of the ugly nineteenth-century factory -- a very real place of death and destruction. Barbara's soul, then, will be won when she sees that the town, as described by her father, really does exist -- that the "death and destruction" factory has created an ideal social community where everyone is happy and contented with their lives.

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/3790-chapters/act_1.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/Major Barbara/section_0_part_0.txt

Major Barbara.act 1

act 1

{"name": "Act I Part One", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210118113736/https://www.sparknotes.com/drama/majorbarbara/section1/", "summary": "It is after dinner in the library of Lady Britomart Undershaft's house in January 1906. The high-tempered Lady Britomart sits at her writing table. Her son, Stephen, a grave young man who takes himself very seriously and is somewhat in awe of his mother, enters the stage. He asks his mother why she has called him. She asks him to wait and chastises him for beginning to read in the meantime and fiddling with his tie. Britomart then aggressively announces that Stephen is now a grown man, well traveled and educated, and he must take charge of the family affairs. Though both his sisters are to be married, Britomart's income cannot sustain four households. Lomax, Sarah's fiance, will not receive his trust fund until 35. Barbara, the most promising member of the household, has joined the Salvation Army and become involved with a tempestuous Greek scholar, Adolphus Cusins. Britomart cannot avoid the topic any longer--they must speak of Stephen's fabulously wealthy father, the great military industrialist Andrew Undershaft. Stephen is all too aware of his father's wealth. He rarely opens a newspaper without reading of the latest weapon from the Undershaft and Lazarus firm. With his cannons and war loans, Andrew Undershaft has Europe under his thumb. He is above the law. Britomart remarks that Undershaft has broken the law since birth, as his parents were unmarried. Like all the Undershafts before him, he was a foundling and, in the tradition of the armory, has disinherited Stephen to find a foundling as his own successor. Britomart divorced him as a result. She could not bear such an immoral man, a man who subscribed to a \"sort of religion of wrongness.\" Stephen is naively bewildered by his father's strange morality. Right should always be right, and wrong is wrong. He insists that they not ask for his father's assistance. Britomart resigns herself to asking Andrew. She has already invited him to visit this evening and meet the family and Stephen is outwitted and overwhelmed. Britomart asks Morrison, the butler, to summon the family to the library. She warns Stephen against appearing nervous. It will only encourage his sister Barbara, a major with the Salvation Army, to try to get her way. Barbara and appear first and their respective fiances follow. Britomart announces Undershaft's imminent visit to the stupefied party. Barbara is amused and expectant: after all, her father has a soul to be saved like everyone else. Lomax blathers nervously. With sarcastic suavity, Britomart asks Cusins to translate Lomax's \"vulgar\" street dialect. She warns the children to be on their best behavior.", "analysis": "Major Barbara begins with a comic meeting between an aristocratic mother and her only son. Though Lady Britomart ostensibly invites her son to take charge of the family affairs, she has already made arrangements for Undershaft to come to the house and resolve them. Note how, as with her largely uncontrollable daughters, Britomart chastises Stephen for fidgeting, warns him against being on his best behavior, and displays other maternal behavior. Lady Britomart appears as the overbearing mother of a fatherless household. As such a maternal figure, Britomart will figure in the play as the bearer of an increasingly antiquated sense of convention and familial loyalty. She is sympathetic in being the play's great lady: charming, witty, and aristocratically provincial in her perspective on the work. Hopelessly she will insist on propriety in a family not particularly invested in such social forms. Here Britomart's insistence on propriety emerges most clearly in her disparagement of Lomax. As in many of Shaw's works, dialect figures as an especially vexed point of contention in the household. Largely deployed for comic relief, Lomax's speech is a caricature of the society man's English. A frivolous playboy, he spends much of the play delivering stunted and tactless exclamations. Lomax converses in what Britomart considers \"schoolboy drivel,\" a \"vulgar\" street dialect that says little and requires translation into proper speech. It behooves the reader to follow these clashes over dialect closely. The importance of the difference between proper and improper English in the play will become clearer in Act II, when dialect raises a number of questions regarding class difference. As we might expect, Lady Britomart objects to her ex-husband for his betrayals of convention, familial duty, and morality, having divorced him for his disinheiritance of Andrew. Prefiguring the elaboration of what Shaw terms Undershaft's \"gospel,\" Britomart bemoans his \"religion of wrongness\" and his insistence on always living in an \"unashamed\" fashion. As her only response to the new system of morality Undershaft introduces is to turn away in disapprobation, her family will ultimately abandon her upon his return. Stephen will assert his majority and cast aside her to discuss his future with Undershaft alone. As we will see, though she may play the great lady, she cannot compete with a father who compels those around him as a great man. A formerly tabooed subject of conversation in the household , Undershaft already appears here as a compelling, all-powerful father--a man who, in holding Europe under his thumbs and determines law, can in no sense hyperbolically liken himself to the Roman Emperor. As if Andrew's name were not enough, his son's exclamations make his phallic prowess rather explicit: \"The Undershaft torpedo! The Undershaft quick firers! The Undershaft ten inch!\" The father's almost pornographic name bears his power, referring to how his firm serves as Europe's foundation . Moreover, as Britomart reveals, Undershaft has served as the provider for their family all along as well. Thus he already holds them in his power. Also note that at one point Stephen bemoans being called the \"Woolwich Infant\" at school. The Infant was a British 35-ton rifled muzzle-loading cannon, constructed in 1870 and featuring a steel tube hooped with wrought-iron coils."}

ACT I It is after dinner on a January night, in the library in Lady Britomart Undershaft's house in Wilton Crescent. A large and comfortable settee is in the middle of the room, upholstered in dark leather. A person sitting on it [it is vacant at present] would have, on his right, Lady Britomart's writing table, with the lady herself busy at it; a smaller writing table behind him on his left; the door behind him on Lady Britomart's side; and a window with a window seat directly on his left. Near the window is an armchair. Lady Britomart is a woman of fifty or thereabouts, well dressed and yet careless of her dress, well bred and quite reckless of her breeding, well mannered and yet appallingly outspoken and indifferent to the opinion of her interlocutory, amiable and yet peremptory, arbitrary, and high-tempered to the last bearable degree, and withal a very typical managing matron of the upper class, treated as a naughty child until she grew into a scolding mother, and finally settling down with plenty of practical ability and worldly experience, limited in the oddest way with domestic and class limitations, conceiving the universe exactly as if it were a large house in Wilton Crescent, though handling her corner of it very effectively on that assumption, and being quite enlightened and liberal as to the books in the library, the pictures on the walls, the music in the portfolios, and the articles in the papers. Her son, Stephen, comes in. He is a gravely correct young man under 25, taking himself very seriously, but still in some awe of his mother, from childish habit and bachelor shyness rather than from any weakness of character. STEPHEN. What's the matter? LADY BRITOMART. Presently, Stephen. Stephen submissively walks to the settee and sits down. He takes up The Speaker. LADY BRITOMART. Don't begin to read, Stephen. I shall require all your attention. STEPHEN. It was only while I was waiting-- LADY BRITOMART. Don't make excuses, Stephen. [He puts down The Speaker]. Now! [She finishes her writing; rises; and comes to the settee]. I have not kept you waiting very long, I think. STEPHEN. Not at all, mother. LADY BRITOMART. Bring me my cushion. [He takes the cushion from the chair at the desk and arranges it for her as she sits down on the settee]. Sit down. [He sits down and fingers his tie nervously]. Don't fiddle with your tie, Stephen: there is nothing the matter with it. STEPHEN. I beg your pardon. [He fiddles with his watch chain instead]. LADY BRITOMART. Now are you attending to me, Stephen? STEPHEN. Of course, mother. LADY BRITOMART. No: it's not of course. I want something much more than your everyday matter-of-course attention. I am going to speak to you very seriously, Stephen. I wish you would let that chain alone. STEPHEN [hastily relinquishing the chain] Have I done anything to annoy you, mother? If so, it was quite unintentional. LADY BRITOMART [astonished] Nonsense! [With some remorse] My poor boy, did you think I was angry with you? STEPHEN. What is it, then, mother? You are making me very uneasy. LADY BRITOMART [squaring herself at him rather aggressively] Stephen: may I ask how soon you intend to realize that you are a grown-up man, and that I am only a woman? STEPHEN [amazed] Only a-- LADY BRITOMART. Don't repeat my words, please: It is a most aggravating habit. You must learn to face life seriously, Stephen. I really cannot bear the whole burden of our family affairs any longer. You must advise me: you must assume the responsibility. STEPHEN. I! LADY BRITOMART. Yes, you, of course. You were 24 last June. You've been at Harrow and Cambridge. You've been to India and Japan. You must know a lot of things now; unless you have wasted your time most scandalously. Well, advise me. STEPHEN [much perplexed] You know I have never interfered in the household-- LADY BRITOMART. No: I should think not. I don't want you to order the dinner. STEPHEN. I mean in our family affairs. LADY BRITOMART. Well, you must interfere now; for they are getting quite beyond me. STEPHEN [troubled] I have thought sometimes that perhaps I ought; but really, mother, I know so little about them; and what I do know is so painful--it is so impossible to mention some things to you--[he stops, ashamed]. LADY BRITOMART. I suppose you mean your father. STEPHEN [almost inaudibly] Yes. LADY BRITOMART. My dear: we can't go on all our lives not mentioning him. Of course you were quite right not to open the subject until I asked you to; but you are old enough now to be taken into my confidence, and to help me to deal with him about the girls. STEPHEN. But the girls are all right. They are engaged. LADY BRITOMART [complacently] Yes: I have made a very good match for Sarah. Charles Lomax will be a millionaire at 35. But that is ten years ahead; and in the meantime his trustees cannot under the terms of his father's will allow him more than 800 pounds a year. STEPHEN. But the will says also that if he increases his income by his own exertions, they may double the increase. LADY BRITOMART. Charles Lomax's exertions are much more likely to decrease his income than to increase it. Sarah will have to find at least another 800 pounds a year for the next ten years; and even then they will be as poor as church mice. And what about Barbara? I thought Barbara was going to make the most brilliant career of all of you. And what does she do? Joins the Salvation Army; discharges her maid; lives on a pound a week; and walks in one evening with a professor of Greek whom she has picked up in the street, and who pretends to be a Salvationist, and actually plays the big drum for her in public because he has fallen head over ears in love with her. STEPHEN. I was certainly rather taken aback when I heard they were engaged. Cusins is a very nice fellow, certainly: nobody would ever guess that he was born in Australia; but-- LADY BRITOMART. Oh, Adolphus Cusins will make a very good husband. After all, nobody can say a word against Greek: it stamps a man at once as an educated gentleman. And my family, thank Heaven, is not a pig-headed Tory one. We are Whigs, and believe in liberty. Let snobbish people say what they please: Barbara shall marry, not the man they like, but the man I like. STEPHEN. Of course I was thinking only of his income. However, he is not likely to be extravagant. LADY BRITOMART. Don't be too sure of that, Stephen. I know your quiet, simple, refined, poetic people like Adolphus--quite content with the best of everything! They cost more than your extravagant people, who are always as mean as they are second rate. No: Barbara will need at least 2000 pounds a year. You see it means two additional households. Besides, my dear, you must marry soon. I don't approve of the present fashion of philandering bachelors and late marriages; and I am trying to arrange something for you. STEPHEN. It's very good of you, mother; but perhaps I had better arrange that for myself. LADY BRITOMART. Nonsense! you are much too young to begin matchmaking: you would be taken in by some pretty little nobody. Of course I don't mean that you are not to be consulted: you know that as well as I do. [Stephen closes his lips and is silent]. Now don't sulk, Stephen. STEPHEN. I am not sulking, mother. What has all this got to do with--with--with my father? LADY BRITOMART. My dear Stephen: where is the money to come from? It is easy enough for you and the other children to live on my income as long as we are in the same house; but I can't keep four families in four separate houses. You know how poor my father is: he has barely seven thousand a year now; and really, if he were not the Earl of Stevenage, he would have to give up society. He can do nothing for us: he says, naturally enough, that it is absurd that he should be asked to provide for the children of a man who is rolling in money. You see, Stephen, your father must be fabulously wealthy, because there is always a war going on somewhere. STEPHEN. You need not remind me of that, mother. I have hardly ever opened a newspaper in my life without seeing our name in it. The Undershaft torpedo! The Undershaft quick firers! The Undershaft ten inch! the Undershaft disappearing rampart gun! the Undershaft submarine! and now the Undershaft aerial battleship! At Harrow they called me the Woolwich Infant. At Cambridge it was the same. A little brute at King's who was always trying to get up revivals, spoilt my Bible--your first birthday present to me--by writing under my name, "Son and heir to Undershaft and Lazarus, Death and Destruction Dealers: address, Christendom and Judea." But that was not so bad as the way I was kowtowed to everywhere because my father was making millions by selling cannons. LADY BRITOMART. It is not only the cannons, but the war loans that Lazarus arranges under cover of giving credit for the cannons. You know, Stephen, it's perfectly scandalous. Those two men, Andrew Undershaft and Lazarus, positively have Europe under their thumbs. That is why your father is able to behave as he does. He is above the law. Do you think Bismarck or Gladstone or Disraeli could have openly defied every social and moral obligation all their lives as your father has? They simply wouldn't have dared. I asked Gladstone to take it up. I asked The Times to take it up. I asked the Lord Chamberlain to take it up. But it was just like asking them to declare war on the Sultan. They WOULDN'T. They said they couldn't touch him. I believe they were afraid. STEPHEN. What could they do? He does not actually break the law. LADY BRITOMART. Not break the law! He is always breaking the law. He broke the law when he was born: his parents were not married. STEPHEN. Mother! Is that true? LADY BRITOMART. Of course it's true: that was why we separated. STEPHEN. He married without letting you know this! LADY BRITOMART [rather taken aback by this inference] Oh no. To do Andrew justice, that was not the sort of thing he did. Besides, you know the Undershaft motto: Unashamed. Everybody knew. STEPHEN. But you said that was why you separated. LADY BRITOMART. Yes, because he was not content with being a foundling himself: he wanted to disinherit you for another foundling. That was what I couldn't stand. STEPHEN [ashamed] Do you mean for--for--for-- LADY BRITOMART. Don't stammer, Stephen. Speak distinctly. STEPHEN. But this is so frightful to me, mother. To have to speak to you about such things! LADY BRITOMART. It's not pleasant for me, either, especially if you are still so childish that you must make it worse by a display of embarrassment. It is only in the middle classes, Stephen, that people get into a state of dumb helpless horror when they find that there are wicked people in the world. In our class, we have to decide what is to be done with wicked people; and nothing should disturb our self possession. Now ask your question properly. STEPHEN. Mother: you have no consideration for me. For Heaven's sake either treat me as a child, as you always do, and tell me nothing at all; or tell me everything and let me take it as best I can. LADY BRITOMART. Treat you as a child! What do you mean? It is most unkind and ungrateful of you to say such a thing. You know I have never treated any of you as children. I have always made you my companions and friends, and allowed you perfect freedom to do and say whatever you liked, so long as you liked what I could approve of. STEPHEN [desperately] I daresay we have been the very imperfect children of a very perfect mother; but I do beg you to let me alone for once, and tell me about this horrible business of my father wanting to set me aside for another son. LADY BRITOMART [amazed] Another son! I never said anything of the kind. I never dreamt of such a thing. This is what comes of interrupting me. STEPHEN. But you said-- LADY BRITOMART [cutting him short] Now be a good boy, Stephen, and listen to me patiently. The Undershafts are descended from a foundling in the parish of St. Andrew Undershaft in the city. That was long ago, in the reign of James the First. Well, this foundling was adopted by an armorer and gun-maker. In the course of time the foundling succeeded to the business; and from some notion of gratitude, or some vow or something, he adopted another foundling, and left the business to him. And that foundling did the same. Ever since that, the cannon business has always been left to an adopted foundling named Andrew Undershaft. STEPHEN. But did they never marry? Were there no legitimate sons? LADY BRITOMART. Oh yes: they married just as your father did; and they were rich enough to buy land for their own children and leave them well provided for. But they always adopted and trained some foundling to succeed them in the business; and of course they always quarrelled with their wives furiously over it. Your father was adopted in that way; and he pretends to consider himself bound to keep up the tradition and adopt somebody to leave the business to. Of course I was not going to stand that. There may have been some reason for it when the Undershafts could only marry women in their own class, whose sons were not fit to govern great estates. But there could be no excuse for passing over my son. STEPHEN [dubiously] I am afraid I should make a poor hand of managing a cannon foundry. LADY BRITOMART. Nonsense! you could easily get a manager and pay him a salary. STEPHEN. My father evidently had no great opinion of my capacity. LADY BRITOMART. Stuff, child! you were only a baby: it had nothing to do with your capacity. Andrew did it on principle, just as he did every perverse and wicked thing on principle. When my father remonstrated, Andrew actually told him to his face that history tells us of only two successful institutions: one the Undershaft firm, and the other the Roman Empire under the Antonines. That was because the Antonine emperors all adopted their successors. Such rubbish! The Stevenages are as good as the Antonines, I hope; and you are a Stevenage. But that was Andrew all over. There you have the man! Always clever and unanswerable when he was defending nonsense and wickedness: always awkward and sullen when he had to behave sensibly and decently! STEPHEN. Then it was on my account that your home life was broken up, mother. I am sorry. LADY BRITOMART. Well, dear, there were other differences. I really cannot bear an immoral man. I am not a Pharisee, I hope; and I should not have minded his merely doing wrong things: we are none of us perfect. But your father didn't exactly do wrong things: he said them and thought them: that was what was so dreadful. He really had a sort of religion of wrongness just as one doesn't mind men practising immorality so long as they own that they are in the wrong by preaching morality; so I couldn't forgive Andrew for preaching immorality while he practised morality. You would all have grown up without principles, without any knowledge of right and wrong, if he had been in the house. You know, my dear, your father was a very attractive man in some ways. Children did not dislike him; and he took advantage of it to put the wickedest ideas into their heads, and make them quite unmanageable. I did not dislike him myself: very far from it; but nothing can bridge over moral disagreement. STEPHEN. All this simply bewilders me, mother. People may differ about matters of opinion, or even about religion; but how can they differ about right and wrong? Right is right; and wrong is wrong; and if a man cannot distinguish them properly, he is either a fool or a rascal: that's all. LADY BRITOMART [touched] That's my own boy [she pats his cheek]! Your father never could answer that: he used to laugh and get out of it under cover of some affectionate nonsense. And now that you understand the situation, what do you advise me to do? STEPHEN. Well, what can you do? LADY BRITOMART. I must get the money somehow. STEPHEN. We cannot take money from him. I had rather go and live in some cheap place like Bedford Square or even Hampstead than take a farthing of his money. LADY BRITOMART. But after all, Stephen, our present income comes from Andrew. STEPHEN [shocked] I never knew that. LADY BRITOMART. Well, you surely didn't suppose your grandfather had anything to give me. The Stevenages could not do everything for you. We gave you social position. Andrew had to contribute something. He had a very good bargain, I think. STEPHEN [bitterly] We are utterly dependent on him and his cannons, then! LADY BRITOMART. Certainly not: the money is settled. But he provided it. So you see it is not a question of taking money from him or not: it is simply a question of how much. I don't want any more for myself. STEPHEN. Nor do I. LADY BRITOMART. But Sarah does; and Barbara does. That is, Charles Lomax and Adolphus Cusins will cost them more. So I must put my pride in my pocket and ask for it, I suppose. That is your advice, Stephen, is it not? STEPHEN. No. LADY BRITOMART [sharply] Stephen! STEPHEN. Of course if you are determined-- LADY BRITOMART. I am not determined: I ask your advice; and I am waiting for it. I will not have all the responsibility thrown on my shoulders. STEPHEN [obstinately] I would die sooner than ask him for another penny. LADY BRITOMART [resignedly] You mean that I must ask him. Very well, Stephen: It shall be as you wish. You will be glad to know that your grandfather concurs. But he thinks I ought to ask Andrew to come here and see the girls. After all, he must have some natural affection for them. STEPHEN. Ask him here!!! LADY BRITOMART. Do not repeat my words, Stephen. Where else can I ask him? STEPHEN. I never expected you to ask him at all. LADY BRITOMART. Now don't tease, Stephen. Come! you see that it is necessary that he should pay us a visit, don't you? STEPHEN [reluctantly] I suppose so, if the girls cannot do without his money. LADY BRITOMART. Thank you, Stephen: I knew you would give me the right advice when it was properly explained to you. I have asked your father to come this evening. [Stephen bounds from his seat] Don't jump, Stephen: it fidgets me. STEPHEN [in utter consternation] Do you mean to say that my father is coming here to-night--that he may be here at any moment? LADY BRITOMART [looking at her watch] I said nine. [He gasps. She rises]. Ring the bell, please. [Stephen goes to the smaller writing table; presses a button on it; and sits at it with his elbows on the table and his head in his hands, outwitted and overwhelmed]. It is ten minutes to nine yet; and I have to prepare the girls. I asked Charles Lomax and Adolphus to dinner on purpose that they might be here. Andrew had better see them in case he should cherish any delusions as to their being capable of supporting their wives. [The butler enters: Lady Britomart goes behind the settee to speak to him]. Morrison: go up to the drawingroom and tell everybody to come down here at once. [Morrison withdraws. Lady Britomart turns to Stephen]. Now remember, Stephen, I shall need all your countenance and authority. [He rises and tries to recover some vestige of these attributes]. Give me a chair, dear. [He pushes a chair forward from the wall to where she stands, near the smaller writing table. She sits down; and he goes to the armchair, into which he throws himself]. I don't know how Barbara will take it. Ever since they made her a major in the Salvation Army she has developed a propensity to have her own way and order people about which quite cows me sometimes. It's not ladylike: I'm sure I don't know where she picked it up. Anyhow, Barbara shan't bully me; but still it's just as well that your father should be here before she has time to refuse to meet him or make a fuss. Don't look nervous, Stephen, it will only encourage Barbara to make difficulties. I am nervous enough, goodness knows; but I don't show it. Sarah and Barbara come in with their respective young men, Charles Lomax and Adolphus Cusins. Sarah is slender, bored, and mundane. Barbara is robuster, jollier, much more energetic. Sarah is fashionably dressed: Barbara is in Salvation Army uniform. Lomax, a young man about town, is like many other young men about town. He is affected with a frivolous sense of humor which plunges him at the most inopportune moments into paroxysms of imperfectly suppressed laughter. Cusins is a spectacled student, slight, thin haired, and sweet voiced, with a more complex form of Lomax's complaint. His sense of humor is intellectual and subtle, and is complicated by an appalling temper. The lifelong struggle of a benevolent temperament and a high conscience against impulses of inhuman ridicule and fierce impatience has set up a chronic strain which has visibly wrecked his constitution. He is a most implacable, determined, tenacious, intolerant person who by mere force of character presents himself as--and indeed actually is--considerate, gentle, explanatory, even mild and apologetic, capable possibly of murder, but not of cruelty or coarseness. By the operation of some instinct which is not merciful enough to blind him with the illusions of love, he is obstinately bent on marrying Barbara. Lomax likes Sarah and thinks it will be rather a lark to marry her. Consequently he has not attempted to resist Lady Britomart's arrangements to that end. All four look as if they had been having a good deal of fun in the drawingroom. The girls enter first, leaving the swains outside. Sarah comes to the settee. Barbara comes in after her and stops at the door. BARBARA. Are Cholly and Dolly to come in? LADY BRITOMART [forcibly] Barbara: I will not have Charles called Cholly: the vulgarity of it positively makes me ill. BARBARA. It's all right, mother. Cholly is quite correct nowadays. Are they to come in? LADY BRITOMART. Yes, if they will behave themselves. BARBARA [through the door] Come in, Dolly, and behave yourself. Barbara comes to her mother's writing table. Cusins enters smiling, and wanders towards Lady Britomart. SARAH [calling] Come in, Cholly. [Lomax enters, controlling his features very imperfectly, and places himself vaguely between Sarah and Barbara]. LADY BRITOMART [peremptorily] Sit down, all of you. [They sit. Cusins crosses to the window and seats himself there. Lomax takes a chair. Barbara sits at the writing table and Sarah on the settee]. I don't in the least know what you are laughing at, Adolphus. I am surprised at you, though I expected nothing better from Charles Lomax. CUSINS [in a remarkably gentle voice] Barbara has been trying to teach me the West Ham Salvation March. LADY BRITOMART. I see nothing to laugh at in that; nor should you if you are really converted. CUSINS [sweetly] You were not present. It was really funny, I believe. LOMAX. Ripping. LADY BRITOMART. Be quiet, Charles. Now listen to me, children. Your father is coming here this evening. [General stupefaction]. LOMAX [remonstrating] Oh I say! LADY BRITOMART. You are not called on to say anything, Charles. SARAH. Are you serious, mother? LADY BRITOMART. Of course I am serious. It is on your account, Sarah, and also on Charles's. [Silence. Charles looks painfully unworthy]. I hope you are not going to object, Barbara. BARBARA. I! why should I? My father has a soul to be saved like anybody else. He's quite welcome as far as I am concerned. LOMAX [still remonstrant] But really, don't you know! Oh I say! LADY BRITOMART [frigidly] What do you wish to convey, Charles? LOMAX. Well, you must admit that this is a bit thick. LADY BRITOMART [turning with ominous suavity to Cusins] Adolphus: you are a professor of Greek. Can you translate Charles Lomax's remarks into reputable English for us? CUSINS [cautiously] If I may say so, Lady Brit, I think Charles has rather happily expressed what we all feel. Homer, speaking of Autolycus, uses the same phrase. LOMAX [handsomely] Not that I mind, you know, if Sarah don't. LADY BRITOMART [crushingly] Thank you. Have I your permission, Adolphus, to invite my own husband to my own house? CUSINS [gallantly] You have my unhesitating support in everything you do. LADY BRITOMART. Sarah: have you nothing to say? SARAH. Do you mean that he is coming regularly to live here? LADY BRITOMART. Certainly not. The spare room is ready for him if he likes to stay for a day or two and see a little more of you; but there are limits. SARAH. Well, he can't eat us, I suppose. I don't mind. LOMAX [chuckling] I wonder how the old man will take it. LADY BRITOMART. Much as the old woman will, no doubt, Charles. LOMAX [abashed] I didn't mean--at least-- LADY BRITOMART. You didn't think, Charles. You never do; and the result is, you never mean anything. And now please attend to me, children. Your father will be quite a stranger to us. LOMAX. I suppose he hasn't seen Sarah since she was a little kid. LADY BRITOMART. Not since she was a little kid, Charles, as you express it with that elegance of diction and refinement of thought that seem never to desert you. Accordingly--er-- [impatiently] Now I have forgotten what I was going to say. That comes of your provoking me to be sarcastic, Charles. Adolphus: will you kindly tell me where I was. CUSINS [sweetly] You were saying that as Mr Undershaft has not seen his children since they were babies, he will form his opinion of the way you have brought them up from their behavior to-night, and that therefore you wish us all to be particularly careful to conduct ourselves well, especially Charles. LOMAX. Look here: Lady Brit didn't say that. LADY BRITOMART [vehemently] I did, Charles. Adolphus's recollection is perfectly correct. It is most important that you should be good; and I do beg you for once not to pair off into opposite corners and giggle and whisper while I am speaking to your father. BARBARA. All right, mother. We'll do you credit. LADY BRITOMART. Remember, Charles, that Sarah will want to feel proud of you instead of ashamed of you. LOMAX. Oh I say! There's nothing to be exactly proud of, don't you know. LADY BRITOMART. Well, try and look as if there was. Morrison, pale and dismayed, breaks into the room in unconcealed disorder. MORRISON. Might I speak a word to you, my lady? LADY BRITOMART. Nonsense! Show him up. MORRISON. Yes, my lady. [He goes]. LOMAX. Does Morrison know who he is? LADY BRITOMART. Of course. Morrison has always been with us. LOMAX. It must be a regular corker for him, don't you know. LADY BRITOMART. Is this a moment to get on my nerves, Charles, with your outrageous expressions? LOMAX. But this is something out of the ordinary, really-- MORRISON [at the door] The--er--Mr Undershaft. [He retreats in confusion]. Andrew Undershaft comes in. All rise. Lady Britomart meets him in the middle of the room behind the settee. Andrew is, on the surface, a stoutish, easygoing elderly man, with kindly patient manners, and an engaging simplicity of character. But he has a watchful, deliberate, waiting, listening face, and formidable reserves of power, both bodily and mental, in his capacious chest and long head. His gentleness is partly that of a strong man who has learnt by experience that his natural grip hurts ordinary people unless he handles them very carefully, and partly the mellowness of age and success. He is also a little shy in his present very delicate situation. LADY BRITOMART. Good evening, Andrew. UNDERSHAFT. How d'ye do, my dear. LADY BRITOMART. You look a good deal older. UNDERSHAFT [apologetically] I AM somewhat older. [With a touch of courtship] Time has stood still with you. LADY BRITOMART [promptly] Rubbish! This is your family. UNDERSHAFT [surprised] Is it so large? I am sorry to say my memory is failing very badly in some things. [He offers his hand with paternal kindness to Lomax]. LOMAX [jerkily shaking his hand] Ahdedoo. UNDERSHAFT. I can see you are my eldest. I am very glad to meet you again, my boy. LOMAX [remonstrating] No but look here don't you know--[Overcome] Oh I say! LADY BRITOMART [recovering from momentary speechlessness] Andrew: do you mean to say that you don't remember how many children you have? UNDERSHAFT. Well, I am afraid I--. They have grown so much--er. Am I making any ridiculous mistake? I may as well confess: I recollect only one son. But so many things have happened since, of course--er-- LADY BRITOMART [decisively] Andrew: you are talking nonsense. Of course you have only one son. UNDERSHAFT. Perhaps you will be good enough to introduce me, my dear. LADY BRITOMART. That is Charles Lomax, who is engaged to Sarah. UNDERSHAFT. My dear sir, I beg your pardon. LOMAX. Not at all. Delighted, I assure you. LADY BRITOMART. This is Stephen. UNDERSHAFT [bowing] Happy to make your acquaintance, Mr Stephen. Then [going to Cusins] you must be my son. [Taking Cusins' hands in his] How are you, my young friend? [To Lady Britomart] He is very like you, my love. CUSINS. You flatter me, Mr Undershaft. My name is Cusins: engaged to Barbara. [Very explicitly] That is Major Barbara Undershaft, of the Salvation Army. That is Sarah, your second daughter. This is Stephen Undershaft, your son. UNDERSHAFT. My dear Stephen, I beg your pardon. STEPHEN. Not at all. UNDERSHAFT. Mr Cusins: I am much indebted to you for explaining so precisely. [Turning to Sarah] Barbara, my dear-- SARAH [prompting him] Sarah. UNDERSHAFT. Sarah, of course. [They shake hands. He goes over to Barbara] Barbara--I am right this time, I hope. BARBARA. Quite right. [They shake hands]. LADY BRITOMART [resuming command] Sit down, all of you. Sit down, Andrew. [She comes forward and sits on the settle. Cusins also brings his chair forward on her left. Barbara and Stephen resume their seats. Lomax gives his chair to Sarah and goes for another]. UNDERSHAFT. Thank you, my love. LOMAX [conversationally, as he brings a chair forward between the writing table and the settee, and offers it to Undershaft] Takes you some time to find out exactly where you are, don't it? UNDERSHAFT [accepting the chair] That is not what embarrasses me, Mr Lomax. My difficulty is that if I play the part of a father, I shall produce the effect of an intrusive stranger; and if I play the part of a discreet stranger, I may appear a callous father. LADY BRITOMART. There is no need for you to play any part at all, Andrew. You had much better be sincere and natural. UNDERSHAFT [submissively] Yes, my dear: I daresay that will be best. [Making himself comfortable] Well, here I am. Now what can I do for you all? LADY BRITOMART. You need not do anything, Andrew. You are one of the family. You can sit with us and enjoy yourself. Lomax's too long suppressed mirth explodes in agonized neighings. LADY BRITOMART [outraged] Charles Lomax: if you can behave yourself, behave yourself. If not, leave the room. LOMAX. I'm awfully sorry, Lady Brit; but really, you know, upon my soul! [He sits on the settee between Lady Britomart and Undershaft, quite overcome]. BARBARA. Why don't you laugh if you want to, Cholly? It's good for your inside. LADY BRITOMART. Barbara: you have had the education of a lady. Please let your father see that; and don't talk like a street girl. UNDERSHAFT. Never mind me, my dear. As you know, I am not a gentleman; and I was never educated. LOMAX [encouragingly] Nobody'd know it, I assure you. You look all right, you know. CUSINS. Let me advise you to study Greek, Mr Undershaft. Greek scholars are privileged men. Few of them know Greek; and none of them know anything else; but their position is unchallengeable. Other languages are the qualifications of waiters and commercial travellers: Greek is to a man of position what the hallmark is to silver. BARBARA. Dolly: don't be insincere. Cholly: fetch your concertina and play something for us. LOMAX [doubtfully to Undershaft] Perhaps that sort of thing isn't in your line, eh? UNDERSHAFT. I am particularly fond of music. LOMAX [delighted] Are you? Then I'll get it. [He goes upstairs for the instrument]. UNDERSHAFT. Do you play, Barbara? BARBARA. Only the tambourine. But Cholly's teaching me the concertina. UNDERSHAFT. Is Cholly also a member of the Salvation Army? BARBARA. No: he says it's bad form to be a dissenter. But I don't despair of Cholly. I made him come yesterday to a meeting at the dock gates, and take the collection in his hat. LADY BRITOMART. It is not my doing, Andrew. Barbara is old enough to take her own way. She has no father to advise her. BARBARA. Oh yes she has. There are no orphans in the Salvation Army. UNDERSHAFT. Your father there has a great many children and plenty of experience, eh? BARBARA [looking at him with quick interest and nodding] Just so. How did you come to understand that? [Lomax is heard at the door trying the concertina]. LADY BRITOMART. Come in, Charles. Play us something at once. LOMAX. Righto! [He sits down in his former place, and preludes]. UNDERSHAFT. One moment, Mr Lomax. I am rather interested in the Salvation Army. Its motto might be my own: Blood and Fire. LOMAX [shocked] But not your sort of blood and fire, you know. UNDERSHAFT. My sort of blood cleanses: my sort of fire purifies. BARBARA. So do ours. Come down to-morrow to my shelter--the West Ham shelter--and see what we're doing. We're going to march to a great meeting in the Assembly Hall at Mile End. Come and see the shelter and then march with us: it will do you a lot of good. Can you play anything? UNDERSHAFT. In my youth I earned pennies, and even shillings occasionally, in the streets and in public house parlors by my natural talent for stepdancing. Later on, I became a member of the Undershaft orchestral society, and performed passably on the tenor trombone. LOMAX [scandalized] Oh I say! BARBARA. Many a sinner has played himself into heaven on the trombone, thanks to the Army. LOMAX [to Barbara, still rather shocked] Yes; but what about the cannon business, don't you know? [To Undershaft] Getting into heaven is not exactly in your line, is it? LADY BRITOMART. Charles!!! LOMAX. Well; but it stands to reason, don't it? The cannon business may be necessary and all that: we can't get on without cannons; but it isn't right, you know. On the other hand, there may be a certain amount of tosh about the Salvation Army--I belong to the Established Church myself--but still you can't deny that it's religion; and you can't go against religion, can you? At least unless you're downright immoral, don't you know. UNDERSHAFT. You hardly appreciate my position, Mr Lomax-- LOMAX [hastily] I'm not saying anything against you personally, you know. UNDERSHAFT. Quite so, quite so. But consider for a moment. Here I am, a manufacturer of mutilation and murder. I find myself in a specially amiable humor just now because, this morning, down at the foundry, we blew twenty-seven dummy soldiers into fragments with a gun which formerly destroyed only thirteen. LOMAX [leniently] Well, the more destructive war becomes, the sooner it will be abolished, eh? UNDERSHAFT. Not at all. The more destructive war becomes the more fascinating we find it. No, Mr Lomax, I am obliged to you for making the usual excuse for my trade; but I am not ashamed of it. I am not one of those men who keep their morals and their business in watertight compartments. All the spare money my trade rivals spend on hospitals, cathedrals and other receptacles for conscience money, I devote to experiments and researches in improved methods of destroying life and property. I have always done so; and I always shall. Therefore your Christmas card moralities of peace on earth and goodwill among men are of no use to me. Your Christianity, which enjoins you to resist not evil, and to turn the other cheek, would make me a bankrupt. My morality--my religion--must have a place for cannons and torpedoes in it. STEPHEN [coldly--almost sullenly] You speak as if there were half a dozen moralities and religions to choose from, instead of one true morality and one true religion. UNDERSHAFT. For me there is only one true morality; but it might not fit you, as you do not manufacture aerial battleships. There is only one true morality for every man; but every man has not the same true morality. LOMAX [overtaxed] Would you mind saying that again? I didn't quite follow it. CUSINS. It's quite simple. As Euripides says, one man's meat is another man's poison morally as well as physically. UNDERSHAFT. Precisely. LOMAX. Oh, that. Yes, yes, yes. True. True. STEPHEN. In other words, some men are honest and some are scoundrels. BARBARA. Bosh. There are no scoundrels. UNDERSHAFT. Indeed? Are there any good men? BARBARA. No. Not one. There are neither good men nor scoundrels: there are just children of one Father; and the sooner they stop calling one another names the better. You needn't talk to me: I know them. I've had scores of them through my hands: scoundrels, criminals, infidels, philanthropists, missionaries, county councillors, all sorts. They're all just the same sort of sinner; and there's the same salvation ready for them all. UNDERSHAFT. May I ask have you ever saved a maker of cannons? BARBARA. No. Will you let me try? UNDERSHAFT. Well, I will make a bargain with you. If I go to see you to-morrow in your Salvation Shelter, will you come the day after to see me in my cannon works? BARBARA. Take care. It may end in your giving up the cannons for the sake of the Salvation Army. UNDERSHAFT. Are you sure it will not end in your giving up the Salvation Army for the sake of the cannons? BARBARA. I will take my chance of that. UNDERSHAFT. And I will take my chance of the other. [They shake hands on it]. Where is your shelter? BARBARA. In West Ham. At the sign of the cross. Ask anybody in Canning Town. Where are your works? UNDERSHAFT. In Perivale St Andrews. At the sign of the sword. Ask anybody in Europe. LOMAX. Hadn't I better play something? BARBARA. Yes. Give us Onward, Christian Soldiers. LOMAX. Well, that's rather a strong order to begin with, don't you know. Suppose I sing Thou'rt passing hence, my brother. It's much the same tune. BARBARA. It's too melancholy. You get saved, Cholly; and you'll pass hence, my brother, without making such a fuss about it. LADY BRITOMART. Really, Barbara, you go on as if religion were a pleasant subject. Do have some sense of propriety. UNDERSHAFT. I do not find it an unpleasant subject, my dear. It is the only one that capable people really care for. LADY BRITOMART [looking at her watch] Well, if you are determined to have it, I insist on having it in a proper and respectable way. Charles: ring for prayers. [General amazement. Stephen rises in dismay]. LOMAX [rising] Oh I say! UNDERSHAFT [rising] I am afraid I must be going. LADY BRITOMART. You cannot go now, Andrew: it would be most improper. Sit down. What will the servants think? UNDERSHAFT. My dear: I have conscientious scruples. May I suggest a compromise? If Barbara will conduct a little service in the drawingroom, with Mr Lomax as organist, I will attend it willingly. I will even take part, if a trombone can be procured. LADY BRITOMART. Don't mock, Andrew. UNDERSHAFT [shocked--to Barbara] You don't think I am mocking, my love, I hope. BARBARA. No, of course not; and it wouldn't matter if you were: half the Army came to their first meeting for a lark. [Rising] Come along. Come, Dolly. Come, Cholly. [She goes out with Undershaft, who opens the door for her. Cusins rises]. LADY BRITOMART. I will not be disobeyed by everybody. Adolphus: sit down. Charles: you may go. You are not fit for prayers: you cannot keep your countenance. LOMAX. Oh I say! [He goes out]. LADY BRITOMART [continuing] But you, Adolphus, can behave yourself if you choose to. I insist on your staying. CUSINS. My dear Lady Brit: there are things in the family prayer book that I couldn't bear to hear you say. LADY BRITOMART. What things, pray? CUSINS. Well, you would have to say before all the servants that we have done things we ought not to have done, and left undone things we ought to have done, and that there is no health in us. I cannot bear to hear you doing yourself such an unjustice, and Barbara such an injustice. As for myself, I flatly deny it: I have done my best. I shouldn't dare to marry Barbara--I couldn't look you in the face--if it were true. So I must go to the drawingroom. LADY BRITOMART [offended] Well, go. [He starts for the door]. And remember this, Adolphus [he turns to listen]: I have a very strong suspicion that you went to the Salvation Army to worship Barbara and nothing else. And I quite appreciate the very clever way in which you systematically humbug me. I have found you out. Take care Barbara doesn't. That's all. CUSINS [with unruffled sweetness] Don't tell on me. [He goes out]. LADY BRITOMART. Sarah: if you want to go, go. Anything's better than to sit there as if you wished you were a thousand miles away. SARAH [languidly] Very well, mamma. [She goes]. Lady Britomart, with a sudden flounce, gives way to a little gust of tears. STEPHEN [going to her] Mother: what's the matter? LADY BRITOMART [swishing away her tears with her handkerchief] Nothing. Foolishness. You can go with him, too, if you like, and leave me with the servants. STEPHEN. Oh, you mustn't think that, mother. I--I don't like him. LADY BRITOMART. The others do. That is the injustice of a woman's lot. A woman has to bring up her children; and that means to restrain them, to deny them things they want, to set them tasks, to punish them when they do wrong, to do all the unpleasant things. And then the father, who has nothing to do but pet them and spoil them, comes in when all her work is done and steals their affection from her. STEPHEN. He has not stolen our affection from you. It is only curiosity. LADY BRITOMART [violently] I won't be consoled, Stephen. There is nothing the matter with me. [She rises and goes towards the door]. STEPHEN. Where are you going, mother? LADY BRITOMART. To the drawingroom, of course. [She goes out. Onward, Christian Soldiers, on the concertina, with tambourine accompaniment, is heard when the door opens]. Are you coming, Stephen? STEPHEN. No. Certainly not. [She goes. He sits down on the settee, with compressed lips and an expression of strong dislike].

Act I Part One

https://web.archive.org/web/20210118113736/https://www.sparknotes.com/drama/majorbarbara/section1/

It is after dinner in the library of Lady Britomart Undershaft's house in January 1906. The high-tempered Lady Britomart sits at her writing table. Her son, Stephen, a grave young man who takes himself very seriously and is somewhat in awe of his mother, enters the stage. He asks his mother why she has called him. She asks him to wait and chastises him for beginning to read in the meantime and fiddling with his tie. Britomart then aggressively announces that Stephen is now a grown man, well traveled and educated, and he must take charge of the family affairs. Though both his sisters are to be married, Britomart's income cannot sustain four households. Lomax, Sarah's fiance, will not receive his trust fund until 35. Barbara, the most promising member of the household, has joined the Salvation Army and become involved with a tempestuous Greek scholar, Adolphus Cusins. Britomart cannot avoid the topic any longer--they must speak of Stephen's fabulously wealthy father, the great military industrialist Andrew Undershaft. Stephen is all too aware of his father's wealth. He rarely opens a newspaper without reading of the latest weapon from the Undershaft and Lazarus firm. With his cannons and war loans, Andrew Undershaft has Europe under his thumb. He is above the law. Britomart remarks that Undershaft has broken the law since birth, as his parents were unmarried. Like all the Undershafts before him, he was a foundling and, in the tradition of the armory, has disinherited Stephen to find a foundling as his own successor. Britomart divorced him as a result. She could not bear such an immoral man, a man who subscribed to a "sort of religion of wrongness." Stephen is naively bewildered by his father's strange morality. Right should always be right, and wrong is wrong. He insists that they not ask for his father's assistance. Britomart resigns herself to asking Andrew. She has already invited him to visit this evening and meet the family and Stephen is outwitted and overwhelmed. Britomart asks Morrison, the butler, to summon the family to the library. She warns Stephen against appearing nervous. It will only encourage his sister Barbara, a major with the Salvation Army, to try to get her way. Barbara and appear first and their respective fiances follow. Britomart announces Undershaft's imminent visit to the stupefied party. Barbara is amused and expectant: after all, her father has a soul to be saved like everyone else. Lomax blathers nervously. With sarcastic suavity, Britomart asks Cusins to translate Lomax's "vulgar" street dialect. She warns the children to be on their best behavior.

Major Barbara begins with a comic meeting between an aristocratic mother and her only son. Though Lady Britomart ostensibly invites her son to take charge of the family affairs, she has already made arrangements for Undershaft to come to the house and resolve them. Note how, as with her largely uncontrollable daughters, Britomart chastises Stephen for fidgeting, warns him against being on his best behavior, and displays other maternal behavior. Lady Britomart appears as the overbearing mother of a fatherless household. As such a maternal figure, Britomart will figure in the play as the bearer of an increasingly antiquated sense of convention and familial loyalty. She is sympathetic in being the play's great lady: charming, witty, and aristocratically provincial in her perspective on the work. Hopelessly she will insist on propriety in a family not particularly invested in such social forms. Here Britomart's insistence on propriety emerges most clearly in her disparagement of Lomax. As in many of Shaw's works, dialect figures as an especially vexed point of contention in the household. Largely deployed for comic relief, Lomax's speech is a caricature of the society man's English. A frivolous playboy, he spends much of the play delivering stunted and tactless exclamations. Lomax converses in what Britomart considers "schoolboy drivel," a "vulgar" street dialect that says little and requires translation into proper speech. It behooves the reader to follow these clashes over dialect closely. The importance of the difference between proper and improper English in the play will become clearer in Act II, when dialect raises a number of questions regarding class difference. As we might expect, Lady Britomart objects to her ex-husband for his betrayals of convention, familial duty, and morality, having divorced him for his disinheiritance of Andrew. Prefiguring the elaboration of what Shaw terms Undershaft's "gospel," Britomart bemoans his "religion of wrongness" and his insistence on always living in an "unashamed" fashion. As her only response to the new system of morality Undershaft introduces is to turn away in disapprobation, her family will ultimately abandon her upon his return. Stephen will assert his majority and cast aside her to discuss his future with Undershaft alone. As we will see, though she may play the great lady, she cannot compete with a father who compels those around him as a great man. A formerly tabooed subject of conversation in the household , Undershaft already appears here as a compelling, all-powerful father--a man who, in holding Europe under his thumbs and determines law, can in no sense hyperbolically liken himself to the Roman Emperor. As if Andrew's name were not enough, his son's exclamations make his phallic prowess rather explicit: "The Undershaft torpedo! The Undershaft quick firers! The Undershaft ten inch!" The father's almost pornographic name bears his power, referring to how his firm serves as Europe's foundation . Moreover, as Britomart reveals, Undershaft has served as the provider for their family all along as well. Thus he already holds them in his power. Also note that at one point Stephen bemoans being called the "Woolwich Infant" at school. The Infant was a British 35-ton rifled muzzle-loading cannon, constructed in 1870 and featuring a steel tube hooped with wrought-iron coils.

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/3790-chapters/act_2.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/Major Barbara/section_2_part_0.txt

Major Barbara.act 2

act 2

{"name": "Act II Part One", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210118113736/https://www.sparknotes.com/drama/majorbarbara/section3/", "summary": "It is a cold January morning in the West Ham shelter of the Salvation Army. The cold has stung two diners at the lunch table into \"vivacity\"--the sly, young Snobby Price and hard-worn, middle-aged Rummy Mitchens. They introduce themselves to each other. Price remarks that they share the misfortune of having unpronounceable names due to their parents' class pretensions. Rummy asks why Price is unemployed. He explains that he is intelligent and sees through the capitalists, drinks for happiness, leaves the available work to others out of class solidarity, and steals like a capitalist. When he learns that Rummy is married, he jokes about her being another respectable woman feigning vice to get rescued by the Army. Price himself tells of his blasphemy, gambling, and beating his mother to win the Army's favor. The worse you appear, the more satisfying your salvation to the Army staff. Jenny Hill, a pale, overwrought Salvation lass, enters leading Peter Shirley, a worn-out elderly man, to the table. She runs off to fetch him lunch. Shirley recounts how he has lost his job to a younger man. He weeps with shame before the prospect of taking a free lunch but does so when Jenny assures him that he will be able to pay them back someday. Suddenly Bill Walker, a rough young man, appears and menacingly flings Jenny toward the door of the shelter. Apparently Jenny took his girl from him, and Bill has come to reclaim her. Rummy runs to Jenny's aid, and Bill cracks her across the face. Price withdraws in fear, fleeing into the shelter with Rummy to fetch Major Barbara. Shirley rises and confronts Bill, asking what kind of man terrorizes women, the elderly, and the starving. Bill would never dare face his son-in-law's brother, the wrestler Todger Fairmille. In response, Bill taunts Shirley for taking a handout and Shirley bursts into tears. Shirley warns the young tough, however, against taking on the Major. She is the Earl of Stevenage's granddaughter. Bill skulks into the corner. Barbara enters briskly and addresses herself to Shirley. Bill sits cowed with his back turned to them. Barbara takes Shirley's vital information. He bristles when she asks about his faith. An unperturbed Barbara notes that their Father must have known what He was doing in making Shirley a Secularist. She turns to Bill, noting mockingly that he certainly must not fear God, otherwise how could he have struck a girl? Bill declares that he wants nothing to do with the Army. Sunnily apologetic and ladylike, Barbara moves to strike his name from their roster. Bill protests this slight; a businesslike Barbara then marks him down as the man who struck Jenny. Bill is near-tears. When he announces that he wants his girl, Mog Habbijam, Barbara informs him that she has joined the Army post in Canningtown and taken up with one of her own converts, Sergeant Todger Fairmille. Bill is crushed. Barbara asks Jenny to have Rummy clear the table. Price informs Barbara that her father has come.", "analysis": "As discussed in the preface, Shaw's portrait of the shelter is fundamentally polemical and pedagogical in intent, aiming to expose of the flaws in the Salvation Army and critique the state of the urban poor. For example, one of the many criticisms of the Army Shaw underlines is that it forces its clientele to pander to the saintliness of its workers. Thus Price and Rummy have woven tales of their degeneracy to satisfy their helpers' Salvationist fantasies. In this sense does the work of the Army have less to do with the condition of the poor than the narcissism of its officers. In examining the state of poor itself, Shaw offers the audience a trio of shelter clients: Rummy, Price, and Shirley. Against the figure Rummy cuts as a prosaic matron and Price as a \"transparent humbug,\" Shirley appears as what Shaw considers the \"honest poor man.\" This man abhors the rich, values hard work, and weeps at the thought of finally have to take a handout. For Shaw, he functions as another of the play's object lesson. Despite Shirley's honesty, \"the misery of the world is due to the fact that the great mass of men act and believe as Peter Shirley acts and believes. \" As we will see, only the gospel of the millionaire, one that poses wealth as \"a point of honor for which I am prepared to kill at the risk of my own life\" will redeem the world. Certainly the most jarring shift from acts I to II is the introduction of class- marked dialect, such as Cockney, in the appearance of the poor. Critics have long lauded the \"accuracy\" or \"realism\" of Shavian dialect. Such praise does not consider the significance of this dialect's usage, and it appears to be little more than an exercise in class fetishism that obscures the ways in which Shaw's representation of the poor is itself fetishistic. Note, for example, how Rummy and Price are played affectionately for the audience's entertainment. Though they have long since pawned their winter clothes, the two are \"stung into vivacity\" by the cold, chattering vivaciously over their poor meal. Occasionally Price even breaks into a step dance. Another one of the dialect's primary functions here is to set Barbara, the savior, against those who require salvation. Major Barbara figures as savior in the shelter through simultaneous her class and linguistic superiority over those around her. Barbara maintains her composure before all those around her through her impeccable dress and cool, business-like manner, and perfect speech. Note how Shirley revels in revealing her aristocratic background to Bill, invoking her bloodline to cow him. Moreover Barbara's return before the audience is the return of the proper, polished English of the act previous, a voice that stands firmly against Bill's \"horribly debased\" one. Barbara's dialect, that is, the dialect that masquerades as no dialect at all, marks her as the Cockney's redeemer. Barbara's superiority to her clients is especially crucial as it would seem their within the Salvation Army conversion might demand their humiliation. Note how the play invites the audience to enjoy Bill's disgrace sadistically--an enjoyment Barbara explicitly avows upon his departure and return in the subsequent scene. Barbara's humiliation of Bill primarily involves forcing him to admit that he is \"not a man,\" since a man could not strike a woman. The progressively developed story of Todger Fairmille completes Bill's emasculation. Note also how Barbara denies him recognition on the Army roster and mordantly remarks that he must have no fear of God. Bill's humiliation leads him nearly to surrender wholehearted to Barbara as his redeemer. Once crushed, he accepts the terms of her gospel. The pain he feels as the anguish of his tortured soul and his debt to God."}

ACT II The yard of the West Ham shelter of the Salvation Army is a cold place on a January morning. The building itself, an old warehouse, is newly whitewashed. Its gabled end projects into the yard in the middle, with a door on the ground floor, and another in the loft above it without any balcony or ladder, but with a pulley rigged over it for hoisting sacks. Those who come from this central gable end into the yard have the gateway leading to the street on their left, with a stone horse-trough just beyond it, and, on the right, a penthouse shielding a table from the weather. There are forms at the table; and on them are seated a man and a woman, both much down on their luck, finishing a meal of bread [one thick slice each, with margarine and golden syrup] and diluted milk. The man, a workman out of employment, is young, agile, a talker, a poser, sharp enough to be capable of anything in reason except honesty or altruistic considerations of any kind. The woman is a commonplace old bundle of poverty and hard-worn humanity. She looks sixty and probably is forty-five. If they were rich people, gloved and muffed and well wrapped up in furs and overcoats, they would be numbed and miserable; for it is a grindingly cold, raw, January day; and a glance at the background of grimy warehouses and leaden sky visible over the whitewashed walls of the yard would drive any idle rich person straight to the Mediterranean. But these two, being no more troubled with visions of the Mediterranean than of the moon, and being compelled to keep more of their clothes in the pawnshop, and less on their persons, in winter than in summer, are not depressed by the cold: rather are they stung into vivacity, to which their meal has just now given an almost jolly turn. The man takes a pull at his mug, and then gets up and moves about the yard with his hands deep in his pockets, occasionally breaking into a stepdance. THE WOMAN. Feel better otter your meal, sir? THE MAN. No. Call that a meal! Good enough for you, props; but wot is it to me, an intelligent workin man. THE WOMAN. Workin man! Wot are you? THE MAN. Painter. THE WOMAN [sceptically] Yus, I dessay. THE MAN. Yus, you dessay! I know. Every loafer that can't do nothink calls isself a painter. Well, I'm a real painter: grainer, finisher, thirty-eight bob a week when I can get it. THE WOMAN. Then why don't you go and get it? THE MAN. I'll tell you why. Fust: I'm intelligent--fffff! it's rotten cold here [he dances a step or two]--yes: intelligent beyond the station o life into which it has pleased the capitalists to call me; and they don't like a man that sees through em. Second, an intelligent bein needs a doo share of appiness; so I drink somethink cruel when I get the chawnce. Third, I stand by my class and do as little as I can so's to leave arf the job for me fellow workers. Fourth, I'm fly enough to know wots inside the law and wots outside it; and inside it I do as the capitalists do: pinch wot I can lay me ands on. In a proper state of society I am sober, industrious and honest: in Rome, so to speak, I do as the Romans do. Wots the consequence? When trade is bad--and it's rotten bad just now--and the employers az to sack arf their men, they generally start on me. THE WOMAN. What's your name? THE MAN. Price. Bronterre O'Brien Price. Usually called Snobby Price, for short. THE WOMAN. Snobby's a carpenter, ain't it? You said you was a painter. PRICE. Not that kind of snob, but the genteel sort. I'm too uppish, owing to my intelligence, and my father being a Chartist and a reading, thinking man: a stationer, too. I'm none of your common hewers of wood and drawers of water; and don't you forget it. [He returns to his seat at the table, and takes up his mug]. Wots YOUR name? THE WOMAN. Rummy Mitchens, sir. PRICE [quaffing the remains of his milk to her] Your elth, Miss Mitchens. RUMMY [correcting him] Missis Mitchens. PRICE. Wot! Oh Rummy, Rummy! Respectable married woman, Rummy, gittin rescued by the Salvation Army by pretendin to be a bad un. Same old game! RUMMY. What am I to do? I can't starve. Them Salvation lasses is dear good girls; but the better you are, the worse they likes to think you were before they rescued you. Why shouldn't they av a bit o credit, poor loves? They're worn to rags by their work. And where would they get the money to rescue us if we was to let on we're no worse than other people? You know what ladies and gentlemen are. PRICE. Thievin swine! Wish I ad their job, Rummy, all the same. Wot does Rummy stand for? Pet name props? RUMMY. Short for Romola. PRICE. For wot!? RUMMY. Romola. It was out of a new book. Somebody me mother wanted me to grow up like. PRICE. We're companions in misfortune, Rummy. Both on us got names that nobody cawnt pronounce. Consequently I'm Snobby and you're Rummy because Bill and Sally wasn't good enough for our parents. Such is life! RUMMY. Who saved you, Mr. Price? Was it Major Barbara? PRICE. No: I come here on my own. I'm goin to be Bronterre O'Brien Price, the converted painter. I know wot they like. I'll tell em how I blasphemed and gambled and wopped my poor old mother-- RUMMY [shocked] Used you to beat your mother? PRICE. Not likely. She used to beat me. No matter: you come and listen to the converted painter, and you'll hear how she was a pious woman that taught me me prayers at er knee, an how I used to come home drunk and drag her out o bed be er snow white airs, an lam into er with the poker. RUMMY. That's what's so unfair to us women. Your confessions is just as big lies as ours: you don't tell what you really done no more than us; but you men can tell your lies right out at the meetins and be made much of for it; while the sort o confessions we az to make az to be wispered to one lady at a time. It ain't right, spite of all their piety. PRICE. Right! Do you spose the Army'd be allowed if it went and did right? Not much. It combs our air and makes us good little blokes to be robbed and put upon. But I'll play the game as good as any of em. I'll see somebody struck by lightnin, or hear a voice sayin "Snobby Price: where will you spend eternity?" I'll ave a time of it, I tell you. RUMMY. You won't be let drink, though. PRICE. I'll take it out in gorspellin, then. I don't want to drink if I can get fun enough any other way. Jenny Hill, a pale, overwrought, pretty Salvation lass of 18, comes in through the yard gate, leading Peter Shirley, a half hardened, half worn-out elderly man, weak with hunger. JENNY [supporting him] Come! pluck up. I'll get you something to eat. You'll be all right then. PRICE [rising and hurrying officiously to take the old man off Jenny's hands] Poor old man! Cheer up, brother: you'll find rest and peace and appiness ere. Hurry up with the food, miss: e's fair done. [Jenny hurries into the shelter]. Ere, buck up, daddy! She's fetchin y'a thick slice o breadn treacle, an a mug o skyblue. [He seats him at the corner of the table]. RUMMY [gaily] Keep up your old art! Never say die! SHIRLEY. I'm not an old man. I'm ony 46. I'm as good as ever I was. The grey patch come in my hair before I was thirty. All it wants is three pennorth o hair dye: am I to be turned on the streets to starve for it? Holy God! I've worked ten to twelve hours a day since I was thirteen, and paid my way all through; and now am I to be thrown into the gutter and my job given to a young man that can do it no better than me because I've black hair that goes white at the first change? PRICE [cheerfully] No good jawrin about it. You're ony a jumped-up, jerked-off, orspittle-turned-out incurable of an ole workin man: who cares about you? Eh? Make the thievin swine give you a meal: they've stole many a one from you. Get a bit o your own back. [Jenny returns with the usual meal]. There you are, brother. Awsk a blessin an tuck that into you. SHIRLEY [looking at it ravenously but not touching it, and crying like a child] I never took anything before. JENNY [petting him] Come, come! the Lord sends it to you: he wasn't above taking bread from his friends; and why should you be? Besides, when we find you a job you can pay us for it if you like. SHIRLEY [eagerly] Yes, yes: that's true. I can pay you back: it's only a loan. [Shivering] Oh Lord! oh Lord! [He turns to the table and attacks the meal ravenously]. JENNY. Well, Rummy, are you more comfortable now? RUMMY. God bless you, lovey! You've fed my body and saved my soul, haven't you? [Jenny, touched, kisses her] Sit down and rest a bit: you must be ready to drop. JENNY. I've been going hard since morning. But there's more work than we can do. I mustn't stop. RUMMY. Try a prayer for just two minutes. You'll work all the better after. JENNY [her eyes lighting up] Oh isn't it wonderful how a few minutes prayer revives you! I was quite lightheaded at twelve o'clock, I was so tired; but Major Barbara just sent me to pray for five minutes; and I was able to go on as if I had only just begun. [To Price] Did you have a piece of bread? PAIGE [with unction] Yes, miss; but I've got the piece that I value more; and that's the peace that passeth hall hannerstennin. RUMMY [fervently] Glory Hallelujah! Bill Walker, a rough customer of about 25, appears at the yard gate and looks malevolently at Jenny. JENNY. That makes me so happy. When you say that, I feel wicked for loitering here. I must get to work again. She is hurrying to the shelter, when the new-comer moves quickly up to the door and intercepts her. His manner is so threatening that she retreats as he comes at her truculently, driving her down the yard. BILL. I know you. You're the one that took away my girl. You're the one that set er agen me. Well, I'm goin to av er out. Not that I care a curse for her or you: see? But I'll let er know; and I'll let you know. I'm goin to give er a doin that'll teach er to cut away from me. Now in with you and tell er to come out afore I come in and kick er out. Tell er Bill Walker wants er. She'll know what that means; and if she keeps me waitin it'll be worse. You stop to jaw back at me; and I'll start on you: d'ye hear? There's your way. In you go. [He takes her by the arm and slings her towards the door of the shelter. She falls on her hand and knee. Rummy helps her up again]. PRICE [rising, and venturing irresolutely towards Bill]. Easy there, mate. She ain't doin you no arm. BILL. Who are you callin mate? [Standing over him threateningly]. You're goin to stand up for her, are you? Put up your ands. RUMMY [running indignantly to him to scold him]. Oh, you great brute-- [He instantly swings his left hand back against her face. She screams and reels back to the trough, where she sits down, covering her bruised face with her hands and rocking and moaning with pain]. JENNY [going to her]. Oh God forgive you! How could you strike an old woman like that? BILL [seizing her by the hair so violently that she also screams, and tearing her away from the old woman]. You Gawd forgive me again and I'll Gawd forgive you one on the jaw that'll stop you prayin for a week. [Holding her and turning fiercely on Price]. Av you anything to say agen it? Eh? PRICE [intimidated]. No, matey: she ain't anything to do with me. BILL. Good job for you! I'd put two meals into you and fight you with one finger after, you starved cur. [To Jenny] Now are you goin to fetch out Mog Habbijam; or am I to knock your face off you and fetch her myself? JENNY [writhing in his grasp] Oh please someone go in and tell Major Barbara--[she screams again as he wrenches her head down; and Price and Rummy, flee into the shelter]. BILL. You want to go in and tell your Major of me, do you? JENNY. Oh please don't drag my hair. Let me go. BILL. Do you or don't you? [She stifles a scream]. Yes or no. JENNY. God give me strength-- BILL [striking her with his fist in the face] Go and show her that, and tell her if she wants one like it to come and interfere with me. [Jenny, crying with pain, goes into the shed. He goes to the form and addresses the old man]. Here: finish your mess; and get out o my way. SHIRLEY [springing up and facing him fiercely, with the mug in his hand] You take a liberty with me, and I'll smash you over the face with the mug and cut your eye out. Ain't you satisfied--young whelps like you--with takin the bread out o the mouths of your elders that have brought you up and slaved for you, but you must come shovin and cheekin and bullyin in here, where the bread o charity is sickenin in our stummicks? BILL [contemptuously, but backing a little] Wot good are you, you old palsy mug? Wot good are you? SHIRLEY. As good as you and better. I'll do a day's work agen you or any fat young soaker of your age. Go and take my job at Horrockses, where I worked for ten year. They want young men there: they can't afford to keep men over forty-five. They're very sorry--give you a character and happy to help you to get anything suited to your years--sure a steady man won't be long out of a job. Well, let em try you. They'll find the differ. What do you know? Not as much as how to beeyave yourself--layin your dirty fist across the mouth of a respectable woman! BILL. Don't provoke me to lay it acrost yours: d'ye hear? SHIRLEY [with blighting contempt] Yes: you like an old man to hit, don't you, when you've finished with the women. I ain't seen you hit a young one yet. BILL [stung] You lie, you old soupkitchener, you. There was a young man here. Did I offer to hit him or did I not? SHIRLEY. Was he starvin or was he not? Was he a man or only a crosseyed thief an a loafer? Would you hit my son-in-law's brother? BILL. Who's he? SHIRLEY. Todger Fairmile o Balls Pond. Him that won 20 pounds off the Japanese wrastler at the music hall by standin out 17 minutes 4 seconds agen him. BILL [sullenly] I'm no music hall wrastler. Can he box? SHIRLEY. Yes: an you can't. BILL. Wot! I can't, can't I? Wot's that you say [threatening him]? SHIRLEY [not budging an inch] Will you box Todger Fairmile if I put him on to you? Say the word. BILL. [subsiding with a slouch] I'll stand up to any man alive, if he was ten Todger Fairmiles. But I don't set up to be a perfessional. SHIRLEY [looking down on him with unfathomable disdain] YOU box! Slap an old woman with the back o your hand! You hadn't even the sense to hit her where a magistrate couldn't see the mark of it, you silly young lump of conceit and ignorance. Hit a girl in the jaw and ony make her cry! If Todger Fairmile'd done it, she wouldn't a got up inside o ten minutes, no more than you would if he got on to you. Yah! I'd set about you myself if I had a week's feedin in me instead o two months starvation. [He returns to the table to finish his meal]. BILL [following him and stooping over him to drive the taunt in] You lie! you have the bread and treacle in you that you come here to beg. SHIRLEY [bursting into tears] Oh God! it's true: I'm only an old pauper on the scrap heap. [Furiously] But you'll come to it yourself; and then you'll know. You'll come to it sooner than a teetotaller like me, fillin yourself with gin at this hour o the mornin! BILL. I'm no gin drinker, you old liar; but when I want to give my girl a bloomin good idin I like to av a bit o devil in me: see? An here I am, talkin to a rotten old blighter like you sted o givin her wot for. [Working himself into a rage] I'm goin in there to fetch her out. [He makes vengefully for the shelter door]. SHIRLEY. You're goin to the station on a stretcher, more likely; and they'll take the gin and the devil out of you there when they get you inside. You mind what you're about: the major here is the Earl o Stevenage's granddaughter. BILL [checked] Garn! SHIRLEY. You'll see. BILL [his resolution oozing] Well, I ain't done nothin to er. SHIRLEY. Spose she said you did! who'd believe you? BILL [very uneasy, skulking back to the corner of the penthouse] Gawd! There's no jastice in this country. To think wot them people can do! I'm as good as er. SHIRLEY. Tell her so. It's just what a fool like you would do. Barbara, brisk and businesslike, comes from the shelter with a note book, and addresses herself to Shirley. Bill, cowed, sits down in the corner on a form, and turns his back on them. BARBARA. Good morning. SHIRLEY [standing up and taking off his hat] Good morning, miss. BARBARA. Sit down: make yourself at home. [He hesitates; but she puts a friendly hand on his shoulder and makes him obey]. Now then! since you've made friends with us, we want to know all about you. Names and addresses and trades. SHIRLEY. Peter Shirley. Fitter. Chucked out two months ago because I was too old. BARBARA [not at all surprised] You'd pass still. Why didn't you dye your hair? SHIRLEY. I did. Me age come out at a coroner's inquest on me daughter. BARBARA. Steady? SHIRLEY. Teetotaller. Never out of a job before. Good worker. And sent to the knockers like an old horse! BARBARA. No matter: if you did your part God will do his. SHIRLEY [suddenly stubborn] My religion's no concern of anybody but myself. BARBARA [guessing] I know. Secularist? SHIRLEY [hotly] Did I offer to deny it? BARBARA. Why should you? My own father's a Secularist, I think. Our Father--yours and mine--fulfils himself in many ways; and I daresay he knew what he was about when he made a Secularist of you. So buck up, Peter! we can always find a job for a steady man like you. [Shirley, disarmed, touches his hat. She turns from him to Bill]. What's your name? BILL [insolently] Wot's that to you? BARBARA [calmly making a note] Afraid to give his name. Any trade? BILL. Who's afraid to give his name? [Doggedly, with a sense of heroically defying the House of Lords in the person of Lord Stevenage] If you want to bring a charge agen me, bring it. [She waits, unruffled]. My name's Bill Walker. BARBARA [as if the name were familiar: trying to remember how] Bill Walker? [Recollecting] Oh, I know: you're the man that Jenny Hill was praying for inside just now. [She enters his name in her note book]. BILL. Who's Jenny Hill? And what call has she to pray for me? BARBARA. I don't know. Perhaps it was you that cut her lip. BILL [defiantly] Yes, it was me that cut her lip. I ain't afraid o you. BARBARA. How could you be, since you're not afraid of God? You're a brave man, Mr. Walker. It takes some pluck to do our work here; but none of us dare lift our hand against a girl like that, for fear of her father in heaven. BILL [sullenly] I want none o your cantin jaw. I suppose you think I come here to beg from you, like this damaged lot here. Not me. I don't want your bread and scrape and catlap. I don't believe in your Gawd, no more than you do yourself. BARBARA [sunnily apologetic and ladylike, as on a new footing with him] Oh, I beg your pardon for putting your name down, Mr. Walker. I didn't understand. I'll strike it out. BILL [taking this as a slight, and deeply wounded by it] Eah! you let my name alone. Ain't it good enough to be in your book? BARBARA [considering] Well, you see, there's no use putting down your name unless I can do something for you, is there? What's your trade? BILL [still smarting] That's no concern o yours. BARBARA. Just so. [very businesslike] I'll put you down as [writing] the man who--struck--poor little Jenny Hill--in the mouth. BILL [rising threateningly] See here. I've ad enough o this. BARBARA [quite sunny and fearless] What did you come to us for? BILL. I come for my girl, see? I come to take her out o this and to break er jaws for her. BARBARA [complacently] You see I was right about your trade. [Bill, on the point of retorting furiously, finds himself, to his great shame and terror, in danger of crying instead. He sits down again suddenly]. What's her name? BILL [dogged] Er name's Mog Abbijam: thats wot her name is. BARBARA. Oh, she's gone to Canning Town, to our barracks there. BILL [fortified by his resentment of Mog's perfidy] is she? [Vindictively] Then I'm goin to Kennintahn arter her. [He crosses to the gate; hesitates; finally comes back at Barbara]. Are you lyin to me to get shut o me? BARBARA. I don't want to get shut of you. I want to keep you here and save your soul. You'd better stay: you're going to have a bad time today, Bill. BILL. Who's goin to give it to me? You, props. BARBARA. Someone you don't believe in. But you'll be glad afterwards. BILL [slinking off] I'll go to Kennintahn to be out o the reach o your tongue. [Suddenly turning on her with intense malice] And if I don't find Mog there, I'll come back and do two years for you, selp me Gawd if I don't! BARBARA [a shade kindlier, if possible] It's no use, Bill. She's got another bloke. BILL. Wot! BARBARA. One of her own converts. He fell in love with her when he saw her with her soul saved, and her face clean, and her hair washed. BILL [surprised] Wottud she wash it for, the carroty slut? It's red. BARBARA. It's quite lovely now, because she wears a new look in her eyes with it. It's a pity you're too late. The new bloke has put your nose out of joint, Bill. BILL. I'll put his nose out o joint for him. Not that I care a curse for her, mind that. But I'll teach her to drop me as if I was dirt. And I'll teach him to meddle with my Judy. Wots iz bleedin name? BARBARA. Sergeant Todger Fairmile. SHIRLEY [rising with grim joy] I'll go with him, miss. I want to see them two meet. I'll take him to the infirmary when it's over. BILL [to Shirley, with undissembled misgiving] Is that im you was speakin on? SHIRLEY. That's him. BILL. Im that wrastled in the music all? SHIRLEY. The competitions at the National Sportin Club was worth nigh a hundred a year to him. He's gev em up now for religion; so he's a bit fresh for want of the exercise he was accustomed to. He'll be glad to see you. Come along. BILL. Wots is weight? SHIRLEY. Thirteen four. [Bill's last hope expires]. BARBARA. Go and talk to him, Bill. He'll convert you. SHIRLEY. He'll convert your head into a mashed potato. BILL [sullenly] I ain't afraid of him. I ain't afraid of ennybody. But he can lick me. She's done me. [He sits down moodily on the edge of the horse trough]. SHIRLEY. You ain't goin. I thought not. [He resumes his seat]. BARBARA [calling] Jenny! JENNY [appearing at the shelter door with a plaster on the corner of her mouth] Yes, Major. BARBARA. Send Rummy Mitchens out to clear away here. JENNY. I think she's afraid. BARBARA [her resemblance to her mother flashing out for a moment] Nonsense! she must do as she's told. JENNY [calling into the shelter] Rummy: the Major says you must come. Jenny comes to Barbara, purposely keeping on the side next Bill, lest he should suppose that she shrank from him or bore malice. BARBARA. Poor little Jenny! Are you tired? [Looking at the wounded cheek] Does it hurt? JENNY. No: it's all right now. It was nothing. BARBARA [critically] It was as hard as he could hit, I expect. Poor Bill! You don't feel angry with him, do you? JENNY. Oh no, no, no: indeed I don't, Major, bless his poor heart! [Barbara kisses her; and she runs away merrily into the shelter. Bill writhes with an agonizing return of his new and alarming symptoms, but says nothing. Rummy Mitchens comes from the shelter]. BARBARA [going to meet Rummy] Now Rummy, bustle. Take in those mugs and plates to be washed; and throw the crumbs about for the birds. Rummy takes the three plates and mugs; but Shirley takes back his mug from her, as there it still come milk left in it. RUMMY. There ain't any crumbs. This ain't a time to waste good bread on birds. PRICE [appearing at the shelter door] Gentleman come to see the shelter, Major. Says he's your father. BARBARA. All right. Coming. [Snobby goes back into the shelter, followed by Barbara]. RUMMY [stealing across to Bill and addressing him in a subdued voice, but with intense conviction] I'd av the lor of you, you flat eared pignosed potwalloper, if she'd let me. You're no gentleman, to hit a lady in the face. [Bill, with greater things moving in him, takes no notice]. SHIRLEY [following her] Here! in with you and don't get yourself into more trouble by talking. RUMMY [with hauteur] I ain't ad the pleasure o being hintroduced to you, as I can remember. [She goes into the shelter with the plates]. BILL [savagely] Don't you talk to me, d'ye hear. You lea me alone, or I'll do you a mischief. I'm not dirt under your feet, anyway. SHIRLEY [calmly] Don't you be afeerd. You ain't such prime company that you need expect to be sought after. [He is about to go into the shelter when Barbara comes out, with Undershaft on her right]. BARBARA. Oh there you are, Mr Shirley! [Between them] This is my father: I told you he was a Secularist, didn't I? Perhaps you'll be able to comfort one another. UNDERSHAFT [startled] A Secularist! Not the least in the world: on the contrary, a confirmed mystic. BARBARA. Sorry, I'm sure. By the way, papa, what is your religion--in case I have to introduce you again? UNDERSHAFT. My religion? Well, my dear, I am a Millionaire. That is my religion. BARBARA. Then I'm afraid you and Mr Shirley wont be able to comfort one another after all. You're not a Millionaire, are you, Peter? SHIRLEY. No; and proud of it. UNDERSHAFT [gravely] Poverty, my friend, is not a thing to be proud of. SHIRLEY [angrily] Who made your millions for you? Me and my like. What's kep us poor? Keepin you rich. I wouldn't have your conscience, not for all your income. UNDERSHAFT. I wouldn't have your income, not for all your conscience, Mr Shirley. [He goes to the penthouse and sits down on a form]. BARBARA [stopping Shirley adroitly as he is about to retort] You wouldn't think he was my father, would you, Peter? Will you go into the shelter and lend the lasses a hand for a while: we're worked off our feet. SHIRLEY [bitterly] Yes: I'm in their debt for a meal, ain't I? BARBARA. Oh, not because you're in their debt; but for love of them, Peter, for love of them. [He cannot understand, and is rather scandalized]. There! Don't stare at me. In with you; and give that conscience of yours a holiday [bustling him into the shelter]. SHIRLEY [as he goes in] Ah! it's a pity you never was trained to use your reason, miss. You'd have been a very taking lecturer on Secularism. Barbara turns to her father. UNDERSHAFT. Never mind me, my dear. Go about your work; and let me watch it for a while. BARBARA. All right. UNDERSHAFT. For instance, what's the matter with that out-patient over there? BARBARA [looking at Bill, whose attitude has never changed, and whose expression of brooding wrath has deepened] Oh, we shall cure him in no time. Just watch. [She goes over to Bill and waits. He glances up at her and casts his eyes down again, uneasy, but grimmer than ever]. It would be nice to just stamp on Mog Habbijam's face, wouldn't it, Bill? BILL [starting up from the trough in consternation] It's a lie: I never said so. [She shakes her head]. Who told you wot was in my mind? BARBARA. Only your new friend. BILL. Wot new friend? BARBARA. The devil, Bill. When he gets round people they get miserable, just like you. HILL [with a heartbreaking attempt at devil-may-care cheerfulness] I ain't miserable. [He sits down again, and stretches his legs in an attempt to seem indifferent]. BARBARA. Well, if you're happy, why don't you look happy, as we do? BILL [his legs curling back in spite of him] I'm appy enough, I tell you. Why don't you lea me alown? Wot av I done to you? I ain't smashed your face, av I? BARBARA [softly: wooing his soul] It's not me that's getting at you, Bill. BILL. Who else is it? BARBARA. Somebody that doesn't intend you to smash women's faces, I suppose. Somebody or something that wants to make a man of you. BILL [blustering] Make a man o ME! Ain't I a man? eh? ain't I a man? Who sez I'm not a man? BARBARA. There's a man in you somewhere, I suppose. But why did he let you hit poor little Jenny Hill? That wasn't very manly of him, was it? BILL [tormented] Av done with it, I tell you. Chock it. I'm sick of your Jenny Ill and er silly little face. BARBARA. Then why do you keep thinking about it? Why does it keep coming up against you in your mind? You're not getting converted, are you? BILL [with conviction] Not ME. Not likely. Not arf. BARBARA. That's right, Bill. Hold out against it. Put out your strength. Don't let's get you cheap. Todger Fairmile said he wrestled for three nights against his Salvation harder than he ever wrestled with the Jap at the music hall. He gave in to the Jap when his arm was going to break. But he didn't give in to his salvation until his heart was going to break. Perhaps you'll escape that. You haven't any heart, have you? BILL. Wot dye mean? Wy ain't I got a art the same as ennybody else? BARBARA. A man with a heart wouldn't have bashed poor little Jenny's face, would he? BILL [almost crying] Ow, will you lea me alown? Av I ever offered to meddle with you, that you come noggin and provowkin me lawk this? [He writhes convulsively from his eyes to his toes]. BARBARA [with a steady soothing hand on his arm and a gentle voice that never lets him go] It's your soul that's hurting you, Bill, and not me. We've been through it all ourselves. Come with us, Bill. [He looks wildly round]. To brave manhood on earth and eternal glory in heaven. [He is on the point of breaking down]. Come. [A drum is heard in the shelter; and Bill, with a gasp, escapes from the spell as Barbara turns quickly. Adolphus enters from the shelter with a big drum]. Oh! there you are, Dolly. Let me introduce a new friend of mine, Mr Bill Walker. This is my bloke, Bill: Mr Cusins. [Cusins salutes with his drumstick]. BILL. Goin to marry im? BARBARA. Yes. BILL [fervently] Gawd elp im! Gawd elp im! BARBARA. Why? Do you think he won't be happy with me? BILL. I've only ad to stand it for a mornin: e'll av to stand it for a lifetime. CUSINS. That is a frightful reflection, Mr Walker. But I can't tear myself away from her. BILL. Well, I can. [To Barbara] Eah! do you know where I'm goin to, and wot I'm goin to do? BARBARA. Yes: you're going to heaven; and you're coming back here before the week's out to tell me so. BILL. You lie. I'm goin to Kennintahn, to spit in Todger Fairmile's eye. I bashed Jenny Ill's face; and now I'll get me own face bashed and come back and show it to er. E'll it me ardern I it er. That'll make us square. [To Adolphus] Is that fair or is it not? You're a genlmn: you oughter know. BARBARA. Two black eyes wont make one white one, Bill. BILL. I didn't ast you. Cawn't you never keep your mahth shut? I ast the genlmn. CUSINS [reflectively] Yes: I think you're right, Mr Walker. Yes: I should do it. It's curious: it's exactly what an ancient Greek would have done. BARBARA. But what good will it do? CUSINS. Well, it will give Mr Fairmile some exercise; and it will satisfy Mr Walker's soul. BILL. Rot! there ain't no sach a thing as a soul. Ah kin you tell wether I've a soul or not? You never seen it. BARBARA. I've seen it hurting you when you went against it. BILL [with compressed aggravation] If you was my girl and took the word out o me mahth lawk thet, I'd give you suthink you'd feel urtin, so I would. [To Adolphus] You take my tip, mate. Stop er jawr; or you'll die afore your time. [With intense expression] Wore aht: thets wot you'll be: wore aht. [He goes away through the gate]. CUSINS [looking after him] I wonder! BARBARA. Dolly! [indignant, in her mother's manner]. CUSINS. Yes, my dear, it's very wearing to be in love with you. If it lasts, I quite think I shall die young. BARBARA. Should you mind? CUSINS. Not at all. [He is suddenly softened, and kisses her over the drum, evidently not for the first time, as people cannot kiss over a big drum without practice. Undershaft coughs]. BARBARA. It's all right, papa, we've not forgotten you. Dolly: explain the place to papa: I haven't time. [She goes busily into the shelter]. Undershaft and Adolpbus now have the yard to themselves. Undershaft, seated on a form, and still keenly attentive, looks hard at Adolphus. Adolphus looks hard at him. UNDERSHAFT. I fancy you guess something of what is in my mind, Mr Cusins. [Cusins flourishes his drumsticks as if in the art of beating a lively rataplan, but makes no sound]. Exactly so. But suppose Barbara finds you out! CUSINS. You know, I do not admit that I am imposing on Barbara. I am quite genuinely interested in the views of the Salvation Army. The fact is, I am a sort of collector of religions; and the curious thing is that I find I can believe them all. By the way, have you any religion? UNDERSHAFT. Yes. CUSINS. Anything out of the common? UNDERSHAFT. Only that there are two things necessary to Salvation. CUSINS [disappointed, but polite] Ah, the Church Catechism. Charles Lomax also belongs to the Established Church. UNDERSHAFT. The two things are-- CUSINS. Baptism and-- UNDERSHAFT. No. Money and gunpowder. CUSINS [surprised, but interested] That is the general opinion of our governing classes. The novelty is in hearing any man confess it. UNDERSHAFT. Just so. CUSINS. Excuse me: is there any place in your religion for honor, justice, truth, love, mercy and so forth? UNDERSHAFT. Yes: they are the graces and luxuries of a rich, strong, and safe life. CUSINS. Suppose one is forced to choose between them and money or gunpowder? UNDERSHAFT. Choose money and gunpowder; for without enough of both you cannot afford the others. CUSINS. That is your religion? UNDERSHAFT. Yes. The cadence of this reply makes a full close in the conversation. Cusins twists his face dubiously and contemplates Undershaft. Undershaft contemplates him. CUSINS. Barbara won't stand that. You will have to choose between your religion and Barbara. UNDERSHAFT. So will you, my friend. She will find out that that drum of yours is hollow. CUSINS. Father Undershaft: you are mistaken: I am a sincere Salvationist. You do not understand the Salvation Army. It is the army of joy, of love, of courage: it has banished the fear and remorse and despair of the old hellridden evangelical sects: it marches to fight the devil with trumpet and drum, with music and dancing, with banner and palm, as becomes a sally from heaven by its happy garrison. It picks the waster out of the public house and makes a man of him: it finds a worm wriggling in a back kitchen, and lo! a woman! Men and women of rank too, sons and daughters of the Highest. It takes the poor professor of Greek, the most artificial and self-suppressed of human creatures, from his meal of roots, and lets loose the rhapsodist in him; reveals the true worship of Dionysos to him; sends him down the public street drumming dithyrambs [he plays a thundering flourish on the drum]. UNDERSHAFT. You will alarm the shelter. CUSINS. Oh, they are accustomed to these sudden ecstasies of piety. However, if the drum worries you-- [he pockets the drumsticks; unhooks the drum; and stands it on the ground opposite the gateway]. UNDERSHAFT. Thank you. CUSINS. You remember what Euripides says about your money and gunpowder? UNDERSHAFT. No. CUSINS [declaiming] One and another In money and guns may outpass his brother; And men in their millions float and flow And seethe with a million hopes as leaven; And they win their will; or they miss their will; And their hopes are dead or are pined for still: But whoe'er can know As the long days go That to live is happy, has found his heaven. My translation: what do you think of it? UNDERSHAFT. I think, my friend, that if you wish to know, as the long days go, that to live is happy, you must first acquire money enough for a decent life, and power enough to be your own master. CUSINS. You are damnably discouraging. [He resumes his declamation]. Is it so hard a thing to see That the spirit of God--whate'er it be-- The Law that abides and changes not, ages long, The Eternal and Nature-born: these things be strong. What else is Wisdom? What of Man's endeavor, Or God's high grace so lovely and so great? To stand from fear set free? to breathe and wait? To hold a hand uplifted over Fate? And shall not Barbara be loved for ever? UNDERSHAFT. Euripides mentions Barbara, does he? CUSINS. It is a fair translation. The word means Loveliness. UNDERSHAFT. May I ask--as Barbara's father--how much a year she is to be loved for ever on? CUSINS. As Barbara's father, that is more your affair than mine. I can feed her by teaching Greek: that is about all. UNDERSHAFT. Do you consider it a good match for her? CUSINS [with polite obstinacy] Mr Undershaft: I am in many ways a weak, timid, ineffectual person; and my health is far from satisfactory. But whenever I feel that I must have anything, I get it, sooner or later. I feel that way about Barbara. I don't like marriage: I feel intensely afraid of it; and I don't know what I shall do with Barbara or what she will do with me. But I feel that I and nobody else must marry her. Please regard that as settled.--Not that I wish to be arbitrary; but why should I waste your time in discussing what is inevitable? UNDERSHAFT. You mean that you will stick at nothing not even the conversion of the Salvation Army to the worship of Dionysos. CUSINS. The business of the Salvation Army is to save, not to wrangle about the name of the pathfinder. Dionysos or another: what does it matter? UNDERSHAFT [rising and approaching him] Professor Cusins you are a young man after my own heart. CUSINS. Mr Undershaft: you are, as far as I am able to gather, a most infernal old rascal; but you appeal very strongly to my sense of ironic humor. Undershaft mutely offers his hand. They shake. UNDERSHAFT [suddenly concentrating himself] And now to business. CUSINS. Pardon me. We were discussing religion. Why go back to such an uninteresting and unimportant subject as business? UNDERSHAFT. Religion is our business at present, because it is through religion alone that we can win Barbara. CUSINS. Have you, too, fallen in love with Barbara? UNDERSHAFT. Yes, with a father's love. CUSINS. A father's love for a grown-up daughter is the most dangerous of all infatuations. I apologize for mentioning my own pale, coy, mistrustful fancy in the same breath with it. UNDERSHAFT. Keep to the point. We have to win her; and we are neither of us Methodists. CUSINS. That doesn't matter. The power Barbara wields here--the power that wields Barbara herself--is not Calvinism, not Presbyterianism, not Methodism-- UNDERSHAFT. Not Greek Paganism either, eh? CUSINS. I admit that. Barbara is quite original in her religion. UNDERSHAFT [triumphantly] Aha! Barbara Undershaft would be. Her inspiration comes from within herself. CUSINS. How do you suppose it got there? UNDERSHAFT [in towering excitement] It is the Undershaft inheritance. I shall hand on my torch to my daughter. She shall make my converts and preach my gospel. CUSINS. What! Money and gunpowder! UNDERSHAFT. Yes, money and gunpowder; freedom and power; command of life and command of death. CUSINS [urbanely: trying to bring him down to earth] This is extremely interesting, Mr Undershaft. Of course you know that you are mad. UNDERSHAFT [with redoubled force] And you? CUSINS. Oh, mad as a hatter. You are welcome to my secret since I have discovered yours. But I am astonished. Can a madman make cannons? UNDERSHAFT. Would anyone else than a madman make them? And now [with surging energy] question for question. Can a sane man translate Euripides? CUSINS. No. UNDERSHAFT [reining him by the shoulder] Can a sane woman make a man of a waster or a woman of a worm? CUSINS [reeling before the storm] Father Colossus--Mammoth Millionaire-- UNDERSHAFT [pressing him] Are there two mad people or three in this Salvation shelter to-day? CUSINS. You mean Barbara is as mad as we are! UNDERSHAFT [pushing him lightly off and resuming his equanimity suddenly and completely] Pooh, Professor! let us call things by their proper names. I am a millionaire; you are a poet; Barbara is a savior of souls. What have we three to do with the common mob of slaves and idolaters? [He sits down again with a shrug of contempt for the mob]. CUSINS. Take care! Barbara is in love with the common people. So am I. Have you never felt the romance of that love? UNDERSHAFT [cold and sardonic] Have you ever been in love with Poverty, like St Francis? Have you ever been in love with Dirt, like St Simeon? Have you ever been in love with disease and suffering, like our nurses and philanthropists? Such passions are not virtues, but the most unnatural of all the vices. This love of the common people may please an earl's granddaughter and a university professor; but I have been a common man and a poor man; and it has no romance for me. Leave it to the poor to pretend that poverty is a blessing: leave it to the coward to make a religion of his cowardice by preaching humility: we know better than that. We three must stand together above the common people: how else can we help their children to climb up beside us? Barbara must belong to us, not to the Salvation Army. CUSINS. Well, I can only say that if you think you will get her away from the Salvation Army by talking to her as you have been talking to me, you don't know Barbara. UNDERSHAFT. My friend: I never ask for what I can buy. CUSINS [in a white fury] Do I understand you to imply that you can buy Barbara? UNDERSHAFT. No; but I can buy the Salvation Army. CUSINS. Quite impossible. UNDERSHAFT. You shall see. All religious organizations exist by selling themselves to the rich. CUSINS. Not the Army. That is the Church of the poor. UNDERSHAFT. All the more reason for buying it. CUSINS. I don't think you quite know what the Army does for the poor. UNDERSHAFT. Oh yes I do. It draws their teeth: that is enough for me--as a man of business-- CUSINS. Nonsense! It makes them sober-- UNDERSHAFT. I prefer sober workmen. The profits are larger. CUSINS. --honest-- UNDERSHAFT. Honest workmen are the most economical. CUSINS. --attached to their homes-- UNDERSHAFT. So much the better: they will put up with anything sooner than change their shop. CUSINS. --happy-- UNDERSHAFT. An invaluable safeguard against revolution. CUSINS. --unselfish-- UNDERSHAFT. Indifferent to their own interests, which suits me exactly. CUSINS. --with their thoughts on heavenly things-- UNDERSHAFT [rising] And not on Trade Unionism nor Socialism. Excellent. CUSINS [revolted] You really are an infernal old rascal. UNDERSHAFT [indicating Peter Shirley, who has just came from the shelter and strolled dejectedly down the yard between them] And this is an honest man! SHIRLEY. Yes; and what av I got by it? [he passes on bitterly and sits on the form, in the corner of the penthouse]. Snobby Price, beaming sanctimoniously, and Jenny Hill, with a tambourine full of coppers, come from the shelter and go to the drum, on which Jenny begins to count the money. UNDERSHAFT [replying to Shirley] Oh, your employers must have got a good deal by it from first to last. [He sits on the table, with one foot on the side form. Cusins, overwhelmed, sits down on the same form nearer the shelter. Barbara comes from the shelter to the middle of the yard. She is excited and a little overwrought]. BARBARA. We've just had a splendid experience meeting at the other gate in Cripps's lane. I've hardly ever seen them so much moved as they were by your confession, Mr Price. PRICE. I could almost be glad of my past wickedness if I could believe that it would elp to keep hathers stright. BARBARA. So it will, Snobby. How much, Jenny? JENNY. Four and tenpence, Major. BARBARA. Oh Snobby, if you had given your poor mother just one more kick, we should have got the whole five shillings! PRICE. If she heard you say that, miss, she'd be sorry I didn't. But I'm glad. Oh what a joy it will be to her when she hears I'm saved! UNDERSHAFT. Shall I contribute the odd twopence, Barbara? The millionaire's mite, eh? [He takes a couple of pennies from his pocket.] BARBARA. How did you make that twopence? UNDERSHAFT. As usual. By selling cannons, torpedoes, submarines, and my new patent Grand Duke hand grenade. BARBARA. Put it back in your pocket. You can't buy your Salvation here for twopence: you must work it out. UNDERSHAFT. Is twopence not enough? I can afford a little more, if you press me. BARBARA. Two million millions would not be enough. There is bad blood on your hands; and nothing but good blood can cleanse them. Money is no use. Take it away. [She turns to Cusins]. Dolly: you must write another letter for me to the papers. [He makes a wry face]. Yes: I know you don't like it; but it must be done. The starvation this winter is beating us: everybody is unemployed. The General says we must close this shelter if we cant get more money. I force the collections at the meetings until I am ashamed, don't I, Snobby? PRICE. It's a fair treat to see you work it, miss. The way you got them up from three-and-six to four-and-ten with that hymn, penny by penny and verse by verse, was a caution. Not a Cheap Jack on Mile End Waste could touch you at it. BARBARA. Yes; but I wish we could do without it. I am getting at last to think more of the collection than of the people's souls. And what are those hatfuls of pence and halfpence? We want thousands! tens of thousands! hundreds of thousands! I want to convert people, not to be always begging for the Army in a way I'd die sooner than beg for myself. UNDERSHAFT [in profound irony] Genuine unselfishness is capable of anything, my dear. BARBARA [unsuspectingly, as she turns away to take the money from the drum and put it in a cash bag she carries] Yes, isn't it? [Undershaft looks sardonically at Cusins]. CUSINS [aside to Undershaft] Mephistopheles! Machiavelli! BARBARA [tears coming into her eyes as she ties the bag and pockets it] How are we to feed them? I can't talk religion to a man with bodily hunger in his eyes. [Almost breaking down] It's frightful. JENNY [running to her] Major, dear-- BARBARA [rebounding] No: don't comfort me. It will be all right. We shall get the money. UNDERSHAFT. How? JENNY. By praying for it, of course. Mrs Baines says she prayed for it last night; and she has never prayed for it in vain: never once. [She goes to the gate and looks out into the street]. BARBARA [who has dried her eyes and regained her composure] By the way, dad, Mrs Baines has come to march with us to our big meeting this afternoon; and she is very anxious to meet you, for some reason or other. Perhaps she'll convert you. UNDERSHAFT. I shall be delighted, my dear. JENNY [at the gate: excitedly] Major! Major! Here's that man back again. BARBARA. What man? JENNY. The man that hit me. Oh, I hope he's coming back to join us. Bill Walker, with frost on his jacket, comes through the gate, his hands deep in his pockets and his chin sunk between his shoulders, like a cleaned-out gambler. He halts between Barbara and the drum. BARBARA. Hullo, Bill! Back already! BILL [nagging at her] Bin talkin ever sense, av you? BARBARA. Pretty nearly. Well, has Todger paid you out for poor Jenny's jaw? BILL. NO he ain't. BARBARA. I thought your jacket looked a bit snowy. BILL. So it is snowy. You want to know where the snow come from, don't you? BARBARA. Yes. BILL. Well, it come from off the ground in Parkinses Corner in Kennintahn. It got rubbed off be my shoulders see? BARBARA. Pity you didn't rub some off with your knees, Bill! That would have done you a lot of good. BILL [with your mirthless humor] I was saving another man's knees at the time. E was kneelin on my ed, so e was. JENNY. Who was kneeling on your head? BILL. Todger was. E was prayin for me: prayin comfortable with me as a carpet. So was Mog. So was the ole bloomin meetin. Mog she sez "O Lord break is stubborn spirit; but don't urt is dear art." That was wot she said. "Don't urt is dear art"! An er bloke--thirteen stun four!--kneelin wiv all is weight on me. Funny, ain't it? JENNY. Oh no. We're so sorry, Mr Walker. BARBARA [enjoying it frankly] Nonsense! of course it's funny. Served you right, Bill! You must have done something to him first. BILL [doggedly] I did wot I said I'd do. I spit in is eye. E looks up at the sky and sez, "O that I should be fahnd worthy to be spit upon for the gospel's sake!" a sez; an Mog sez "Glory Allelloolier!"; an then a called me Brother, an dahned me as if I was a kid and a was me mother washin me a Setterda nawt. I adn't just no show wiv im at all. Arf the street prayed; an the tother arf larfed fit to split theirselves. [To Barbara] There! are you settisfawd nah? BARBARA [her eyes dancing] Wish I'd been there, Bill. BILL. Yes: you'd a got in a hextra bit o talk on me, wouldn't you? JENNY. I'm so sorry, Mr. Walker. BILL [fiercely] Don't you go bein sorry for me: you've no call. Listen ere. I broke your jawr. JENNY. No, it didn't hurt me: indeed it didn't, except for a moment. It was only that I was frightened. BILL. I don't want to be forgive be you, or be ennybody. Wot I did I'll pay for. I tried to get me own jawr broke to settisfaw you-- JENNY [distressed] Oh no-- BILL [impatiently] Tell y'I did: cawn't you listen to wot's bein told you? All I got be it was bein made a sight of in the public street for me pains. Well, if I cawn't settisfaw you one way, I can another. Listen ere! I ad two quid saved agen the frost; an I've a pahnd of it left. A mate n mine last week ad words with the Judy e's goin to marry. E give er wot-for; an e's bin fined fifteen bob. E ad a right to it er because they was goin to be marrid; but I adn't no right to it you; so put anather fawv bob on an call it a pahnd's worth. [He produces a sovereign]. Ere's the money. Take it; and let's av no more o your forgivin an prayin and your Major jawrin me. Let wot I done be done and paid for; and let there be a end of it. JENNY. Oh, I couldn't take it, Mr. Walker. But if you would give a shilling or two to poor Rummy Mitchens! you really did hurt her; and she's old. BILL [contemptuously] Not likely. I'd give her anather as soon as look at er. Let her av the lawr o me as she threatened! She ain't forgiven me: not mach. Wot I done to er is not on me mawnd--wot she [indicating Barbara] might call on me conscience--no more than stickin a pig. It's this Christian game o yours that I won't av played agen me: this bloomin forgivin an noggin an jawrin that makes a man that sore that iz lawf's a burdn to im. I won't av it, I tell you; so take your money and stop throwin your silly bashed face hup agen me. JENNY. Major: may I take a little of it for the Army? BARBARA. No: the Army is not to be bought. We want your soul, Bill; and we'll take nothing less. BILL [bitterly] I know. It ain't enough. Me an me few shillins is not good enough for you. You're a earl's grendorter, you are. Nothin less than a underd pahnd for you. UNDERSHAFT. Come, Barbara! you could do a great deal of good with a hundred pounds. If you will set this gentleman's mind at ease by taking his pound, I will give the other ninety-nine [Bill, astounded by such opulence, instinctively touches his cap]. BARBARA. Oh, you're too extravagant, papa. Bill offers twenty pieces of silver. All you need offer is the other ten. That will make the standard price to buy anybody who's for sale. I'm not; and the Army's not. [To Bill] You'll never have another quiet moment, Bill, until you come round to us. You can't stand out against your salvation. BILL [sullenly] I cawn't stend aht agen music all wrastlers and artful tongued women. I've offered to pay. I can do no more. Take it or leave it. There it is. [He throws the sovereign on the drum, and sits down on the horse-trough. The coin fascinates Snobby Price, who takes an early opportunity of dropping his cap on it]. Mrs Baines comes from the shelter. She is dressed as a Salvation Army Commissioner. She is an earnest looking woman of about 40, with a caressing, urgent voice, and an appealing manner. BARBARA. This is my father, Mrs Baines. [Undershaft comes from the table, taking his hat off with marked civility]. Try what you can do with him. He won't listen to me, because he remembers what a fool I was when I was a baby. [She leaves them together and chats with Jenny]. MRS BAINES. Have you been shown over the shelter, Mr Undershaft? You know the work we're doing, of course. UNDERSHAFT [very civilly] The whole nation knows it, Mrs Baines. MRS BAINES. No, Sir: the whole nation does not know it, or we should not be crippled as we are for want of money to carry our work through the length and breadth of the land. Let me tell you that there would have been rioting this winter in London but for us. UNDERSHAFT. You really think so? MRS BAINES. I know it. I remember 1886, when you rich gentlemen hardened your hearts against the cry of the poor. They broke the windows of your clubs in Pall Mall. UNDERSHAFT [gleaming with approval of their method] And the Mansion House Fund went up next day from thirty thousand pounds to seventy-nine thousand! I remember quite well. MRS BAINES. Well, won't you help me to get at the people? They won't break windows then. Come here, Price. Let me show you to this gentleman [Price comes to be inspected]. Do you remember the window breaking? PRICE. My ole father thought it was the revolution, ma'am. MRS BAINES. Would you break windows now? PRICE. Oh no ma'm. The windows of eaven av bin opened to me. I know now that the rich man is a sinner like myself. RUMMY [appearing above at the loft door] Snobby Price! SNOBBY. Wot is it? RUMMY. Your mother's askin for you at the other gate in Crippses Lane. She's heard about your confession [Price turns pale]. MRS BAINES. Go, Mr. Price; and pray with her. JENNY. You can go through the shelter, Snobby. PRICE [to Mrs Baines] I couldn't face her now; ma'am, with all the weight of my sins fresh on me. Tell her she'll find her son at ome, waitin for her in prayer. [He skulks off through the gate, incidentally stealing the sovereign on his way out by picking up his cap from the drum]. MRS BAINES [with swimming eyes] You see how we take the anger and the bitterness against you out of their hearts, Mr Undershaft. UNDERSHAFT. It is certainly most convenient and gratifying to all large employers of labor, Mrs Baines. MRS BAINES. Barbara: Jenny: I have good news: most wonderful news. [Jenny runs to her]. My prayers have been answered. I told you they would, Jenny, didn't I? JENNY. Yes, yes. BARBARA [moving nearer to the drum] Have we got money enough to keep the shelter open? MRS BAINES. I hope we shall have enough to keep all the shelters open. Lord Saxmundham has promised us five thousand pounds-- BARBARA. Hooray! JENNY. Glory! MRS BAINES. --if-- BARBARA. "If!" If what? MRS BAINES. If five other gentlemen will give a thousand each to make it up to ten thousand. BARBARA. Who is Lord Saxmundham? I never heard of him. UNDERSHAFT [who has pricked up his ears at the peer's name, and is now watching Barbara curiously] A new creation, my dear. You have heard of Sir Horace Bodger? BARBARA. Bodger! Do you mean the distiller? Bodger's whisky! UNDERSHAFT. That is the man. He is one of the greatest of our public benefactors. He restored the cathedral at Hakington. They made him a baronet for that. He gave half a million to the funds of his party: they made him a baron for that. SHIRLEY. What will they give him for the five thousand? UNDERSHAFT. There is nothing left to give him. So the five thousand, I should think, is to save his soul. MRS BAINES. Heaven grant it may! Oh Mr. Undershaft, you have some very rich friends. Can't you help us towards the other five thousand? We are going to hold a great meeting this afternoon at the Assembly Hall in the Mile End Road. If I could only announce that one gentleman had come forward to support Lord Saxmundham, others would follow. Don't you know somebody? Couldn't you? Wouldn't you? [her eyes fill with tears] oh, think of those poor people, Mr Undershaft: think of how much it means to them, and how little to a great man like you. UNDERSHAFT [sardonically gallant] Mrs Baines: you are irresistible. I can't disappoint you; and I can't deny myself the satisfaction of making Bodger pay up. You shall have your five thousand pounds. MRS BAINES. Thank God! UNDERSHAFT. You don't thank me? MRS BAINES. Oh sir, don't try to be cynical: don't be ashamed of being a good man. The Lord will bless you abundantly; and our prayers will be like a strong fortification round you all the days of your life. [With a touch of caution] You will let me have the cheque to show at the meeting, won't you? Jenny: go in and fetch a pen and ink. [Jenny runs to the shelter door]. UNDERSHAFT. Do not disturb Miss Hill: I have a fountain pen. [Jenny halts. He sits at the table and writes the cheque. Cusins rises to make more room for him. They all watch him silently]. BILL [cynically, aside to Barbara, his voice and accent horribly debased] Wot prawce Selvytion nah? BARBARA. Stop. [Undershaft stops writing: they all turn to her in surprise]. Mrs Baines: are you really going to take this money? MRS BAINES [astonished] Why not, dear? BARBARA. Why not! Do you know what my father is? Have you forgotten that Lord Saxmundham is Bodger the whisky man? Do you remember how we implored the County Council to stop him from writing Bodger's Whisky in letters of fire against the sky; so that the poor drinkruined creatures on the embankment could not wake up from their snatches of sleep without being reminded of their deadly thirst by that wicked sky sign? Do you know that the worst thing I have had to fight here is not the devil, but Bodger, Bodger, Bodger, with his whisky, his distilleries, and his tied houses? Are you going to make our shelter another tied house for him, and ask me to keep it? BILL. Rotten drunken whisky it is too. MRS BAINES. Dear Barbara: Lord Saxmundham has a soul to be saved like any of us. If heaven has found the way to make a good use of his money, are we to set ourselves up against the answer to our prayers? BARBARA. I know he has a soul to be saved. Let him come down here; and I'll do my best to help him to his salvation. But he wants to send his cheque down to buy us, and go on being as wicked as ever. UNDERSHAFT [with a reasonableness which Cusins alone perceives to be ironical] My dear Barbara: alcohol is a very necessary article. It heals the sick-- BARBARA. It does nothing of the sort. UNDERSHAFT. Well, it assists the doctor: that is perhaps a less questionable way of putting it. It makes life bearable to millions of people who could not endure their existence if they were quite sober. It enables Parliament to do things at eleven at night that no sane person would do at eleven in the morning. Is it Bodger's fault that this inestimable gift is deplorably abused by less than one per cent of the poor? [He turns again to the table; signs the cheque; and crosses it]. MRS BAINES. Barbara: will there be less drinking or more if all those poor souls we are saving come to-morrow and find the doors of our shelters shut in their faces? Lord Saxmundham gives us the money to stop drinking--to take his own business from him. CUSINS [impishly] Pure self-sacrifice on Bodger's part, clearly! Bless dear Bodger! [Barbara almost breaks down as Adolpbus, too, fails her]. UNDERSHAFT [tearing out the cheque and pocketing the book as he rises and goes past Cusins to Mrs Baines] I also, Mrs Baines, may claim a little disinterestedness. Think of my business! think of the widows and orphans! the men and lads torn to pieces with shrapnel and poisoned with lyddite [Mrs Baines shrinks; but he goes on remorselessly]! the oceans of blood, not one drop of which is shed in a really just cause! the ravaged crops! the peaceful peasants forced, women and men, to till their fields under the fire of opposing armies on pain of starvation! the bad blood of the fierce little cowards at home who egg on others to fight for the gratification of their national vanity! All this makes money for me: I am never richer, never busier than when the papers are full of it. Well, it is your work to preach peace on earth and goodwill to men. [Mrs Baines's face lights up again]. Every convert you make is a vote against war. [Her lips move in prayer]. Yet I give you this money to help you to hasten my own commercial ruin. [He gives her the cheque]. CUSINS [mounting the form in an ecstasy of mischief] The millennium will be inaugurated by the unselfishness of Undershaft and Bodger. Oh be joyful! [He takes the drumsticks from his pockets and flourishes them]. MRS BAINES [taking the cheque] The longer I live the more proof I see that there is an Infinite Goodness that turns everything to the work of salvation sooner or later. Who would have thought that any good could have come out of war and drink? And yet their profits are brought today to the feet of salvation to do its blessed work. [She is affected to tears]. JENNY [running to Mrs Baines and throwing her arms round her] Oh dear! how blessed, how glorious it all is! CUSINS [in a convulsion of irony] Let us seize this unspeakable moment. Let us march to the great meeting at once. Excuse me just an instant. [He rushes into the shelter. Jenny takes her tambourine from the drum head]. MRS BAINES. Mr Undershaft: have you ever seen a thousand people fall on their knees with one impulse and pray? Come with us to the meeting. Barbara shall tell them that the Army is saved, and saved through you. CUSINS [returning impetuously from the shelter with a flag and a trombone, and coming between Mrs Baines and Undershaft] You shall carry the flag down the first street, Mrs Baines [he gives her the flag]. Mr Undershaft is a gifted trombonist: he shall intone an Olympian diapason to the West Ham Salvation March. [Aside to Undershaft, as he forces the trombone on him] Blow, Machiavelli, blow. UNDERSHAFT [aside to him, as he takes the trombone] The trumpet in Zion! [Cusins rushes to the drum, which he takes up and puts on. Undershaft continues, aloud] I will do my best. I could vamp a bass if I knew the tune. CUSINS. It is a wedding chorus from one of Donizetti's operas; but we have converted it. We convert everything to good here, including Bodger. You remember the chorus. "For thee immense rejoicing--immenso giubilo--immenso giubilo." [With drum obbligato] Rum tum ti tum tum, tum tum ti ta-- BARBARA. Dolly: you are breaking my heart. CUSINS. What is a broken heart more or less here? Dionysos Undershaft has descended. I am possessed. MRS BAINES. Come, Barbara: I must have my dear Major to carry the flag with me. JENNY. Yes, yes, Major darling. CUSINS [snatches the tambourine out of Jenny's hand and mutely offers it to Barbara]. BARBARA [coming forward a little as she puts the offer behind her with a shudder, whilst Cusins recklessly tosses the tambourine back to Jenny and goes to the gate] I can't come. JENNY. Not come! MRS BAINES [with tears in her eyes] Barbara: do you think I am wrong to take the money? BARBARA [impulsively going to her and kissing her] No, no: God help you, dear, you must: you are saving the Army. Go; and may you have a great meeting! JENNY. But arn't you coming? BARBARA. No. [She begins taking off the silver brooch from her collar]. MRS BAINES. Barbara: what are you doing? JENNY. Why are you taking your badge off? You can't be going to leave us, Major. BARBARA [quietly] Father: come here. UNDERSHAFT [coming to her] My dear! [Seeing that she is going to pin the badge on his collar, he retreats to the penthouse in some alarm]. BARBARA [following him] Don't be frightened. [She pins the badge on and steps back towards the table, showing him to the others] There! It's not much for 5000 pounds is it? MRS BAINES. Barbara: if you won't come and pray with us, promise me you will pray for us. BARBARA. I can't pray now. Perhaps I shall never pray again. MRS BAINES. Barbara! JENNY. Major! BARBARA [almost delirious] I can't bear any more. Quick march! CUSINS [calling to the procession in the street outside] Off we go. Play up, there! Immenso giubilo. [He gives the time with his drum; and the band strikes up the march, which rapidly becomes more distant as the procession moves briskly away]. MRS BAINES. I must go, dear. You're overworked: you will be all right tomorrow. We'll never lose you. Now Jenny: step out with the old flag. Blood and Fire! [She marches out through the gate with her flag]. JENNY. Glory Hallelujah! [flourishing her tambourine and marching]. UNDERSHAFT [to Cusins, as he marches out past him easing the slide of his trombone] "My ducats and my daughter"! CUSINS [following him out] Money and gunpowder! BARBARA. Drunkenness and Murder! My God: why hast thou forsaken me? She sinks on the form with her face buried in her hands. The march passes away into silence. Bill Walker steals across to her. BILL [taunting] Wot prawce Selvytion nah? SHIRLEY. Don't you hit her when she's down. BILL. She it me wen aw wiz dahn. Waw shouldn't I git a bit o me own back? BARBARA [raising her head] I didn't take your money, Bill. [She crosses the yard to the gate and turns her back on the two men to hide her face from them]. BILL [sneering after her] Naow, it warn't enough for you. [Turning to the drum, he misses the money]. Ellow! If you ain't took it summun else az. Were's it gorn? Blame me if Jenny Ill didn't take it arter all! RUMMY [screaming at him from the loft] You lie, you dirty blackguard! Snobby Price pinched it off the drum wen e took ap iz cap. I was ap ere all the time an see im do it. BILL. Wot! Stowl maw money! Waw didn't you call thief on him, you silly old mucker you? RUMMY. To serve you aht for ittin me acrost the face. It's cost y'pahnd, that az. [Raising a paean of squalid triumph] I done you. I'm even with you. I've ad it aht o y--. [Bill snatches up Shirley's mug and hurls it at her. She slams the loft door and vanishes. The mug smashes against the door and falls in fragments]. BILL [beginning to chuckle] Tell us, ole man, wot o'clock this morrun was it wen im as they call Snobby Prawce was sived? BARBARA [turning to him more composedly, and with unspoiled sweetness] About half past twelve, Bill. And he pinched your pound at a quarter to two. I know. Well, you can't afford to lose it. I'll send it to you. BILL [his voice and accent suddenly improving] Not if I was to starve for it. I ain't to be bought. SHIRLEY. Ain't you? You'd sell yourself to the devil for a pint o beer; ony there ain't no devil to make the offer. BILL [unshamed] So I would, mate, and often av, cheerful. But she cawn't buy me. [Approaching Barbara] You wanted my soul, did you? Well, you ain't got it. BARBARA. I nearly got it, Bill. But we've sold it back to you for ten thousand pounds. SHIRLEY. And dear at the money! BARBARA. No, Peter: it was worth more than money. BILL [salvationproof] It's no good: you cawn't get rahnd me nah. I don't blieve in it; and I've seen today that I was right. [Going] So long, old soupkitchener! Ta, ta, Major Earl's Grendorter! [Turning at the gate] Wot prawce Selvytion nah? Snobby Prawce! Ha! ha! BARBARA [offering her hand] Goodbye, Bill. BILL [taken aback, half plucks his cap off then shoves it on again defiantly] Git aht. [Barbara drops her hand, discouraged. He has a twinge of remorse]. But thet's aw rawt, you knaow. Nathink pasnl. Naow mellice. So long, Judy. [He goes]. BARBARA. No malice. So long, Bill. SHIRLEY [shaking his head] You make too much of him, miss, in your innocence. BARBARA [going to him] Peter: I'm like you now. Cleaned out, and lost my job. SHIRLEY. You've youth an hope. That's two better than me. That's hope for you. BARBARA. I'll get you a job, Peter, the youth will have to be enough for me. [She counts her money]. I have just enough left for two teas at Lockharts, a Rowton doss for you, and my tram and bus home. [He frowns and rises with offended pride. She takes his arm]. Don't be proud, Peter: it's sharing between friends. And promise me you'll talk to me and not let me cry. [She draws him towards the gate]. SHIRLEY. Well, I'm not accustomed to talk to the like of you-- BARBARA [urgently] Yes, yes: you must talk to me. Tell me about Tom Paine's books and Bradlaugh's lectures. Come along. SHIRLEY. Ah, if you would only read Tom Paine in the proper spirit, miss! [They go out through the gate together].

Act II Part One

https://web.archive.org/web/20210118113736/https://www.sparknotes.com/drama/majorbarbara/section3/

It is a cold January morning in the West Ham shelter of the Salvation Army. The cold has stung two diners at the lunch table into "vivacity"--the sly, young Snobby Price and hard-worn, middle-aged Rummy Mitchens. They introduce themselves to each other. Price remarks that they share the misfortune of having unpronounceable names due to their parents' class pretensions. Rummy asks why Price is unemployed. He explains that he is intelligent and sees through the capitalists, drinks for happiness, leaves the available work to others out of class solidarity, and steals like a capitalist. When he learns that Rummy is married, he jokes about her being another respectable woman feigning vice to get rescued by the Army. Price himself tells of his blasphemy, gambling, and beating his mother to win the Army's favor. The worse you appear, the more satisfying your salvation to the Army staff. Jenny Hill, a pale, overwrought Salvation lass, enters leading Peter Shirley, a worn-out elderly man, to the table. She runs off to fetch him lunch. Shirley recounts how he has lost his job to a younger man. He weeps with shame before the prospect of taking a free lunch but does so when Jenny assures him that he will be able to pay them back someday. Suddenly Bill Walker, a rough young man, appears and menacingly flings Jenny toward the door of the shelter. Apparently Jenny took his girl from him, and Bill has come to reclaim her. Rummy runs to Jenny's aid, and Bill cracks her across the face. Price withdraws in fear, fleeing into the shelter with Rummy to fetch Major Barbara. Shirley rises and confronts Bill, asking what kind of man terrorizes women, the elderly, and the starving. Bill would never dare face his son-in-law's brother, the wrestler Todger Fairmille. In response, Bill taunts Shirley for taking a handout and Shirley bursts into tears. Shirley warns the young tough, however, against taking on the Major. She is the Earl of Stevenage's granddaughter. Bill skulks into the corner. Barbara enters briskly and addresses herself to Shirley. Bill sits cowed with his back turned to them. Barbara takes Shirley's vital information. He bristles when she asks about his faith. An unperturbed Barbara notes that their Father must have known what He was doing in making Shirley a Secularist. She turns to Bill, noting mockingly that he certainly must not fear God, otherwise how could he have struck a girl? Bill declares that he wants nothing to do with the Army. Sunnily apologetic and ladylike, Barbara moves to strike his name from their roster. Bill protests this slight; a businesslike Barbara then marks him down as the man who struck Jenny. Bill is near-tears. When he announces that he wants his girl, Mog Habbijam, Barbara informs him that she has joined the Army post in Canningtown and taken up with one of her own converts, Sergeant Todger Fairmille. Bill is crushed. Barbara asks Jenny to have Rummy clear the table. Price informs Barbara that her father has come.

As discussed in the preface, Shaw's portrait of the shelter is fundamentally polemical and pedagogical in intent, aiming to expose of the flaws in the Salvation Army and critique the state of the urban poor. For example, one of the many criticisms of the Army Shaw underlines is that it forces its clientele to pander to the saintliness of its workers. Thus Price and Rummy have woven tales of their degeneracy to satisfy their helpers' Salvationist fantasies. In this sense does the work of the Army have less to do with the condition of the poor than the narcissism of its officers. In examining the state of poor itself, Shaw offers the audience a trio of shelter clients: Rummy, Price, and Shirley. Against the figure Rummy cuts as a prosaic matron and Price as a "transparent humbug," Shirley appears as what Shaw considers the "honest poor man." This man abhors the rich, values hard work, and weeps at the thought of finally have to take a handout. For Shaw, he functions as another of the play's object lesson. Despite Shirley's honesty, "the misery of the world is due to the fact that the great mass of men act and believe as Peter Shirley acts and believes. " As we will see, only the gospel of the millionaire, one that poses wealth as "a point of honor for which I am prepared to kill at the risk of my own life" will redeem the world. Certainly the most jarring shift from acts I to II is the introduction of class- marked dialect, such as Cockney, in the appearance of the poor. Critics have long lauded the "accuracy" or "realism" of Shavian dialect. Such praise does not consider the significance of this dialect's usage, and it appears to be little more than an exercise in class fetishism that obscures the ways in which Shaw's representation of the poor is itself fetishistic. Note, for example, how Rummy and Price are played affectionately for the audience's entertainment. Though they have long since pawned their winter clothes, the two are "stung into vivacity" by the cold, chattering vivaciously over their poor meal. Occasionally Price even breaks into a step dance. Another one of the dialect's primary functions here is to set Barbara, the savior, against those who require salvation. Major Barbara figures as savior in the shelter through simultaneous her class and linguistic superiority over those around her. Barbara maintains her composure before all those around her through her impeccable dress and cool, business-like manner, and perfect speech. Note how Shirley revels in revealing her aristocratic background to Bill, invoking her bloodline to cow him. Moreover Barbara's return before the audience is the return of the proper, polished English of the act previous, a voice that stands firmly against Bill's "horribly debased" one. Barbara's dialect, that is, the dialect that masquerades as no dialect at all, marks her as the Cockney's redeemer. Barbara's superiority to her clients is especially crucial as it would seem their within the Salvation Army conversion might demand their humiliation. Note how the play invites the audience to enjoy Bill's disgrace sadistically--an enjoyment Barbara explicitly avows upon his departure and return in the subsequent scene. Barbara's humiliation of Bill primarily involves forcing him to admit that he is "not a man," since a man could not strike a woman. The progressively developed story of Todger Fairmille completes Bill's emasculation. Note also how Barbara denies him recognition on the Army roster and mordantly remarks that he must have no fear of God. Bill's humiliation leads him nearly to surrender wholehearted to Barbara as his redeemer. Once crushed, he accepts the terms of her gospel. The pain he feels as the anguish of his tortured soul and his debt to God.

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/3790-chapters/act_3.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/Major Barbara/section_5_part_0.txt

Major Barbara.act 3

act 3

{"name": "Act III Part One", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210118113736/https://www.sparknotes.com/drama/majorbarbara/section6/", "summary": "The next day at lunch Lady Britomart appears writing in her library. Sarah sits reading near the window; Barbara, in ordinary fashionable dress, broods on the settee. Today the family plans to visit Undershaft's cannon works. Lomax enters and bluntly expresses his surprise at Barbara being out of uniform. Though sympathetic to her disillusionment, he always knew that, unlike the Church of England, there was a \"certain amount of tosh\" to the Salvation Army. Britomart chastises him. A weary Cusins enters--to the shock of the family, he was up late drinking with Undershaft after the meeting. Apparently Undershaft completed the \"wreck of moral basis, the rout of convictions, the purchase of soul.\" Morrison announces Undershaft's arrival. Britomart sends the children out to ready for the excursion. Undershaft enters and before he has time to breathe, Britomart raises the topic of Stephen. Undershaft cannot disinherit him. Undershaft protests that tradition demands Stephen's dispossession. The firm needs a man without relations or education, a man who would be out of the running if he were not strong. The tragedy is that these days all the foundlings are snapped up by the welfare state, domesticated and crammed with secondhand ideas. In any case, if Britomart wants the foundry in the family, she should find a foundling to marry Barbara. Stephen enters and announces that he wants no part of the foundry. When Britomart attempts to intercede, Stephen informs her that all discussion of his future will now take place with his father, between one man and another. A teary Britomart complies. Chiding his son for so sulkily repudiating the foundry, Undershaft asks Stephen about his interests. Philosophy, the arts, and law are ridiculous to him. All Stephen knows above all, however, is the difference between right and wrong. Undershaft jeers and asks how Stephen can claim to know what has puzzled philosophers, artists, and lawyers through the ages. Like the Salvationists, respectable people are far too convinced they can teach morality. As Stephen knows nothing and thinks he knows everything, he should go into politics. Stephen balks at his father's insults to the government. Undershaft brutally reminds him that Undershaft and Lazarus are the government. A patronizing Stephen replies that with his own old-fashion breeding he cannot help but continue to believe that the national character governs fair England. Undershaft rejoins that Stephen is a born journalist. The group returns to the library. Cusins wonders why he and Barbara are traveling to Undershaft's \"Works Department of Hell.\" A scandalized Undershaft promises that Wilton Crescent is a \"spotlessly clean and beautiful hillside town. \" He never has to play the tyrannical owner because the community's system of social hierarchy keeps everything in order. Cusins recoils in revulsion. Barbara announces to her father that she will never forgive him for taking a man's soul from her hands. Craftily Undershaft asks if his daughter really believes she can \"strike a man to the heart\" without leaving a mark on him. Barbara finds hope again and departs for the foundry, searching for \"some truth of other behind all this frightful irony.\"", "analysis": "Act III begins immediately prior to the family's trip to Undershaft's ideal planned community, a masterwork of social engineering. These scenes consist of a number of short dialogues. In the first scene, Barbara has shed her uniform, prefiguring her ultimate declaration that \"Major Barbara will die with the colors.\" Her disillusion with the Army is complete. A weary Cusins declares himself lost to Undershaft's gospel. As before, the tactless Lomax, speaks, as Lady Britomart remarks, using the formulaic \"schoolboy drivel\" that successful society men speak in England. His consolation for this is comical: unlike the Anglican Church, the Army always had a bit of \"tosh\" to it. Clearly, as Shaw insists in the preface, the unmasking of the \"tosh\" to the Army would implicate the established church as well. In the subsequent private exchange between Undershaft and Britomart, the former explains the necessity of Stephen's dispossession with what one could call the myth of the foundling. For Undershaft, the foundling is a man who, without family or education, has risen through the world by his will alone. The tragedy is that the welfare state tames these men from birth, rendering them indistinguishable from the herd. The foundling figures as a New Man of sorts, a man whose thoughts and actions free from the binds of social convention. Only such a mythically nameless man can assume the Undershaft mantle and carry forth the firm's gospel. Andrew bristles at Britomart's insistence on his fatherly duties, since the Undershaft tradition trumps the preservation of the family. Undershaft will have nothing of such obsolete \"tricks of the governing class.\" As observed earlier, among Britomart's primary arms are those of class convention and her maternal authority. Britomart deploys these arms--as well as the memory of their marriage, perhaps--against her ex-husband's bombast. For example, when she plays the maternal wife and comically chastises Undershaft for his crooked tie, she reduces him to \"childish grimaces.\" These familiar forms of domestic sociability present themselves as charming. They allow the audience to deflate and guard themselves against the hero's grandiloquent excesses as if they were the complaints of a child. The subsequent exchange occurs between Undershaft and a self-important Stephen, dislodging Britomart from her place as head of the family. Stephen attempts to discuss his future with his father, as men must do. The comedy of their dialogue functions according to a principle of enumeration and accumulation. Undershaft lists a series of potential occupations and Stephen rejects each, revealing his uselessness to the world. While without talents or inclinations, Stephen firmly claims to know the difference between right and wrong. Undershaft makes his impetuous son's declaration to highlight the irony of the ideas of the moralists. He wonders how he can, like the Salvationists or politicians, be so sure they know the difference between good and evil. The final major exchange occurs between Cusins, Barbara, and Undershaft, the poet, savior, and millionaire. Protesting Cusins's description of Percivale St. Andrews as a \"Works Department of Hell,\" Undershaft begins to explain how he has brought his ideal community into being. Percivale St. Andrews runs on its own--its citizens preserve the social hierarchy and make any authoritarianism on his part unnecessary. As we will see, Undershaft's emphasis on hygiene and cleanliness will take on sinister proportions as well, though ones the play does not readily avow. Though the pair recoils in horror as they have done through, they will ultimately come to realize that Undershaft's gospel is the path to human salvation."}

ACT III Next day after lunch Lady Britomart is writing in the library in Wilton Crescent. Sarah is reading in the armchair near the window. Barbara, in ordinary dresss, pale and brooding, is on the settee. Charley Lomax enters. Coming forward between the settee and the writing table, he starts on seeing Barbara fashionably attired and in low spirits. LOMAX. You've left off your uniform! Barbara says nothing; but an expression of pain passes over her face. LADY BRITOMART [warning him in low tones to be careful] Charles! LOMAX [much concerned, sitting down sympathetically on the settee beside Barbara] I'm awfully sorry, Barbara. You know I helped you all I could with the concertina and so forth. [Momentously] Still, I have never shut my eyes to the fact that there is a certain amount of tosh about the Salvation Army. Now the claims of the Church of England-- LADY BRITOMART. That's enough, Charles. Speak of something suited to your mental capacity. LOMAX. But surely the Church of England is suited to all our capacities. BARBARA [pressing his hand] Thank you for your sympathy, Cholly. Now go and spoon with Sarah. LOMAX [rising and going to Sarah] How is my ownest today? SARAH. I wish you wouldn't tell Cholly to do things, Barbara. He always comes straight and does them. Cholly: we're going to the works at Perivale St. Andrews this afternoon. LOMAX. What works? SARAH. The cannon works. LOMAX. What! Your governor's shop! SARAH. Yes. LOMAX. Oh I say! Cusins enters in poor condition. He also starts visibly when he sees Barbara without her uniform. BARBARA. I expected you this morning, Dolly. Didn't you guess that? CUSINS [sitting down beside her] I'm sorry. I have only just breakfasted. SARAH. But we've just finished lunch. BARBARA. Have you had one of your bad nights? CUSINS. No: I had rather a good night: in fact, one of the most remarkable nights I have ever passed. BARBARA. The meeting? CUSINS. No: after the meeting. LADY BRITOMART. You should have gone to bed after the meeting. What were you doing? CUSINS. Drinking. LADY BRITOMART. }{ Adolphus! SARAH. }{ Dolly! BARBARA. }{ Dolly! LOMAX. }{ Oh I say! LADY BRITOMART. What were you drinking, may I ask? CUSINS. A most devilish kind of Spanish burgundy, warranted free from added alcohol: a Temperance burgundy in fact. Its richness in natural alcohol made any addition superfluous. BARBARA. Are you joking, Dolly? CUSINS [patiently] No. I have been making a night of it with the nominal head of this household: that is all. LADY BRITOMART. Andrew made you drunk! CUSINS. No: he only provided the wine. I think it was Dionysos who made me drunk. [To Barbara] I told you I was possessed. LADY BRITOMART. You're not sober yet. Go home to bed at once. CUSINS. I have never before ventured to reproach you, Lady Brit; but how could you marry the Prince of Darkness? LADY BRITOMART. It was much more excusable to marry him than to get drunk with him. That is a new accomplishment of Andrew's, by the way. He usen't to drink. CUSINS. He doesn't now. He only sat there and completed the wreck of my moral basis, the rout of my convictions, the purchase of my soul. He cares for you, Barbara. That is what makes him so dangerous to me. BARBARA. That has nothing to do with it, Dolly. There are larger loves and diviner dreams than the fireside ones. You know that, don't you? CUSINS. Yes: that is our understanding. I know it. I hold to it. Unless he can win me on that holier ground he may amuse me for a while; but he can get no deeper hold, strong as he is. BARBARA. Keep to that; and the end will be right. Now tell me what happened at the meeting? CUSINS. It was an amazing meeting. Mrs Baines almost died of emotion. Jenny Hill went stark mad with hysteria. The Prince of Darkness played his trombone like a madman: its brazen roarings were like the laughter of the damned. 117 conversions took place then and there. They prayed with the most touching sincerity and gratitude for Bodger, and for the anonymous donor of the 5000 pounds. Your father would not let his name be given. LOMAX. That was rather fine of the old man, you know. Most chaps would have wanted the advertisement. CUSINS. He said all the charitable institutions would be down on him like kites on a battle field if he gave his name. LADY BRITOMART. That's Andrew all over. He never does a proper thing without giving an improper reason for it. CUSINS. He convinced me that I have all my life been doing improper things for proper reasons. LADY BRITOMART. Adolphus: now that Barbara has left the Salvation Army, you had better leave it too. I will not have you playing that drum in the streets. CUSINS. Your orders are already obeyed, Lady Brit. BARBARA. Dolly: were you ever really in earnest about it? Would you have joined if you had never seen me? CUSINS [disingenuously] Well--er--well, possibly, as a collector of religions-- LOMAX [cunningly] Not as a drummer, though, you know. You are a very clearheaded brainy chap, Cholly; and it must have been apparent to you that there is a certain amount of tosh about-- LADY BRITOMART. Charles: if you must drivel, drivel like a grown-up man and not like a schoolboy. LOMAX [out of countenance] Well, drivel is drivel, don't you know, whatever a man's age. LADY BRITOMART. In good society in England, Charles, men drivel at all ages by repeating silly formulas with an air of wisdom. Schoolboys make their own formulas out of slang, like you. When they reach your age, and get political private secretaryships and things of that sort, they drop slang and get their formulas out of The Spectator or The Times. You had better confine yourself to The Times. You will find that there is a certain amount of tosh about The Times; but at least its language is reputable. LOMAX [overwhelmed] You are so awfully strong-minded, Lady Brit-- LADY BRITOMART. Rubbish! [Morrison comes in]. What is it? MORRISON. If you please, my lady, Mr Undershaft has just drove up to the door. LADY BRITOMART. Well, let him in. [Morrison hesitates]. What's the matter with you? MORRISON. Shall I announce him, my lady; or is he at home here, so to speak, my lady? LADY BRITOMART. Announce him. MORRISON. Thank you, my lady. You won't mind my asking, I hope. The occasion is in a manner of speaking new to me. LADY BRITOMART. Quite right. Go and let him in. MORRISON. Thank you, my lady. [He withdraws]. LADY BRITOMART. Children: go and get ready. [Sarah and Barbara go upstairs for their out-of-door wrap]. Charles: go and tell Stephen to come down here in five minutes: you will find him in the drawing room. [Charles goes]. Adolphus: tell them to send round the carriage in about fifteen minutes. [Adolphus goes]. MORRISON [at the door] Mr Undershaft. Undershaft comes in. Morrison goes out. UNDERSHAFT. Alone! How fortunate! LADY BRITOMART [rising] Don't be sentimental, Andrew. Sit down. [She sits on the settee: he sits beside her, on her left. She comes to the point before he has time to breathe]. Sarah must have 800 pounds a year until Charles Lomax comes into his property. Barbara will need more, and need it permanently, because Adolphus hasn't any property. UNDERSHAFT [resignedly] Yes, my dear: I will see to it. Anything else? for yourself, for instance? LADY BRITOMART. I want to talk to you about Stephen. UNDERSHAFT [rather wearily] Don't, my dear. Stephen doesn't interest me. LADY BRITOMART. He does interest me. He is our son. UNDERSHAFT. Do you really think so? He has induced us to bring him into the world; but he chose his parents very incongruously, I think. I see nothing of myself in him, and less of you. LADY BRITOMART. Andrew: Stephen is an excellent son, and a most steady, capable, highminded young man. YOU are simply trying to find an excuse for disinheriting him. UNDERSHAFT. My dear Biddy: the Undershaft tradition disinherits him. It would be dishonest of me to leave the cannon foundry to my son. LADY BRITOMART. It would be most unnatural and improper of you to leave it to anyone else, Andrew. Do you suppose this wicked and immoral tradition can be kept up for ever? Do you pretend that Stephen could not carry on the foundry just as well as all the other sons of the big business houses? UNDERSHAFT. Yes: he could learn the office routine without understanding the business, like all the other sons; and the firm would go on by its own momentum until the real Undershaft--probably an Italian or a German--would invent a new method and cut him out. LADY BRITOMART. There is nothing that any Italian or German could do that Stephen could not do. And Stephen at least has breeding. UNDERSHAFT. The son of a foundling! nonsense! LADY BRITOMART. My son, Andrew! And even you may have good blood in your veins for all you know. UNDERSHAFT. True. Probably I have. That is another argument in favor of a foundling. LADY BRITOMART. Andrew: don't be aggravating. And don't be wicked. At present you are both. UNDERSHAFT. This conversation is part of the Undershaft tradition, Biddy. Every Undershaft's wife has treated him to it ever since the house was founded. It is mere waste of breath. If the tradition be ever broken it will be for an abler man than Stephen. LADY BRITOMART [pouting] Then go away. UNDERSHAFT [deprecatory] Go away! LADY BRITOMART. Yes: go away. If you will do nothing for Stephen, you are not wanted here. Go to your foundling, whoever he is; and look after him. UNDERSHAFT. The fact is, Biddy-- LADY BRITOMART. Don't call me Biddy. I don't call you Andy. UNDERSHAFT. I will not call my wife Britomart: it is not good sense. Seriously, my love, the Undershaft tradition has landed me in a difficulty. I am getting on in years; and my partner Lazarus has at last made a stand and insisted that the succession must be settled one way or the other; and of course he is quite right. You see, I haven't found a fit successor yet. LADY BRITOMART [obstinately] There is Stephen. UNDERSHAFT. That's just it: all the foundlings I can find are exactly like Stephen. LADY BRITOMART. Andrew!! UNDERSHAFT. I want a man with no relations and no schooling: that is, a man who would be out of the running altogether if he were not a strong man. And I can't find him. Every blessed foundling nowadays is snapped up in his infancy by Barnardo homes, or School Board officers, or Boards of Guardians; and if he shows the least ability, he is fastened on by schoolmasters; trained to win scholarships like a racehorse; crammed with secondhand ideas; drilled and disciplined in docility and what they call good taste; and lamed for life so that he is fit for nothing but teaching. If you want to keep the foundry in the family, you had better find an eligible foundling and marry him to Barbara. LADY BRITOMART. Ah! Barbara! Your pet! You would sacrifice Stephen to Barbara. UNDERSHAFT. Cheerfully. And you, my dear, would boil Barbara to make soup for Stephen. LADY BRITOMART. Andrew: this is not a question of our likings and dislikings: it is a question of duty. It is your duty to make Stephen your successor. UNDERSHAFT. Just as much as it is your duty to submit to your husband. Come, Biddy! these tricks of the governing class are of no use with me. I am one of the governing class myself; and it is waste of time giving tracts to a missionary. I have the power in this matter; and I am not to be humbugged into using it for your purposes. LADY BRITOMART. Andrew: you can talk my head off; but you can't change wrong into right. And your tie is all on one side. Put it straight. UNDERSHAFT [disconcerted] It won't stay unless it's pinned [he fumbles at it with childish grimaces]-- Stephen comes in. STEPHEN [at the door] I beg your pardon [about to retire]. LADY BRITOMART. No: come in, Stephen. [Stephen comes forward to his mother's writing table.] UNDERSHAFT [not very cordially] Good afternoon. STEPHEN [coldly] Good afternoon. UNDERSHAFT [to Lady Britomart] He knows all about the tradition, I suppose? LADY BRITOMART. Yes. [To Stephen] It is what I told you last night, Stephen. UNDERSHAFT [sulkily] I understand you want to come into the cannon business. STEPHEN. _I_ go into trade! Certainly not. UNDERSHAFT [opening his eyes, greatly eased in mind and manner] Oh! in that case--! LADY BRITOMART. Cannons are not trade, Stephen. They are enterprise. STEPHEN. I have no intention of becoming a man of business in any sense. I have no capacity for business and no taste for it. I intend to devote myself to politics. UNDERSHAFT [rising] My dear boy: this is an immense relief to me. And I trust it may prove an equally good thing for the country. I was afraid you would consider yourself disparaged and slighted. [He moves towards Stephen as if to shake hands with him]. LADY BRITOMART [rising and interposing] Stephen: I cannot allow you to throw away an enormous property like this. STEPHEN [stiffly] Mother: there must be an end of treating me as a child, if you please. [Lady Britomart recoils, deeply wounded by his tone]. Until last night I did not take your attitude seriously, because I did not think you meant it seriously. But I find now that you left me in the dark as to matters which you should have explained to me years ago. I am extremely hurt and offended. Any further discussion of my intentions had better take place with my father, as between one man and another. LADY BRITOMART. Stephen! [She sits down again; and her eyes fill with tears]. UNDERSHAFT [with grave compassion] You see, my dear, it is only the big men who can be treated as children. STEPHEN. I am sorry, mother, that you have forced me-- UNDERSHAFT [stopping him] Yes, yes, yes, yes: that's all right, Stephen. She wont interfere with you any more: your independence is achieved: you have won your latchkey. Don't rub it in; and above all, don't apologize. [He resumes his seat]. Now what about your future, as between one man and another--I beg your pardon, Biddy: as between two men and a woman. LADY BRITOMART [who has pulled herself together strongly] I quite understand, Stephen. By all means go your own way if you feel strong enough. [Stephen sits down magisterially in the chair at the writing table with an air of affirming his majority]. UNDERSHAFT. It is settled that you do not ask for the succession to the cannon business. STEPHEN. I hope it is settled that I repudiate the cannon business. UNDERSHAFT. Come, come! Don't be so devilishly sulky: it's boyish. Freedom should be generous. Besides, I owe you a fair start in life in exchange for disinheriting you. You can't become prime minister all at once. Haven't you a turn for something? What about literature, art and so forth? STEPHEN. I have nothing of the artist about me, either in faculty or character, thank Heaven! UNDERSHAFT. A philosopher, perhaps? Eh? STEPHEN. I make no such ridiculous pretension. UNDERSHAFT. Just so. Well, there is the army, the navy, the Church, the Bar. The Bar requires some ability. What about the Bar? STEPHEN. I have not studied law. And I am afraid I have not the necessary push--I believe that is the name barristers give to their vulgarity--for success in pleading. UNDERSHAFT. Rather a difficult case, Stephen. Hardly anything left but the stage, is there? [Stephen makes an impatient movement]. Well, come! is there anything you know or care for? STEPHEN [rising and looking at him steadily] I know the difference between right and wrong. UNDERSHAFT [hugely tickled] You don't say so! What! no capacity for business, no knowledge of law, no sympathy with art, no pretension to philosophy; only a simple knowledge of the secret that has puzzled all the philosophers, baffled all the lawyers, muddled all the men of business, and ruined most of the artists: the secret of right and wrong. Why, man, you're a genius, master of masters, a god! At twenty-four, too! STEPHEN [keeping his temper with difficulty] You are pleased to be facetious. I pretend to nothing more than any honorable English gentleman claims as his birthright [he sits down angrily]. UNDERSHAFT. Oh, that's everybody's birthright. Look at poor little Jenny Hill, the Salvation lassie! she would think you were laughing at her if you asked her to stand up in the street and teach grammar or geography or mathematics or even drawingroom dancing; but it never occurs to her to doubt that she can teach morals and religion. You are all alike, you respectable people. You can't tell me the bursting strain of a ten-inch gun, which is a very simple matter; but you all think you can tell me the bursting strain of a man under temptation. You daren't handle high explosives; but you're all ready to handle honesty and truth and justice and the whole duty of man, and kill one another at that game. What a country! what a world! LADY BRITOMART [uneasily] What do you think he had better do, Andrew? UNDERSHAFT. Oh, just what he wants to do. He knows nothing; and he thinks he knows everything. That points clearly to a political career. Get him a private secretaryship to someone who can get him an Under Secretaryship; and then leave him alone. He will find his natural and proper place in the end on the Treasury bench. STEPHEN [springing up again] I am sorry, sir, that you force me to forget the respect due to you as my father. I am an Englishman; and I will not hear the Government of my country insulted. [He thrusts his hands in his pockets, and walks angrily across to the window]. UNDERSHAFT [with a touch of brutality] The government of your country! _I_ am the government of your country: I, and Lazarus. Do you suppose that you and half a dozen amateurs like you, sitting in a row in that foolish gabble shop, can govern Undershaft and Lazarus? No, my friend: you will do what pays US. You will make war when it suits us, and keep peace when it doesn't. You will find out that trade requires certain measures when we have decided on those measures. When I want anything to keep my dividends up, you will discover that my want is a national need. When other people want something to keep my dividends down, you will call out the police and military. And in return you shall have the support and applause of my newspapers, and the delight of imagining that you are a great statesman. Government of your country! Be off with you, my boy, and play with your caucuses and leading articles and historic parties and great leaders and burning questions and the rest of your toys. _I_ am going back to my counting house to pay the piper and call the tune. STEPHEN [actually smiling, and putting his hand on his father's shoulder with indulgent patronage] Really, my dear father, it is impossible to be angry with you. You don't know how absurd all this sounds to ME. You are very properly proud of having been industrious enough to make money; and it is greatly to your credit that you have made so much of it. But it has kept you in circles where you are valued for your money and deferred to for it, instead of in the doubtless very oldfashioned and behind-the-times public school and university where I formed my habits of mind. It is natural for you to think that money governs England; but you must allow me to think I know better. UNDERSHAFT. And what does govern England, pray? STEPHEN. Character, father, character. UNDERSHAFT. Whose character? Yours or mine? STEPHEN. Neither yours nor mine, father, but the best elements in the English national character. UNDERSHAFT. Stephen: I've found your profession for you. You're a born journalist. I'll start you with a hightoned weekly review. There! Stephen goes to the smaller writing table and busies himself with his letters. Sarah, Barbara, Lomax, and Cusins come in ready for walking. Barbara crosses the room to the window and looks out. Cusins drifts amiably to the armchair, and Lomax remains near the door, whilst Sarah comes to her mother. SARAH. Go and get ready, mamma: the carriage is waiting. [Lady Britomart leaves the room.] UNDERSHAFT [to Sarah] Good day, my dear. Good afternoon, Mr. Lomax. LOMAX [vaguely] Ahdedoo. UNDERSHAFT [to Cusins] quite well after last night, Euripides, eh? CUSINS. As well as can be expected. UNDERSHAFT. That's right. [To Barbara] So you are coming to see my death and devastation factory, Barbara? BARBARA [at the window] You came yesterday to see my salvation factory. I promised you a return visit. LOMAX [coming forward between Sarah and Undershaft] You'll find it awfully interesting. I've been through the Woolwich Arsenal; and it gives you a ripping feeling of security, you know, to think of the lot of beggars we could kill if it came to fighting. [To Undershaft, with sudden solemnity] Still, it must be rather an awful reflection for you, from the religious point of view as it were. You're getting on, you know, and all that. SARAH. You don't mind Cholly's imbecility, papa, do you? LOMAX [much taken aback] Oh I say! UNDERSHAFT. Mr Lomax looks at the matter in a very proper spirit, my dear. LOMAX. Just so. That's all I meant, I assure you. SARAH. Are you coming, Stephen? STEPHEN. Well, I am rather busy--er-- [Magnanimously] Oh well, yes: I'll come. That is, if there is room for me. UNDERSHAFT. I can take two with me in a little motor I am experimenting with for field use. You won't mind its being rather unfashionable. It's not painted yet; but it's bullet proof. LOMAX [appalled at the prospect of confronting Wilton Crescent in an unpainted motor] Oh I say! SARAH. The carriage for me, thank you. Barbara doesn't mind what she's seen in. LOMAX. I say, Dolly old chap: do you really mind the car being a guy? Because of course if you do I'll go in it. Still-- CUSINS. I prefer it. LOMAX. Thanks awfully, old man. Come, Sarah. [He hurries out to secure his seat in the carriage. Sarah follows him]. CUSINS. [moodily walking across to Lady Britomart's writing table] Why are we two coming to this Works Department of Hell? that is what I ask myself. BARBARA. I have always thought of it as a sort of pit where lost creatures with blackened faces stirred up smoky fires and were driven and tormented by my father? Is it like that, dad? UNDERSHAFT [scandalized] My dear! It is a spotlessly clean and beautiful hillside town. CUSINS. With a Methodist chapel? Oh do say there's a Methodist chapel. UNDERSHAFT. There are two: a primitive one and a sophisticated one. There is even an Ethical Society; but it is not much patronized, as my men are all strongly religious. In the High Explosives Sheds they object to the presence of Agnostics as unsafe. CUSINS. And yet they don't object to you! BARBARA. Do they obey all your orders? UNDERSHAFT. I never give them any orders. When I speak to one of them it is "Well, Jones, is the baby doing well? and has Mrs Jones made a good recovery?" "Nicely, thank you, sir." And that's all. CUSINS. But Jones has to be kept in order. How do you maintain discipline among your men? UNDERSHAFT. I don't. They do. You see, the one thing Jones won't stand is any rebellion from the man under him, or any assertion of social equality between the wife of the man with 4 shillings a week less than himself and Mrs Jones! Of course they all rebel against me, theoretically. Practically, every man of them keeps the man just below him in his place. I never meddle with them. I never bully them. I don't even bully Lazarus. I say that certain things are to be done; but I don't order anybody to do them. I don't say, mind you, that there is no ordering about and snubbing and even bullying. The men snub the boys and order them about; the carmen snub the sweepers; the artisans snub the unskilled laborers; the foremen drive and bully both the laborers and artisans; the assistant engineers find fault with the foremen; the chief engineers drop on the assistants; the departmental managers worry the chiefs; and the clerks have tall hats and hymnbooks and keep up the social tone by refusing to associate on equal terms with anybody. The result is a colossal profit, which comes to me. CUSINS [revolted] You really are a--well, what I was saying yesterday. BARBARA. What was he saying yesterday? UNDERSHAFT. Never mind, my dear. He thinks I have made you unhappy. Have I? BARBARA. Do you think I can be happy in this vulgar silly dress? I! who have worn the uniform. Do you understand what you have done to me? Yesterday I had a man's soul in my hand. I set him in the way of life with his face to salvation. But when we took your money he turned back to drunkenness and derision. [With intense conviction] I will never forgive you that. If I had a child, and you destroyed its body with your explosives--if you murdered Dolly with your horrible guns--I could forgive you if my forgiveness would open the gates of heaven to you. But to take a human soul from me, and turn it into the soul of a wolf! that is worse than any murder. UNDERSHAFT. Does my daughter despair so easily? Can you strike a man to the heart and leave no mark on him? BARBARA [her face lighting up] Oh, you are right: he can never be lost now: where was my faith? CUSINS. Oh, clever clever devil! BARBARA. You may be a devil; but God speaks through you sometimes. [She takes her father's hands and kisses them]. You have given me back my happiness: I feel it deep down now, though my spirit is troubled. UNDERSHAFT. You have learnt something. That always feels at first as if you had lost something. BARBARA. Well, take me to the factory of death, and let me learn something more. There must be some truth or other behind all this frightful irony. Come, Dolly. [She goes out]. CUSINS. My guardian angel! [To Undershaft] Avaunt! [He follows Barbara]. STEPHEN [quietly, at the writing table] You must not mind Cusins, father. He is a very amiable good fellow; but he is a Greek scholar and naturally a little eccentric. UNDERSHAFT. Ah, quite so. Thank you, Stephen. Thank you. [He goes out]. Stephen smiles patronizingly; buttons his coat responsibly; and crosses the room to the door. Lady Britomart, dressed for out-of-doors, opens it before he reaches it. She looks round far the others; looks at Stephen; and turns to go without a word. STEPHEN [embarrassed] Mother-- LADY BRITOMART. Don't be apologetic, Stephen. And don't forget that you have outgrown your mother. [She goes out]. Perivale St Andrews lies between two Middlesex hills, half climbing the northern one. It is an almost smokeless town of white walls, roofs of narrow green slates or red tiles, tall trees, domes, campaniles, and slender chimney shafts, beautifully situated and beautiful in itself. The best view of it is obtained from the crest of a slope about half a mile to the east, where the high explosives are dealt with. The foundry lies hidden in the depths between, the tops of its chimneys sprouting like huge skittles into the middle distance. Across the crest runs a platform of concrete, with a parapet which suggests a fortification, because there is a huge cannon of the obsolete Woolwich Infant pattern peering across it at the town. The cannon is mounted on an experimental gun carriage: possibly the original model of the Undershaft disappearing rampart gun alluded to by Stephen. The parapet has a high step inside which serves as a seat. Barbara is leaning over the parapet, looking towards the town. On her right is the cannon; on her left the end of a shed raised on piles, with a ladder of three or four steps up to the door, which opens outwards and has a little wooden landing at the threshold, with a fire bucket in the corner of the landing. The parapet stops short of the shed, leaving a gap which is the beginning of the path down the hill through the foundry to the town. Behind the cannon is a trolley carrying a huge conical bombshell, with a red band painted on it. Further from the parapet, on the same side, is a deck chair, near the door of an office, which, like the sheds, is of the lightest possible construction. Cusins arrives by the path from the town. BARBARA. Well? CUSINS. Not a ray of hope. Everything perfect, wonderful, real. It only needs a cathedral to be a heavenly city instead of a hellish one. BARBARA. Have you found out whether they have done anything for old Peter Shirley. CUSINS. They have found him a job as gatekeeper and timekeeper. He's frightfully miserable. He calls the timekeeping brainwork, and says he isn't used to it; and his gate lodge is so splendid that he's ashamed to use the rooms, and skulks in the scullery. BARBARA. Poor Peter! Stephen arrives from the town. He carries a fieldglass. STEPHEN [enthusiastically] Have you two seen the place? Why did you leave us? CUSINS. I wanted to see everything I was not intended to see; and Barbara wanted to make the men talk. STEPHEN. Have you found anything discreditable? CUSINS. No. They call him Dandy Andy and are proud of his being a cunning old rascal; but it's all horribly, frightfully, immorally, unanswerably perfect. Sarah arrives. SARAH. Heavens! what a place! [She crosses to the trolley]. Did you see the nursing home!? [She sits down on the shell]. STEPHEN. Did you see the libraries and schools!? SARAH. Did you see the ballroom and the banqueting chamber in the Town Hall!? STEPHEN. Have you gone into the insurance fund, the pension fund, the building society, the various applications of co-operation!? Undershaft comes from the office, with a sheaf of telegrams in his hands. UNDERSHAFT. Well, have you seen everything? I'm sorry I was called away. [Indicating the telegrams] News from Manchuria. STEPHEN. Good news, I hope. UNDERSHAFT. Very. STEPHEN. Another Japanese victory? UNDERSHAFT. Oh, I don't know. Which side wins does not concern us here. No: the good news is that the aerial battleship is a tremendous success. At the first trial it has wiped out a fort with three hundred soldiers in it. CUSINS [from the platform] Dummy soldiers? UNDERSHAFT. No: the real thing. [Cusins and Barbara exchange glances. Then Cusins sits on the step and buries his face in his hands. Barbara gravely lays her hand on his shoulder, and he looks up at her in a sort of whimsical desperation]. Well, Stephen, what do you think of the place? STEPHEN. Oh, magnificent. A perfect triumph of organization. Frankly, my dear father, I have been a fool: I had no idea of what it all meant--of the wonderful forethought, the power of organization, the administrative capacity, the financial genius, the colossal capital it represents. I have been repeating to myself as I came through your streets "Peace hath her victories no less renowned than War." I have only one misgiving about it all. UNDERSHAFT. Out with it. STEPHEN. Well, I cannot help thinking that all this provision for every want of your workmen may sap their independence and weaken their sense of responsibility. And greatly as we enjoyed our tea at that splendid restaurant--how they gave us all that luxury and cake and jam and cream for threepence I really cannot imagine!--still you must remember that restaurants break up home life. Look at the continent, for instance! Are you sure so much pampering is really good for the men's characters? UNDERSHAFT. Well you see, my dear boy, when you are organizing civilization you have to make up your mind whether trouble and anxiety are good things or not. If you decide that they are, then, I take it, you simply don't organize civilization; and there you are, with trouble and anxiety enough to make us all angels! But if you decide the other way, you may as well go through with it. However, Stephen, our characters are safe here. A sufficient dose of anxiety is always provided by the fact that we may be blown to smithereens at any moment. SARAH. By the way, papa, where do you make the explosives? UNDERSHAFT. In separate little sheds, like that one. When one of them blows up, it costs very little; and only the people quite close to it are killed. Stephen, who is quite close to it, looks at it rather scaredly, and moves away quickly to the cannon. At the same moment the door of the shed is thrown abruptly open; and a foreman in overalls and list slippers comes out on the little landing and holds the door open for Lomax, who appears in the doorway. LOMAX [with studied coolness] My good fellow: you needn't get into a state of nerves. Nothing's going to happen to you; and I suppose it wouldn't be the end of the world if anything did. A little bit of British pluck is what you want, old chap. [He descends and strolls across to Sarah]. UNDERSHAFT [to the foreman] Anything wrong, Bilton? BILTON [with ironic calm] Gentleman walked into the high explosives shed and lit a cigaret, sir: that's all. UNDERSHAFT. Ah, quite so. [To Lomax] Do you happen to remember what you did with the match? LOMAX. Oh come! I'm not a fool. I took jolly good care to blow it out before I chucked it away. BILTON. The top of it was red hot inside, sir. LOMAX. Well, suppose it was! I didn't chuck it into any of your messes. UNDERSHAFT. Think no more of it, Mr Lomax. By the way, would you mind lending me your matches? LOMAX [offering his box] Certainly. UNDERSHAFT. Thanks. [He pockets the matches]. LOMAX [lecturing to the company generally] You know, these high explosives don't go off like gunpowder, except when they're in a gun. When they're spread loose, you can put a match to them without the least risk: they just burn quietly like a bit of paper. [Warming to the scientific interest of the subject] Did you know that Undershaft? Have you ever tried? UNDERSHAFT. Not on a large scale, Mr Lomax. Bilton will give you a sample of gun cotton when you are leaving if you ask him. You can experiment with it at home. [Bilton looks puzzled]. SARAH. Bilton will do nothing of the sort, papa. I suppose it's your business to blow up the Russians and Japs; but you might really stop short of blowing up poor Cholly. [Bilton gives it up and retires into the shed]. LOMAX. My ownest, there is no danger. [He sits beside her on the shell]. Lady Britomart arrives from the town with a bouquet. LADY BRITOMART [coming impetuously between Undershaft and the deck chair] Andrew: you shouldn't have let me see this place. UNDERSHAFT. Why, my dear? LADY BRITOMART. Never mind why: you shouldn't have: that's all. To think of all that [indicating the town] being yours! and that you have kept it to yourself all these years! UNDERSHAFT. It does not belong to me. I belong to it. It is the Undershaft inheritance. LADY BRITOMART. It is not. Your ridiculous cannons and that noisy banging foundry may be the Undershaft inheritance; but all that plate and linen, all that furniture and those houses and orchards and gardens belong to us. They belong to me: they are not a man's business. I won't give them up. You must be out of your senses to throw them all away; and if you persist in such folly, I will call in a doctor. UNDERSHAFT [stooping to smell the bouquet] Where did you get the flowers, my dear? LADY BRITOMART. Your men presented them to me in your William Morris Labor Church. CUSINS [springing up] Oh! It needed only that. A Labor Church! LADY BRITOMART. Yes, with Morris's words in mosaic letters ten feet high round the dome. NO MAN IS GOOD ENOUGH TO BE ANOTHER MAN'S MASTER. The cynicism of it! UNDERSHAFT. It shocked the men at first, I am afraid. But now they take no more notice of it than of the ten commandments in church. LADY BRITOMART. Andrew: you are trying to put me off the subject of the inheritance by profane jokes. Well, you shan't. I don't ask it any longer for Stephen: he has inherited far too much of your perversity to be fit for it. But Barbara has rights as well as Stephen. Why should not Adolphus succeed to the inheritance? I could manage the town for him; and he can look after the cannons, if they are really necessary. UNDERSHAFT. I should ask nothing better if Adolphus were a foundling. He is exactly the sort of new blood that is wanted in English business. But he's not a foundling; and there's an end of it. CUSINS [diplomatically] Not quite. [They all turn and stare at him. He comes from the platform past the shed to Undershaft]. I think--Mind! I am not committing myself in any way as to my future course--but I think the foundling difficulty can be got over. UNDERSHAFT. What do you mean? CUSINS. Well, I have something to say which is in the nature of a confession. SARAH. } LADY BRITOMART. } Confession! BARBARA. } STEPHEN. } LOMAX. Oh I say! CUSINS. Yes, a confession. Listen, all. Until I met Barbara I thought myself in the main an honorable, truthful man, because I wanted the approval of my conscience more than I wanted anything else. But the moment I saw Barbara, I wanted her far more than the approval of my conscience. LADY BRITOMART. Adolphus! CUSINS. It is true. You accused me yourself, Lady Brit, of joining the Army to worship Barbara; and so I did. She bought my soul like a flower at a street corner; but she bought it for herself. UNDERSHAFT. What! Not for Dionysos or another? CUSINS. Dionysos and all the others are in herself. I adored what was divine in her, and was therefore a true worshipper. But I was romantic about her too. I thought she was a woman of the people, and that a marriage with a professor of Greek would be far beyond the wildest social ambitions of her rank. LADY BRITOMART. Adolphus!! LOMAX. Oh I say!!! CUSINS. When I learnt the horrible truth-- LADY BRITOMART. What do you mean by the horrible truth, pray? CUSINS. That she was enormously rich; that her grandfather was an earl; that her father was the Prince of Darkness-- UNDERSHAFT. Chut! CUSINS.--and that I was only an adventurer trying to catch a rich wife, then I stooped to deceive about my birth. LADY BRITOMART. Your birth! Now Adolphus, don't dare to make up a wicked story for the sake of these wretched cannons. Remember: I have seen photographs of your parents; and the Agent General for South Western Australia knows them personally and has assured me that they are most respectable married people. CUSINS. So they are in Australia; but here they are outcasts. Their marriage is legal in Australia, but not in England. My mother is my father's deceased wife's sister; and in this island I am consequently a foundling. [Sensation]. Is the subterfuge good enough, Machiavelli? UNDERSHAFT [thoughtfully] Biddy: this may be a way out of the difficulty. LADY BRITOMART. Stuff! A man can't make cannons any the better for being his own cousin instead of his proper self [she sits down in the deck chair with a bounce that expresses her downright contempt for their casuistry.] UNDERSHAFT [to Cusins] You are an educated man. That is against the tradition. CUSINS. Once in ten thousand times it happens that the schoolboy is a born master of what they try to teach him. Greek has not destroyed my mind: it has nourished it. Besides, I did not learn it at an English public school. UNDERSHAFT. Hm! Well, I cannot afford to be too particular: you have cornered the foundling market. Let it pass. You are eligible, Euripides: you are eligible. BARBARA [coming from the platform and interposing between Cusins and Undershaft] Dolly: yesterday morning, when Stephen told us all about the tradition, you became very silent; and you have been strange and excited ever since. Were you thinking of your birth then? CUSINS. When the finger of Destiny suddenly points at a man in the middle of his breakfast, it makes him thoughtful. [Barbara turns away sadly and stands near her mother, listening perturbedly]. UNDERSHAFT. Aha! You have had your eye on the business, my young friend, have you? CUSINS. Take care! There is an abyss of moral horror between me and your accursed aerial battleships. UNDERSHAFT. Never mind the abyss for the present. Let us settle the practical details and leave your final decision open. You know that you will have to change your name. Do you object to that? CUSINS. Would any man named Adolphus--any man called Dolly!--object to be called something else? UNDERSHAFT. Good. Now, as to money! I propose to treat you handsomely from the beginning. You shall start at a thousand a year. CUSINS. [with sudden heat, his spectacles twinkling with mischief] A thousand! You dare offer a miserable thousand to the son-in-law of a millionaire! No, by Heavens, Machiavelli! you shall not cheat me. You cannot do without me; and I can do without you. I must have two thousand five hundred a year for two years. At the end of that time, if I am a failure, I go. But if I am a success, and stay on, you must give me the other five thousand. UNDERSHAFT. What other five thousand? CUSINS. To make the two years up to five thousand a year. The two thousand five hundred is only half pay in case I should turn out a failure. The third year I must have ten per cent on the profits. UNDERSHAFT [taken aback] Ten per cent! Why, man, do you know what my profits are? CUSINS. Enormous, I hope: otherwise I shall require twenty-five per cent. UNDERSHAFT. But, Mr Cusins, this is a serious matter of business. You are not bringing any capital into the concern. CUSINS. What! no capital! Is my mastery of Greek no capital? Is my access to the subtlest thought, the loftiest poetry yet attained by humanity, no capital? my character! my intellect! my life! my career! what Barbara calls my soul! are these no capital? Say another word; and I double my salary. UNDERSHAFT. Be reasonable-- CUSINS [peremptorily] Mr Undershaft: you have my terms. Take them or leave them. UNDERSHAFT [recovering himself] Very well. I note your terms; and I offer you half. CUSINS [disgusted] Half! UNDERSHAFT [firmly] Half. CUSINS. You call yourself a gentleman; and you offer me half!! UNDERSHAFT. I do not call myself a gentleman; but I offer you half. CUSINS. This to your future partner! your successor! your son-in-law! BARBARA. You are selling your own soul, Dolly, not mine. Leave me out of the bargain, please. UNDERSHAFT. Come! I will go a step further for Barbara's sake. I will give you three fifths; but that is my last word. CUSINS. Done! LOMAX. Done in the eye. Why, _I_ only get eight hundred, you know. CUSINS. By the way, Mac, I am a classical scholar, not an arithmetical one. Is three fifths more than half or less? UNDERSHAFT. More, of course. CUSINS. I would have taken two hundred and fifty. How you can succeed in business when you are willing to pay all that money to a University don who is obviously not worth a junior clerk's wages!--well! What will Lazarus say? UNDERSHAFT. Lazarus is a gentle romantic Jew who cares for nothing but string quartets and stalls at fashionable theatres. He will get the credit of your rapacity in money matters, as he has hitherto had the credit of mine. You are a shark of the first order, Euripides. So much the better for the firm! BARBARA. Is the bargain closed, Dolly? Does your soul belong to him now? CUSINS. No: the price is settled: that is all. The real tug of war is still to come. What about the moral question? LADY BRITOMART. There is no moral question in the matter at all, Adolphus. You must simply sell cannons and weapons to people whose cause is right and just, and refuse them to foreigners and criminals. UNDERSHAFT [determinedly] No: none of that. You must keep the true faith of an Armorer, or you don't come in here. CUSINS. What on earth is the true faith of an Armorer? UNDERSHAFT. To give arms to all men who offer an honest price for them, without respect of persons or principles: to aristocrat and republican, to Nihilist and Tsar, to Capitalist and Socialist, to Protestant and Catholic, to burglar and policeman, to black man white man and yellow man, to all sorts and conditions, all nationalities, all faiths, all follies, all causes and all crimes. The first Undershaft wrote up in his shop IF GOD GAVE THE HAND, LET NOT MAN WITHHOLD THE SWORD. The second wrote up ALL HAVE THE RIGHT TO FIGHT: NONE HAVE THE RIGHT TO JUDGE. The third wrote up TO MAN THE WEAPON: TO HEAVEN THE VICTORY. The fourth had no literary turn; so he did not write up anything; but he sold cannons to Napoleon under the nose of George the Third. The fifth wrote up PEACE SHALL NOT PREVAIL SAVE WITH A SWORD IN HER HAND. The sixth, my master, was the best of all. He wrote up NOTHING IS EVER DONE IN THIS WORLD UNTIL MEN ARE PREPARED TO KILL ONE ANOTHER IF IT IS NOT DONE. After that, there was nothing left for the seventh to say. So he wrote up, simply, UNASHAMED. CUSINS. My good Machiavelli, I shall certainly write something up on the wall; only, as I shall write it in Greek, you won't be able to read it. But as to your Armorer's faith, if I take my neck out of the noose of my own morality I am not going to put it into the noose of yours. I shall sell cannons to whom I please and refuse them to whom I please. So there! UNDERSHAFT. From the moment when you become Andrew Undershaft, you will never do as you please again. Don't come here lusting for power, young man. CUSINS. If power were my aim I should not come here for it. YOU have no power. UNDERSHAFT. None of my own, certainly. CUSINS. I have more power than you, more will. You do not drive this place: it drives you. And what drives the place? UNDERSHAFT [enigmatically] A will of which I am a part. BARBARA [startled] Father! Do you know what you are saying; or are you laying a snare for my soul? CUSINS. Don't listen to his metaphysics, Barbara. The place is driven by the most rascally part of society, the money hunters, the pleasure hunters, the military promotion hunters; and he is their slave. UNDERSHAFT. Not necessarily. Remember the Armorer's Faith. I will take an order from a good man as cheerfully as from a bad one. If you good people prefer preaching and shirking to buying my weapons and fighting the rascals, don't blame me. I can make cannons: I cannot make courage and conviction. Bah! You tire me, Euripides, with your morality mongering. Ask Barbara: SHE understands. [He suddenly takes Barbara's hands, and looks powerfully into her eyes]. Tell him, my love, what power really means. BARBARA [hypnotized] Before I joined the Salvation Army, I was in my own power; and the consequence was that I never knew what to do with myself. When I joined it, I had not time enough for all the things I had to do. UNDERSHAFT [approvingly] Just so. And why was that, do you suppose? BARBARA. Yesterday I should have said, because I was in the power of God. [She resumes her self-possession, withdrawing her hands from his with a power equal to his own]. But you came and showed me that I was in the power of Bodger and Undershaft. Today I feel--oh! how can I put it into words? Sarah: do you remember the earthquake at Cannes, when we were little children?--how little the surprise of the first shock mattered compared to the dread and horror of waiting for the second? That is how I feel in this place today. I stood on the rock I thought eternal; and without a word of warning it reeled and crumbled under me. I was safe with an infinite wisdom watching me, an army marching to Salvation with me; and in a moment, at a stroke of your pen in a cheque book, I stood alone; and the heavens were empty. That was the first shock of the earthquake: I am waiting for the second. UNDERSHAFT. Come, come, my daughter! Don't make too much of your little tinpot tragedy. What do we do here when we spend years of work and thought and thousands of pounds of solid cash on a new gun or an aerial battleship that turns out just a hairsbreadth wrong after all? Scrap it. Scrap it without wasting another hour or another pound on it. Well, you have made for yourself something that you call a morality or a religion or what not. It doesn't fit the facts. Well, scrap it. Scrap it and get one that does fit. That is what is wrong with the world at present. It scraps its obsolete steam engines and dynamos; but it won't scrap its old prejudices and its old moralities and its old religions and its old political constitutions. What's the result? In machinery it does very well; but in morals and religion and politics it is working at a loss that brings it nearer bankruptcy every year. Don't persist in that folly. If your old religion broke down yesterday, get a newer and a better one for tomorrow. BARBARA. Oh how gladly I would take a better one to my soul! But you offer me a worse one. [Turning on him with sudden vehemence]. Justify yourself: show me some light through the darkness of this dreadful place, with its beautifully clean workshops, and respectable workmen, and model homes. UNDERSHAFT. Cleanliness and respectability do not need justification, Barbara: they justify themselves. I see no darkness here, no dreadfulness. In your Salvation shelter I saw poverty, misery, cold and hunger. You gave them bread and treacle and dreams of heaven. I give from thirty shillings a week to twelve thousand a year. They find their own dreams; but I look after the drainage. BARBARA. And their souls? UNDERSHAFT. I save their souls just as I saved yours. BARBARA [revolted] You saved my soul! What do you mean? UNDERSHAFT. I fed you and clothed you and housed you. I took care that you should have money enough to live handsomely--more than enough; so that you could be wasteful, careless, generous. That saved your soul from the seven deadly sins. BARBARA [bewildered] The seven deadly sins! UNDERSHAFT. Yes, the deadly seven. [Counting on his fingers] Food, clothing, firing, rent, taxes, respectability and children. Nothing can lift those seven millstones from Man's neck but money; and the spirit cannot soar until the millstones are lifted. I lifted them from your spirit. I enabled Barbara to become Major Barbara; and I saved her from the crime of poverty. CUSINS. Do you call poverty a crime? UNDERSHAFT. The worst of crimes. All the other crimes are virtues beside it: all the other dishonors are chivalry itself by comparison. Poverty blights whole cities; spreads horrible pestilences; strikes dead the very souls of all who come within sight, sound or smell of it. What you call crime is nothing: a murder here and a theft there, a blow now and a curse then: what do they matter? they are only the accidents and illnesses of life: there are not fifty genuine professional criminals in London. But there are millions of poor people, abject people, dirty people, ill fed, ill clothed people. They poison us morally and physically: they kill the happiness of society: they force us to do away with our own liberties and to organize unnatural cruelties for fear they should rise against us and drag us down into their abyss. Only fools fear crime: we all fear poverty. Pah! [turning on Barbara] you talk of your half-saved ruffian in West Ham: you accuse me of dragging his soul back to perdition. Well, bring him to me here; and I will drag his soul back again to salvation for you. Not by words and dreams; but by thirty-eight shillings a week, a sound house in a handsome street, and a permanent job. In three weeks he will have a fancy waistcoat; in three months a tall hat and a chapel sitting; before the end of the year he will shake hands with a duchess at a Primrose League meeting, and join the Conservative Party. BARBARA. And will he be the better for that? UNDERSHAFT. You know he will. Don't be a hypocrite, Barbara. He will be better fed, better housed, better clothed, better behaved; and his children will be pounds heavier and bigger. That will be better than an American cloth mattress in a shelter, chopping firewood, eating bread and treacle, and being forced to kneel down from time to time to thank heaven for it: knee drill, I think you call it. It is cheap work converting starving men with a Bible in one hand and a slice of bread in the other. I will undertake to convert West Ham to Mahometanism on the same terms. Try your hand on my men: their souls are hungry because their bodies are full. BARBARA. And leave the east end to starve? UNDERSHAFT [his energetic tone dropping into one of bitter and brooding remembrance] I was an east ender. I moralized and starved until one day I swore that I would be a fullfed free man at all costs--that nothing should stop me except a bullet, neither reason nor morals nor the lives of other men. I said "Thou shalt starve ere I starve"; and with that word I became free and great. I was a dangerous man until I had my will: now I am a useful, beneficent, kindly person. That is the history of most self-made millionaires, I fancy. When it is the history of every Englishman we shall have an England worth living in. LADY BRITOMART. Stop making speeches, Andrew. This is not the place for them. UNDERSHAFT [punctured] My dear: I have no other means of conveying my ideas. LADY BRITOMART. Your ideas are nonsense. You got oil because you were selfish and unscrupulous. UNDERSHAFT. Not at all. I had the strongest scruples about poverty and starvation. Your moralists are quite unscrupulous about both: they make virtues of them. I had rather be a thief than a pauper. I had rather be a murderer than a slave. I don't want to be either; but if you force the alternative on me, then, by Heaven, I'll choose the braver and more moral one. I hate poverty and slavery worse than any other crimes whatsoever. And let me tell you this. Poverty and slavery have stood up for centuries to your sermons and leading articles: they will not stand up to my machine guns. Don't preach at them: don't reason with them. Kill them. BARBARA. Killing. Is that your remedy for everything? UNDERSHAFT. It is the final test of conviction, the only lever strong enough to overturn a social system, the only way of saying Must. Let six hundred and seventy fools loose in the street; and three policemen can scatter them. But huddle them together in a certain house in Westminster; and let them go through certain ceremonies and call themselves certain names until at last they get the courage to kill; and your six hundred and seventy fools become a government. Your pious mob fills up ballot papers and imagines it is governing its masters; but the ballot paper that really governs is the paper that has a bullet wrapped up in it. CUSINS. That is perhaps why, like most intelligent people, I never vote. UNDERSHAFT Vote! Bah! When you vote, you only change the names of the cabinet. When you shoot, you pull down governments, inaugurate new epochs, abolish old orders and set up new. Is that historically true, Mr Learned Man, or is it not? CUSINS. It is historically true. I loathe having to admit it. I repudiate your sentiments. I abhor your nature. I defy you in every possible way. Still, it is true. But it ought not to be true. UNDERSHAFT. Ought, ought, ought, ought, ought! Are you going to spend your life saying ought, like the rest of our moralists? Turn your oughts into shalls, man. Come and make explosives with me. Whatever can blow men up can blow society up. The history of the world is the history of those who had courage enough to embrace this truth. Have you the courage to embrace it, Barbara? LADY BRITOMART. Barbara, I positively forbid you to listen to your father's abominable wickedness. And you, Adolphus, ought to know better than to go about saying that wrong things are true. What does it matter whether they are true if they are wrong? UNDERSHAFT. What does it matter whether they are wrong if they are true? LADY BRITOMART [rising] Children: come home instantly. Andrew: I am exceedingly sorry I allowed you to call on us. You are wickeder than ever. Come at once. BARBARA [shaking her head] It's no use running away from wicked people, mamma. LADY BRITOMART. It is every use. It shows your disapprobation of them. BARBARA. It does not save them. LADY BRITOMART. I can see that you are going to disobey me. Sarah: are you coming home or are you not? SARAH. I daresay it's very wicked of papa to make cannons; but I don't think I shall cut him on that account. LOMAX [pouring oil on the troubled waters] The fact is, you know, there is a certain amount of tosh about this notion of wickedness. It doesn't work. You must look at facts. Not that I would say a word in favor of anything wrong; but then, you see, all sorts of chaps are always doing all sorts of things; and we have to fit them in somehow, don't you know. What I mean is that you can't go cutting everybody; and that's about what it comes to. [Their rapt attention to his eloquence makes him nervous] Perhaps I don't make myself clear. LADY BRITOMART. You are lucidity itself, Charles. Because Andrew is successful and has plenty of money to give to Sarah, you will flatter him and encourage him in his wickedness. LOMAX [unruffled] Well, where the carcase is, there will the eagles be gathered, don't you know. [To Undershaft] Eh? What? UNDERSHAFT. Precisely. By the way, may I call you Charles? LOMAX. Delighted. Cholly is the usual ticket. UNDERSHAFT [to Lady Britomart] Biddy-- LADY BRITOMART [violently] Don't dare call me Biddy. Charles Lomax: you are a fool. Adolphus Cusins: you are a Jesuit. Stephen: you are a prig. Barbara: you are a lunatic. Andrew: you are a vulgar tradesman. Now you all know my opinion; and my conscience is clear, at all events [she sits down again with a vehemence that almost wrecks the chair]. UNDERSHAFT. My dear, you are the incarnation of morality. [She snorts]. Your conscience is clear and your duty done when you have called everybody names. Come, Euripides! it is getting late; and we all want to get home. Make up your mind. CUSINS. Understand this, you old demon-- LADY BRITOMART. Adolphus! UNDERSHAFT. Let him alone, Biddy. Proceed, Euripides. CUSINS. You have me in a horrible dilemma. I want Barbara. UNDERSHAFT. Like all young men, you greatly exaggerate the difference between one young woman and another. BARBARA. Quite true, Dolly. CUSINS. I also want to avoid being a rascal. UNDERSHAFT [with biting contempt] You lust for personal righteousness, for self-approval, for what you call a good conscience, for what Barbara calls salvation, for what I call patronizing people who are not so lucky as yourself. CUSINS. I do not: all the poet in me recoils from being a good man. But there are things in me that I must reckon with: pity-- UNDERSHAFT. Pity! The scavenger of misery. CUSINS. Well, love. UNDERSHAFT. I know. You love the needy and the outcast: you love the oppressed races, the negro, the Indian ryot, the Pole, the Irishman. Do you love the Japanese? Do you love the Germans? Do you love the English? CUSINS. No. Every true Englishman detests the English. We are the wickedest nation on earth; and our success is a moral horror. UNDERSHAFT. That is what comes of your gospel of love, is it? CUSINS. May I not love even my father-in-law? UNDERSHAFT. Who wants your love, man? By what right do you take the liberty of offering it to me? I will have your due heed and respect, or I will kill you. But your love! Damn your impertinence! CUSINS [grinning] I may not be able to control my affections, Mac. UNDERSHAFT. You are fencing, Euripides. You are weakening: your grip is slipping. Come! try your last weapon. Pity and love have broken in your hand: forgiveness is still left. CUSINS. No: forgiveness is a beggar's refuge. I am with you there: we must pay our debts. UNDERSHAFT. Well said. Come! you will suit me. Remember the words of Plato. CUSINS [starting] Plato! You dare quote Plato to me! UNDERSHAFT. Plato says, my friend, that society cannot be saved until either the Professors of Greek take to making gunpowder, or else the makers of gunpowder become Professors of Greek. CUSINS. Oh, tempter, cunning tempter! UNDERSHAFT. Come! choose, man, choose. CUSINS. But perhaps Barbara will not marry me if I make the wrong choice. BARBARA. Perhaps not. CUSINS [desperately perplexed] You hear-- BARBARA. Father: do you love nobody? UNDERSHAFT. I love my best friend. LADY BRITOMART. And who is that, pray? UNDERSHAFT. My bravest enemy. That is the man who keeps me up to the mark. CUSINS. You know, the creature is really a sort of poet in his way. Suppose he is a great man, after all! UNDERSHAFT. Suppose you stop talking and make up your mind, my young friend. CUSINS. But you are driving me against my nature. I hate war. UNDERSHAFT. Hatred is the coward's revenge for being intimidated. Dare you make war on war? Here are the means: my friend Mr Lomax is sitting on them. LOMAX [springing up] Oh I say! You don't mean that this thing is loaded, do you? My ownest: come off it. SARAH [sitting placidly on the shell] If I am to be blown up, the more thoroughly it is done the better. Don't fuss, Cholly. LOMAX [to Undershaft, strongly remonstrant] Your own daughter, you know. UNDERSHAFT. So I see. [To Cusins] Well, my friend, may we expect you here at six tomorrow morning? CUSINS [firmly] Not on any account. I will see the whole establishment blown up with its own dynamite before I will get up at five. My hours are healthy, rational hours eleven to five. UNDERSHAFT. Come when you please: before a week you will come at six and stay until I turn you out for the sake of your health. [Calling] Bilton! [He turns to Lady Britomart, who rises]. My dear: let us leave these two young people to themselves for a moment. [Bilton comes from the shed]. I am going to take you through the gun cotton shed. BILTON [barring the way] You can't take anything explosive in here, Sir. LADY BRITOMART. What do you mean? Are you alluding to me? BILTON [unmoved] No, ma'am. Mr Undershaft has the other gentleman's matches in his pocket. LADY BRITOMART [abruptly] Oh! I beg your pardon. [She goes into the shed]. UNDERSHAFT. Quite right, Bilton, quite right: here you are. [He gives Bilton the box of matches]. Come, Stephen. Come, Charles. Bring Sarah. [He passes into the shed]. Bilton opens the box and deliberately drops the matches into the fire-bucket. LOMAX. Oh I say! [Bilton stolidly hands him the empty box]. Infernal nonsense! Pure scientific ignorance! [He goes in]. SARAH. Am I all right, Bilton? BILTON. You'll have to put on list slippers, miss: that's all. We've got em inside. [She goes in]. STEPHEN [very seriously to Cusins] Dolly, old fellow, think. Think before you decide. Do you feel that you are a sufficiently practical man? It is a huge undertaking, an enormous responsibility. All this mass of business will be Greek to you. CUSINS. Oh, I think it will be much less difficult than Greek. STEPHEN. Well, I just want to say this before I leave you to yourselves. Don't let anything I have said about right and wrong prejudice you against this great chance in life. I have satisfied myself that the business is one of the highest character and a credit to our country. [Emotionally] I am very proud of my father. I-- [Unable to proceed, he presses Cusins' hand and goes hastily into the shed, followed by Bilton]. Barbara and Cusins, left alone together, look at one another silently. CUSINS. Barbara: I am going to accept this offer. BARBARA. I thought you would. CUSINS. You understand, don't you, that I had to decide without consulting you. If I had thrown the burden of the choice on you, you would sooner or later have despised me for it. BARBARA. Yes: I did not want you to sell your soul for me any more than for this inheritance. CUSINS. It is not the sale of my soul that troubles me: I have sold it too often to care about that. I have sold it for a professorship. I have sold it for an income. I have sold it to escape being imprisoned for refusing to pay taxes for hangmen's ropes and unjust wars and things that I abhor. What is all human conduct but the daily and hourly sale of our souls for trifles? What I am now selling it for is neither money nor position nor comfort, but for reality and for power. BARBARA. You know that you will have no power, and that he has none. CUSINS. I know. It is not for myself alone. I want to make power for the world. BARBARA. I want to make power for the world too; but it must be spiritual power. CUSINS. I think all power is spiritual: these cannons will not go off by themselves. I have tried to make spiritual power by teaching Greek. But the world can never be really touched by a dead language and a dead civilization. The people must have power; and the people cannot have Greek. Now the power that is made here can be wielded by all men. BARBARA. Power to burn women's houses down and kill their sons and tear their husbands to pieces. CUSINS. You cannot have power for good without having power for evil too. Even mother's milk nourishes murderers as well as heroes. This power which only tears men's bodies to pieces has never been so horribly abused as the intellectual power, the imaginative power, the poetic, religious power that can enslave men's souls. As a teacher of Greek I gave the intellectual man weapons against the common man. I now want to give the common man weapons against the intellectual man. I love the common people. I want to arm them against the lawyer, the doctor, the priest, the literary man, the professor, the artist, and the politician, who, once in authority, are the most dangerous, disastrous, and tyrannical of all the fools, rascals, and impostors. I want a democratic power strong enough to force the intellectual oligarchy to use its genius for the general good or else perish. BARBARA. Is there no higher power than that [pointing to the shell]? CUSINS. Yes: but that power can destroy the higher powers just as a tiger can destroy a man: therefore man must master that power first. I admitted this when the Turks and Greeks were last at war. My best pupil went out to fight for Hellas. My parting gift to him was not a copy of Plato's Republic, but a revolver and a hundred Undershaft cartridges. The blood of every Turk he shot--if he shot any--is on my head as well as on Undershaft's. That act committed me to this place for ever. Your father's challenge has beaten me. Dare I make war on war? I dare. I must. I will. And now, is it all over between us? BARBARA [touched by his evident dread of her answer] Silly baby Dolly! How could it be? CUSINS [overjoyed] Then you--you--you-- Oh for my drum! [He flourishes imaginary drumsticks]. BARBARA [angered by his levity] Take care, Dolly, take care. Oh, if only I could get away from you and from father and from it all! if I could have the wings of a dove and fly away to heaven! CUSINS. And leave me! BARBARA. Yes, you, and all the other naughty mischievous children of men. But I can't. I was happy in the Salvation Army for a moment. I escaped from the world into a paradise of enthusiasm and prayer and soul saving; but the moment our money ran short, it all came back to Bodger: it was he who saved our people: he, and the Prince of Darkness, my papa. Undershaft and Bodger: their hands stretch everywhere: when we feed a starving fellow creature, it is with their bread, because there is no other bread; when we tend the sick, it is in the hospitals they endow; if we turn from the churches they build, we must kneel on the stones of the streets they pave. As long as that lasts, there is no getting away from them. Turning our backs on Bodger and Undershaft is turning our backs on life. CUSINS. I thought you were determined to turn your back on the wicked side of life. BARBARA. There is no wicked side: life is all one. And I never wanted to shirk my share in whatever evil must be endured, whether it be sin or suffering. I wish I could cure you of middle-class ideas, Dolly. CUSINS [gasping] Middle cl--! A snub! A social snub to ME! from the daughter of a foundling! BARBARA. That is why I have no class, Dolly: I come straight out of the heart of the whole people. If I were middle-class I should turn my back on my father's business; and we should both live in an artistic drawingroom, with you reading the reviews in one corner, and I in the other at the piano, playing Schumann: both very superior persons, and neither of us a bit of use. Sooner than that, I would sweep out the guncotton shed, or be one of Bodger's barmaids. Do you know what would have happened if you had refused papa's offer? CUSINS. I wonder! BARBARA. I should have given you up and married the man who accepted it. After all, my dear old mother has more sense than any of you. I felt like her when I saw this place--felt that I must have it--that never, never, never could I let it go; only she thought it was the houses and the kitchen ranges and the linen and china, when it was really all the human souls to be saved: not weak souls in starved bodies, crying with gratitude or a scrap of bread and treacle, but fullfed, quarrelsome, snobbish, uppish creatures, all standing on their little rights and dignities, and thinking that my father ought to be greatly obliged to them for making so much money for him--and so he ought. That is where salvation is really wanted. My father shall never throw it in my teeth again that my converts were bribed with bread. [She is transfigured]. I have got rid of the bribe of bread. I have got rid of the bribe of heaven. Let God's work be done for its own sake: the work he had to create us to do because it cannot be done by living men and women. When I die, let him be in my debt, not I in his; and let me forgive him as becomes a woman of my rank. CUSINS. Then the way of life lies through the factory of death? BARBARA. Yes, through the raising of hell to heaven and of man to God, through the unveiling of an eternal light in the Valley of The Shadow. [Seizing him with both hands] Oh, did you think my courage would never come back? did you believe that I was a deserter? that I, who have stood in the streets, and taken my people to my heart, and talked of the holiest and greatest things with them, could ever turn back and chatter foolishly to fashionable people about nothing in a drawingroom? Never, never, never, never: Major Barbara will die with the colors. Oh! and I have my dear little Dolly boy still; and he has found me my place and my work. Glory Hallelujah! [She kisses him]. CUSINS. My dearest: consider my delicate health. I cannot stand as much happiness as you can. BARBARA. Yes: it is not easy work being in love with me, is it? But it's good for you. [She runs to the shed, and calls, childlike] Mamma! Mamma! [Bilton comes out of the shed, followed by Undershaft]. I want Mamma. UNDERSHAFT. She is taking off her list slippers, dear. [He passes on to Cusins]. Well? What does she say? CUSINS. She has gone right up into the skies. LADY BRITOMART [coming from the shed and stopping on the steps, obstructing Sarah, who follows with Lomax. Barbara clutches like a baby at her mother's skirt]. Barbara: when will you learn to be independent and to act and think for yourself? I know as well as possible what that cry of "Mamma, Mamma," means. Always running to me! SARAH [touching Lady Britomart's ribs with her finger tips and imitating a bicycle horn] Pip! Pip! LADY BRITOMART [highly indignant] How dare you say Pip! pip! to me, Sarah? You are both very naughty children. What do you want, Barbara? BARBARA. I want a house in the village to live in with Dolly. [Dragging at the skirt] Come and tell me which one to take. UNDERSHAFT [to Cusins] Six o'clock tomorrow morning, my young friend.

Act III Part One

https://web.archive.org/web/20210118113736/https://www.sparknotes.com/drama/majorbarbara/section6/

The next day at lunch Lady Britomart appears writing in her library. Sarah sits reading near the window; Barbara, in ordinary fashionable dress, broods on the settee. Today the family plans to visit Undershaft's cannon works. Lomax enters and bluntly expresses his surprise at Barbara being out of uniform. Though sympathetic to her disillusionment, he always knew that, unlike the Church of England, there was a "certain amount of tosh" to the Salvation Army. Britomart chastises him. A weary Cusins enters--to the shock of the family, he was up late drinking with Undershaft after the meeting. Apparently Undershaft completed the "wreck of moral basis, the rout of convictions, the purchase of soul." Morrison announces Undershaft's arrival. Britomart sends the children out to ready for the excursion. Undershaft enters and before he has time to breathe, Britomart raises the topic of Stephen. Undershaft cannot disinherit him. Undershaft protests that tradition demands Stephen's dispossession. The firm needs a man without relations or education, a man who would be out of the running if he were not strong. The tragedy is that these days all the foundlings are snapped up by the welfare state, domesticated and crammed with secondhand ideas. In any case, if Britomart wants the foundry in the family, she should find a foundling to marry Barbara. Stephen enters and announces that he wants no part of the foundry. When Britomart attempts to intercede, Stephen informs her that all discussion of his future will now take place with his father, between one man and another. A teary Britomart complies. Chiding his son for so sulkily repudiating the foundry, Undershaft asks Stephen about his interests. Philosophy, the arts, and law are ridiculous to him. All Stephen knows above all, however, is the difference between right and wrong. Undershaft jeers and asks how Stephen can claim to know what has puzzled philosophers, artists, and lawyers through the ages. Like the Salvationists, respectable people are far too convinced they can teach morality. As Stephen knows nothing and thinks he knows everything, he should go into politics. Stephen balks at his father's insults to the government. Undershaft brutally reminds him that Undershaft and Lazarus are the government. A patronizing Stephen replies that with his own old-fashion breeding he cannot help but continue to believe that the national character governs fair England. Undershaft rejoins that Stephen is a born journalist. The group returns to the library. Cusins wonders why he and Barbara are traveling to Undershaft's "Works Department of Hell." A scandalized Undershaft promises that Wilton Crescent is a "spotlessly clean and beautiful hillside town. " He never has to play the tyrannical owner because the community's system of social hierarchy keeps everything in order. Cusins recoils in revulsion. Barbara announces to her father that she will never forgive him for taking a man's soul from her hands. Craftily Undershaft asks if his daughter really believes she can "strike a man to the heart" without leaving a mark on him. Barbara finds hope again and departs for the foundry, searching for "some truth of other behind all this frightful irony."

Act III begins immediately prior to the family's trip to Undershaft's ideal planned community, a masterwork of social engineering. These scenes consist of a number of short dialogues. In the first scene, Barbara has shed her uniform, prefiguring her ultimate declaration that "Major Barbara will die with the colors." Her disillusion with the Army is complete. A weary Cusins declares himself lost to Undershaft's gospel. As before, the tactless Lomax, speaks, as Lady Britomart remarks, using the formulaic "schoolboy drivel" that successful society men speak in England. His consolation for this is comical: unlike the Anglican Church, the Army always had a bit of "tosh" to it. Clearly, as Shaw insists in the preface, the unmasking of the "tosh" to the Army would implicate the established church as well. In the subsequent private exchange between Undershaft and Britomart, the former explains the necessity of Stephen's dispossession with what one could call the myth of the foundling. For Undershaft, the foundling is a man who, without family or education, has risen through the world by his will alone. The tragedy is that the welfare state tames these men from birth, rendering them indistinguishable from the herd. The foundling figures as a New Man of sorts, a man whose thoughts and actions free from the binds of social convention. Only such a mythically nameless man can assume the Undershaft mantle and carry forth the firm's gospel. Andrew bristles at Britomart's insistence on his fatherly duties, since the Undershaft tradition trumps the preservation of the family. Undershaft will have nothing of such obsolete "tricks of the governing class." As observed earlier, among Britomart's primary arms are those of class convention and her maternal authority. Britomart deploys these arms--as well as the memory of their marriage, perhaps--against her ex-husband's bombast. For example, when she plays the maternal wife and comically chastises Undershaft for his crooked tie, she reduces him to "childish grimaces." These familiar forms of domestic sociability present themselves as charming. They allow the audience to deflate and guard themselves against the hero's grandiloquent excesses as if they were the complaints of a child. The subsequent exchange occurs between Undershaft and a self-important Stephen, dislodging Britomart from her place as head of the family. Stephen attempts to discuss his future with his father, as men must do. The comedy of their dialogue functions according to a principle of enumeration and accumulation. Undershaft lists a series of potential occupations and Stephen rejects each, revealing his uselessness to the world. While without talents or inclinations, Stephen firmly claims to know the difference between right and wrong. Undershaft makes his impetuous son's declaration to highlight the irony of the ideas of the moralists. He wonders how he can, like the Salvationists or politicians, be so sure they know the difference between good and evil. The final major exchange occurs between Cusins, Barbara, and Undershaft, the poet, savior, and millionaire. Protesting Cusins's description of Percivale St. Andrews as a "Works Department of Hell," Undershaft begins to explain how he has brought his ideal community into being. Percivale St. Andrews runs on its own--its citizens preserve the social hierarchy and make any authoritarianism on his part unnecessary. As we will see, Undershaft's emphasis on hygiene and cleanliness will take on sinister proportions as well, though ones the play does not readily avow. Though the pair recoils in horror as they have done through, they will ultimately come to realize that Undershaft's gospel is the path to human salvation.

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act i

{"name": "Act I", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820035130/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmMajorBarbara11.asp", "summary": "In the first Act, Lady Britomart, a woman of fifty, is introduced and described. The daughter of the Earl of Stevenage, she has always moved in aristocratic circles; in fact, she does not know anything beyond the upper class society in which she lives. Although she is well read and efficient, she is most known for her sharp tongue. As a mother, she is characterized by scolding and chiding her offspring. When the play opens, Lady Britomart calls for her son Stephen, who is twenty-five years of age. She wants to discuss an important matter with him. When he comes on stage, she tells him that he is now old enough to take on some of the responsibilities of the family business. During the course of their conversation, it is revealed that Lady Britomart also has two daughters, both of them engaged. She also reveals that she is estranged from her husband, Mr. Undershaft, a wealthy businessman; he owns a munitions factory and has made huge profits by selling guns and canons all over the world. Stephen is ashamed of his father's profession. Stephen and his sisters do not really know their father, for he has made no effort to stay in contact with them. As a result, Stephen is shocked to learn that his mother has invited his father to come over. The purpose of the visit is to have Mr. Undershaft agree to some kind of permanent income for their daughters after the two young women are married. Even before Andrew Undershaft appears on the scene, Lady Britomart gives a sense of his nature as she talks about the \"great Undershaft tradition\". Included in this tradition is the fact that the Undershaft munitions factory, worth million of pounds, is not to be inherited by a blood relative of the Undershaft family. Instead, an orphan is to be selected as the heir on the basis of his abilities and trained to take over the huge Undershaft Empire. When Stephen hears this story, he tells his mother that he is not interested in his father's money nor his property, especially not the munitions factory. His mother points out, however, that even if Stephen is not interested in his father's property, he must think about his sisters, who need some kind of income after their marriage. Lady Britomart calls for her two daughters and their fiances in order to inform them about their father's arrival. Sarah and Barbara come on stage with their fiances, Charles and Adolphous respectively. Sarah is described as a slender, bored, and mundane woman, who is always fashionably dressed; she seems to have little purpose in life. Barbara is a much healthier, happier, and more energetic woman, who worries little about her appearance; she is dressed in a Salvation Army uniform. Charles Lomax, Sarah's fiance, is a frivolous young man who has the irritating habit of plunging into uncontrollable laughter at the most inopportune moments. Adolphous Cusins, who is engaged to Barbara, is a more serious and intellectual man with a sweet voice; according to Shaw, Cusins' sense of humor is intellectual and subtle, mixed with an 'appalling temper.' The news of Mr. Undershaft's upcoming visit evokes various responses. Barbara looks forward to the arrival of her father, for she sees him as another soul that can be saved. Sarah, on the other hand, is extremely scared to meet with her father. Charles Lomax is so shocked that he can barely speak; he makes inane remarks like \"oh I say,\" which totally annoy Lady Britomart. Cusins is much more intellectual and in control. He tells Lady Britomart that she has his 'unhesitating support' in whatever she wishes to do. He further asserts that all of them should act appropriately for their behavior will be a reflection of the way that lady Britomart has brought them up. Mr. Andrew Undershaft soon enters. He is an older gentleman with a patient, listening face that exudes great inner strength. He, however, is confused by the number of young people before him. In his initial awkwardness, he mistakes Cusins to be his son and his son to be a stranger. As all of them visit together, Undershaft shows the most interest in Barbara's work at the Salvation Army; previously a pauper, he had been part of the Salvation Army in his youth. Barbara invites him to visit her at the Shelter at West Ham, where she works. In return Mr. Undershaft asks her to come and visit his munitions factory. Lomax criticizes Undershaft's profession of manufacturing arms. Undershaft, however, defends his work and the necessity of his product; he also explains that he uses his profits to make better weapons rather than making donations to various churches and hospitals in an effort to ease his conscience. The Act ends with Charles and Barbara playing \"Onward Christian Soldiers,\" a well- know hymn sung by the Salvation Army, followed by a short prayer meeting. Lady Britomart does not attend at first, for she had wanted the meeting to follow the Anglican prayer book. Even though the meeting does not follow her request, she finally joins her family, still feeling annoyed that she has been ignored. After the prayer meeting, Lady Britomart again talks to her son Stephen, telling him that she is displeased. She explains that she has faced all the problems of bringing up the children with no help from her husband; she is now upset that they seem to prefer their father to her.", "analysis": "Notes In Act I, Lady Britomart's basic nature is developed. Totally preoccupied with monetary concerns, she is alienated from the rest of society. She even treats her own children in a harsh, scolding manner. For her, financial security is far more important than principle or relationships. In fact, the only things that seem to govern her life are money and social status. She admits that she is estranged from her husband, Mr. Undershaft, because of financial matters. Then during this act she invites him for a visit in order to convince him to provide a decent income for their daughters, Barbara and Sarah. Through Lady Britomart, Shaw seems to be laughing at the aristocratic families whose personal relations are often based on money alone. He also reveals the true face of this 'polite society', which can be rather crude when it comes to questions of inheritance and property. Lady Britomart is appalled at the idea that the family business will not go to the 'right' heir by birth-her son Stephen; instead, 'by an amoral tradition,' it will go to some orphan who will be selected on his ability to run the Undershaft Empire. When Lady Britomart announces that her estranged husband is coming for a visit, her children, who have not seen their father in a long time, react in different ways. Stephen judges his father harshly and is not pleased about his visit. Sarah is apprehensive about seeing her father again. Only Barbara seems to be excited about the news; she looks forward to seeing another person whose soul needs to be saved. When Undershaft arrives, he notices that Barbara seems to be the most special of the young people. Not afraid to express herself, she reveals that she is passionate about and committed to her work at the Salvation Army, where she has been promoted to the position of Major. She is a complete contrast to her sister Sarah, who does not seem to have a purpose in life, but much like her father in her commitment to succeeding. Shaw also points out the difference between father and daughter. While Barbara, in true Christian fashion, works to save the souls of sinners, her father seems to have rejected all aspects of traditional Christianity. Ironically, the motto of the Salvation Army, 'Blood and Fire,' can also be applied to Undershaft's munitions factory. Mr. Undershaft is portrayed as a man of the world who has made his own way and his own fortune. In his youth, his life was governed by poverty, and he had even been a part of the Salvation Army. Now, however, he judges poverty to be a crime and will do whatever is necessary to insure his own success. He is depicted as a representation of realism and capitalism. As the play develops, Mr. Undershaft also becomes a mouthpiece for Shaw's views."}

ACT I It is after dinner on a January night, in the library in Lady Britomart Undershaft's house in Wilton Crescent. A large and comfortable settee is in the middle of the room, upholstered in dark leather. A person sitting on it [it is vacant at present] would have, on his right, Lady Britomart's writing table, with the lady herself busy at it; a smaller writing table behind him on his left; the door behind him on Lady Britomart's side; and a window with a window seat directly on his left. Near the window is an armchair. Lady Britomart is a woman of fifty or thereabouts, well dressed and yet careless of her dress, well bred and quite reckless of her breeding, well mannered and yet appallingly outspoken and indifferent to the opinion of her interlocutory, amiable and yet peremptory, arbitrary, and high-tempered to the last bearable degree, and withal a very typical managing matron of the upper class, treated as a naughty child until she grew into a scolding mother, and finally settling down with plenty of practical ability and worldly experience, limited in the oddest way with domestic and class limitations, conceiving the universe exactly as if it were a large house in Wilton Crescent, though handling her corner of it very effectively on that assumption, and being quite enlightened and liberal as to the books in the library, the pictures on the walls, the music in the portfolios, and the articles in the papers. Her son, Stephen, comes in. He is a gravely correct young man under 25, taking himself very seriously, but still in some awe of his mother, from childish habit and bachelor shyness rather than from any weakness of character. STEPHEN. What's the matter? LADY BRITOMART. Presently, Stephen. Stephen submissively walks to the settee and sits down. He takes up The Speaker. LADY BRITOMART. Don't begin to read, Stephen. I shall require all your attention. STEPHEN. It was only while I was waiting-- LADY BRITOMART. Don't make excuses, Stephen. [He puts down The Speaker]. Now! [She finishes her writing; rises; and comes to the settee]. I have not kept you waiting very long, I think. STEPHEN. Not at all, mother. LADY BRITOMART. Bring me my cushion. [He takes the cushion from the chair at the desk and arranges it for her as she sits down on the settee]. Sit down. [He sits down and fingers his tie nervously]. Don't fiddle with your tie, Stephen: there is nothing the matter with it. STEPHEN. I beg your pardon. [He fiddles with his watch chain instead]. LADY BRITOMART. Now are you attending to me, Stephen? STEPHEN. Of course, mother. LADY BRITOMART. No: it's not of course. I want something much more than your everyday matter-of-course attention. I am going to speak to you very seriously, Stephen. I wish you would let that chain alone. STEPHEN [hastily relinquishing the chain] Have I done anything to annoy you, mother? If so, it was quite unintentional. LADY BRITOMART [astonished] Nonsense! [With some remorse] My poor boy, did you think I was angry with you? STEPHEN. What is it, then, mother? You are making me very uneasy. LADY BRITOMART [squaring herself at him rather aggressively] Stephen: may I ask how soon you intend to realize that you are a grown-up man, and that I am only a woman? STEPHEN [amazed] Only a-- LADY BRITOMART. Don't repeat my words, please: It is a most aggravating habit. You must learn to face life seriously, Stephen. I really cannot bear the whole burden of our family affairs any longer. You must advise me: you must assume the responsibility. STEPHEN. I! LADY BRITOMART. Yes, you, of course. You were 24 last June. You've been at Harrow and Cambridge. You've been to India and Japan. You must know a lot of things now; unless you have wasted your time most scandalously. Well, advise me. STEPHEN [much perplexed] You know I have never interfered in the household-- LADY BRITOMART. No: I should think not. I don't want you to order the dinner. STEPHEN. I mean in our family affairs. LADY BRITOMART. Well, you must interfere now; for they are getting quite beyond me. STEPHEN [troubled] I have thought sometimes that perhaps I ought; but really, mother, I know so little about them; and what I do know is so painful--it is so impossible to mention some things to you--[he stops, ashamed]. LADY BRITOMART. I suppose you mean your father. STEPHEN [almost inaudibly] Yes. LADY BRITOMART. My dear: we can't go on all our lives not mentioning him. Of course you were quite right not to open the subject until I asked you to; but you are old enough now to be taken into my confidence, and to help me to deal with him about the girls. STEPHEN. But the girls are all right. They are engaged. LADY BRITOMART [complacently] Yes: I have made a very good match for Sarah. Charles Lomax will be a millionaire at 35. But that is ten years ahead; and in the meantime his trustees cannot under the terms of his father's will allow him more than 800 pounds a year. STEPHEN. But the will says also that if he increases his income by his own exertions, they may double the increase. LADY BRITOMART. Charles Lomax's exertions are much more likely to decrease his income than to increase it. Sarah will have to find at least another 800 pounds a year for the next ten years; and even then they will be as poor as church mice. And what about Barbara? I thought Barbara was going to make the most brilliant career of all of you. And what does she do? Joins the Salvation Army; discharges her maid; lives on a pound a week; and walks in one evening with a professor of Greek whom she has picked up in the street, and who pretends to be a Salvationist, and actually plays the big drum for her in public because he has fallen head over ears in love with her. STEPHEN. I was certainly rather taken aback when I heard they were engaged. Cusins is a very nice fellow, certainly: nobody would ever guess that he was born in Australia; but-- LADY BRITOMART. Oh, Adolphus Cusins will make a very good husband. After all, nobody can say a word against Greek: it stamps a man at once as an educated gentleman. And my family, thank Heaven, is not a pig-headed Tory one. We are Whigs, and believe in liberty. Let snobbish people say what they please: Barbara shall marry, not the man they like, but the man I like. STEPHEN. Of course I was thinking only of his income. However, he is not likely to be extravagant. LADY BRITOMART. Don't be too sure of that, Stephen. I know your quiet, simple, refined, poetic people like Adolphus--quite content with the best of everything! They cost more than your extravagant people, who are always as mean as they are second rate. No: Barbara will need at least 2000 pounds a year. You see it means two additional households. Besides, my dear, you must marry soon. I don't approve of the present fashion of philandering bachelors and late marriages; and I am trying to arrange something for you. STEPHEN. It's very good of you, mother; but perhaps I had better arrange that for myself. LADY BRITOMART. Nonsense! you are much too young to begin matchmaking: you would be taken in by some pretty little nobody. Of course I don't mean that you are not to be consulted: you know that as well as I do. [Stephen closes his lips and is silent]. Now don't sulk, Stephen. STEPHEN. I am not sulking, mother. What has all this got to do with--with--with my father? LADY BRITOMART. My dear Stephen: where is the money to come from? It is easy enough for you and the other children to live on my income as long as we are in the same house; but I can't keep four families in four separate houses. You know how poor my father is: he has barely seven thousand a year now; and really, if he were not the Earl of Stevenage, he would have to give up society. He can do nothing for us: he says, naturally enough, that it is absurd that he should be asked to provide for the children of a man who is rolling in money. You see, Stephen, your father must be fabulously wealthy, because there is always a war going on somewhere. STEPHEN. You need not remind me of that, mother. I have hardly ever opened a newspaper in my life without seeing our name in it. The Undershaft torpedo! The Undershaft quick firers! The Undershaft ten inch! the Undershaft disappearing rampart gun! the Undershaft submarine! and now the Undershaft aerial battleship! At Harrow they called me the Woolwich Infant. At Cambridge it was the same. A little brute at King's who was always trying to get up revivals, spoilt my Bible--your first birthday present to me--by writing under my name, "Son and heir to Undershaft and Lazarus, Death and Destruction Dealers: address, Christendom and Judea." But that was not so bad as the way I was kowtowed to everywhere because my father was making millions by selling cannons. LADY BRITOMART. It is not only the cannons, but the war loans that Lazarus arranges under cover of giving credit for the cannons. You know, Stephen, it's perfectly scandalous. Those two men, Andrew Undershaft and Lazarus, positively have Europe under their thumbs. That is why your father is able to behave as he does. He is above the law. Do you think Bismarck or Gladstone or Disraeli could have openly defied every social and moral obligation all their lives as your father has? They simply wouldn't have dared. I asked Gladstone to take it up. I asked The Times to take it up. I asked the Lord Chamberlain to take it up. But it was just like asking them to declare war on the Sultan. They WOULDN'T. They said they couldn't touch him. I believe they were afraid. STEPHEN. What could they do? He does not actually break the law. LADY BRITOMART. Not break the law! He is always breaking the law. He broke the law when he was born: his parents were not married. STEPHEN. Mother! Is that true? LADY BRITOMART. Of course it's true: that was why we separated. STEPHEN. He married without letting you know this! LADY BRITOMART [rather taken aback by this inference] Oh no. To do Andrew justice, that was not the sort of thing he did. Besides, you know the Undershaft motto: Unashamed. Everybody knew. STEPHEN. But you said that was why you separated. LADY BRITOMART. Yes, because he was not content with being a foundling himself: he wanted to disinherit you for another foundling. That was what I couldn't stand. STEPHEN [ashamed] Do you mean for--for--for-- LADY BRITOMART. Don't stammer, Stephen. Speak distinctly. STEPHEN. But this is so frightful to me, mother. To have to speak to you about such things! LADY BRITOMART. It's not pleasant for me, either, especially if you are still so childish that you must make it worse by a display of embarrassment. It is only in the middle classes, Stephen, that people get into a state of dumb helpless horror when they find that there are wicked people in the world. In our class, we have to decide what is to be done with wicked people; and nothing should disturb our self possession. Now ask your question properly. STEPHEN. Mother: you have no consideration for me. For Heaven's sake either treat me as a child, as you always do, and tell me nothing at all; or tell me everything and let me take it as best I can. LADY BRITOMART. Treat you as a child! What do you mean? It is most unkind and ungrateful of you to say such a thing. You know I have never treated any of you as children. I have always made you my companions and friends, and allowed you perfect freedom to do and say whatever you liked, so long as you liked what I could approve of. STEPHEN [desperately] I daresay we have been the very imperfect children of a very perfect mother; but I do beg you to let me alone for once, and tell me about this horrible business of my father wanting to set me aside for another son. LADY BRITOMART [amazed] Another son! I never said anything of the kind. I never dreamt of such a thing. This is what comes of interrupting me. STEPHEN. But you said-- LADY BRITOMART [cutting him short] Now be a good boy, Stephen, and listen to me patiently. The Undershafts are descended from a foundling in the parish of St. Andrew Undershaft in the city. That was long ago, in the reign of James the First. Well, this foundling was adopted by an armorer and gun-maker. In the course of time the foundling succeeded to the business; and from some notion of gratitude, or some vow or something, he adopted another foundling, and left the business to him. And that foundling did the same. Ever since that, the cannon business has always been left to an adopted foundling named Andrew Undershaft. STEPHEN. But did they never marry? Were there no legitimate sons? LADY BRITOMART. Oh yes: they married just as your father did; and they were rich enough to buy land for their own children and leave them well provided for. But they always adopted and trained some foundling to succeed them in the business; and of course they always quarrelled with their wives furiously over it. Your father was adopted in that way; and he pretends to consider himself bound to keep up the tradition and adopt somebody to leave the business to. Of course I was not going to stand that. There may have been some reason for it when the Undershafts could only marry women in their own class, whose sons were not fit to govern great estates. But there could be no excuse for passing over my son. STEPHEN [dubiously] I am afraid I should make a poor hand of managing a cannon foundry. LADY BRITOMART. Nonsense! you could easily get a manager and pay him a salary. STEPHEN. My father evidently had no great opinion of my capacity. LADY BRITOMART. Stuff, child! you were only a baby: it had nothing to do with your capacity. Andrew did it on principle, just as he did every perverse and wicked thing on principle. When my father remonstrated, Andrew actually told him to his face that history tells us of only two successful institutions: one the Undershaft firm, and the other the Roman Empire under the Antonines. That was because the Antonine emperors all adopted their successors. Such rubbish! The Stevenages are as good as the Antonines, I hope; and you are a Stevenage. But that was Andrew all over. There you have the man! Always clever and unanswerable when he was defending nonsense and wickedness: always awkward and sullen when he had to behave sensibly and decently! STEPHEN. Then it was on my account that your home life was broken up, mother. I am sorry. LADY BRITOMART. Well, dear, there were other differences. I really cannot bear an immoral man. I am not a Pharisee, I hope; and I should not have minded his merely doing wrong things: we are none of us perfect. But your father didn't exactly do wrong things: he said them and thought them: that was what was so dreadful. He really had a sort of religion of wrongness just as one doesn't mind men practising immorality so long as they own that they are in the wrong by preaching morality; so I couldn't forgive Andrew for preaching immorality while he practised morality. You would all have grown up without principles, without any knowledge of right and wrong, if he had been in the house. You know, my dear, your father was a very attractive man in some ways. Children did not dislike him; and he took advantage of it to put the wickedest ideas into their heads, and make them quite unmanageable. I did not dislike him myself: very far from it; but nothing can bridge over moral disagreement. STEPHEN. All this simply bewilders me, mother. People may differ about matters of opinion, or even about religion; but how can they differ about right and wrong? Right is right; and wrong is wrong; and if a man cannot distinguish them properly, he is either a fool or a rascal: that's all. LADY BRITOMART [touched] That's my own boy [she pats his cheek]! Your father never could answer that: he used to laugh and get out of it under cover of some affectionate nonsense. And now that you understand the situation, what do you advise me to do? STEPHEN. Well, what can you do? LADY BRITOMART. I must get the money somehow. STEPHEN. We cannot take money from him. I had rather go and live in some cheap place like Bedford Square or even Hampstead than take a farthing of his money. LADY BRITOMART. But after all, Stephen, our present income comes from Andrew. STEPHEN [shocked] I never knew that. LADY BRITOMART. Well, you surely didn't suppose your grandfather had anything to give me. The Stevenages could not do everything for you. We gave you social position. Andrew had to contribute something. He had a very good bargain, I think. STEPHEN [bitterly] We are utterly dependent on him and his cannons, then! LADY BRITOMART. Certainly not: the money is settled. But he provided it. So you see it is not a question of taking money from him or not: it is simply a question of how much. I don't want any more for myself. STEPHEN. Nor do I. LADY BRITOMART. But Sarah does; and Barbara does. That is, Charles Lomax and Adolphus Cusins will cost them more. So I must put my pride in my pocket and ask for it, I suppose. That is your advice, Stephen, is it not? STEPHEN. No. LADY BRITOMART [sharply] Stephen! STEPHEN. Of course if you are determined-- LADY BRITOMART. I am not determined: I ask your advice; and I am waiting for it. I will not have all the responsibility thrown on my shoulders. STEPHEN [obstinately] I would die sooner than ask him for another penny. LADY BRITOMART [resignedly] You mean that I must ask him. Very well, Stephen: It shall be as you wish. You will be glad to know that your grandfather concurs. But he thinks I ought to ask Andrew to come here and see the girls. After all, he must have some natural affection for them. STEPHEN. Ask him here!!! LADY BRITOMART. Do not repeat my words, Stephen. Where else can I ask him? STEPHEN. I never expected you to ask him at all. LADY BRITOMART. Now don't tease, Stephen. Come! you see that it is necessary that he should pay us a visit, don't you? STEPHEN [reluctantly] I suppose so, if the girls cannot do without his money. LADY BRITOMART. Thank you, Stephen: I knew you would give me the right advice when it was properly explained to you. I have asked your father to come this evening. [Stephen bounds from his seat] Don't jump, Stephen: it fidgets me. STEPHEN [in utter consternation] Do you mean to say that my father is coming here to-night--that he may be here at any moment? LADY BRITOMART [looking at her watch] I said nine. [He gasps. She rises]. Ring the bell, please. [Stephen goes to the smaller writing table; presses a button on it; and sits at it with his elbows on the table and his head in his hands, outwitted and overwhelmed]. It is ten minutes to nine yet; and I have to prepare the girls. I asked Charles Lomax and Adolphus to dinner on purpose that they might be here. Andrew had better see them in case he should cherish any delusions as to their being capable of supporting their wives. [The butler enters: Lady Britomart goes behind the settee to speak to him]. Morrison: go up to the drawingroom and tell everybody to come down here at once. [Morrison withdraws. Lady Britomart turns to Stephen]. Now remember, Stephen, I shall need all your countenance and authority. [He rises and tries to recover some vestige of these attributes]. Give me a chair, dear. [He pushes a chair forward from the wall to where she stands, near the smaller writing table. She sits down; and he goes to the armchair, into which he throws himself]. I don't know how Barbara will take it. Ever since they made her a major in the Salvation Army she has developed a propensity to have her own way and order people about which quite cows me sometimes. It's not ladylike: I'm sure I don't know where she picked it up. Anyhow, Barbara shan't bully me; but still it's just as well that your father should be here before she has time to refuse to meet him or make a fuss. Don't look nervous, Stephen, it will only encourage Barbara to make difficulties. I am nervous enough, goodness knows; but I don't show it. Sarah and Barbara come in with their respective young men, Charles Lomax and Adolphus Cusins. Sarah is slender, bored, and mundane. Barbara is robuster, jollier, much more energetic. Sarah is fashionably dressed: Barbara is in Salvation Army uniform. Lomax, a young man about town, is like many other young men about town. He is affected with a frivolous sense of humor which plunges him at the most inopportune moments into paroxysms of imperfectly suppressed laughter. Cusins is a spectacled student, slight, thin haired, and sweet voiced, with a more complex form of Lomax's complaint. His sense of humor is intellectual and subtle, and is complicated by an appalling temper. The lifelong struggle of a benevolent temperament and a high conscience against impulses of inhuman ridicule and fierce impatience has set up a chronic strain which has visibly wrecked his constitution. He is a most implacable, determined, tenacious, intolerant person who by mere force of character presents himself as--and indeed actually is--considerate, gentle, explanatory, even mild and apologetic, capable possibly of murder, but not of cruelty or coarseness. By the operation of some instinct which is not merciful enough to blind him with the illusions of love, he is obstinately bent on marrying Barbara. Lomax likes Sarah and thinks it will be rather a lark to marry her. Consequently he has not attempted to resist Lady Britomart's arrangements to that end. All four look as if they had been having a good deal of fun in the drawingroom. The girls enter first, leaving the swains outside. Sarah comes to the settee. Barbara comes in after her and stops at the door. BARBARA. Are Cholly and Dolly to come in? LADY BRITOMART [forcibly] Barbara: I will not have Charles called Cholly: the vulgarity of it positively makes me ill. BARBARA. It's all right, mother. Cholly is quite correct nowadays. Are they to come in? LADY BRITOMART. Yes, if they will behave themselves. BARBARA [through the door] Come in, Dolly, and behave yourself. Barbara comes to her mother's writing table. Cusins enters smiling, and wanders towards Lady Britomart. SARAH [calling] Come in, Cholly. [Lomax enters, controlling his features very imperfectly, and places himself vaguely between Sarah and Barbara]. LADY BRITOMART [peremptorily] Sit down, all of you. [They sit. Cusins crosses to the window and seats himself there. Lomax takes a chair. Barbara sits at the writing table and Sarah on the settee]. I don't in the least know what you are laughing at, Adolphus. I am surprised at you, though I expected nothing better from Charles Lomax. CUSINS [in a remarkably gentle voice] Barbara has been trying to teach me the West Ham Salvation March. LADY BRITOMART. I see nothing to laugh at in that; nor should you if you are really converted. CUSINS [sweetly] You were not present. It was really funny, I believe. LOMAX. Ripping. LADY BRITOMART. Be quiet, Charles. Now listen to me, children. Your father is coming here this evening. [General stupefaction]. LOMAX [remonstrating] Oh I say! LADY BRITOMART. You are not called on to say anything, Charles. SARAH. Are you serious, mother? LADY BRITOMART. Of course I am serious. It is on your account, Sarah, and also on Charles's. [Silence. Charles looks painfully unworthy]. I hope you are not going to object, Barbara. BARBARA. I! why should I? My father has a soul to be saved like anybody else. He's quite welcome as far as I am concerned. LOMAX [still remonstrant] But really, don't you know! Oh I say! LADY BRITOMART [frigidly] What do you wish to convey, Charles? LOMAX. Well, you must admit that this is a bit thick. LADY BRITOMART [turning with ominous suavity to Cusins] Adolphus: you are a professor of Greek. Can you translate Charles Lomax's remarks into reputable English for us? CUSINS [cautiously] If I may say so, Lady Brit, I think Charles has rather happily expressed what we all feel. Homer, speaking of Autolycus, uses the same phrase. LOMAX [handsomely] Not that I mind, you know, if Sarah don't. LADY BRITOMART [crushingly] Thank you. Have I your permission, Adolphus, to invite my own husband to my own house? CUSINS [gallantly] You have my unhesitating support in everything you do. LADY BRITOMART. Sarah: have you nothing to say? SARAH. Do you mean that he is coming regularly to live here? LADY BRITOMART. Certainly not. The spare room is ready for him if he likes to stay for a day or two and see a little more of you; but there are limits. SARAH. Well, he can't eat us, I suppose. I don't mind. LOMAX [chuckling] I wonder how the old man will take it. LADY BRITOMART. Much as the old woman will, no doubt, Charles. LOMAX [abashed] I didn't mean--at least-- LADY BRITOMART. You didn't think, Charles. You never do; and the result is, you never mean anything. And now please attend to me, children. Your father will be quite a stranger to us. LOMAX. I suppose he hasn't seen Sarah since she was a little kid. LADY BRITOMART. Not since she was a little kid, Charles, as you express it with that elegance of diction and refinement of thought that seem never to desert you. Accordingly--er-- [impatiently] Now I have forgotten what I was going to say. That comes of your provoking me to be sarcastic, Charles. Adolphus: will you kindly tell me where I was. CUSINS [sweetly] You were saying that as Mr Undershaft has not seen his children since they were babies, he will form his opinion of the way you have brought them up from their behavior to-night, and that therefore you wish us all to be particularly careful to conduct ourselves well, especially Charles. LOMAX. Look here: Lady Brit didn't say that. LADY BRITOMART [vehemently] I did, Charles. Adolphus's recollection is perfectly correct. It is most important that you should be good; and I do beg you for once not to pair off into opposite corners and giggle and whisper while I am speaking to your father. BARBARA. All right, mother. We'll do you credit. LADY BRITOMART. Remember, Charles, that Sarah will want to feel proud of you instead of ashamed of you. LOMAX. Oh I say! There's nothing to be exactly proud of, don't you know. LADY BRITOMART. Well, try and look as if there was. Morrison, pale and dismayed, breaks into the room in unconcealed disorder. MORRISON. Might I speak a word to you, my lady? LADY BRITOMART. Nonsense! Show him up. MORRISON. Yes, my lady. [He goes]. LOMAX. Does Morrison know who he is? LADY BRITOMART. Of course. Morrison has always been with us. LOMAX. It must be a regular corker for him, don't you know. LADY BRITOMART. Is this a moment to get on my nerves, Charles, with your outrageous expressions? LOMAX. But this is something out of the ordinary, really-- MORRISON [at the door] The--er--Mr Undershaft. [He retreats in confusion]. Andrew Undershaft comes in. All rise. Lady Britomart meets him in the middle of the room behind the settee. Andrew is, on the surface, a stoutish, easygoing elderly man, with kindly patient manners, and an engaging simplicity of character. But he has a watchful, deliberate, waiting, listening face, and formidable reserves of power, both bodily and mental, in his capacious chest and long head. His gentleness is partly that of a strong man who has learnt by experience that his natural grip hurts ordinary people unless he handles them very carefully, and partly the mellowness of age and success. He is also a little shy in his present very delicate situation. LADY BRITOMART. Good evening, Andrew. UNDERSHAFT. How d'ye do, my dear. LADY BRITOMART. You look a good deal older. UNDERSHAFT [apologetically] I AM somewhat older. [With a touch of courtship] Time has stood still with you. LADY BRITOMART [promptly] Rubbish! This is your family. UNDERSHAFT [surprised] Is it so large? I am sorry to say my memory is failing very badly in some things. [He offers his hand with paternal kindness to Lomax]. LOMAX [jerkily shaking his hand] Ahdedoo. UNDERSHAFT. I can see you are my eldest. I am very glad to meet you again, my boy. LOMAX [remonstrating] No but look here don't you know--[Overcome] Oh I say! LADY BRITOMART [recovering from momentary speechlessness] Andrew: do you mean to say that you don't remember how many children you have? UNDERSHAFT. Well, I am afraid I--. They have grown so much--er. Am I making any ridiculous mistake? I may as well confess: I recollect only one son. But so many things have happened since, of course--er-- LADY BRITOMART [decisively] Andrew: you are talking nonsense. Of course you have only one son. UNDERSHAFT. Perhaps you will be good enough to introduce me, my dear. LADY BRITOMART. That is Charles Lomax, who is engaged to Sarah. UNDERSHAFT. My dear sir, I beg your pardon. LOMAX. Not at all. Delighted, I assure you. LADY BRITOMART. This is Stephen. UNDERSHAFT [bowing] Happy to make your acquaintance, Mr Stephen. Then [going to Cusins] you must be my son. [Taking Cusins' hands in his] How are you, my young friend? [To Lady Britomart] He is very like you, my love. CUSINS. You flatter me, Mr Undershaft. My name is Cusins: engaged to Barbara. [Very explicitly] That is Major Barbara Undershaft, of the Salvation Army. That is Sarah, your second daughter. This is Stephen Undershaft, your son. UNDERSHAFT. My dear Stephen, I beg your pardon. STEPHEN. Not at all. UNDERSHAFT. Mr Cusins: I am much indebted to you for explaining so precisely. [Turning to Sarah] Barbara, my dear-- SARAH [prompting him] Sarah. UNDERSHAFT. Sarah, of course. [They shake hands. He goes over to Barbara] Barbara--I am right this time, I hope. BARBARA. Quite right. [They shake hands]. LADY BRITOMART [resuming command] Sit down, all of you. Sit down, Andrew. [She comes forward and sits on the settle. Cusins also brings his chair forward on her left. Barbara and Stephen resume their seats. Lomax gives his chair to Sarah and goes for another]. UNDERSHAFT. Thank you, my love. LOMAX [conversationally, as he brings a chair forward between the writing table and the settee, and offers it to Undershaft] Takes you some time to find out exactly where you are, don't it? UNDERSHAFT [accepting the chair] That is not what embarrasses me, Mr Lomax. My difficulty is that if I play the part of a father, I shall produce the effect of an intrusive stranger; and if I play the part of a discreet stranger, I may appear a callous father. LADY BRITOMART. There is no need for you to play any part at all, Andrew. You had much better be sincere and natural. UNDERSHAFT [submissively] Yes, my dear: I daresay that will be best. [Making himself comfortable] Well, here I am. Now what can I do for you all? LADY BRITOMART. You need not do anything, Andrew. You are one of the family. You can sit with us and enjoy yourself. Lomax's too long suppressed mirth explodes in agonized neighings. LADY BRITOMART [outraged] Charles Lomax: if you can behave yourself, behave yourself. If not, leave the room. LOMAX. I'm awfully sorry, Lady Brit; but really, you know, upon my soul! [He sits on the settee between Lady Britomart and Undershaft, quite overcome]. BARBARA. Why don't you laugh if you want to, Cholly? It's good for your inside. LADY BRITOMART. Barbara: you have had the education of a lady. Please let your father see that; and don't talk like a street girl. UNDERSHAFT. Never mind me, my dear. As you know, I am not a gentleman; and I was never educated. LOMAX [encouragingly] Nobody'd know it, I assure you. You look all right, you know. CUSINS. Let me advise you to study Greek, Mr Undershaft. Greek scholars are privileged men. Few of them know Greek; and none of them know anything else; but their position is unchallengeable. Other languages are the qualifications of waiters and commercial travellers: Greek is to a man of position what the hallmark is to silver. BARBARA. Dolly: don't be insincere. Cholly: fetch your concertina and play something for us. LOMAX [doubtfully to Undershaft] Perhaps that sort of thing isn't in your line, eh? UNDERSHAFT. I am particularly fond of music. LOMAX [delighted] Are you? Then I'll get it. [He goes upstairs for the instrument]. UNDERSHAFT. Do you play, Barbara? BARBARA. Only the tambourine. But Cholly's teaching me the concertina. UNDERSHAFT. Is Cholly also a member of the Salvation Army? BARBARA. No: he says it's bad form to be a dissenter. But I don't despair of Cholly. I made him come yesterday to a meeting at the dock gates, and take the collection in his hat. LADY BRITOMART. It is not my doing, Andrew. Barbara is old enough to take her own way. She has no father to advise her. BARBARA. Oh yes she has. There are no orphans in the Salvation Army. UNDERSHAFT. Your father there has a great many children and plenty of experience, eh? BARBARA [looking at him with quick interest and nodding] Just so. How did you come to understand that? [Lomax is heard at the door trying the concertina]. LADY BRITOMART. Come in, Charles. Play us something at once. LOMAX. Righto! [He sits down in his former place, and preludes]. UNDERSHAFT. One moment, Mr Lomax. I am rather interested in the Salvation Army. Its motto might be my own: Blood and Fire. LOMAX [shocked] But not your sort of blood and fire, you know. UNDERSHAFT. My sort of blood cleanses: my sort of fire purifies. BARBARA. So do ours. Come down to-morrow to my shelter--the West Ham shelter--and see what we're doing. We're going to march to a great meeting in the Assembly Hall at Mile End. Come and see the shelter and then march with us: it will do you a lot of good. Can you play anything? UNDERSHAFT. In my youth I earned pennies, and even shillings occasionally, in the streets and in public house parlors by my natural talent for stepdancing. Later on, I became a member of the Undershaft orchestral society, and performed passably on the tenor trombone. LOMAX [scandalized] Oh I say! BARBARA. Many a sinner has played himself into heaven on the trombone, thanks to the Army. LOMAX [to Barbara, still rather shocked] Yes; but what about the cannon business, don't you know? [To Undershaft] Getting into heaven is not exactly in your line, is it? LADY BRITOMART. Charles!!! LOMAX. Well; but it stands to reason, don't it? The cannon business may be necessary and all that: we can't get on without cannons; but it isn't right, you know. On the other hand, there may be a certain amount of tosh about the Salvation Army--I belong to the Established Church myself--but still you can't deny that it's religion; and you can't go against religion, can you? At least unless you're downright immoral, don't you know. UNDERSHAFT. You hardly appreciate my position, Mr Lomax-- LOMAX [hastily] I'm not saying anything against you personally, you know. UNDERSHAFT. Quite so, quite so. But consider for a moment. Here I am, a manufacturer of mutilation and murder. I find myself in a specially amiable humor just now because, this morning, down at the foundry, we blew twenty-seven dummy soldiers into fragments with a gun which formerly destroyed only thirteen. LOMAX [leniently] Well, the more destructive war becomes, the sooner it will be abolished, eh? UNDERSHAFT. Not at all. The more destructive war becomes the more fascinating we find it. No, Mr Lomax, I am obliged to you for making the usual excuse for my trade; but I am not ashamed of it. I am not one of those men who keep their morals and their business in watertight compartments. All the spare money my trade rivals spend on hospitals, cathedrals and other receptacles for conscience money, I devote to experiments and researches in improved methods of destroying life and property. I have always done so; and I always shall. Therefore your Christmas card moralities of peace on earth and goodwill among men are of no use to me. Your Christianity, which enjoins you to resist not evil, and to turn the other cheek, would make me a bankrupt. My morality--my religion--must have a place for cannons and torpedoes in it. STEPHEN [coldly--almost sullenly] You speak as if there were half a dozen moralities and religions to choose from, instead of one true morality and one true religion. UNDERSHAFT. For me there is only one true morality; but it might not fit you, as you do not manufacture aerial battleships. There is only one true morality for every man; but every man has not the same true morality. LOMAX [overtaxed] Would you mind saying that again? I didn't quite follow it. CUSINS. It's quite simple. As Euripides says, one man's meat is another man's poison morally as well as physically. UNDERSHAFT. Precisely. LOMAX. Oh, that. Yes, yes, yes. True. True. STEPHEN. In other words, some men are honest and some are scoundrels. BARBARA. Bosh. There are no scoundrels. UNDERSHAFT. Indeed? Are there any good men? BARBARA. No. Not one. There are neither good men nor scoundrels: there are just children of one Father; and the sooner they stop calling one another names the better. You needn't talk to me: I know them. I've had scores of them through my hands: scoundrels, criminals, infidels, philanthropists, missionaries, county councillors, all sorts. They're all just the same sort of sinner; and there's the same salvation ready for them all. UNDERSHAFT. May I ask have you ever saved a maker of cannons? BARBARA. No. Will you let me try? UNDERSHAFT. Well, I will make a bargain with you. If I go to see you to-morrow in your Salvation Shelter, will you come the day after to see me in my cannon works? BARBARA. Take care. It may end in your giving up the cannons for the sake of the Salvation Army. UNDERSHAFT. Are you sure it will not end in your giving up the Salvation Army for the sake of the cannons? BARBARA. I will take my chance of that. UNDERSHAFT. And I will take my chance of the other. [They shake hands on it]. Where is your shelter? BARBARA. In West Ham. At the sign of the cross. Ask anybody in Canning Town. Where are your works? UNDERSHAFT. In Perivale St Andrews. At the sign of the sword. Ask anybody in Europe. LOMAX. Hadn't I better play something? BARBARA. Yes. Give us Onward, Christian Soldiers. LOMAX. Well, that's rather a strong order to begin with, don't you know. Suppose I sing Thou'rt passing hence, my brother. It's much the same tune. BARBARA. It's too melancholy. You get saved, Cholly; and you'll pass hence, my brother, without making such a fuss about it. LADY BRITOMART. Really, Barbara, you go on as if religion were a pleasant subject. Do have some sense of propriety. UNDERSHAFT. I do not find it an unpleasant subject, my dear. It is the only one that capable people really care for. LADY BRITOMART [looking at her watch] Well, if you are determined to have it, I insist on having it in a proper and respectable way. Charles: ring for prayers. [General amazement. Stephen rises in dismay]. LOMAX [rising] Oh I say! UNDERSHAFT [rising] I am afraid I must be going. LADY BRITOMART. You cannot go now, Andrew: it would be most improper. Sit down. What will the servants think? UNDERSHAFT. My dear: I have conscientious scruples. May I suggest a compromise? If Barbara will conduct a little service in the drawingroom, with Mr Lomax as organist, I will attend it willingly. I will even take part, if a trombone can be procured. LADY BRITOMART. Don't mock, Andrew. UNDERSHAFT [shocked--to Barbara] You don't think I am mocking, my love, I hope. BARBARA. No, of course not; and it wouldn't matter if you were: half the Army came to their first meeting for a lark. [Rising] Come along. Come, Dolly. Come, Cholly. [She goes out with Undershaft, who opens the door for her. Cusins rises]. LADY BRITOMART. I will not be disobeyed by everybody. Adolphus: sit down. Charles: you may go. You are not fit for prayers: you cannot keep your countenance. LOMAX. Oh I say! [He goes out]. LADY BRITOMART [continuing] But you, Adolphus, can behave yourself if you choose to. I insist on your staying. CUSINS. My dear Lady Brit: there are things in the family prayer book that I couldn't bear to hear you say. LADY BRITOMART. What things, pray? CUSINS. Well, you would have to say before all the servants that we have done things we ought not to have done, and left undone things we ought to have done, and that there is no health in us. I cannot bear to hear you doing yourself such an unjustice, and Barbara such an injustice. As for myself, I flatly deny it: I have done my best. I shouldn't dare to marry Barbara--I couldn't look you in the face--if it were true. So I must go to the drawingroom. LADY BRITOMART [offended] Well, go. [He starts for the door]. And remember this, Adolphus [he turns to listen]: I have a very strong suspicion that you went to the Salvation Army to worship Barbara and nothing else. And I quite appreciate the very clever way in which you systematically humbug me. I have found you out. Take care Barbara doesn't. That's all. CUSINS [with unruffled sweetness] Don't tell on me. [He goes out]. LADY BRITOMART. Sarah: if you want to go, go. Anything's better than to sit there as if you wished you were a thousand miles away. SARAH [languidly] Very well, mamma. [She goes]. Lady Britomart, with a sudden flounce, gives way to a little gust of tears. STEPHEN [going to her] Mother: what's the matter? LADY BRITOMART [swishing away her tears with her handkerchief] Nothing. Foolishness. You can go with him, too, if you like, and leave me with the servants. STEPHEN. Oh, you mustn't think that, mother. I--I don't like him. LADY BRITOMART. The others do. That is the injustice of a woman's lot. A woman has to bring up her children; and that means to restrain them, to deny them things they want, to set them tasks, to punish them when they do wrong, to do all the unpleasant things. And then the father, who has nothing to do but pet them and spoil them, comes in when all her work is done and steals their affection from her. STEPHEN. He has not stolen our affection from you. It is only curiosity. LADY BRITOMART [violently] I won't be consoled, Stephen. There is nothing the matter with me. [She rises and goes towards the door]. STEPHEN. Where are you going, mother? LADY BRITOMART. To the drawingroom, of course. [She goes out. Onward, Christian Soldiers, on the concertina, with tambourine accompaniment, is heard when the door opens]. Are you coming, Stephen? STEPHEN. No. Certainly not. [She goes. He sits down on the settee, with compressed lips and an expression of strong dislike].

Act I

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820035130/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmMajorBarbara11.asp

In the first Act, Lady Britomart, a woman of fifty, is introduced and described. The daughter of the Earl of Stevenage, she has always moved in aristocratic circles; in fact, she does not know anything beyond the upper class society in which she lives. Although she is well read and efficient, she is most known for her sharp tongue. As a mother, she is characterized by scolding and chiding her offspring. When the play opens, Lady Britomart calls for her son Stephen, who is twenty-five years of age. She wants to discuss an important matter with him. When he comes on stage, she tells him that he is now old enough to take on some of the responsibilities of the family business. During the course of their conversation, it is revealed that Lady Britomart also has two daughters, both of them engaged. She also reveals that she is estranged from her husband, Mr. Undershaft, a wealthy businessman; he owns a munitions factory and has made huge profits by selling guns and canons all over the world. Stephen is ashamed of his father's profession. Stephen and his sisters do not really know their father, for he has made no effort to stay in contact with them. As a result, Stephen is shocked to learn that his mother has invited his father to come over. The purpose of the visit is to have Mr. Undershaft agree to some kind of permanent income for their daughters after the two young women are married. Even before Andrew Undershaft appears on the scene, Lady Britomart gives a sense of his nature as she talks about the "great Undershaft tradition". Included in this tradition is the fact that the Undershaft munitions factory, worth million of pounds, is not to be inherited by a blood relative of the Undershaft family. Instead, an orphan is to be selected as the heir on the basis of his abilities and trained to take over the huge Undershaft Empire. When Stephen hears this story, he tells his mother that he is not interested in his father's money nor his property, especially not the munitions factory. His mother points out, however, that even if Stephen is not interested in his father's property, he must think about his sisters, who need some kind of income after their marriage. Lady Britomart calls for her two daughters and their fiances in order to inform them about their father's arrival. Sarah and Barbara come on stage with their fiances, Charles and Adolphous respectively. Sarah is described as a slender, bored, and mundane woman, who is always fashionably dressed; she seems to have little purpose in life. Barbara is a much healthier, happier, and more energetic woman, who worries little about her appearance; she is dressed in a Salvation Army uniform. Charles Lomax, Sarah's fiance, is a frivolous young man who has the irritating habit of plunging into uncontrollable laughter at the most inopportune moments. Adolphous Cusins, who is engaged to Barbara, is a more serious and intellectual man with a sweet voice; according to Shaw, Cusins' sense of humor is intellectual and subtle, mixed with an 'appalling temper.' The news of Mr. Undershaft's upcoming visit evokes various responses. Barbara looks forward to the arrival of her father, for she sees him as another soul that can be saved. Sarah, on the other hand, is extremely scared to meet with her father. Charles Lomax is so shocked that he can barely speak; he makes inane remarks like "oh I say," which totally annoy Lady Britomart. Cusins is much more intellectual and in control. He tells Lady Britomart that she has his 'unhesitating support' in whatever she wishes to do. He further asserts that all of them should act appropriately for their behavior will be a reflection of the way that lady Britomart has brought them up. Mr. Andrew Undershaft soon enters. He is an older gentleman with a patient, listening face that exudes great inner strength. He, however, is confused by the number of young people before him. In his initial awkwardness, he mistakes Cusins to be his son and his son to be a stranger. As all of them visit together, Undershaft shows the most interest in Barbara's work at the Salvation Army; previously a pauper, he had been part of the Salvation Army in his youth. Barbara invites him to visit her at the Shelter at West Ham, where she works. In return Mr. Undershaft asks her to come and visit his munitions factory. Lomax criticizes Undershaft's profession of manufacturing arms. Undershaft, however, defends his work and the necessity of his product; he also explains that he uses his profits to make better weapons rather than making donations to various churches and hospitals in an effort to ease his conscience. The Act ends with Charles and Barbara playing "Onward Christian Soldiers," a well- know hymn sung by the Salvation Army, followed by a short prayer meeting. Lady Britomart does not attend at first, for she had wanted the meeting to follow the Anglican prayer book. Even though the meeting does not follow her request, she finally joins her family, still feeling annoyed that she has been ignored. After the prayer meeting, Lady Britomart again talks to her son Stephen, telling him that she is displeased. She explains that she has faced all the problems of bringing up the children with no help from her husband; she is now upset that they seem to prefer their father to her.

Notes In Act I, Lady Britomart's basic nature is developed. Totally preoccupied with monetary concerns, she is alienated from the rest of society. She even treats her own children in a harsh, scolding manner. For her, financial security is far more important than principle or relationships. In fact, the only things that seem to govern her life are money and social status. She admits that she is estranged from her husband, Mr. Undershaft, because of financial matters. Then during this act she invites him for a visit in order to convince him to provide a decent income for their daughters, Barbara and Sarah. Through Lady Britomart, Shaw seems to be laughing at the aristocratic families whose personal relations are often based on money alone. He also reveals the true face of this 'polite society', which can be rather crude when it comes to questions of inheritance and property. Lady Britomart is appalled at the idea that the family business will not go to the 'right' heir by birth-her son Stephen; instead, 'by an amoral tradition,' it will go to some orphan who will be selected on his ability to run the Undershaft Empire. When Lady Britomart announces that her estranged husband is coming for a visit, her children, who have not seen their father in a long time, react in different ways. Stephen judges his father harshly and is not pleased about his visit. Sarah is apprehensive about seeing her father again. Only Barbara seems to be excited about the news; she looks forward to seeing another person whose soul needs to be saved. When Undershaft arrives, he notices that Barbara seems to be the most special of the young people. Not afraid to express herself, she reveals that she is passionate about and committed to her work at the Salvation Army, where she has been promoted to the position of Major. She is a complete contrast to her sister Sarah, who does not seem to have a purpose in life, but much like her father in her commitment to succeeding. Shaw also points out the difference between father and daughter. While Barbara, in true Christian fashion, works to save the souls of sinners, her father seems to have rejected all aspects of traditional Christianity. Ironically, the motto of the Salvation Army, 'Blood and Fire,' can also be applied to Undershaft's munitions factory. Mr. Undershaft is portrayed as a man of the world who has made his own way and his own fortune. In his youth, his life was governed by poverty, and he had even been a part of the Salvation Army. Now, however, he judges poverty to be a crime and will do whatever is necessary to insure his own success. He is depicted as a representation of realism and capitalism. As the play develops, Mr. Undershaft also becomes a mouthpiece for Shaw's views.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/3790-chapters/act_ii.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Major Barbara/section_1_part_0.txt

Major Barbara.act ii

act ii

{"name": "Act II", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820035130/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmMajorBarbara14.asp", "summary": "In this Act, the scene of action shifts to the Salvation Army Shelter in West Ham, where Barbara serves as a Major. Jenny, a sincere girl of eighteen, works at the shelter and tries to help people in distress. Snobby Price and Ramola Mitchens are introduced as people who have joined the Salvation Army for reasons other than the spiritual. Snobby, an intelligent employee, is only working to receive a paycheck; Ramola, usually called Rummy, is at the shelter to escape from starvation. As Snobby Price and Rummy sit in the yard outside the Shelter, Jenny enters leading a tired, sickly man called Peter Shirley. He is an honest, upright worker who looks older than he is. His past employer has dismissed him because he thinks Peter Shirley is too old to work. Unable to find a job, Peter was literally starving when he arrived at the shelter. It hurts Peter to accept what he considers charity from the Salvation Army, since he has always worked to earn his bread. When Jenny offers him food and milk, she tells him to consider it a loan, which he can pay back when he gets a job. This explanation makes Peter feel much better. While Peter is having his meager meal, a hefty man called Bill walks into the yard. As soon as he sees Jenny, he abuses her and demands to know where his girl, Mog Ebbijem, is. Bill is upset because he thinks it is because of the Salvation Army that his girl has left him. In a fit of anger, he takes Jenny by her arm and flings her against the door of the shelter. While Rummy helps her to her feet, Snobby Price unsuccessfully tries to stop Bill. When Rummy rushes up to Bill to scold him for behavior, Bill seizes Jenny by her hair and twists her arm until she cries out in pain. Snobby Price is too scared to intervene. Jenny pleads with Snobby and Rummy to go and tell Major Barbara about the incident, and they leave to go and find her. Angered over her sending for Major Barbara, Bill hits Jenny on her face, causing her to run into the shed crying in pain. Bill then turns threateningly towards the sickly Peter, who has been watching from a distance. He calls Bill a bully and tells him to go and work somewhere instead of hitting women. The two men start arguing, and Peter challenges Bill to fight his young son-in law's brother, who is a heavy weight champion. As Barbara enters with a notebook in her hand, Peter informs Bill that the Major is the granddaughter of an Earl. Major Barbara first addresses Peter, writing down his name and the type of work he has done; she promises to help him find another job. Next, she turns to Bill and asks him his name. Although he tells her his name is Bill Walker, he is rude to Barbara and haughtily asks her if she can save his soul too. Barbara handles him very calmly. She tells him that Mog, Bill's ex-girlfriend, has become a true Christian and is working for the Salvation Army at their barracks in Canning Town. Bill says he will go and find her, but Barbara informs him that Mog has found herself another 'bloke.' Bill says he will teach both of them a good lesson. Then, however, he learns that the 'bloke' Mog is engaged to none other than the brother of Peter Shirley's son-in law, the prizefighter whose name is Sergeant Todger Fairmile. Upon learning this, Bill becomes a little less hostile and less self- confident self. Jenny re-enters and forgives Bill for what he has done to her. This act of kindness leaves him speechless. Price comes in to announce the arrival of Mr. Undershaft. Barbara goes out to meet him while Bill sulks in the corner. Barbara soon returns, accompanied by her father. She introduces him to Peter Shirley and says that her father is a secularist, just like Peter; he believes that religion is a private matter and not something that should be openly demonstrated. Undershaft seems horrified at Barbara's words. He claims that he is a millionaire and believes that is all the religion he needs. Peter states that he is not rich, but he is proud about it. To this, Undershaft answers, \"Poverty, my friend is not a thing to be proud of.\" Peter does not agree and angrily asks Undershaft who has really made all the money for him. Before Undershaft can answer, Peter explains that poor people like himself have remained in poverty even though they have toiled to keep people like Undershaft rich. He goes on to add that he would not have Undershaft's conscience, even if he were paid all of Undershaft's wealth. Undershaft replies that he would not have Peter's income for all his conscience. Even before Peter Shirley can retort back, Barbara intervenes and sends him inside to help the girls. Undershaft settles down on a sofa in the corner and tells his daughter to carry on with her work. Barbara turns to Bill, who has been quietly sitting in a corner looking rather deflated. Her father sits watching Barbara deal gently and firmly with Bill. When Adolphous Cusins arrives, Bill seizes his opportunity and escapes through the gate. Barbara asks Cusins to explain to her father how the shelter functions, while she goes inside to tend to an important matter. Cusins and Undershaft debate about the question of religion, about the value of the Salvation Army, and finally about Barbara, the woman that they both love. During the course of a rather heated discussion, Undershaft declares that he plans to hand his ammunition factory over to Barbara sometime in the future. First, however, he must woo her away from the Salvation Army. He tells Cusins that if necessary, he will even buy the Salvation Army. In fact, Undershaft already believes that: all religious organizations exist by selling themselves to the rich. While Cusins and Undershaft continue to debate, Shirley, Price, Jenny, and Barbara enter, returning from a public prayer meeting in Cripps' Lane. During the meeting, Price has made a public confession of his past deeds and prays for forgiveness. They also state that they have managed to collect four and ten pence. When Mr. Undershaft offers to contribute a few more pennies to make it five shillings, Barbara refuses to take his money. She disapproves of the fact that his wealth has come from selling canons and guns. Additionally, Barbara explains that what she needs is a lot of money, not a few pennies. She adds that it makes her sad that she must spend so much time collecting money for the Salvation Army, leaving her with very little time to work to save people's souls. She wonders aloud, her eyes brimming with tears, as to how she is going to feed the poor with such meager funds. She states, \"I can't talk religion to a man with bodily hunger in his eyes.\" Jenny tries to console her, saying that they will pray for money to do their work. Barbara quickly regains her composure and informs Mr. Undershaft that Mrs. Bains, the Commissioner of the Salvation Army, wants to see him. Bill appears again and offers to give some money in order to stop Barbara and Jenny from pestering him with their lectures on forgiveness and salvation. Barbara also refuses to take Bill's money, stating that the Army is not up for sale or bribery. Mrs. Bains appears on the scene and informs the others that Lord Saxmundham has promised them five thousand pounds on the condition that five other rich gentlemen give a thousand pounds each, for a grand total of ten thousand pounds. When Barbara discovers that Lord Saxmundham is none other than Lord Bodgers, who owns a liquor distillery; she is shocked. She has always refused to take contributions from people who make money through what she considers morally wrong methods. Liquor money is especially despicable to her, for alcohol is one of the greatest problems amongst the poor with whom she works; she has seen firsthand how liquor can cause havoc in people's lives. She is totally distressed to think that the Salvation Army would readily accept money from a liquor baron. She grows even more distressed when Mrs. Bains asks Mr. Undershaft, the arms baron, to contribute some money to the Salvation Army. She encourages him to make the donation by saying that the organization really helps the rich in the long run. When Mr. Undershaft gives Mrs. Bains a check, she accepts it with great joy. She even calls for a huge celebration to announce the fact that Mr. Undershaft has saved the Salvation Army shelter. The acceptance of Mr. Undershaft's money by the Salvation Army comes as a severe blow to Barbara. Suddenly all her ideals and illusions about the Army are destroyed. Hurt and disillusioned, she decides to permanently leave the shelter. With a heavy heart, she removes her badge and pins it on her father's collar. She then leaves to attend a prayer meeting with Mrs. Bains and the others. Mr. Undershaft feels he has won back his daughter. He tells Cusins triumphantly, \" My ducats and my daughter\"!", "analysis": "Notes This Act is the most crucial one in the play, for it contains the climax of the plot. Shaw also reveals his views on charitable organizations, such as the Salvation Army. The act is also filled with contrasts, which bring out the irony in the play. Mr. Shirley is clearly contrasted with Mr. Undershaft. Shirley is an honest, principled worker without a job, for he has been dismissed because of his age. Mr. Undershaft, a millionaire, does not seem to have any scruples or principles; for him his religion is wealth. The verbal duel that occurs between the two provides both light moments and interesting insights. Barbara's idealism is pitted against Undershaft's outright pragmatism. Shaw also reveals his views on the Salvation Army in this chapter. Through the characters of Price and Rummy, Shaw points out that the Salvation Army provides shelter to hypocrites; but he believes that it is poverty and starvation that lead to their hypocrisy. Undershaft, who seems to be the mouthpiece of Shaw, believes that the best way to help the poor is to provide them with jobs so that they can become independent. Cusins claims that the Salvation Army reforms the poor into honest, happy, sober people and makes them think about God. Undershaft replies that these qualities help the industrialists for, if his workers are happy, they will not be dissatisfied at work. If they are made to think about God, they will not think about Revolution. Honest workers, according to him, are the most beneficial to management. Therefore, religious organizations like the Salvation Army help rich industrialists and manufacturers. This is the reason that corporations, such as Undershaft's, patronize and fund such religious institutions. Through Undershaft, Shaw also criticizes the idea of public confession of sins, as he believes that once the sinner is forgiven, he becomes free to sin again. Mrs. Bains, the commissioner of the Salvation Army, represents the leadership of charitable organizations, such as the Salvation Army. She is very much aware of the fact that her organization benefits the rich industrialists. As a result, she has no problem about taking funds from the very businessmen who cause havoc in the lives of the poor. This point is brought out sharply when Mrs. Bains accepts money from Lord Saxmundham, the owner of Bodger Distilleries and from Undershaft, the owner of a munitions factory. The reaction of Barbara to Mrs. Bains' acceptance of donations from Lord Saxmundham and Undershaft is extreme; because she is so idealistic, reality is shocking to her. Barbara is so disillusioned, however, that she decides to leave her job at the shelter and takes off her pins. She, however, seems to be the only one who is affected by the donations; Snobby Price, Jenny, and Mrs. Bains accept them as something natural. The fact that Barbara is shocked and hurt reveals that she is an extremely honest individual, as well as a committed worker. Her decision to leave the shelter pains her; it does not, however, change her religious fervor. At the end of the act, she is headed to a prayer meeting."}

ACT II The yard of the West Ham shelter of the Salvation Army is a cold place on a January morning. The building itself, an old warehouse, is newly whitewashed. Its gabled end projects into the yard in the middle, with a door on the ground floor, and another in the loft above it without any balcony or ladder, but with a pulley rigged over it for hoisting sacks. Those who come from this central gable end into the yard have the gateway leading to the street on their left, with a stone horse-trough just beyond it, and, on the right, a penthouse shielding a table from the weather. There are forms at the table; and on them are seated a man and a woman, both much down on their luck, finishing a meal of bread [one thick slice each, with margarine and golden syrup] and diluted milk. The man, a workman out of employment, is young, agile, a talker, a poser, sharp enough to be capable of anything in reason except honesty or altruistic considerations of any kind. The woman is a commonplace old bundle of poverty and hard-worn humanity. She looks sixty and probably is forty-five. If they were rich people, gloved and muffed and well wrapped up in furs and overcoats, they would be numbed and miserable; for it is a grindingly cold, raw, January day; and a glance at the background of grimy warehouses and leaden sky visible over the whitewashed walls of the yard would drive any idle rich person straight to the Mediterranean. But these two, being no more troubled with visions of the Mediterranean than of the moon, and being compelled to keep more of their clothes in the pawnshop, and less on their persons, in winter than in summer, are not depressed by the cold: rather are they stung into vivacity, to which their meal has just now given an almost jolly turn. The man takes a pull at his mug, and then gets up and moves about the yard with his hands deep in his pockets, occasionally breaking into a stepdance. THE WOMAN. Feel better otter your meal, sir? THE MAN. No. Call that a meal! Good enough for you, props; but wot is it to me, an intelligent workin man. THE WOMAN. Workin man! Wot are you? THE MAN. Painter. THE WOMAN [sceptically] Yus, I dessay. THE MAN. Yus, you dessay! I know. Every loafer that can't do nothink calls isself a painter. Well, I'm a real painter: grainer, finisher, thirty-eight bob a week when I can get it. THE WOMAN. Then why don't you go and get it? THE MAN. I'll tell you why. Fust: I'm intelligent--fffff! it's rotten cold here [he dances a step or two]--yes: intelligent beyond the station o life into which it has pleased the capitalists to call me; and they don't like a man that sees through em. Second, an intelligent bein needs a doo share of appiness; so I drink somethink cruel when I get the chawnce. Third, I stand by my class and do as little as I can so's to leave arf the job for me fellow workers. Fourth, I'm fly enough to know wots inside the law and wots outside it; and inside it I do as the capitalists do: pinch wot I can lay me ands on. In a proper state of society I am sober, industrious and honest: in Rome, so to speak, I do as the Romans do. Wots the consequence? When trade is bad--and it's rotten bad just now--and the employers az to sack arf their men, they generally start on me. THE WOMAN. What's your name? THE MAN. Price. Bronterre O'Brien Price. Usually called Snobby Price, for short. THE WOMAN. Snobby's a carpenter, ain't it? You said you was a painter. PRICE. Not that kind of snob, but the genteel sort. I'm too uppish, owing to my intelligence, and my father being a Chartist and a reading, thinking man: a stationer, too. I'm none of your common hewers of wood and drawers of water; and don't you forget it. [He returns to his seat at the table, and takes up his mug]. Wots YOUR name? THE WOMAN. Rummy Mitchens, sir. PRICE [quaffing the remains of his milk to her] Your elth, Miss Mitchens. RUMMY [correcting him] Missis Mitchens. PRICE. Wot! Oh Rummy, Rummy! Respectable married woman, Rummy, gittin rescued by the Salvation Army by pretendin to be a bad un. Same old game! RUMMY. What am I to do? I can't starve. Them Salvation lasses is dear good girls; but the better you are, the worse they likes to think you were before they rescued you. Why shouldn't they av a bit o credit, poor loves? They're worn to rags by their work. And where would they get the money to rescue us if we was to let on we're no worse than other people? You know what ladies and gentlemen are. PRICE. Thievin swine! Wish I ad their job, Rummy, all the same. Wot does Rummy stand for? Pet name props? RUMMY. Short for Romola. PRICE. For wot!? RUMMY. Romola. It was out of a new book. Somebody me mother wanted me to grow up like. PRICE. We're companions in misfortune, Rummy. Both on us got names that nobody cawnt pronounce. Consequently I'm Snobby and you're Rummy because Bill and Sally wasn't good enough for our parents. Such is life! RUMMY. Who saved you, Mr. Price? Was it Major Barbara? PRICE. No: I come here on my own. I'm goin to be Bronterre O'Brien Price, the converted painter. I know wot they like. I'll tell em how I blasphemed and gambled and wopped my poor old mother-- RUMMY [shocked] Used you to beat your mother? PRICE. Not likely. She used to beat me. No matter: you come and listen to the converted painter, and you'll hear how she was a pious woman that taught me me prayers at er knee, an how I used to come home drunk and drag her out o bed be er snow white airs, an lam into er with the poker. RUMMY. That's what's so unfair to us women. Your confessions is just as big lies as ours: you don't tell what you really done no more than us; but you men can tell your lies right out at the meetins and be made much of for it; while the sort o confessions we az to make az to be wispered to one lady at a time. It ain't right, spite of all their piety. PRICE. Right! Do you spose the Army'd be allowed if it went and did right? Not much. It combs our air and makes us good little blokes to be robbed and put upon. But I'll play the game as good as any of em. I'll see somebody struck by lightnin, or hear a voice sayin "Snobby Price: where will you spend eternity?" I'll ave a time of it, I tell you. RUMMY. You won't be let drink, though. PRICE. I'll take it out in gorspellin, then. I don't want to drink if I can get fun enough any other way. Jenny Hill, a pale, overwrought, pretty Salvation lass of 18, comes in through the yard gate, leading Peter Shirley, a half hardened, half worn-out elderly man, weak with hunger. JENNY [supporting him] Come! pluck up. I'll get you something to eat. You'll be all right then. PRICE [rising and hurrying officiously to take the old man off Jenny's hands] Poor old man! Cheer up, brother: you'll find rest and peace and appiness ere. Hurry up with the food, miss: e's fair done. [Jenny hurries into the shelter]. Ere, buck up, daddy! She's fetchin y'a thick slice o breadn treacle, an a mug o skyblue. [He seats him at the corner of the table]. RUMMY [gaily] Keep up your old art! Never say die! SHIRLEY. I'm not an old man. I'm ony 46. I'm as good as ever I was. The grey patch come in my hair before I was thirty. All it wants is three pennorth o hair dye: am I to be turned on the streets to starve for it? Holy God! I've worked ten to twelve hours a day since I was thirteen, and paid my way all through; and now am I to be thrown into the gutter and my job given to a young man that can do it no better than me because I've black hair that goes white at the first change? PRICE [cheerfully] No good jawrin about it. You're ony a jumped-up, jerked-off, orspittle-turned-out incurable of an ole workin man: who cares about you? Eh? Make the thievin swine give you a meal: they've stole many a one from you. Get a bit o your own back. [Jenny returns with the usual meal]. There you are, brother. Awsk a blessin an tuck that into you. SHIRLEY [looking at it ravenously but not touching it, and crying like a child] I never took anything before. JENNY [petting him] Come, come! the Lord sends it to you: he wasn't above taking bread from his friends; and why should you be? Besides, when we find you a job you can pay us for it if you like. SHIRLEY [eagerly] Yes, yes: that's true. I can pay you back: it's only a loan. [Shivering] Oh Lord! oh Lord! [He turns to the table and attacks the meal ravenously]. JENNY. Well, Rummy, are you more comfortable now? RUMMY. God bless you, lovey! You've fed my body and saved my soul, haven't you? [Jenny, touched, kisses her] Sit down and rest a bit: you must be ready to drop. JENNY. I've been going hard since morning. But there's more work than we can do. I mustn't stop. RUMMY. Try a prayer for just two minutes. You'll work all the better after. JENNY [her eyes lighting up] Oh isn't it wonderful how a few minutes prayer revives you! I was quite lightheaded at twelve o'clock, I was so tired; but Major Barbara just sent me to pray for five minutes; and I was able to go on as if I had only just begun. [To Price] Did you have a piece of bread? PAIGE [with unction] Yes, miss; but I've got the piece that I value more; and that's the peace that passeth hall hannerstennin. RUMMY [fervently] Glory Hallelujah! Bill Walker, a rough customer of about 25, appears at the yard gate and looks malevolently at Jenny. JENNY. That makes me so happy. When you say that, I feel wicked for loitering here. I must get to work again. She is hurrying to the shelter, when the new-comer moves quickly up to the door and intercepts her. His manner is so threatening that she retreats as he comes at her truculently, driving her down the yard. BILL. I know you. You're the one that took away my girl. You're the one that set er agen me. Well, I'm goin to av er out. Not that I care a curse for her or you: see? But I'll let er know; and I'll let you know. I'm goin to give er a doin that'll teach er to cut away from me. Now in with you and tell er to come out afore I come in and kick er out. Tell er Bill Walker wants er. She'll know what that means; and if she keeps me waitin it'll be worse. You stop to jaw back at me; and I'll start on you: d'ye hear? There's your way. In you go. [He takes her by the arm and slings her towards the door of the shelter. She falls on her hand and knee. Rummy helps her up again]. PRICE [rising, and venturing irresolutely towards Bill]. Easy there, mate. She ain't doin you no arm. BILL. Who are you callin mate? [Standing over him threateningly]. You're goin to stand up for her, are you? Put up your ands. RUMMY [running indignantly to him to scold him]. Oh, you great brute-- [He instantly swings his left hand back against her face. She screams and reels back to the trough, where she sits down, covering her bruised face with her hands and rocking and moaning with pain]. JENNY [going to her]. Oh God forgive you! How could you strike an old woman like that? BILL [seizing her by the hair so violently that she also screams, and tearing her away from the old woman]. You Gawd forgive me again and I'll Gawd forgive you one on the jaw that'll stop you prayin for a week. [Holding her and turning fiercely on Price]. Av you anything to say agen it? Eh? PRICE [intimidated]. No, matey: she ain't anything to do with me. BILL. Good job for you! I'd put two meals into you and fight you with one finger after, you starved cur. [To Jenny] Now are you goin to fetch out Mog Habbijam; or am I to knock your face off you and fetch her myself? JENNY [writhing in his grasp] Oh please someone go in and tell Major Barbara--[she screams again as he wrenches her head down; and Price and Rummy, flee into the shelter]. BILL. You want to go in and tell your Major of me, do you? JENNY. Oh please don't drag my hair. Let me go. BILL. Do you or don't you? [She stifles a scream]. Yes or no. JENNY. God give me strength-- BILL [striking her with his fist in the face] Go and show her that, and tell her if she wants one like it to come and interfere with me. [Jenny, crying with pain, goes into the shed. He goes to the form and addresses the old man]. Here: finish your mess; and get out o my way. SHIRLEY [springing up and facing him fiercely, with the mug in his hand] You take a liberty with me, and I'll smash you over the face with the mug and cut your eye out. Ain't you satisfied--young whelps like you--with takin the bread out o the mouths of your elders that have brought you up and slaved for you, but you must come shovin and cheekin and bullyin in here, where the bread o charity is sickenin in our stummicks? BILL [contemptuously, but backing a little] Wot good are you, you old palsy mug? Wot good are you? SHIRLEY. As good as you and better. I'll do a day's work agen you or any fat young soaker of your age. Go and take my job at Horrockses, where I worked for ten year. They want young men there: they can't afford to keep men over forty-five. They're very sorry--give you a character and happy to help you to get anything suited to your years--sure a steady man won't be long out of a job. Well, let em try you. They'll find the differ. What do you know? Not as much as how to beeyave yourself--layin your dirty fist across the mouth of a respectable woman! BILL. Don't provoke me to lay it acrost yours: d'ye hear? SHIRLEY [with blighting contempt] Yes: you like an old man to hit, don't you, when you've finished with the women. I ain't seen you hit a young one yet. BILL [stung] You lie, you old soupkitchener, you. There was a young man here. Did I offer to hit him or did I not? SHIRLEY. Was he starvin or was he not? Was he a man or only a crosseyed thief an a loafer? Would you hit my son-in-law's brother? BILL. Who's he? SHIRLEY. Todger Fairmile o Balls Pond. Him that won 20 pounds off the Japanese wrastler at the music hall by standin out 17 minutes 4 seconds agen him. BILL [sullenly] I'm no music hall wrastler. Can he box? SHIRLEY. Yes: an you can't. BILL. Wot! I can't, can't I? Wot's that you say [threatening him]? SHIRLEY [not budging an inch] Will you box Todger Fairmile if I put him on to you? Say the word. BILL. [subsiding with a slouch] I'll stand up to any man alive, if he was ten Todger Fairmiles. But I don't set up to be a perfessional. SHIRLEY [looking down on him with unfathomable disdain] YOU box! Slap an old woman with the back o your hand! You hadn't even the sense to hit her where a magistrate couldn't see the mark of it, you silly young lump of conceit and ignorance. Hit a girl in the jaw and ony make her cry! If Todger Fairmile'd done it, she wouldn't a got up inside o ten minutes, no more than you would if he got on to you. Yah! I'd set about you myself if I had a week's feedin in me instead o two months starvation. [He returns to the table to finish his meal]. BILL [following him and stooping over him to drive the taunt in] You lie! you have the bread and treacle in you that you come here to beg. SHIRLEY [bursting into tears] Oh God! it's true: I'm only an old pauper on the scrap heap. [Furiously] But you'll come to it yourself; and then you'll know. You'll come to it sooner than a teetotaller like me, fillin yourself with gin at this hour o the mornin! BILL. I'm no gin drinker, you old liar; but when I want to give my girl a bloomin good idin I like to av a bit o devil in me: see? An here I am, talkin to a rotten old blighter like you sted o givin her wot for. [Working himself into a rage] I'm goin in there to fetch her out. [He makes vengefully for the shelter door]. SHIRLEY. You're goin to the station on a stretcher, more likely; and they'll take the gin and the devil out of you there when they get you inside. You mind what you're about: the major here is the Earl o Stevenage's granddaughter. BILL [checked] Garn! SHIRLEY. You'll see. BILL [his resolution oozing] Well, I ain't done nothin to er. SHIRLEY. Spose she said you did! who'd believe you? BILL [very uneasy, skulking back to the corner of the penthouse] Gawd! There's no jastice in this country. To think wot them people can do! I'm as good as er. SHIRLEY. Tell her so. It's just what a fool like you would do. Barbara, brisk and businesslike, comes from the shelter with a note book, and addresses herself to Shirley. Bill, cowed, sits down in the corner on a form, and turns his back on them. BARBARA. Good morning. SHIRLEY [standing up and taking off his hat] Good morning, miss. BARBARA. Sit down: make yourself at home. [He hesitates; but she puts a friendly hand on his shoulder and makes him obey]. Now then! since you've made friends with us, we want to know all about you. Names and addresses and trades. SHIRLEY. Peter Shirley. Fitter. Chucked out two months ago because I was too old. BARBARA [not at all surprised] You'd pass still. Why didn't you dye your hair? SHIRLEY. I did. Me age come out at a coroner's inquest on me daughter. BARBARA. Steady? SHIRLEY. Teetotaller. Never out of a job before. Good worker. And sent to the knockers like an old horse! BARBARA. No matter: if you did your part God will do his. SHIRLEY [suddenly stubborn] My religion's no concern of anybody but myself. BARBARA [guessing] I know. Secularist? SHIRLEY [hotly] Did I offer to deny it? BARBARA. Why should you? My own father's a Secularist, I think. Our Father--yours and mine--fulfils himself in many ways; and I daresay he knew what he was about when he made a Secularist of you. So buck up, Peter! we can always find a job for a steady man like you. [Shirley, disarmed, touches his hat. She turns from him to Bill]. What's your name? BILL [insolently] Wot's that to you? BARBARA [calmly making a note] Afraid to give his name. Any trade? BILL. Who's afraid to give his name? [Doggedly, with a sense of heroically defying the House of Lords in the person of Lord Stevenage] If you want to bring a charge agen me, bring it. [She waits, unruffled]. My name's Bill Walker. BARBARA [as if the name were familiar: trying to remember how] Bill Walker? [Recollecting] Oh, I know: you're the man that Jenny Hill was praying for inside just now. [She enters his name in her note book]. BILL. Who's Jenny Hill? And what call has she to pray for me? BARBARA. I don't know. Perhaps it was you that cut her lip. BILL [defiantly] Yes, it was me that cut her lip. I ain't afraid o you. BARBARA. How could you be, since you're not afraid of God? You're a brave man, Mr. Walker. It takes some pluck to do our work here; but none of us dare lift our hand against a girl like that, for fear of her father in heaven. BILL [sullenly] I want none o your cantin jaw. I suppose you think I come here to beg from you, like this damaged lot here. Not me. I don't want your bread and scrape and catlap. I don't believe in your Gawd, no more than you do yourself. BARBARA [sunnily apologetic and ladylike, as on a new footing with him] Oh, I beg your pardon for putting your name down, Mr. Walker. I didn't understand. I'll strike it out. BILL [taking this as a slight, and deeply wounded by it] Eah! you let my name alone. Ain't it good enough to be in your book? BARBARA [considering] Well, you see, there's no use putting down your name unless I can do something for you, is there? What's your trade? BILL [still smarting] That's no concern o yours. BARBARA. Just so. [very businesslike] I'll put you down as [writing] the man who--struck--poor little Jenny Hill--in the mouth. BILL [rising threateningly] See here. I've ad enough o this. BARBARA [quite sunny and fearless] What did you come to us for? BILL. I come for my girl, see? I come to take her out o this and to break er jaws for her. BARBARA [complacently] You see I was right about your trade. [Bill, on the point of retorting furiously, finds himself, to his great shame and terror, in danger of crying instead. He sits down again suddenly]. What's her name? BILL [dogged] Er name's Mog Abbijam: thats wot her name is. BARBARA. Oh, she's gone to Canning Town, to our barracks there. BILL [fortified by his resentment of Mog's perfidy] is she? [Vindictively] Then I'm goin to Kennintahn arter her. [He crosses to the gate; hesitates; finally comes back at Barbara]. Are you lyin to me to get shut o me? BARBARA. I don't want to get shut of you. I want to keep you here and save your soul. You'd better stay: you're going to have a bad time today, Bill. BILL. Who's goin to give it to me? You, props. BARBARA. Someone you don't believe in. But you'll be glad afterwards. BILL [slinking off] I'll go to Kennintahn to be out o the reach o your tongue. [Suddenly turning on her with intense malice] And if I don't find Mog there, I'll come back and do two years for you, selp me Gawd if I don't! BARBARA [a shade kindlier, if possible] It's no use, Bill. She's got another bloke. BILL. Wot! BARBARA. One of her own converts. He fell in love with her when he saw her with her soul saved, and her face clean, and her hair washed. BILL [surprised] Wottud she wash it for, the carroty slut? It's red. BARBARA. It's quite lovely now, because she wears a new look in her eyes with it. It's a pity you're too late. The new bloke has put your nose out of joint, Bill. BILL. I'll put his nose out o joint for him. Not that I care a curse for her, mind that. But I'll teach her to drop me as if I was dirt. And I'll teach him to meddle with my Judy. Wots iz bleedin name? BARBARA. Sergeant Todger Fairmile. SHIRLEY [rising with grim joy] I'll go with him, miss. I want to see them two meet. I'll take him to the infirmary when it's over. BILL [to Shirley, with undissembled misgiving] Is that im you was speakin on? SHIRLEY. That's him. BILL. Im that wrastled in the music all? SHIRLEY. The competitions at the National Sportin Club was worth nigh a hundred a year to him. He's gev em up now for religion; so he's a bit fresh for want of the exercise he was accustomed to. He'll be glad to see you. Come along. BILL. Wots is weight? SHIRLEY. Thirteen four. [Bill's last hope expires]. BARBARA. Go and talk to him, Bill. He'll convert you. SHIRLEY. He'll convert your head into a mashed potato. BILL [sullenly] I ain't afraid of him. I ain't afraid of ennybody. But he can lick me. She's done me. [He sits down moodily on the edge of the horse trough]. SHIRLEY. You ain't goin. I thought not. [He resumes his seat]. BARBARA [calling] Jenny! JENNY [appearing at the shelter door with a plaster on the corner of her mouth] Yes, Major. BARBARA. Send Rummy Mitchens out to clear away here. JENNY. I think she's afraid. BARBARA [her resemblance to her mother flashing out for a moment] Nonsense! she must do as she's told. JENNY [calling into the shelter] Rummy: the Major says you must come. Jenny comes to Barbara, purposely keeping on the side next Bill, lest he should suppose that she shrank from him or bore malice. BARBARA. Poor little Jenny! Are you tired? [Looking at the wounded cheek] Does it hurt? JENNY. No: it's all right now. It was nothing. BARBARA [critically] It was as hard as he could hit, I expect. Poor Bill! You don't feel angry with him, do you? JENNY. Oh no, no, no: indeed I don't, Major, bless his poor heart! [Barbara kisses her; and she runs away merrily into the shelter. Bill writhes with an agonizing return of his new and alarming symptoms, but says nothing. Rummy Mitchens comes from the shelter]. BARBARA [going to meet Rummy] Now Rummy, bustle. Take in those mugs and plates to be washed; and throw the crumbs about for the birds. Rummy takes the three plates and mugs; but Shirley takes back his mug from her, as there it still come milk left in it. RUMMY. There ain't any crumbs. This ain't a time to waste good bread on birds. PRICE [appearing at the shelter door] Gentleman come to see the shelter, Major. Says he's your father. BARBARA. All right. Coming. [Snobby goes back into the shelter, followed by Barbara]. RUMMY [stealing across to Bill and addressing him in a subdued voice, but with intense conviction] I'd av the lor of you, you flat eared pignosed potwalloper, if she'd let me. You're no gentleman, to hit a lady in the face. [Bill, with greater things moving in him, takes no notice]. SHIRLEY [following her] Here! in with you and don't get yourself into more trouble by talking. RUMMY [with hauteur] I ain't ad the pleasure o being hintroduced to you, as I can remember. [She goes into the shelter with the plates]. BILL [savagely] Don't you talk to me, d'ye hear. You lea me alone, or I'll do you a mischief. I'm not dirt under your feet, anyway. SHIRLEY [calmly] Don't you be afeerd. You ain't such prime company that you need expect to be sought after. [He is about to go into the shelter when Barbara comes out, with Undershaft on her right]. BARBARA. Oh there you are, Mr Shirley! [Between them] This is my father: I told you he was a Secularist, didn't I? Perhaps you'll be able to comfort one another. UNDERSHAFT [startled] A Secularist! Not the least in the world: on the contrary, a confirmed mystic. BARBARA. Sorry, I'm sure. By the way, papa, what is your religion--in case I have to introduce you again? UNDERSHAFT. My religion? Well, my dear, I am a Millionaire. That is my religion. BARBARA. Then I'm afraid you and Mr Shirley wont be able to comfort one another after all. You're not a Millionaire, are you, Peter? SHIRLEY. No; and proud of it. UNDERSHAFT [gravely] Poverty, my friend, is not a thing to be proud of. SHIRLEY [angrily] Who made your millions for you? Me and my like. What's kep us poor? Keepin you rich. I wouldn't have your conscience, not for all your income. UNDERSHAFT. I wouldn't have your income, not for all your conscience, Mr Shirley. [He goes to the penthouse and sits down on a form]. BARBARA [stopping Shirley adroitly as he is about to retort] You wouldn't think he was my father, would you, Peter? Will you go into the shelter and lend the lasses a hand for a while: we're worked off our feet. SHIRLEY [bitterly] Yes: I'm in their debt for a meal, ain't I? BARBARA. Oh, not because you're in their debt; but for love of them, Peter, for love of them. [He cannot understand, and is rather scandalized]. There! Don't stare at me. In with you; and give that conscience of yours a holiday [bustling him into the shelter]. SHIRLEY [as he goes in] Ah! it's a pity you never was trained to use your reason, miss. You'd have been a very taking lecturer on Secularism. Barbara turns to her father. UNDERSHAFT. Never mind me, my dear. Go about your work; and let me watch it for a while. BARBARA. All right. UNDERSHAFT. For instance, what's the matter with that out-patient over there? BARBARA [looking at Bill, whose attitude has never changed, and whose expression of brooding wrath has deepened] Oh, we shall cure him in no time. Just watch. [She goes over to Bill and waits. He glances up at her and casts his eyes down again, uneasy, but grimmer than ever]. It would be nice to just stamp on Mog Habbijam's face, wouldn't it, Bill? BILL [starting up from the trough in consternation] It's a lie: I never said so. [She shakes her head]. Who told you wot was in my mind? BARBARA. Only your new friend. BILL. Wot new friend? BARBARA. The devil, Bill. When he gets round people they get miserable, just like you. HILL [with a heartbreaking attempt at devil-may-care cheerfulness] I ain't miserable. [He sits down again, and stretches his legs in an attempt to seem indifferent]. BARBARA. Well, if you're happy, why don't you look happy, as we do? BILL [his legs curling back in spite of him] I'm appy enough, I tell you. Why don't you lea me alown? Wot av I done to you? I ain't smashed your face, av I? BARBARA [softly: wooing his soul] It's not me that's getting at you, Bill. BILL. Who else is it? BARBARA. Somebody that doesn't intend you to smash women's faces, I suppose. Somebody or something that wants to make a man of you. BILL [blustering] Make a man o ME! Ain't I a man? eh? ain't I a man? Who sez I'm not a man? BARBARA. There's a man in you somewhere, I suppose. But why did he let you hit poor little Jenny Hill? That wasn't very manly of him, was it? BILL [tormented] Av done with it, I tell you. Chock it. I'm sick of your Jenny Ill and er silly little face. BARBARA. Then why do you keep thinking about it? Why does it keep coming up against you in your mind? You're not getting converted, are you? BILL [with conviction] Not ME. Not likely. Not arf. BARBARA. That's right, Bill. Hold out against it. Put out your strength. Don't let's get you cheap. Todger Fairmile said he wrestled for three nights against his Salvation harder than he ever wrestled with the Jap at the music hall. He gave in to the Jap when his arm was going to break. But he didn't give in to his salvation until his heart was going to break. Perhaps you'll escape that. You haven't any heart, have you? BILL. Wot dye mean? Wy ain't I got a art the same as ennybody else? BARBARA. A man with a heart wouldn't have bashed poor little Jenny's face, would he? BILL [almost crying] Ow, will you lea me alown? Av I ever offered to meddle with you, that you come noggin and provowkin me lawk this? [He writhes convulsively from his eyes to his toes]. BARBARA [with a steady soothing hand on his arm and a gentle voice that never lets him go] It's your soul that's hurting you, Bill, and not me. We've been through it all ourselves. Come with us, Bill. [He looks wildly round]. To brave manhood on earth and eternal glory in heaven. [He is on the point of breaking down]. Come. [A drum is heard in the shelter; and Bill, with a gasp, escapes from the spell as Barbara turns quickly. Adolphus enters from the shelter with a big drum]. Oh! there you are, Dolly. Let me introduce a new friend of mine, Mr Bill Walker. This is my bloke, Bill: Mr Cusins. [Cusins salutes with his drumstick]. BILL. Goin to marry im? BARBARA. Yes. BILL [fervently] Gawd elp im! Gawd elp im! BARBARA. Why? Do you think he won't be happy with me? BILL. I've only ad to stand it for a mornin: e'll av to stand it for a lifetime. CUSINS. That is a frightful reflection, Mr Walker. But I can't tear myself away from her. BILL. Well, I can. [To Barbara] Eah! do you know where I'm goin to, and wot I'm goin to do? BARBARA. Yes: you're going to heaven; and you're coming back here before the week's out to tell me so. BILL. You lie. I'm goin to Kennintahn, to spit in Todger Fairmile's eye. I bashed Jenny Ill's face; and now I'll get me own face bashed and come back and show it to er. E'll it me ardern I it er. That'll make us square. [To Adolphus] Is that fair or is it not? You're a genlmn: you oughter know. BARBARA. Two black eyes wont make one white one, Bill. BILL. I didn't ast you. Cawn't you never keep your mahth shut? I ast the genlmn. CUSINS [reflectively] Yes: I think you're right, Mr Walker. Yes: I should do it. It's curious: it's exactly what an ancient Greek would have done. BARBARA. But what good will it do? CUSINS. Well, it will give Mr Fairmile some exercise; and it will satisfy Mr Walker's soul. BILL. Rot! there ain't no sach a thing as a soul. Ah kin you tell wether I've a soul or not? You never seen it. BARBARA. I've seen it hurting you when you went against it. BILL [with compressed aggravation] If you was my girl and took the word out o me mahth lawk thet, I'd give you suthink you'd feel urtin, so I would. [To Adolphus] You take my tip, mate. Stop er jawr; or you'll die afore your time. [With intense expression] Wore aht: thets wot you'll be: wore aht. [He goes away through the gate]. CUSINS [looking after him] I wonder! BARBARA. Dolly! [indignant, in her mother's manner]. CUSINS. Yes, my dear, it's very wearing to be in love with you. If it lasts, I quite think I shall die young. BARBARA. Should you mind? CUSINS. Not at all. [He is suddenly softened, and kisses her over the drum, evidently not for the first time, as people cannot kiss over a big drum without practice. Undershaft coughs]. BARBARA. It's all right, papa, we've not forgotten you. Dolly: explain the place to papa: I haven't time. [She goes busily into the shelter]. Undershaft and Adolpbus now have the yard to themselves. Undershaft, seated on a form, and still keenly attentive, looks hard at Adolphus. Adolphus looks hard at him. UNDERSHAFT. I fancy you guess something of what is in my mind, Mr Cusins. [Cusins flourishes his drumsticks as if in the art of beating a lively rataplan, but makes no sound]. Exactly so. But suppose Barbara finds you out! CUSINS. You know, I do not admit that I am imposing on Barbara. I am quite genuinely interested in the views of the Salvation Army. The fact is, I am a sort of collector of religions; and the curious thing is that I find I can believe them all. By the way, have you any religion? UNDERSHAFT. Yes. CUSINS. Anything out of the common? UNDERSHAFT. Only that there are two things necessary to Salvation. CUSINS [disappointed, but polite] Ah, the Church Catechism. Charles Lomax also belongs to the Established Church. UNDERSHAFT. The two things are-- CUSINS. Baptism and-- UNDERSHAFT. No. Money and gunpowder. CUSINS [surprised, but interested] That is the general opinion of our governing classes. The novelty is in hearing any man confess it. UNDERSHAFT. Just so. CUSINS. Excuse me: is there any place in your religion for honor, justice, truth, love, mercy and so forth? UNDERSHAFT. Yes: they are the graces and luxuries of a rich, strong, and safe life. CUSINS. Suppose one is forced to choose between them and money or gunpowder? UNDERSHAFT. Choose money and gunpowder; for without enough of both you cannot afford the others. CUSINS. That is your religion? UNDERSHAFT. Yes. The cadence of this reply makes a full close in the conversation. Cusins twists his face dubiously and contemplates Undershaft. Undershaft contemplates him. CUSINS. Barbara won't stand that. You will have to choose between your religion and Barbara. UNDERSHAFT. So will you, my friend. She will find out that that drum of yours is hollow. CUSINS. Father Undershaft: you are mistaken: I am a sincere Salvationist. You do not understand the Salvation Army. It is the army of joy, of love, of courage: it has banished the fear and remorse and despair of the old hellridden evangelical sects: it marches to fight the devil with trumpet and drum, with music and dancing, with banner and palm, as becomes a sally from heaven by its happy garrison. It picks the waster out of the public house and makes a man of him: it finds a worm wriggling in a back kitchen, and lo! a woman! Men and women of rank too, sons and daughters of the Highest. It takes the poor professor of Greek, the most artificial and self-suppressed of human creatures, from his meal of roots, and lets loose the rhapsodist in him; reveals the true worship of Dionysos to him; sends him down the public street drumming dithyrambs [he plays a thundering flourish on the drum]. UNDERSHAFT. You will alarm the shelter. CUSINS. Oh, they are accustomed to these sudden ecstasies of piety. However, if the drum worries you-- [he pockets the drumsticks; unhooks the drum; and stands it on the ground opposite the gateway]. UNDERSHAFT. Thank you. CUSINS. You remember what Euripides says about your money and gunpowder? UNDERSHAFT. No. CUSINS [declaiming] One and another In money and guns may outpass his brother; And men in their millions float and flow And seethe with a million hopes as leaven; And they win their will; or they miss their will; And their hopes are dead or are pined for still: But whoe'er can know As the long days go That to live is happy, has found his heaven. My translation: what do you think of it? UNDERSHAFT. I think, my friend, that if you wish to know, as the long days go, that to live is happy, you must first acquire money enough for a decent life, and power enough to be your own master. CUSINS. You are damnably discouraging. [He resumes his declamation]. Is it so hard a thing to see That the spirit of God--whate'er it be-- The Law that abides and changes not, ages long, The Eternal and Nature-born: these things be strong. What else is Wisdom? What of Man's endeavor, Or God's high grace so lovely and so great? To stand from fear set free? to breathe and wait? To hold a hand uplifted over Fate? And shall not Barbara be loved for ever? UNDERSHAFT. Euripides mentions Barbara, does he? CUSINS. It is a fair translation. The word means Loveliness. UNDERSHAFT. May I ask--as Barbara's father--how much a year she is to be loved for ever on? CUSINS. As Barbara's father, that is more your affair than mine. I can feed her by teaching Greek: that is about all. UNDERSHAFT. Do you consider it a good match for her? CUSINS [with polite obstinacy] Mr Undershaft: I am in many ways a weak, timid, ineffectual person; and my health is far from satisfactory. But whenever I feel that I must have anything, I get it, sooner or later. I feel that way about Barbara. I don't like marriage: I feel intensely afraid of it; and I don't know what I shall do with Barbara or what she will do with me. But I feel that I and nobody else must marry her. Please regard that as settled.--Not that I wish to be arbitrary; but why should I waste your time in discussing what is inevitable? UNDERSHAFT. You mean that you will stick at nothing not even the conversion of the Salvation Army to the worship of Dionysos. CUSINS. The business of the Salvation Army is to save, not to wrangle about the name of the pathfinder. Dionysos or another: what does it matter? UNDERSHAFT [rising and approaching him] Professor Cusins you are a young man after my own heart. CUSINS. Mr Undershaft: you are, as far as I am able to gather, a most infernal old rascal; but you appeal very strongly to my sense of ironic humor. Undershaft mutely offers his hand. They shake. UNDERSHAFT [suddenly concentrating himself] And now to business. CUSINS. Pardon me. We were discussing religion. Why go back to such an uninteresting and unimportant subject as business? UNDERSHAFT. Religion is our business at present, because it is through religion alone that we can win Barbara. CUSINS. Have you, too, fallen in love with Barbara? UNDERSHAFT. Yes, with a father's love. CUSINS. A father's love for a grown-up daughter is the most dangerous of all infatuations. I apologize for mentioning my own pale, coy, mistrustful fancy in the same breath with it. UNDERSHAFT. Keep to the point. We have to win her; and we are neither of us Methodists. CUSINS. That doesn't matter. The power Barbara wields here--the power that wields Barbara herself--is not Calvinism, not Presbyterianism, not Methodism-- UNDERSHAFT. Not Greek Paganism either, eh? CUSINS. I admit that. Barbara is quite original in her religion. UNDERSHAFT [triumphantly] Aha! Barbara Undershaft would be. Her inspiration comes from within herself. CUSINS. How do you suppose it got there? UNDERSHAFT [in towering excitement] It is the Undershaft inheritance. I shall hand on my torch to my daughter. She shall make my converts and preach my gospel. CUSINS. What! Money and gunpowder! UNDERSHAFT. Yes, money and gunpowder; freedom and power; command of life and command of death. CUSINS [urbanely: trying to bring him down to earth] This is extremely interesting, Mr Undershaft. Of course you know that you are mad. UNDERSHAFT [with redoubled force] And you? CUSINS. Oh, mad as a hatter. You are welcome to my secret since I have discovered yours. But I am astonished. Can a madman make cannons? UNDERSHAFT. Would anyone else than a madman make them? And now [with surging energy] question for question. Can a sane man translate Euripides? CUSINS. No. UNDERSHAFT [reining him by the shoulder] Can a sane woman make a man of a waster or a woman of a worm? CUSINS [reeling before the storm] Father Colossus--Mammoth Millionaire-- UNDERSHAFT [pressing him] Are there two mad people or three in this Salvation shelter to-day? CUSINS. You mean Barbara is as mad as we are! UNDERSHAFT [pushing him lightly off and resuming his equanimity suddenly and completely] Pooh, Professor! let us call things by their proper names. I am a millionaire; you are a poet; Barbara is a savior of souls. What have we three to do with the common mob of slaves and idolaters? [He sits down again with a shrug of contempt for the mob]. CUSINS. Take care! Barbara is in love with the common people. So am I. Have you never felt the romance of that love? UNDERSHAFT [cold and sardonic] Have you ever been in love with Poverty, like St Francis? Have you ever been in love with Dirt, like St Simeon? Have you ever been in love with disease and suffering, like our nurses and philanthropists? Such passions are not virtues, but the most unnatural of all the vices. This love of the common people may please an earl's granddaughter and a university professor; but I have been a common man and a poor man; and it has no romance for me. Leave it to the poor to pretend that poverty is a blessing: leave it to the coward to make a religion of his cowardice by preaching humility: we know better than that. We three must stand together above the common people: how else can we help their children to climb up beside us? Barbara must belong to us, not to the Salvation Army. CUSINS. Well, I can only say that if you think you will get her away from the Salvation Army by talking to her as you have been talking to me, you don't know Barbara. UNDERSHAFT. My friend: I never ask for what I can buy. CUSINS [in a white fury] Do I understand you to imply that you can buy Barbara? UNDERSHAFT. No; but I can buy the Salvation Army. CUSINS. Quite impossible. UNDERSHAFT. You shall see. All religious organizations exist by selling themselves to the rich. CUSINS. Not the Army. That is the Church of the poor. UNDERSHAFT. All the more reason for buying it. CUSINS. I don't think you quite know what the Army does for the poor. UNDERSHAFT. Oh yes I do. It draws their teeth: that is enough for me--as a man of business-- CUSINS. Nonsense! It makes them sober-- UNDERSHAFT. I prefer sober workmen. The profits are larger. CUSINS. --honest-- UNDERSHAFT. Honest workmen are the most economical. CUSINS. --attached to their homes-- UNDERSHAFT. So much the better: they will put up with anything sooner than change their shop. CUSINS. --happy-- UNDERSHAFT. An invaluable safeguard against revolution. CUSINS. --unselfish-- UNDERSHAFT. Indifferent to their own interests, which suits me exactly. CUSINS. --with their thoughts on heavenly things-- UNDERSHAFT [rising] And not on Trade Unionism nor Socialism. Excellent. CUSINS [revolted] You really are an infernal old rascal. UNDERSHAFT [indicating Peter Shirley, who has just came from the shelter and strolled dejectedly down the yard between them] And this is an honest man! SHIRLEY. Yes; and what av I got by it? [he passes on bitterly and sits on the form, in the corner of the penthouse]. Snobby Price, beaming sanctimoniously, and Jenny Hill, with a tambourine full of coppers, come from the shelter and go to the drum, on which Jenny begins to count the money. UNDERSHAFT [replying to Shirley] Oh, your employers must have got a good deal by it from first to last. [He sits on the table, with one foot on the side form. Cusins, overwhelmed, sits down on the same form nearer the shelter. Barbara comes from the shelter to the middle of the yard. She is excited and a little overwrought]. BARBARA. We've just had a splendid experience meeting at the other gate in Cripps's lane. I've hardly ever seen them so much moved as they were by your confession, Mr Price. PRICE. I could almost be glad of my past wickedness if I could believe that it would elp to keep hathers stright. BARBARA. So it will, Snobby. How much, Jenny? JENNY. Four and tenpence, Major. BARBARA. Oh Snobby, if you had given your poor mother just one more kick, we should have got the whole five shillings! PRICE. If she heard you say that, miss, she'd be sorry I didn't. But I'm glad. Oh what a joy it will be to her when she hears I'm saved! UNDERSHAFT. Shall I contribute the odd twopence, Barbara? The millionaire's mite, eh? [He takes a couple of pennies from his pocket.] BARBARA. How did you make that twopence? UNDERSHAFT. As usual. By selling cannons, torpedoes, submarines, and my new patent Grand Duke hand grenade. BARBARA. Put it back in your pocket. You can't buy your Salvation here for twopence: you must work it out. UNDERSHAFT. Is twopence not enough? I can afford a little more, if you press me. BARBARA. Two million millions would not be enough. There is bad blood on your hands; and nothing but good blood can cleanse them. Money is no use. Take it away. [She turns to Cusins]. Dolly: you must write another letter for me to the papers. [He makes a wry face]. Yes: I know you don't like it; but it must be done. The starvation this winter is beating us: everybody is unemployed. The General says we must close this shelter if we cant get more money. I force the collections at the meetings until I am ashamed, don't I, Snobby? PRICE. It's a fair treat to see you work it, miss. The way you got them up from three-and-six to four-and-ten with that hymn, penny by penny and verse by verse, was a caution. Not a Cheap Jack on Mile End Waste could touch you at it. BARBARA. Yes; but I wish we could do without it. I am getting at last to think more of the collection than of the people's souls. And what are those hatfuls of pence and halfpence? We want thousands! tens of thousands! hundreds of thousands! I want to convert people, not to be always begging for the Army in a way I'd die sooner than beg for myself. UNDERSHAFT [in profound irony] Genuine unselfishness is capable of anything, my dear. BARBARA [unsuspectingly, as she turns away to take the money from the drum and put it in a cash bag she carries] Yes, isn't it? [Undershaft looks sardonically at Cusins]. CUSINS [aside to Undershaft] Mephistopheles! Machiavelli! BARBARA [tears coming into her eyes as she ties the bag and pockets it] How are we to feed them? I can't talk religion to a man with bodily hunger in his eyes. [Almost breaking down] It's frightful. JENNY [running to her] Major, dear-- BARBARA [rebounding] No: don't comfort me. It will be all right. We shall get the money. UNDERSHAFT. How? JENNY. By praying for it, of course. Mrs Baines says she prayed for it last night; and she has never prayed for it in vain: never once. [She goes to the gate and looks out into the street]. BARBARA [who has dried her eyes and regained her composure] By the way, dad, Mrs Baines has come to march with us to our big meeting this afternoon; and she is very anxious to meet you, for some reason or other. Perhaps she'll convert you. UNDERSHAFT. I shall be delighted, my dear. JENNY [at the gate: excitedly] Major! Major! Here's that man back again. BARBARA. What man? JENNY. The man that hit me. Oh, I hope he's coming back to join us. Bill Walker, with frost on his jacket, comes through the gate, his hands deep in his pockets and his chin sunk between his shoulders, like a cleaned-out gambler. He halts between Barbara and the drum. BARBARA. Hullo, Bill! Back already! BILL [nagging at her] Bin talkin ever sense, av you? BARBARA. Pretty nearly. Well, has Todger paid you out for poor Jenny's jaw? BILL. NO he ain't. BARBARA. I thought your jacket looked a bit snowy. BILL. So it is snowy. You want to know where the snow come from, don't you? BARBARA. Yes. BILL. Well, it come from off the ground in Parkinses Corner in Kennintahn. It got rubbed off be my shoulders see? BARBARA. Pity you didn't rub some off with your knees, Bill! That would have done you a lot of good. BILL [with your mirthless humor] I was saving another man's knees at the time. E was kneelin on my ed, so e was. JENNY. Who was kneeling on your head? BILL. Todger was. E was prayin for me: prayin comfortable with me as a carpet. So was Mog. So was the ole bloomin meetin. Mog she sez "O Lord break is stubborn spirit; but don't urt is dear art." That was wot she said. "Don't urt is dear art"! An er bloke--thirteen stun four!--kneelin wiv all is weight on me. Funny, ain't it? JENNY. Oh no. We're so sorry, Mr Walker. BARBARA [enjoying it frankly] Nonsense! of course it's funny. Served you right, Bill! You must have done something to him first. BILL [doggedly] I did wot I said I'd do. I spit in is eye. E looks up at the sky and sez, "O that I should be fahnd worthy to be spit upon for the gospel's sake!" a sez; an Mog sez "Glory Allelloolier!"; an then a called me Brother, an dahned me as if I was a kid and a was me mother washin me a Setterda nawt. I adn't just no show wiv im at all. Arf the street prayed; an the tother arf larfed fit to split theirselves. [To Barbara] There! are you settisfawd nah? BARBARA [her eyes dancing] Wish I'd been there, Bill. BILL. Yes: you'd a got in a hextra bit o talk on me, wouldn't you? JENNY. I'm so sorry, Mr. Walker. BILL [fiercely] Don't you go bein sorry for me: you've no call. Listen ere. I broke your jawr. JENNY. No, it didn't hurt me: indeed it didn't, except for a moment. It was only that I was frightened. BILL. I don't want to be forgive be you, or be ennybody. Wot I did I'll pay for. I tried to get me own jawr broke to settisfaw you-- JENNY [distressed] Oh no-- BILL [impatiently] Tell y'I did: cawn't you listen to wot's bein told you? All I got be it was bein made a sight of in the public street for me pains. Well, if I cawn't settisfaw you one way, I can another. Listen ere! I ad two quid saved agen the frost; an I've a pahnd of it left. A mate n mine last week ad words with the Judy e's goin to marry. E give er wot-for; an e's bin fined fifteen bob. E ad a right to it er because they was goin to be marrid; but I adn't no right to it you; so put anather fawv bob on an call it a pahnd's worth. [He produces a sovereign]. Ere's the money. Take it; and let's av no more o your forgivin an prayin and your Major jawrin me. Let wot I done be done and paid for; and let there be a end of it. JENNY. Oh, I couldn't take it, Mr. Walker. But if you would give a shilling or two to poor Rummy Mitchens! you really did hurt her; and she's old. BILL [contemptuously] Not likely. I'd give her anather as soon as look at er. Let her av the lawr o me as she threatened! She ain't forgiven me: not mach. Wot I done to er is not on me mawnd--wot she [indicating Barbara] might call on me conscience--no more than stickin a pig. It's this Christian game o yours that I won't av played agen me: this bloomin forgivin an noggin an jawrin that makes a man that sore that iz lawf's a burdn to im. I won't av it, I tell you; so take your money and stop throwin your silly bashed face hup agen me. JENNY. Major: may I take a little of it for the Army? BARBARA. No: the Army is not to be bought. We want your soul, Bill; and we'll take nothing less. BILL [bitterly] I know. It ain't enough. Me an me few shillins is not good enough for you. You're a earl's grendorter, you are. Nothin less than a underd pahnd for you. UNDERSHAFT. Come, Barbara! you could do a great deal of good with a hundred pounds. If you will set this gentleman's mind at ease by taking his pound, I will give the other ninety-nine [Bill, astounded by such opulence, instinctively touches his cap]. BARBARA. Oh, you're too extravagant, papa. Bill offers twenty pieces of silver. All you need offer is the other ten. That will make the standard price to buy anybody who's for sale. I'm not; and the Army's not. [To Bill] You'll never have another quiet moment, Bill, until you come round to us. You can't stand out against your salvation. BILL [sullenly] I cawn't stend aht agen music all wrastlers and artful tongued women. I've offered to pay. I can do no more. Take it or leave it. There it is. [He throws the sovereign on the drum, and sits down on the horse-trough. The coin fascinates Snobby Price, who takes an early opportunity of dropping his cap on it]. Mrs Baines comes from the shelter. She is dressed as a Salvation Army Commissioner. She is an earnest looking woman of about 40, with a caressing, urgent voice, and an appealing manner. BARBARA. This is my father, Mrs Baines. [Undershaft comes from the table, taking his hat off with marked civility]. Try what you can do with him. He won't listen to me, because he remembers what a fool I was when I was a baby. [She leaves them together and chats with Jenny]. MRS BAINES. Have you been shown over the shelter, Mr Undershaft? You know the work we're doing, of course. UNDERSHAFT [very civilly] The whole nation knows it, Mrs Baines. MRS BAINES. No, Sir: the whole nation does not know it, or we should not be crippled as we are for want of money to carry our work through the length and breadth of the land. Let me tell you that there would have been rioting this winter in London but for us. UNDERSHAFT. You really think so? MRS BAINES. I know it. I remember 1886, when you rich gentlemen hardened your hearts against the cry of the poor. They broke the windows of your clubs in Pall Mall. UNDERSHAFT [gleaming with approval of their method] And the Mansion House Fund went up next day from thirty thousand pounds to seventy-nine thousand! I remember quite well. MRS BAINES. Well, won't you help me to get at the people? They won't break windows then. Come here, Price. Let me show you to this gentleman [Price comes to be inspected]. Do you remember the window breaking? PRICE. My ole father thought it was the revolution, ma'am. MRS BAINES. Would you break windows now? PRICE. Oh no ma'm. The windows of eaven av bin opened to me. I know now that the rich man is a sinner like myself. RUMMY [appearing above at the loft door] Snobby Price! SNOBBY. Wot is it? RUMMY. Your mother's askin for you at the other gate in Crippses Lane. She's heard about your confession [Price turns pale]. MRS BAINES. Go, Mr. Price; and pray with her. JENNY. You can go through the shelter, Snobby. PRICE [to Mrs Baines] I couldn't face her now; ma'am, with all the weight of my sins fresh on me. Tell her she'll find her son at ome, waitin for her in prayer. [He skulks off through the gate, incidentally stealing the sovereign on his way out by picking up his cap from the drum]. MRS BAINES [with swimming eyes] You see how we take the anger and the bitterness against you out of their hearts, Mr Undershaft. UNDERSHAFT. It is certainly most convenient and gratifying to all large employers of labor, Mrs Baines. MRS BAINES. Barbara: Jenny: I have good news: most wonderful news. [Jenny runs to her]. My prayers have been answered. I told you they would, Jenny, didn't I? JENNY. Yes, yes. BARBARA [moving nearer to the drum] Have we got money enough to keep the shelter open? MRS BAINES. I hope we shall have enough to keep all the shelters open. Lord Saxmundham has promised us five thousand pounds-- BARBARA. Hooray! JENNY. Glory! MRS BAINES. --if-- BARBARA. "If!" If what? MRS BAINES. If five other gentlemen will give a thousand each to make it up to ten thousand. BARBARA. Who is Lord Saxmundham? I never heard of him. UNDERSHAFT [who has pricked up his ears at the peer's name, and is now watching Barbara curiously] A new creation, my dear. You have heard of Sir Horace Bodger? BARBARA. Bodger! Do you mean the distiller? Bodger's whisky! UNDERSHAFT. That is the man. He is one of the greatest of our public benefactors. He restored the cathedral at Hakington. They made him a baronet for that. He gave half a million to the funds of his party: they made him a baron for that. SHIRLEY. What will they give him for the five thousand? UNDERSHAFT. There is nothing left to give him. So the five thousand, I should think, is to save his soul. MRS BAINES. Heaven grant it may! Oh Mr. Undershaft, you have some very rich friends. Can't you help us towards the other five thousand? We are going to hold a great meeting this afternoon at the Assembly Hall in the Mile End Road. If I could only announce that one gentleman had come forward to support Lord Saxmundham, others would follow. Don't you know somebody? Couldn't you? Wouldn't you? [her eyes fill with tears] oh, think of those poor people, Mr Undershaft: think of how much it means to them, and how little to a great man like you. UNDERSHAFT [sardonically gallant] Mrs Baines: you are irresistible. I can't disappoint you; and I can't deny myself the satisfaction of making Bodger pay up. You shall have your five thousand pounds. MRS BAINES. Thank God! UNDERSHAFT. You don't thank me? MRS BAINES. Oh sir, don't try to be cynical: don't be ashamed of being a good man. The Lord will bless you abundantly; and our prayers will be like a strong fortification round you all the days of your life. [With a touch of caution] You will let me have the cheque to show at the meeting, won't you? Jenny: go in and fetch a pen and ink. [Jenny runs to the shelter door]. UNDERSHAFT. Do not disturb Miss Hill: I have a fountain pen. [Jenny halts. He sits at the table and writes the cheque. Cusins rises to make more room for him. They all watch him silently]. BILL [cynically, aside to Barbara, his voice and accent horribly debased] Wot prawce Selvytion nah? BARBARA. Stop. [Undershaft stops writing: they all turn to her in surprise]. Mrs Baines: are you really going to take this money? MRS BAINES [astonished] Why not, dear? BARBARA. Why not! Do you know what my father is? Have you forgotten that Lord Saxmundham is Bodger the whisky man? Do you remember how we implored the County Council to stop him from writing Bodger's Whisky in letters of fire against the sky; so that the poor drinkruined creatures on the embankment could not wake up from their snatches of sleep without being reminded of their deadly thirst by that wicked sky sign? Do you know that the worst thing I have had to fight here is not the devil, but Bodger, Bodger, Bodger, with his whisky, his distilleries, and his tied houses? Are you going to make our shelter another tied house for him, and ask me to keep it? BILL. Rotten drunken whisky it is too. MRS BAINES. Dear Barbara: Lord Saxmundham has a soul to be saved like any of us. If heaven has found the way to make a good use of his money, are we to set ourselves up against the answer to our prayers? BARBARA. I know he has a soul to be saved. Let him come down here; and I'll do my best to help him to his salvation. But he wants to send his cheque down to buy us, and go on being as wicked as ever. UNDERSHAFT [with a reasonableness which Cusins alone perceives to be ironical] My dear Barbara: alcohol is a very necessary article. It heals the sick-- BARBARA. It does nothing of the sort. UNDERSHAFT. Well, it assists the doctor: that is perhaps a less questionable way of putting it. It makes life bearable to millions of people who could not endure their existence if they were quite sober. It enables Parliament to do things at eleven at night that no sane person would do at eleven in the morning. Is it Bodger's fault that this inestimable gift is deplorably abused by less than one per cent of the poor? [He turns again to the table; signs the cheque; and crosses it]. MRS BAINES. Barbara: will there be less drinking or more if all those poor souls we are saving come to-morrow and find the doors of our shelters shut in their faces? Lord Saxmundham gives us the money to stop drinking--to take his own business from him. CUSINS [impishly] Pure self-sacrifice on Bodger's part, clearly! Bless dear Bodger! [Barbara almost breaks down as Adolpbus, too, fails her]. UNDERSHAFT [tearing out the cheque and pocketing the book as he rises and goes past Cusins to Mrs Baines] I also, Mrs Baines, may claim a little disinterestedness. Think of my business! think of the widows and orphans! the men and lads torn to pieces with shrapnel and poisoned with lyddite [Mrs Baines shrinks; but he goes on remorselessly]! the oceans of blood, not one drop of which is shed in a really just cause! the ravaged crops! the peaceful peasants forced, women and men, to till their fields under the fire of opposing armies on pain of starvation! the bad blood of the fierce little cowards at home who egg on others to fight for the gratification of their national vanity! All this makes money for me: I am never richer, never busier than when the papers are full of it. Well, it is your work to preach peace on earth and goodwill to men. [Mrs Baines's face lights up again]. Every convert you make is a vote against war. [Her lips move in prayer]. Yet I give you this money to help you to hasten my own commercial ruin. [He gives her the cheque]. CUSINS [mounting the form in an ecstasy of mischief] The millennium will be inaugurated by the unselfishness of Undershaft and Bodger. Oh be joyful! [He takes the drumsticks from his pockets and flourishes them]. MRS BAINES [taking the cheque] The longer I live the more proof I see that there is an Infinite Goodness that turns everything to the work of salvation sooner or later. Who would have thought that any good could have come out of war and drink? And yet their profits are brought today to the feet of salvation to do its blessed work. [She is affected to tears]. JENNY [running to Mrs Baines and throwing her arms round her] Oh dear! how blessed, how glorious it all is! CUSINS [in a convulsion of irony] Let us seize this unspeakable moment. Let us march to the great meeting at once. Excuse me just an instant. [He rushes into the shelter. Jenny takes her tambourine from the drum head]. MRS BAINES. Mr Undershaft: have you ever seen a thousand people fall on their knees with one impulse and pray? Come with us to the meeting. Barbara shall tell them that the Army is saved, and saved through you. CUSINS [returning impetuously from the shelter with a flag and a trombone, and coming between Mrs Baines and Undershaft] You shall carry the flag down the first street, Mrs Baines [he gives her the flag]. Mr Undershaft is a gifted trombonist: he shall intone an Olympian diapason to the West Ham Salvation March. [Aside to Undershaft, as he forces the trombone on him] Blow, Machiavelli, blow. UNDERSHAFT [aside to him, as he takes the trombone] The trumpet in Zion! [Cusins rushes to the drum, which he takes up and puts on. Undershaft continues, aloud] I will do my best. I could vamp a bass if I knew the tune. CUSINS. It is a wedding chorus from one of Donizetti's operas; but we have converted it. We convert everything to good here, including Bodger. You remember the chorus. "For thee immense rejoicing--immenso giubilo--immenso giubilo." [With drum obbligato] Rum tum ti tum tum, tum tum ti ta-- BARBARA. Dolly: you are breaking my heart. CUSINS. What is a broken heart more or less here? Dionysos Undershaft has descended. I am possessed. MRS BAINES. Come, Barbara: I must have my dear Major to carry the flag with me. JENNY. Yes, yes, Major darling. CUSINS [snatches the tambourine out of Jenny's hand and mutely offers it to Barbara]. BARBARA [coming forward a little as she puts the offer behind her with a shudder, whilst Cusins recklessly tosses the tambourine back to Jenny and goes to the gate] I can't come. JENNY. Not come! MRS BAINES [with tears in her eyes] Barbara: do you think I am wrong to take the money? BARBARA [impulsively going to her and kissing her] No, no: God help you, dear, you must: you are saving the Army. Go; and may you have a great meeting! JENNY. But arn't you coming? BARBARA. No. [She begins taking off the silver brooch from her collar]. MRS BAINES. Barbara: what are you doing? JENNY. Why are you taking your badge off? You can't be going to leave us, Major. BARBARA [quietly] Father: come here. UNDERSHAFT [coming to her] My dear! [Seeing that she is going to pin the badge on his collar, he retreats to the penthouse in some alarm]. BARBARA [following him] Don't be frightened. [She pins the badge on and steps back towards the table, showing him to the others] There! It's not much for 5000 pounds is it? MRS BAINES. Barbara: if you won't come and pray with us, promise me you will pray for us. BARBARA. I can't pray now. Perhaps I shall never pray again. MRS BAINES. Barbara! JENNY. Major! BARBARA [almost delirious] I can't bear any more. Quick march! CUSINS [calling to the procession in the street outside] Off we go. Play up, there! Immenso giubilo. [He gives the time with his drum; and the band strikes up the march, which rapidly becomes more distant as the procession moves briskly away]. MRS BAINES. I must go, dear. You're overworked: you will be all right tomorrow. We'll never lose you. Now Jenny: step out with the old flag. Blood and Fire! [She marches out through the gate with her flag]. JENNY. Glory Hallelujah! [flourishing her tambourine and marching]. UNDERSHAFT [to Cusins, as he marches out past him easing the slide of his trombone] "My ducats and my daughter"! CUSINS [following him out] Money and gunpowder! BARBARA. Drunkenness and Murder! My God: why hast thou forsaken me? She sinks on the form with her face buried in her hands. The march passes away into silence. Bill Walker steals across to her. BILL [taunting] Wot prawce Selvytion nah? SHIRLEY. Don't you hit her when she's down. BILL. She it me wen aw wiz dahn. Waw shouldn't I git a bit o me own back? BARBARA [raising her head] I didn't take your money, Bill. [She crosses the yard to the gate and turns her back on the two men to hide her face from them]. BILL [sneering after her] Naow, it warn't enough for you. [Turning to the drum, he misses the money]. Ellow! If you ain't took it summun else az. Were's it gorn? Blame me if Jenny Ill didn't take it arter all! RUMMY [screaming at him from the loft] You lie, you dirty blackguard! Snobby Price pinched it off the drum wen e took ap iz cap. I was ap ere all the time an see im do it. BILL. Wot! Stowl maw money! Waw didn't you call thief on him, you silly old mucker you? RUMMY. To serve you aht for ittin me acrost the face. It's cost y'pahnd, that az. [Raising a paean of squalid triumph] I done you. I'm even with you. I've ad it aht o y--. [Bill snatches up Shirley's mug and hurls it at her. She slams the loft door and vanishes. The mug smashes against the door and falls in fragments]. BILL [beginning to chuckle] Tell us, ole man, wot o'clock this morrun was it wen im as they call Snobby Prawce was sived? BARBARA [turning to him more composedly, and with unspoiled sweetness] About half past twelve, Bill. And he pinched your pound at a quarter to two. I know. Well, you can't afford to lose it. I'll send it to you. BILL [his voice and accent suddenly improving] Not if I was to starve for it. I ain't to be bought. SHIRLEY. Ain't you? You'd sell yourself to the devil for a pint o beer; ony there ain't no devil to make the offer. BILL [unshamed] So I would, mate, and often av, cheerful. But she cawn't buy me. [Approaching Barbara] You wanted my soul, did you? Well, you ain't got it. BARBARA. I nearly got it, Bill. But we've sold it back to you for ten thousand pounds. SHIRLEY. And dear at the money! BARBARA. No, Peter: it was worth more than money. BILL [salvationproof] It's no good: you cawn't get rahnd me nah. I don't blieve in it; and I've seen today that I was right. [Going] So long, old soupkitchener! Ta, ta, Major Earl's Grendorter! [Turning at the gate] Wot prawce Selvytion nah? Snobby Prawce! Ha! ha! BARBARA [offering her hand] Goodbye, Bill. BILL [taken aback, half plucks his cap off then shoves it on again defiantly] Git aht. [Barbara drops her hand, discouraged. He has a twinge of remorse]. But thet's aw rawt, you knaow. Nathink pasnl. Naow mellice. So long, Judy. [He goes]. BARBARA. No malice. So long, Bill. SHIRLEY [shaking his head] You make too much of him, miss, in your innocence. BARBARA [going to him] Peter: I'm like you now. Cleaned out, and lost my job. SHIRLEY. You've youth an hope. That's two better than me. That's hope for you. BARBARA. I'll get you a job, Peter, the youth will have to be enough for me. [She counts her money]. I have just enough left for two teas at Lockharts, a Rowton doss for you, and my tram and bus home. [He frowns and rises with offended pride. She takes his arm]. Don't be proud, Peter: it's sharing between friends. And promise me you'll talk to me and not let me cry. [She draws him towards the gate]. SHIRLEY. Well, I'm not accustomed to talk to the like of you-- BARBARA [urgently] Yes, yes: you must talk to me. Tell me about Tom Paine's books and Bradlaugh's lectures. Come along. SHIRLEY. Ah, if you would only read Tom Paine in the proper spirit, miss! [They go out through the gate together].

Act II

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In this Act, the scene of action shifts to the Salvation Army Shelter in West Ham, where Barbara serves as a Major. Jenny, a sincere girl of eighteen, works at the shelter and tries to help people in distress. Snobby Price and Ramola Mitchens are introduced as people who have joined the Salvation Army for reasons other than the spiritual. Snobby, an intelligent employee, is only working to receive a paycheck; Ramola, usually called Rummy, is at the shelter to escape from starvation. As Snobby Price and Rummy sit in the yard outside the Shelter, Jenny enters leading a tired, sickly man called Peter Shirley. He is an honest, upright worker who looks older than he is. His past employer has dismissed him because he thinks Peter Shirley is too old to work. Unable to find a job, Peter was literally starving when he arrived at the shelter. It hurts Peter to accept what he considers charity from the Salvation Army, since he has always worked to earn his bread. When Jenny offers him food and milk, she tells him to consider it a loan, which he can pay back when he gets a job. This explanation makes Peter feel much better. While Peter is having his meager meal, a hefty man called Bill walks into the yard. As soon as he sees Jenny, he abuses her and demands to know where his girl, Mog Ebbijem, is. Bill is upset because he thinks it is because of the Salvation Army that his girl has left him. In a fit of anger, he takes Jenny by her arm and flings her against the door of the shelter. While Rummy helps her to her feet, Snobby Price unsuccessfully tries to stop Bill. When Rummy rushes up to Bill to scold him for behavior, Bill seizes Jenny by her hair and twists her arm until she cries out in pain. Snobby Price is too scared to intervene. Jenny pleads with Snobby and Rummy to go and tell Major Barbara about the incident, and they leave to go and find her. Angered over her sending for Major Barbara, Bill hits Jenny on her face, causing her to run into the shed crying in pain. Bill then turns threateningly towards the sickly Peter, who has been watching from a distance. He calls Bill a bully and tells him to go and work somewhere instead of hitting women. The two men start arguing, and Peter challenges Bill to fight his young son-in law's brother, who is a heavy weight champion. As Barbara enters with a notebook in her hand, Peter informs Bill that the Major is the granddaughter of an Earl. Major Barbara first addresses Peter, writing down his name and the type of work he has done; she promises to help him find another job. Next, she turns to Bill and asks him his name. Although he tells her his name is Bill Walker, he is rude to Barbara and haughtily asks her if she can save his soul too. Barbara handles him very calmly. She tells him that Mog, Bill's ex-girlfriend, has become a true Christian and is working for the Salvation Army at their barracks in Canning Town. Bill says he will go and find her, but Barbara informs him that Mog has found herself another 'bloke.' Bill says he will teach both of them a good lesson. Then, however, he learns that the 'bloke' Mog is engaged to none other than the brother of Peter Shirley's son-in law, the prizefighter whose name is Sergeant Todger Fairmile. Upon learning this, Bill becomes a little less hostile and less self- confident self. Jenny re-enters and forgives Bill for what he has done to her. This act of kindness leaves him speechless. Price comes in to announce the arrival of Mr. Undershaft. Barbara goes out to meet him while Bill sulks in the corner. Barbara soon returns, accompanied by her father. She introduces him to Peter Shirley and says that her father is a secularist, just like Peter; he believes that religion is a private matter and not something that should be openly demonstrated. Undershaft seems horrified at Barbara's words. He claims that he is a millionaire and believes that is all the religion he needs. Peter states that he is not rich, but he is proud about it. To this, Undershaft answers, "Poverty, my friend is not a thing to be proud of." Peter does not agree and angrily asks Undershaft who has really made all the money for him. Before Undershaft can answer, Peter explains that poor people like himself have remained in poverty even though they have toiled to keep people like Undershaft rich. He goes on to add that he would not have Undershaft's conscience, even if he were paid all of Undershaft's wealth. Undershaft replies that he would not have Peter's income for all his conscience. Even before Peter Shirley can retort back, Barbara intervenes and sends him inside to help the girls. Undershaft settles down on a sofa in the corner and tells his daughter to carry on with her work. Barbara turns to Bill, who has been quietly sitting in a corner looking rather deflated. Her father sits watching Barbara deal gently and firmly with Bill. When Adolphous Cusins arrives, Bill seizes his opportunity and escapes through the gate. Barbara asks Cusins to explain to her father how the shelter functions, while she goes inside to tend to an important matter. Cusins and Undershaft debate about the question of religion, about the value of the Salvation Army, and finally about Barbara, the woman that they both love. During the course of a rather heated discussion, Undershaft declares that he plans to hand his ammunition factory over to Barbara sometime in the future. First, however, he must woo her away from the Salvation Army. He tells Cusins that if necessary, he will even buy the Salvation Army. In fact, Undershaft already believes that: all religious organizations exist by selling themselves to the rich. While Cusins and Undershaft continue to debate, Shirley, Price, Jenny, and Barbara enter, returning from a public prayer meeting in Cripps' Lane. During the meeting, Price has made a public confession of his past deeds and prays for forgiveness. They also state that they have managed to collect four and ten pence. When Mr. Undershaft offers to contribute a few more pennies to make it five shillings, Barbara refuses to take his money. She disapproves of the fact that his wealth has come from selling canons and guns. Additionally, Barbara explains that what she needs is a lot of money, not a few pennies. She adds that it makes her sad that she must spend so much time collecting money for the Salvation Army, leaving her with very little time to work to save people's souls. She wonders aloud, her eyes brimming with tears, as to how she is going to feed the poor with such meager funds. She states, "I can't talk religion to a man with bodily hunger in his eyes." Jenny tries to console her, saying that they will pray for money to do their work. Barbara quickly regains her composure and informs Mr. Undershaft that Mrs. Bains, the Commissioner of the Salvation Army, wants to see him. Bill appears again and offers to give some money in order to stop Barbara and Jenny from pestering him with their lectures on forgiveness and salvation. Barbara also refuses to take Bill's money, stating that the Army is not up for sale or bribery. Mrs. Bains appears on the scene and informs the others that Lord Saxmundham has promised them five thousand pounds on the condition that five other rich gentlemen give a thousand pounds each, for a grand total of ten thousand pounds. When Barbara discovers that Lord Saxmundham is none other than Lord Bodgers, who owns a liquor distillery; she is shocked. She has always refused to take contributions from people who make money through what she considers morally wrong methods. Liquor money is especially despicable to her, for alcohol is one of the greatest problems amongst the poor with whom she works; she has seen firsthand how liquor can cause havoc in people's lives. She is totally distressed to think that the Salvation Army would readily accept money from a liquor baron. She grows even more distressed when Mrs. Bains asks Mr. Undershaft, the arms baron, to contribute some money to the Salvation Army. She encourages him to make the donation by saying that the organization really helps the rich in the long run. When Mr. Undershaft gives Mrs. Bains a check, she accepts it with great joy. She even calls for a huge celebration to announce the fact that Mr. Undershaft has saved the Salvation Army shelter. The acceptance of Mr. Undershaft's money by the Salvation Army comes as a severe blow to Barbara. Suddenly all her ideals and illusions about the Army are destroyed. Hurt and disillusioned, she decides to permanently leave the shelter. With a heavy heart, she removes her badge and pins it on her father's collar. She then leaves to attend a prayer meeting with Mrs. Bains and the others. Mr. Undershaft feels he has won back his daughter. He tells Cusins triumphantly, " My ducats and my daughter"!

Notes This Act is the most crucial one in the play, for it contains the climax of the plot. Shaw also reveals his views on charitable organizations, such as the Salvation Army. The act is also filled with contrasts, which bring out the irony in the play. Mr. Shirley is clearly contrasted with Mr. Undershaft. Shirley is an honest, principled worker without a job, for he has been dismissed because of his age. Mr. Undershaft, a millionaire, does not seem to have any scruples or principles; for him his religion is wealth. The verbal duel that occurs between the two provides both light moments and interesting insights. Barbara's idealism is pitted against Undershaft's outright pragmatism. Shaw also reveals his views on the Salvation Army in this chapter. Through the characters of Price and Rummy, Shaw points out that the Salvation Army provides shelter to hypocrites; but he believes that it is poverty and starvation that lead to their hypocrisy. Undershaft, who seems to be the mouthpiece of Shaw, believes that the best way to help the poor is to provide them with jobs so that they can become independent. Cusins claims that the Salvation Army reforms the poor into honest, happy, sober people and makes them think about God. Undershaft replies that these qualities help the industrialists for, if his workers are happy, they will not be dissatisfied at work. If they are made to think about God, they will not think about Revolution. Honest workers, according to him, are the most beneficial to management. Therefore, religious organizations like the Salvation Army help rich industrialists and manufacturers. This is the reason that corporations, such as Undershaft's, patronize and fund such religious institutions. Through Undershaft, Shaw also criticizes the idea of public confession of sins, as he believes that once the sinner is forgiven, he becomes free to sin again. Mrs. Bains, the commissioner of the Salvation Army, represents the leadership of charitable organizations, such as the Salvation Army. She is very much aware of the fact that her organization benefits the rich industrialists. As a result, she has no problem about taking funds from the very businessmen who cause havoc in the lives of the poor. This point is brought out sharply when Mrs. Bains accepts money from Lord Saxmundham, the owner of Bodger Distilleries and from Undershaft, the owner of a munitions factory. The reaction of Barbara to Mrs. Bains' acceptance of donations from Lord Saxmundham and Undershaft is extreme; because she is so idealistic, reality is shocking to her. Barbara is so disillusioned, however, that she decides to leave her job at the shelter and takes off her pins. She, however, seems to be the only one who is affected by the donations; Snobby Price, Jenny, and Mrs. Bains accept them as something natural. The fact that Barbara is shocked and hurt reveals that she is an extremely honest individual, as well as a committed worker. Her decision to leave the shelter pains her; it does not, however, change her religious fervor. At the end of the act, she is headed to a prayer meeting.

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all_chapterized_books/3790-chapters/act_iii.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Major Barbara/section_2_part_0.txt

Major Barbara.act iii

act iii

{"name": "Act III", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820035130/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmMajorBarbara18.asp", "summary": "In this act, the setting shifts back to Lady Britomart's mansion. Barbara is sitting near the window of the living room, in a pensive mood. She is no longer dressed in her Salvation Army uniform. Charles Lomax walks in and tries to make conversation with her. Lady Britomart, who is at her writing table, tells him sharply not to discuss the Army with her. Cusins soon arrives and tells everyone that he has stayed up late drinking with Mr. Undershaft. Barbara asks Cusins about the Salvation Army meeting. Cusins tells her that it was very emotional; some \"117 conversions took place then and there.\" He also adds that everyone present at the meeting gave thanks for the Bodger contribution to the Salvation Army. Mr. Undershaft had requested that his name not be made public. When Charles compliments Mr. Undershaft for his modesty, Cusins tells him that it is not modesty; he hides his identify out of fear that other charitable institutions would come down on him for more money. Mr. Undershaft arrives. Lady Britomart sends everybody out of the room, for she wants to talk to him alone about private matters. She tells her husband that their daughters need money, especially since they are both about to marry. Lady Britomart also brings up the subject of inheritance with her husband. She suggests Adolphous Cusins' name, since he plans to marry Barbara. Lady Britomart knows that Mr. Undershaft believes that among his children Barbara is the only one capable of running his business. Since Adolphous is a 'foundling' he could be chosen to inherit the factory; then the business could be kept within the family. To this Mr. Undershaft points out that Adolphous is not a foundling. At this juncture, Adolphous reveals that he is indeed a foundling because his parent's marriage is legal in Australia, but not in England. Since his mother is the sister of his father's deceased wife, he is considered an outcast in England, and his mother and father's marriage is not acceptable by English law. Additionally, he has not received his formal education from an English public school. Mr. Undershaft finally gives in and selects Adolphous as the heir to his business empire. Then they haggle about how much money Adolphous should receive until he actually takes over the factory. The argument ends when they both agree on three-fifths of the profits as income for Adolphous until he learns the ropes of the business. As per her promise, Barbara agrees to go and visit her father's ammunition factory at New Perivale. Since the invitation is also extended to the others, the rest of the family, including Lady Britomart, visits the factory of 'death and destruction'. Much to everybody's surprise, the factory is set in a picturesque village that has a chapel, clean roads, and wonderful stores. The excellent organization and facilities available in the factory, as well as in the village where the workers live, impress everyone. Barbara, however, is still unable to come to terms with the fact that this wonderfully clean and beautiful place is a home to weapons of mass destruction. Mr. Undershaft tells Barbara that it is poverty and not his profession that is the real crime. He compares his industrial world to the world of the Salvation Army and says, \"I see no darkness here, no dreadfulness. In your Salvation shelter I saw poverty, misery, cold, and hunger. You gave them bread and treacle and dreams of heaven. I give from thirty shillings a week to twelve thousand a year. They find their own dreams.\" He claims that he has saved his workers, just as he has saved Barbara by rescuing her from the shelter. His factory provides money, which allows one to buy food and clothing, pay rent and taxes, have children, feel respectable, and not fear being fired. Poverty, according to Undershaft, is the greatest of all crimes; all other crimes are virtues by comparison. He elaborates by saying that moralists and intellectuals who make poverty a virtue are the biggest hypocrites on earth. He further believes that leading the life of a thief is better than living the life of a pauper, for to him there is more dignity and courage in theft than in abject poverty. Finished with his lecture on poverty, Undershaft leaves Cusins and Barbara alone and takes the others to show them another part of the factory. Cusins thinks that since he has accepted Undershaft's offer to inherit the factory, all will be over between Barbara and him. He tries to explain to her that he has accepted the offer to run the factory because he wants to give the common people power to use against the intellectuals who exploit them. Surprisingly, Barbara is very happy with Cusins' decision. She also wants to give power to the factory workers -- but spiritual power. She admits her disappointment in the Salvation Army, but accepts their hypocritical ways as reality. She now feels she can do more good in the factory village as in the Army. She looks forward to 'saving souls' among the well-fed workers in her father's factory, instead of working with 'weak souls in half- starved bodies' in West Ham. The Act ends with Barbara asking her mother's help in selecting a nice house in the village where she and Cusins will live after they are married.", "analysis": "Notes In this act, Shaw expresses his views on poverty, ethics, and politics through Andrew Undershaft, who ridicules the intellectuals and moralists who consider poverty to be a virtue. He is convincing because there is truth in his words. He is right when he says that man is driven by the need to pay for food, clothing, rent, taxes, and children, while seeking respectability and hoping not to be fired from his work. Undershaft calls these the seven basic sins, and believes unless these basic needs are fulfilled, man cannot be free in any real sense. He says that to talk to a half- starved man, like many of those at the Salvation Army, about ethics, spirituality, and dreams of heaven makes no sense. Shaw uses the scene between Undershaft and his son Stephen to attack the politics of the times. He tells his son that if he is not able to do anything else in life, he can always become a politician. He explains that it is not the individual's character but his power and wealth that influence politics. Shaw adds that educated people do not change governments by exercising their right to vote; instead, they merely change the names of the members of Cabinet. Undershaft believes that only weapons or guns have the power to change governments by destroying old decaying social systems and setting up new ones. This change, however, is only possible if good and courageous people are the one to fight injustice by wielding guns. Cusins is totally won over by Undershaft's arguments and agrees to inherit and run the ammunition factory, even if it means he will not be able to marry Barbara. Surprisingly, Barbara can even see some sense in her father's views, although she does not completely agree with him. She tells Cusins that they will still marry and live in the village where the factory is located. In truth, the idealistic young woman comes to terms with the real world in which she lives and acknowledges that the basic needs of man, such as food and clothing, need to be met before a man's soul can be saved. Barbara decides she can more successfully carry on her spiritual work in her father's ammunition factory where the people have no real materialistic needs, for Mr. Undershaft has made sure that all his workers are given the means to answer the seven requirements of man that he listed earlier. It is obvious that Barbara, though disillusioned about the Salvation Army and much more realistic about life, has not lost faith; she still believes her mission in life is to save souls."}

ACT III Next day after lunch Lady Britomart is writing in the library in Wilton Crescent. Sarah is reading in the armchair near the window. Barbara, in ordinary dresss, pale and brooding, is on the settee. Charley Lomax enters. Coming forward between the settee and the writing table, he starts on seeing Barbara fashionably attired and in low spirits. LOMAX. You've left off your uniform! Barbara says nothing; but an expression of pain passes over her face. LADY BRITOMART [warning him in low tones to be careful] Charles! LOMAX [much concerned, sitting down sympathetically on the settee beside Barbara] I'm awfully sorry, Barbara. You know I helped you all I could with the concertina and so forth. [Momentously] Still, I have never shut my eyes to the fact that there is a certain amount of tosh about the Salvation Army. Now the claims of the Church of England-- LADY BRITOMART. That's enough, Charles. Speak of something suited to your mental capacity. LOMAX. But surely the Church of England is suited to all our capacities. BARBARA [pressing his hand] Thank you for your sympathy, Cholly. Now go and spoon with Sarah. LOMAX [rising and going to Sarah] How is my ownest today? SARAH. I wish you wouldn't tell Cholly to do things, Barbara. He always comes straight and does them. Cholly: we're going to the works at Perivale St. Andrews this afternoon. LOMAX. What works? SARAH. The cannon works. LOMAX. What! Your governor's shop! SARAH. Yes. LOMAX. Oh I say! Cusins enters in poor condition. He also starts visibly when he sees Barbara without her uniform. BARBARA. I expected you this morning, Dolly. Didn't you guess that? CUSINS [sitting down beside her] I'm sorry. I have only just breakfasted. SARAH. But we've just finished lunch. BARBARA. Have you had one of your bad nights? CUSINS. No: I had rather a good night: in fact, one of the most remarkable nights I have ever passed. BARBARA. The meeting? CUSINS. No: after the meeting. LADY BRITOMART. You should have gone to bed after the meeting. What were you doing? CUSINS. Drinking. LADY BRITOMART. }{ Adolphus! SARAH. }{ Dolly! BARBARA. }{ Dolly! LOMAX. }{ Oh I say! LADY BRITOMART. What were you drinking, may I ask? CUSINS. A most devilish kind of Spanish burgundy, warranted free from added alcohol: a Temperance burgundy in fact. Its richness in natural alcohol made any addition superfluous. BARBARA. Are you joking, Dolly? CUSINS [patiently] No. I have been making a night of it with the nominal head of this household: that is all. LADY BRITOMART. Andrew made you drunk! CUSINS. No: he only provided the wine. I think it was Dionysos who made me drunk. [To Barbara] I told you I was possessed. LADY BRITOMART. You're not sober yet. Go home to bed at once. CUSINS. I have never before ventured to reproach you, Lady Brit; but how could you marry the Prince of Darkness? LADY BRITOMART. It was much more excusable to marry him than to get drunk with him. That is a new accomplishment of Andrew's, by the way. He usen't to drink. CUSINS. He doesn't now. He only sat there and completed the wreck of my moral basis, the rout of my convictions, the purchase of my soul. He cares for you, Barbara. That is what makes him so dangerous to me. BARBARA. That has nothing to do with it, Dolly. There are larger loves and diviner dreams than the fireside ones. You know that, don't you? CUSINS. Yes: that is our understanding. I know it. I hold to it. Unless he can win me on that holier ground he may amuse me for a while; but he can get no deeper hold, strong as he is. BARBARA. Keep to that; and the end will be right. Now tell me what happened at the meeting? CUSINS. It was an amazing meeting. Mrs Baines almost died of emotion. Jenny Hill went stark mad with hysteria. The Prince of Darkness played his trombone like a madman: its brazen roarings were like the laughter of the damned. 117 conversions took place then and there. They prayed with the most touching sincerity and gratitude for Bodger, and for the anonymous donor of the 5000 pounds. Your father would not let his name be given. LOMAX. That was rather fine of the old man, you know. Most chaps would have wanted the advertisement. CUSINS. He said all the charitable institutions would be down on him like kites on a battle field if he gave his name. LADY BRITOMART. That's Andrew all over. He never does a proper thing without giving an improper reason for it. CUSINS. He convinced me that I have all my life been doing improper things for proper reasons. LADY BRITOMART. Adolphus: now that Barbara has left the Salvation Army, you had better leave it too. I will not have you playing that drum in the streets. CUSINS. Your orders are already obeyed, Lady Brit. BARBARA. Dolly: were you ever really in earnest about it? Would you have joined if you had never seen me? CUSINS [disingenuously] Well--er--well, possibly, as a collector of religions-- LOMAX [cunningly] Not as a drummer, though, you know. You are a very clearheaded brainy chap, Cholly; and it must have been apparent to you that there is a certain amount of tosh about-- LADY BRITOMART. Charles: if you must drivel, drivel like a grown-up man and not like a schoolboy. LOMAX [out of countenance] Well, drivel is drivel, don't you know, whatever a man's age. LADY BRITOMART. In good society in England, Charles, men drivel at all ages by repeating silly formulas with an air of wisdom. Schoolboys make their own formulas out of slang, like you. When they reach your age, and get political private secretaryships and things of that sort, they drop slang and get their formulas out of The Spectator or The Times. You had better confine yourself to The Times. You will find that there is a certain amount of tosh about The Times; but at least its language is reputable. LOMAX [overwhelmed] You are so awfully strong-minded, Lady Brit-- LADY BRITOMART. Rubbish! [Morrison comes in]. What is it? MORRISON. If you please, my lady, Mr Undershaft has just drove up to the door. LADY BRITOMART. Well, let him in. [Morrison hesitates]. What's the matter with you? MORRISON. Shall I announce him, my lady; or is he at home here, so to speak, my lady? LADY BRITOMART. Announce him. MORRISON. Thank you, my lady. You won't mind my asking, I hope. The occasion is in a manner of speaking new to me. LADY BRITOMART. Quite right. Go and let him in. MORRISON. Thank you, my lady. [He withdraws]. LADY BRITOMART. Children: go and get ready. [Sarah and Barbara go upstairs for their out-of-door wrap]. Charles: go and tell Stephen to come down here in five minutes: you will find him in the drawing room. [Charles goes]. Adolphus: tell them to send round the carriage in about fifteen minutes. [Adolphus goes]. MORRISON [at the door] Mr Undershaft. Undershaft comes in. Morrison goes out. UNDERSHAFT. Alone! How fortunate! LADY BRITOMART [rising] Don't be sentimental, Andrew. Sit down. [She sits on the settee: he sits beside her, on her left. She comes to the point before he has time to breathe]. Sarah must have 800 pounds a year until Charles Lomax comes into his property. Barbara will need more, and need it permanently, because Adolphus hasn't any property. UNDERSHAFT [resignedly] Yes, my dear: I will see to it. Anything else? for yourself, for instance? LADY BRITOMART. I want to talk to you about Stephen. UNDERSHAFT [rather wearily] Don't, my dear. Stephen doesn't interest me. LADY BRITOMART. He does interest me. He is our son. UNDERSHAFT. Do you really think so? He has induced us to bring him into the world; but he chose his parents very incongruously, I think. I see nothing of myself in him, and less of you. LADY BRITOMART. Andrew: Stephen is an excellent son, and a most steady, capable, highminded young man. YOU are simply trying to find an excuse for disinheriting him. UNDERSHAFT. My dear Biddy: the Undershaft tradition disinherits him. It would be dishonest of me to leave the cannon foundry to my son. LADY BRITOMART. It would be most unnatural and improper of you to leave it to anyone else, Andrew. Do you suppose this wicked and immoral tradition can be kept up for ever? Do you pretend that Stephen could not carry on the foundry just as well as all the other sons of the big business houses? UNDERSHAFT. Yes: he could learn the office routine without understanding the business, like all the other sons; and the firm would go on by its own momentum until the real Undershaft--probably an Italian or a German--would invent a new method and cut him out. LADY BRITOMART. There is nothing that any Italian or German could do that Stephen could not do. And Stephen at least has breeding. UNDERSHAFT. The son of a foundling! nonsense! LADY BRITOMART. My son, Andrew! And even you may have good blood in your veins for all you know. UNDERSHAFT. True. Probably I have. That is another argument in favor of a foundling. LADY BRITOMART. Andrew: don't be aggravating. And don't be wicked. At present you are both. UNDERSHAFT. This conversation is part of the Undershaft tradition, Biddy. Every Undershaft's wife has treated him to it ever since the house was founded. It is mere waste of breath. If the tradition be ever broken it will be for an abler man than Stephen. LADY BRITOMART [pouting] Then go away. UNDERSHAFT [deprecatory] Go away! LADY BRITOMART. Yes: go away. If you will do nothing for Stephen, you are not wanted here. Go to your foundling, whoever he is; and look after him. UNDERSHAFT. The fact is, Biddy-- LADY BRITOMART. Don't call me Biddy. I don't call you Andy. UNDERSHAFT. I will not call my wife Britomart: it is not good sense. Seriously, my love, the Undershaft tradition has landed me in a difficulty. I am getting on in years; and my partner Lazarus has at last made a stand and insisted that the succession must be settled one way or the other; and of course he is quite right. You see, I haven't found a fit successor yet. LADY BRITOMART [obstinately] There is Stephen. UNDERSHAFT. That's just it: all the foundlings I can find are exactly like Stephen. LADY BRITOMART. Andrew!! UNDERSHAFT. I want a man with no relations and no schooling: that is, a man who would be out of the running altogether if he were not a strong man. And I can't find him. Every blessed foundling nowadays is snapped up in his infancy by Barnardo homes, or School Board officers, or Boards of Guardians; and if he shows the least ability, he is fastened on by schoolmasters; trained to win scholarships like a racehorse; crammed with secondhand ideas; drilled and disciplined in docility and what they call good taste; and lamed for life so that he is fit for nothing but teaching. If you want to keep the foundry in the family, you had better find an eligible foundling and marry him to Barbara. LADY BRITOMART. Ah! Barbara! Your pet! You would sacrifice Stephen to Barbara. UNDERSHAFT. Cheerfully. And you, my dear, would boil Barbara to make soup for Stephen. LADY BRITOMART. Andrew: this is not a question of our likings and dislikings: it is a question of duty. It is your duty to make Stephen your successor. UNDERSHAFT. Just as much as it is your duty to submit to your husband. Come, Biddy! these tricks of the governing class are of no use with me. I am one of the governing class myself; and it is waste of time giving tracts to a missionary. I have the power in this matter; and I am not to be humbugged into using it for your purposes. LADY BRITOMART. Andrew: you can talk my head off; but you can't change wrong into right. And your tie is all on one side. Put it straight. UNDERSHAFT [disconcerted] It won't stay unless it's pinned [he fumbles at it with childish grimaces]-- Stephen comes in. STEPHEN [at the door] I beg your pardon [about to retire]. LADY BRITOMART. No: come in, Stephen. [Stephen comes forward to his mother's writing table.] UNDERSHAFT [not very cordially] Good afternoon. STEPHEN [coldly] Good afternoon. UNDERSHAFT [to Lady Britomart] He knows all about the tradition, I suppose? LADY BRITOMART. Yes. [To Stephen] It is what I told you last night, Stephen. UNDERSHAFT [sulkily] I understand you want to come into the cannon business. STEPHEN. _I_ go into trade! Certainly not. UNDERSHAFT [opening his eyes, greatly eased in mind and manner] Oh! in that case--! LADY BRITOMART. Cannons are not trade, Stephen. They are enterprise. STEPHEN. I have no intention of becoming a man of business in any sense. I have no capacity for business and no taste for it. I intend to devote myself to politics. UNDERSHAFT [rising] My dear boy: this is an immense relief to me. And I trust it may prove an equally good thing for the country. I was afraid you would consider yourself disparaged and slighted. [He moves towards Stephen as if to shake hands with him]. LADY BRITOMART [rising and interposing] Stephen: I cannot allow you to throw away an enormous property like this. STEPHEN [stiffly] Mother: there must be an end of treating me as a child, if you please. [Lady Britomart recoils, deeply wounded by his tone]. Until last night I did not take your attitude seriously, because I did not think you meant it seriously. But I find now that you left me in the dark as to matters which you should have explained to me years ago. I am extremely hurt and offended. Any further discussion of my intentions had better take place with my father, as between one man and another. LADY BRITOMART. Stephen! [She sits down again; and her eyes fill with tears]. UNDERSHAFT [with grave compassion] You see, my dear, it is only the big men who can be treated as children. STEPHEN. I am sorry, mother, that you have forced me-- UNDERSHAFT [stopping him] Yes, yes, yes, yes: that's all right, Stephen. She wont interfere with you any more: your independence is achieved: you have won your latchkey. Don't rub it in; and above all, don't apologize. [He resumes his seat]. Now what about your future, as between one man and another--I beg your pardon, Biddy: as between two men and a woman. LADY BRITOMART [who has pulled herself together strongly] I quite understand, Stephen. By all means go your own way if you feel strong enough. [Stephen sits down magisterially in the chair at the writing table with an air of affirming his majority]. UNDERSHAFT. It is settled that you do not ask for the succession to the cannon business. STEPHEN. I hope it is settled that I repudiate the cannon business. UNDERSHAFT. Come, come! Don't be so devilishly sulky: it's boyish. Freedom should be generous. Besides, I owe you a fair start in life in exchange for disinheriting you. You can't become prime minister all at once. Haven't you a turn for something? What about literature, art and so forth? STEPHEN. I have nothing of the artist about me, either in faculty or character, thank Heaven! UNDERSHAFT. A philosopher, perhaps? Eh? STEPHEN. I make no such ridiculous pretension. UNDERSHAFT. Just so. Well, there is the army, the navy, the Church, the Bar. The Bar requires some ability. What about the Bar? STEPHEN. I have not studied law. And I am afraid I have not the necessary push--I believe that is the name barristers give to their vulgarity--for success in pleading. UNDERSHAFT. Rather a difficult case, Stephen. Hardly anything left but the stage, is there? [Stephen makes an impatient movement]. Well, come! is there anything you know or care for? STEPHEN [rising and looking at him steadily] I know the difference between right and wrong. UNDERSHAFT [hugely tickled] You don't say so! What! no capacity for business, no knowledge of law, no sympathy with art, no pretension to philosophy; only a simple knowledge of the secret that has puzzled all the philosophers, baffled all the lawyers, muddled all the men of business, and ruined most of the artists: the secret of right and wrong. Why, man, you're a genius, master of masters, a god! At twenty-four, too! STEPHEN [keeping his temper with difficulty] You are pleased to be facetious. I pretend to nothing more than any honorable English gentleman claims as his birthright [he sits down angrily]. UNDERSHAFT. Oh, that's everybody's birthright. Look at poor little Jenny Hill, the Salvation lassie! she would think you were laughing at her if you asked her to stand up in the street and teach grammar or geography or mathematics or even drawingroom dancing; but it never occurs to her to doubt that she can teach morals and religion. You are all alike, you respectable people. You can't tell me the bursting strain of a ten-inch gun, which is a very simple matter; but you all think you can tell me the bursting strain of a man under temptation. You daren't handle high explosives; but you're all ready to handle honesty and truth and justice and the whole duty of man, and kill one another at that game. What a country! what a world! LADY BRITOMART [uneasily] What do you think he had better do, Andrew? UNDERSHAFT. Oh, just what he wants to do. He knows nothing; and he thinks he knows everything. That points clearly to a political career. Get him a private secretaryship to someone who can get him an Under Secretaryship; and then leave him alone. He will find his natural and proper place in the end on the Treasury bench. STEPHEN [springing up again] I am sorry, sir, that you force me to forget the respect due to you as my father. I am an Englishman; and I will not hear the Government of my country insulted. [He thrusts his hands in his pockets, and walks angrily across to the window]. UNDERSHAFT [with a touch of brutality] The government of your country! _I_ am the government of your country: I, and Lazarus. Do you suppose that you and half a dozen amateurs like you, sitting in a row in that foolish gabble shop, can govern Undershaft and Lazarus? No, my friend: you will do what pays US. You will make war when it suits us, and keep peace when it doesn't. You will find out that trade requires certain measures when we have decided on those measures. When I want anything to keep my dividends up, you will discover that my want is a national need. When other people want something to keep my dividends down, you will call out the police and military. And in return you shall have the support and applause of my newspapers, and the delight of imagining that you are a great statesman. Government of your country! Be off with you, my boy, and play with your caucuses and leading articles and historic parties and great leaders and burning questions and the rest of your toys. _I_ am going back to my counting house to pay the piper and call the tune. STEPHEN [actually smiling, and putting his hand on his father's shoulder with indulgent patronage] Really, my dear father, it is impossible to be angry with you. You don't know how absurd all this sounds to ME. You are very properly proud of having been industrious enough to make money; and it is greatly to your credit that you have made so much of it. But it has kept you in circles where you are valued for your money and deferred to for it, instead of in the doubtless very oldfashioned and behind-the-times public school and university where I formed my habits of mind. It is natural for you to think that money governs England; but you must allow me to think I know better. UNDERSHAFT. And what does govern England, pray? STEPHEN. Character, father, character. UNDERSHAFT. Whose character? Yours or mine? STEPHEN. Neither yours nor mine, father, but the best elements in the English national character. UNDERSHAFT. Stephen: I've found your profession for you. You're a born journalist. I'll start you with a hightoned weekly review. There! Stephen goes to the smaller writing table and busies himself with his letters. Sarah, Barbara, Lomax, and Cusins come in ready for walking. Barbara crosses the room to the window and looks out. Cusins drifts amiably to the armchair, and Lomax remains near the door, whilst Sarah comes to her mother. SARAH. Go and get ready, mamma: the carriage is waiting. [Lady Britomart leaves the room.] UNDERSHAFT [to Sarah] Good day, my dear. Good afternoon, Mr. Lomax. LOMAX [vaguely] Ahdedoo. UNDERSHAFT [to Cusins] quite well after last night, Euripides, eh? CUSINS. As well as can be expected. UNDERSHAFT. That's right. [To Barbara] So you are coming to see my death and devastation factory, Barbara? BARBARA [at the window] You came yesterday to see my salvation factory. I promised you a return visit. LOMAX [coming forward between Sarah and Undershaft] You'll find it awfully interesting. I've been through the Woolwich Arsenal; and it gives you a ripping feeling of security, you know, to think of the lot of beggars we could kill if it came to fighting. [To Undershaft, with sudden solemnity] Still, it must be rather an awful reflection for you, from the religious point of view as it were. You're getting on, you know, and all that. SARAH. You don't mind Cholly's imbecility, papa, do you? LOMAX [much taken aback] Oh I say! UNDERSHAFT. Mr Lomax looks at the matter in a very proper spirit, my dear. LOMAX. Just so. That's all I meant, I assure you. SARAH. Are you coming, Stephen? STEPHEN. Well, I am rather busy--er-- [Magnanimously] Oh well, yes: I'll come. That is, if there is room for me. UNDERSHAFT. I can take two with me in a little motor I am experimenting with for field use. You won't mind its being rather unfashionable. It's not painted yet; but it's bullet proof. LOMAX [appalled at the prospect of confronting Wilton Crescent in an unpainted motor] Oh I say! SARAH. The carriage for me, thank you. Barbara doesn't mind what she's seen in. LOMAX. I say, Dolly old chap: do you really mind the car being a guy? Because of course if you do I'll go in it. Still-- CUSINS. I prefer it. LOMAX. Thanks awfully, old man. Come, Sarah. [He hurries out to secure his seat in the carriage. Sarah follows him]. CUSINS. [moodily walking across to Lady Britomart's writing table] Why are we two coming to this Works Department of Hell? that is what I ask myself. BARBARA. I have always thought of it as a sort of pit where lost creatures with blackened faces stirred up smoky fires and were driven and tormented by my father? Is it like that, dad? UNDERSHAFT [scandalized] My dear! It is a spotlessly clean and beautiful hillside town. CUSINS. With a Methodist chapel? Oh do say there's a Methodist chapel. UNDERSHAFT. There are two: a primitive one and a sophisticated one. There is even an Ethical Society; but it is not much patronized, as my men are all strongly religious. In the High Explosives Sheds they object to the presence of Agnostics as unsafe. CUSINS. And yet they don't object to you! BARBARA. Do they obey all your orders? UNDERSHAFT. I never give them any orders. When I speak to one of them it is "Well, Jones, is the baby doing well? and has Mrs Jones made a good recovery?" "Nicely, thank you, sir." And that's all. CUSINS. But Jones has to be kept in order. How do you maintain discipline among your men? UNDERSHAFT. I don't. They do. You see, the one thing Jones won't stand is any rebellion from the man under him, or any assertion of social equality between the wife of the man with 4 shillings a week less than himself and Mrs Jones! Of course they all rebel against me, theoretically. Practically, every man of them keeps the man just below him in his place. I never meddle with them. I never bully them. I don't even bully Lazarus. I say that certain things are to be done; but I don't order anybody to do them. I don't say, mind you, that there is no ordering about and snubbing and even bullying. The men snub the boys and order them about; the carmen snub the sweepers; the artisans snub the unskilled laborers; the foremen drive and bully both the laborers and artisans; the assistant engineers find fault with the foremen; the chief engineers drop on the assistants; the departmental managers worry the chiefs; and the clerks have tall hats and hymnbooks and keep up the social tone by refusing to associate on equal terms with anybody. The result is a colossal profit, which comes to me. CUSINS [revolted] You really are a--well, what I was saying yesterday. BARBARA. What was he saying yesterday? UNDERSHAFT. Never mind, my dear. He thinks I have made you unhappy. Have I? BARBARA. Do you think I can be happy in this vulgar silly dress? I! who have worn the uniform. Do you understand what you have done to me? Yesterday I had a man's soul in my hand. I set him in the way of life with his face to salvation. But when we took your money he turned back to drunkenness and derision. [With intense conviction] I will never forgive you that. If I had a child, and you destroyed its body with your explosives--if you murdered Dolly with your horrible guns--I could forgive you if my forgiveness would open the gates of heaven to you. But to take a human soul from me, and turn it into the soul of a wolf! that is worse than any murder. UNDERSHAFT. Does my daughter despair so easily? Can you strike a man to the heart and leave no mark on him? BARBARA [her face lighting up] Oh, you are right: he can never be lost now: where was my faith? CUSINS. Oh, clever clever devil! BARBARA. You may be a devil; but God speaks through you sometimes. [She takes her father's hands and kisses them]. You have given me back my happiness: I feel it deep down now, though my spirit is troubled. UNDERSHAFT. You have learnt something. That always feels at first as if you had lost something. BARBARA. Well, take me to the factory of death, and let me learn something more. There must be some truth or other behind all this frightful irony. Come, Dolly. [She goes out]. CUSINS. My guardian angel! [To Undershaft] Avaunt! [He follows Barbara]. STEPHEN [quietly, at the writing table] You must not mind Cusins, father. He is a very amiable good fellow; but he is a Greek scholar and naturally a little eccentric. UNDERSHAFT. Ah, quite so. Thank you, Stephen. Thank you. [He goes out]. Stephen smiles patronizingly; buttons his coat responsibly; and crosses the room to the door. Lady Britomart, dressed for out-of-doors, opens it before he reaches it. She looks round far the others; looks at Stephen; and turns to go without a word. STEPHEN [embarrassed] Mother-- LADY BRITOMART. Don't be apologetic, Stephen. And don't forget that you have outgrown your mother. [She goes out]. Perivale St Andrews lies between two Middlesex hills, half climbing the northern one. It is an almost smokeless town of white walls, roofs of narrow green slates or red tiles, tall trees, domes, campaniles, and slender chimney shafts, beautifully situated and beautiful in itself. The best view of it is obtained from the crest of a slope about half a mile to the east, where the high explosives are dealt with. The foundry lies hidden in the depths between, the tops of its chimneys sprouting like huge skittles into the middle distance. Across the crest runs a platform of concrete, with a parapet which suggests a fortification, because there is a huge cannon of the obsolete Woolwich Infant pattern peering across it at the town. The cannon is mounted on an experimental gun carriage: possibly the original model of the Undershaft disappearing rampart gun alluded to by Stephen. The parapet has a high step inside which serves as a seat. Barbara is leaning over the parapet, looking towards the town. On her right is the cannon; on her left the end of a shed raised on piles, with a ladder of three or four steps up to the door, which opens outwards and has a little wooden landing at the threshold, with a fire bucket in the corner of the landing. The parapet stops short of the shed, leaving a gap which is the beginning of the path down the hill through the foundry to the town. Behind the cannon is a trolley carrying a huge conical bombshell, with a red band painted on it. Further from the parapet, on the same side, is a deck chair, near the door of an office, which, like the sheds, is of the lightest possible construction. Cusins arrives by the path from the town. BARBARA. Well? CUSINS. Not a ray of hope. Everything perfect, wonderful, real. It only needs a cathedral to be a heavenly city instead of a hellish one. BARBARA. Have you found out whether they have done anything for old Peter Shirley. CUSINS. They have found him a job as gatekeeper and timekeeper. He's frightfully miserable. He calls the timekeeping brainwork, and says he isn't used to it; and his gate lodge is so splendid that he's ashamed to use the rooms, and skulks in the scullery. BARBARA. Poor Peter! Stephen arrives from the town. He carries a fieldglass. STEPHEN [enthusiastically] Have you two seen the place? Why did you leave us? CUSINS. I wanted to see everything I was not intended to see; and Barbara wanted to make the men talk. STEPHEN. Have you found anything discreditable? CUSINS. No. They call him Dandy Andy and are proud of his being a cunning old rascal; but it's all horribly, frightfully, immorally, unanswerably perfect. Sarah arrives. SARAH. Heavens! what a place! [She crosses to the trolley]. Did you see the nursing home!? [She sits down on the shell]. STEPHEN. Did you see the libraries and schools!? SARAH. Did you see the ballroom and the banqueting chamber in the Town Hall!? STEPHEN. Have you gone into the insurance fund, the pension fund, the building society, the various applications of co-operation!? Undershaft comes from the office, with a sheaf of telegrams in his hands. UNDERSHAFT. Well, have you seen everything? I'm sorry I was called away. [Indicating the telegrams] News from Manchuria. STEPHEN. Good news, I hope. UNDERSHAFT. Very. STEPHEN. Another Japanese victory? UNDERSHAFT. Oh, I don't know. Which side wins does not concern us here. No: the good news is that the aerial battleship is a tremendous success. At the first trial it has wiped out a fort with three hundred soldiers in it. CUSINS [from the platform] Dummy soldiers? UNDERSHAFT. No: the real thing. [Cusins and Barbara exchange glances. Then Cusins sits on the step and buries his face in his hands. Barbara gravely lays her hand on his shoulder, and he looks up at her in a sort of whimsical desperation]. Well, Stephen, what do you think of the place? STEPHEN. Oh, magnificent. A perfect triumph of organization. Frankly, my dear father, I have been a fool: I had no idea of what it all meant--of the wonderful forethought, the power of organization, the administrative capacity, the financial genius, the colossal capital it represents. I have been repeating to myself as I came through your streets "Peace hath her victories no less renowned than War." I have only one misgiving about it all. UNDERSHAFT. Out with it. STEPHEN. Well, I cannot help thinking that all this provision for every want of your workmen may sap their independence and weaken their sense of responsibility. And greatly as we enjoyed our tea at that splendid restaurant--how they gave us all that luxury and cake and jam and cream for threepence I really cannot imagine!--still you must remember that restaurants break up home life. Look at the continent, for instance! Are you sure so much pampering is really good for the men's characters? UNDERSHAFT. Well you see, my dear boy, when you are organizing civilization you have to make up your mind whether trouble and anxiety are good things or not. If you decide that they are, then, I take it, you simply don't organize civilization; and there you are, with trouble and anxiety enough to make us all angels! But if you decide the other way, you may as well go through with it. However, Stephen, our characters are safe here. A sufficient dose of anxiety is always provided by the fact that we may be blown to smithereens at any moment. SARAH. By the way, papa, where do you make the explosives? UNDERSHAFT. In separate little sheds, like that one. When one of them blows up, it costs very little; and only the people quite close to it are killed. Stephen, who is quite close to it, looks at it rather scaredly, and moves away quickly to the cannon. At the same moment the door of the shed is thrown abruptly open; and a foreman in overalls and list slippers comes out on the little landing and holds the door open for Lomax, who appears in the doorway. LOMAX [with studied coolness] My good fellow: you needn't get into a state of nerves. Nothing's going to happen to you; and I suppose it wouldn't be the end of the world if anything did. A little bit of British pluck is what you want, old chap. [He descends and strolls across to Sarah]. UNDERSHAFT [to the foreman] Anything wrong, Bilton? BILTON [with ironic calm] Gentleman walked into the high explosives shed and lit a cigaret, sir: that's all. UNDERSHAFT. Ah, quite so. [To Lomax] Do you happen to remember what you did with the match? LOMAX. Oh come! I'm not a fool. I took jolly good care to blow it out before I chucked it away. BILTON. The top of it was red hot inside, sir. LOMAX. Well, suppose it was! I didn't chuck it into any of your messes. UNDERSHAFT. Think no more of it, Mr Lomax. By the way, would you mind lending me your matches? LOMAX [offering his box] Certainly. UNDERSHAFT. Thanks. [He pockets the matches]. LOMAX [lecturing to the company generally] You know, these high explosives don't go off like gunpowder, except when they're in a gun. When they're spread loose, you can put a match to them without the least risk: they just burn quietly like a bit of paper. [Warming to the scientific interest of the subject] Did you know that Undershaft? Have you ever tried? UNDERSHAFT. Not on a large scale, Mr Lomax. Bilton will give you a sample of gun cotton when you are leaving if you ask him. You can experiment with it at home. [Bilton looks puzzled]. SARAH. Bilton will do nothing of the sort, papa. I suppose it's your business to blow up the Russians and Japs; but you might really stop short of blowing up poor Cholly. [Bilton gives it up and retires into the shed]. LOMAX. My ownest, there is no danger. [He sits beside her on the shell]. Lady Britomart arrives from the town with a bouquet. LADY BRITOMART [coming impetuously between Undershaft and the deck chair] Andrew: you shouldn't have let me see this place. UNDERSHAFT. Why, my dear? LADY BRITOMART. Never mind why: you shouldn't have: that's all. To think of all that [indicating the town] being yours! and that you have kept it to yourself all these years! UNDERSHAFT. It does not belong to me. I belong to it. It is the Undershaft inheritance. LADY BRITOMART. It is not. Your ridiculous cannons and that noisy banging foundry may be the Undershaft inheritance; but all that plate and linen, all that furniture and those houses and orchards and gardens belong to us. They belong to me: they are not a man's business. I won't give them up. You must be out of your senses to throw them all away; and if you persist in such folly, I will call in a doctor. UNDERSHAFT [stooping to smell the bouquet] Where did you get the flowers, my dear? LADY BRITOMART. Your men presented them to me in your William Morris Labor Church. CUSINS [springing up] Oh! It needed only that. A Labor Church! LADY BRITOMART. Yes, with Morris's words in mosaic letters ten feet high round the dome. NO MAN IS GOOD ENOUGH TO BE ANOTHER MAN'S MASTER. The cynicism of it! UNDERSHAFT. It shocked the men at first, I am afraid. But now they take no more notice of it than of the ten commandments in church. LADY BRITOMART. Andrew: you are trying to put me off the subject of the inheritance by profane jokes. Well, you shan't. I don't ask it any longer for Stephen: he has inherited far too much of your perversity to be fit for it. But Barbara has rights as well as Stephen. Why should not Adolphus succeed to the inheritance? I could manage the town for him; and he can look after the cannons, if they are really necessary. UNDERSHAFT. I should ask nothing better if Adolphus were a foundling. He is exactly the sort of new blood that is wanted in English business. But he's not a foundling; and there's an end of it. CUSINS [diplomatically] Not quite. [They all turn and stare at him. He comes from the platform past the shed to Undershaft]. I think--Mind! I am not committing myself in any way as to my future course--but I think the foundling difficulty can be got over. UNDERSHAFT. What do you mean? CUSINS. Well, I have something to say which is in the nature of a confession. SARAH. } LADY BRITOMART. } Confession! BARBARA. } STEPHEN. } LOMAX. Oh I say! CUSINS. Yes, a confession. Listen, all. Until I met Barbara I thought myself in the main an honorable, truthful man, because I wanted the approval of my conscience more than I wanted anything else. But the moment I saw Barbara, I wanted her far more than the approval of my conscience. LADY BRITOMART. Adolphus! CUSINS. It is true. You accused me yourself, Lady Brit, of joining the Army to worship Barbara; and so I did. She bought my soul like a flower at a street corner; but she bought it for herself. UNDERSHAFT. What! Not for Dionysos or another? CUSINS. Dionysos and all the others are in herself. I adored what was divine in her, and was therefore a true worshipper. But I was romantic about her too. I thought she was a woman of the people, and that a marriage with a professor of Greek would be far beyond the wildest social ambitions of her rank. LADY BRITOMART. Adolphus!! LOMAX. Oh I say!!! CUSINS. When I learnt the horrible truth-- LADY BRITOMART. What do you mean by the horrible truth, pray? CUSINS. That she was enormously rich; that her grandfather was an earl; that her father was the Prince of Darkness-- UNDERSHAFT. Chut! CUSINS.--and that I was only an adventurer trying to catch a rich wife, then I stooped to deceive about my birth. LADY BRITOMART. Your birth! Now Adolphus, don't dare to make up a wicked story for the sake of these wretched cannons. Remember: I have seen photographs of your parents; and the Agent General for South Western Australia knows them personally and has assured me that they are most respectable married people. CUSINS. So they are in Australia; but here they are outcasts. Their marriage is legal in Australia, but not in England. My mother is my father's deceased wife's sister; and in this island I am consequently a foundling. [Sensation]. Is the subterfuge good enough, Machiavelli? UNDERSHAFT [thoughtfully] Biddy: this may be a way out of the difficulty. LADY BRITOMART. Stuff! A man can't make cannons any the better for being his own cousin instead of his proper self [she sits down in the deck chair with a bounce that expresses her downright contempt for their casuistry.] UNDERSHAFT [to Cusins] You are an educated man. That is against the tradition. CUSINS. Once in ten thousand times it happens that the schoolboy is a born master of what they try to teach him. Greek has not destroyed my mind: it has nourished it. Besides, I did not learn it at an English public school. UNDERSHAFT. Hm! Well, I cannot afford to be too particular: you have cornered the foundling market. Let it pass. You are eligible, Euripides: you are eligible. BARBARA [coming from the platform and interposing between Cusins and Undershaft] Dolly: yesterday morning, when Stephen told us all about the tradition, you became very silent; and you have been strange and excited ever since. Were you thinking of your birth then? CUSINS. When the finger of Destiny suddenly points at a man in the middle of his breakfast, it makes him thoughtful. [Barbara turns away sadly and stands near her mother, listening perturbedly]. UNDERSHAFT. Aha! You have had your eye on the business, my young friend, have you? CUSINS. Take care! There is an abyss of moral horror between me and your accursed aerial battleships. UNDERSHAFT. Never mind the abyss for the present. Let us settle the practical details and leave your final decision open. You know that you will have to change your name. Do you object to that? CUSINS. Would any man named Adolphus--any man called Dolly!--object to be called something else? UNDERSHAFT. Good. Now, as to money! I propose to treat you handsomely from the beginning. You shall start at a thousand a year. CUSINS. [with sudden heat, his spectacles twinkling with mischief] A thousand! You dare offer a miserable thousand to the son-in-law of a millionaire! No, by Heavens, Machiavelli! you shall not cheat me. You cannot do without me; and I can do without you. I must have two thousand five hundred a year for two years. At the end of that time, if I am a failure, I go. But if I am a success, and stay on, you must give me the other five thousand. UNDERSHAFT. What other five thousand? CUSINS. To make the two years up to five thousand a year. The two thousand five hundred is only half pay in case I should turn out a failure. The third year I must have ten per cent on the profits. UNDERSHAFT [taken aback] Ten per cent! Why, man, do you know what my profits are? CUSINS. Enormous, I hope: otherwise I shall require twenty-five per cent. UNDERSHAFT. But, Mr Cusins, this is a serious matter of business. You are not bringing any capital into the concern. CUSINS. What! no capital! Is my mastery of Greek no capital? Is my access to the subtlest thought, the loftiest poetry yet attained by humanity, no capital? my character! my intellect! my life! my career! what Barbara calls my soul! are these no capital? Say another word; and I double my salary. UNDERSHAFT. Be reasonable-- CUSINS [peremptorily] Mr Undershaft: you have my terms. Take them or leave them. UNDERSHAFT [recovering himself] Very well. I note your terms; and I offer you half. CUSINS [disgusted] Half! UNDERSHAFT [firmly] Half. CUSINS. You call yourself a gentleman; and you offer me half!! UNDERSHAFT. I do not call myself a gentleman; but I offer you half. CUSINS. This to your future partner! your successor! your son-in-law! BARBARA. You are selling your own soul, Dolly, not mine. Leave me out of the bargain, please. UNDERSHAFT. Come! I will go a step further for Barbara's sake. I will give you three fifths; but that is my last word. CUSINS. Done! LOMAX. Done in the eye. Why, _I_ only get eight hundred, you know. CUSINS. By the way, Mac, I am a classical scholar, not an arithmetical one. Is three fifths more than half or less? UNDERSHAFT. More, of course. CUSINS. I would have taken two hundred and fifty. How you can succeed in business when you are willing to pay all that money to a University don who is obviously not worth a junior clerk's wages!--well! What will Lazarus say? UNDERSHAFT. Lazarus is a gentle romantic Jew who cares for nothing but string quartets and stalls at fashionable theatres. He will get the credit of your rapacity in money matters, as he has hitherto had the credit of mine. You are a shark of the first order, Euripides. So much the better for the firm! BARBARA. Is the bargain closed, Dolly? Does your soul belong to him now? CUSINS. No: the price is settled: that is all. The real tug of war is still to come. What about the moral question? LADY BRITOMART. There is no moral question in the matter at all, Adolphus. You must simply sell cannons and weapons to people whose cause is right and just, and refuse them to foreigners and criminals. UNDERSHAFT [determinedly] No: none of that. You must keep the true faith of an Armorer, or you don't come in here. CUSINS. What on earth is the true faith of an Armorer? UNDERSHAFT. To give arms to all men who offer an honest price for them, without respect of persons or principles: to aristocrat and republican, to Nihilist and Tsar, to Capitalist and Socialist, to Protestant and Catholic, to burglar and policeman, to black man white man and yellow man, to all sorts and conditions, all nationalities, all faiths, all follies, all causes and all crimes. The first Undershaft wrote up in his shop IF GOD GAVE THE HAND, LET NOT MAN WITHHOLD THE SWORD. The second wrote up ALL HAVE THE RIGHT TO FIGHT: NONE HAVE THE RIGHT TO JUDGE. The third wrote up TO MAN THE WEAPON: TO HEAVEN THE VICTORY. The fourth had no literary turn; so he did not write up anything; but he sold cannons to Napoleon under the nose of George the Third. The fifth wrote up PEACE SHALL NOT PREVAIL SAVE WITH A SWORD IN HER HAND. The sixth, my master, was the best of all. He wrote up NOTHING IS EVER DONE IN THIS WORLD UNTIL MEN ARE PREPARED TO KILL ONE ANOTHER IF IT IS NOT DONE. After that, there was nothing left for the seventh to say. So he wrote up, simply, UNASHAMED. CUSINS. My good Machiavelli, I shall certainly write something up on the wall; only, as I shall write it in Greek, you won't be able to read it. But as to your Armorer's faith, if I take my neck out of the noose of my own morality I am not going to put it into the noose of yours. I shall sell cannons to whom I please and refuse them to whom I please. So there! UNDERSHAFT. From the moment when you become Andrew Undershaft, you will never do as you please again. Don't come here lusting for power, young man. CUSINS. If power were my aim I should not come here for it. YOU have no power. UNDERSHAFT. None of my own, certainly. CUSINS. I have more power than you, more will. You do not drive this place: it drives you. And what drives the place? UNDERSHAFT [enigmatically] A will of which I am a part. BARBARA [startled] Father! Do you know what you are saying; or are you laying a snare for my soul? CUSINS. Don't listen to his metaphysics, Barbara. The place is driven by the most rascally part of society, the money hunters, the pleasure hunters, the military promotion hunters; and he is their slave. UNDERSHAFT. Not necessarily. Remember the Armorer's Faith. I will take an order from a good man as cheerfully as from a bad one. If you good people prefer preaching and shirking to buying my weapons and fighting the rascals, don't blame me. I can make cannons: I cannot make courage and conviction. Bah! You tire me, Euripides, with your morality mongering. Ask Barbara: SHE understands. [He suddenly takes Barbara's hands, and looks powerfully into her eyes]. Tell him, my love, what power really means. BARBARA [hypnotized] Before I joined the Salvation Army, I was in my own power; and the consequence was that I never knew what to do with myself. When I joined it, I had not time enough for all the things I had to do. UNDERSHAFT [approvingly] Just so. And why was that, do you suppose? BARBARA. Yesterday I should have said, because I was in the power of God. [She resumes her self-possession, withdrawing her hands from his with a power equal to his own]. But you came and showed me that I was in the power of Bodger and Undershaft. Today I feel--oh! how can I put it into words? Sarah: do you remember the earthquake at Cannes, when we were little children?--how little the surprise of the first shock mattered compared to the dread and horror of waiting for the second? That is how I feel in this place today. I stood on the rock I thought eternal; and without a word of warning it reeled and crumbled under me. I was safe with an infinite wisdom watching me, an army marching to Salvation with me; and in a moment, at a stroke of your pen in a cheque book, I stood alone; and the heavens were empty. That was the first shock of the earthquake: I am waiting for the second. UNDERSHAFT. Come, come, my daughter! Don't make too much of your little tinpot tragedy. What do we do here when we spend years of work and thought and thousands of pounds of solid cash on a new gun or an aerial battleship that turns out just a hairsbreadth wrong after all? Scrap it. Scrap it without wasting another hour or another pound on it. Well, you have made for yourself something that you call a morality or a religion or what not. It doesn't fit the facts. Well, scrap it. Scrap it and get one that does fit. That is what is wrong with the world at present. It scraps its obsolete steam engines and dynamos; but it won't scrap its old prejudices and its old moralities and its old religions and its old political constitutions. What's the result? In machinery it does very well; but in morals and religion and politics it is working at a loss that brings it nearer bankruptcy every year. Don't persist in that folly. If your old religion broke down yesterday, get a newer and a better one for tomorrow. BARBARA. Oh how gladly I would take a better one to my soul! But you offer me a worse one. [Turning on him with sudden vehemence]. Justify yourself: show me some light through the darkness of this dreadful place, with its beautifully clean workshops, and respectable workmen, and model homes. UNDERSHAFT. Cleanliness and respectability do not need justification, Barbara: they justify themselves. I see no darkness here, no dreadfulness. In your Salvation shelter I saw poverty, misery, cold and hunger. You gave them bread and treacle and dreams of heaven. I give from thirty shillings a week to twelve thousand a year. They find their own dreams; but I look after the drainage. BARBARA. And their souls? UNDERSHAFT. I save their souls just as I saved yours. BARBARA [revolted] You saved my soul! What do you mean? UNDERSHAFT. I fed you and clothed you and housed you. I took care that you should have money enough to live handsomely--more than enough; so that you could be wasteful, careless, generous. That saved your soul from the seven deadly sins. BARBARA [bewildered] The seven deadly sins! UNDERSHAFT. Yes, the deadly seven. [Counting on his fingers] Food, clothing, firing, rent, taxes, respectability and children. Nothing can lift those seven millstones from Man's neck but money; and the spirit cannot soar until the millstones are lifted. I lifted them from your spirit. I enabled Barbara to become Major Barbara; and I saved her from the crime of poverty. CUSINS. Do you call poverty a crime? UNDERSHAFT. The worst of crimes. All the other crimes are virtues beside it: all the other dishonors are chivalry itself by comparison. Poverty blights whole cities; spreads horrible pestilences; strikes dead the very souls of all who come within sight, sound or smell of it. What you call crime is nothing: a murder here and a theft there, a blow now and a curse then: what do they matter? they are only the accidents and illnesses of life: there are not fifty genuine professional criminals in London. But there are millions of poor people, abject people, dirty people, ill fed, ill clothed people. They poison us morally and physically: they kill the happiness of society: they force us to do away with our own liberties and to organize unnatural cruelties for fear they should rise against us and drag us down into their abyss. Only fools fear crime: we all fear poverty. Pah! [turning on Barbara] you talk of your half-saved ruffian in West Ham: you accuse me of dragging his soul back to perdition. Well, bring him to me here; and I will drag his soul back again to salvation for you. Not by words and dreams; but by thirty-eight shillings a week, a sound house in a handsome street, and a permanent job. In three weeks he will have a fancy waistcoat; in three months a tall hat and a chapel sitting; before the end of the year he will shake hands with a duchess at a Primrose League meeting, and join the Conservative Party. BARBARA. And will he be the better for that? UNDERSHAFT. You know he will. Don't be a hypocrite, Barbara. He will be better fed, better housed, better clothed, better behaved; and his children will be pounds heavier and bigger. That will be better than an American cloth mattress in a shelter, chopping firewood, eating bread and treacle, and being forced to kneel down from time to time to thank heaven for it: knee drill, I think you call it. It is cheap work converting starving men with a Bible in one hand and a slice of bread in the other. I will undertake to convert West Ham to Mahometanism on the same terms. Try your hand on my men: their souls are hungry because their bodies are full. BARBARA. And leave the east end to starve? UNDERSHAFT [his energetic tone dropping into one of bitter and brooding remembrance] I was an east ender. I moralized and starved until one day I swore that I would be a fullfed free man at all costs--that nothing should stop me except a bullet, neither reason nor morals nor the lives of other men. I said "Thou shalt starve ere I starve"; and with that word I became free and great. I was a dangerous man until I had my will: now I am a useful, beneficent, kindly person. That is the history of most self-made millionaires, I fancy. When it is the history of every Englishman we shall have an England worth living in. LADY BRITOMART. Stop making speeches, Andrew. This is not the place for them. UNDERSHAFT [punctured] My dear: I have no other means of conveying my ideas. LADY BRITOMART. Your ideas are nonsense. You got oil because you were selfish and unscrupulous. UNDERSHAFT. Not at all. I had the strongest scruples about poverty and starvation. Your moralists are quite unscrupulous about both: they make virtues of them. I had rather be a thief than a pauper. I had rather be a murderer than a slave. I don't want to be either; but if you force the alternative on me, then, by Heaven, I'll choose the braver and more moral one. I hate poverty and slavery worse than any other crimes whatsoever. And let me tell you this. Poverty and slavery have stood up for centuries to your sermons and leading articles: they will not stand up to my machine guns. Don't preach at them: don't reason with them. Kill them. BARBARA. Killing. Is that your remedy for everything? UNDERSHAFT. It is the final test of conviction, the only lever strong enough to overturn a social system, the only way of saying Must. Let six hundred and seventy fools loose in the street; and three policemen can scatter them. But huddle them together in a certain house in Westminster; and let them go through certain ceremonies and call themselves certain names until at last they get the courage to kill; and your six hundred and seventy fools become a government. Your pious mob fills up ballot papers and imagines it is governing its masters; but the ballot paper that really governs is the paper that has a bullet wrapped up in it. CUSINS. That is perhaps why, like most intelligent people, I never vote. UNDERSHAFT Vote! Bah! When you vote, you only change the names of the cabinet. When you shoot, you pull down governments, inaugurate new epochs, abolish old orders and set up new. Is that historically true, Mr Learned Man, or is it not? CUSINS. It is historically true. I loathe having to admit it. I repudiate your sentiments. I abhor your nature. I defy you in every possible way. Still, it is true. But it ought not to be true. UNDERSHAFT. Ought, ought, ought, ought, ought! Are you going to spend your life saying ought, like the rest of our moralists? Turn your oughts into shalls, man. Come and make explosives with me. Whatever can blow men up can blow society up. The history of the world is the history of those who had courage enough to embrace this truth. Have you the courage to embrace it, Barbara? LADY BRITOMART. Barbara, I positively forbid you to listen to your father's abominable wickedness. And you, Adolphus, ought to know better than to go about saying that wrong things are true. What does it matter whether they are true if they are wrong? UNDERSHAFT. What does it matter whether they are wrong if they are true? LADY BRITOMART [rising] Children: come home instantly. Andrew: I am exceedingly sorry I allowed you to call on us. You are wickeder than ever. Come at once. BARBARA [shaking her head] It's no use running away from wicked people, mamma. LADY BRITOMART. It is every use. It shows your disapprobation of them. BARBARA. It does not save them. LADY BRITOMART. I can see that you are going to disobey me. Sarah: are you coming home or are you not? SARAH. I daresay it's very wicked of papa to make cannons; but I don't think I shall cut him on that account. LOMAX [pouring oil on the troubled waters] The fact is, you know, there is a certain amount of tosh about this notion of wickedness. It doesn't work. You must look at facts. Not that I would say a word in favor of anything wrong; but then, you see, all sorts of chaps are always doing all sorts of things; and we have to fit them in somehow, don't you know. What I mean is that you can't go cutting everybody; and that's about what it comes to. [Their rapt attention to his eloquence makes him nervous] Perhaps I don't make myself clear. LADY BRITOMART. You are lucidity itself, Charles. Because Andrew is successful and has plenty of money to give to Sarah, you will flatter him and encourage him in his wickedness. LOMAX [unruffled] Well, where the carcase is, there will the eagles be gathered, don't you know. [To Undershaft] Eh? What? UNDERSHAFT. Precisely. By the way, may I call you Charles? LOMAX. Delighted. Cholly is the usual ticket. UNDERSHAFT [to Lady Britomart] Biddy-- LADY BRITOMART [violently] Don't dare call me Biddy. Charles Lomax: you are a fool. Adolphus Cusins: you are a Jesuit. Stephen: you are a prig. Barbara: you are a lunatic. Andrew: you are a vulgar tradesman. Now you all know my opinion; and my conscience is clear, at all events [she sits down again with a vehemence that almost wrecks the chair]. UNDERSHAFT. My dear, you are the incarnation of morality. [She snorts]. Your conscience is clear and your duty done when you have called everybody names. Come, Euripides! it is getting late; and we all want to get home. Make up your mind. CUSINS. Understand this, you old demon-- LADY BRITOMART. Adolphus! UNDERSHAFT. Let him alone, Biddy. Proceed, Euripides. CUSINS. You have me in a horrible dilemma. I want Barbara. UNDERSHAFT. Like all young men, you greatly exaggerate the difference between one young woman and another. BARBARA. Quite true, Dolly. CUSINS. I also want to avoid being a rascal. UNDERSHAFT [with biting contempt] You lust for personal righteousness, for self-approval, for what you call a good conscience, for what Barbara calls salvation, for what I call patronizing people who are not so lucky as yourself. CUSINS. I do not: all the poet in me recoils from being a good man. But there are things in me that I must reckon with: pity-- UNDERSHAFT. Pity! The scavenger of misery. CUSINS. Well, love. UNDERSHAFT. I know. You love the needy and the outcast: you love the oppressed races, the negro, the Indian ryot, the Pole, the Irishman. Do you love the Japanese? Do you love the Germans? Do you love the English? CUSINS. No. Every true Englishman detests the English. We are the wickedest nation on earth; and our success is a moral horror. UNDERSHAFT. That is what comes of your gospel of love, is it? CUSINS. May I not love even my father-in-law? UNDERSHAFT. Who wants your love, man? By what right do you take the liberty of offering it to me? I will have your due heed and respect, or I will kill you. But your love! Damn your impertinence! CUSINS [grinning] I may not be able to control my affections, Mac. UNDERSHAFT. You are fencing, Euripides. You are weakening: your grip is slipping. Come! try your last weapon. Pity and love have broken in your hand: forgiveness is still left. CUSINS. No: forgiveness is a beggar's refuge. I am with you there: we must pay our debts. UNDERSHAFT. Well said. Come! you will suit me. Remember the words of Plato. CUSINS [starting] Plato! You dare quote Plato to me! UNDERSHAFT. Plato says, my friend, that society cannot be saved until either the Professors of Greek take to making gunpowder, or else the makers of gunpowder become Professors of Greek. CUSINS. Oh, tempter, cunning tempter! UNDERSHAFT. Come! choose, man, choose. CUSINS. But perhaps Barbara will not marry me if I make the wrong choice. BARBARA. Perhaps not. CUSINS [desperately perplexed] You hear-- BARBARA. Father: do you love nobody? UNDERSHAFT. I love my best friend. LADY BRITOMART. And who is that, pray? UNDERSHAFT. My bravest enemy. That is the man who keeps me up to the mark. CUSINS. You know, the creature is really a sort of poet in his way. Suppose he is a great man, after all! UNDERSHAFT. Suppose you stop talking and make up your mind, my young friend. CUSINS. But you are driving me against my nature. I hate war. UNDERSHAFT. Hatred is the coward's revenge for being intimidated. Dare you make war on war? Here are the means: my friend Mr Lomax is sitting on them. LOMAX [springing up] Oh I say! You don't mean that this thing is loaded, do you? My ownest: come off it. SARAH [sitting placidly on the shell] If I am to be blown up, the more thoroughly it is done the better. Don't fuss, Cholly. LOMAX [to Undershaft, strongly remonstrant] Your own daughter, you know. UNDERSHAFT. So I see. [To Cusins] Well, my friend, may we expect you here at six tomorrow morning? CUSINS [firmly] Not on any account. I will see the whole establishment blown up with its own dynamite before I will get up at five. My hours are healthy, rational hours eleven to five. UNDERSHAFT. Come when you please: before a week you will come at six and stay until I turn you out for the sake of your health. [Calling] Bilton! [He turns to Lady Britomart, who rises]. My dear: let us leave these two young people to themselves for a moment. [Bilton comes from the shed]. I am going to take you through the gun cotton shed. BILTON [barring the way] You can't take anything explosive in here, Sir. LADY BRITOMART. What do you mean? Are you alluding to me? BILTON [unmoved] No, ma'am. Mr Undershaft has the other gentleman's matches in his pocket. LADY BRITOMART [abruptly] Oh! I beg your pardon. [She goes into the shed]. UNDERSHAFT. Quite right, Bilton, quite right: here you are. [He gives Bilton the box of matches]. Come, Stephen. Come, Charles. Bring Sarah. [He passes into the shed]. Bilton opens the box and deliberately drops the matches into the fire-bucket. LOMAX. Oh I say! [Bilton stolidly hands him the empty box]. Infernal nonsense! Pure scientific ignorance! [He goes in]. SARAH. Am I all right, Bilton? BILTON. You'll have to put on list slippers, miss: that's all. We've got em inside. [She goes in]. STEPHEN [very seriously to Cusins] Dolly, old fellow, think. Think before you decide. Do you feel that you are a sufficiently practical man? It is a huge undertaking, an enormous responsibility. All this mass of business will be Greek to you. CUSINS. Oh, I think it will be much less difficult than Greek. STEPHEN. Well, I just want to say this before I leave you to yourselves. Don't let anything I have said about right and wrong prejudice you against this great chance in life. I have satisfied myself that the business is one of the highest character and a credit to our country. [Emotionally] I am very proud of my father. I-- [Unable to proceed, he presses Cusins' hand and goes hastily into the shed, followed by Bilton]. Barbara and Cusins, left alone together, look at one another silently. CUSINS. Barbara: I am going to accept this offer. BARBARA. I thought you would. CUSINS. You understand, don't you, that I had to decide without consulting you. If I had thrown the burden of the choice on you, you would sooner or later have despised me for it. BARBARA. Yes: I did not want you to sell your soul for me any more than for this inheritance. CUSINS. It is not the sale of my soul that troubles me: I have sold it too often to care about that. I have sold it for a professorship. I have sold it for an income. I have sold it to escape being imprisoned for refusing to pay taxes for hangmen's ropes and unjust wars and things that I abhor. What is all human conduct but the daily and hourly sale of our souls for trifles? What I am now selling it for is neither money nor position nor comfort, but for reality and for power. BARBARA. You know that you will have no power, and that he has none. CUSINS. I know. It is not for myself alone. I want to make power for the world. BARBARA. I want to make power for the world too; but it must be spiritual power. CUSINS. I think all power is spiritual: these cannons will not go off by themselves. I have tried to make spiritual power by teaching Greek. But the world can never be really touched by a dead language and a dead civilization. The people must have power; and the people cannot have Greek. Now the power that is made here can be wielded by all men. BARBARA. Power to burn women's houses down and kill their sons and tear their husbands to pieces. CUSINS. You cannot have power for good without having power for evil too. Even mother's milk nourishes murderers as well as heroes. This power which only tears men's bodies to pieces has never been so horribly abused as the intellectual power, the imaginative power, the poetic, religious power that can enslave men's souls. As a teacher of Greek I gave the intellectual man weapons against the common man. I now want to give the common man weapons against the intellectual man. I love the common people. I want to arm them against the lawyer, the doctor, the priest, the literary man, the professor, the artist, and the politician, who, once in authority, are the most dangerous, disastrous, and tyrannical of all the fools, rascals, and impostors. I want a democratic power strong enough to force the intellectual oligarchy to use its genius for the general good or else perish. BARBARA. Is there no higher power than that [pointing to the shell]? CUSINS. Yes: but that power can destroy the higher powers just as a tiger can destroy a man: therefore man must master that power first. I admitted this when the Turks and Greeks were last at war. My best pupil went out to fight for Hellas. My parting gift to him was not a copy of Plato's Republic, but a revolver and a hundred Undershaft cartridges. The blood of every Turk he shot--if he shot any--is on my head as well as on Undershaft's. That act committed me to this place for ever. Your father's challenge has beaten me. Dare I make war on war? I dare. I must. I will. And now, is it all over between us? BARBARA [touched by his evident dread of her answer] Silly baby Dolly! How could it be? CUSINS [overjoyed] Then you--you--you-- Oh for my drum! [He flourishes imaginary drumsticks]. BARBARA [angered by his levity] Take care, Dolly, take care. Oh, if only I could get away from you and from father and from it all! if I could have the wings of a dove and fly away to heaven! CUSINS. And leave me! BARBARA. Yes, you, and all the other naughty mischievous children of men. But I can't. I was happy in the Salvation Army for a moment. I escaped from the world into a paradise of enthusiasm and prayer and soul saving; but the moment our money ran short, it all came back to Bodger: it was he who saved our people: he, and the Prince of Darkness, my papa. Undershaft and Bodger: their hands stretch everywhere: when we feed a starving fellow creature, it is with their bread, because there is no other bread; when we tend the sick, it is in the hospitals they endow; if we turn from the churches they build, we must kneel on the stones of the streets they pave. As long as that lasts, there is no getting away from them. Turning our backs on Bodger and Undershaft is turning our backs on life. CUSINS. I thought you were determined to turn your back on the wicked side of life. BARBARA. There is no wicked side: life is all one. And I never wanted to shirk my share in whatever evil must be endured, whether it be sin or suffering. I wish I could cure you of middle-class ideas, Dolly. CUSINS [gasping] Middle cl--! A snub! A social snub to ME! from the daughter of a foundling! BARBARA. That is why I have no class, Dolly: I come straight out of the heart of the whole people. If I were middle-class I should turn my back on my father's business; and we should both live in an artistic drawingroom, with you reading the reviews in one corner, and I in the other at the piano, playing Schumann: both very superior persons, and neither of us a bit of use. Sooner than that, I would sweep out the guncotton shed, or be one of Bodger's barmaids. Do you know what would have happened if you had refused papa's offer? CUSINS. I wonder! BARBARA. I should have given you up and married the man who accepted it. After all, my dear old mother has more sense than any of you. I felt like her when I saw this place--felt that I must have it--that never, never, never could I let it go; only she thought it was the houses and the kitchen ranges and the linen and china, when it was really all the human souls to be saved: not weak souls in starved bodies, crying with gratitude or a scrap of bread and treacle, but fullfed, quarrelsome, snobbish, uppish creatures, all standing on their little rights and dignities, and thinking that my father ought to be greatly obliged to them for making so much money for him--and so he ought. That is where salvation is really wanted. My father shall never throw it in my teeth again that my converts were bribed with bread. [She is transfigured]. I have got rid of the bribe of bread. I have got rid of the bribe of heaven. Let God's work be done for its own sake: the work he had to create us to do because it cannot be done by living men and women. When I die, let him be in my debt, not I in his; and let me forgive him as becomes a woman of my rank. CUSINS. Then the way of life lies through the factory of death? BARBARA. Yes, through the raising of hell to heaven and of man to God, through the unveiling of an eternal light in the Valley of The Shadow. [Seizing him with both hands] Oh, did you think my courage would never come back? did you believe that I was a deserter? that I, who have stood in the streets, and taken my people to my heart, and talked of the holiest and greatest things with them, could ever turn back and chatter foolishly to fashionable people about nothing in a drawingroom? Never, never, never, never: Major Barbara will die with the colors. Oh! and I have my dear little Dolly boy still; and he has found me my place and my work. Glory Hallelujah! [She kisses him]. CUSINS. My dearest: consider my delicate health. I cannot stand as much happiness as you can. BARBARA. Yes: it is not easy work being in love with me, is it? But it's good for you. [She runs to the shed, and calls, childlike] Mamma! Mamma! [Bilton comes out of the shed, followed by Undershaft]. I want Mamma. UNDERSHAFT. She is taking off her list slippers, dear. [He passes on to Cusins]. Well? What does she say? CUSINS. She has gone right up into the skies. LADY BRITOMART [coming from the shed and stopping on the steps, obstructing Sarah, who follows with Lomax. Barbara clutches like a baby at her mother's skirt]. Barbara: when will you learn to be independent and to act and think for yourself? I know as well as possible what that cry of "Mamma, Mamma," means. Always running to me! SARAH [touching Lady Britomart's ribs with her finger tips and imitating a bicycle horn] Pip! Pip! LADY BRITOMART [highly indignant] How dare you say Pip! pip! to me, Sarah? You are both very naughty children. What do you want, Barbara? BARBARA. I want a house in the village to live in with Dolly. [Dragging at the skirt] Come and tell me which one to take. UNDERSHAFT [to Cusins] Six o'clock tomorrow morning, my young friend.

Act III

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820035130/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmMajorBarbara18.asp

In this act, the setting shifts back to Lady Britomart's mansion. Barbara is sitting near the window of the living room, in a pensive mood. She is no longer dressed in her Salvation Army uniform. Charles Lomax walks in and tries to make conversation with her. Lady Britomart, who is at her writing table, tells him sharply not to discuss the Army with her. Cusins soon arrives and tells everyone that he has stayed up late drinking with Mr. Undershaft. Barbara asks Cusins about the Salvation Army meeting. Cusins tells her that it was very emotional; some "117 conversions took place then and there." He also adds that everyone present at the meeting gave thanks for the Bodger contribution to the Salvation Army. Mr. Undershaft had requested that his name not be made public. When Charles compliments Mr. Undershaft for his modesty, Cusins tells him that it is not modesty; he hides his identify out of fear that other charitable institutions would come down on him for more money. Mr. Undershaft arrives. Lady Britomart sends everybody out of the room, for she wants to talk to him alone about private matters. She tells her husband that their daughters need money, especially since they are both about to marry. Lady Britomart also brings up the subject of inheritance with her husband. She suggests Adolphous Cusins' name, since he plans to marry Barbara. Lady Britomart knows that Mr. Undershaft believes that among his children Barbara is the only one capable of running his business. Since Adolphous is a 'foundling' he could be chosen to inherit the factory; then the business could be kept within the family. To this Mr. Undershaft points out that Adolphous is not a foundling. At this juncture, Adolphous reveals that he is indeed a foundling because his parent's marriage is legal in Australia, but not in England. Since his mother is the sister of his father's deceased wife, he is considered an outcast in England, and his mother and father's marriage is not acceptable by English law. Additionally, he has not received his formal education from an English public school. Mr. Undershaft finally gives in and selects Adolphous as the heir to his business empire. Then they haggle about how much money Adolphous should receive until he actually takes over the factory. The argument ends when they both agree on three-fifths of the profits as income for Adolphous until he learns the ropes of the business. As per her promise, Barbara agrees to go and visit her father's ammunition factory at New Perivale. Since the invitation is also extended to the others, the rest of the family, including Lady Britomart, visits the factory of 'death and destruction'. Much to everybody's surprise, the factory is set in a picturesque village that has a chapel, clean roads, and wonderful stores. The excellent organization and facilities available in the factory, as well as in the village where the workers live, impress everyone. Barbara, however, is still unable to come to terms with the fact that this wonderfully clean and beautiful place is a home to weapons of mass destruction. Mr. Undershaft tells Barbara that it is poverty and not his profession that is the real crime. He compares his industrial world to the world of the Salvation Army and says, "I see no darkness here, no dreadfulness. In your Salvation shelter I saw poverty, misery, cold, and hunger. You gave them bread and treacle and dreams of heaven. I give from thirty shillings a week to twelve thousand a year. They find their own dreams." He claims that he has saved his workers, just as he has saved Barbara by rescuing her from the shelter. His factory provides money, which allows one to buy food and clothing, pay rent and taxes, have children, feel respectable, and not fear being fired. Poverty, according to Undershaft, is the greatest of all crimes; all other crimes are virtues by comparison. He elaborates by saying that moralists and intellectuals who make poverty a virtue are the biggest hypocrites on earth. He further believes that leading the life of a thief is better than living the life of a pauper, for to him there is more dignity and courage in theft than in abject poverty. Finished with his lecture on poverty, Undershaft leaves Cusins and Barbara alone and takes the others to show them another part of the factory. Cusins thinks that since he has accepted Undershaft's offer to inherit the factory, all will be over between Barbara and him. He tries to explain to her that he has accepted the offer to run the factory because he wants to give the common people power to use against the intellectuals who exploit them. Surprisingly, Barbara is very happy with Cusins' decision. She also wants to give power to the factory workers -- but spiritual power. She admits her disappointment in the Salvation Army, but accepts their hypocritical ways as reality. She now feels she can do more good in the factory village as in the Army. She looks forward to 'saving souls' among the well-fed workers in her father's factory, instead of working with 'weak souls in half- starved bodies' in West Ham. The Act ends with Barbara asking her mother's help in selecting a nice house in the village where she and Cusins will live after they are married.

Notes In this act, Shaw expresses his views on poverty, ethics, and politics through Andrew Undershaft, who ridicules the intellectuals and moralists who consider poverty to be a virtue. He is convincing because there is truth in his words. He is right when he says that man is driven by the need to pay for food, clothing, rent, taxes, and children, while seeking respectability and hoping not to be fired from his work. Undershaft calls these the seven basic sins, and believes unless these basic needs are fulfilled, man cannot be free in any real sense. He says that to talk to a half- starved man, like many of those at the Salvation Army, about ethics, spirituality, and dreams of heaven makes no sense. Shaw uses the scene between Undershaft and his son Stephen to attack the politics of the times. He tells his son that if he is not able to do anything else in life, he can always become a politician. He explains that it is not the individual's character but his power and wealth that influence politics. Shaw adds that educated people do not change governments by exercising their right to vote; instead, they merely change the names of the members of Cabinet. Undershaft believes that only weapons or guns have the power to change governments by destroying old decaying social systems and setting up new ones. This change, however, is only possible if good and courageous people are the one to fight injustice by wielding guns. Cusins is totally won over by Undershaft's arguments and agrees to inherit and run the ammunition factory, even if it means he will not be able to marry Barbara. Surprisingly, Barbara can even see some sense in her father's views, although she does not completely agree with him. She tells Cusins that they will still marry and live in the village where the factory is located. In truth, the idealistic young woman comes to terms with the real world in which she lives and acknowledges that the basic needs of man, such as food and clothing, need to be met before a man's soul can be saved. Barbara decides she can more successfully carry on her spiritual work in her father's ammunition factory where the people have no real materialistic needs, for Mr. Undershaft has made sure that all his workers are given the means to answer the seven requirements of man that he listed earlier. It is obvious that Barbara, though disillusioned about the Salvation Army and much more realistic about life, has not lost faith; she still believes her mission in life is to save souls.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/901-chapters/act_1.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/The Jew of Malta/section_0_part_0.txt

The Jew of Malta.act 1

act 1

{"name": "Prologue and Act 1", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180408024636/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-jew-of-malta/study-guide/summary-prologue-and-act-1", "summary": "Prologue The play opens with a speech delivered by the soul of Machevil. Although the world believes he is dead, Machevil declares that his soul flew to France and inhabited the body of the Duke of Guise. Since the Duke himself is now dead, the seemingly immortal Machevil has arrived from France \"to view this land and frolic with his friends.\" Although Machevil says that he has not come to \"read a lecture,\" he puts forth several claims. He states that those who find his name odious actually admire him the most; that those who renounce his books actually read them avidly; that religion is but a \"childish toy\"; and that \"there is no sin but ignorance.\" He then speaks along vague political lines, and he concludes by stating that his purpose of the day is to present \"the tragedy of a Jew.\" Machevil claims that he has helped the Jew acquire his fortune, so the Jew \"favours\" him. Act 1, Scene 1 The curtains rise to reveal Barabas counting his riches. As a Maltese merchant, the Jew has made such a fortune that he has become weary of counting all his coins-if only everyone could pay in wedges of gold, or precious stones by the weight! Just as we begin to see the extent of his wealth, a merchant enters to announce the arrival of ships carrying Barabas's merchandise. The merchant states that the bill of customs itself surpasses the wealth of many local merchants. A second merchant enters with news of Barabas's argosy from Alexandria, consisting of rich oriental treasures. Barabas then delivers a short monologue on his wealth. To what ends does he amass such a great fortune, together with the rich Jews abroad who form a \"scattered nation\"? Although wealth is honored universally, Barabas is hated for being a rich Jew. But he declares that he would prefer to be hated as such, rather than be \"pitied in a Christian poverty.\" He associates Christianity with both material and spiritual poverty: their faith, he believes, bears only \"malice, falsehood, and excessive pride.\" Though Kings may be Christian, Barabas renounces any desire for political power, declaring that he gathers wealth for the sake of happiness for himself and his only daughter. Three Jews of Malta enter the scene. They report that a Turkish navy has arrived, ready for combat. Especially given that Malta and the Turks are in league under a peace treaty, the three Jews are concerned about the warlike appearance of the ships. Why have all the Jews of Malta been summoned to the senate house? While assuring his three friends that he will look into the matter, Barabas reveals his selfish and duplicitous nature through an aside: \"Nay let 'em combat, conquer, and kill all, / So they spare me, my daughter, and my wealth.\" He already suspects that the Turks have come to exact Malta's tribute , and he begins to ponder how he can avoid difficulties if the Turks come his way. Act 1, Scene 2 Selim Calymath enters, followed by Callapine and other Bashaws. Calymath demands payment from Ferneze, the governor of Malta, for ten years' worth of Malta's unpaid tribute to the Ottoman Empire. Should Ferneze refuse, he most likely would have to fight off a Turkish invasion. Unable to pay the due tribute on the spot, Ferneze asks for some extra time to make a collection among the citizens. Callapine reacts belligerently, but Calymath accepts the governor's request and promises to send a messenger in a month. The Turks leave, and the Jews of Malta arrive to see Ferneze. The governor explains the situation and says that, due to recent expenditures for wars, Malta cannot possibly pay the required tribute. He therefore asks for a contribution from each of the Jews. The Jews protest alternately that they are poor and that, as \"strangers,\" they do not usually pay taxes for the tribute. At this point, Ferneze gives up any pretense of a request and decrees that the entirety of the tribute shall be taken among the Jews. The Jews must agree to give up half of their estates-otherwise they will be made Christian and will lose all that they have. For his resistance to the decree, Barabas has his entire estate confiscated. Barabas protests vehemently against what he sees as the injustice of the governor. In response, Ferneze and his knights declare that Jews are \"infidels\" and that their \"hateful lives\" have caused many Christians to suffer. Indeed, if the Jews now suffer in turn, the First Knight states that it is due to their wickedness and \"inherent sin.\" At this, Barabas again voices his outrage: \"What? Bring you scripture to confirm your wrongs?\" Shall he be persecuted for his ancestors' transgressions, though he himself has lived righteously? Barabas then states that he would rather be killed than live without his fortune. Ferneze curtly dismisses Barabas's lament-the knights meanwhile have decided to convert Barabas's mansion into a nunnery-and all of the officials exit the scene. The three Jews attempt to comfort Barabas, invoking the biblical sufferings of Job. But finding him unconsoled, they decide to leave the scene quietly, whereupon Barabas's daughter Abigall enters. Abigall expresses her concern over the turn of events, but Barabas reveals his foresight and cunning: he has a small fortune hidden under a plank in his house, ironically marked with a symbol of the cross. Since his house has been turned into a nunnery, Abigall must \"dissemble\" a conversion to the Christian faith and make a false confession to the Abbess. She thus will be able to access the treasure and secretly pass it to Barabas in the early hours of the morning. Act 1, Scene 3 Mathias enters, ruminating over the strange turn of events surrounding Abigall. \"A fair young maid, scarcely fourteen,\" why has the rich Jew's daughter suddenly become a nun? As Mathias ponders the question, his friend Lodowick suggests that they go visit Abigall. Mathias exits with the intention to do so, unaware that Lodowick also intends to go and see the girl.", "analysis": "The speaker of the prologue, Machevil, is presumably an anglicized reference to NiccolA2 Machiavelli , the Italian Renaissance man best known for his political discourse in The Prince. The adjective Machiavellian, of course, derives from the same historical figure. Precisely, the soul of Machevil recounts how he inhabited the Duke of Guise , the patron saint of Rheims who infamously oversaw a massacre of French Protestants in 1572. Marlowe's The Massacre at Paris stages the events of this Massacre of St. Bartholomew's Day, and the play portrays the Duke of Guise as an archetypal Machiavellian villain. The prologue suggests, to a certain extent, that the soul of Machevil will now inhabit Barabas: Machevil will \"grace him as he deserves.\" Yet of all the characters in the play, Barabas cannot be called the most Machiavellian. In line with the general sense of the adjective, the Jew is certainly cunning, duplicitous, and unscrupulous, Machiavellian in a nonpolitical sense. But he is not Machiavellian in a strict political sense, insofar as he stands in no position to place political advantage over morality, or to use deceitful tactics to uphold authority. Whereas Barabas will act out of selfishness, love of money, and the desire for revenge, it is the governor Ferneze who will reveal himself to be the most Machiavellian schemer. The governor's scheming is already clear in Act 1, Scene 2. Whereas he puts on a show of politely requesting the aid of the Jews of Malta, the swiftness with which the officers seize Barabas's goods suggests that the action unfolds in a manner already planned out by Ferneze. The religious logic that the Christians use, besides, is falsely self-righteous and entirely hypocritical. Ferneze declares: No, Jew, we take particularly thine To save the ruin of a multitude: And better one want for a common good, Than many perish for a private man. This echoes the priest Caiaphas's judgment of Christ . While model Christian readers should understand the biblical passage in an allegorical sense, it seems, Ferneze and his Knights take the passage literally in order to justify their extortion. Barabas's outcry thus becomes particularly pointed. \"What? Bring you scripture to confirm your wrongs?\" Not only are the authorities using religious history to justify their actions-which is in itself questionable-but they are abusing history. As members of the majority religion, these Christians selectively and unjustly interpret history so as to support their present choices, and as those in power, they can get away with it. Few moments have passed before Barabas's mansion is converted into a nunnery. The Christians thus take full advantage of Barabas and subjugate the other Jews in the name of religion, using their religion more as a pretext than as a spiritual or moral guide. The three Jews invoke the sufferings of Job to console Barabas, but the play has already signaled the difficulty of using scripture to justify one's place in the world. Besides, the world of The Jew of Malta turns above all around wealth. It is not by chance that the curtains opens to reveal Barabas counting gold; Barabas disparages Job by ridiculing the smallness of his fortune, and he sets out to retrieve his remaining fortune through scheming. In a counterpoint to the Christians, Barabas offers his own moral justification for Abigall's false conversion: \"A counterfeit profession is better / Than unseen hypocrisy.\" It will be interesting to return to this scene in light of Abigall's second and true conversion to Christianity. M. M. Mahood offers an insightful comment on the proceedings of the play thus far: \"The world of The Jew of Malta is one into which ethical considerations do not enter\"; that is, \"intelligence alone counts. Characters are not good or bad; they have fewer or more wits about them\" . Instead of morality, the characters are obsessed with their own advantage-financial, and in some cases, sexual. Act 1, Scene 3 introduces two young men who are potential suitors to Abigall. They surely are interested in her beauty, but Lodowick's later allusion to her as a diamond shows that her wealth never lags far behind her looks. When the curtain to the first act falls, we are prepared for many battles of wits. Will the cunning Jew be able to outsmart his oppressors? Will his daughter outsmart the nuns? Will one suitor outsmart the other and win Abigall by persuading her of his superior wit?"}

ACT I. [16] BARABAS discovered in his counting-house, with heaps of gold before him. BARABAS. So that of thus much that return was made; And of the third part of the Persian ships There was the venture summ'd and satisfied. As for those Samnites, [17] and the men of Uz, That bought my Spanish oils and wines of Greece, Here have I purs'd their paltry silverlings. [18] Fie, what a trouble 'tis to count this trash! Well fare the Arabians, who so richly pay The things they traffic for with wedge of gold, Whereof a man may easily in a day Tell [19] that which may maintain him all his life. The needy groom, that never finger'd groat, Would make a miracle of thus much coin; But he whose steel-barr'd coffers are cramm'd full, And all his life-time hath been tired, Wearying his fingers' ends with telling it, Would in his age be loath to labour so, And for a pound to sweat himself to death. Give me the merchants of the Indian mines, That trade in metal of the purest mould; The wealthy Moor, that in the eastern rocks Without control can pick his riches up, And in his house heap pearl like pebble-stones, Receive them free, and sell them by the weight; Bags of fiery opals, sapphires, amethysts, Jacinths, hard topaz, grass-green emeralds, Beauteous rubies, sparkling diamonds, And seld-seen [20] costly stones of so great price, As one of them, indifferently rated, And of a carat of this quantity, May serve, in peril of calamity, To ransom great kings from captivity. This is the ware wherein consists my wealth; And thus methinks should men of judgment frame Their means of traffic from the vulgar trade, And, as their wealth increaseth, so inclose Infinite riches in a little room. But now how stands the wind? Into what corner peers my halcyon's bill? [21] Ha! to the east? yes. See how stand the vanes-- East and by south: why, then, I hope my ships I sent for Egypt and the bordering isles Are gotten up by Nilus' winding banks; Mine argosy from Alexandria, Loaden with spice and silks, now under sail, Are smoothly gliding down by Candy-shore To Malta, through our Mediterranean sea.-- But who comes here? Enter a MERCHANT. How now! MERCHANT. Barabas, thy ships are safe, Riding in Malta-road; and all the merchants With other merchandise are safe arriv'd, And have sent me to know whether yourself Will come and custom them. [22] BARABAS. The ships are safe thou say'st, and richly fraught? MERCHANT. They are. BARABAS. Why, then, go bid them come ashore, And bring with them their bills of entry: I hope our credit in the custom-house Will serve as well as I were present there. Go send 'em threescore camels, thirty mules, And twenty waggons, to bring up the ware. But art thou master in a ship of mine, And is thy credit not enough for that? MERCHANT. The very custom barely comes to more Than many merchants of the town are worth, And therefore far exceeds my credit, sir. BARABAS. Go tell 'em the Jew of Malta sent thee, man: Tush, who amongst 'em knows not Barabas? MERCHANT. I go. BARABAS. So, then, there's somewhat come.-- Sirrah, which of my ships art thou master of? MERCHANT. Of the Speranza, sir. BARABAS. And saw'st thou not Mine argosy at Alexandria? Thou couldst not come from Egypt, or by Caire, But at the entry there into the sea, Where Nilus pays his tribute to the main, Thou needs must sail by Alexandria. MERCHANT. I neither saw them, nor inquir'd of them: But this we heard some of our seamen say, They wonder'd how you durst with so much wealth Trust such a crazed vessel, and so far. BARABAS. Tush, they are wise! I know her and her strength. But [23] go, go thou thy ways, discharge thy ship, And bid my factor bring his loading in. [Exit MERCHANT.] And yet I wonder at this argosy. Enter a Second MERCHANT. SECOND MERCHANT. Thine argosy from Alexandria, Know, Barabas, doth ride in Malta-road, Laden with riches, and exceeding store Of Persian silks, of gold, and orient pearl. BARABAS. How chance you came not with those other ships That sail'd by Egypt? SECOND MERCHANT. Sir, we saw 'em not. BARABAS. Belike they coasted round by Candy-shore About their oils or other businesses. But 'twas ill done of you to come so far Without the aid or conduct of their ships. SECOND MERCHANT. Sir, we were wafted by a Spanish fleet, That never left us till within a league, That had the galleys of the Turk in chase. BARABAS. O, they were going up to Sicily. Well, go, And bid the merchants and my men despatch, And come ashore, and see the fraught [24] discharg'd. SECOND MERCHANT. I go. [Exit.] BARABAS. Thus trolls our fortune in by land and sea, And thus are we on every side enrich'd: These are the blessings promis'd to the Jews, And herein was old Abraham's happiness: What more may heaven do for earthly man Than thus to pour out plenty in their laps, Ripping the bowels of the earth for them, Making the sea[s] their servants, and the winds To drive their substance with successful blasts? Who hateth me but for my happiness? Or who is honour'd now but for his wealth? Rather had I, a Jew, be hated thus, Than pitied in a Christian poverty; For I can see no fruits in all their faith, But malice, falsehood, and excessive pride, Which methinks fits not their profession. Haply some hapless man hath conscience, And for his conscience lives in beggary. They say we are a scatter'd nation: I cannot tell; but we have scambled [25] up More wealth by far than those that brag of faith: There's Kirriah Jairim, the great Jew of Greece, Obed in Bairseth, Nones in Portugal, Myself in Malta, some in Italy, Many in France, and wealthy every one; Ay, wealthier far than any Christian. I must confess we come not to be kings: That's not our fault: alas, our number's few! And crowns come either by succession, Or urg'd by force; and nothing violent, Oft have I heard tell, can be permanent. Give us a peaceful rule; make Christians kings, That thirst so much for principality. I have no charge, nor many children, But one sole daughter, whom I hold as dear As Agamemnon did his Iphigen; And all I have is hers.--But who comes here? Enter three JEWS. [26] FIRST JEW. Tush, tell not me; 'twas done of policy. SECOND JEW. Come, therefore, let us go to Barabas; For he can counsel best in these affairs: And here he comes. BARABAS. Why, how now, countrymen! Why flock you thus to me in multitudes? What accident's betided to the Jews? FIRST JEW. A fleet of warlike galleys, Barabas, Are come from Turkey, and lie in our road: And they this day sit in the council-house To entertain them and their embassy. BARABAS. Why, let 'em come, so they come not to war; Or let 'em war, so we be conquerors.-- Nay, let 'em combat, conquer, and kill all, So they spare me, my daughter, and my wealth. [Aside.] FIRST JEW. Were it for confirmation of a league, They would not come in warlike manner thus. SECOND JEW. I fear their coming will afflict us all. BARABAS. Fond [27] men, what dream you of their multitudes? What need they treat of peace that are in league? The Turks and those of Malta are in league: Tut, tut, there is some other matter in't. FIRST JEW. Why, Barabas, they come for peace or war. BARABAS. Haply for neither, but to pass along, Towards Venice, by the Adriatic sea, With whom they have attempted many times, But never could effect their stratagem. THIRD JEW. And very wisely said; it may be so. SECOND JEW. But there's a meeting in the senate-house, And all the Jews in Malta must be there. BARABAS. Hum,--all the Jews in Malta must be there! Ay, like enough: why, then, let every man Provide him, and be there for fashion-sake. If any thing shall there concern our state, Assure yourselves I'll look--unto myself. [Aside.] [28] FIRST JEW. I know you will.--Well, brethren, let us go. SECOND JEW. Let's take our leaves.--Farewell, good Barabas. BARABAS. [29] Farewell, Zaareth; farewell, Temainte. [Exeunt JEWS.] And, Barabas, now search this secret out; Summon thy senses, call thy wits together: These silly men mistake the matter clean. Long to the Turk did Malta contribute; Which tribute all in policy, I fear, The Turk has [30] let increase to such a sum As all the wealth of Malta cannot pay; And now by that advantage thinks, belike, To seize upon the town; ay, that he seeks. Howe'er the world go, I'll make sure for one, And seek in time to intercept the worst, Warily guarding that which I ha' got: Ego mihimet sum semper proximus: [31] Why, let 'em enter, let 'em take the town. [Exit.] [32] Enter FERNEZE governor of Malta, KNIGHTS, and OFFICERS; met by CALYMATH, and BASSOES of the TURK. FERNEZE. Now, bassoes, [33] what demand you at our hands? FIRST BASSO. Know, knights of Malta, that we came from Rhodes, ]From Cyprus, Candy, and those other isles That lie betwixt the Mediterranean seas. FERNEZE. What's Cyprus, Candy, and those other isles To us or Malta? what at our hands demand ye? CALYMATH. The ten years' tribute that remains unpaid. FERNEZE. Alas, my lord, the sum is over-great! I hope your highness will consider us. CALYMATH. I wish, grave governor, [34] 'twere in my power To favour you; but 'tis my father's cause, Wherein I may not, nay, I dare not dally. FERNEZE. Then give us leave, great Selim Calymath. CALYMATH. Stand all aside, [35] and let the knights determine; And send to keep our galleys under sail, For happily [36] we shall not tarry here.-- Now, governor, how are you resolv'd? FERNEZE. Thus; since your hard conditions are such That you will needs have ten years' tribute past, We may have time to make collection Amongst the inhabitants of Malta for't. FIRST BASSO. That's more than is in our commission. CALYMATH. What, Callapine! a little courtesy: Let's know their time; perhaps it is not long; And 'tis more kingly to obtain by peace Than to enforce conditions by constraint.-- What respite ask you, governor? FERNEZE. But a month. CALYMATH. We grant a month; but see you keep your promise. Now launch our galleys back again to sea, Where we'll attend the respite you have ta'en, And for the money send our messenger. Farewell, great governor, and brave knights of Malta. FERNEZE. And all good fortune wait on Calymath! [Exeunt CALYMATH and BASSOES.] Go one and call those Jews of Malta hither: Were they not summon'd to appear to-day? FIRST OFFICER. They were, my lord; and here they come. Enter BARABAS and three JEWS. FIRST KNIGHT. Have you determin'd what to say to them? FERNEZE. Yes; give me leave:--and, Hebrews, now come near. ]From the Emperor of Turkey is arriv'd Great Selim Calymath, his highness' son, To levy of us ten years' tribute past: Now, then, here know that it concerneth us. BARABAS. Then, good my lord, to keep your quiet still, Your lordship shall do well to let them have it. FERNEZE. Soft, Barabas! there's more 'longs to't than so. To what this ten years' tribute will amount, That we have cast, but cannot compass it By reason of the wars, that robb'd our store; And therefore are we to request your aid. BARABAS. Alas, my lord, we are no soldiers! And what's our aid against so great a prince? FIRST KNIGHT. Tut, Jew, we know thou art no soldier: Thou art a merchant and a money'd man, And 'tis thy money, Barabas, we seek. BARABAS. How, my lord! my money! FERNEZE. Thine and the rest; For, to be short, amongst you't must be had. FIRST JEW. Alas, my lord, the most of us are poor! FERNEZE. Then let the rich increase your portions. BARABAS. Are strangers with your tribute to be tax'd? SECOND KNIGHT. Have strangers leave with us to get their wealth? Then let them with us contribute. BARABAS. How! equally? FERNEZE. No, Jew, like infidels; For through our sufferance of your hateful lives, Who stand accursed in the sight of heaven, These taxes and afflictions are befall'n, And therefore thus we are determined.-- Read there the articles of our decrees. OFFICER. [37] [reads] FIRST, THE TRIBUTE-MONEY OF THE TURKS SHALL ALL BE LEVIED AMONGST THE JEWS, AND EACH OF THEM TO PAY ONE HALF OF HIS ESTATE. BARABAS. How! half his estate!--I hope you mean not mine. [Aside.] FERNEZE. Read on. OFFICER. [reads] SECONDLY, HE THAT DENIES [38] TO PAY, SHALL STRAIGHT-BECOME A CHRISTIAN. BARABAS. How! a Christian!--Hum,--what's here to do? [Aside.] OFFICER. [reads] LASTLY, HE THAT DENIES THIS, SHALL ABSOLUTELY LOSE ALL HE HAS. THREE JEWS. O my lord, we will give half! BARABAS. O earth-mettled villains, and no Hebrews born! And will you basely thus submit yourselves To leave your goods to their arbitrement? FERNEZE. Why, Barabas, wilt thou be christened? BARABAS. No, governor, I will be no convertite. [39] FERNEZE. Then pay thy half. BARABAS. Why, know you what you did by this device? Half of my substance is a city's wealth. Governor, it was not got so easily; Nor will I part so slightly therewithal. FERNEZE. Sir, half is the penalty of our decree; Either pay that, or we will seize on all. BARABAS. Corpo di Dio! stay: you shall have half; Let me be us'd but as my brethren are. FERNEZE. No, Jew, thou hast denied the articles, And now it cannot be recall'd. [Exeunt OFFICERS, on a sign from FERNEZE] BARABAS. Will you, then, steal my goods? Is theft the ground of your religion? FERNEZE. No, Jew; we take particularly thine, To save the ruin of a multitude: And better one want for a common good, Than many perish for a private man: Yet, Barabas, we will not banish thee, But here in Malta, where thou gott'st thy wealth, Live still; and, if thou canst, get more. BARABAS. Christians, what or how can I multiply? Of naught is nothing made. FIRST KNIGHT. From naught at first thou cam'st to little wealth, ]From little unto more, from more to most: If your first curse fall heavy on thy head, And make thee poor and scorn'd of all the world, 'Tis not our fault, but thy inherent sin. BARABAS. What, bring you Scripture to confirm your wrongs? Preach me not out of my possessions. Some Jews are wicked, as all Christians are: But say the tribe that I descended of Were all in general cast away for sin, Shall I be tried by their transgression? The man that dealeth righteously shall live; And which of you can charge me otherwise? FERNEZE. Out, wretched Barabas! Sham'st thou not thus to justify thyself, As if we knew not thy profession? If thou rely upon thy righteousness, Be patient, and thy riches will increase. Excess of wealth is cause of covetousness; And covetousness, O, 'tis a monstrous sin! BARABAS. Ay, but theft is worse: tush! take not from me, then, For that is theft; and, if you rob me thus, I must be forc'd to steal, and compass more. FIRST KNIGHT. Grave governor, list not to his exclaims: Convert his mansion to a nunnery; His house will harbour many holy nuns. FERNEZE. It shall be so. Re-enter OFFICERS. Now, officers, have you done? FIRST OFFICER. Ay, my lord, we have seiz'd upon the goods And wares of Barabas, which, being valu'd, Amount to more than all the wealth in Malta: And of the other we have seized half. FERNEZE. Then we'll take [40] order for the residue. BARABAS. Well, then, my lord, say, are you satisfied? You have my goods, my money, and my wealth, My ships, my store, and all that I enjoy'd; And, having all, you can request no more, Unless your unrelenting flinty hearts Suppress all pity in your stony breasts, And now shall move you to bereave my life. FERNEZE. No, Barabas; to stain our hands with blood Is far from us and our profession. BARABAS. Why, I esteem the injury far less, To take the lives of miserable men Than be the causers of their misery. You have my wealth, the labour of my life, The comfort of mine age, my children's hope; And therefore ne'er distinguish of the wrong. FERNEZE. Content thee, Barabas; thou hast naught but right. BARABAS. Your extreme right does me exceeding wrong: But take it to you, i'the devil's name! FERNEZE. Come, let us in, and gather of these goods The money for this tribute of the Turk. FIRST KNIGHT. 'Tis necessary that be look'd unto; For, if we break our day, we break the league, And that will prove but simple policy. [Exeunt all except BARABAS and the three JEWS.] BARABAS. Ay, policy! that's their profession, And not simplicity, as they suggest.-- The plagues of Egypt, and the curse of heaven, Earth's barrenness, and all men's hatred, Inflict upon them, thou great Primus Motor! And here upon my knees, striking the earth, I ban their souls to everlasting pains, And extreme tortures of the fiery deep, That thus have dealt with me in my distress! FIRST JEW. O, yet be patient, gentle Barabas! BARABAS. O silly brethren, born to see this day, Why stand you thus unmov'd with my laments? Why weep you not to think upon my wrongs? Why pine not I, and die in this distress? FIRST JEW. Why, Barabas, as hardly can we brook The cruel handling of ourselves in this: Thou seest they have taken half our goods. BARABAS. Why did you yield to their extortion? You were a multitude, and I but one; And of me only have they taken all. FIRST JEW. Yet, brother Barabas, remember Job. BARABAS. What tell you me of Job? I wot his wealth Was written thus; he had seven thousand sheep, Three thousand camels, and two hundred yoke Of labouring oxen, and five hundred She-asses: but for every one of those, Had they been valu'd at indifferent rate, I had at home, and in mine argosy, And other ships that came from Egypt last, As much as would have bought his beasts and him, And yet have kept enough to live upon; So that not he, but I, may curse the day, Thy fatal birth-day, forlorn Barabas; And henceforth wish for an eternal night, That clouds of darkness may inclose my flesh, And hide these extreme sorrows from mine eyes; For only I have toil'd to inherit here The months of vanity, and loss of time, And painful nights, have been appointed me. SECOND JEW. Good Barabas, be patient. BARABAS. Ay, I pray, leave me in my patience. You, that Were ne'er possess'd of wealth, are pleas'd with want; But give him liberty at least to mourn, That in a field, amidst his enemies, Doth see his soldiers slain, himself disarm'd, And knows no means of his recovery: Ay, let me sorrow for this sudden chance; 'Tis in the trouble of my spirit I speak: Great injuries are not so soon forgot. FIRST JEW. Come, let us leave him; in his ireful mood Our words will but increase his ecstasy. [41] SECOND JEW. On, then: but, trust me, 'tis a misery To see a man in such affliction.-- Farewell, Barabas. BARABAS. Ay, fare you well. [Exeunt three JEWS.] [42] See the simplicity of these base slaves, Who, for the villains have no wit themselves, Think me to be a senseless lump of clay, That will with every water wash to dirt! No, Barabas is born to better chance, And fram'd of finer mould than common men, That measure naught but by the present time. A reaching thought will search his deepest wits, And cast with cunning for the time to come; For evils are apt to happen every day. Enter ABIGAIL. But whither wends my beauteous Abigail? O, what has made my lovely daughter sad? What, woman! moan not for a little loss; Thy father has enough in store for thee. ABIGAIL. Nor for myself, but aged Barabas, Father, for thee lamenteth Abigail: But I will learn to leave these fruitless tears; And, urg'd thereto with my afflictions, With fierce exclaims run to the senate-house, And in the senate reprehend them all, And rent their hearts with tearing of my hair, Till they reduce [43] the wrongs done to my father. BARABAS. No, Abigail; things past recovery Are hardly cur'd with exclamations: Be silent, daughter; sufferance breeds ease, And time may yield us an occasion, Which on the sudden cannot serve the turn. Besides, my girl, think me not all so fond [44] As negligently to forgo so much Without provision for thyself and me: Ten thousand portagues, [45] besides great pearls, Rich costly jewels, and stones infinite, Fearing the worst of this before it fell, I closely hid. ABIGAIL. Where, father? BARABAS. In my house, my girl. ABIGAIL. Then shall they ne'er be seen of Barabas; For they have seiz'd upon thy house and wares. BARABAS. But they will give me leave once more, I trow, To go into my house. ABIGAIL. That may they not; For there I left the governor placing nuns, Displacing me; and of thy house they mean To make a nunnery, where none but their own sect [46] Must enter in; men generally barr'd. BARABAS. My gold, my gold, and all my wealth is gone!-- You partial heavens, have I deserv'd this plague? What, will you thus oppose me, luckless stars, To make me desperate in my poverty? And, knowing me impatient in distress, Think me so mad as I will hang myself, That I may vanish o'er the earth in air, And leave no memory that e'er I was? No, I will live; nor loathe I this my life: And, since you leave me in the ocean thus To sink or swim, and put me to my shifts, I'll rouse my senses, and awake myself.-- Daughter, I have it: thou perceiv'st the plight Wherein these Christians have oppressed me: Be rul'd by me, for in extremity We ought to make bar of no policy. ABIGAIL. Father, whate'er it be, to injure them That have so manifestly wronged us, What will not Abigail attempt? BARABAS. Why, so. Then thus: thou told'st me they have turn'd my house Into a nunnery, and some nuns are there? ABIGAIL. I did. BARABAS. Then, Abigail, there must my girl Entreat the abbess to be entertain'd. ABIGAIL. How! as a nun? BARABAS. Ay, daughter; for religion Hides many mischiefs from suspicion. ABIGAIL. Ay, but, father, they will suspect me there. BARABAS. Let 'em suspect; but be thou so precise As they may think it done of holiness: Entreat 'em fair, and give them friendly speech, And seem to them as if thy sins were great, Till thou hast gotten to be entertain'd. ABIGAIL. Thus, father, shall I much dissemble. BARABAS. Tush! As good dissemble that thou never mean'st, As first mean truth and then dissemble it: A counterfeit profession is better Than unseen hypocrisy. ABIGAIL. Well, father, say I be entertain'd, What then shall follow? BARABAS. This shall follow then. There have I hid, close underneath the plank That runs along the upper-chamber floor, The gold and jewels which I kept for thee:-- But here they come: be cunning, Abigail. ABIGAIL. Then, father, go with me. BARABAS. No, Abigail, in this It is not necessary I be seen; For I will seem offended with thee for't: Be close, my girl, for this must fetch my gold. [They retire.] Enter FRIAR JACOMO, [47] FRIAR BARNARDINE, ABBESS, and a NUN. FRIAR JACOMO. Sisters, We now are almost at the new-made nunnery. ABBESS. [48] The better; for we love not to be seen: 'Tis thirty winters long since some of us Did stray so far amongst the multitude. FRIAR JACOMO. But, madam, this house And waters of this new-made nunnery Will much delight you. ABBESS. It may be so.--But who comes here? [ABIGAIL comes forward.] ABIGAIL. Grave abbess, and you happy virgins' guide, Pity the state of a distressed maid! ABBESS. What art thou, daughter? ABIGAIL. The hopeless daughter of a hapless Jew, The Jew of Malta, wretched Barabas, Sometimes [49] the owner of a goodly house, Which they have now turn'd to a nunnery. ABBESS. Well, daughter, say, what is thy suit with us? ABIGAIL. Fearing the afflictions which my father feels Proceed from sin or want of faith in us, I'd pass away my life in penitence, And be a novice in your nunnery, To make atonement for my labouring soul. FRIAR JACOMO. No doubt, brother, but this proceedeth of the spirit. FRIAR BARNARDINE. Ay, and of a moving spirit too, brother: but come, Let us entreat she may be entertain'd. ABBESS. Well, daughter, we admit you for a nun. ABIGAIL. First let me as a novice learn to frame My solitary life to your strait laws, And let me lodge where I was wont to lie: I do not doubt, by your divine precepts And mine own industry, but to profit much. BARABAS. As much, I hope, as all I hid is worth. [Aside.] ABBESS. Come, daughter, follow us. BARABAS. [coming forward] Why, how now, Abigail! What mak'st thou 'mongst these hateful Christians? FRIAR JACOMO. Hinder her not, thou man of little faith, For she has mortified herself. BARABAS. How! mortified! FRIAR JACOMO. And is admitted to the sisterhood. BARABAS. Child of perdition, and thy father's shame! What wilt thou do among these hateful fiends? I charge thee on my blessing that thou leave These devils and their damned heresy! ABIGAIL. Father, forgive me-- [50] BARABAS. Nay, back, Abigail, And think upon the jewels and the gold; The board is marked thus that covers it.-- [Aside to ABIGAIL in a whisper.] Away, accursed, from thy father's sight! FRIAR JACOMO. Barabas, although thou art in misbelief, And wilt not see thine own afflictions, Yet let thy daughter be no longer blind. BARABAS. Blind friar, I reck not thy persuasions,-- The board is marked thus [51] that covers it-- [Aside to ABIGAIL in a whisper.] For I had rather die than see her thus.-- Wilt thou forsake me too in my distress, Seduced daughter?--Go, forget not.-- [52] [Aside to her in a whisper.] Becomes it Jews to be so credulous?-- To-morrow early I'll be at the door.-- [Aside to her in a whisper.] No, come not at me; if thou wilt be damn'd, Forget me, see me not; and so, be gone!-- Farewell; remember to-morrow morning.-- [Aside to her in a whisper.] Out, out, thou wretch! [Exit, on one side, BARABAS. Exeunt, on the other side, FRIARS, ABBESS, NUN, and ABIGAIL: and, as they are going out,] Enter MATHIAS. MATHIAS. Who's this? fair Abigail, the rich Jew's daughter, Become a nun! her father's sudden fall Has humbled her, and brought her down to this: Tut, she were fitter for a tale of love, Than to be tired out with orisons; And better would she far become a bed, Embraced in a friendly lover's arms, Than rise at midnight to a solemn mass. Enter LODOWICK. LODOWICK. Why, how now, Don Mathias! in a dump? MATHIAS. Believe me, noble Lodowick, I have seen The strangest sight, in my opinion, That ever I beheld. LODOWICK. What was't, I prithee? MATHIAS. A fair young maid, scarce fourteen years of age, The sweetest flower in Cytherea's field, Cropt from the pleasures of the fruitful earth, And strangely metamorphos'd [to a] nun. LODOWICK. But say, what was she? MATHIAS. Why, the rich Jew's daughter. LODOWICK. What, Barabas, whose goods were lately seiz'd? Is she so fair? MATHIAS. And matchless beautiful, As, had you seen her, 'twould have mov'd your heart, Though countermin'd with walls of brass, to love, Or, at the least, to pity. LODOWICK. An if she be so fair as you report, 'Twere time well spent to go and visit her: How say you? shall we? MATHIAS. I must and will, sir; there's no remedy. LODOWICK. And so will I too, or it shall go hard. Farewell, Mathias. MATHIAS. Farewell, Lodowick. [Exeunt severally.]

Prologue and Act 1

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Prologue The play opens with a speech delivered by the soul of Machevil. Although the world believes he is dead, Machevil declares that his soul flew to France and inhabited the body of the Duke of Guise. Since the Duke himself is now dead, the seemingly immortal Machevil has arrived from France "to view this land and frolic with his friends." Although Machevil says that he has not come to "read a lecture," he puts forth several claims. He states that those who find his name odious actually admire him the most; that those who renounce his books actually read them avidly; that religion is but a "childish toy"; and that "there is no sin but ignorance." He then speaks along vague political lines, and he concludes by stating that his purpose of the day is to present "the tragedy of a Jew." Machevil claims that he has helped the Jew acquire his fortune, so the Jew "favours" him. Act 1, Scene 1 The curtains rise to reveal Barabas counting his riches. As a Maltese merchant, the Jew has made such a fortune that he has become weary of counting all his coins-if only everyone could pay in wedges of gold, or precious stones by the weight! Just as we begin to see the extent of his wealth, a merchant enters to announce the arrival of ships carrying Barabas's merchandise. The merchant states that the bill of customs itself surpasses the wealth of many local merchants. A second merchant enters with news of Barabas's argosy from Alexandria, consisting of rich oriental treasures. Barabas then delivers a short monologue on his wealth. To what ends does he amass such a great fortune, together with the rich Jews abroad who form a "scattered nation"? Although wealth is honored universally, Barabas is hated for being a rich Jew. But he declares that he would prefer to be hated as such, rather than be "pitied in a Christian poverty." He associates Christianity with both material and spiritual poverty: their faith, he believes, bears only "malice, falsehood, and excessive pride." Though Kings may be Christian, Barabas renounces any desire for political power, declaring that he gathers wealth for the sake of happiness for himself and his only daughter. Three Jews of Malta enter the scene. They report that a Turkish navy has arrived, ready for combat. Especially given that Malta and the Turks are in league under a peace treaty, the three Jews are concerned about the warlike appearance of the ships. Why have all the Jews of Malta been summoned to the senate house? While assuring his three friends that he will look into the matter, Barabas reveals his selfish and duplicitous nature through an aside: "Nay let 'em combat, conquer, and kill all, / So they spare me, my daughter, and my wealth." He already suspects that the Turks have come to exact Malta's tribute , and he begins to ponder how he can avoid difficulties if the Turks come his way. Act 1, Scene 2 Selim Calymath enters, followed by Callapine and other Bashaws. Calymath demands payment from Ferneze, the governor of Malta, for ten years' worth of Malta's unpaid tribute to the Ottoman Empire. Should Ferneze refuse, he most likely would have to fight off a Turkish invasion. Unable to pay the due tribute on the spot, Ferneze asks for some extra time to make a collection among the citizens. Callapine reacts belligerently, but Calymath accepts the governor's request and promises to send a messenger in a month. The Turks leave, and the Jews of Malta arrive to see Ferneze. The governor explains the situation and says that, due to recent expenditures for wars, Malta cannot possibly pay the required tribute. He therefore asks for a contribution from each of the Jews. The Jews protest alternately that they are poor and that, as "strangers," they do not usually pay taxes for the tribute. At this point, Ferneze gives up any pretense of a request and decrees that the entirety of the tribute shall be taken among the Jews. The Jews must agree to give up half of their estates-otherwise they will be made Christian and will lose all that they have. For his resistance to the decree, Barabas has his entire estate confiscated. Barabas protests vehemently against what he sees as the injustice of the governor. In response, Ferneze and his knights declare that Jews are "infidels" and that their "hateful lives" have caused many Christians to suffer. Indeed, if the Jews now suffer in turn, the First Knight states that it is due to their wickedness and "inherent sin." At this, Barabas again voices his outrage: "What? Bring you scripture to confirm your wrongs?" Shall he be persecuted for his ancestors' transgressions, though he himself has lived righteously? Barabas then states that he would rather be killed than live without his fortune. Ferneze curtly dismisses Barabas's lament-the knights meanwhile have decided to convert Barabas's mansion into a nunnery-and all of the officials exit the scene. The three Jews attempt to comfort Barabas, invoking the biblical sufferings of Job. But finding him unconsoled, they decide to leave the scene quietly, whereupon Barabas's daughter Abigall enters. Abigall expresses her concern over the turn of events, but Barabas reveals his foresight and cunning: he has a small fortune hidden under a plank in his house, ironically marked with a symbol of the cross. Since his house has been turned into a nunnery, Abigall must "dissemble" a conversion to the Christian faith and make a false confession to the Abbess. She thus will be able to access the treasure and secretly pass it to Barabas in the early hours of the morning. Act 1, Scene 3 Mathias enters, ruminating over the strange turn of events surrounding Abigall. "A fair young maid, scarcely fourteen," why has the rich Jew's daughter suddenly become a nun? As Mathias ponders the question, his friend Lodowick suggests that they go visit Abigall. Mathias exits with the intention to do so, unaware that Lodowick also intends to go and see the girl.

The speaker of the prologue, Machevil, is presumably an anglicized reference to NiccolA2 Machiavelli , the Italian Renaissance man best known for his political discourse in The Prince. The adjective Machiavellian, of course, derives from the same historical figure. Precisely, the soul of Machevil recounts how he inhabited the Duke of Guise , the patron saint of Rheims who infamously oversaw a massacre of French Protestants in 1572. Marlowe's The Massacre at Paris stages the events of this Massacre of St. Bartholomew's Day, and the play portrays the Duke of Guise as an archetypal Machiavellian villain. The prologue suggests, to a certain extent, that the soul of Machevil will now inhabit Barabas: Machevil will "grace him as he deserves." Yet of all the characters in the play, Barabas cannot be called the most Machiavellian. In line with the general sense of the adjective, the Jew is certainly cunning, duplicitous, and unscrupulous, Machiavellian in a nonpolitical sense. But he is not Machiavellian in a strict political sense, insofar as he stands in no position to place political advantage over morality, or to use deceitful tactics to uphold authority. Whereas Barabas will act out of selfishness, love of money, and the desire for revenge, it is the governor Ferneze who will reveal himself to be the most Machiavellian schemer. The governor's scheming is already clear in Act 1, Scene 2. Whereas he puts on a show of politely requesting the aid of the Jews of Malta, the swiftness with which the officers seize Barabas's goods suggests that the action unfolds in a manner already planned out by Ferneze. The religious logic that the Christians use, besides, is falsely self-righteous and entirely hypocritical. Ferneze declares: No, Jew, we take particularly thine To save the ruin of a multitude: And better one want for a common good, Than many perish for a private man. This echoes the priest Caiaphas's judgment of Christ . While model Christian readers should understand the biblical passage in an allegorical sense, it seems, Ferneze and his Knights take the passage literally in order to justify their extortion. Barabas's outcry thus becomes particularly pointed. "What? Bring you scripture to confirm your wrongs?" Not only are the authorities using religious history to justify their actions-which is in itself questionable-but they are abusing history. As members of the majority religion, these Christians selectively and unjustly interpret history so as to support their present choices, and as those in power, they can get away with it. Few moments have passed before Barabas's mansion is converted into a nunnery. The Christians thus take full advantage of Barabas and subjugate the other Jews in the name of religion, using their religion more as a pretext than as a spiritual or moral guide. The three Jews invoke the sufferings of Job to console Barabas, but the play has already signaled the difficulty of using scripture to justify one's place in the world. Besides, the world of The Jew of Malta turns above all around wealth. It is not by chance that the curtains opens to reveal Barabas counting gold; Barabas disparages Job by ridiculing the smallness of his fortune, and he sets out to retrieve his remaining fortune through scheming. In a counterpoint to the Christians, Barabas offers his own moral justification for Abigall's false conversion: "A counterfeit profession is better / Than unseen hypocrisy." It will be interesting to return to this scene in light of Abigall's second and true conversion to Christianity. M. M. Mahood offers an insightful comment on the proceedings of the play thus far: "The world of The Jew of Malta is one into which ethical considerations do not enter"; that is, "intelligence alone counts. Characters are not good or bad; they have fewer or more wits about them" . Instead of morality, the characters are obsessed with their own advantage-financial, and in some cases, sexual. Act 1, Scene 3 introduces two young men who are potential suitors to Abigall. They surely are interested in her beauty, but Lodowick's later allusion to her as a diamond shows that her wealth never lags far behind her looks. When the curtain to the first act falls, we are prepared for many battles of wits. Will the cunning Jew be able to outsmart his oppressors? Will his daughter outsmart the nuns? Will one suitor outsmart the other and win Abigall by persuading her of his superior wit?

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/901-chapters/act_2.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/The Jew of Malta/section_1_part_0.txt

The Jew of Malta.act 2

act 2

{"name": "Act 2", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180408024636/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-jew-of-malta/study-guide/summary-act-2", "summary": "Night has fallen. Barabas enters with a light in hand, lamenting the events that have befallen him. Just as he prays to God to safely direct his daughter, on the model of God directing Moses and the Israelites through the wilderness, Abigall enters above with bags of gold and jewels. Faintly able to perceive her, Barabas thinks he sees a ghost. He soon realizes that the figure is Abigall, who begins to throw down bags of treasure to him. Barabas declares that he is now entirely happy, equating happiness with having his daughter, his gold, and beauty all together. Abigall warns him that the nuns will begin to wake up as midnight approaches, and she retires back into the house. Act 2, Scene 2 Ferneze enters with Martin del Bosco, the vice-admiral of Spain who has just arrived on his ship, the Flying Dragon. Del Bosco carries a freight of Greek, Turkish, and Moorish slaves, which he would like to sell in Malta. Ferneze welcomes the vice-admiral but says that he does not dare buy the slaves due to the tributary league with the Turks. Upon hearing this-and with the encouragement of the Maltese First Knight-del Bosco urges Ferneze to break Malta's league with the Turks. He declares that the Spanish King has title to the island, and he promises to send for aid in fighting off the Turks. He tells Ferneze to keep the tributary money rather than give it to the Turks. With new hope, Ferneze decides to buy the slaves whom del Bosco is holding in cargo. The scene closes with Ferneze trumpeting his resolution to fight the \"barbarous misbelieving\" Turks, exclaiming that \"Honour is bought with blood and not with gold.\" Act 2, Scene 3 Two officers arrive at the marketplace with the newly-purchased slaves. Noticing Barabas, the First Officer mutters that the Jew would have bought all the slaves had his fortunes not been seized. As it turns out, Barabas has recovered a substantial proportion of his fortune with the help of Abigall, and he has just purchased a new mansion. In an aside, Barabas swears to take out his revenge against Ferneze as well as his son Lodowick. The Jew boasts of his ability to dissemble-to put on a show of gentleness and innocence while injuring others. Lodowick enters and seeks Barabas in hopes of acquiring permission to visit Abigall. Barabas responds to Lodowick's request to \"help to a diamond,\" insinuating through a series of innuendoes that Abigall is well and available to the young man. Barabas also tells Lodowick that he now sees the light of Christianity. He praises Ferneze for converting his former mansion into a nunnery, albeit with the pointed suggestion that the nuns and friars engage in illicit sexual activities. All this time, he has been revealing his true intentions through a series of asides within hearing of the audience, saying that he hopes to kill Lodowick and set the nunnery on fire. Accompanied by Lodowick, Barabas examines two slaves before finally settling on Ithamore . Mathias and Katherine enter the marketplace. Barabas and Mathias engage in secret conversation such that Katherine, Mathias's mother, cannot hear. The Jew invites Mathias to come and see Abigall at his house, whereupon Mathias inquires about Barabas's conversation with Lodowick. Barabas responds that they were speaking of diamonds. He and Mathias part with unrelated talk in order to fool the anti-Judaic Katherine. All but Ithamore and Barabas exit the scene. The Jew teaches his new slave to be cold and cunning, embarking on an extended speech to brag about his own evil and anti-Christian deeds. To this story, Ithamore in turn enthusiastically responds with the cruel deeds that he has himself committed against Christians. Barabas promises to pay Ithamore handsomely, so long as he remains faithful. The two meanwhile have arrived at Barabas's house, where Lodowick is arriving to see Abigall. Barabas orders his daughter to entertain Lodowick to the best of her abilities, as if she were truly in love with him. The young pair enter the house, while Barabas remains outside to greet Mathias. The Jew then puts on a show of sadness, saying that although he intended his daughter for Mathias, Lodowick has been imposing himself on his daughter. Mathias draws his sword at once, ready to fight with Lodowick, but Barabas manages to calm him with the promise that he will firmly reject Lodowick. Lodowick sees Mathias exit and inquires after him. Barabas laments that Mathias has sworn Lodowick's death, for he is in love with Abigall as well. Barabas again forces his daughter to declare her love for Lodowick, claiming that \"It is no sin to deceive a Christian.\" Abigall leaves the scene thoroughly upset, but Barabas assures Lodowick that her tears are just what one would expect of Jewish maidens who are about to be married. Happy to be promised Abigall's hand in marriage, Lodowick departs without hampering Mathias when Mathias returns once again. Barabas tells Mathias that if not for his intervention, Lodowick would surely have stabbed Mathias then and there. The Jew then tells Mathias that Abigall now belongs to him and that Lodowick has gone to visit Mathias's mother--being anti-Judaic, Katherine will \"die with grief\" upon hearing about her son's relationship with Abigall. Mathias thus exits in pursuit of Lodowick. Abigall's father expresses disappointment that she wants to marry a Christian, and she laments her father's malicious scheming, especially since she wishes no harm to come to Mathias. Ithamore takes Abigall into the house, after which Barabas orders him to give Mathias a feigned challenge from Lodowick. The act closes with Barabas vowing that he will set the two young men against each other.", "analysis": "Given a choice between his fortune and his daughter, which would Barabas choose? In the opening scene of the act, he associates four types of fortunes in a parallel structure: \"O girl, O gold, O beauty, O my bliss!\" Just as Abigall lovingly carries out her father's wishes, so too does Barabas seem to genuinely love his daughter: \"Abigall, Abigall, that I had thee here too!\" Whether this appearance captures the reality of his preferences is a question that will be answered in the following act. In the meantime, Ferneze continues to reveal his hypocritical ways. Martin del Bosco's offer to assist Malta in its coming war against the Turks strikes the governor as highly desirable. After all, he will be able to keep the tribute money taken from the Jews-an easy financial gain that will appear to the public as righteous. To be sure, Ferneze may feel genuinely relieved to be associated with Christian Spain rather than the Ottoman Empire. Still, his talk of how \"honour is bought with blood and not with gold\" is nonsense, from his point of view. He knows that his honour as a Christian has been bought with gold, so his courageous defiance of the Turks only comes after the assurance that Spain will come to Malta's aid. Besides, it is the blood of the Spanish, more than that of the Maltese, that will spill. In exchanging one protector for another, though, Malta is likely to face new challenges and costs. In a manner similar to his father's, Lodowick shows his deep taste for wealth. It is not without reason that he refers to Abigall as a diamond. As Barabas's daughter, after all, it is clear that Abigall will inherit a considerable fortune. Lodowick hastens to assure the Jew: \"'Tis not thy wealth, but her that I esteem, / Yet crave I thy consent.\" Now if Abigall were ugly, Lodowick would have good reason to make such a comment. But given that the young men describe her as exceedingly pretty, Lodowick's comment seems to reveal his preoccupation with the fortune he will inherit as a son-in-law. Love and the desire for wealth, then, once again are the motives that lead to action, not Lodowick's religious or ethical motives. The lady Katherine clearly displays her anti-Judaic sentiments, but her son Mathias hardly considers religion or family as providing motives that will trump his love for Abigall, in all her beauty. Similarly, Lodowick affects none of his father's animosity towards Barabas, reflecting mainly his father's love of women and gold irrespective of religion or family vendettas Meanwhile, Barabas keeps a vendetta alive, though it remains unclear where his priorities lie among gold, family love, and revenge. Revenge has become a powerful force in the play. Barabas notes that he has regained much of his fortune through Abigall, and he has bought a new mansion; nonetheless, he is more driven than ever to take revenge on Ferneze. To do so, he is more than willing to sacrifice Lodowick-and probably Mathias along the way as well. The Jew of Malta, then, fits well with the popular tradition of revenge tragedy in English theater, typified by such works as Thomas Kyd's Spanish Tragedy, Shakespeare's Hamlet, and the Revenger's Tragedy . In plotting his revenge, Barabas reveals his extreme shrewdness. Like Shakespeare's Iago in Othello, he knows precisely how to manipulate others to do his will. When he meets Ithamore, for example, Barabas presents himself in the image of the stereotypical medieval Jew: As for myself, I walk abroad a-nights And kill sick people groaning under walls; Sometimes I go about and poison wells. Encouraged by his new master's taste for evil, Ithamore responds with an equally exaggerated-if not entirely fabricated-story of his crimes against Christians. Barabas also revels in his malicious maneuvers. In the third scene, he repeatedly states his true intentions through asides. While this serves as a dramatic device-to clarify matters for the audience-the extent and the number of asides suggest Barabas's sheer pleasure in planning his revenge. Finally, the third scene of Act 2 marks a development in Abigall's character. She has, thus far, followed all her father's wishes, staying true to her name's literal meaning, \"father's joy.\" Now, as two suitors are set up to compete for her, possibly to the death, she begins to assert her own opinions and desires. Must she really help her father set up Mathias and Lodowick? A tension thus arises between romantic love and familial love; she seems more concerned with this conflict at this point than with the possibility of losing her inheritance if her father's fortune is confiscated again. Another way of looking at the conflict is to see it between Abigall's love and Barabas's hate ."}

ACT II. Enter BARABAS, with a light. [53] BARABAS. Thus, like the sad-presaging raven, that tolls The sick man's passport in her hollow beak, [54] And in the shadow of the silent night Doth shake contagion from her sable wings, Vex'd and tormented runs poor Barabas With fatal curses towards these Christians. The incertain pleasures of swift-footed time Have ta'en their flight, and left me in despair; And of my former riches rests no more But bare remembrance; like a soldier's scar, That has no further comfort for his maim.-- O Thou, that with a fiery pillar ledd'st The sons of Israel through the dismal shades, Light Abraham's offspring; and direct the hand Of Abigail this night! or let the day Turn to eternal darkness after this!-- No sleep can fasten on my watchful eyes, Nor quiet enter my distemper'd thoughts, Till I have answer of my Abigail. Enter ABIGAIL above. ABIGAIL. Now have I happily espied a time To search the plank my father did appoint; And here, behold, unseen, where I have found The gold, the pearls, and jewels, which he hid. BARABAS. Now I remember those old women's words, Who in my wealth would tell me winter's tales, And speak of spirits and ghosts that glide by night About the place where treasure hath been hid: And now methinks that I am one of those; For, whilst I live, here lives my soul's sole hope, And, when I die, here shall my spirit walk. ABIGAIL. Now that my father's fortune were so good As but to be about this happy place! 'Tis not so happy: yet, when we parted last, He said he would attend me in the morn. Then, gentle Sleep, where'er his body rests, Give charge to Morpheus that he may dream A golden dream, and of [55] the sudden wake, [56] Come and receive the treasure I have found. BARABAS. Bueno para todos mi ganado no era: [57] As good go on, as sit so sadly thus.-- But stay: what star shines yonder in the east? [58] The loadstar of my life, if Abigail.-- Who's there? ABIGAIL. Who's that? BARABAS. Peace, Abigail! 'tis I. ABIGAIL. Then, father, here receive thy happiness. BARABAS. Hast thou't? ABIGAIL. Here.[throws down bags] Hast thou't? There's more, and more, and more. BARABAS. O my girl, My gold, my fortune, my felicity, Strength to my soul, death to mine enemy; Welcome the first beginner of my bliss! O Abigail, Abigail, that I had thee here too! Then my desires were fully satisfied: But I will practice thy enlargement thence: O girl! O gold! O beauty! O my bliss! [Hugs the bags.] ABIGAIL. Father, it draweth towards midnight now, And 'bout this time the nuns begin to wake; To shun suspicion, therefore, let us part. BARABAS. Farewell, my joy, and by my fingers take A kiss from him that sends it from his soul. [Exit ABIGAIL above.] Now, Phoebus, ope the eye-lids of the day. And, for the raven, wake the morning lark, That I may hover with her in the air, Singing o'er these, as she does o'er her young. Hermoso placer de los dineros. [59] [Exit.] Enter FERNEZE, [60] MARTIN DEL BOSCO, KNIGHTS, and OFFICERS. FERNEZE. Now, captain, tell us whither thou art bound? Whence is thy ship that anchors in our road? And why thou cam'st ashore without our leave? MARTIN DEL BOSCO. Governor of Malta, hither am I bound; My ship, the Flying Dragon, is of Spain, And so am I; Del Bosco is my name, Vice-admiral unto the Catholic King. FIRST KNIGHT. 'Tis true, my lord; therefore entreat [61] him well. MARTIN DEL BOSCO. Our fraught is Grecians, Turks, and Afric Moors; For late upon the coast of Corsica, Because we vail'd not [62] to the Turkish [63] fleet, Their creeping galleys had us in the chase: But suddenly the wind began to rise, And then we luff'd and tack'd, [64] and fought at ease: Some have we fir'd, and many have we sunk; But one amongst the rest became our prize: The captain's slain; the rest remain our slaves, Of whom we would make sale in Malta here. FERNEZE. Martin del Bosco, I have heard of thee: Welcome to Malta, and to all of us! But to admit a sale of these thy Turks, We may not, nay, we dare not give consent, By reason of a tributary league. FIRST KNIGHT. Del Bosco, as thou lov'st and honour'st us, Persuade our governor against the Turk: This truce we have is but in hope of gold, And with that sum he craves might we wage war. MARTIN DEL BOSCO. Will knights of Malta be in league with Turks, And buy it basely too for sums of gold? My lord, remember that, to Europe's shame, The Christian isle of Rhodes, from whence you came, Was lately lost, and you were stated [65] here To be at deadly enmity with Turks. FERNEZE. Captain, we know it; but our force is small. MARTIN DEL BOSCO. What is the sum that Calymath requires? FERNEZE. A hundred thousand crowns. MARTIN DEL BOSCO. My lord and king hath title to this isle, And he means quickly to expel you hence; Therefore be rul'd by me, and keep the gold: I'll write unto his majesty for aid, And not depart until I see you free. FERNEZE. On this condition shall thy Turks be sold.-- Go, officers, and set them straight in show.-- [Exeunt OFFICERS.] Bosco, thou shalt be Malta's general; We and our warlike knights will follow thee Against these barbarous misbelieving Turks. MARTIN DEL BOSCO. So shall you imitate those you succeed; For, when their hideous force environ'd Rhodes, Small though the number was that kept the town, They fought it out, and not a man surviv'd To bring the hapless news to Christendom. FERNEZE. So will we fight it out: come, let's away. Proud daring Calymath, instead of gold, We'll send thee bullets wrapt in smoke and fire: Claim tribute where thou wilt, we are resolv'd,-- Honour is bought with blood, and not with gold. [Exeunt.] Enter OFFICERS, [66] with ITHAMORE and other SLAVES. FIRST OFFICER. This is the market-place; here let 'em stand: Fear not their sale, for they'll be quickly bought. SECOND OFFICER. Every one's price is written on his back, And so much must they yield, or not be sold. FIRST OFFICER. Here comes the Jew: had not his goods been seiz'd, He'd give us present money for them all. Enter BARABAS. BARABAS. In spite of these swine-eating Christians, (Unchosen nation, never circumcis'd, Poor villains, such as were [67] ne'er thought upon Till Titus and Vespasian conquer'd us,) Am I become as wealthy as I was. They hop'd my daughter would ha' been a nun; But she's at home, and I have bought a house As great and fair as is the governor's: And there, in spite of Malta, will I dwell, Having Ferneze's hand; whose heart I'll have, Ay, and his son's too, or it shall go hard. I am not of the tribe of Levi, I, That can so soon forget an injury. We Jews can fawn like spaniels when we please; And when we grin we bite; yet are our looks As innocent and harmless as a lamb's. I learn'd in Florence how to kiss my hand, Heave up my shoulders when they call me dog, And duck as low as any bare-foot friar; Hoping to see them starve upon a stall, Or else be gather'd for in our synagogue, That, when the offering-basin comes to me, Even for charity I may spit into't.-- Here comes Don Lodowick, the governor's son, One that I love for his good father's sake. Enter LODOWICK. LODOWICK. I hear the wealthy Jew walked this way: I'll seek him out, and so insinuate, That I may have a sight of Abigail, For Don Mathias tells me she is fair. BARABAS. Now will I shew myself to have more of the serpent than the dove; that is, more knave than fool. [Aside.] LODOWICK. Yond' walks the Jew: now for fair Abigail. BARABAS. Ay, ay, no doubt but she's at your command. [Aside.] LODOWICK. Barabas, thou know'st I am the governor's son. BARABAS. I would you were his father too, sir! that's all the harm I wish you.--The slave looks like a hog's cheek new-singed. [Aside.] LODOWICK. Whither walk'st thou, Barabas? BARABAS. No further: 'tis a custom held with us, That when we speak with Gentiles like to you, We turn into [68] the air to purge ourselves; For unto us the promise doth belong. LODOWICK. Well, Barabas, canst help me to a diamond? BARABAS. O, sir, your father had my diamonds: Yet I have one left that will serve your turn.-- I mean my daughter; but, ere he shall have her, I'll sacrifice her on a pile of wood: I ha' the poison of the city [69] for him, And the white leprosy. [Aside.] LODOWICK. What sparkle does it give without a foil? BARABAS. The diamond that I talk of ne'er was foil'd:-- But, when he touches it, it will be foil'd.-- [70] [Aside.] Lord Lodowick, it sparkles bright and fair. LODOWICK. Is it square or pointed? pray, let me know. BARABAS. Pointed it is, good sir,--but not for you. [Aside.] LODOWICK. I like it much the better. BARABAS. So do I too. LODOWICK. How shews it by night? BARABAS. Outshines Cynthia's rays:-- You'll like it better far o' nights than days. [Aside.] LODOWICK. And what's the price? BARABAS. Your life, an if you have it [Aside].--O my lord, We will not jar about the price: come to my house, And I will give't your honour--with a vengeance. [Aside.] LODOWICK. No, Barabas, I will deserve it first. BARABAS. Good sir, Your father has deserv'd it at my hands, Who, of mere charity and Christian ruth, To bring me to religious purity, And, as it were, in catechising sort, To make me mindful of my mortal sins, Against my will, and whether I would or no, Seiz'd all I had, and thrust me out o' doors, And made my house a place for nuns most chaste. LODOWICK. No doubt your soul shall reap the fruit of it. BARABAS. Ay, but, my lord, the harvest is far off: And yet I know the prayers of those nuns And holy friars, having money for their pains, Are wondrous;--and indeed do no man good;-- [Aside.] And, seeing they are not idle, but still doing, 'Tis likely they in time may reap some fruit, I mean, in fullness of perfection. LODOWICK. Good Barabas, glance not at our holy nuns. BARABAS. No, but I do it through a burning zeal,-- Hoping ere long to set the house a-fire; For, though they do a while increase and multiply, I'll have a saying to that nunnery.-- [71] [Aside.] As for the diamond, sir, I told you of, Come home, and there's no price shall make us part, Even for your honourable father's sake,-- It shall go hard but I will see your death.-- [Aside.] But now I must be gone to buy a slave. LODOWICK. And, Barabas, I'll bear thee company. BARABAS. Come, then; here's the market-place.-- What's the price of this slave? two hundred crowns! do the Turks weigh so much? FIRST OFFICER. Sir, that's his price. BARABAS. What, can he steal, that you demand so much? Belike he has some new trick for a purse; An if he has, he is worth three hundred plates, [72] So that, being bought, the town-seal might be got To keep him for his life-time from the gallows: The sessions-day is critical to thieves, And few or none scape but by being purg'd. LODOWICK. Rat'st thou this Moor but at two hundred plates? FIRST OFFICER. No more, my lord. BARABAS. Why should this Turk be dearer than that Moor? FIRST OFFICER. Because he is young, and has more qualities. BARABAS. What, hast the philosopher's stone? an thou hast, break my head with it, I'll forgive thee. SLAVE. [73] No, sir; I can cut and shave. BARABAS. Let me see, sirrah; are you not an old shaver? SLAVE. Alas, sir, I am a very youth! BARABAS. A youth! I'll buy you, and marry you to Lady Vanity, [74] if you do well. SLAVE. I will serve you, sir. BARABAS. Some wicked trick or other: it may be, under colour of shaving, thou'lt cut my throat for my goods. Tell me, hast thou thy health well? SLAVE. Ay, passing well. BARABAS. So much the worse: I must have one that's sickly, an't be but for sparing victuals: 'tis not a stone of beef a-day will maintain you in these chops.--Let me see one that's somewhat leaner. FIRST OFFICER. Here's a leaner; how like you him? BARABAS. Where wast thou born? ITHAMORE. In Thrace; brought up in Arabia. BARABAS. So much the better; thou art for my turn. An hundred crowns? I'll have him; there's the coin. [Gives money.] FIRST OFFICER. Then mark him, sir, and take him hence. BARABAS. Ay, mark him, you were best; for this is he That by my help shall do much villany.-- [Aside.] My lord, farewell.--Come, sirrah; you are mine.-- As for the diamond, it shall be yours: I pray, sir, be no stranger at my house; All that I have shall be at your command. Enter MATHIAS and KATHARINE. [75] MATHIAS. What make the Jew and Lodowick so private? I fear me 'tis about fair Abigail. [Aside.] BARABAS. [to LODOWICK.] Yonder comes Don Mathias; let us stay: [76] He loves my daughter, and she holds him dear; But I have sworn to frustrate both their hopes, And be reveng'd upon the--governor. [Aside.] [Exit LODOWICK.] KATHARINE. This Moor is comeliest, is he not? speak, son. MATHIAS. No, this is the better, mother, view this well. BARABAS. Seem not to know me here before your mother, Lest she mistrust the match that is in hand: When you have brought her home, come to my house; Think of me as thy father: son, farewell. MATHIAS. But wherefore talk'd Don Lodowick with you? BARABAS. Tush, man! we talk'd of diamonds, not of Abigail. KATHARINE. Tell me, Mathias, is not that the Jew? BARABAS. As for the comment on the Maccabees, I have it, sir, and 'tis at your command. MATHIAS. Yes, madam, and my talk with him was [77] About the borrowing of a book or two. KATHARINE. Converse not with him; he is cast off from heaven.-- Thou hast thy crowns, fellow.--Come, let's away. MATHIAS. Sirrah Jew, remember the book. BARABAS. Marry, will I, sir. [Exeunt KATHARlNE and MATHIAS.] FIRST OFFICER. Come, I have made a reasonable market; let's away. [Exeunt OFFICERS with SLAVES.] BARABAS. Now let me know thy name, and therewithal Thy birth, condition, and profession. ITHAMORE. Faith, sir, my birth is but mean; my name's Ithamore; my profession what you please. BARABAS. Hast thou no trade? then listen to my words, And I will teach [thee] that shall stick by thee: First, be thou void of these affections, Compassion, love, vain hope, and heartless fear; Be mov'd at nothing, see thou pity none, But to thyself smile when the Christians moan. ITHAMORE. O, brave, master! [78] I worship your nose [79] for this. BARABAS. As for myself, I walk abroad o' nights, And kill sick people groaning under walls: Sometimes I go about and poison wells; And now and then, to cherish Christian thieves, I am content to lose some of my crowns, That I may, walking in my gallery, See 'em go pinion'd along by my door. Being young, I studied physic, and began To practice first upon the Italian; There I enrich'd the priests with burials, And always kept the sexton's arms in ure [80] With digging graves and ringing dead men's knells: And, after that, was I an engineer, And in the wars 'twixt France and Germany, Under pretence of helping Charles the Fifth, Slew friend and enemy with my stratagems: Then, after that, was I an usurer, And with extorting, cozening, forfeiting, And tricks belonging unto brokery, I fill'd the gaols with bankrupts in a year, And with young orphans planted hospitals; And every moon made some or other mad, And now and then one hang himself for grief, Pinning upon his breast a long great scroll How I with interest tormented him. But mark how I am blest for plaguing them;-- I have as much coin as will buy the town. But tell me now, how hast thou spent thy time? ITHAMORE. Faith, master, In setting Christian villages on fire, Chaining of eunuchs, binding galley-slaves. One time I was an hostler in an inn, And in the night-time secretly would I steal To travellers' chambers, and there cut their throats: Once at Jerusalem, where the pilgrims kneel'd, I strewed powder on the marble stones, And therewithal their knees would rankle so, That I have laugh'd a-good [81] to see the cripples Go limping home to Christendom on stilts. BARABAS. Why, this is something: make account of me As of thy fellow; we are villains both; Both circumcised; we hate Christians both: Be true and secret; thou shalt want no gold. But stand aside; here comes Don Lodowick. Enter LODOWICK. [82] LODOWICK. O, Barabas, well met; Where is the diamond you told me of? BARABAS. I have it for you, sir: please you walk in with me.-- What, ho, Abigail! open the door, I say! Enter ABIGAIL, with letters. ABIGAIL. In good time, father; here are letters come ]From Ormus, and the post stays here within. BARABAS. Give me the letters.--Daughter, do you hear? Entertain Lodowick, the governor's son, With all the courtesy you can afford, Provided that you keep your maidenhead: Use him as if he were a Philistine; Dissemble, swear, protest, vow love to him: [83] He is not of the seed of Abraham.-- [Aside to her.] I am a little busy, sir; pray, pardon me.-- Abigail, bid him welcome for my sake. ABIGAIL. For your sake and his own he's welcome hither. BARABAS. Daughter, a word more: kiss him, speak him fair, And like a cunning Jew so cast about, That ye be both made sure [84] ere you come out. [Aside to her.] ABIGAIL. O father, Don Mathias is my love! BARABAS. I know it: yet, I say, make love to him; Do, it is requisite it should be so.-- [Aside to her.] Nay, on my life, it is my factor's hand; But go you in, I'll think upon the account. [Exeunt ABIGAIL and LODOWICK into the house.] The account is made, for Lodovico [85] dies. My factor sends me word a merchant's fled That owes me for a hundred tun of wine: I weigh it thus much[snapping his fingers]! I have wealth enough; For now by this has he kiss'd Abigail, And she vows love to him, and he to her. As sure as heaven rain'd manna for the Jews, So sure shall he and Don Mathias die: His father was my chiefest enemy. Enter MATHIAS. Whither goes Don Mathias? stay a while. MATHIAS. Whither, but to my fair love Abigail? BARABAS. Thou know'st, and heaven can witness it is true, That I intend my daughter shall be thine. MATHIAS. Ay, Barabas, or else thou wrong'st me much. BARABAS. O, heaven forbid I should have such a thought! Pardon me though I weep: the governor's son Will, whether I will or no, have Abigail; He sends her letters, bracelets, jewels, rings. MATHIAS. Does she receive them? BARABAS. She! no, Mathias, no, but sends them back; And, when he comes, she locks herself up fast; Yet through the key-hole will he talk to her, While she runs to the window, looking out When you should come and hale him from the door. MATHIAS. O treacherous Lodowick! BARABAS. Even now, as I came home, he slipt me in, And I am sure he is with Abigail. MATHIAS. I'll rouse him thence. BARABAS. Not for all Malta; therefore sheathe your sword; If you love me, no quarrels in my house; But steal you in, and seem to see him not: I'll give him such a warning ere he goes, As he shall have small hopes of Abigail. Away, for here they come. Re-enter LODOWICK and ABIGAIL. MATHIAS. What, hand in hand! I cannot suffer this. BARABAS. Mathias, as thou lov'st me, not a word. MATHIAS. Well, let it pass; another time shall serve. [Exit into the house.] LODOWICK. Barabas, is not that the widow's son? BARABAS. Ay, and take heed, for he hath sworn your death. LODOWICK. My death! what, is the base-born peasant mad? BARABAS. No, no; but happily [86] he stands in fear Of that which you, I think, ne'er dream upon,-- My daughter here, a paltry silly girl. LODOWICK. Why, loves she Don Mathias? BARABAS. Doth she not with her smiling answer you? ABIGAIL. He has my heart; I smile against my will. [Aside.] LODOWICK. Barabas, thou know'st I have lov'd thy daughter long. BARABAS. And so has she done you, even from a child. LODOWICK. And now I can no longer hold my mind. BARABAS. Nor I the affection that I bear to you. LODOWICK. This is thy diamond; tell me, shall I have it? BARABAS. Win it, and wear it; it is yet unsoil'd. [87] O, but I know your lordship would disdain To marry with the daughter of a Jew: And yet I'll give her many a golden cross [88] With Christian posies round about the ring. LODOWICK. 'Tis not thy wealth, but her that I esteem; Yet crave I thy consent. BARABAS. And mine you have; yet let me talk to her.-- This offspring of Cain, this Jebusite, That never tasted of the Passover, Nor e'er shall see the land of Canaan, Nor our Messias that is yet to come; This gentle maggot, Lodowick, I mean, Must be deluded: let him have thy hand, But keep thy heart till Don Mathias comes. [Aside to her.] ABIGAIL. What, shall I be betroth'd to Lodowick? BARABAS. It's no sin to deceive a Christian; For they themselves hold it a principle, Faith is not to be held with heretics: But all are heretics that are not Jews; This follows well, and therefore, daughter, fear not.-- [Aside to her.] I have entreated her, and she will grant. LODOWICK. Then, gentle Abigail, plight thy faith to me. ABIGAIL. I cannot choose, seeing my father bids: Nothing but death shall part my love and me. LODOWICK. Now have I that for which my soul hath long'd. BARABAS. So have not I; but yet I hope I shall. [Aside.] ABIGAIL. O wretched Abigail, what hast thou [89] done? [Aside.] LODOWICK. Why on the sudden is your colour chang'd? ABIGAIL. I know not: but farewell; I must be gone. BARABAS. Stay her, but let her not speak one word more. LODOWICK. Mute o' the sudden! here's a sudden change. BARABAS. O, muse not at it; 'tis the Hebrews' guise, That maidens new-betroth'd should weep a while: Trouble her not; sweet Lodowick, depart: She is thy wife, and thou shalt be mine heir. LODOWICK. O, is't the custom? then I am resolv'd: [90] But rather let the brightsome heavens be dim, And nature's beauty choke with stifling clouds, Than my fair Abigail should frown on me.-- There comes the villain; now I'll be reveng'd. Re-enter MATHIAS. BARABAS. Be quiet, Lodowick; it is enough That I have made thee sure to Abigail. LODOWICK. Well, let him go. [Exit.] BARABAS. Well, but for me, as you went in at doors You had been stabb'd: but not a word on't now; Here must no speeches pass, nor swords be drawn. MATHIAS. Suffer me, Barabas, but to follow him. BARABAS. No; so shall I, if any hurt be done, Be made an accessary of your deeds: Revenge it on him when you meet him next. MATHIAS. For this I'll have his heart. BARABAS. Do so. Lo, here I give thee Abigail! MATHIAS. What greater gift can poor Mathias have? Shall Lodowick rob me of so fair a love? My life is not so dear as Abigail. BARABAS. My heart misgives me, that, to cross your love, He's with your mother; therefore after him. MATHIAS. What, is he gone unto my mother? BARABAS. Nay, if you will, stay till she comes herself. MATHIAS. I cannot stay; for, if my mother come, She'll die with grief. [Exit.] ABIGAIL. I cannot take my leave of him for tears. Father, why have you thus incens'd them both? BARABAS. What's that to thee? ABIGAIL. I'll make 'em friends again. BARABAS. You'll make 'em friends! are there not Jews enow in Malta, But thou must dote upon a Christian? ABIGAIL. I will have Don Mathias; he is my love. BARABAS. Yes, you shall have him.--Go, put her in. ITHAMORE. Ay, I'll put her in. [Puts in ABIGAIL.] BARABAS. Now tell me, Ithamore, how lik'st thou this? ITHAMORE. Faith, master, I think by this You purchase both their lives: is it not so? BARABAS. True; and it shall be cunningly perform'd. ITHAMORE. O, master, that I might have a hand in this! BARABAS. Ay, so thou shalt; 'tis thou must do the deed: Take this, and bear it to Mathias straight, [Giving a letter.] And tell him that it comes from Lodowick. ITHAMORE. 'Tis poison'd, is it not? BARABAS. No, no; and yet it might be done that way: It is a challenge feign'd from Lodowick. ITHAMORE. Fear not; I will so set his heart a-fire, That he shall verily think it comes from him. BARABAS. I cannot choose but like thy readiness: Yet be not rash, but do it cunningly. ITHAMORE. As I behave myself in this, employ me hereafter. BARABAS. Away, then! [Exit ITHAMORE.] So; now will I go in to Lodowick, And, like a cunning spirit, feign some lie, Till I have set 'em both at enmity. [Exit.]

Act 2

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Night has fallen. Barabas enters with a light in hand, lamenting the events that have befallen him. Just as he prays to God to safely direct his daughter, on the model of God directing Moses and the Israelites through the wilderness, Abigall enters above with bags of gold and jewels. Faintly able to perceive her, Barabas thinks he sees a ghost. He soon realizes that the figure is Abigall, who begins to throw down bags of treasure to him. Barabas declares that he is now entirely happy, equating happiness with having his daughter, his gold, and beauty all together. Abigall warns him that the nuns will begin to wake up as midnight approaches, and she retires back into the house. Act 2, Scene 2 Ferneze enters with Martin del Bosco, the vice-admiral of Spain who has just arrived on his ship, the Flying Dragon. Del Bosco carries a freight of Greek, Turkish, and Moorish slaves, which he would like to sell in Malta. Ferneze welcomes the vice-admiral but says that he does not dare buy the slaves due to the tributary league with the Turks. Upon hearing this-and with the encouragement of the Maltese First Knight-del Bosco urges Ferneze to break Malta's league with the Turks. He declares that the Spanish King has title to the island, and he promises to send for aid in fighting off the Turks. He tells Ferneze to keep the tributary money rather than give it to the Turks. With new hope, Ferneze decides to buy the slaves whom del Bosco is holding in cargo. The scene closes with Ferneze trumpeting his resolution to fight the "barbarous misbelieving" Turks, exclaiming that "Honour is bought with blood and not with gold." Act 2, Scene 3 Two officers arrive at the marketplace with the newly-purchased slaves. Noticing Barabas, the First Officer mutters that the Jew would have bought all the slaves had his fortunes not been seized. As it turns out, Barabas has recovered a substantial proportion of his fortune with the help of Abigall, and he has just purchased a new mansion. In an aside, Barabas swears to take out his revenge against Ferneze as well as his son Lodowick. The Jew boasts of his ability to dissemble-to put on a show of gentleness and innocence while injuring others. Lodowick enters and seeks Barabas in hopes of acquiring permission to visit Abigall. Barabas responds to Lodowick's request to "help to a diamond," insinuating through a series of innuendoes that Abigall is well and available to the young man. Barabas also tells Lodowick that he now sees the light of Christianity. He praises Ferneze for converting his former mansion into a nunnery, albeit with the pointed suggestion that the nuns and friars engage in illicit sexual activities. All this time, he has been revealing his true intentions through a series of asides within hearing of the audience, saying that he hopes to kill Lodowick and set the nunnery on fire. Accompanied by Lodowick, Barabas examines two slaves before finally settling on Ithamore . Mathias and Katherine enter the marketplace. Barabas and Mathias engage in secret conversation such that Katherine, Mathias's mother, cannot hear. The Jew invites Mathias to come and see Abigall at his house, whereupon Mathias inquires about Barabas's conversation with Lodowick. Barabas responds that they were speaking of diamonds. He and Mathias part with unrelated talk in order to fool the anti-Judaic Katherine. All but Ithamore and Barabas exit the scene. The Jew teaches his new slave to be cold and cunning, embarking on an extended speech to brag about his own evil and anti-Christian deeds. To this story, Ithamore in turn enthusiastically responds with the cruel deeds that he has himself committed against Christians. Barabas promises to pay Ithamore handsomely, so long as he remains faithful. The two meanwhile have arrived at Barabas's house, where Lodowick is arriving to see Abigall. Barabas orders his daughter to entertain Lodowick to the best of her abilities, as if she were truly in love with him. The young pair enter the house, while Barabas remains outside to greet Mathias. The Jew then puts on a show of sadness, saying that although he intended his daughter for Mathias, Lodowick has been imposing himself on his daughter. Mathias draws his sword at once, ready to fight with Lodowick, but Barabas manages to calm him with the promise that he will firmly reject Lodowick. Lodowick sees Mathias exit and inquires after him. Barabas laments that Mathias has sworn Lodowick's death, for he is in love with Abigall as well. Barabas again forces his daughter to declare her love for Lodowick, claiming that "It is no sin to deceive a Christian." Abigall leaves the scene thoroughly upset, but Barabas assures Lodowick that her tears are just what one would expect of Jewish maidens who are about to be married. Happy to be promised Abigall's hand in marriage, Lodowick departs without hampering Mathias when Mathias returns once again. Barabas tells Mathias that if not for his intervention, Lodowick would surely have stabbed Mathias then and there. The Jew then tells Mathias that Abigall now belongs to him and that Lodowick has gone to visit Mathias's mother--being anti-Judaic, Katherine will "die with grief" upon hearing about her son's relationship with Abigall. Mathias thus exits in pursuit of Lodowick. Abigall's father expresses disappointment that she wants to marry a Christian, and she laments her father's malicious scheming, especially since she wishes no harm to come to Mathias. Ithamore takes Abigall into the house, after which Barabas orders him to give Mathias a feigned challenge from Lodowick. The act closes with Barabas vowing that he will set the two young men against each other.

Given a choice between his fortune and his daughter, which would Barabas choose? In the opening scene of the act, he associates four types of fortunes in a parallel structure: "O girl, O gold, O beauty, O my bliss!" Just as Abigall lovingly carries out her father's wishes, so too does Barabas seem to genuinely love his daughter: "Abigall, Abigall, that I had thee here too!" Whether this appearance captures the reality of his preferences is a question that will be answered in the following act. In the meantime, Ferneze continues to reveal his hypocritical ways. Martin del Bosco's offer to assist Malta in its coming war against the Turks strikes the governor as highly desirable. After all, he will be able to keep the tribute money taken from the Jews-an easy financial gain that will appear to the public as righteous. To be sure, Ferneze may feel genuinely relieved to be associated with Christian Spain rather than the Ottoman Empire. Still, his talk of how "honour is bought with blood and not with gold" is nonsense, from his point of view. He knows that his honour as a Christian has been bought with gold, so his courageous defiance of the Turks only comes after the assurance that Spain will come to Malta's aid. Besides, it is the blood of the Spanish, more than that of the Maltese, that will spill. In exchanging one protector for another, though, Malta is likely to face new challenges and costs. In a manner similar to his father's, Lodowick shows his deep taste for wealth. It is not without reason that he refers to Abigall as a diamond. As Barabas's daughter, after all, it is clear that Abigall will inherit a considerable fortune. Lodowick hastens to assure the Jew: "'Tis not thy wealth, but her that I esteem, / Yet crave I thy consent." Now if Abigall were ugly, Lodowick would have good reason to make such a comment. But given that the young men describe her as exceedingly pretty, Lodowick's comment seems to reveal his preoccupation with the fortune he will inherit as a son-in-law. Love and the desire for wealth, then, once again are the motives that lead to action, not Lodowick's religious or ethical motives. The lady Katherine clearly displays her anti-Judaic sentiments, but her son Mathias hardly considers religion or family as providing motives that will trump his love for Abigall, in all her beauty. Similarly, Lodowick affects none of his father's animosity towards Barabas, reflecting mainly his father's love of women and gold irrespective of religion or family vendettas Meanwhile, Barabas keeps a vendetta alive, though it remains unclear where his priorities lie among gold, family love, and revenge. Revenge has become a powerful force in the play. Barabas notes that he has regained much of his fortune through Abigall, and he has bought a new mansion; nonetheless, he is more driven than ever to take revenge on Ferneze. To do so, he is more than willing to sacrifice Lodowick-and probably Mathias along the way as well. The Jew of Malta, then, fits well with the popular tradition of revenge tragedy in English theater, typified by such works as Thomas Kyd's Spanish Tragedy, Shakespeare's Hamlet, and the Revenger's Tragedy . In plotting his revenge, Barabas reveals his extreme shrewdness. Like Shakespeare's Iago in Othello, he knows precisely how to manipulate others to do his will. When he meets Ithamore, for example, Barabas presents himself in the image of the stereotypical medieval Jew: As for myself, I walk abroad a-nights And kill sick people groaning under walls; Sometimes I go about and poison wells. Encouraged by his new master's taste for evil, Ithamore responds with an equally exaggerated-if not entirely fabricated-story of his crimes against Christians. Barabas also revels in his malicious maneuvers. In the third scene, he repeatedly states his true intentions through asides. While this serves as a dramatic device-to clarify matters for the audience-the extent and the number of asides suggest Barabas's sheer pleasure in planning his revenge. Finally, the third scene of Act 2 marks a development in Abigall's character. She has, thus far, followed all her father's wishes, staying true to her name's literal meaning, "father's joy." Now, as two suitors are set up to compete for her, possibly to the death, she begins to assert her own opinions and desires. Must she really help her father set up Mathias and Lodowick? A tension thus arises between romantic love and familial love; she seems more concerned with this conflict at this point than with the possibility of losing her inheritance if her father's fortune is confiscated again. Another way of looking at the conflict is to see it between Abigall's love and Barabas's hate .

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/901-chapters/act_3.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/The Jew of Malta/section_2_part_0.txt

The Jew of Malta.act 3

act 3

{"name": "Act 3", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180408024636/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-jew-of-malta/study-guide/summary-act-3", "summary": "The courtesan Bellamira enters, complaining about the lack of suitors ever since Malta closed itself to prepare for the arrival of the Turkish fleet. She remarks that only Pilia-Borza still comes to visit her, whereupon he enters bringing a bag of silver. He has stolen it from Barabas's counting house--and hopes to steal more. Ithamore enters and in one breath remarks on Bellamira's extreme beauty and on the success of his mission to set Mathias and Lodowick against each other. Act 3, Scene 2 Mathias and Lodowick enter, each having been provoked accordingly by Barabas. The two draw swords and fight. Barabas enters above to goad them on, then leaves the scene when the two fall dead. Ferneze and Katherine arrive to find their respective sons dead. Mourning over the corpses, the two first express their desire to commit suicide, but they then decide to find out who made their sons enemies. After vowing to carry out due revenge, they exit with the bodies. Act 3, Scene 3 Ithamore revels in the villainy that he has just helped Barabas commit. Abigall enters, and Ithamore gleefully recounts to her how Barabas orchestrated the death of the two young men. Abigall then asks Ithamore to summon one of the friars from the nunnery. Before leaving, Ithamore facetiously asks her whether the nuns engage in \"fine sport\" with the friars from time to time. All alone now, Abigall bemoans her father's \"hard-hearted\" revenge. In his single-minded pursuit of vengeance against Ferneze, Barabas has killed not only Lodowick, but also the entirely innocent Mathias. For Abigall, the death of Mathias strikes her almost as her own death: perceiving that there is \"no love on earth,\" she desires to leave behind the vicissitudes of the world and become a nun. Friar Jacomo arrives and shows surprise at her change of heart, but he admits her once again as a sister. As the two head to the nunnery, Abigall swears to Barabas in an apostrophe: \"never shall these lips bewray thy life!\" Act 3, Scene 4 Barabas enters, reading a letter from Abigall that urges him to repent of his sins. Much disturbed by the turn of events, Barabas fears that his daughter knows about his hand in the deaths of Mathias and Lodowick. Ithamore enters to confirm that Abigall sent for the friar herself and voluntarily entered the nunnery. Feeling outraged and betrayed, Barabas adopts Ithamore as his only heir and hatches a plot to poison the sisters-including his daughter. Ithamore brings a pot of rice into which the Jew mixes a rare, poisonous powder. He then orders Ithamore to take the porridge to the nunnery, promising him great wealth in return for his service. Barabas utters spiteful words towards his daughter. After Ithamore leaves, he declares that he will \"pay with a vengeance\" as well. Act 3, Scene 5 Accompanied by Martin del Bosco, Ferneze once again welcomes the Turkish Bashaws to Malta. Since the time has come for Malta to pay its tribute, Callapine has arrived as the messenger for Calymath. But Ferneze strongly refuses to pay the tribute-and for that matter shall never let any Maltese property be taken by the Turks. Callapine thus leaves with the ominous promise that Calymath will return and destroy Malta for its wrongs. After the Turks leave, Ferneze encourages his men to prepare for war. Act 3, Scene 6 Friars Jacomo and Barnardine enter in great distress--all the nuns are dying! Abigall enters to make a confession to Friar Barnardine. She admits that she is greatly tormented by her offence against Mathias and Lodowick, as planned by her father. She has written down the details. The friar is greatly vexed, but he assures Abigall that confessions may never be revealed. She passes away. Friar Barnardine expresses regret that she has died a virgin. Friar Jacomo returns to announce the death of all the nuns, and the two set off to bury them. Afterward, Barnardine says, he will confront the Jew about what Abigall has said.", "analysis": "The plot of The Jew of Malta cannot be described sufficiently by using the simple terms of introduction, climax, denouement. The plot consists of several sub-plots woven together, one rising as another falls. Most of them converge here in the third act: Bellamira enters to hint at a story of bribery to come; the tension between Mathias and Lowodick is definitely resolved; Ferneze and Katherine embark on their own quest for revenge; the Turks promise to return with a full army; the nunnery is bereft of nuns; Abigall is no longer the heir of Barabas. One focal point of the third act is the nunnery. It is where Abigall learns some good things about Christianity, despite the negative insinuations that the nuns and friars engage in illicit sexual relations. Barabas suggests it, and when asking Abigall about the nunnery, Ithamore speaks along the same lines. Note that the allegations can be given credence as acted onstage. When the nuns are dying, for example, Friar Jacomo rushes out to visit \"fair Maria\" in her lodgings-the actor could speak the line to suggest a lascivious relationship between the two. One also should remember the curious words of Friar Barnardine's upon Abigall's death: \"Ay, and a virgin, too, that grieves me most.\" If nuns are supposed to be chaste, why would Barnardine feel grief over Abigall's virginity, unless he thought she would have had opportunities for sex in the nunnery? A more charitable interpretation, however, is that after Abigall has revealed her thwarted love for Mathias, Barnardine feels grief that Abigall never was able to marry him. Why does Abigall decide to convert to Christianity once again, this time gladly and voluntarily? She explains to Friar Jacomo: But now experience, purchased with grief,Has made me see the difference of things.My sinful soul, alas, hath paced too long The fatal labyrinth of misbelief, Far from the Son that gives eternal life! The traditional pun on \"Son\" and \"sun\" suggests that Abigall believes that she now sees the true light of the Lord's way. This turn of events may seem entirely unexpected, but Abigall claims that experiencing Christianity from within the nunnery has given her a new appreciation for the religion. Still, her first answer was that she converted out of sad experience and personal grief, rather than faith and rational reflection. The sincere confession by the Jew's daughter seems somewhat contrived, though it is not uncommon for conversions to be attributed to reflections on experience. In fact, in a play full of malicious and hypocritical characters, Abigall may be the morally strongest. She earnestly follows what she perceives as the correct path of life, all the while staying faithful to her father. Until the end, she keeps her promise: \"never shall these lips bewray life.\" She keeps this promise: it is through writing that she informs Barnardine of her father's crimes--and she does so only under the strict secrecy of confession. In contrast to Abigall, Barabas has remained entirely unsympathetic. He expresses some regret over her second conversion, as a Jewish father might, but he soon resolves to poison her along with the rest of the nuns, fearing that she has betrayed him--which, after all, to some degree, she has. The gift of poisoned porridge is a gift of death . Barabas goes on a killing spree far in excess of what even the usual criminal might do in response to a bad situation. He even turns against Ithamore, who has offered to kill himself if that is what his master desires, without any clear reason for vengeance. It is as though, once he is betrayed by the political leaders of Malta, he sees betrayal everywhere."}

ACT III. Enter BELLAMIRA. [91] BELLAMIRA. Since this town was besieg'd, my gain grows cold: The time has been, that but for one bare night A hundred ducats have been freely given; But now against my will I must be chaste: And yet I know my beauty doth not fail. ]From Venice merchants, and from Padua Were wont to come rare-witted gentlemen, Scholars I mean, learned and liberal; And now, save Pilia-Borza, comes there none, And he is very seldom from my house; And here he comes. Enter PILIA-BORZA. PILIA-BORZA. Hold thee, wench, there's something for thee to spend. [Shewing a bag of silver.] BELLAMIRA. 'Tis silver; I disdain it. PILIA-BORZA. Ay, but the Jew has gold, And I will have it, or it shall go hard. BELLAMIRA. Tell me, how cam'st thou by this? PILIA-BORZA. Faith, walking the back-lanes, through the gardens, I chanced to cast mine eye up to the Jew's counting-house, where I saw some bags of money, and in the night I clambered up with my hooks; and, as I was taking my choice, I heard a rumbling in the house; so I took only this, and run my way.--But here's the Jew's man. BELLAMIRA. Hide the bag. Enter ITHAMORE. PILIA-BORZA. Look not towards him, let's away. Zoons, what a looking thou keepest! thou'lt betray's anon. [Exeunt BELLAMIRA and PILIA-BORZA.] ITHAMORE. O, the sweetest face that ever I beheld! I know she is a courtezan by her attire: now would I give a hundred of the Jew's crowns that I had such a concubine. Well, I have deliver'd the challenge in such sort, As meet they will, and fighting die,--brave sport! [Exit.] Enter MATHIAS. MATHIAS. This is the place: [92] now Abigail shall see Whether Mathias holds her dear or no. Enter LODOWICK. What, dares the villain write in such base terms? [Looking at a letter.] LODOWICK. I did it; and revenge it, if thou dar'st! [They fight.] Enter BARABAS above. BARABAS. O, bravely fought! and yet they thrust not home. Now, Lodovico! [93] now, Mathias!--So; [Both fall.] So, now they have shew'd themselves to be tall [94] fellows. [Cries within] Part 'em, part 'em! BARABAS. Ay, part 'em now they are dead. Farewell, farewell! [Exit above.] Enter FERNEZE, KATHARINE, and ATTENDANTS. FERNEZE. What sight is this! [95] my Lodovico [96] slain! These arms of mine shall be thy sepulchre. [97] KATHARINE. Who is this? my son Mathias slain! FERNEZE. O Lodowick, hadst thou perish'd by the Turk, Wretched Ferneze might have veng'd thy death! KATHARINE. Thy son slew mine, and I'll revenge his death. FERNEZE. Look, Katharine, look! thy son gave mine these wounds. KATHARINE. O, leave to grieve me! I am griev'd enough. FERNEZE. O, that my sighs could turn to lively breath, And these my tears to blood, that he might live! KATHARINE. Who made them enemies? FERNEZE. I know not; and that grieves me most of all. KATHARINE. My son lov'd thine. FERNEZE. And so did Lodowick him. KATHARINE. Lend me that weapon that did kill my son, And it shall murder me. FERNEZE. Nay, madam, stay; that weapon was my son's, And on that rather should Ferneze die. KATHARINE. Hold; let's inquire the causers of their deaths, That we may venge their blood upon their heads. FERNEZE. Then take them up, and let them be interr'd Within one sacred monument of stone; Upon which altar I will offer up My daily sacrifice of sighs and tears, And with my prayers pierce impartial heavens, Till they [reveal] the causers of our smarts, Which forc'd their hands divide united hearts. Come, Katharine; [98] our losses equal are; Then of true grief let us take equal share. [Exeunt with the bodies.] Enter ITHAMORE. [99] ITHAMORE. Why, was there ever seen such villany, So neatly plotted, and so well perform'd? Both held in hand, [100] and flatly both beguil'd? Enter ABIGAIL. ABIGAIL. Why, how now, Ithamore! why laugh'st thou so? ITHAMORE. O mistress! ha, ha, ha! ABIGAIL. Why, what ail'st thou? ITHAMORE. O, my master! ABIGAIL. Ha! ITHAMORE. O mistress, I have the bravest, gravest, secret, subtle, bottle-nosed [101] knave to my master, that ever gentleman had! ABIGAIL. Say, knave, why rail'st upon my father thus? ITHAMORE. O, my master has the bravest policy! ABIGAIL. Wherein? ITHAMORE. Why, know you not? ABIGAIL. Why, no. ITHAMORE. Know you not of Mathia[s'] and Don Lodowick['s] disaster? ABIGAIL. No: what was it? ITHAMORE. Why, the devil inverted a challenge, my master writ it, and I carried it, first to Lodowick, and imprimis to Mathia[s]; And then they met, [and], as the story says, In doleful wise they ended both their days. ABIGAIL. And was my father furtherer of their deaths? ITHAMORE. Am I Ithamore? ABIGAIL. Yes. ITHAMORE. So sure did your father write, and I carry the challenge. ABIGAIL. Well, Ithamore, let me request thee this; Go to the new-made nunnery, and inquire For any of the friars of Saint Jaques, [102] And say, I pray them come and speak with me. ITHAMORE. I pray, mistress, will you answer me to one question? ABIGAIL. Well, sirrah, what is't? ITHAMORE. A very feeling one: have not the nuns fine sport with the friars now and then? ABIGAIL. Go to, Sirrah Sauce! is this your question? get ye gone. ITHAMORE. I will, forsooth, mistress. [Exit.] ABIGAIL. Hard-hearted father, unkind Barabas! Was this the pursuit of thy policy, To make me shew them favour severally, That by my favour they should both be slain? Admit thou lov'dst not Lodowick for his sire, [103] Yet Don Mathias ne'er offended thee: But thou wert set upon extreme revenge, Because the prior dispossess'd thee once, And couldst not venge it but upon his son; Nor on his son but by Mathias' means; Nor on Mathias but by murdering me: But I perceive there is no love on earth, Pity in Jews, nor piety in Turks.-- But here comes cursed Ithamore with the friar. Re-enter ITHAMORE with FRIAR JACOMO. FRIAR JACOMO. Virgo, salve. ITHAMORE. When duck you? ABIGAIL. Welcome, grave friar.--Ithamore, be gone. [Exit ITHAMORE.] Know, holy sir, I am bold to solicit thee. FRIAR JACOMO. Wherein? ABIGAIL. To get me be admitted for a nun. FRIAR JACOMO. Why, Abigail, it is not yet long since That I did labour thy admission, And then thou didst not like that holy life. ABIGAIL. Then were my thoughts so frail and unconfirm'd As [104] I was chain'd to follies of the world: But now experience, purchased with grief, Has made me see the difference of things. My sinful soul, alas, hath pac'd too long The fatal labyrinth of misbelief, Far from the sun that gives eternal life! FRIAR JACOMO. Who taught thee this? ABIGAIL. The abbess of the house, Whose zealous admonition I embrace: O, therefore, Jacomo, let me be one, Although unworthy, of that sisterhood! FRIAR JACOMO. Abigail, I will: but see thou change no more, For that will be most heavy to thy soul. ABIGAIL. That was my father's fault. FRIAR JACOMO. Thy father's! how? ABIGAIL. Nay, you shall pardon me.--O Barabas, Though thou deservest hardly at my hands, Yet never shall these lips bewray thy life! [Aside.] FRIAR JACOMO. Come, shall we go? ABIGAIL. My duty waits on you. [Exeunt.] Enter BARABAS, [105] reading a letter. BARABAS. What, Abigail become a nun again! False and unkind! what, hast thou lost thy father? And, all unknown and unconstrain'd of me, Art thou again got to the nunnery? Now here she writes, and wills me to repent: Repentance! Spurca! what pretendeth [106] this? I fear she knows--'tis so--of my device In Don Mathias' and Lodovico's deaths: If so, 'tis time that it be seen into; For she that varies from me in belief, Gives great presumption that she loves me not, Or, loving, doth dislike of something done.-- But who comes here? Enter ITHAMORE. O Ithamore, come near; Come near, my love; come near, thy master's life, My trusty servant, nay, my second self; [107] For I have now no hope but even in thee, And on that hope my happiness is built. When saw'st thou Abigail? ITHAMORE. To-day. BARABAS. With whom? ITHAMORE. A friar. BARABAS. A friar! false villain, he hath done the deed. ITHAMORE. How, sir! BARABAS. Why, made mine Abigail a nun. ITHAMORE. That's no lie; for she sent me for him. BARABAS. O unhappy day! False, credulous, inconstant Abigail! But let 'em go: and, Ithamore, from hence Ne'er shall she grieve me more with her disgrace; Ne'er shall she live to inherit aught of mine, Be bless'd of me, nor come within my gates, But perish underneath my bitter curse, Like Cain by Adam for his brother's death. ITHAMORE. O master-- BARABAS. Ithamore, entreat not for her; I am mov'd, And she is hateful to my soul and me: And, 'less [108] thou yield to this that I entreat, I cannot think but that thou hat'st my life. ITHAMORE. Who, I, master? why, I'll run to some rock, And throw myself headlong into the sea; Why, I'll do any thing for your sweet sake. BARABAS. O trusty Ithamore! no servant, but my friend! I here adopt thee for mine only heir: All that I have is thine when I am dead; And, whilst I live, use half; spend as myself; Here, take my keys,--I'll give 'em thee anon; Go buy thee garments; but thou shalt not want: Only know this, that thus thou art to do-- But first go fetch me in the pot of rice That for our supper stands upon the fire. ITHAMORE. I hold my head, my master's hungry [Aside].--I go, sir. [Exit.] BARABAS. Thus every villain ambles after wealth, Although he ne'er be richer than in hope:-- But, husht! Re-enter ITHAMORE with the pot. ITHAMORE. Here 'tis, master. BARABAS. Well said, [109] Ithamore! What, hast thou brought The ladle with thee too? ITHAMORE. Yes, sir; the proverb says, [110] he that eats with the devil had need of a long spoon; I have brought you a ladle. BARABAS. Very well, Ithamore; then now be secret; And, for thy sake, whom I so dearly love, Now shalt thou see the death of Abigail, That thou mayst freely live to be my heir. ITHAMORE. Why, master, will you poison her with a mess of rice- porridge? that will preserve life, make her round and plump, and batten [111] more than you are aware. BARABAS. Ay, but, Ithamore, seest thou this? It is a precious powder that I bought Of an Italian, in Ancona, once, Whose operation is to bind, infect, And poison deeply, yet not appear In forty hours after it is ta'en. ITHAMORE. How, master? BARABAS. Thus, Ithamore: This even they use in Malta here,--'tis call'd Saint Jaques' Even,--and then, I say, they use To send their alms unto the nunneries: Among the rest, bear this, and set it there: There's a dark entry where they take it in, Where they must neither see the messenger, Nor make inquiry who hath sent it them. ITHAMORE. How so? BARABAS. Belike there is some ceremony in't. There, Ithamore, must thou go place this pot: [112] Stay; let me spice it first. ITHAMORE. Pray, do, and let me help you, master. Pray, let me taste first. BARABAS. Prithee, do.[ITHAMORE tastes.] What say'st thou now? ITHAMORE. Troth, master, I'm loath such a pot of pottage should be spoiled. BARABAS. Peace, Ithamore! 'tis better so than spar'd. [Puts the powder into the pot.] Assure thyself thou shalt have broth by the eye: [113] My purse, my coffer, and myself is thine. ITHAMORE. Well, master, I go. BARABAS. Stay; first let me stir it, Ithamore. As fatal be it to her as the draught Of which great Alexander drunk, and died; And with her let it work like Borgia's wine, Whereof his sire the Pope was poisoned! In few, [114] the blood of Hydra, Lerna's bane, The juice of hebon, [115] and Cocytus' breath, And all the poisons of the Stygian pool, Break from the fiery kingdom, and in this Vomit your venom, and envenom her That, like a fiend, hath left her father thus! ITHAMORE. What a blessing has he given't! was ever pot of rice-porridge so sauced? [Aside].--What shall I do with it? BARABAS. O my sweet Ithamore, go set it down; And come again so soon as thou hast done, For I have other business for thee. ITHAMORE. Here's a drench to poison a whole stable of Flanders mares: I'll carry't to the nuns with a powder. BARABAS. And the horse-pestilence to boot: away! ITHAMORE. I am gone: Pay me my wages, for my work is done. [Exit with the pot.] BARABAS. I'll pay thee with a vengeance, Ithamore! [Exit.] Enter FERNEZE, [116] MARTIN DEL BOSCO, KNIGHTS, and BASSO. FERNEZE. Welcome, great basso: [117] how fares Calymath? What wind drives you thus into Malta-road? BASSO. The wind that bloweth all the world besides, Desire of gold. FERNEZE. Desire of gold, great sir! That's to be gotten in the Western Inde: In Malta are no golden minerals. BASSO. To you of Malta thus saith Calymath: The time you took for respite is at hand For the performance of your promise pass'd; And for the tribute-money I am sent. FERNEZE. Basso, in brief, shalt have no tribute here, Nor shall the heathens live upon our spoil: First will we raze the city-walls ourselves, Lay waste the island, hew the temples down, And, shipping off our goods to Sicily, Open an entrance for the wasteful sea, Whose billows, beating the resistless banks, [118] Shall overflow it with their refluence. BASSO. Well, governor, since thou hast broke the league By flat denial of the promis'd tribute, Talk not of razing down your city-walls; You shall not need trouble yourselves so far, For Selim Calymath shall come himself, And with brass bullets batter down your towers, And turn proud Malta to a wilderness, For these intolerable wrongs of yours: And so, farewell. FERNEZE. Farewell. [Exit BASSO.] And now, you men of Malta, look about, And let's provide to welcome Calymath: Close your port-cullis, charge your basilisks, [119] And, as you profitably take up arms, So now courageously encounter them, For by this answer broken is the league, And naught is to be look'd for now but wars, And naught to us more welcome is than wars. [Exeunt.] Enter FRIAR JACOMO [120] and FRIAR BARNARDINE. FRIAR JACOMO. O brother, brother, all the nuns are sick, And physic will not help them! they must die. FRIAR BARNARDINE. The abbess sent for me to be confess'd: O, what a sad confession will there be! FRIAR JACOMO. And so did fair Maria send for me: I'll to her lodging; hereabouts she lies. [Exit.] Enter ABIGAIL. FRIAR BARNARDINE. What, all dead, save only Abigail! ABIGAIL. And I shall die too, for I feel death coming. Where is the friar that convers'd with me? [121] FRIAR BARNARDINE. O, he is gone to see the other nuns. ABIGAIL. I sent for him; but, seeing you are come, Be you my ghostly father: and first know, That in this house I liv'd religiously, Chaste, and devout, much sorrowing for my sins; But, ere I came-- FRIAR BARNARDINE. What then? ABIGAIL. I did offend high heaven so grievously As I am almost desperate for my sins; And one offense torments me more than all. You knew Mathias and Don Lodowick? FRIAR BARNARDINE. Yes; what of them? ABIGAIL. My father did contract me to 'em both; First to Don Lodowick: him I never lov'd; Mathias was the man that I held dear, And for his sake did I become a nun. FRIAR BARNARDINE. So: say how was their end? ABIGAIL. Both, jealous of my love, envied [122] each other; And by my father's practice, [123] which is there [Gives writing.] Set down at large, the gallants were both slain. FRIAR BARNARDINE. O, monstrous villany! ABIGAIL. To work my peace, this I confess to thee: Reveal it not; for then my father dies. FRIAR BARNARDINE. Know that confession must not be reveal'd; The canon-law forbids it, and the priest That makes it known, being degraded first, Shall be condemn'd, and then sent to the fire. ABIGAIL. So I have heard; pray, therefore, keep it close. Death seizeth on my heart: ah, gentle friar, Convert my father that he may be sav'd, And witness that I die a Christian! [Dies.] FRIAR BARNARDINE. Ay, and a virgin too; that grieves me most. But I must to the Jew, and exclaim on him, And make him stand in fear of me. Re-enter FRIAR JACOMO. FRIAR JACOMO. O brother, all the nuns are dead! let's bury them. FRIAR BARNARDINE. First help to bury this; then go with me, And help me to exclaim against the Jew. FRIAR JACOMO. Why, what has he done? FRIAR BARNARDINE. A thing that makes me tremble to unfold. FRIAR JACOMO. What, has he crucified a child? [124] FRIAR BARNARDINE. No, but a worse thing: 'twas told me in shrift; Thou know'st 'tis death, an if it be reveal'd. Come, let's away. [Exeunt.]

Act 3

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The courtesan Bellamira enters, complaining about the lack of suitors ever since Malta closed itself to prepare for the arrival of the Turkish fleet. She remarks that only Pilia-Borza still comes to visit her, whereupon he enters bringing a bag of silver. He has stolen it from Barabas's counting house--and hopes to steal more. Ithamore enters and in one breath remarks on Bellamira's extreme beauty and on the success of his mission to set Mathias and Lodowick against each other. Act 3, Scene 2 Mathias and Lodowick enter, each having been provoked accordingly by Barabas. The two draw swords and fight. Barabas enters above to goad them on, then leaves the scene when the two fall dead. Ferneze and Katherine arrive to find their respective sons dead. Mourning over the corpses, the two first express their desire to commit suicide, but they then decide to find out who made their sons enemies. After vowing to carry out due revenge, they exit with the bodies. Act 3, Scene 3 Ithamore revels in the villainy that he has just helped Barabas commit. Abigall enters, and Ithamore gleefully recounts to her how Barabas orchestrated the death of the two young men. Abigall then asks Ithamore to summon one of the friars from the nunnery. Before leaving, Ithamore facetiously asks her whether the nuns engage in "fine sport" with the friars from time to time. All alone now, Abigall bemoans her father's "hard-hearted" revenge. In his single-minded pursuit of vengeance against Ferneze, Barabas has killed not only Lodowick, but also the entirely innocent Mathias. For Abigall, the death of Mathias strikes her almost as her own death: perceiving that there is "no love on earth," she desires to leave behind the vicissitudes of the world and become a nun. Friar Jacomo arrives and shows surprise at her change of heart, but he admits her once again as a sister. As the two head to the nunnery, Abigall swears to Barabas in an apostrophe: "never shall these lips bewray thy life!" Act 3, Scene 4 Barabas enters, reading a letter from Abigall that urges him to repent of his sins. Much disturbed by the turn of events, Barabas fears that his daughter knows about his hand in the deaths of Mathias and Lodowick. Ithamore enters to confirm that Abigall sent for the friar herself and voluntarily entered the nunnery. Feeling outraged and betrayed, Barabas adopts Ithamore as his only heir and hatches a plot to poison the sisters-including his daughter. Ithamore brings a pot of rice into which the Jew mixes a rare, poisonous powder. He then orders Ithamore to take the porridge to the nunnery, promising him great wealth in return for his service. Barabas utters spiteful words towards his daughter. After Ithamore leaves, he declares that he will "pay with a vengeance" as well. Act 3, Scene 5 Accompanied by Martin del Bosco, Ferneze once again welcomes the Turkish Bashaws to Malta. Since the time has come for Malta to pay its tribute, Callapine has arrived as the messenger for Calymath. But Ferneze strongly refuses to pay the tribute-and for that matter shall never let any Maltese property be taken by the Turks. Callapine thus leaves with the ominous promise that Calymath will return and destroy Malta for its wrongs. After the Turks leave, Ferneze encourages his men to prepare for war. Act 3, Scene 6 Friars Jacomo and Barnardine enter in great distress--all the nuns are dying! Abigall enters to make a confession to Friar Barnardine. She admits that she is greatly tormented by her offence against Mathias and Lodowick, as planned by her father. She has written down the details. The friar is greatly vexed, but he assures Abigall that confessions may never be revealed. She passes away. Friar Barnardine expresses regret that she has died a virgin. Friar Jacomo returns to announce the death of all the nuns, and the two set off to bury them. Afterward, Barnardine says, he will confront the Jew about what Abigall has said.

The plot of The Jew of Malta cannot be described sufficiently by using the simple terms of introduction, climax, denouement. The plot consists of several sub-plots woven together, one rising as another falls. Most of them converge here in the third act: Bellamira enters to hint at a story of bribery to come; the tension between Mathias and Lowodick is definitely resolved; Ferneze and Katherine embark on their own quest for revenge; the Turks promise to return with a full army; the nunnery is bereft of nuns; Abigall is no longer the heir of Barabas. One focal point of the third act is the nunnery. It is where Abigall learns some good things about Christianity, despite the negative insinuations that the nuns and friars engage in illicit sexual relations. Barabas suggests it, and when asking Abigall about the nunnery, Ithamore speaks along the same lines. Note that the allegations can be given credence as acted onstage. When the nuns are dying, for example, Friar Jacomo rushes out to visit "fair Maria" in her lodgings-the actor could speak the line to suggest a lascivious relationship between the two. One also should remember the curious words of Friar Barnardine's upon Abigall's death: "Ay, and a virgin, too, that grieves me most." If nuns are supposed to be chaste, why would Barnardine feel grief over Abigall's virginity, unless he thought she would have had opportunities for sex in the nunnery? A more charitable interpretation, however, is that after Abigall has revealed her thwarted love for Mathias, Barnardine feels grief that Abigall never was able to marry him. Why does Abigall decide to convert to Christianity once again, this time gladly and voluntarily? She explains to Friar Jacomo: But now experience, purchased with grief,Has made me see the difference of things.My sinful soul, alas, hath paced too long The fatal labyrinth of misbelief, Far from the Son that gives eternal life! The traditional pun on "Son" and "sun" suggests that Abigall believes that she now sees the true light of the Lord's way. This turn of events may seem entirely unexpected, but Abigall claims that experiencing Christianity from within the nunnery has given her a new appreciation for the religion. Still, her first answer was that she converted out of sad experience and personal grief, rather than faith and rational reflection. The sincere confession by the Jew's daughter seems somewhat contrived, though it is not uncommon for conversions to be attributed to reflections on experience. In fact, in a play full of malicious and hypocritical characters, Abigall may be the morally strongest. She earnestly follows what she perceives as the correct path of life, all the while staying faithful to her father. Until the end, she keeps her promise: "never shall these lips bewray life." She keeps this promise: it is through writing that she informs Barnardine of her father's crimes--and she does so only under the strict secrecy of confession. In contrast to Abigall, Barabas has remained entirely unsympathetic. He expresses some regret over her second conversion, as a Jewish father might, but he soon resolves to poison her along with the rest of the nuns, fearing that she has betrayed him--which, after all, to some degree, she has. The gift of poisoned porridge is a gift of death . Barabas goes on a killing spree far in excess of what even the usual criminal might do in response to a bad situation. He even turns against Ithamore, who has offered to kill himself if that is what his master desires, without any clear reason for vengeance. It is as though, once he is betrayed by the political leaders of Malta, he sees betrayal everywhere.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/901-chapters/act_4.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/The Jew of Malta/section_3_part_0.txt

The Jew of Malta.act 4

act 4

{"name": "Act 4", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180408024636/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-jew-of-malta/study-guide/summary-act-4", "summary": "Barabas and Ithamore gloat over their success in poisoning the nuns. The Jew expresses particular satisfaction over his daughter's death. Friar Jacomo and Barnardine enter and, after a series of interrupted exchanges, intimate that they know of Barabas's hand in the deaths of Mathias and Lodowick. Barabas realizes that his daughter has confessed. He immediately puts on a show for the two friars: dissembling great sufferance under the burden of his many sins, he expresses a desire to convert to Christianity himself. He ostentatiously adds that he still possesses a large fortune, pointing out that this fortune would be donated to the monastery into which he enters. At this point, the two friars start bickering over which monastery Barabas should choose. Once Barabas tells friar Jacomo to visit him at one o'clock that night, the two friars break into a fight. Barabas pulls them apart and asks Barnardine to leave with Ithamore. In his usual duplicitous manner, he has promised his favors to the friars while plotting to murder both of them. One, after all, converted his daughter to Christianity, and the other knows enough to have him condemned to death. Ithamore returns after leading Barnardine into the house, noting that the friar has fallen asleep with his clothes on. The master and slave tie a noose around the friar's neck and strangle him on the spot. They then prop up his body against his staff and wait for Jacomo. When the friar arrives at the promised hour, he finds Barnardine standing silently in his path. Friar Jacomo decides to force his way past his former friend and strikes him with his staff, whereupon Barabas and Ithamore jump out of hiding. The two accuse Jacomo of murder and lead him off to be tried by the law. Act 4, Scene 2 Pilia-Borza enters, telling Bellamira that he took her letter to Ithamore. Ithamore enters and delivers a monologue recounting Jacomo's calm behavior at the gallows. As he wonders aloud why Bellamira has summoned him, he arrives in front of her house. Bellamira welcomes him with sweet words and a kiss, and he decides that he should steal some money from Barabas to make himself presentable. He discusses the possibility with her and Pilia-Borza, then agrees to write a blackmail letter to Barabas for three hundred crowns. While Pilia-Borza delivers it, Bellamira pretends to think little of the gold and continues to play the seductress. Ithamore would be glad to marry her; he bursts into uncharacteristic high poetry. Pilia returns with the money, which inspires Ithamore immediately to write a second letter for five hundred crowns more, plus one hundred for Pilia. Act 4, Scene 3 Barabas enters reading over Ithamore's first letter. As he expresses his outrage, Pilia-Borza enters carrying the second letter demanding five hundred crowns. Barabas invites Pilia-Borza to dinner in hopes of poisoning him, but the latter will hear nothing till he sees the money. The Jew finally gives in, wincing at the sight of so much gold leaving his pocket-but puts on a show for Pilia-Borza, lamenting his betrayal by Ithamore more than its financial consequences. Alone again, Barabas genuinely feels the hurt of the betrayal but focuses on the money and the possible consequences of being found out. He resolves to visit Ithamore in disguise, hoping to rid himself of the blackmailers. Act 4, Scene 4 Bellamira and Ithamore drink wine while exchanging amorous words. Ithamore boasts of the evil deeds that he has committed with Barabas, upon which Bellamira and Pilia-Borza decide to betray him to the governor, after blackmailing him further. The Jew himself enters the scene, dressed as a French musician. Barabas presents the three blackmailers with poisoned flowers to smell, and Pilia-Borza pays him two crowns to play the lute. Ithamore asks him if he knows the Jew named Barabas, and Ithamore proceeds to rail against his master with false claims about his eating and dressing habits. Barabas then leaves the scene under the excuse that he feels ill--perhaps disgusted by the filthy lies that Ithamore has been telling about him. As the scene ends, the three agree to send a third letter demanding one thousand crowns. Ithamore defends their blackmail with an anti-Judaic justification, speaking the last line of the act: \"To undo a Jew is charity, and not sin.\"", "analysis": "When the friars visit Barabas's house, their express purpose is to urge him to repent of his sins, but they have very little leverage over the Jew Barabas. Since his murder of Mathias and Lodowick was revealed to Friar Barnardine in a confession, the friars may never speak of the matter in public, so even if they wanted to blackmail him, they could not do so without losing their own standing. Even addressing the matter to Barabas may transgress the sacred rules. Their presence does not really concern Barabas, who has already embarked on a killing spree to conceal his crimes. He may also be rather paranoid by now. Still, he has the cunning to solve the problem by finding an excuse to turns the friars against each other. The friars could hardly be happier with his offer of his fortune. At the first mention of it, they seem to forget their spiritual values and instead try to draw him to one monastery or the other on material grounds: for example, one must go barefoot in one of the monasteries, as the other friar charges. Only moments ago, they were preaching to Barabas to repent, so their quick turn of motivation to money emphasizes their hypocrisy. As for Barabas, in his usual cunning manner he plays both ends against the middle, pondering the best way to murder them. As with the case of Mathias and Lodowick, his plot is realized almost effortlessly. The first murder is of a sleeping Barnardine. Then, blinded by his desire for gold, Jacomo strikes the already-dead Barnardine and involuntarily completes the perfect murder. Again Ithamore has a central role in this plot. Ironically, Barabas invokes the particulars of the law to have the friar tried: The law shall touch you, we'll but lead you, we. 'Las, I could weep at your calamity. Take in the staff too, for that must be shown; Law wills that each particular be known. The trope of a Jew enforcing the laws of the Christian commonwealth with the intention of causing a tragic consequence is repeated with Shylock in Shakespeare's The Merchant of Venice. Forces of avarice and desire come in multiple degrees in The Jew of Malta. Whereas almost all of the characters are obsessed with gold, Ithamore finds a formidable rival to the lustrous metal. At first sight of Bellamira, he falls head over heels in love. Even before the courtesan prompts him, Ithamore resolves to steal Barabas's gold. Also, Ithamore gives Barabas a taste of his own poison through blackmail, and the slave is in turn being manipulated by Bellamira and Pilia-Borza. The two conspirators resolve to notify the proper authorities only after they have made their fortune. These recourses to political authority are ironic in that Ferneze is no model citizen. He represents the corruption of the island, and it is his corruption that set the drama in motion from the beginning. Neither the church nor the state, at least as they are embodied in hypocritical representatives, has sufficient moral authority to enforce the laws. Nevertheless, justice is swift. It is hard to believe that Friar Jacomo is so dense as to believe that he killed Friar Barnardine with his staff, but he apparently accepts the judgment of the Jew and his slave to the degree that he goes willingly to the gallows and the afterlife. The state apparently accepts such testimony and then goes straight to the execution. As for Barabas, he twice pays the amount exacted by Ithamore. At this point, it is not clear that the Jew has all his wits about him. Ithamore's blackmail carries little force, because if Ithamore were to confess the truth as he threatens, he also would probably be jailed or executed, and Barabas's fortune probably would be seized once again by Ferneze and his officers. This threat is therefore more or less empty, yet Barabas complies. Barabas might be stuck, however, now that others are in on the news. Why does Barabas comply with the blackmail? Is he weary, paranoid, or simply careless? Or is the money amount too small to be concerned with? He can afford to pay now, without revealing his plot of killing Ithamore until later. Barabas certainly has money enough to buy time. Having purchased some time for strategic reflection, he arrives in disguise at Bellamira's house in the last scene of the act, with consequences that will become clear in the final act."}

ACT IV. Enter BARABAS [125] and ITHAMORE. Bells within. BARABAS. There is no music to [126] a Christian's knell: How sweet the bells ring, now the nuns are dead, That sound at other times like tinkers' pans! I was afraid the poison had not wrought, Or, though it wrought, it would have done no good, For every year they swell, and yet they live: Now all are dead, not one remains alive. ITHAMORE. That's brave, master: but think you it will not be known? BARABAS. How can it, if we two be secret? ITHAMORE. For my part, fear you not. BARABAS. I'd cut thy throat, if I did. ITHAMORE. And reason too. But here's a royal monastery hard by; Good master, let me poison all the monks. BARABAS. Thou shalt not need; for, now the nuns are dead, They'll die with grief. ITHAMORE. Do you not sorrow for your daughter's death? BARABAS. No, but I grieve because she liv'd so long, An Hebrew born, and would become a Christian: Cazzo, [127] diabolo! ITHAMORE. Look, look, master; here come two religious caterpillars. Enter FRIAR JACOMO and FRIAR BARNARDINE. BARABAS. I smelt 'em ere they came. ITHAMORE. God-a-mercy, nose! [128] Come, let's begone. FRIAR BARNARDINE. Stay, wicked Jew; repent, I say, and stay. FRIAR JACOMO. Thou hast offended, therefore must be damn'd. BARABAS. I fear they know we sent the poison'd broth. ITHAMORE. And so do I, master; therefore speak 'em fair. FRIAR BARNARDINE. Barabas, thou hast-- FRIAR JACOMO. Ay, that thou hast-- BARABAS. True, I have money; what though I have? FRIAR BARNARDINE. Thou art a-- FRIAR JACOMO. Ay, that thou art, a-- BARABAS. What needs all this? I know I am a Jew. FRIAR BARNARDINE. Thy daughter-- FRIAR JACOMO. Ay, thy daughter-- BARABAS. O, speak not of her! then I die with grief. FRIAR BARNARDINE. Remember that-- FRIAR JACOMO. Ay, remember that-- BARABAS. I must needs say that I have been a great usurer. FRIAR BARNARDINE. Thou hast committed-- BARABAS. Fornication: but that was in another country; And besides, the wench is dead. FRIAR BARNARDINE. Ay, but, Barabas, Remember Mathias and Don Lodowick. BARABAS. Why, what of them? FRIAR BARNARDINE. I will not say that by a forged challenge they met. BARABAS. She has confess'd, and we are both undone, My bosom inmate! [129] but I must dissemble.-- [Aside to ITHAMORE.] O holy friars, the burden of my sins Lie heavy [130] on my soul! then, pray you, tell me, Is't not too late now to turn Christian? I have been zealous in the Jewish faith, Hard-hearted to the poor, a covetous wretch, That would for lucre's sake have sold my soul; A hundred for a hundred I have ta'en; And now for store of wealth may I compare With all the Jews in Malta: but what is wealth? I am a Jew, and therefore am I lost. Would penance serve [to atone] for this my sin, I could afford to whip myself to death,-- ITHAMORE. And so could I; but penance will not serve. BARABAS. To fast, to pray, and wear a shirt of hair, And on my knees creep to Jerusalem. Cellars of wine, and sollars [131] full of wheat, Warehouses stuff'd with spices and with drugs, Whole chests of gold in bullion and in coin, Besides, I know not how much weight in pearl Orient and round, have I within my house; At Alexandria merchandise untold; [132] But yesterday two ships went from this town, Their voyage will be worth ten thousand crowns; In Florence, Venice, Antwerp, London, Seville, Frankfort, Lubeck, Moscow, and where not, Have I debts owing; and, in most of these, Great sums of money lying in the banco; All this I'll give to some religious house, So I may be baptiz'd, and live therein. FRIAR JACOMO. O good Barabas, come to our house! FRIAR BARNARDINE. O, no, good Barabas, come to our house! And, Barabas, you know-- BARABAS. I know that I have highly sinn'd: You shall convert me, you shall have all my wealth. FRIAR JACOMO. O Barabas, their laws are strict! BARABAS. I know they are; and I will be with you. FRIAR BARNARDINE. They wear no shirts, and they go bare-foot too. BARABAS. Then 'tis not for me; and I am resolv'd You shall confess me, and have all my goods. FRIAR JACOMO. Good Barabas, come to me. BARABAS. You see I answer him, and yet he stays; Rid him away, and go you home with me. FRIAR JACOMO. I'll be with you to-night. BARABAS. Come to my house at one o'clock this night. FRIAR JACOMO. You hear your answer, and you may be gone. FRIAR BARNARDINE. Why, go, get you away. FRIAR JACOMO. I will not go for thee. FRIAR BARNARDINE. Not! then I'll make thee go. FRIAR JACOMO. How! dost call me rogue? [They fight.] ITHAMORE. Part 'em, master, part 'em. BARABAS. This is mere frailty: brethren, be content.-- Friar Barnardine, go you with Ithamore: You know my mind; let me alone with him. FRIAR JACOMO. Why does he go to thy house? let him be gone. [133] BARABAS. I'll give him something, and so stop his mouth. [Exit ITHAMORE with Friar BARNARDINE.] I never heard of any man but he Malign'd the order of the Jacobins: But do you think that I believe his words? Why, brother, you converted Abigail; And I am bound in charity to requite it, And so I will. O Jacomo, fail not, but come. FRIAR JACOMO. But, Barabas, who shall be your godfathers? For presently you shall be shriv'd. BARABAS. Marry, the Turk [134] shall be one of my godfathers, But not a word to any of your covent. [135] FRIAR JACOMO. I warrant thee, Barabas. [Exit.] BARABAS. So, now the fear is past, and I am safe; For he that shriv'd her is within my house: What, if I murder'd him ere Jacomo comes? Now I have such a plot for both their lives, As never Jew nor Christian knew the like: One turn'd my daughter, therefore he shall die; The other knows enough to have my life, Therefore 'tis not requisite he should live. [136] But are not both these wise men, to suppose That I will leave my house, my goods, and all, To fast and be well whipt? I'll none of that. Now, Friar Barnardine, I come to you: I'll feast you, lodge you, give you fair [137] words, And, after that, I and my trusty Turk-- No more, but so: it must and shall be done. [138] Enter ITHAMORE. Ithamore, tell me, is the friar asleep? ITHAMORE. Yes; and I know not what the reason is, Do what I can, he will not strip himself, Nor go to bed, but sleeps in his own clothes: I fear me he mistrusts what we intend. BARABAS. No; 'tis an order which the friars use: Yet, if he knew our meanings, could he scape? ITHAMORE. No, none can hear him, cry he ne'er so loud. BARABAS. Why, true; therefore did I place him there: The other chambers open towards the street. ITHAMORE. You loiter, master; wherefore stay we thus? O, how I long to see him shake his heels! BARABAS. Come on, sirrah: Off with your girdle; make a handsome noose.-- [ITHAMORE takes off his girdle, and ties a noose on it.] Friar, awake! [139] [They put the noose round the FRIAR'S neck.] FRIAR BARNARDINE. What, do you mean to strangle me? ITHAMORE. Yes, 'cause you use to confess. BARABAS. Blame not us, but the proverb,--Confess and be hanged.--Pull hard. FRIAR BARNARDINE. What, will you have [140] my life? BARABAS. Pull hard, I say.--You would have had my goods. ITHAMORE. Ay, and our lives too:--therefore pull amain. [They strangle the FRIAR.] 'Tis neatly done, sir; here's no print at all. BARABAS. Then is it as it should be. Take him up. ITHAMORE. Nay, master, be ruled by me a little. [Takes the body, sets it upright against the wall, and puts a staff in its hand.] So, let him lean upon his staff; excellent! he stands as if he were begging of bacon. BARABAS. Who would not think but that this friar liv'd? What time o' night is't now, sweet Ithamore? ITHAMORE. Towards one. [141] BARABAS. Then will not Jacomo be long from hence. [Exeunt.] Enter FRIAR JACOMO. [142] FRIAR JACOMO. This is the hour wherein I shall proceed; [143] O happy hour, wherein I shall convert An infidel, and bring his gold into our treasury! But soft! is not this Barnardine? it is; And, understanding I should come this way, Stands here o' purpose, meaning me some wrong, And intercept my going to the Jew.-- Barnardine! Wilt thou not speak? thou think'st I see thee not; Away, I'd wish thee, and let me go by: No, wilt thou not? nay, then, I'll force my way; And, see, a staff stands ready for the purpose. As thou lik'st that, stop me another time! [Takes the staff, and strikes down the body.] Enter BARABAS and ITHAMORE. BARABAS. Why, how now, Jacomo! what hast thou done? FRIAR JACOMO. Why, stricken him that would have struck at me. BARABAS. Who is it? Barnardine! now, out, alas, he is slain! ITHAMORE. Ay, master, he's slain; look how his brains drop out on's [144] nose. FRIAR JACOMO. Good sirs, I have done't: but nobody knows it but you two; I may escape. BARABAS. So might my man and I hang with you for company. ITHAMORE. No; let us bear him to the magistrates. FRIAR JACOMO. Good Barabas, let me go. BARABAS. No, pardon me; the law must have his course: I must be forc'd to give in evidence, That, being importun'd by this Barnardine To be a Christian, I shut him out, And there he sate: now I, to keep my word, And give my goods and substance to your house, Was up thus early, with intent to go Unto your friary, because you stay'd. ITHAMORE. Fie upon 'em! master, will you turn Christian, when holy friars turn devils and murder one another? BARABAS. No; for this example I'll remain a Jew: Heaven bless me! what, a friar a murderer! When shall you see a Jew commit the like? ITHAMORE. Why, a Turk could ha' done no more. BARABAS. To-morrow is the sessions; you shall to it.-- Come, Ithamore, let's help to take him hence. FRIAR JACOMO. Villains, I am a sacred person; touch me not. BARABAS. The law shall touch you; we'll but lead you, we: 'Las, I could weep at your calamity!-- Take in the staff too, for that must be shown: Law wills that each particular be known. [Exeunt.] Enter BELLAMIRA [145] and PILIA-BORZA. BELLAMIRA. Pilia-Borza, didst thou meet with Ithamore? PILIA-BORZA. I did. BELLAMIRA. And didst thou deliver my letter? PILIA-BORZA. I did. BELLAMIRA. And what thinkest thou? will he come? PILIA-BORZA. I think so: and yet I cannot tell; for, at the reading of the letter, he looked like a man of another world. BELLAMIRA. Why so? PILIA-BORZA. That such a base slave as he should be saluted by such a tall [146] man as I am, from such a beautiful dame as you. BELLAMIRA. And what said he? PILIA-BORZA. Not a wise word; only gave me a nod, as who should say, "Is it even so?" and so I left him, being driven to a non-plus at the critical aspect of my terrible countenance. BELLAMIRA. And where didst meet him? PILIA-BORZA. Upon mine own free-hold, within forty foot of the gallows, conning his neck-verse, [147] I take it, looking of [148] a friar's execution; whom I saluted with an old hempen proverb, Hodie tibi, cras mihi, and so I left him to the mercy of the hangman: but, the exercise [149] being done, see where he comes. Enter ITHAMORE. ITHAMORE. I never knew a man take his death so patiently as this friar; he was ready to leap off ere the halter was about his neck; and, when the hangman had put on his hempen tippet, he made such haste to his prayers, as if he had had another cure to serve. Well, go whither he will, I'll be none of his followers in haste: and, now I think on't, going to the execution, a fellow met me with a muschatoes [150] like a raven's wing, and a dagger with a hilt like a warming-pan; and he gave me a letter from one Madam Bellamira, saluting me in such sort as if he had meant to make clean my boots with his lips; the effect was, that I should come to her house: I wonder what the reason is; it may be she sees more in me than I can find in myself; for she writes further, that she loves me ever since she saw me; and who would not requite such love? Here's her house; and here she comes; and now would I were gone! I am not worthy to look upon her. PILIA-BORZA. This is the gentleman you writ to. ITHAMORE. Gentleman! he flouts me: what gentry can be in a poor Turk of tenpence? [151] I'll be gone. [Aside.] BELLAMIRA. Is't not a sweet-faced youth, Pilia? ITHAMORE. Again, sweet youth! [Aside.]--Did not you, sir, bring the sweet youth a letter? PILIA-BORZA. I did, sir, and from this gentlewoman, who, as myself and the rest of the family, stand or fall at your service. BELLAMIRA. Though woman's modesty should hale me back, I can withhold no longer: welcome, sweet love. ITHAMORE. Now am I clean, or rather foully, out of the way. [Aside.] BELLAMIRA. Whither so soon? ITHAMORE. I'll go steal some money from my master to make me handsome [Aside].--Pray, pardon me; I must go see a ship discharged. BELLAMIRA. Canst thou be so unkind to leave me thus? PILIA-BORZA. An ye did but know how she loves you, sir! ITHAMORE. Nay, I care not how much she loves me.--Sweet Bellamira, would I had my master's wealth for thy sake! PILIA-BORZA. And you can have it, sir, an if you please. ITHAMORE. If 'twere above ground, I could, and would have it; but he hides and buries it up, as partridges do their eggs, under the earth. PILIA-BORZA. And is't not possible to find it out? ITHAMORE. By no means possible. BELLAMIRA. What shall we do with this base villain, then? [Aside to PILIA-BORZA.] PILIA-BORZA. Let me alone; do but you speak him fair.-- [Aside to her.] But you know [152] some secrets of the Jew, Which, if they were reveal'd, would do him harm. ITHAMORE. Ay, and such as--go to, no more! I'll make him [153] send me half he has, and glad he scapes so too: I'll write unto him; we'll have money straight. PILIA-BORZA. Send for a hundred crowns at least. ITHAMORE. Ten hundred thousand crowns.--[writing] MASTER BARABAS,-- PILIA-BORZA. Write not so submissively, but threatening him. ITHAMORE. [writing] SIRRAH BARABAS, SEND ME A HUNDRED CROWNS. PILIA-BORZA. Put in two hundred at least. ITHAMORE. [writing] I CHARGE THEE SEND ME THREE HUNDRED BY THIS BEARER, AND THIS SHALL BE YOUR WARRANT: IF YOU DO NOT--NO MORE, BUT SO. PILIA-BORZA. Tell him you will confess. ITHAMORE. [writing] OTHERWISE I'LL CONFESS ALL.-- Vanish, and return in a twinkle. PILIA-BORZA. Let me alone; I'll use him in his kind. ITHAMORE. Hang him, Jew! [Exit PILIA-BORZA with the letter.] BELLAMIRA. Now, gentle Ithamore, lie in my lap.-- Where are my maids? provide a cunning [154] banquet; Send to the merchant, bid him bring me silks; Shall Ithamore, my love, go in such rags? ITHAMORE. And bid the jeweller come hither too. BELLAMIRA. I have no husband; sweet, I'll marry thee. ITHAMORE. Content: but we will leave this paltry land, And sail from hence to Greece, to lovely Greece;-- I'll be thy Jason, thou my golden fleece;-- Where painted carpets o'er the meads are hurl'd, And Bacchus' vineyards overspread the world; Where woods and forests go in goodly green;-- I'll be Adonis, thou shalt be Love's Queen;-- The meads, the orchards, and the primrose-lanes, Instead of sedge and reed, bear sugar-canes: Thou in those groves, by Dis above, Shalt live with me, and be my love. [155] BELLAMIRA. Whither will I not go with gentle Ithamore? Re-enter PILIA-BORZA. ITHAMORE. How now! hast thou the gold [?] PILIA-BORZA. Yes. ITHAMORE. But came it freely? did the cow give down her milk freely? PILIA-BORZA. At reading of the letter, he stared and stamped, and turned aside: I took him by the beard, [156] and looked upon him thus; told him he were best to send it: then he hugged and embraced me. ITHAMORE. Rather for fear than love. PILIA-BORZA. Then, like a Jew, he laughed and jeered, and told me he loved me for your sake, and said what a faithful servant you had been. ITHAMORE. The more villain he to keep me thus: here's goodly 'parel, is there not? PILIA-BORZA. To conclude, he gave me ten crowns. [Delivers the money to ITHAMORE.] ITHAMORE. But ten? I'll not leave him worth a grey groat. Give me a ream of paper: we'll have a kingdom of gold for't. [157] PILIA-BORZA. Write for five hundred crowns. ITHAMORE. [writing] SIRRAH JEW, AS YOU LOVE YOUR LIFE, SEND ME FIVE HUNDRED CROWNS, AND GIVE THE BEARER A HUNDRED.--Tell him I must have't. PILIA-BORZA. I warrant, your worship shall have't. ITHAMORE. And, if he ask why I demand so much, tell him I scorn to write a line under a hundred crowns. PILIA-BORZA. You'd make a rich poet, sir. I am gone. [Exit with the letter.] ITHAMORE. Take thou the money; spend it for my sake. BELLAMIRA. 'Tis not thy money, but thyself I weigh: Thus Bellamira esteems of gold; [Throws it aside.] But thus of thee. [Kisses him.] ITHAMORE. That kiss again!--She runs division [158] of my lips. What an eye she casts on me! it twinkles like a star. [Aside.] BELLAMIRA. Come, my dear love, let's in and sleep together. ITHAMORE. O, that ten thousand nights were put in one, that we might sleep seven years together afore we wake! BELLAMIRA. Come, amorous wag, first banquet, and then sleep. [Exeunt.] Enter BARABAS, [159] reading a letter. BARABAS. BARABAS, SEND ME THREE HUNDRED CROWNS;-- Plain Barabas! O, that wicked courtezan! He was not wont to call me Barabas;-- OR ELSE I WILL CONFESS;--ay, there it goes: But, if I get him, coupe de gorge for that. He sent a shaggy, tatter'd, [160] staring slave, That, when he speaks, draws out his grisly beard, And winds it twice or thrice about his ear; Whose face has been a grind-stone for men's swords; His hands are hack'd, some fingers cut quite off; Who, when he speaks, grunts like a hog, and looks Like one that is employ'd in catzery [161] And cross-biting; [162] such a rogue As is the husband to a hundred whores; And I by him must send three hundred crowns. Well, my hope is, he will not stay there still; And, when he comes--O, that he were but here! Enter PILIA-BORZA. PILIA-BORZA. Jew, I must ha' more gold. BARABAS. Why, want'st thou any of thy tale? [163] PILIA-BORZA. No; but three hundred will not serve his turn. BARABAS. Not serve his turn, sir! PILIA-BORZA. No, sir; and therefore I must have five hundred more. BARABAS. I'll rather---- PILIA-BORZA. O, good words, sir, and send it you were best! see, there's his letter. [Gives letter.] BARABAS. Might he not as well come as send? pray, bid him come and fetch it: what he writes for you, [164] ye shall have straight. PILIA-BORZA. Ay, and the rest too, or else---- BARABAS. I must make this villain away [Aside].--Please you dine with me, sir--and you shall be most heartily poisoned. [Aside.] PILIA-BORZA. No, God-a-mercy. Shall I have these crowns? BARABAS. I cannot do it; I have lost my keys. PILIA-BORZA. O, if that be all, I can pick ope your locks. BARABAS. Or climb up to my counting-house window: you know my meaning. PILIA-BORZA. I know enough, and therefore talk not to me of your counting-house. The gold! or know, Jew, it is in my power to hang thee. BARABAS. I am betray'd.-- [Aside.] 'Tis not five hundred crowns that I esteem; I am not mov'd at that: this angers me, That he, who knows I love him as myself, Should write in this imperious vein. Why, sir, You know I have no child, and unto whom Should I leave all, but unto Ithamore? PILIA-BORZA. Here's many words, but no crowns: the crowns! BARABAS. Commend me to him, sir, most humbly, And unto your good mistress as unknown. PILIA-BORZA. Speak, shall I have 'em, sir? BARABAS. Sir, here they are.-- [Gives money.] O, that I should part [165] with so much gold!-- [Aside.] Here, take 'em, fellow, with as good a will---- As I would see thee hang'd [Aside]. O, love stops my breath! Never lov'd man servant as I do Ithamore. PILIA-BORZA. I know it, sir. BARABAS. Pray, when, sir, shall I see you at my house? PILIA-BORZA. Soon enough to your cost, sir. Fare you well. [Exit.] BARABAS. Nay, to thine own cost, villain, if thou com'st! Was ever Jew tormented as I am? To have a shag-rag knave to come [force from me] Three hundred crowns, and then five hundred crowns! Well; I must seek a means to rid [166] 'em all, And presently; for in his villany He will tell all he knows, and I shall die for't. I have it: I will in some disguise go see the slave, And how the villain revels with my gold. [Exit.] Enter BELLAMIRA, [167] ITHAMORE, and PILIA-BORZA. BELLAMIRA. I'll pledge thee, love, and therefore drink it off. ITHAMORE. Say'st thou me so? have at it! and do you hear? [Whispers to her.] BELLAMIRA. Go to, it shall be so. ITHAMORE. Of [168] that condition I will drink it up: Here's to thee. BELLAMIRA. [169] Nay, I'll have all or none. ITHAMORE. There, if thou lov'st me, do not leave a drop. BELLAMIRA. Love thee! fill me three glasses. ITHAMORE. Three and fifty dozen: I'll pledge thee. PILIA-BORZA. Knavely spoke, and like a knight-at-arms. ITHAMORE. Hey, Rivo Castiliano! [170] a man's a man. BELLAMIRA. Now to the Jew. ITHAMORE. Ha! to the Jew; and send me money he [171] were best. PILIA-BORZA. What wouldst thou do, if he should send thee none? ITHAMORE. Do nothing: but I know what I know; he's a murderer. BELLAMIRA. I had not thought he had been so brave a man. ITHAMORE. You knew Mathias and the governor's son; he and I killed 'em both, and yet never touched 'em. PILIA-BORZA. O, bravely done! ITHAMORE. I carried the broth that poisoned the nuns; and he and I, snicle hand too fast, strangled a friar. [172] BELLAMIRA. You two alone? ITHAMORE. We two; and 'twas never known, nor never shall be for me. PILIA-BORZA. This shall with me unto the governor. [Aside to BELLAMIRA.] BELLAMIRA. And fit it should: but first let's ha' more gold.-- [Aside to PILIA-BORZA.] Come, gentle Ithamore, lie in my lap. ITHAMORE. Love me little, love me long: let music rumble, Whilst I in thy incony [173] lap do tumble. Enter BARABAS, disguised as a French musician, with a lute, and a nosegay in his hat. BELLAMIRA. A French musician!--Come, let's hear your skill. BARABAS. Must tuna my lute for sound, twang, twang, first. ITHAMORE. Wilt drink, Frenchman? here's to thee with a--Pox on this drunken hiccup! BARABAS. Gramercy, monsieur. BELLAMIRA. Prithee, Pilia-Borza, bid the fiddler give me the posy in his hat there. PILIA-BORZA. Sirrah, you must give my mistress your posy. BARABAS. A votre commandement, madame. [Giving nosegay.] BELLAMIRA. How sweet, my Ithamore, the flowers smell! ITHAMORE. Like thy breath, sweetheart; no violet like 'em. PILIA-BORZA. Foh! methinks they stink like a hollyhock. [174] BARABAS. So, now I am reveng'd upon 'em all: The scent thereof was death; I poison'd it. [Aside.] ITHAMORE. Play, fiddler, or I'll cut your cat's guts into chitterlings. BARABAS. Pardonnez moi, be no in tune yet: so, now, now all be in. ITHAMORE. Give him a crown, and fill me out more wine. PILIA-BORZA. There's two crowns for thee: play. [Giving money.] BARABAS. How liberally the villain gives me mine own gold! [Aside, and then plays.] PILIA-BORZA. Methinks he fingers very well. BARABAS. So did you when you stole my gold. [Aside.] PILIA-BORZA. How swift he runs! BARABAS. You run swifter when you threw my gold out of my window. [Aside.] BELLAMIRA. Musician, hast been in Malta long? BARABAS. Two, three, four month, madam. ITHAMORE. Dost not know a Jew, one Barabas? BARABAS. Very mush: monsieur, you no be his man? PILIA-BORZA. His man! ITHAMORE. I scorn the peasant: tell him so. BARABAS. He knows it already. [Aside.] ITHAMORE. 'Tis a strange thing of that Jew, he lives upon pickled grasshoppers and sauced mushrooms. [175] BARABAS. What a slave's this! the governor feeds not as I do. [Aside.] ITHAMORE. He never put on clean shirt since he was circumcised. BARABAS. O rascal! I change myself twice a-day. [Aside.] ITHAMORE. The hat he wears, Judas left under the elder when he hanged himself. [176] BARABAS. 'Twas sent me for a present from the Great Cham. [Aside.] PILIA-BORZA. A nasty [177] slave he is.--Whither now, fiddler? BARABAS. Pardonnez moi, monsieur; me [178] be no well. PILIA-BORZA. Farewell, fiddler [Exit BARABAS.] One letter more to the Jew. BELLAMIRA. Prithee, sweet love, one more, and write it sharp. ITHAMORE. No, I'll send by word of mouth now. --Bid him deliver thee a thousand crowns, by the same token that the nuns loved rice, that Friar Barnardine slept in his own clothes; any of 'em will do it. PILIA-BORZA. Let me alone to urge it, now I know the meaning. ITHAMORE. The meaning has a meaning. Come, let's in: To undo a Jew is charity, and not sin. [Exeunt.]

Act 4

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Barabas and Ithamore gloat over their success in poisoning the nuns. The Jew expresses particular satisfaction over his daughter's death. Friar Jacomo and Barnardine enter and, after a series of interrupted exchanges, intimate that they know of Barabas's hand in the deaths of Mathias and Lodowick. Barabas realizes that his daughter has confessed. He immediately puts on a show for the two friars: dissembling great sufferance under the burden of his many sins, he expresses a desire to convert to Christianity himself. He ostentatiously adds that he still possesses a large fortune, pointing out that this fortune would be donated to the monastery into which he enters. At this point, the two friars start bickering over which monastery Barabas should choose. Once Barabas tells friar Jacomo to visit him at one o'clock that night, the two friars break into a fight. Barabas pulls them apart and asks Barnardine to leave with Ithamore. In his usual duplicitous manner, he has promised his favors to the friars while plotting to murder both of them. One, after all, converted his daughter to Christianity, and the other knows enough to have him condemned to death. Ithamore returns after leading Barnardine into the house, noting that the friar has fallen asleep with his clothes on. The master and slave tie a noose around the friar's neck and strangle him on the spot. They then prop up his body against his staff and wait for Jacomo. When the friar arrives at the promised hour, he finds Barnardine standing silently in his path. Friar Jacomo decides to force his way past his former friend and strikes him with his staff, whereupon Barabas and Ithamore jump out of hiding. The two accuse Jacomo of murder and lead him off to be tried by the law. Act 4, Scene 2 Pilia-Borza enters, telling Bellamira that he took her letter to Ithamore. Ithamore enters and delivers a monologue recounting Jacomo's calm behavior at the gallows. As he wonders aloud why Bellamira has summoned him, he arrives in front of her house. Bellamira welcomes him with sweet words and a kiss, and he decides that he should steal some money from Barabas to make himself presentable. He discusses the possibility with her and Pilia-Borza, then agrees to write a blackmail letter to Barabas for three hundred crowns. While Pilia-Borza delivers it, Bellamira pretends to think little of the gold and continues to play the seductress. Ithamore would be glad to marry her; he bursts into uncharacteristic high poetry. Pilia returns with the money, which inspires Ithamore immediately to write a second letter for five hundred crowns more, plus one hundred for Pilia. Act 4, Scene 3 Barabas enters reading over Ithamore's first letter. As he expresses his outrage, Pilia-Borza enters carrying the second letter demanding five hundred crowns. Barabas invites Pilia-Borza to dinner in hopes of poisoning him, but the latter will hear nothing till he sees the money. The Jew finally gives in, wincing at the sight of so much gold leaving his pocket-but puts on a show for Pilia-Borza, lamenting his betrayal by Ithamore more than its financial consequences. Alone again, Barabas genuinely feels the hurt of the betrayal but focuses on the money and the possible consequences of being found out. He resolves to visit Ithamore in disguise, hoping to rid himself of the blackmailers. Act 4, Scene 4 Bellamira and Ithamore drink wine while exchanging amorous words. Ithamore boasts of the evil deeds that he has committed with Barabas, upon which Bellamira and Pilia-Borza decide to betray him to the governor, after blackmailing him further. The Jew himself enters the scene, dressed as a French musician. Barabas presents the three blackmailers with poisoned flowers to smell, and Pilia-Borza pays him two crowns to play the lute. Ithamore asks him if he knows the Jew named Barabas, and Ithamore proceeds to rail against his master with false claims about his eating and dressing habits. Barabas then leaves the scene under the excuse that he feels ill--perhaps disgusted by the filthy lies that Ithamore has been telling about him. As the scene ends, the three agree to send a third letter demanding one thousand crowns. Ithamore defends their blackmail with an anti-Judaic justification, speaking the last line of the act: "To undo a Jew is charity, and not sin."

When the friars visit Barabas's house, their express purpose is to urge him to repent of his sins, but they have very little leverage over the Jew Barabas. Since his murder of Mathias and Lodowick was revealed to Friar Barnardine in a confession, the friars may never speak of the matter in public, so even if they wanted to blackmail him, they could not do so without losing their own standing. Even addressing the matter to Barabas may transgress the sacred rules. Their presence does not really concern Barabas, who has already embarked on a killing spree to conceal his crimes. He may also be rather paranoid by now. Still, he has the cunning to solve the problem by finding an excuse to turns the friars against each other. The friars could hardly be happier with his offer of his fortune. At the first mention of it, they seem to forget their spiritual values and instead try to draw him to one monastery or the other on material grounds: for example, one must go barefoot in one of the monasteries, as the other friar charges. Only moments ago, they were preaching to Barabas to repent, so their quick turn of motivation to money emphasizes their hypocrisy. As for Barabas, in his usual cunning manner he plays both ends against the middle, pondering the best way to murder them. As with the case of Mathias and Lodowick, his plot is realized almost effortlessly. The first murder is of a sleeping Barnardine. Then, blinded by his desire for gold, Jacomo strikes the already-dead Barnardine and involuntarily completes the perfect murder. Again Ithamore has a central role in this plot. Ironically, Barabas invokes the particulars of the law to have the friar tried: The law shall touch you, we'll but lead you, we. 'Las, I could weep at your calamity. Take in the staff too, for that must be shown; Law wills that each particular be known. The trope of a Jew enforcing the laws of the Christian commonwealth with the intention of causing a tragic consequence is repeated with Shylock in Shakespeare's The Merchant of Venice. Forces of avarice and desire come in multiple degrees in The Jew of Malta. Whereas almost all of the characters are obsessed with gold, Ithamore finds a formidable rival to the lustrous metal. At first sight of Bellamira, he falls head over heels in love. Even before the courtesan prompts him, Ithamore resolves to steal Barabas's gold. Also, Ithamore gives Barabas a taste of his own poison through blackmail, and the slave is in turn being manipulated by Bellamira and Pilia-Borza. The two conspirators resolve to notify the proper authorities only after they have made their fortune. These recourses to political authority are ironic in that Ferneze is no model citizen. He represents the corruption of the island, and it is his corruption that set the drama in motion from the beginning. Neither the church nor the state, at least as they are embodied in hypocritical representatives, has sufficient moral authority to enforce the laws. Nevertheless, justice is swift. It is hard to believe that Friar Jacomo is so dense as to believe that he killed Friar Barnardine with his staff, but he apparently accepts the judgment of the Jew and his slave to the degree that he goes willingly to the gallows and the afterlife. The state apparently accepts such testimony and then goes straight to the execution. As for Barabas, he twice pays the amount exacted by Ithamore. At this point, it is not clear that the Jew has all his wits about him. Ithamore's blackmail carries little force, because if Ithamore were to confess the truth as he threatens, he also would probably be jailed or executed, and Barabas's fortune probably would be seized once again by Ferneze and his officers. This threat is therefore more or less empty, yet Barabas complies. Barabas might be stuck, however, now that others are in on the news. Why does Barabas comply with the blackmail? Is he weary, paranoid, or simply careless? Or is the money amount too small to be concerned with? He can afford to pay now, without revealing his plot of killing Ithamore until later. Barabas certainly has money enough to buy time. Having purchased some time for strategic reflection, he arrives in disguise at Bellamira's house in the last scene of the act, with consequences that will become clear in the final act.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/901-chapters/act_5.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/The Jew of Malta/section_4_part_0.txt

The Jew of Malta.act 5

act 5

{"name": "Act 5", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180408024636/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-jew-of-malta/study-guide/summary-act-5", "summary": "Ferneze enters with knights and Martin del Bosco, fortifying Malta against the Turkish invasion to come. Bellamira enters with Pilia-Borza and informs Ferneze that it was Barabas who killed Lodowick. Bellamira also declares that Barabas strangled a friar and poisoned the nuns, including his own daughter. Ferneze asks for proof of her accusations, upon which Bellamira betrays Ithamore. Officers soon return with the accused master and slave. Ithamore readily confesses the truth, revealing all of his own and Barabas's crimes. Barabas calls for the law and attempts to divert Ferneze's attention by pointing out that Bellamira is a courtesan and Pilia-Borza is a thief-all in vain. As he is carried off by the officers, Barabas says he hopes \"the poisoned flowers will work anon\"; the flowers that Ithamore, Bellamira, and Pilia-Borza smelled earlier were sprinkled with poison. The lady Katherine enters and discusses the turn of events with Ferneze, whereupon an officer announces the deaths of all four: the accusers and the accused. Barabas's poison has finally taken effect--but Barabas's death was unexpected. Martin del Bosco remarks on the strangeness of Barabas's death, but Ferneze dismisses it as the justice of heaven and orders that the Jew's body be tossed over the city walls. Alone outside the walls, Barabas quickly rises; he had merely taken a \"sleepy drink\" to feign death. While awaiting the arrival of the Turks, Barabas vows for vengeance-let them take even his fortune, so long as he sees the governor \"whipped to death\"! Calymath enters and notices the Jew. As a spy, Barabas informs the Turks how to gain entrance to the city, himself volunteering to lead five hundred men to open the city gates. Calymath then promises to make Barabas the governor, should his plan succeed. Act 5, Scene 2 Calymath gloats over his easy victory and pronounces Barabas the new governor of Malta on the spot. Leaving the Jew with a number of Turkish janizaries, Calymath leaves to roam the town with his Bashaws. Barabas dismisses Ferneze and his officers and starts a monologue: although he is now governor, all of Malta hates him. Now his life is in constant danger. Besides, what good is authority without friends or profit? Barabas thus resolves to make the best of the situation. He summons Ferneze and describes his plan to recover Malta from the Turkish forces. In response to Ferneze's disbelief, the Jew demands what he can expect in return for his service to Malta, and Ferneze duly promises a great fortune. Not trusting Ferneze, Barabas sends Ferneze to visit the citizens personally to raise the money. With this agreement, Barabas releases him and makes provisions to surprise the Turks, declaring: \"he from whom my most advantage comes, / Shall be my friend. / This is the life we Jews are us'd to lead; / And reason too, for Christians do the like.\" Act 5, Scene 3 Calymath has ordered that the damage on the island be repaired. He roams about, admiring the geographical security of the island. A messenger enters with an invitation from Barabas, who offers to host a banquet for the Turks before they leave. He has even prepared a special pearl as a present. In response to Calymath's hesitation to dine within Malta, the messenger indicates that the banquet will take place in a monastery right outside the town. Calymath finally accepts, then retires to his tent to meditate before evening. Act 5, Scene 4 Ferneze enters with his knights, giving out orders for the evening. None of the knights is to come forward until he hears a musket discharged. The knights swear their allegiance to Ferneze and leave the scene. Act 5, Scene 5 Barabas supervises the carpenters as they finish up some construction at the monastery. He pays them and offers them wine from his cellar as they leave. The messenger then enters to confirm Calymath's presence for the festivities. Immediately afterwards, Ferneze arrives with the hundred thousand pounds that he has collected, but Barabas refuses to take the gold on the spot. The Jew then explains the contraption he has built, whereby Calymath's army will be instantly obliterated. As for getting rid of Calymath himself and his attendants, Ferneze need only cut a single rope at the right moment. Ferneze hides himself as he sees the Turks coming, and Barabas is left alone to boast about his \"kingly kind of trade, to purchase towns / By treachery and sell 'em by deceit.\" Calymath arrives with kind words, and Barabas invites him to ascend the stairs-whereupon Ferneze jumps out of hiding and cuts the rope, revealing a cauldron into which Barabas falls. Meanwhile the First Knight has sounded a charge within. All look on as Barabas struggles helplessly in the pit, crying for help. Finally resolved to death, the Jew openly admits his past crimes and dies amidst a string of curses. Calymath attempts to leave with the idea that he will persuade Turkey to give up its claim on Malta, but Ferneze points out that all his soldiers have been massacred by Barabas's contraption--Spain is the protector once again. The curtain falls with Ferneze's declaration that he will take Calymath as prisoner, followed by Ferneze's praise to heaven.", "analysis": "After Ithamore corroborates the accusations of Bellamira and Pilia-Borza, Ferneze exclaims: \"Away with him! His sight is death to me.\" Barabas cries out in response: \"Let me have the law, / For none of this can prejudice my life.\" At first glance, one may accuse the Jew of a type of legalism. He calls for the law only when it is useful to himself, thus adhering to its rules rather than its spirit. Yet, one wonders why the law would be useful to Barabas. Only a while ago, in the previous act, Friar Jacomo was executed swiftly and under the law respecting murder. There is no reason to think that Barabas would be exonerated, should a fair trial even take place. Perhaps Barabas is scared that Ferneze will prematurely send him to his death. The governor's impetuous exclamation certainly does not bode well for the Jew. By calling for the law, then, Barabas is again bargaining for time, and he needs only a few extra moments; once the poison from the flowers works its effect, he might become safe under the law due to the lack of witnesses. But the witnesses have already spoken, so he needs time at least to take a \"sleepy drink\" to increase his chances of escaping the gallows. This device allows Barabas to survive, which serves the plot: he ends up outside the city to become the spy who leads the Turks into Malta. The Turks having conquered the city, Calymath keeps his promise and makes Barabas the governor. But this does not seem so good to the Jew. As a corrupt governor, after all, he will be forced to lead the life of a tyrant: But Malta hates me, and, in hating me, My life's in danger; and what boots it thee, Poor Barabas, to be the governor, Whenas thy life shall be at their command?\" This line of thought reflects a view of the dangers of leadership dating at least to Plato's Republic . Though he may have power and wealth, the tyrant will lead a fundamentally unhappy life. Barabas therefore attempts to make best of the situation by serving as something of a double agent, plotting to return Malta to Ferneze. Barabas takes considerable pleasure in the intricate plot to obliterate the Turkish forces. For the first time in the play, however, the plot fails miserably: the tables are turned, and Barabas falls into the deep pit designed for Calymath. Is this, as Ferneze suggests, the work of heaven? Perhaps, but several points distinguish Barabas's last plot. To begin with, he has built a large and conspicuous physical contraption-in opposition to his previous subtle scheming in the shadows. Barabas becomes so excited with the contraption itself that he declines to take the payment until later. He also unnecessarily explains the details to Ferneze who, he should know very well by experience, cannot be trusted. Finally, so sure of his success, he hands over the crucial device of execution to Ferneze. The execution of his plan, as it were, becomes his own execution: he mirrors the falling motion seen at the gallows when he falls into a cauldron-which also is a magnified version of the pot of porridge he used to murder Abigall and the nuns. In Greek theater, the gods would have punished Barabas for his hubris. In The Jew of Malta, Barabas finally tastes his own poison, receiving poetic justice. He has become so proud and involved in his own plot of revenge that he almost forgets his place in the world as a successful merchant. The money he raises via Ferneze almost amounts to protection money. When Barabas refuses to take Ferneze's payment on the spot, though, he has involuntarily condemned himself-exactly in the manner of the friars Jacomo and Barnardine, when they forgot their spiritual paths and ran after Barabas's wealth. Finally at the end of his rope in the cauldron, Barabas utters his one and only confession. But the confession does not bask in religiosity. In accordance with his character, he ends his life with a curse of frustration: if only he could have \"brought confusion on you all\"! Despite all the havoc he has wreaked, Barabas serves a crucial role in the safety of Malta all the way to his death. His money buys Malta a month's time, during which Martin del Bosco minimizes damage to the city by helping the Turks to an easy victory; finally, he liberates Ferneze and allows Malta to assert its independence once and for all. Yet, it is not at all clear that the ending should be considered \"happy.\" The governor Ferneze has after all revealed himself to be a hypocrite and traitor, no less Machiavellian than Barabas-in contrast to the invading Turks, who have acted with relative courtesy. T. S. Eliot famously called The Jew of Malta a \"tragic farce.\" It is perhaps a farce because the tragic elements remain conspicuously unnoticed by the surviving characters, and a tragedy because the farcical elements ultimately lead to death."}

ACT V. Enter FERNEZE, [179] KNIGHTS, MARTIN DEL BOSCO, and OFFICERS. FERNEZE. Now, gentlemen, betake you to your arms, And see that Malta be well fortified; And it behoves you to be resolute; For Calymath, having hover'd here so long, Will win the town, or die before the walls. FIRST KNIGHT. And die he shall; for we will never yield. Enter BELLAMIRA and PILIA-BORZA. BELLAMIRA. O, bring us to the governor! FERNEZE. Away with her! she is a courtezan. BELLAMIRA. Whate'er I am, yet, governor, hear me speak: I bring thee news by whom thy son was slain: Mathias did it not; it was the Jew. PILIA-BORZA. Who, besides the slaughter of these gentlemen, Poison'd his own daughter and the nuns, Strangled a friar, and I know not what Mischief beside. FERNEZE. Had we but proof of this---- BELLAMIRA. Strong proof, my lord: his man's now at my lodging, That was his agent; he'll confess it all. FERNEZE. Go fetch him [180] straight [Exeunt OFFICERS]. I always fear'd that Jew. Re-enter OFFICERS with BARABAS and ITHAMORE. BARABAS. I'll go alone; dogs, do not hale me thus. ITHAMORE. Nor me neither; I cannot out-run you, constable.--O, my belly! BARABAS. One dram of powder more had made all sure: What a damn'd slave was I! [Aside.] FERNEZE. Make fires, heat irons, let the rack be fetch'd. FIRST KNIGHT. Nay, stay, my lord; 't may be he will confess. BARABAS. Confess! what mean you, lords? who should confess? FERNEZE. Thou and thy Turk; 'twas that slew my son. ITHAMORE. Guilty, my lord, I confess. Your son and Mathias were both contracted unto Abigail: [he] forged a counterfeit challenge. BARABAS. Who carried that challenge? ITHAMORE. I carried it, I confess; but who writ it? marry, even he that strangled Barnardine, poisoned the nuns and his own daughter. FERNEZE. Away with him! his sight is death to me. BARABAS. For what, you men of Malta? hear me speak. She is a courtezan, and he a thief, And he my bondman: let me have law; For none of this can prejudice my life. FERNEZE. Once more, away with him!--You shall have law. BARABAS. Devils, do your worst!--I['ll] live in spite of you.-- [Aside.] As these have spoke, so be it to their souls!-- I hope the poison'd flowers will work anon. [Aside.] [Exeunt OFFICERS with BARABAS and ITHAMORE; BELLAMIRA, and PILIA-BORZA.] Enter KATHARINE. KATHARINE. Was my Mathias murder'd by the Jew? Ferneze, 'twas thy son that murder'd him. FERNEZE. Be patient, gentle madam: it was he; He forg'd the daring challenge made them fight. KATHARINE. Where is the Jew? where is that murderer? FERNEZE. In prison, till the law has pass'd on him. Re-enter FIRST OFFICER. FIRST OFFICER. My lord, the courtezan and her man are dead; So is the Turk and Barabas the Jew. FERNEZE. Dead! FIRST OFFICER. Dead, my lord, and here they bring his body. MARTIN DEL BOSCO. This sudden death of his is very strange. Re-enter OFFICERS, carrying BARABAS as dead. FERNEZE. Wonder not at it, sir; the heavens are just; Their deaths were like their lives; then think not of 'em.-- Since they are dead, let them be buried: For the Jew's body, throw that o'er the walls, To be a prey for vultures and wild beasts.-- So, now away and fortify the town. Exeunt all, leaving BARABAS on the floor. [181] BARABAS. [rising] What, all alone! well fare, sleepy drink! I'll be reveng'd on this accursed town; For by my means Calymath shall enter in: I'll help to slay their children and their wives, To fire the churches, pull their houses down, Take my goods too, and seize upon my lands. I hope to see the governor a slave, And, rowing in a galley, whipt to death. Enter CALYMATH, BASSOES, [182] and TURKS. CALYMATH. Whom have we there? a spy? BARABAS. Yes, my good lord, one that can spy a place Where you may enter, and surprize the town: My name is Barabas; I am a Jew. CALYMATH. Art thou that Jew whose goods we heard were sold For tribute-money? BARABAS. The very same, my lord: And since that time they have hir'd a slave, my man, To accuse me of a thousand villanies: I was imprisoned, but scap [']d their hands. CALYMATH. Didst break prison? BARABAS. No, no: I drank of poppy and cold mandrake juice; And being asleep, belike they thought me dead, And threw me o'er the walls: so, or how else, The Jew is here, and rests at your command. CALYMATH. 'Twas bravely done: but tell me, Barabas, Canst thou, as thou report'st, make Malta ours? BARABAS. Fear not, my lord; for here, against the trench, [183] The rock is hollow, and of purpose digg'd, To make a passage for the running streams And common channels [184] of the city. Now, whilst you give assault unto the walls, I'll lead five hundred soldiers through the vault, And rise with them i' the middle of the town, Open the gates for you to enter in; And by this means the city is your own. CALYMATH. If this be true, I'll make thee governor. BARABAS. And, if it be not true, then let me die. CALYMATH. Thou'st doom'd thyself.--Assault it presently. [Exeunt.] Alarums within. Enter CALYMATH, [185] BASSOES, TURKS, and BARABAS; with FERNEZE and KNIGHTS prisoners. CALYMATH. Now vail [186] your pride, you captive Christians, And kneel for mercy to your conquering foe: Now where's the hope you had of haughty Spain? Ferneze, speak; had it not been much better To kept [187] thy promise than be thus surpris'd? FERNEZE. What should I say? we are captives, and must yield. CALYMATH. Ay, villains, you must yield, and under Turkish yokes Shall groaning bear the burden of our ire:-- And, Barabas, as erst we promis'd thee, For thy desert we make thee governor; Use them at thy discretion. BARABAS. Thanks, my lord. FERNEZE. O fatal day, to fall into the hands Of such a traitor and unhallow'd Jew! What greater misery could heaven inflict? CALYMATH. 'Tis our command:--and, Barabas, we give, To guard thy person, these our Janizaries: Entreat [188] them well, as we have used thee.-- And now, brave bassoes, [189] come; we'll walk about The ruin'd town, and see the wreck we made.-- Farewell, brave Jew, farewell, great Barabas! BARABAS. May all good fortune follow Calymath! [Exeunt CALYMATH and BASSOES.] And now, as entrance to our safety, To prison with the governor and these Captains, his consorts and confederates. FERNEZE. O villain! heaven will be reveng'd on thee. BARABAS. Away! no more; let him not trouble me. [Exeunt TURKS with FERNEZE and KNIGHTS.] Thus hast thou gotten, [190] by thy policy, No simple place, no small authority: I now am governor of Malta; true,-- But Malta hates me, and, in hating me, My life's in danger; and what boots it thee, Poor Barabas, to be the governor, Whenas [191] thy life shall be at their command? No, Barabas, this must be look'd into; And, since by wrong thou gott'st authority, Maintain it bravely by firm policy; At least, unprofitably lose it not; For he that liveth in authority, And neither gets him friends nor fills his bags, Lives like the ass that Aesop speaketh of, That labours with a load of bread and wine, And leaves it off to snap on thistle-tops: But Barabas will be more circumspect. Begin betimes; Occasion's bald behind: Slip not thine opportunity, for fear too late Thou seek'st for much, but canst not compass it.-- Within here! [192] Enter FERNEZE, with a GUARD. FERNEZE. My lord? BARABAS. Ay, LORD; thus slaves will learn. Now, governor,--stand by there, wait within,-- [Exeunt GUARD.] This is the reason that I sent for thee: Thou seest thy life and Malta's happiness Are at my arbitrement; and Barabas At his discretion may dispose of both: Now tell me, governor, and plainly too, What think'st thou shall become of it and thee? FERNEZE. This, Barabas; since things are in thy power, I see no reason but of Malta's wreck, Nor hope of thee but extreme cruelty: Nor fear I death, nor will I flatter thee. BARABAS. Governor, good words; be not so furious 'Tis not thy life which can avail me aught; Yet you do live, and live for me you shall: And as for Malta's ruin, think you not 'Twere slender policy for Barabas To dispossess himself of such a place? For sith, [193] as once you said, within this isle, In Malta here, that I have got my goods, And in this city still have had success, And now at length am grown your governor, Yourselves shall see it shall not be forgot; For, as a friend not known but in distress, I'll rear up Malta, now remediless. FERNEZE. Will Barabas recover Malta's loss? Will Barabas be good to Christians? BARABAS. What wilt thou give me, governor, to procure A dissolution of the slavish bands Wherein the Turk hath yok'd your land and you? What will you give me if I render you The life of Calymath, surprise his men, And in an out-house of the city shut His soldiers, till I have consum'd 'em all with fire? What will you give him that procureth this? FERNEZE. Do but bring this to pass which thou pretendest, Deal truly with us as thou intimatest, And I will send amongst the citizens, And by my letters privately procure Great sums of money for thy recompense: Nay, more, do this, and live thou governor still. BARABAS. Nay, do thou this, Ferneze, and be free: Governor, I enlarge thee; live with me; Go walk about the city, see thy friends: Tush, send not letters to 'em; go thyself, And let me see what money thou canst make: Here is my hand that I'll set Malta free; And thus we cast [194] it: to a solemn feast I will invite young Selim Calymath, Where be thou present, only to perform One stratagem that I'll impart to thee, Wherein no danger shall betide thy life, And I will warrant Malta free for ever. FERNEZE. Here is my hand; believe me, Barabas, I will be there, and do as thou desirest. When is the time? BARABAS. Governor, presently; For Calymath, when he hath view'd the town, Will take his leave, and sail toward Ottoman. FERNEZE. Then will I, Barabas, about this coin, And bring it with me to thee in the evening. BARABAS. Do so; but fail not: now farewell, Ferneze:-- [Exit FERNEZE.] And thus far roundly goes the business: Thus, loving neither, will I live with both, Making a profit of my policy; And he from whom my most advantage comes, Shall be my friend. This is the life we Jews are us'd to lead; And reason too, for Christians do the like. Well, now about effecting this device; First, to surprise great Selim's soldiers, And then to make provision for the feast, That at one instant all things may be done: My policy detests prevention. To what event my secret purpose drives, I know; and they shall witness with their lives. [Exeunt.] Enter CALYMATH and BASSOES. [195] CALYMATH. Thus have we view'd the city, seen the sack, And caus'd the ruins to be new-repair'd, Which with our bombards' shot and basilisk[s] [196] We rent in sunder at our entry: And, now I see the situation, And how secure this conquer'd island stands, Environ'd with the Mediterranean sea, Strong-countermin'd with other petty isles, And, toward Calabria, [197] back'd by Sicily (Where Syracusian Dionysius reign'd), Two lofty turrets that command the town, I wonder how it could be conquer'd thus. Enter a MESSENGER. MESSENGER. From Barabas, Malta's governor, I bring A message unto mighty Calymath: Hearing his sovereign was bound for sea, To sail to Turkey, to great Ottoman, He humbly would entreat your majesty To come and see his homely citadel, And banquet with him ere thou leav'st the isle. CALYMATH. To banquet with him in his citadel! I fear me, messenger, to feast my train Within a town of war so lately pillag'd, Will be too costly and too troublesome: Yet would I gladly visit Barabas, For well has Barabas deserv'd of us. MESSENGER. Selim, for that, thus saith the governor,-- That he hath in [his] store a pearl so big, So precious, and withal so orient, As, be it valu'd but indifferently, The price thereof will serve to entertain Selim and all his soldiers for a month; Therefore he humbly would entreat your highness Not to depart till he has feasted you. CALYMATH. I cannot feast my men in Malta-walls, Except he place his tables in the streets. MESSENGER. Know, Selim, that there is a monastery Which standeth as an out-house to the town; There will he banquet them; but thee at home, With all thy bassoes and brave followers. CALYMATH. Well, tell the governor we grant his suit; We'll in this summer-evening feast with him. MESSENGER. I shall, my lord. [Exit.] CALYMATH. And now, bold bassoes, let us to our tents, And meditate how we may grace us best, To solemnize our governor's great feast. [Exeunt.] Enter FERNEZE, [198] KNIGHTS, and MARTIN DEL BOSCO. FERNEZE. In this, my countrymen, be rul'd by me: Have special care that no man sally forth Till you shall hear a culverin discharg'd By him that bears the linstock, [199] kindled thus; Then issue out and come to rescue me, For happily I shall be in distress, Or you released of this servitude. FIRST KNIGHT. Rather than thus to live as Turkish thralls, What will we not adventure? FERNEZE. On, then; be gone. KNIGHTS. Farewell, grave governor. [Exeunt, on one side, KNIGHTS and MARTIN DEL BOSCO; on the other, FERNEZE.] Enter, above, [200] BARABAS, with a hammer, very busy; and CARPENTERS. BARABAS. How stand the cords? how hang these hinges? fast? Are all the cranes and pulleys sure? FIRST CARPENTER. [201] All fast. BARABAS. Leave nothing loose, all levell'd to my mind. Why, now I see that you have art, indeed: There, carpenters, divide that gold amongst you; [Giving money.] Go, swill in bowls of sack and muscadine; Down to the cellar, taste of all my wines. FIRST CARPENTER. We shall, my lord, and thank you. [Exeunt CARPENTERS.] BARABAS. And, if you like them, drink your fill and die; For, so I live, perish may all the world! Now, Selim Calymath, return me word That thou wilt come, and I am satisfied. Enter MESSENGER. Now, sirrah; what, will he come? MESSENGER. He will; and has commanded all his men To come ashore, and march through Malta-streets, That thou mayst feast them in thy citadel. BARABAS. Then now are all things as my wish would have 'em; There wanteth nothing but the governor's pelf; And see, he brings it. Enter FERNEZE. Now, governor, the sum? FERNEZE. With free consent, a hundred thousand pounds. BARABAS. Pounds say'st thou, governor? well, since it is no more, I'll satisfy myself with that; nay, keep it still, For, if I keep not promise, trust not me: And, governor, now partake my policy. First, for his army, they are sent before, Enter'd the monastery, and underneath In several places are field-pieces pitch'd, Bombards, whole barrels full of gunpowder, That on the sudden shall dissever it, And batter all the stones about their ears, Whence none can possibly escape alive: Now, as for Calymath and his consorts, Here have I made a dainty gallery, The floor whereof, this cable being cut, Doth fall asunder, so that it doth sink Into a deep pit past recovery. Here, hold that knife; and, when thou seest he comes, [Throws down a knife.] And with his bassoes shall be blithely set, A warning-piece shall be shot off [202] from the tower, To give thee knowledge when to cut the cord, And fire the house. Say, will not this be brave? FERNEZE. O, excellent! here, hold thee, Barabas; I trust thy word; take what I promis'd thee. BARABAS. No, governor; I'll satisfy thee first; Thou shalt not live in doubt of any thing. Stand close, for here they come. [FERNEZE retires.] Why, is not this A kingly kind of trade, to purchase towns By treachery, and sell 'em by deceit? Now tell me, worldlings, underneath the sun [203] If greater falsehood ever has been done? Enter CALYMATH and BASSOES. CALYMATH. Come, my companion-bassoes: see, I pray, How busy Barabas is there above To entertain us in his gallery: Let us salute him.--Save thee, Barabas! BARABAS. Welcome, great Calymath! FERNEZE. How the slave jeers at him! [Aside.] BARABAS. Will't please thee, mighty Selim Calymath, To ascend our homely stairs? CALYMATH. Ay, Barabas.-- Come, bassoes, ascend. [204] FERNEZE. [coming forward] Stay, Calymath; For I will shew thee greater courtesy Than Barabas would have afforded thee. KNIGHT. [within] Sound a charge there! [A charge sounded within: FERNEZE cuts the cord; the floor of the gallery gives way, and BARABAS falls into a caldron placed in a pit. Enter KNIGHTS and MARTIN DEL BOSCO. [205] CALYMATH. How now! what means this? BARABAS. Help, help me, Christians, help! FERNEZE. See, Calymath! this was devis'd for thee. CALYMATH. Treason, treason! bassoes, fly! FERNEZE. No, Selim, do not fly: See his end first, and fly then if thou canst. BARABAS. O, help me, Selim! help me, Christians! Governor, why stand you all so pitiless? FERNEZE. Should I in pity of thy plaints or thee, Accursed Barabas, base Jew, relent? No, thus I'll see thy treachery repaid, But wish thou hadst behav'd thee otherwise. BARABAS. You will not help me, then? FERNEZE. No, villain, no. BARABAS. And, villains, know you cannot help me now.-- Then, Barabas, breathe forth thy latest fate, And in the fury of thy torments strive To end thy life with resolution.-- Know, governor, 'twas I that slew thy son,-- I fram'd the challenge that did make them meet: Know, Calymath, I aim'd thy overthrow: And, had I but escap'd this stratagem, I would have brought confusion on you all, Damn'd Christian [206] dogs, and Turkish infidels! But now begins the extremity of heat To pinch me with intolerable pangs: Die, life! fly, soul! tongue, curse thy fill, and die! [Dies.] CALYMATH. Tell me, you Christians, what doth this portend? FERNEZE. This train [207] he laid to have entrapp'd thy life; Now, Selim, note the unhallow'd deeds of Jews; Thus he determin'd to have handled thee, But I have rather chose to save thy life. CALYMATH. Was this the banquet he prepar'd for us? Let's hence, lest further mischief be pretended. [208] FERNEZE. Nay, Selim, stay; for, since we have thee here, We will not let thee part so suddenly: Besides, if we should let thee go, all's one, For with thy galleys couldst thou not get hence, Without fresh men to rig and furnish them. CALYMATH. Tush, governor, take thou no care for that; My men are all aboard, And do attend my coming there by this. FERNEZE. Why, heard'st thou not the trumpet sound a charge? CALYMATH. Yes, what of that? FERNEZE. Why, then the house was fir'd, Blown up, and all thy soldiers massacred. CALYMATH. O, monstrous treason! FERNEZE. A Jew's courtesy; For he that did by treason work our fall, By treason hath deliver'd thee to us: Know, therefore, till thy father hath made good The ruins done to Malta and to us, Thou canst not part; for Malta shall be freed, Or Selim ne'er return to Ottoman. CALYMATH. Nay, rather, Christians, let me go to Turkey, In person there to mediate [209] your peace: To keep me here will naught advantage you. FERNEZE. Content thee, Calymath, here thou must stay, And live in Malta prisoner; for come all [210] the world To rescue thee, so will we guard us now, As sooner shall they drink the ocean dry, Than conquer Malta, or endanger us. So, march away; and let due praise be given Neither to Fate nor Fortune, but to Heaven. [Exeunt.] Footnotes: [Footnote 1: Heywood dedicates the First Part of THE IRON AGE (printed 1632) "To my Worthy and much Respected Friend, Mr. Thomas Hammon, of Grayes Inne, Esquire."] [Footnote 2: Tho. Heywood: The well-known dramatist.] [Footnote 3: censures: i.e. judgments.] [Footnote 4: bin: i.e. been.] [Footnote 5: best of poets: "Marlo." Marg. note in old ed.] [Footnote 6: best of actors: "Allin." Marg. note in old. ed.--Any account of the celebrated actor, Edward Alleyn, the founder of Dulwich College, would be superfluous here.] [Footnote 7: In HERO AND LEANDER, &c.: The meaning is--The one (Marlowe) gained a lasting memory by being the author of HERO AND LEANDER; while the other (Alleyn) wan the attribute of peerless by playing the parts of Tamburlaine, the Jew of Malta, &c.--The passage happens to be mispointed in the old ed. thus, "In Hero and Leander, one did gaine A lasting memorie: in Tamberlaine, This Jew, with others many: th' other wan," &c. and hence Mr. Collier, in his HIST. OF ENG. DRAM. POET. iii. 114, understood the words, "in Tamburlaine, This Jew, with others many," as applying to Marlowe: he afterwards, however, in his MEMOIRS OF ALLEYN, p. 9, suspected that the punctuation of the old ed. might be wrong,--which it doubtless is.] [Footnote 8: him: "Perkins." Marg. note in old ed.--"This was Richard Perkins, one of the performers belonging to the Cock-pit theatre in Drury-Lane. His name is printed among those who acted in HANNIBAL AND SCIPIO by Nabbes, THE WEDDING by Shirley, and THE FAIR MAID OF THE WEST by Heywood. After the play-houses were shut up on account of the confusion arising from the civil wars, Perkins and Sumner, who belonged to the same house, lived together at Clerkenwell, where they died and were buried. They both died some years before the Restoration. See THE DIALOGUE ON PLAYS AND PLAYERS [Dodsley's OLD PLAYS, 1. clii., last ed.]." REED (apud Dodsley's O. P.). Perkins acted a prominent part in Webster's WHITE DEVIL, when it was first brought on the stage, --perhaps Brachiano (for Burbadge, who was celebrated in Brachiano, does not appear to have played it originally): in a notice to the reader at the end of that tragedy Webster says; "In particular I must remember the well-approved industry of my friend Master Perkins, and confess the worth of his action did crown both the beginning and end." About 1622-3 Perkins belonged to the Red Bull theatre: about 1637 he joined the company at Salisbury Court: see Webster's WORKS, note, p. 51, ed. Dyce, 1857.] [Footnote 9: prize was play'd: This expression (so frequent in our early writers) is properly applied to fencing: see Steevens's note on Shakespeare's MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR, act. i. sc. 1.] [Footnote 10: no wagers laid: "Wagers as to the comparative merits of rival actors in particular parts were not unfrequent of old," &c. Collier (apud Dodsley's O. P.). See my ed. of Peele's WORKS, i. x. ed. 1829; and Collier's MEMOIRS OF ALLEYN, p. 11.] [Footnote 11: the Guise: "i.e. the Duke of Guise, who had been the principal contriver and actor in the horrid massacre of St. Bartholomew's day, 1572. He met with his deserved fate, being assassinated, by order of the French king, in 1588." REED (apud Dodsley's O. P.). And see our author's MASSACRE AT PARIS.] [Footnote 12: empery: Old ed. "Empire."] [Footnote 13: the Draco's: "i.e. the severe lawgiver of Athens; 'whose statutes,' said Demades, 'were not written with ink, but blood.'" STEEVENS (apud Dodsley's O. P.).--Old ed. "the Drancus."] [Footnote 14: had: Qy. "had BUT"?] [Footnote 15: a lecture here: Qy. "a lecture TO YOU here"?] [Footnote 16: Act I.: The Scenes of this play are not marked in the old ed.; nor in the present edition,--because occasionally (where the audience were to SUPPOSE a change of place, it was impossible to mark them.] [Footnote 17: Samnites: Old ed. "Samintes."] [Footnote 18: silverlings: When Steevens (apud Dodsley's O. P.) called this "a diminutive, to express the Jew's contempt of a metal inferior in value to gold," he did not know that the word occurs in Scripture: "a thousand vines at a thousand SILVERLINGS." ISAIAH, vii. 23.--Old ed. "siluerbings."] [Footnote 19: Tell: i.e. count.] [Footnote 20: seld-seen: i.e. seldom-seen.] [Footnote 21: Into what corner peers my halcyon's bill?: "It was anciently believed that this bird (the king-fisher), if hung up, would vary with the wind, and by that means shew from what quarter it blew." STEEVENS (apud Dodsley's O. P.),--who refers to the note on the following passage of Shakespeare's KING LEAR, act ii. sc. 2; "Renege, affirm, and turn their HALCYON BEAKS With every gale and vary of their masters," &c.] [Footnote 22: custom them: "i.e. enter the goods they contain at the Custom-house." STEEVENS (apud Dodsley's O. P.).] [Footnote 23: But: Old ed. "By."] [Footnote 24: fraught: i.e. freight.] [Footnote 25: scambled: i.e. scrambled. (Coles gives in his DICT. "To SCAMBLE, certatim arripere"; and afterwards renders "To scramble" by the very same Latin words.)] [Footnote 26: Enter three JEWS: A change of scene is supposed here, --to a street or to the Exchange.] [Footnote 27: Fond: i.e. Foolish.] [Footnote 28: Aside: Mr. Collier (apud Dodsley's O. P.), mistaking the purport of this stage-direction (which, of course, applies only to the words "UNTO MYSELF"), proposed an alteration of the text.] [Footnote 29: BARABAS. Farewell, Zaareth, &c.: Old ed. "Iew. DOE SO; Farewell Zaareth," &c. But "Doe so" is evidently a stage- direction which has crept into the text, and which was intended to signify that the Jews DO "take their leaves" of Barabas: --here the old ed. has no "EXEUNT."] [Footnote 30: Turk has: So the Editor of 1826.--Old ed. "Turkes haue": but see what follows.] [Footnote 31: Ego mihimet sum semper proximus: The words of Terence are "Proximus sum egomet mihi." ANDRIA, iv. 1. 12.] [Footnote 32: Exit: The scene is now supposed to be changed to the interior of the Council-house.] [Footnote 33: bassoes: i.e. bashaws.] [Footnote 34: governor: Old ed. "Gouernours" here, and several times after in this scene.] [Footnote 35: CALYMATH. Stand all aside, &c.: "The Governor and the Maltese knights here consult apart, while Calymath gives these directions." COLLIER (apud Dodsley's O. P.).] [Footnote 36: happily: i.e. haply.] [Footnote 37: Officer: Old ed. "Reader."] [Footnote 38: denies: i.e. refuses.] [Footnote 39: convertite: "i.e. convert, as in Shakespeare's KING JOHN, act v. sc. 1." STEEVENS (apud Dodsley's O. P.).] [Footnote 40: Then we'll take, &c.: In the old ed. this line forms a portion of the preceding speech.] [Footnote 41: ecstasy: Equivalent here to--violent emotion. "The word was anciently used to signify some degree of alienation of mind." COLLIER (apud Dodsley's O. P.).] [Footnote 42: Exeunt three Jews: On their departure, the scene is supposed to be changed to a street near the house of Barabas.] [Footnote 43: reduce: If the right reading, is equivalent to--repair. But qy. "redress"?] [Footnote 44: fond: "i.e. foolish." REED (apud Dodsley's O. P.).] [Footnote 45: portagues: Portuguese gold coins, so called.] [Footnote 46: sect: "i.e. sex. SECT and SEX were, in our ancient dramatic writers, used synonymously." REED (apud Dodsley's O. P.).] [Footnote 47: Enter FRIAR JACOMO, &c.: Old ed. "Enter three Fryars and two Nuns:" but assuredly only TWO Friars figure in this play.] [Footnote 48: Abb.: In the old ed. the prefix to this speech is "1 Nun," and to the next speech but one "Nun." That both speeches belong to the Abbess is quite evident.] [Footnote 49: Sometimes: Equivalent here (as frequently in our early writers) to--Sometime.] [Footnote 50: forgive me--: Old ed. "GIUE me--"] [Footnote 51: thus: After this word the old ed. has "�",--to signify, perhaps, the motion which Barabas was to make here with his hand.] [Footnote 52: forget not: Qy. "forget IT not"] [Footnote 53: Enter BARABAS, with a light: The scene is now before the house of Barabas, which has been turned into a nunnery.] [Footnote 54: Thus, like the sad-presaging raven, that tolls The sick man's passport in her hollow beak Mr. Collier (HIST. OF ENG. DRAM. POET. iii. 136) remarks that these lines are cited (with some variation, and from memory, as the present play was not printed till 1633) in an epigram on T. Deloney, in Guilpin's SKIALETHEIA OR THE SHADOWE OF TRUTH, 1598,-- "LIKE TO THE FATALL OMINOUS RAVEN, WHICH TOLLS THE SICK MAN'S DIRGE WITHIN HIS HOLLOW BEAKE, So every paper-clothed post in Poules To thee, Deloney, mourningly doth speake," &c.] [Footnote 55: of: i.e. on.] [Footnote 56: wake: Old ed. "walke."] [Footnote 57: Bueno para todos mi ganado no era: Old ed. "Birn para todos, my ganada no er."] [Footnote 58: But stay: what star shines yonder in the east, &c. Shakespeare, it would seem, recollected this passage, when he wrote,-- "But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun!" ROMEO AND JULIET, act ii. sc. 2.] [Footnote 59: Hermoso placer de los dineros: Old ed. "Hormoso Piarer, de les Denirch."] [Footnote 60: Enter Ferneze, &c.: The scene is the interior of the Council-house.] [Footnote 61: entreat: i.e. treat.] [Footnote 62: vail'd not: "i.e. did not strike or lower our flags." STEEVENS (apud Dodsley's O. P.).] [Footnote 63: Turkish: Old ed. "Spanish."] [Footnote 64: luff'd and tack'd: Old ed. "LEFT, and TOOKE."] [Footnote 65: stated: i.e. estated, established, stationed.] [Footnote 66: Enter OFFICERS, &c.: The scene being the market-place.] [Footnote 67: Poor villains, such as were: Old ed. "SUCH AS poore villaines were", &c.] [Footnote 68: into: i.e. unto: see note �, p. 15. [note |, p. 15, The First Part of Tamburlaine the Great: "| into: Used here (as the word was formerly often used) for UNTO."] [Footnote 69: city: The preceding editors have not questioned this word, which I believe to be a misprint.] [Footnote 70: foil'd]=filed, i.e. defiled.] [Footnote 71: I'll have a saying to that nunnery: Compare Barnaby Barnes's DIVILS CHARTER, 1607; "Before I do this seruice, lie there, peece; For I must HAUE A SAYING to those bottels. HE DRINKETH. True stingo; stingo, by mine honour.* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * I must HAUE A SAYING to you, sir, I must, though you be prouided for his Holines owne mouth; I will be bould to be the Popes taster by his leaue." Sig. K 3.] [Footnote 72: plates: "i.e. pieces of silver money." STEEVENS (apud Dodsley's O. P.).--Old ed. "plats."] [Footnote 73: Slave: To the speeches of this Slave the old ed. prefixes "Itha." and "Ith.", confounding him with Ithamore.] [Footnote 74: Lady Vanity: So Jonson in his FOX, act ii. sc. 3., "Get you a cittern, LADY VANITY, And be a dealer with the virtuous man," &c.; and in his DEVIL IS AN ASS, act i. sc. 1.,-- "SATAN. What Vice? PUG. Why, any: Fraud, Or Covetousness, or LADY VANITY, Or old Iniquity."] [Footnote 75: Katharine: Old ed. "MATER."--The name of Mathias's mother was, as we afterwards learn, Katharine.] [Footnote 76: stay: i.e. forbear, break off our conversation.] [Footnote 77: was: Qy. "was BUT"?] [Footnote 78: O, brave, master: The modern editors strike out the comma after "BRAVE", understanding that word as an epithet to "MASTER": but compare what Ithamore says to Barabas in act iv.: "That's BRAVE, MASTER," p. 165, first col.] [Footnote 79: your nose: An allusion to the large artificial nose, with which Barabas was represented on the stage. See the passage cited from W. Rowley's SEARCH FOR MONEY, 1609, in the ACCOUNT OF MARLOWE AND HIS WRITINGS.] [Footnote 80: Ure: i.e. use, practice.] [Footnote 81: a-good: "i.e. in good earnest. Tout de bon." REED (apud Dodsley's O. P.).] [Footnote 82: Enter LODOWICK: A change of scene supposed here,--to the outside of Barabas's house.] [Footnote 83: vow love to him: Old ed. "vow TO LOUE him": but compare, in Barabas's next speech but one, "And she VOWS LOVE TO HIM," &c.] [Footnote 84: made sure: i.e. affianced.] [Footnote 85: Ludovico: Old ed. "Lodowicke."--In act iii. we have, "I fear she knows--'tis so--of my device In Don Mathias' and LODOVICO'S deaths." p. 162, sec. col.] [Footnote 86: happily: i.e. haply.] [Footnote 87: unsoil'd: "Perhaps we ought to read 'unfoil'd', consistently with what Barabas said of her before under the figure of a jewel-- 'The diamond that I talk of NE'ER WAS FOIL'D'." COLLIER (apud Dodsley's O. P.). But see that passage, p. 155, sec. col., and note ||. [i.e. note 70.]] [Footnote 88: cross: i.e. piece of money (many coins being marked with a cross on one side).] [Footnote 89: thou: Old ed. "thee."] [Footnote 90: resolv'd: "i.e. satisfied." GILCHRIST (apud Dodsley's O. P.).] [Footnote 91: Enter BELLAMIRA: She appears, we may suppose, in a veranda or open portico of her house (that the scene is not the interior of the house, is proved by what follows).] [Footnote 92: Enter MATHIAS. MATHIAS. This is the place, &c.: The scene is some pert of the town, as Barabas appears "ABOVE,"--in the balcony of a house. (He stood, of course, on what was termed the upper-stage.) Old ed. thus; "Enter MATHIAS. Math. This is the place, now Abigail shall see Whether Mathias holds her deare or no. Enter Lodow. reading. Math. What, dares the villain write in such base terms? Lod. I did it, and reuenge it if thou dar'st."] [Footnote 93: Lodovico: Old ed. "Lodowicke."--See note *, p. 158. (i.e. note 85.)] [Footnote 94: tall: i.e. bold, brave.] [Footnote 95: What sight is this!: i.e. What A sight is this! Our early writers often omit the article in such exclamations: compare Shakespeare's JULIUS CAESAR, act i. sc. 3, where Casca says, "Cassius, WHAT NIGHT IS THIS!" (after which words the modern editors improperly retain the interrogation-point of the first folio).] [Footnote 96: Lodovico: Old ed. "Lodowicke."] [Footnote 97: These arms of mine shall be thy sepulchre: So in Shakespeare's THIRD PART OF KING HENRY VI., act ii. sc. 5, the Father says to the dead Son whom he has killed in battle, "THESE ARMS OF MINE shall be thy winding-sheet; My heart, sweet boy, SHALL BE THY SEPULCHRE,"-- lines, let me add, not to be found in THE TRUE TRAGEDIE OF RICHARD DUKE OF YORKE, on which Shakespeare formed that play.] [Footnote 98: Katharine: Old ed. "Katherina."] [Footnote 99: Enter ITHAMORE: The scene a room in the house of Barabas.] [Footnote 100: held in hand: i.e. kept in expectation, having their hopes flattered.] [Footnote 101: bottle-nosed: See note �, p. 157. [i.e. note 79.]] [Footnote 102: Jaques: Old ed. "Iaynes."] [Footnote 103: sire: Old ed. "sinne" (which, modernised to "sin", the editors retain, among many other equally obvious errors of the old copy).] [Footnote 104: As: Old ed. "And."] [Footnote 105: Enter BARABAS: The scene is still within the house of Barabas; but some time is supposed to have elapsed since the preceding conference between Abigail and Friar Jacomo.] [Footnote 106: pretendeth: Equivalent to PORTENDETH; as in our author's FIRST BOOK OF LUCAN, "And which (ay me) ever PRETENDETH ill," &c.] [Footnote 107: self: Old ed. "life" (the compositor's eye having caught "life" in the preceding line).] [Footnote 108: 'less: Old ed. "least."] [Footnote 109: Well said: See note *, p. 69.] (note *, p. 69, The Second Part of Tamburlaine the Great: "* Well said: Equivalent to--Well done! as appears from innumerable passages of our early writers: see, for instances, my ed. of Beaumont and Fletcher's WORKS, vol. i. 328, vol. ii. 445, vol. viii. 254.")] [Footnote 110: the proverb says, &c.: A proverb as old as Chaucer's time: see the SQUIERES TALE, v. 10916, ed. Tyrwhitt.] [Footnote 111: batten: i.e. fatten.] [Footnote 112: pot: Old ed. "plot."] [Footnote 113: thou shalt have broth by the eye: "Perhaps he means--thou shalt SEE how the broth that is designed for thee is made, that no mischievous ingredients enter its composition. The passage is, however, obscure." STEEVENS (apud Dodsley's O. P.).--"BY THE EYE" seems to be equivalent to--in abundance. Compare THE CREED of Piers Ploughman: "Grey grete-heded quenes With gold BY THE EIGHEN." v. 167, ed. Wright (who has no note on the expression): and Beaumont and Fletcher's KNIGHT OF THE BURNING PESTLE, act ii. sc. 2; "here's money and gold BY TH' EYE, my boy." In Fletcher's BEGGARS' BUSH, act iii. sc. 1, we find, "Come, English beer, hostess, English beer BY THE BELLY!"] [Footnote 114: In few: i.e. in a few words, in short.] [Footnote 115: hebon: i.e. ebony, which was formerly supposed to be a deadly poison.] [Footnote 116: Enter FERNEZE, &c.: The scene is the interior of the Council-house.] [Footnote 117: basso: Old ed. "Bashaws" (the printer having added an S by mistake), and in the preceding stage-direction, and in the fifth speech of this scene, "Bashaw": but in an earlier scene (see p. 148, first col.) we have "bassoes" (and see our author's TAMBURLAINE, PASSIM). (From p. 148, this play: "Enter FERNEZE governor of Malta, KNIGHTS, and OFFICERS; met by CALYMATH, and BASSOES of the TURK.")] [Footnote 118: the resistless banks: i.e. the banks not able to resist.] [Footnote 119: basilisks: See note ||, p. 25. (note ||, p. 25, The First Part of Tamburlaine the Great:) "basilisks: Pieces of ordnance so called. They were of immense size; see Douce's ILLUST. OF SHAKESPEARE, i. 425."] [Footnote 120: Enter FRIAR JACOMO, &c.: Scene, the interior of the Nunnery.] [Footnote 121: convers'd with me: She alludes to her conversation with Jacomo, p. 162, sec. col. (p. 162, second column, this play: "ABIGAIL. Welcome, grave friar.--Ithamore, be gone. Exit ITHAMORE. Know, holy sir, I am bold to solicit thee. FRIAR JACOMO. Wherein?")] [Footnote 122: envied: i.e. hated.] [Footnote 123: practice: i.e. artful contrivance, stratagem.] [Footnote 124: crucified a child: A crime with which the Jews were often charged. "Tovey, in his ANGLIA JUDAICA, has given the several instances which are upon record of these charges against the Jews; which he observes they were never accused of, but at such times as the king was manifestly in great want of money." REED (apud Dodsley's O. P.).] [Footnote 125: Enter BARABAS, &c.: Scene a street.] [Footnote 126: to: Which the Editor of 1826 deliberately altered to "like," means--compared to, in comparison of.] [Footnote 127: Cazzo: Old ed. "catho."--See Florio's WORLDE OF WORDES (Ital. and Engl. Dict.) ed. 1598, in v.--"A petty oath, a cant exclamation, generally expressive, among the Italian populace, who have it constantly in their mouth, of defiance or contempt." Gifford's note on Jonson's WORKS, ii. 48.] [Footnote 128: nose: See note �, p. 157. [i.e. note 79.]] [Footnote 129: inmate: Old ed. "inmates."] [Footnote 130: the burden of my sins Lie heavy, &c.: One of the modern editors altered "LIE" to "Lies": but examples of similar phraseology,--of a nominative singular followed by a plural verb when a plural genitive intervenes,--are common in our early writers; see notes on Beaumont and Fletcher's WORKS, vol. v. 7, 94, vol. ix. 185, ed. Dyce.] [Footnote 131: sollars: "i.e. lofts, garrets." STEEVENS (apud Dodsley's O. P.).] [Footnote 132: untold: i.e. uncounted.--Old ed. "vnsold."] [Footnote 133: BARABAS. This is mere frailty: brethren, be content.-- Friar Barnardine, go you with Ithamore: You know my mind; let me alone with him.] FRIAR JACOMO. Why does he go to thy house? let him be gone Old ed. thus; "BAR. This is meere frailty, brethren, be content. Fryar Barnardine goe you with Ithimore. ITH. You know my mind, let me alone with him; Why does he goe to thy house, let him begone."] [Footnote 134: the Turk: "Meaning Ithamore." COLLIER (apud Dodsley's O. P.). Compare the last line but one of Barabas's next speech.] [Footnote 135: covent: i.e. convent.] [Footnote 136: Therefore 'tis not requisite he should live: Lest the reader should suspect that the author wrote, "Therefore 'tis requisite he should not live," I may observe that we have had before (p. 152, first col.) a similar form of expression,-- "It is not necessary I be seen."] [Footnote 137: fair: See note |||, p. 15. ('15' sic.) (note |||, p. 13, The First Part of Tamburlaine the Great:) "In fair, &c.: Here "FAIR" is to be considered as a dissyllable: compare, in the Fourth act of our author's JEW OF MALTA, "I'll feast you, lodge you, give you FAIR words, And, after that," &c."] [Footnote 138: shall be done: Here a change of scene is supposed, to the interior of Barabas's house.] [Footnote 139: Friar, awake: Here, most probably, Barabas drew a curtain, and discovered the sleeping Friar.] [Footnote 140: have: Old ed. "saue."] [Footnote 141: What time o' night is't now, sweet Ithamore? ITHAMORE. Towards one: Might be adduced, among other passages, to shew that the modern editors are right when they print in Shakespeare's KING JOHN. act iii. sc. 3, "If the midnight bell Did, with his iron tongue and brazen mouth, Sound ONE into the drowsy ear of NIGHT," &c.] [Footnote 142: Enter FRIAR JACOMO: The scene is now before Barabas's house,--the audience having had to SUPPOSE that the body of Barnardine, which Ithamore had set upright, was standing outside the door.] [Footnote 143: proceed: Seems to be used here as equivalent to--succeed.] [Footnote 144: on's: i.e. of his.] [Footnote 145: Enter BELLAMIRA, &c.: The scene, as in p. 160, a veranda or open portico of Bellamira's house. (p. 160, this play:) " Enter BELLAMIRA. (91) BELLAMIRA. Since this town was besieg'd," etc.] [Footnote 146: tall: Which our early dramatists generally use in the sense of--bold, brave (see note �, p. 161), [i.e. note 94: is here perhaps equivalent to--handsome. ("Tall or SEMELY." PROMPT. PARV. ed. 1499.)] [Footnote 147: neck-verse: i.e. the verse (generally the beginning of the 51st Psalm, MISERERE MEI, &c.) read by a criminal to entitle him to benefit of clergy.] [Footnote 148: of: i.e. on.] [Footnote 149: exercise: i.e. sermon, preaching.] [Footnote 150: with a muschatoes: i.e. with a pair of mustachios. The modern editors print "with MUSTACHIOS," and "with a MUSTACHIOS": but compare,-- "My Tuskes more stiffe than are a Cats MUSCHATOES." S. Rowley's NOBLE SPANISH SOLDIER, 1634, Sig. C. "His crow-black MUCHATOES." THE BLACK BOOK,--Middleton's WORKS, v. 516, ed. Dyce.] [Footnote 151: Turk of tenpence: An expression not unfrequently used by our early writers. So Taylor in some verses on Coriat; "That if he had A TURKE OF TENPENCE bin," &c. WORKES, p. 82, ed. 1630. And see note on Middleton's WORKS, iii. 489, ed. Dyce.] [Footnote 152: you know: Qy. "you know, SIR,"?] [Footnote 153: I'll make him, &c.: Old ed. thus: "I'le make him send me half he has, & glad he scapes so too. PEN AND INKE: I'll write vnto him, we'le haue mony strait." There can be no doubt that the words "Pen and inke" were a direction to the property-man to have those articles on the stage.] [Footnote 154: cunning: i.e. skilfully prepared.--Old ed. "running." (The MAIDS are supposed to hear their mistress' orders WITHIN.)] [Footnote 155: Shalt live with me, and be my love: A line, slightly varied, of Marlowe's well-known song. In the preceding line, the absurdity of "by Dis ABOVE" is, of course, intentional.] [Footnote 156: beard: Old ed. "sterd."] [Footnote 157: give me a ream of paper: we'll have a kingdom of gold for't: A quibble. REALM was frequently written ream; and frequently (as the following passages shew), even when the former spelling was given, the L was not sounded; "Vpon the siluer bosome of the STREAME First gan faire Themis shake her amber locks, Whom all the Nimphs that waight on Neptunes REALME Attended from the hollowe of the rocks." Lodge's SCILLAES METAMORPHOSIS, &c. 1589, Sig. A 2. "How he may surest stablish his new conquerd REALME, How of his glorie fardest to deriue the STREAME." A HERINGS TAYLE, &c. 1598, Sig. D 3. "Learchus slew his brother for the crowne; So did Cambyses fearing much the DREAME; Antiochus, of infamous renowne, His brother slew, to rule alone the REALME." MIROUR FOR MAGISTRATES, p. 78, ed. 1610.] [Footnote 158: runs division: "A musical term [of very common occurrence]." STEEVENS (apud Dodsley's O. P.).] [Footnote 159: Enter BARABAS: The scene certainly seems to be now the interior of Barabas's house, notwithstanding what he presently says to Pilia-Borza (p. 171, sec. col.), "Pray, when, sir, shall I see you at my house?"] [Footnote 160: tatter'd: Old ed. "totter'd": but in a passage of our author's EDWARD THE SECOND the two earliest 4tos have "TATTER'D robes":--and yet Reed in a note on that passage (apud Dodsley's OLD PLAYS, where the reading of the third 4to, "tottered robes", is followed) boldly declares that "in every writer of this period the word was spelt TOTTERED"! The truth is, it was spelt sometimes one way, sometimes the other.] [Footnote 161: catzery: i.e. cheating, roguery. It is formed from CATSO (CAZZO, see note *, p. 166 i.e. note 127), which our early writers used, not only as an exclamation, but as an opprobrious term.] [Footnote 162: cross-biting: i.e. swindling (a cant term).--Something has dropt out here.] [Footnote 163: tale: i.e. reckoning.] [Footnote 164: what he writes for you: i.e. the hundred crowns to be given to the bearer: see p. 170, sec. col. p. 170, second column, this play: "ITHAMORE. [writing: SIRRAH JEW, AS YOU LOVE YOUR LIFE, SEND ME FIVE HUNDRED CROWNS, AND GIVE THE BEARER A HUNDRED. --Tell him I must have't."] [Footnote 165: I should part: Qy. "I E'ER should part"?] [Footnote 166: rid: i.e. despatch, destroy.] [Footnote 167: Enter BELLAMIRA, &c.: They are supposed to be sitting in a veranda or open portico of Bellamira's house: see note *, p. 168. [i.e. note 145.] [Footnote 168: Of: i.e. on.] [Footnote 169: BELLAMIRA.: Old ed. "Pil."] [Footnote 170: Rivo Castiliano: The origin of this Bacchanalian exclamation has not been discovered. RIVO generally is used alone; but, among passages parallel to that of our text, is the following one (which has been often cited),-- "And RYUO will he cry and CASTILE too." LOOKE ABOUT YOU, 1600, Sig. L. 4. A writer in THE WESTMINSTER REVIEW, vol. xliii. 53, thinks that it "is a misprint for RICO-CASTELLANO, meaning a Spaniard belonging to the class of RICOS HOMBRES, and the phrase therefore is-- 'Hey, NOBLE CASTILIAN, a man's a man!' 'I can pledge like a man and drink like a man, MY WORTHY TROJAN;' as some of our farce-writers would say." But the frequent occurrence of RIVO in various authors proves that it is NOT a misprint.] [Footnote 171: he: Old ed. "you".] [Footnote 172: and he and I, snicle hand too fast, strangled a friar] There is surely some corruption here. Steevens (apud Dodsley's O. P.) proposes to read "hand TO FIST". Gilchrist (ibid.) observes, "a snicle is a north-country word for a noose, and when a person is hanged, they say he is snicled." See too, in V. SNICKLE, Forby's VOC. OF EAST ANGLIA, and the CRAVEN DIALECT.--The Rev. J. Mitford proposes the following (very violent) alteration of this passage; "Itha. I carried the broth that poisoned the nuns; and he and I-- Pilia. Two hands snickle-fast-- Itha. Strangled a friar."] [Footnote 173: incony: i.e. fine, pretty, delicate.--Old ed. "incoomy."] [Footnote 174: they stink like a hollyhock: "This flower, however, has no offensive smell. STEEVENS (apud Dodsley's O. P.). Its odour resembles that of the poppy.] [Footnote 175: mushrooms: For this word (as, indeed, for most words) our early writers had no fixed spelling. Here the old ed. has "Mushrumbs": and in our author's EDWARD THE SECOND, the 4tos have "mushrump."] [Footnote 176: under the elder when he hanged himself: That Judas hanged himself on an elder-tree, was a popular legend. Nay, the very tree was exhibited to the curious in Sir John Mandeville's days: "And faste by, is zit the Tree of Eldre, that Judas henge him self upon, for despeyt that he hadde, whan he solde and betrayed oure Lorde." VOIAGE AND TRAVAILE, &c. p. 112. ed. 1725. But, according to Pulci, Judas had recourse to a carob-tree: "Era di sopra a la fonte UN CARRUBBIO, L'ARBOR, SI DICE, OVE S'IMPICCO GIUDA," &c. MORGANTE MAG. C. xxv. st. 77.] [Footnote 177: nasty: Old ed. "masty."] [Footnote 178: me: Old ed. "we".] [Footnote 179: Enter Ferneze, &c.: Scene, the interior of the Council- house.] [Footnote 180: him: Qy. "'em"?] [Footnote 181: Exeunt all, leaving Barabas on the floor: Here the audience were to suppose that Barabas had been thrown over the walls, and that the stage now represented the outside of the city.] [Footnote 182: Bassoes: Here old ed. "Bashawes." See note Sec., p. 164. [Footnote i.e. note 117.]] [Footnote 183: trench: A doubtful reading.--Old ed. "Truce."--"Query 'sluice'? 'TRUCE' seems unintelligible." COLLIER (apud Dodsley's O. P.).--The Rev. J. Mitford proposes "turret" or "tower."] [Footnote 184: channels: i.e. kennels.] [Footnote 185: Enter CALYMATH, &c.: Scene, an open place in the city.] [Footnote 186: vail: i.e. lower, stoop.] [Footnote 187: To kept: i.e. To have kept.] [Footnote 188: Entreat: i.e. Treat.] [Footnote 189: Bassoes: Here old ed. "Bashawes." See note Sec., p. 164. [Footnote i.e. note 117.]] [Footnote 190: Thus hast thou gotten, &c.: A change of scene is supposed here--to the Citadel, the residence of Barabas as governor.] [Footnote 191: Whenas: i.e. When. [Footnote 192: Within here: The usual exclamation is "Within THERE!" but compare THE HOGGE HATH LOST HIS PEARLE (by R. Tailor), 1614; "What, ho! within HERE!" Sig. E 2.] [Footnote 193: sith: i.e. since.] [Footnote 194: cast: i.e. plot, contrive.] [Footnote 195: Bassoes: Here and afterwards old ed. "Bashawes." See note Sec., p. 164. [i.e. note 117.]--Scene, outside the walls of the city.] [Footnote 196: basilisk[s: See note �, p. 25. [note ||, p. 25, The First Part of Tamburlaine the Great: "|| basilisks: Pieces of ordnance so called. They were of immense size; see Douce's ILLUST. OF SHAKESPEARE, i. 425."] [Footnote 197: And, toward Calabria, &c.: So the Editor of 1826.--Old ed. thus: "And toward Calabria back'd by Sicily, Two lofty Turrets that command the Towne. WHEN Siracusian Dionisius reign'd; I wonder how it could be conquer'd thus?"] [Footnote 198: Enter FERNEZE, &c.: Scene, a street.] [Footnote 199: linstock: "i.e. the long match with which cannon are fired." STEEVENS (apud Dodsley's O. P.).] [Footnote 200: Enter, above, &c.: Scene, a hall in the Citadel, with a gallery.] [Footnote 201: FIRST CARPENTER.: Old ed. here "Serv."; but it gives "CARP." as the prefix to the second speech after this.] [Footnote 202: off: An interpolation perhaps.] [Footnote 203: sun: Old ed. "summe."] [Footnote 204: ascend: Old ed. "attend."] [Footnote 205: A charge sounded within: FERNEZE cuts the cord; the floor of the gallery gives way, and BARABAS falls into a caldron placed in a pit. Enter KNIGHTS and MARTIN DEL BOSCO Old ed. has merely "A charge, the cable cut, A Caldron discouered."] [Footnote 206: Christian: Old ed. "Christians."] [Footnote 207: train: i.e. stratagem.] [Footnote 208: pretended: i.e. intended.] [Footnote 209: mediate: Old ed. "meditate."] [Footnote 210: all: Old ed. "call."]

Act 5

https://web.archive.org/web/20180408024636/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-jew-of-malta/study-guide/summary-act-5

Ferneze enters with knights and Martin del Bosco, fortifying Malta against the Turkish invasion to come. Bellamira enters with Pilia-Borza and informs Ferneze that it was Barabas who killed Lodowick. Bellamira also declares that Barabas strangled a friar and poisoned the nuns, including his own daughter. Ferneze asks for proof of her accusations, upon which Bellamira betrays Ithamore. Officers soon return with the accused master and slave. Ithamore readily confesses the truth, revealing all of his own and Barabas's crimes. Barabas calls for the law and attempts to divert Ferneze's attention by pointing out that Bellamira is a courtesan and Pilia-Borza is a thief-all in vain. As he is carried off by the officers, Barabas says he hopes "the poisoned flowers will work anon"; the flowers that Ithamore, Bellamira, and Pilia-Borza smelled earlier were sprinkled with poison. The lady Katherine enters and discusses the turn of events with Ferneze, whereupon an officer announces the deaths of all four: the accusers and the accused. Barabas's poison has finally taken effect--but Barabas's death was unexpected. Martin del Bosco remarks on the strangeness of Barabas's death, but Ferneze dismisses it as the justice of heaven and orders that the Jew's body be tossed over the city walls. Alone outside the walls, Barabas quickly rises; he had merely taken a "sleepy drink" to feign death. While awaiting the arrival of the Turks, Barabas vows for vengeance-let them take even his fortune, so long as he sees the governor "whipped to death"! Calymath enters and notices the Jew. As a spy, Barabas informs the Turks how to gain entrance to the city, himself volunteering to lead five hundred men to open the city gates. Calymath then promises to make Barabas the governor, should his plan succeed. Act 5, Scene 2 Calymath gloats over his easy victory and pronounces Barabas the new governor of Malta on the spot. Leaving the Jew with a number of Turkish janizaries, Calymath leaves to roam the town with his Bashaws. Barabas dismisses Ferneze and his officers and starts a monologue: although he is now governor, all of Malta hates him. Now his life is in constant danger. Besides, what good is authority without friends or profit? Barabas thus resolves to make the best of the situation. He summons Ferneze and describes his plan to recover Malta from the Turkish forces. In response to Ferneze's disbelief, the Jew demands what he can expect in return for his service to Malta, and Ferneze duly promises a great fortune. Not trusting Ferneze, Barabas sends Ferneze to visit the citizens personally to raise the money. With this agreement, Barabas releases him and makes provisions to surprise the Turks, declaring: "he from whom my most advantage comes, / Shall be my friend. / This is the life we Jews are us'd to lead; / And reason too, for Christians do the like." Act 5, Scene 3 Calymath has ordered that the damage on the island be repaired. He roams about, admiring the geographical security of the island. A messenger enters with an invitation from Barabas, who offers to host a banquet for the Turks before they leave. He has even prepared a special pearl as a present. In response to Calymath's hesitation to dine within Malta, the messenger indicates that the banquet will take place in a monastery right outside the town. Calymath finally accepts, then retires to his tent to meditate before evening. Act 5, Scene 4 Ferneze enters with his knights, giving out orders for the evening. None of the knights is to come forward until he hears a musket discharged. The knights swear their allegiance to Ferneze and leave the scene. Act 5, Scene 5 Barabas supervises the carpenters as they finish up some construction at the monastery. He pays them and offers them wine from his cellar as they leave. The messenger then enters to confirm Calymath's presence for the festivities. Immediately afterwards, Ferneze arrives with the hundred thousand pounds that he has collected, but Barabas refuses to take the gold on the spot. The Jew then explains the contraption he has built, whereby Calymath's army will be instantly obliterated. As for getting rid of Calymath himself and his attendants, Ferneze need only cut a single rope at the right moment. Ferneze hides himself as he sees the Turks coming, and Barabas is left alone to boast about his "kingly kind of trade, to purchase towns / By treachery and sell 'em by deceit." Calymath arrives with kind words, and Barabas invites him to ascend the stairs-whereupon Ferneze jumps out of hiding and cuts the rope, revealing a cauldron into which Barabas falls. Meanwhile the First Knight has sounded a charge within. All look on as Barabas struggles helplessly in the pit, crying for help. Finally resolved to death, the Jew openly admits his past crimes and dies amidst a string of curses. Calymath attempts to leave with the idea that he will persuade Turkey to give up its claim on Malta, but Ferneze points out that all his soldiers have been massacred by Barabas's contraption--Spain is the protector once again. The curtain falls with Ferneze's declaration that he will take Calymath as prisoner, followed by Ferneze's praise to heaven.

After Ithamore corroborates the accusations of Bellamira and Pilia-Borza, Ferneze exclaims: "Away with him! His sight is death to me." Barabas cries out in response: "Let me have the law, / For none of this can prejudice my life." At first glance, one may accuse the Jew of a type of legalism. He calls for the law only when it is useful to himself, thus adhering to its rules rather than its spirit. Yet, one wonders why the law would be useful to Barabas. Only a while ago, in the previous act, Friar Jacomo was executed swiftly and under the law respecting murder. There is no reason to think that Barabas would be exonerated, should a fair trial even take place. Perhaps Barabas is scared that Ferneze will prematurely send him to his death. The governor's impetuous exclamation certainly does not bode well for the Jew. By calling for the law, then, Barabas is again bargaining for time, and he needs only a few extra moments; once the poison from the flowers works its effect, he might become safe under the law due to the lack of witnesses. But the witnesses have already spoken, so he needs time at least to take a "sleepy drink" to increase his chances of escaping the gallows. This device allows Barabas to survive, which serves the plot: he ends up outside the city to become the spy who leads the Turks into Malta. The Turks having conquered the city, Calymath keeps his promise and makes Barabas the governor. But this does not seem so good to the Jew. As a corrupt governor, after all, he will be forced to lead the life of a tyrant: But Malta hates me, and, in hating me, My life's in danger; and what boots it thee, Poor Barabas, to be the governor, Whenas thy life shall be at their command?" This line of thought reflects a view of the dangers of leadership dating at least to Plato's Republic . Though he may have power and wealth, the tyrant will lead a fundamentally unhappy life. Barabas therefore attempts to make best of the situation by serving as something of a double agent, plotting to return Malta to Ferneze. Barabas takes considerable pleasure in the intricate plot to obliterate the Turkish forces. For the first time in the play, however, the plot fails miserably: the tables are turned, and Barabas falls into the deep pit designed for Calymath. Is this, as Ferneze suggests, the work of heaven? Perhaps, but several points distinguish Barabas's last plot. To begin with, he has built a large and conspicuous physical contraption-in opposition to his previous subtle scheming in the shadows. Barabas becomes so excited with the contraption itself that he declines to take the payment until later. He also unnecessarily explains the details to Ferneze who, he should know very well by experience, cannot be trusted. Finally, so sure of his success, he hands over the crucial device of execution to Ferneze. The execution of his plan, as it were, becomes his own execution: he mirrors the falling motion seen at the gallows when he falls into a cauldron-which also is a magnified version of the pot of porridge he used to murder Abigall and the nuns. In Greek theater, the gods would have punished Barabas for his hubris. In The Jew of Malta, Barabas finally tastes his own poison, receiving poetic justice. He has become so proud and involved in his own plot of revenge that he almost forgets his place in the world as a successful merchant. The money he raises via Ferneze almost amounts to protection money. When Barabas refuses to take Ferneze's payment on the spot, though, he has involuntarily condemned himself-exactly in the manner of the friars Jacomo and Barnardine, when they forgot their spiritual paths and ran after Barabas's wealth. Finally at the end of his rope in the cauldron, Barabas utters his one and only confession. But the confession does not bask in religiosity. In accordance with his character, he ends his life with a curse of frustration: if only he could have "brought confusion on you all"! Despite all the havoc he has wreaked, Barabas serves a crucial role in the safety of Malta all the way to his death. His money buys Malta a month's time, during which Martin del Bosco minimizes damage to the city by helping the Turks to an easy victory; finally, he liberates Ferneze and allows Malta to assert its independence once and for all. Yet, it is not at all clear that the ending should be considered "happy." The governor Ferneze has after all revealed himself to be a hypocrite and traitor, no less Machiavellian than Barabas-in contrast to the invading Turks, who have acted with relative courtesy. T. S. Eliot famously called The Jew of Malta a "tragic farce." It is perhaps a farce because the tragic elements remain conspicuously unnoticed by the surviving characters, and a tragedy because the farcical elements ultimately lead to death.

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/901-chapters/act_1.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/The Jew of Malta/section_0_part_0.txt

The Jew of Malta.act 1

act 1

{"name": "", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210228041946/https://www.sparknotes.com/drama/jewofmalta/section1/", "summary": "Prologue The narrator Machevill introduces the play. The renowned author on statecraft says that although everyone thinks Machevill is dead, his soul has crossed the Alps to \"frolic\"--cause mischief--with friends in England. Machevill mentions the Duke of Guise's death in passing to suggest that political considerations have reached England, thus contradicting those who maintain that the country is unaffected by such concerns. The narrator dismisses religion as a \"childish toy\" and disdains popular superstition. He asserts that those who follow his lead will attain political success; according to Machevill \"might\" or manifest strength in a leader is more necessary than knowledge of \"letters.\" As he paints his picture of evil megalomania, Machevill suddenly states the real reason for his presence: to introduce the \"tragedy of a Jew. \" The narrator states that this man's riches were gained through close adherence to Machevill's own recommended methods. He concludes by hoping that his subject is not treated badly, since the Jew \"favors\" him. This scene introduces Barabas, the play's Jewish protagonist. The action is set in a counting house filled with piles of gold; Barabas starts to speak as if in mid-sentence. We discover that he is a Maltese merchant whose ships have arrived safely from the East. A merchant asks the protagonist to come and pay customs duties on his goods, saying that this cost alone is worth more than the wealth of many traders. Barabas dismisses him after enquiring about his \"argosy\" or ship that is bringing him luxurious goods form the East. Another merchant enters and explains that the argosy has arrived safely, having lost sight of the other ships after it ran into the Spanish fleet chased by Turkish galleys. Barabas tells the man to leave and bring his goods ashore. The protagonist then launches into a speech about his great fortune and personal wealth, deciding that he would rather be rich and hated than poor and pitied . Thus, Barabas rejects traditional notions of Christian charity. He further disparages Christianity by noting that those who are truly pious live in penury and that he sees nothing in the religion but \"malice, falsehood, and excessive pride.\" The protagonist talks about the success of Jewish people, even though they are a \"scattered nation.\" He notes that all he wants is peaceful rule so that he can accrue wealth to leave to his only daughter. Three Jews enter seeking Barabas's advice. They state that a Turkish fleet is blocking their sea-passage and that an embassy has come ashore to meet with the Maltese rulers. Barabas instructs the men not to worry, saying that they will either conquer the Turks if they make war or let them go in peace if they have not come to fight. However, in an aside, Barabas states that he does not care about other Maltese, or even his fellow Jews, so long as the Turks \"spare me, my daughter, and my wealth.\" Barabas reassures the men that Turkey and Malta are in league and that officials must be discussing some other matter--such as the invasion of Venice. The men inform Barabas that all Jews must go to the \"senate- house\" for a meeting, to which the wealthy merchant responds that he will look out for their interests, but, again in an aside, Barabas states that he will only protect his own. The Jews leave, and Barabas hypothesizes to himself that the Turks have come to raise the tribute demanded from Malta. He concludes by asserting that he would let the foreigners invade rather than help his rulers out with any money.", "analysis": "In the prologue, Marlowe introduces themes of Machiavellian scheming and disrespect for religion that run throughout the play. The narrator Machevill is a scheming, covetous strategist who bears little resemblance to the real Machiavelli, the Italian author of the Discourses and The Prince. He represents a caricature of the type of man the English most feared--a self-interested politician who advocates tyrannical rule to exact obedience from his subjects. The narrator states that the Jew of the play's title \"favors\" him, indicating that the men resemble one another or that Barabas follows him in teaching. Machevill's rejection of religion anticipates the derogatory remarks the protagonist makes about Christianity throughout the play. The narrator suggests that those who wish to gain power or wealth must place earthly concerns before spiritual ones. He even states that those who \"attain / to Peter's chair\"--i.e. those who want to become Pope--do so by following his teaching; spurning his lead, they find themselves poisoned by others with similar ambitions. This comment refers to the murder of Pope Alexander VI in 1503, supposedly by his son Cesare Borgia. Machevill also mentions the death of the Duke of Guise, a French nobleman. There is evidence to suggest that Elizabethan audiences regarded Machiavelli as evil and took as evidence all the foul political dealings on the continent that sprang from Machiavellian ambitions in Popes, princes, and state leaders. They would have accepted Machevill as an accurate characterization of real scheming figures in Europe. Thus, Marlowe weaves historical facts into his prologue in order to lend credibility to his play's themes of political strategy and self-interest. These themes come to the fore in Act I, scene i. Although Barabas rejoices in the safe return of his precious horde of \"spice and silks\" from the East, which has earned him a fortune, he prepares to guard his riches from any outsiders--be these the rulers of Malta, Turkish troops, or even his fellow Jews who come seeking advice. The protagonist refuses to concede anything to anyone. The only exception is his daughter, Abigail, who will receive her father's fortune on his death. Barabas thus appears unashamedly self-serving and strategic. Although he reassures his three friends that he will protect their own interests, he mutters in an aside that he will only \"look unto myself.\" From the opening scene, Marlowe makes it clear that Barabas is more interested in his profits than he is in his religion. This makes the persecution he encounters as a Jew all the more ironic. Throughout the play, characters use Barabas's faith as an excuse to cheat him out of his money. Instead of being a \"childish toy\" as Machevill asserts, Marlowe will show how religion--and particularly religious hypocrisy--may be used as a tool to earn a profit. The characters speak in blank verse in the Prologue and in Act I, scene i, as they do throughout the play. This adds a blunt force to the characters' speech--particularly Machevill's--and highlights the crudeness of their motives."}

ACT I. [16] BARABAS discovered in his counting-house, with heaps of gold before him. BARABAS. So that of thus much that return was made; And of the third part of the Persian ships There was the venture summ'd and satisfied. As for those Samnites, [17] and the men of Uz, That bought my Spanish oils and wines of Greece, Here have I purs'd their paltry silverlings. [18] Fie, what a trouble 'tis to count this trash! Well fare the Arabians, who so richly pay The things they traffic for with wedge of gold, Whereof a man may easily in a day Tell [19] that which may maintain him all his life. The needy groom, that never finger'd groat, Would make a miracle of thus much coin; But he whose steel-barr'd coffers are cramm'd full, And all his life-time hath been tired, Wearying his fingers' ends with telling it, Would in his age be loath to labour so, And for a pound to sweat himself to death. Give me the merchants of the Indian mines, That trade in metal of the purest mould; The wealthy Moor, that in the eastern rocks Without control can pick his riches up, And in his house heap pearl like pebble-stones, Receive them free, and sell them by the weight; Bags of fiery opals, sapphires, amethysts, Jacinths, hard topaz, grass-green emeralds, Beauteous rubies, sparkling diamonds, And seld-seen [20] costly stones of so great price, As one of them, indifferently rated, And of a carat of this quantity, May serve, in peril of calamity, To ransom great kings from captivity. This is the ware wherein consists my wealth; And thus methinks should men of judgment frame Their means of traffic from the vulgar trade, And, as their wealth increaseth, so inclose Infinite riches in a little room. But now how stands the wind? Into what corner peers my halcyon's bill? [21] Ha! to the east? yes. See how stand the vanes-- East and by south: why, then, I hope my ships I sent for Egypt and the bordering isles Are gotten up by Nilus' winding banks; Mine argosy from Alexandria, Loaden with spice and silks, now under sail, Are smoothly gliding down by Candy-shore To Malta, through our Mediterranean sea.-- But who comes here? Enter a MERCHANT. How now! MERCHANT. Barabas, thy ships are safe, Riding in Malta-road; and all the merchants With other merchandise are safe arriv'd, And have sent me to know whether yourself Will come and custom them. [22] BARABAS. The ships are safe thou say'st, and richly fraught? MERCHANT. They are. BARABAS. Why, then, go bid them come ashore, And bring with them their bills of entry: I hope our credit in the custom-house Will serve as well as I were present there. Go send 'em threescore camels, thirty mules, And twenty waggons, to bring up the ware. But art thou master in a ship of mine, And is thy credit not enough for that? MERCHANT. The very custom barely comes to more Than many merchants of the town are worth, And therefore far exceeds my credit, sir. BARABAS. Go tell 'em the Jew of Malta sent thee, man: Tush, who amongst 'em knows not Barabas? MERCHANT. I go. BARABAS. So, then, there's somewhat come.-- Sirrah, which of my ships art thou master of? MERCHANT. Of the Speranza, sir. BARABAS. And saw'st thou not Mine argosy at Alexandria? Thou couldst not come from Egypt, or by Caire, But at the entry there into the sea, Where Nilus pays his tribute to the main, Thou needs must sail by Alexandria. MERCHANT. I neither saw them, nor inquir'd of them: But this we heard some of our seamen say, They wonder'd how you durst with so much wealth Trust such a crazed vessel, and so far. BARABAS. Tush, they are wise! I know her and her strength. But [23] go, go thou thy ways, discharge thy ship, And bid my factor bring his loading in. [Exit MERCHANT.] And yet I wonder at this argosy. Enter a Second MERCHANT. SECOND MERCHANT. Thine argosy from Alexandria, Know, Barabas, doth ride in Malta-road, Laden with riches, and exceeding store Of Persian silks, of gold, and orient pearl. BARABAS. How chance you came not with those other ships That sail'd by Egypt? SECOND MERCHANT. Sir, we saw 'em not. BARABAS. Belike they coasted round by Candy-shore About their oils or other businesses. But 'twas ill done of you to come so far Without the aid or conduct of their ships. SECOND MERCHANT. Sir, we were wafted by a Spanish fleet, That never left us till within a league, That had the galleys of the Turk in chase. BARABAS. O, they were going up to Sicily. Well, go, And bid the merchants and my men despatch, And come ashore, and see the fraught [24] discharg'd. SECOND MERCHANT. I go. [Exit.] BARABAS. Thus trolls our fortune in by land and sea, And thus are we on every side enrich'd: These are the blessings promis'd to the Jews, And herein was old Abraham's happiness: What more may heaven do for earthly man Than thus to pour out plenty in their laps, Ripping the bowels of the earth for them, Making the sea[s] their servants, and the winds To drive their substance with successful blasts? Who hateth me but for my happiness? Or who is honour'd now but for his wealth? Rather had I, a Jew, be hated thus, Than pitied in a Christian poverty; For I can see no fruits in all their faith, But malice, falsehood, and excessive pride, Which methinks fits not their profession. Haply some hapless man hath conscience, And for his conscience lives in beggary. They say we are a scatter'd nation: I cannot tell; but we have scambled [25] up More wealth by far than those that brag of faith: There's Kirriah Jairim, the great Jew of Greece, Obed in Bairseth, Nones in Portugal, Myself in Malta, some in Italy, Many in France, and wealthy every one; Ay, wealthier far than any Christian. I must confess we come not to be kings: That's not our fault: alas, our number's few! And crowns come either by succession, Or urg'd by force; and nothing violent, Oft have I heard tell, can be permanent. Give us a peaceful rule; make Christians kings, That thirst so much for principality. I have no charge, nor many children, But one sole daughter, whom I hold as dear As Agamemnon did his Iphigen; And all I have is hers.--But who comes here? Enter three JEWS. [26] FIRST JEW. Tush, tell not me; 'twas done of policy. SECOND JEW. Come, therefore, let us go to Barabas; For he can counsel best in these affairs: And here he comes. BARABAS. Why, how now, countrymen! Why flock you thus to me in multitudes? What accident's betided to the Jews? FIRST JEW. A fleet of warlike galleys, Barabas, Are come from Turkey, and lie in our road: And they this day sit in the council-house To entertain them and their embassy. BARABAS. Why, let 'em come, so they come not to war; Or let 'em war, so we be conquerors.-- Nay, let 'em combat, conquer, and kill all, So they spare me, my daughter, and my wealth. [Aside.] FIRST JEW. Were it for confirmation of a league, They would not come in warlike manner thus. SECOND JEW. I fear their coming will afflict us all. BARABAS. Fond [27] men, what dream you of their multitudes? What need they treat of peace that are in league? The Turks and those of Malta are in league: Tut, tut, there is some other matter in't. FIRST JEW. Why, Barabas, they come for peace or war. BARABAS. Haply for neither, but to pass along, Towards Venice, by the Adriatic sea, With whom they have attempted many times, But never could effect their stratagem. THIRD JEW. And very wisely said; it may be so. SECOND JEW. But there's a meeting in the senate-house, And all the Jews in Malta must be there. BARABAS. Hum,--all the Jews in Malta must be there! Ay, like enough: why, then, let every man Provide him, and be there for fashion-sake. If any thing shall there concern our state, Assure yourselves I'll look--unto myself. [Aside.] [28] FIRST JEW. I know you will.--Well, brethren, let us go. SECOND JEW. Let's take our leaves.--Farewell, good Barabas. BARABAS. [29] Farewell, Zaareth; farewell, Temainte. [Exeunt JEWS.] And, Barabas, now search this secret out; Summon thy senses, call thy wits together: These silly men mistake the matter clean. Long to the Turk did Malta contribute; Which tribute all in policy, I fear, The Turk has [30] let increase to such a sum As all the wealth of Malta cannot pay; And now by that advantage thinks, belike, To seize upon the town; ay, that he seeks. Howe'er the world go, I'll make sure for one, And seek in time to intercept the worst, Warily guarding that which I ha' got: Ego mihimet sum semper proximus: [31] Why, let 'em enter, let 'em take the town. [Exit.] [32] Enter FERNEZE governor of Malta, KNIGHTS, and OFFICERS; met by CALYMATH, and BASSOES of the TURK. FERNEZE. Now, bassoes, [33] what demand you at our hands? FIRST BASSO. Know, knights of Malta, that we came from Rhodes, ]From Cyprus, Candy, and those other isles That lie betwixt the Mediterranean seas. FERNEZE. What's Cyprus, Candy, and those other isles To us or Malta? what at our hands demand ye? CALYMATH. The ten years' tribute that remains unpaid. FERNEZE. Alas, my lord, the sum is over-great! I hope your highness will consider us. CALYMATH. I wish, grave governor, [34] 'twere in my power To favour you; but 'tis my father's cause, Wherein I may not, nay, I dare not dally. FERNEZE. Then give us leave, great Selim Calymath. CALYMATH. Stand all aside, [35] and let the knights determine; And send to keep our galleys under sail, For happily [36] we shall not tarry here.-- Now, governor, how are you resolv'd? FERNEZE. Thus; since your hard conditions are such That you will needs have ten years' tribute past, We may have time to make collection Amongst the inhabitants of Malta for't. FIRST BASSO. That's more than is in our commission. CALYMATH. What, Callapine! a little courtesy: Let's know their time; perhaps it is not long; And 'tis more kingly to obtain by peace Than to enforce conditions by constraint.-- What respite ask you, governor? FERNEZE. But a month. CALYMATH. We grant a month; but see you keep your promise. Now launch our galleys back again to sea, Where we'll attend the respite you have ta'en, And for the money send our messenger. Farewell, great governor, and brave knights of Malta. FERNEZE. And all good fortune wait on Calymath! [Exeunt CALYMATH and BASSOES.] Go one and call those Jews of Malta hither: Were they not summon'd to appear to-day? FIRST OFFICER. They were, my lord; and here they come. Enter BARABAS and three JEWS. FIRST KNIGHT. Have you determin'd what to say to them? FERNEZE. Yes; give me leave:--and, Hebrews, now come near. ]From the Emperor of Turkey is arriv'd Great Selim Calymath, his highness' son, To levy of us ten years' tribute past: Now, then, here know that it concerneth us. BARABAS. Then, good my lord, to keep your quiet still, Your lordship shall do well to let them have it. FERNEZE. Soft, Barabas! there's more 'longs to't than so. To what this ten years' tribute will amount, That we have cast, but cannot compass it By reason of the wars, that robb'd our store; And therefore are we to request your aid. BARABAS. Alas, my lord, we are no soldiers! And what's our aid against so great a prince? FIRST KNIGHT. Tut, Jew, we know thou art no soldier: Thou art a merchant and a money'd man, And 'tis thy money, Barabas, we seek. BARABAS. How, my lord! my money! FERNEZE. Thine and the rest; For, to be short, amongst you't must be had. FIRST JEW. Alas, my lord, the most of us are poor! FERNEZE. Then let the rich increase your portions. BARABAS. Are strangers with your tribute to be tax'd? SECOND KNIGHT. Have strangers leave with us to get their wealth? Then let them with us contribute. BARABAS. How! equally? FERNEZE. No, Jew, like infidels; For through our sufferance of your hateful lives, Who stand accursed in the sight of heaven, These taxes and afflictions are befall'n, And therefore thus we are determined.-- Read there the articles of our decrees. OFFICER. [37] [reads] FIRST, THE TRIBUTE-MONEY OF THE TURKS SHALL ALL BE LEVIED AMONGST THE JEWS, AND EACH OF THEM TO PAY ONE HALF OF HIS ESTATE. BARABAS. How! half his estate!--I hope you mean not mine. [Aside.] FERNEZE. Read on. OFFICER. [reads] SECONDLY, HE THAT DENIES [38] TO PAY, SHALL STRAIGHT-BECOME A CHRISTIAN. BARABAS. How! a Christian!--Hum,--what's here to do? [Aside.] OFFICER. [reads] LASTLY, HE THAT DENIES THIS, SHALL ABSOLUTELY LOSE ALL HE HAS. THREE JEWS. O my lord, we will give half! BARABAS. O earth-mettled villains, and no Hebrews born! And will you basely thus submit yourselves To leave your goods to their arbitrement? FERNEZE. Why, Barabas, wilt thou be christened? BARABAS. No, governor, I will be no convertite. [39] FERNEZE. Then pay thy half. BARABAS. Why, know you what you did by this device? Half of my substance is a city's wealth. Governor, it was not got so easily; Nor will I part so slightly therewithal. FERNEZE. Sir, half is the penalty of our decree; Either pay that, or we will seize on all. BARABAS. Corpo di Dio! stay: you shall have half; Let me be us'd but as my brethren are. FERNEZE. No, Jew, thou hast denied the articles, And now it cannot be recall'd. [Exeunt OFFICERS, on a sign from FERNEZE] BARABAS. Will you, then, steal my goods? Is theft the ground of your religion? FERNEZE. No, Jew; we take particularly thine, To save the ruin of a multitude: And better one want for a common good, Than many perish for a private man: Yet, Barabas, we will not banish thee, But here in Malta, where thou gott'st thy wealth, Live still; and, if thou canst, get more. BARABAS. Christians, what or how can I multiply? Of naught is nothing made. FIRST KNIGHT. From naught at first thou cam'st to little wealth, ]From little unto more, from more to most: If your first curse fall heavy on thy head, And make thee poor and scorn'd of all the world, 'Tis not our fault, but thy inherent sin. BARABAS. What, bring you Scripture to confirm your wrongs? Preach me not out of my possessions. Some Jews are wicked, as all Christians are: But say the tribe that I descended of Were all in general cast away for sin, Shall I be tried by their transgression? The man that dealeth righteously shall live; And which of you can charge me otherwise? FERNEZE. Out, wretched Barabas! Sham'st thou not thus to justify thyself, As if we knew not thy profession? If thou rely upon thy righteousness, Be patient, and thy riches will increase. Excess of wealth is cause of covetousness; And covetousness, O, 'tis a monstrous sin! BARABAS. Ay, but theft is worse: tush! take not from me, then, For that is theft; and, if you rob me thus, I must be forc'd to steal, and compass more. FIRST KNIGHT. Grave governor, list not to his exclaims: Convert his mansion to a nunnery; His house will harbour many holy nuns. FERNEZE. It shall be so. Re-enter OFFICERS. Now, officers, have you done? FIRST OFFICER. Ay, my lord, we have seiz'd upon the goods And wares of Barabas, which, being valu'd, Amount to more than all the wealth in Malta: And of the other we have seized half. FERNEZE. Then we'll take [40] order for the residue. BARABAS. Well, then, my lord, say, are you satisfied? You have my goods, my money, and my wealth, My ships, my store, and all that I enjoy'd; And, having all, you can request no more, Unless your unrelenting flinty hearts Suppress all pity in your stony breasts, And now shall move you to bereave my life. FERNEZE. No, Barabas; to stain our hands with blood Is far from us and our profession. BARABAS. Why, I esteem the injury far less, To take the lives of miserable men Than be the causers of their misery. You have my wealth, the labour of my life, The comfort of mine age, my children's hope; And therefore ne'er distinguish of the wrong. FERNEZE. Content thee, Barabas; thou hast naught but right. BARABAS. Your extreme right does me exceeding wrong: But take it to you, i'the devil's name! FERNEZE. Come, let us in, and gather of these goods The money for this tribute of the Turk. FIRST KNIGHT. 'Tis necessary that be look'd unto; For, if we break our day, we break the league, And that will prove but simple policy. [Exeunt all except BARABAS and the three JEWS.] BARABAS. Ay, policy! that's their profession, And not simplicity, as they suggest.-- The plagues of Egypt, and the curse of heaven, Earth's barrenness, and all men's hatred, Inflict upon them, thou great Primus Motor! And here upon my knees, striking the earth, I ban their souls to everlasting pains, And extreme tortures of the fiery deep, That thus have dealt with me in my distress! FIRST JEW. O, yet be patient, gentle Barabas! BARABAS. O silly brethren, born to see this day, Why stand you thus unmov'd with my laments? Why weep you not to think upon my wrongs? Why pine not I, and die in this distress? FIRST JEW. Why, Barabas, as hardly can we brook The cruel handling of ourselves in this: Thou seest they have taken half our goods. BARABAS. Why did you yield to their extortion? You were a multitude, and I but one; And of me only have they taken all. FIRST JEW. Yet, brother Barabas, remember Job. BARABAS. What tell you me of Job? I wot his wealth Was written thus; he had seven thousand sheep, Three thousand camels, and two hundred yoke Of labouring oxen, and five hundred She-asses: but for every one of those, Had they been valu'd at indifferent rate, I had at home, and in mine argosy, And other ships that came from Egypt last, As much as would have bought his beasts and him, And yet have kept enough to live upon; So that not he, but I, may curse the day, Thy fatal birth-day, forlorn Barabas; And henceforth wish for an eternal night, That clouds of darkness may inclose my flesh, And hide these extreme sorrows from mine eyes; For only I have toil'd to inherit here The months of vanity, and loss of time, And painful nights, have been appointed me. SECOND JEW. Good Barabas, be patient. BARABAS. Ay, I pray, leave me in my patience. You, that Were ne'er possess'd of wealth, are pleas'd with want; But give him liberty at least to mourn, That in a field, amidst his enemies, Doth see his soldiers slain, himself disarm'd, And knows no means of his recovery: Ay, let me sorrow for this sudden chance; 'Tis in the trouble of my spirit I speak: Great injuries are not so soon forgot. FIRST JEW. Come, let us leave him; in his ireful mood Our words will but increase his ecstasy. [41] SECOND JEW. On, then: but, trust me, 'tis a misery To see a man in such affliction.-- Farewell, Barabas. BARABAS. Ay, fare you well. [Exeunt three JEWS.] [42] See the simplicity of these base slaves, Who, for the villains have no wit themselves, Think me to be a senseless lump of clay, That will with every water wash to dirt! No, Barabas is born to better chance, And fram'd of finer mould than common men, That measure naught but by the present time. A reaching thought will search his deepest wits, And cast with cunning for the time to come; For evils are apt to happen every day. Enter ABIGAIL. But whither wends my beauteous Abigail? O, what has made my lovely daughter sad? What, woman! moan not for a little loss; Thy father has enough in store for thee. ABIGAIL. Nor for myself, but aged Barabas, Father, for thee lamenteth Abigail: But I will learn to leave these fruitless tears; And, urg'd thereto with my afflictions, With fierce exclaims run to the senate-house, And in the senate reprehend them all, And rent their hearts with tearing of my hair, Till they reduce [43] the wrongs done to my father. BARABAS. No, Abigail; things past recovery Are hardly cur'd with exclamations: Be silent, daughter; sufferance breeds ease, And time may yield us an occasion, Which on the sudden cannot serve the turn. Besides, my girl, think me not all so fond [44] As negligently to forgo so much Without provision for thyself and me: Ten thousand portagues, [45] besides great pearls, Rich costly jewels, and stones infinite, Fearing the worst of this before it fell, I closely hid. ABIGAIL. Where, father? BARABAS. In my house, my girl. ABIGAIL. Then shall they ne'er be seen of Barabas; For they have seiz'd upon thy house and wares. BARABAS. But they will give me leave once more, I trow, To go into my house. ABIGAIL. That may they not; For there I left the governor placing nuns, Displacing me; and of thy house they mean To make a nunnery, where none but their own sect [46] Must enter in; men generally barr'd. BARABAS. My gold, my gold, and all my wealth is gone!-- You partial heavens, have I deserv'd this plague? What, will you thus oppose me, luckless stars, To make me desperate in my poverty? And, knowing me impatient in distress, Think me so mad as I will hang myself, That I may vanish o'er the earth in air, And leave no memory that e'er I was? No, I will live; nor loathe I this my life: And, since you leave me in the ocean thus To sink or swim, and put me to my shifts, I'll rouse my senses, and awake myself.-- Daughter, I have it: thou perceiv'st the plight Wherein these Christians have oppressed me: Be rul'd by me, for in extremity We ought to make bar of no policy. ABIGAIL. Father, whate'er it be, to injure them That have so manifestly wronged us, What will not Abigail attempt? BARABAS. Why, so. Then thus: thou told'st me they have turn'd my house Into a nunnery, and some nuns are there? ABIGAIL. I did. BARABAS. Then, Abigail, there must my girl Entreat the abbess to be entertain'd. ABIGAIL. How! as a nun? BARABAS. Ay, daughter; for religion Hides many mischiefs from suspicion. ABIGAIL. Ay, but, father, they will suspect me there. BARABAS. Let 'em suspect; but be thou so precise As they may think it done of holiness: Entreat 'em fair, and give them friendly speech, And seem to them as if thy sins were great, Till thou hast gotten to be entertain'd. ABIGAIL. Thus, father, shall I much dissemble. BARABAS. Tush! As good dissemble that thou never mean'st, As first mean truth and then dissemble it: A counterfeit profession is better Than unseen hypocrisy. ABIGAIL. Well, father, say I be entertain'd, What then shall follow? BARABAS. This shall follow then. There have I hid, close underneath the plank That runs along the upper-chamber floor, The gold and jewels which I kept for thee:-- But here they come: be cunning, Abigail. ABIGAIL. Then, father, go with me. BARABAS. No, Abigail, in this It is not necessary I be seen; For I will seem offended with thee for't: Be close, my girl, for this must fetch my gold. [They retire.] Enter FRIAR JACOMO, [47] FRIAR BARNARDINE, ABBESS, and a NUN. FRIAR JACOMO. Sisters, We now are almost at the new-made nunnery. ABBESS. [48] The better; for we love not to be seen: 'Tis thirty winters long since some of us Did stray so far amongst the multitude. FRIAR JACOMO. But, madam, this house And waters of this new-made nunnery Will much delight you. ABBESS. It may be so.--But who comes here? [ABIGAIL comes forward.] ABIGAIL. Grave abbess, and you happy virgins' guide, Pity the state of a distressed maid! ABBESS. What art thou, daughter? ABIGAIL. The hopeless daughter of a hapless Jew, The Jew of Malta, wretched Barabas, Sometimes [49] the owner of a goodly house, Which they have now turn'd to a nunnery. ABBESS. Well, daughter, say, what is thy suit with us? ABIGAIL. Fearing the afflictions which my father feels Proceed from sin or want of faith in us, I'd pass away my life in penitence, And be a novice in your nunnery, To make atonement for my labouring soul. FRIAR JACOMO. No doubt, brother, but this proceedeth of the spirit. FRIAR BARNARDINE. Ay, and of a moving spirit too, brother: but come, Let us entreat she may be entertain'd. ABBESS. Well, daughter, we admit you for a nun. ABIGAIL. First let me as a novice learn to frame My solitary life to your strait laws, And let me lodge where I was wont to lie: I do not doubt, by your divine precepts And mine own industry, but to profit much. BARABAS. As much, I hope, as all I hid is worth. [Aside.] ABBESS. Come, daughter, follow us. BARABAS. [coming forward] Why, how now, Abigail! What mak'st thou 'mongst these hateful Christians? FRIAR JACOMO. Hinder her not, thou man of little faith, For she has mortified herself. BARABAS. How! mortified! FRIAR JACOMO. And is admitted to the sisterhood. BARABAS. Child of perdition, and thy father's shame! What wilt thou do among these hateful fiends? I charge thee on my blessing that thou leave These devils and their damned heresy! ABIGAIL. Father, forgive me-- [50] BARABAS. Nay, back, Abigail, And think upon the jewels and the gold; The board is marked thus that covers it.-- [Aside to ABIGAIL in a whisper.] Away, accursed, from thy father's sight! FRIAR JACOMO. Barabas, although thou art in misbelief, And wilt not see thine own afflictions, Yet let thy daughter be no longer blind. BARABAS. Blind friar, I reck not thy persuasions,-- The board is marked thus [51] that covers it-- [Aside to ABIGAIL in a whisper.] For I had rather die than see her thus.-- Wilt thou forsake me too in my distress, Seduced daughter?--Go, forget not.-- [52] [Aside to her in a whisper.] Becomes it Jews to be so credulous?-- To-morrow early I'll be at the door.-- [Aside to her in a whisper.] No, come not at me; if thou wilt be damn'd, Forget me, see me not; and so, be gone!-- Farewell; remember to-morrow morning.-- [Aside to her in a whisper.] Out, out, thou wretch! [Exit, on one side, BARABAS. Exeunt, on the other side, FRIARS, ABBESS, NUN, and ABIGAIL: and, as they are going out,] Enter MATHIAS. MATHIAS. Who's this? fair Abigail, the rich Jew's daughter, Become a nun! her father's sudden fall Has humbled her, and brought her down to this: Tut, she were fitter for a tale of love, Than to be tired out with orisons; And better would she far become a bed, Embraced in a friendly lover's arms, Than rise at midnight to a solemn mass. Enter LODOWICK. LODOWICK. Why, how now, Don Mathias! in a dump? MATHIAS. Believe me, noble Lodowick, I have seen The strangest sight, in my opinion, That ever I beheld. LODOWICK. What was't, I prithee? MATHIAS. A fair young maid, scarce fourteen years of age, The sweetest flower in Cytherea's field, Cropt from the pleasures of the fruitful earth, And strangely metamorphos'd [to a] nun. LODOWICK. But say, what was she? MATHIAS. Why, the rich Jew's daughter. LODOWICK. What, Barabas, whose goods were lately seiz'd? Is she so fair? MATHIAS. And matchless beautiful, As, had you seen her, 'twould have mov'd your heart, Though countermin'd with walls of brass, to love, Or, at the least, to pity. LODOWICK. An if she be so fair as you report, 'Twere time well spent to go and visit her: How say you? shall we? MATHIAS. I must and will, sir; there's no remedy. LODOWICK. And so will I too, or it shall go hard. Farewell, Mathias. MATHIAS. Farewell, Lodowick. [Exeunt severally.]

https://web.archive.org/web/20210228041946/https://www.sparknotes.com/drama/jewofmalta/section1/

Prologue The narrator Machevill introduces the play. The renowned author on statecraft says that although everyone thinks Machevill is dead, his soul has crossed the Alps to "frolic"--cause mischief--with friends in England. Machevill mentions the Duke of Guise's death in passing to suggest that political considerations have reached England, thus contradicting those who maintain that the country is unaffected by such concerns. The narrator dismisses religion as a "childish toy" and disdains popular superstition. He asserts that those who follow his lead will attain political success; according to Machevill "might" or manifest strength in a leader is more necessary than knowledge of "letters." As he paints his picture of evil megalomania, Machevill suddenly states the real reason for his presence: to introduce the "tragedy of a Jew. " The narrator states that this man's riches were gained through close adherence to Machevill's own recommended methods. He concludes by hoping that his subject is not treated badly, since the Jew "favors" him. This scene introduces Barabas, the play's Jewish protagonist. The action is set in a counting house filled with piles of gold; Barabas starts to speak as if in mid-sentence. We discover that he is a Maltese merchant whose ships have arrived safely from the East. A merchant asks the protagonist to come and pay customs duties on his goods, saying that this cost alone is worth more than the wealth of many traders. Barabas dismisses him after enquiring about his "argosy" or ship that is bringing him luxurious goods form the East. Another merchant enters and explains that the argosy has arrived safely, having lost sight of the other ships after it ran into the Spanish fleet chased by Turkish galleys. Barabas tells the man to leave and bring his goods ashore. The protagonist then launches into a speech about his great fortune and personal wealth, deciding that he would rather be rich and hated than poor and pitied . Thus, Barabas rejects traditional notions of Christian charity. He further disparages Christianity by noting that those who are truly pious live in penury and that he sees nothing in the religion but "malice, falsehood, and excessive pride." The protagonist talks about the success of Jewish people, even though they are a "scattered nation." He notes that all he wants is peaceful rule so that he can accrue wealth to leave to his only daughter. Three Jews enter seeking Barabas's advice. They state that a Turkish fleet is blocking their sea-passage and that an embassy has come ashore to meet with the Maltese rulers. Barabas instructs the men not to worry, saying that they will either conquer the Turks if they make war or let them go in peace if they have not come to fight. However, in an aside, Barabas states that he does not care about other Maltese, or even his fellow Jews, so long as the Turks "spare me, my daughter, and my wealth." Barabas reassures the men that Turkey and Malta are in league and that officials must be discussing some other matter--such as the invasion of Venice. The men inform Barabas that all Jews must go to the "senate- house" for a meeting, to which the wealthy merchant responds that he will look out for their interests, but, again in an aside, Barabas states that he will only protect his own. The Jews leave, and Barabas hypothesizes to himself that the Turks have come to raise the tribute demanded from Malta. He concludes by asserting that he would let the foreigners invade rather than help his rulers out with any money.

In the prologue, Marlowe introduces themes of Machiavellian scheming and disrespect for religion that run throughout the play. The narrator Machevill is a scheming, covetous strategist who bears little resemblance to the real Machiavelli, the Italian author of the Discourses and The Prince. He represents a caricature of the type of man the English most feared--a self-interested politician who advocates tyrannical rule to exact obedience from his subjects. The narrator states that the Jew of the play's title "favors" him, indicating that the men resemble one another or that Barabas follows him in teaching. Machevill's rejection of religion anticipates the derogatory remarks the protagonist makes about Christianity throughout the play. The narrator suggests that those who wish to gain power or wealth must place earthly concerns before spiritual ones. He even states that those who "attain / to Peter's chair"--i.e. those who want to become Pope--do so by following his teaching; spurning his lead, they find themselves poisoned by others with similar ambitions. This comment refers to the murder of Pope Alexander VI in 1503, supposedly by his son Cesare Borgia. Machevill also mentions the death of the Duke of Guise, a French nobleman. There is evidence to suggest that Elizabethan audiences regarded Machiavelli as evil and took as evidence all the foul political dealings on the continent that sprang from Machiavellian ambitions in Popes, princes, and state leaders. They would have accepted Machevill as an accurate characterization of real scheming figures in Europe. Thus, Marlowe weaves historical facts into his prologue in order to lend credibility to his play's themes of political strategy and self-interest. These themes come to the fore in Act I, scene i. Although Barabas rejoices in the safe return of his precious horde of "spice and silks" from the East, which has earned him a fortune, he prepares to guard his riches from any outsiders--be these the rulers of Malta, Turkish troops, or even his fellow Jews who come seeking advice. The protagonist refuses to concede anything to anyone. The only exception is his daughter, Abigail, who will receive her father's fortune on his death. Barabas thus appears unashamedly self-serving and strategic. Although he reassures his three friends that he will protect their own interests, he mutters in an aside that he will only "look unto myself." From the opening scene, Marlowe makes it clear that Barabas is more interested in his profits than he is in his religion. This makes the persecution he encounters as a Jew all the more ironic. Throughout the play, characters use Barabas's faith as an excuse to cheat him out of his money. Instead of being a "childish toy" as Machevill asserts, Marlowe will show how religion--and particularly religious hypocrisy--may be used as a tool to earn a profit. The characters speak in blank verse in the Prologue and in Act I, scene i, as they do throughout the play. This adds a blunt force to the characters' speech--particularly Machevill's--and highlights the crudeness of their motives.

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/901-chapters/act_2.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/The Jew of Malta/section_2_part_0.txt

The Jew of Malta.act 2

act 2

{"name": "", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210228041946/https://www.sparknotes.com/drama/jewofmalta/section3/", "summary": "Act II opens with Barabas again bemoaning the loss of his money as he approaches what used to be his mansion in the dead of night. He compares himself to a man close to death or a soldier who is scarred with the memory of his \"former riches. \" The protagonist's anguish is alleviated somewhat by Abigail, who appears above him having retrieved his hidden stash. She throws down the treasure, and in his ecstasy Barabas shouts, \"Oh girl, oh gold, oh beauty, oh my bliss!\" as he hugs the moneybags. Abigail warns her father to leave as the nuns will soon be arising for the day's first worship. Barabas exits, still eulogizing over his daughter and the dawn. He vows to sing over his recovered gold as the \"morning lark\" does her young. The action returns to the governor, Ferneze, who is meeting the vice-admiral of Spain, Martin del Bosco. He states that he has many Turkish slaves to sell, captured during a skirmish between some of his ships and those of the Ottoman fleet. Ferneze regrets that the slaves cannot be sold in Malta, since there is an alliance between his state and the Turks. Bosco persuades the governor to break this alliance, saying that the Spanish king will send military support if Malta's enemies attack. The governor agrees to this proposal and appoints Bosco Malta's general. The Spaniard points to the behavior of the garrison at Rhodes, whom he says fought to the death in order to repel the Turkish forces. Both statesmen agree to give their lives to defend the island against Calymath, and Ferneze leaves pronouncing a neat rhyme, \"we are resolved, / Honour is bought with blood and not with gold.\"", "analysis": "In Act II, scene i, Barabas appears to be a caricature of Machiavellian avariciousness as perceived by Elizabethan society. Barabas states that he is more grieved by the loss of his wealth than he would be at the loss of his life. Light and dark imagery plays a key role in this short scene. Barabas stalks through the darkness of the night, alluding to his own black mood, and awaits reunion with his gold. When this happens, Barabas's language changes completely; he launches into a poetic rapture that dazzles with overblown emotion and light imagery. Implicitly, Barabas compares the glow of dawn to that of gold when he pronounces, \"Now Phoebus ope the eyelids of the day.\" Marlowe suggests that Barabas's love for his daughter is intertwined with his joy at recovering his money. Indeed, it is difficult to determine what it is that Barabas rejoices at, since his language is quite ambiguous. His exclamations of \"h girl, oh gold\" are similar in many ways to lines in Shakespeare's The Merchant of Venice, where a character asserts that he overheard \"Shylock\" shout \"O my ducats! Oh my daughter!\" In this instance, however, Barabas's cries are those of elation rather than despair. Marlowe thus highlights his protagonist's emotive response to money. The belief that others place in religion is secularized in the character of Barabas;he is a man with faith after all, but his hopes of redemption are rooted in financial gain rather than heavenly salvation. In the next scene, the first of many oaths are broken that will be foresworn within the play. Ferneze breaks his league with the Turks in order to gain material advantage and military protection from the Spanish. Although this is really an example of shrewd statecraft as Machiavelli might have supported--the Spanish are bound by religion and trade interests to help the Maltese--Del Bosco and Ferneze disguise the financial motivations behind their agreement by couching it in terms of honor and morality. The governor's last lines are misleading, for in fact the two men have struck a commercial deal by which the Turkish slaves will be sold for Spanish profit. In turn, the Maltese will be freed from their financial obligations to the Turks. Ferneze is not alone in his careful accounting of benefits and disadvantages. This motif of calculation--both for self-interest and the interest of the state--runs throughout the play and is employed by nearly all of its characters. Everyone knows what it is that he or she wants and will scheme to get it, disguising his or her real intentions if necessary."}

ACT II. Enter BARABAS, with a light. [53] BARABAS. Thus, like the sad-presaging raven, that tolls The sick man's passport in her hollow beak, [54] And in the shadow of the silent night Doth shake contagion from her sable wings, Vex'd and tormented runs poor Barabas With fatal curses towards these Christians. The incertain pleasures of swift-footed time Have ta'en their flight, and left me in despair; And of my former riches rests no more But bare remembrance; like a soldier's scar, That has no further comfort for his maim.-- O Thou, that with a fiery pillar ledd'st The sons of Israel through the dismal shades, Light Abraham's offspring; and direct the hand Of Abigail this night! or let the day Turn to eternal darkness after this!-- No sleep can fasten on my watchful eyes, Nor quiet enter my distemper'd thoughts, Till I have answer of my Abigail. Enter ABIGAIL above. ABIGAIL. Now have I happily espied a time To search the plank my father did appoint; And here, behold, unseen, where I have found The gold, the pearls, and jewels, which he hid. BARABAS. Now I remember those old women's words, Who in my wealth would tell me winter's tales, And speak of spirits and ghosts that glide by night About the place where treasure hath been hid: And now methinks that I am one of those; For, whilst I live, here lives my soul's sole hope, And, when I die, here shall my spirit walk. ABIGAIL. Now that my father's fortune were so good As but to be about this happy place! 'Tis not so happy: yet, when we parted last, He said he would attend me in the morn. Then, gentle Sleep, where'er his body rests, Give charge to Morpheus that he may dream A golden dream, and of [55] the sudden wake, [56] Come and receive the treasure I have found. BARABAS. Bueno para todos mi ganado no era: [57] As good go on, as sit so sadly thus.-- But stay: what star shines yonder in the east? [58] The loadstar of my life, if Abigail.-- Who's there? ABIGAIL. Who's that? BARABAS. Peace, Abigail! 'tis I. ABIGAIL. Then, father, here receive thy happiness. BARABAS. Hast thou't? ABIGAIL. Here.[throws down bags] Hast thou't? There's more, and more, and more. BARABAS. O my girl, My gold, my fortune, my felicity, Strength to my soul, death to mine enemy; Welcome the first beginner of my bliss! O Abigail, Abigail, that I had thee here too! Then my desires were fully satisfied: But I will practice thy enlargement thence: O girl! O gold! O beauty! O my bliss! [Hugs the bags.] ABIGAIL. Father, it draweth towards midnight now, And 'bout this time the nuns begin to wake; To shun suspicion, therefore, let us part. BARABAS. Farewell, my joy, and by my fingers take A kiss from him that sends it from his soul. [Exit ABIGAIL above.] Now, Phoebus, ope the eye-lids of the day. And, for the raven, wake the morning lark, That I may hover with her in the air, Singing o'er these, as she does o'er her young. Hermoso placer de los dineros. [59] [Exit.] Enter FERNEZE, [60] MARTIN DEL BOSCO, KNIGHTS, and OFFICERS. FERNEZE. Now, captain, tell us whither thou art bound? Whence is thy ship that anchors in our road? And why thou cam'st ashore without our leave? MARTIN DEL BOSCO. Governor of Malta, hither am I bound; My ship, the Flying Dragon, is of Spain, And so am I; Del Bosco is my name, Vice-admiral unto the Catholic King. FIRST KNIGHT. 'Tis true, my lord; therefore entreat [61] him well. MARTIN DEL BOSCO. Our fraught is Grecians, Turks, and Afric Moors; For late upon the coast of Corsica, Because we vail'd not [62] to the Turkish [63] fleet, Their creeping galleys had us in the chase: But suddenly the wind began to rise, And then we luff'd and tack'd, [64] and fought at ease: Some have we fir'd, and many have we sunk; But one amongst the rest became our prize: The captain's slain; the rest remain our slaves, Of whom we would make sale in Malta here. FERNEZE. Martin del Bosco, I have heard of thee: Welcome to Malta, and to all of us! But to admit a sale of these thy Turks, We may not, nay, we dare not give consent, By reason of a tributary league. FIRST KNIGHT. Del Bosco, as thou lov'st and honour'st us, Persuade our governor against the Turk: This truce we have is but in hope of gold, And with that sum he craves might we wage war. MARTIN DEL BOSCO. Will knights of Malta be in league with Turks, And buy it basely too for sums of gold? My lord, remember that, to Europe's shame, The Christian isle of Rhodes, from whence you came, Was lately lost, and you were stated [65] here To be at deadly enmity with Turks. FERNEZE. Captain, we know it; but our force is small. MARTIN DEL BOSCO. What is the sum that Calymath requires? FERNEZE. A hundred thousand crowns. MARTIN DEL BOSCO. My lord and king hath title to this isle, And he means quickly to expel you hence; Therefore be rul'd by me, and keep the gold: I'll write unto his majesty for aid, And not depart until I see you free. FERNEZE. On this condition shall thy Turks be sold.-- Go, officers, and set them straight in show.-- [Exeunt OFFICERS.] Bosco, thou shalt be Malta's general; We and our warlike knights will follow thee Against these barbarous misbelieving Turks. MARTIN DEL BOSCO. So shall you imitate those you succeed; For, when their hideous force environ'd Rhodes, Small though the number was that kept the town, They fought it out, and not a man surviv'd To bring the hapless news to Christendom. FERNEZE. So will we fight it out: come, let's away. Proud daring Calymath, instead of gold, We'll send thee bullets wrapt in smoke and fire: Claim tribute where thou wilt, we are resolv'd,-- Honour is bought with blood, and not with gold. [Exeunt.] Enter OFFICERS, [66] with ITHAMORE and other SLAVES. FIRST OFFICER. This is the market-place; here let 'em stand: Fear not their sale, for they'll be quickly bought. SECOND OFFICER. Every one's price is written on his back, And so much must they yield, or not be sold. FIRST OFFICER. Here comes the Jew: had not his goods been seiz'd, He'd give us present money for them all. Enter BARABAS. BARABAS. In spite of these swine-eating Christians, (Unchosen nation, never circumcis'd, Poor villains, such as were [67] ne'er thought upon Till Titus and Vespasian conquer'd us,) Am I become as wealthy as I was. They hop'd my daughter would ha' been a nun; But she's at home, and I have bought a house As great and fair as is the governor's: And there, in spite of Malta, will I dwell, Having Ferneze's hand; whose heart I'll have, Ay, and his son's too, or it shall go hard. I am not of the tribe of Levi, I, That can so soon forget an injury. We Jews can fawn like spaniels when we please; And when we grin we bite; yet are our looks As innocent and harmless as a lamb's. I learn'd in Florence how to kiss my hand, Heave up my shoulders when they call me dog, And duck as low as any bare-foot friar; Hoping to see them starve upon a stall, Or else be gather'd for in our synagogue, That, when the offering-basin comes to me, Even for charity I may spit into't.-- Here comes Don Lodowick, the governor's son, One that I love for his good father's sake. Enter LODOWICK. LODOWICK. I hear the wealthy Jew walked this way: I'll seek him out, and so insinuate, That I may have a sight of Abigail, For Don Mathias tells me she is fair. BARABAS. Now will I shew myself to have more of the serpent than the dove; that is, more knave than fool. [Aside.] LODOWICK. Yond' walks the Jew: now for fair Abigail. BARABAS. Ay, ay, no doubt but she's at your command. [Aside.] LODOWICK. Barabas, thou know'st I am the governor's son. BARABAS. I would you were his father too, sir! that's all the harm I wish you.--The slave looks like a hog's cheek new-singed. [Aside.] LODOWICK. Whither walk'st thou, Barabas? BARABAS. No further: 'tis a custom held with us, That when we speak with Gentiles like to you, We turn into [68] the air to purge ourselves; For unto us the promise doth belong. LODOWICK. Well, Barabas, canst help me to a diamond? BARABAS. O, sir, your father had my diamonds: Yet I have one left that will serve your turn.-- I mean my daughter; but, ere he shall have her, I'll sacrifice her on a pile of wood: I ha' the poison of the city [69] for him, And the white leprosy. [Aside.] LODOWICK. What sparkle does it give without a foil? BARABAS. The diamond that I talk of ne'er was foil'd:-- But, when he touches it, it will be foil'd.-- [70] [Aside.] Lord Lodowick, it sparkles bright and fair. LODOWICK. Is it square or pointed? pray, let me know. BARABAS. Pointed it is, good sir,--but not for you. [Aside.] LODOWICK. I like it much the better. BARABAS. So do I too. LODOWICK. How shews it by night? BARABAS. Outshines Cynthia's rays:-- You'll like it better far o' nights than days. [Aside.] LODOWICK. And what's the price? BARABAS. Your life, an if you have it [Aside].--O my lord, We will not jar about the price: come to my house, And I will give't your honour--with a vengeance. [Aside.] LODOWICK. No, Barabas, I will deserve it first. BARABAS. Good sir, Your father has deserv'd it at my hands, Who, of mere charity and Christian ruth, To bring me to religious purity, And, as it were, in catechising sort, To make me mindful of my mortal sins, Against my will, and whether I would or no, Seiz'd all I had, and thrust me out o' doors, And made my house a place for nuns most chaste. LODOWICK. No doubt your soul shall reap the fruit of it. BARABAS. Ay, but, my lord, the harvest is far off: And yet I know the prayers of those nuns And holy friars, having money for their pains, Are wondrous;--and indeed do no man good;-- [Aside.] And, seeing they are not idle, but still doing, 'Tis likely they in time may reap some fruit, I mean, in fullness of perfection. LODOWICK. Good Barabas, glance not at our holy nuns. BARABAS. No, but I do it through a burning zeal,-- Hoping ere long to set the house a-fire; For, though they do a while increase and multiply, I'll have a saying to that nunnery.-- [71] [Aside.] As for the diamond, sir, I told you of, Come home, and there's no price shall make us part, Even for your honourable father's sake,-- It shall go hard but I will see your death.-- [Aside.] But now I must be gone to buy a slave. LODOWICK. And, Barabas, I'll bear thee company. BARABAS. Come, then; here's the market-place.-- What's the price of this slave? two hundred crowns! do the Turks weigh so much? FIRST OFFICER. Sir, that's his price. BARABAS. What, can he steal, that you demand so much? Belike he has some new trick for a purse; An if he has, he is worth three hundred plates, [72] So that, being bought, the town-seal might be got To keep him for his life-time from the gallows: The sessions-day is critical to thieves, And few or none scape but by being purg'd. LODOWICK. Rat'st thou this Moor but at two hundred plates? FIRST OFFICER. No more, my lord. BARABAS. Why should this Turk be dearer than that Moor? FIRST OFFICER. Because he is young, and has more qualities. BARABAS. What, hast the philosopher's stone? an thou hast, break my head with it, I'll forgive thee. SLAVE. [73] No, sir; I can cut and shave. BARABAS. Let me see, sirrah; are you not an old shaver? SLAVE. Alas, sir, I am a very youth! BARABAS. A youth! I'll buy you, and marry you to Lady Vanity, [74] if you do well. SLAVE. I will serve you, sir. BARABAS. Some wicked trick or other: it may be, under colour of shaving, thou'lt cut my throat for my goods. Tell me, hast thou thy health well? SLAVE. Ay, passing well. BARABAS. So much the worse: I must have one that's sickly, an't be but for sparing victuals: 'tis not a stone of beef a-day will maintain you in these chops.--Let me see one that's somewhat leaner. FIRST OFFICER. Here's a leaner; how like you him? BARABAS. Where wast thou born? ITHAMORE. In Thrace; brought up in Arabia. BARABAS. So much the better; thou art for my turn. An hundred crowns? I'll have him; there's the coin. [Gives money.] FIRST OFFICER. Then mark him, sir, and take him hence. BARABAS. Ay, mark him, you were best; for this is he That by my help shall do much villany.-- [Aside.] My lord, farewell.--Come, sirrah; you are mine.-- As for the diamond, it shall be yours: I pray, sir, be no stranger at my house; All that I have shall be at your command. Enter MATHIAS and KATHARINE. [75] MATHIAS. What make the Jew and Lodowick so private? I fear me 'tis about fair Abigail. [Aside.] BARABAS. [to LODOWICK.] Yonder comes Don Mathias; let us stay: [76] He loves my daughter, and she holds him dear; But I have sworn to frustrate both their hopes, And be reveng'd upon the--governor. [Aside.] [Exit LODOWICK.] KATHARINE. This Moor is comeliest, is he not? speak, son. MATHIAS. No, this is the better, mother, view this well. BARABAS. Seem not to know me here before your mother, Lest she mistrust the match that is in hand: When you have brought her home, come to my house; Think of me as thy father: son, farewell. MATHIAS. But wherefore talk'd Don Lodowick with you? BARABAS. Tush, man! we talk'd of diamonds, not of Abigail. KATHARINE. Tell me, Mathias, is not that the Jew? BARABAS. As for the comment on the Maccabees, I have it, sir, and 'tis at your command. MATHIAS. Yes, madam, and my talk with him was [77] About the borrowing of a book or two. KATHARINE. Converse not with him; he is cast off from heaven.-- Thou hast thy crowns, fellow.--Come, let's away. MATHIAS. Sirrah Jew, remember the book. BARABAS. Marry, will I, sir. [Exeunt KATHARlNE and MATHIAS.] FIRST OFFICER. Come, I have made a reasonable market; let's away. [Exeunt OFFICERS with SLAVES.] BARABAS. Now let me know thy name, and therewithal Thy birth, condition, and profession. ITHAMORE. Faith, sir, my birth is but mean; my name's Ithamore; my profession what you please. BARABAS. Hast thou no trade? then listen to my words, And I will teach [thee] that shall stick by thee: First, be thou void of these affections, Compassion, love, vain hope, and heartless fear; Be mov'd at nothing, see thou pity none, But to thyself smile when the Christians moan. ITHAMORE. O, brave, master! [78] I worship your nose [79] for this. BARABAS. As for myself, I walk abroad o' nights, And kill sick people groaning under walls: Sometimes I go about and poison wells; And now and then, to cherish Christian thieves, I am content to lose some of my crowns, That I may, walking in my gallery, See 'em go pinion'd along by my door. Being young, I studied physic, and began To practice first upon the Italian; There I enrich'd the priests with burials, And always kept the sexton's arms in ure [80] With digging graves and ringing dead men's knells: And, after that, was I an engineer, And in the wars 'twixt France and Germany, Under pretence of helping Charles the Fifth, Slew friend and enemy with my stratagems: Then, after that, was I an usurer, And with extorting, cozening, forfeiting, And tricks belonging unto brokery, I fill'd the gaols with bankrupts in a year, And with young orphans planted hospitals; And every moon made some or other mad, And now and then one hang himself for grief, Pinning upon his breast a long great scroll How I with interest tormented him. But mark how I am blest for plaguing them;-- I have as much coin as will buy the town. But tell me now, how hast thou spent thy time? ITHAMORE. Faith, master, In setting Christian villages on fire, Chaining of eunuchs, binding galley-slaves. One time I was an hostler in an inn, And in the night-time secretly would I steal To travellers' chambers, and there cut their throats: Once at Jerusalem, where the pilgrims kneel'd, I strewed powder on the marble stones, And therewithal their knees would rankle so, That I have laugh'd a-good [81] to see the cripples Go limping home to Christendom on stilts. BARABAS. Why, this is something: make account of me As of thy fellow; we are villains both; Both circumcised; we hate Christians both: Be true and secret; thou shalt want no gold. But stand aside; here comes Don Lodowick. Enter LODOWICK. [82] LODOWICK. O, Barabas, well met; Where is the diamond you told me of? BARABAS. I have it for you, sir: please you walk in with me.-- What, ho, Abigail! open the door, I say! Enter ABIGAIL, with letters. ABIGAIL. In good time, father; here are letters come ]From Ormus, and the post stays here within. BARABAS. Give me the letters.--Daughter, do you hear? Entertain Lodowick, the governor's son, With all the courtesy you can afford, Provided that you keep your maidenhead: Use him as if he were a Philistine; Dissemble, swear, protest, vow love to him: [83] He is not of the seed of Abraham.-- [Aside to her.] I am a little busy, sir; pray, pardon me.-- Abigail, bid him welcome for my sake. ABIGAIL. For your sake and his own he's welcome hither. BARABAS. Daughter, a word more: kiss him, speak him fair, And like a cunning Jew so cast about, That ye be both made sure [84] ere you come out. [Aside to her.] ABIGAIL. O father, Don Mathias is my love! BARABAS. I know it: yet, I say, make love to him; Do, it is requisite it should be so.-- [Aside to her.] Nay, on my life, it is my factor's hand; But go you in, I'll think upon the account. [Exeunt ABIGAIL and LODOWICK into the house.] The account is made, for Lodovico [85] dies. My factor sends me word a merchant's fled That owes me for a hundred tun of wine: I weigh it thus much[snapping his fingers]! I have wealth enough; For now by this has he kiss'd Abigail, And she vows love to him, and he to her. As sure as heaven rain'd manna for the Jews, So sure shall he and Don Mathias die: His father was my chiefest enemy. Enter MATHIAS. Whither goes Don Mathias? stay a while. MATHIAS. Whither, but to my fair love Abigail? BARABAS. Thou know'st, and heaven can witness it is true, That I intend my daughter shall be thine. MATHIAS. Ay, Barabas, or else thou wrong'st me much. BARABAS. O, heaven forbid I should have such a thought! Pardon me though I weep: the governor's son Will, whether I will or no, have Abigail; He sends her letters, bracelets, jewels, rings. MATHIAS. Does she receive them? BARABAS. She! no, Mathias, no, but sends them back; And, when he comes, she locks herself up fast; Yet through the key-hole will he talk to her, While she runs to the window, looking out When you should come and hale him from the door. MATHIAS. O treacherous Lodowick! BARABAS. Even now, as I came home, he slipt me in, And I am sure he is with Abigail. MATHIAS. I'll rouse him thence. BARABAS. Not for all Malta; therefore sheathe your sword; If you love me, no quarrels in my house; But steal you in, and seem to see him not: I'll give him such a warning ere he goes, As he shall have small hopes of Abigail. Away, for here they come. Re-enter LODOWICK and ABIGAIL. MATHIAS. What, hand in hand! I cannot suffer this. BARABAS. Mathias, as thou lov'st me, not a word. MATHIAS. Well, let it pass; another time shall serve. [Exit into the house.] LODOWICK. Barabas, is not that the widow's son? BARABAS. Ay, and take heed, for he hath sworn your death. LODOWICK. My death! what, is the base-born peasant mad? BARABAS. No, no; but happily [86] he stands in fear Of that which you, I think, ne'er dream upon,-- My daughter here, a paltry silly girl. LODOWICK. Why, loves she Don Mathias? BARABAS. Doth she not with her smiling answer you? ABIGAIL. He has my heart; I smile against my will. [Aside.] LODOWICK. Barabas, thou know'st I have lov'd thy daughter long. BARABAS. And so has she done you, even from a child. LODOWICK. And now I can no longer hold my mind. BARABAS. Nor I the affection that I bear to you. LODOWICK. This is thy diamond; tell me, shall I have it? BARABAS. Win it, and wear it; it is yet unsoil'd. [87] O, but I know your lordship would disdain To marry with the daughter of a Jew: And yet I'll give her many a golden cross [88] With Christian posies round about the ring. LODOWICK. 'Tis not thy wealth, but her that I esteem; Yet crave I thy consent. BARABAS. And mine you have; yet let me talk to her.-- This offspring of Cain, this Jebusite, That never tasted of the Passover, Nor e'er shall see the land of Canaan, Nor our Messias that is yet to come; This gentle maggot, Lodowick, I mean, Must be deluded: let him have thy hand, But keep thy heart till Don Mathias comes. [Aside to her.] ABIGAIL. What, shall I be betroth'd to Lodowick? BARABAS. It's no sin to deceive a Christian; For they themselves hold it a principle, Faith is not to be held with heretics: But all are heretics that are not Jews; This follows well, and therefore, daughter, fear not.-- [Aside to her.] I have entreated her, and she will grant. LODOWICK. Then, gentle Abigail, plight thy faith to me. ABIGAIL. I cannot choose, seeing my father bids: Nothing but death shall part my love and me. LODOWICK. Now have I that for which my soul hath long'd. BARABAS. So have not I; but yet I hope I shall. [Aside.] ABIGAIL. O wretched Abigail, what hast thou [89] done? [Aside.] LODOWICK. Why on the sudden is your colour chang'd? ABIGAIL. I know not: but farewell; I must be gone. BARABAS. Stay her, but let her not speak one word more. LODOWICK. Mute o' the sudden! here's a sudden change. BARABAS. O, muse not at it; 'tis the Hebrews' guise, That maidens new-betroth'd should weep a while: Trouble her not; sweet Lodowick, depart: She is thy wife, and thou shalt be mine heir. LODOWICK. O, is't the custom? then I am resolv'd: [90] But rather let the brightsome heavens be dim, And nature's beauty choke with stifling clouds, Than my fair Abigail should frown on me.-- There comes the villain; now I'll be reveng'd. Re-enter MATHIAS. BARABAS. Be quiet, Lodowick; it is enough That I have made thee sure to Abigail. LODOWICK. Well, let him go. [Exit.] BARABAS. Well, but for me, as you went in at doors You had been stabb'd: but not a word on't now; Here must no speeches pass, nor swords be drawn. MATHIAS. Suffer me, Barabas, but to follow him. BARABAS. No; so shall I, if any hurt be done, Be made an accessary of your deeds: Revenge it on him when you meet him next. MATHIAS. For this I'll have his heart. BARABAS. Do so. Lo, here I give thee Abigail! MATHIAS. What greater gift can poor Mathias have? Shall Lodowick rob me of so fair a love? My life is not so dear as Abigail. BARABAS. My heart misgives me, that, to cross your love, He's with your mother; therefore after him. MATHIAS. What, is he gone unto my mother? BARABAS. Nay, if you will, stay till she comes herself. MATHIAS. I cannot stay; for, if my mother come, She'll die with grief. [Exit.] ABIGAIL. I cannot take my leave of him for tears. Father, why have you thus incens'd them both? BARABAS. What's that to thee? ABIGAIL. I'll make 'em friends again. BARABAS. You'll make 'em friends! are there not Jews enow in Malta, But thou must dote upon a Christian? ABIGAIL. I will have Don Mathias; he is my love. BARABAS. Yes, you shall have him.--Go, put her in. ITHAMORE. Ay, I'll put her in. [Puts in ABIGAIL.] BARABAS. Now tell me, Ithamore, how lik'st thou this? ITHAMORE. Faith, master, I think by this You purchase both their lives: is it not so? BARABAS. True; and it shall be cunningly perform'd. ITHAMORE. O, master, that I might have a hand in this! BARABAS. Ay, so thou shalt; 'tis thou must do the deed: Take this, and bear it to Mathias straight, [Giving a letter.] And tell him that it comes from Lodowick. ITHAMORE. 'Tis poison'd, is it not? BARABAS. No, no; and yet it might be done that way: It is a challenge feign'd from Lodowick. ITHAMORE. Fear not; I will so set his heart a-fire, That he shall verily think it comes from him. BARABAS. I cannot choose but like thy readiness: Yet be not rash, but do it cunningly. ITHAMORE. As I behave myself in this, employ me hereafter. BARABAS. Away, then! [Exit ITHAMORE.] So; now will I go in to Lodowick, And, like a cunning spirit, feign some lie, Till I have set 'em both at enmity. [Exit.]

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Act II opens with Barabas again bemoaning the loss of his money as he approaches what used to be his mansion in the dead of night. He compares himself to a man close to death or a soldier who is scarred with the memory of his "former riches. " The protagonist's anguish is alleviated somewhat by Abigail, who appears above him having retrieved his hidden stash. She throws down the treasure, and in his ecstasy Barabas shouts, "Oh girl, oh gold, oh beauty, oh my bliss!" as he hugs the moneybags. Abigail warns her father to leave as the nuns will soon be arising for the day's first worship. Barabas exits, still eulogizing over his daughter and the dawn. He vows to sing over his recovered gold as the "morning lark" does her young. The action returns to the governor, Ferneze, who is meeting the vice-admiral of Spain, Martin del Bosco. He states that he has many Turkish slaves to sell, captured during a skirmish between some of his ships and those of the Ottoman fleet. Ferneze regrets that the slaves cannot be sold in Malta, since there is an alliance between his state and the Turks. Bosco persuades the governor to break this alliance, saying that the Spanish king will send military support if Malta's enemies attack. The governor agrees to this proposal and appoints Bosco Malta's general. The Spaniard points to the behavior of the garrison at Rhodes, whom he says fought to the death in order to repel the Turkish forces. Both statesmen agree to give their lives to defend the island against Calymath, and Ferneze leaves pronouncing a neat rhyme, "we are resolved, / Honour is bought with blood and not with gold."

In Act II, scene i, Barabas appears to be a caricature of Machiavellian avariciousness as perceived by Elizabethan society. Barabas states that he is more grieved by the loss of his wealth than he would be at the loss of his life. Light and dark imagery plays a key role in this short scene. Barabas stalks through the darkness of the night, alluding to his own black mood, and awaits reunion with his gold. When this happens, Barabas's language changes completely; he launches into a poetic rapture that dazzles with overblown emotion and light imagery. Implicitly, Barabas compares the glow of dawn to that of gold when he pronounces, "Now Phoebus ope the eyelids of the day." Marlowe suggests that Barabas's love for his daughter is intertwined with his joy at recovering his money. Indeed, it is difficult to determine what it is that Barabas rejoices at, since his language is quite ambiguous. His exclamations of "h girl, oh gold" are similar in many ways to lines in Shakespeare's The Merchant of Venice, where a character asserts that he overheard "Shylock" shout "O my ducats! Oh my daughter!" In this instance, however, Barabas's cries are those of elation rather than despair. Marlowe thus highlights his protagonist's emotive response to money. The belief that others place in religion is secularized in the character of Barabas;he is a man with faith after all, but his hopes of redemption are rooted in financial gain rather than heavenly salvation. In the next scene, the first of many oaths are broken that will be foresworn within the play. Ferneze breaks his league with the Turks in order to gain material advantage and military protection from the Spanish. Although this is really an example of shrewd statecraft as Machiavelli might have supported--the Spanish are bound by religion and trade interests to help the Maltese--Del Bosco and Ferneze disguise the financial motivations behind their agreement by couching it in terms of honor and morality. The governor's last lines are misleading, for in fact the two men have struck a commercial deal by which the Turkish slaves will be sold for Spanish profit. In turn, the Maltese will be freed from their financial obligations to the Turks. Ferneze is not alone in his careful accounting of benefits and disadvantages. This motif of calculation--both for self-interest and the interest of the state--runs throughout the play and is employed by nearly all of its characters. Everyone knows what it is that he or she wants and will scheme to get it, disguising his or her real intentions if necessary.

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/901-chapters/act_3.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/The Jew of Malta/section_4_part_0.txt

The Jew of Malta.act 3

act 3

{"name": "", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210228041946/https://www.sparknotes.com/drama/jewofmalta/section5/", "summary": "This scene introduces the courtesan Bellamira and her pimp Pilia-Borza. While the prostitute complains about the lack of business after the Turkish blockade of Malta , Pilia-Borza appears and throws her a moneybag of silver. He explains how he entered Barabas's counting house at night, was disrupted by a noise, and ran off with only one bag, although there was plenty of gold to be had. The friends are interrupted by the appearance of Ithamore; Pilia-Borza warns Bellamira not to stare at him. It is too late, however, because the slave has seen the prostitute and fallen in love with her. He knows that she is a courtesan by her clothing and states that he would give \"a hundred of the Jew's crowns\" to have her. Ithamore mentions that he has delivered the challenge to Mathias, and only awaits the duel where the young man and Lodowick will kill one another. Mathias and Lodowick meet to duel. Lodowick enters reading a letter--no doubt forged like the one Barabas sent to Mathias--which is in some manner offensive. The men start fighting, observed by Barabas from a balcony. Barabas jeers at the men as they fight. After they have killed each other, Ferneze and Mathias's mother, Katherine, enter and find their dead children. Both vow revenge, but, realizing that their sons have killed one another, they seek to find it in the person who set the young men against one another. The bereaved Ferneze suggests the young men should be buried together in a monument, where he can \"offer up / My daily sacrifice of sighs and tears\" and force heaven to reveal what caused these events. Ferneze then suggests to Katherine that they \"take equal share.\" Ithamore meets Abigail and boasts about the success of his and Barabas's cunning plot. While the slave cackles in self-congratulation and lauds the \"bravest policy\" of his master, Abigail shows no reaction. She asks Ithamore to fetch her any friar from the order of \"St Jacques\" . The slave leaves, and Abigail is left to rail against her \"hard-hearted\" father and despair at what he has done to Mathias, Lodowick, and herself. Ithamore then enters with the priest Jacomo, and Abigail asks if she can be admitted to his convent. Although the priest brings up the fact that she was admitted before and \"didn't like holy life,\" Abigail blames this on her father. She states that experience \"purchased with grief\" has taught her the error of her ways. When the friar asks her why Barabas is to be blamed, Abigail refuses to say and states to herself that she will be loyal to her father unto death. She leaves saying that her \"duty\" is now to the priest.", "analysis": "The introduction of the prostitute and her pimp add an ordinary criminal element into the plot. Bellamira and Pilia-Borza have no money because business has been slack; thus, they are attracted to the relatively easy pickings of Barabas's gold. Ithamore's vow to spend 100 \"crowns\" of his master's money hints at his growing lust for gold, although this is directed toward buying Bellamira. In some ways, this scene is reminiscent of Act II, scene iii, where Lodowick describes Abigail as a diamond that he wants to buy. Although Ithamore responds to the prostitute's beauty, his mind turns immediately to the money that would be required to purchase her. Throughout the play, the language of money is used in connection with the language of love. Characters express their romantic sentiments with a keen eye to striking a deal, and figures such as Bellamira and Barabas are fully aware of this reality. Just as Barabas bought Ithamore in Act II, scene iii, so the slave now seeks to procure Bellamira. Most characters in the play ascribe to the philosophy that money can get you what you want; if this also involves lying to or betraying someone else, so much the better. In fact, Marlowe uses this scene as the first link in the chain of events that will lead to Ithamore betraying and attempting to bribe Barabas in Act IV, scene ii. Vengeance again comes to the fore in Act III, scene ii. In their grief, both Ferneze and Katherine vow to avenge their sons' deaths and look to heaven for divine retribution. This contrasts with Abigail's reaction to news of the men's deaths in the next scene. Rather than railing against the world, she decides to enter a convent in atonement for her sins. Abigail remains outwardly composed while experiencing turbulent emotions; her reasoned response to Ithamore's callous joking shows her ability to keep a cool head. Abigail is different from the play's other characters in that she does not turn to vengeance as a means of channeling her grief. However, one suspects that Abigail's conversion to Christianity and her comment, \"I perceive there is no love on earth, / Pity in Jews, nor piety in Turks,\" are intended to be heavily ironic. The Catholic clergy is so obviously corrupt that Abigail's decision to convert appears naive, not to say ridiculous. Marlowe warns us not to take this scene at face value when Ithamore states, \"Why, was there ever seen such villainy, / So neatly plotted, and so well performed?\" Seemingly, while Ithamore congratulates himself on his crimes, the playwright slyly commends his own stage work. We cannot ignore the sense that Marlowe is toying with his audience's expectations, as he does throughout the play. The playwright uses improbable events, such as Abigail's conversion, to make ironic statements about religious hypocrisy and society's prejudiced status quo."}

ACT III. Enter BELLAMIRA. [91] BELLAMIRA. Since this town was besieg'd, my gain grows cold: The time has been, that but for one bare night A hundred ducats have been freely given; But now against my will I must be chaste: And yet I know my beauty doth not fail. ]From Venice merchants, and from Padua Were wont to come rare-witted gentlemen, Scholars I mean, learned and liberal; And now, save Pilia-Borza, comes there none, And he is very seldom from my house; And here he comes. Enter PILIA-BORZA. PILIA-BORZA. Hold thee, wench, there's something for thee to spend. [Shewing a bag of silver.] BELLAMIRA. 'Tis silver; I disdain it. PILIA-BORZA. Ay, but the Jew has gold, And I will have it, or it shall go hard. BELLAMIRA. Tell me, how cam'st thou by this? PILIA-BORZA. Faith, walking the back-lanes, through the gardens, I chanced to cast mine eye up to the Jew's counting-house, where I saw some bags of money, and in the night I clambered up with my hooks; and, as I was taking my choice, I heard a rumbling in the house; so I took only this, and run my way.--But here's the Jew's man. BELLAMIRA. Hide the bag. Enter ITHAMORE. PILIA-BORZA. Look not towards him, let's away. Zoons, what a looking thou keepest! thou'lt betray's anon. [Exeunt BELLAMIRA and PILIA-BORZA.] ITHAMORE. O, the sweetest face that ever I beheld! I know she is a courtezan by her attire: now would I give a hundred of the Jew's crowns that I had such a concubine. Well, I have deliver'd the challenge in such sort, As meet they will, and fighting die,--brave sport! [Exit.] Enter MATHIAS. MATHIAS. This is the place: [92] now Abigail shall see Whether Mathias holds her dear or no. Enter LODOWICK. What, dares the villain write in such base terms? [Looking at a letter.] LODOWICK. I did it; and revenge it, if thou dar'st! [They fight.] Enter BARABAS above. BARABAS. O, bravely fought! and yet they thrust not home. Now, Lodovico! [93] now, Mathias!--So; [Both fall.] So, now they have shew'd themselves to be tall [94] fellows. [Cries within] Part 'em, part 'em! BARABAS. Ay, part 'em now they are dead. Farewell, farewell! [Exit above.] Enter FERNEZE, KATHARINE, and ATTENDANTS. FERNEZE. What sight is this! [95] my Lodovico [96] slain! These arms of mine shall be thy sepulchre. [97] KATHARINE. Who is this? my son Mathias slain! FERNEZE. O Lodowick, hadst thou perish'd by the Turk, Wretched Ferneze might have veng'd thy death! KATHARINE. Thy son slew mine, and I'll revenge his death. FERNEZE. Look, Katharine, look! thy son gave mine these wounds. KATHARINE. O, leave to grieve me! I am griev'd enough. FERNEZE. O, that my sighs could turn to lively breath, And these my tears to blood, that he might live! KATHARINE. Who made them enemies? FERNEZE. I know not; and that grieves me most of all. KATHARINE. My son lov'd thine. FERNEZE. And so did Lodowick him. KATHARINE. Lend me that weapon that did kill my son, And it shall murder me. FERNEZE. Nay, madam, stay; that weapon was my son's, And on that rather should Ferneze die. KATHARINE. Hold; let's inquire the causers of their deaths, That we may venge their blood upon their heads. FERNEZE. Then take them up, and let them be interr'd Within one sacred monument of stone; Upon which altar I will offer up My daily sacrifice of sighs and tears, And with my prayers pierce impartial heavens, Till they [reveal] the causers of our smarts, Which forc'd their hands divide united hearts. Come, Katharine; [98] our losses equal are; Then of true grief let us take equal share. [Exeunt with the bodies.] Enter ITHAMORE. [99] ITHAMORE. Why, was there ever seen such villany, So neatly plotted, and so well perform'd? Both held in hand, [100] and flatly both beguil'd? Enter ABIGAIL. ABIGAIL. Why, how now, Ithamore! why laugh'st thou so? ITHAMORE. O mistress! ha, ha, ha! ABIGAIL. Why, what ail'st thou? ITHAMORE. O, my master! ABIGAIL. Ha! ITHAMORE. O mistress, I have the bravest, gravest, secret, subtle, bottle-nosed [101] knave to my master, that ever gentleman had! ABIGAIL. Say, knave, why rail'st upon my father thus? ITHAMORE. O, my master has the bravest policy! ABIGAIL. Wherein? ITHAMORE. Why, know you not? ABIGAIL. Why, no. ITHAMORE. Know you not of Mathia[s'] and Don Lodowick['s] disaster? ABIGAIL. No: what was it? ITHAMORE. Why, the devil inverted a challenge, my master writ it, and I carried it, first to Lodowick, and imprimis to Mathia[s]; And then they met, [and], as the story says, In doleful wise they ended both their days. ABIGAIL. And was my father furtherer of their deaths? ITHAMORE. Am I Ithamore? ABIGAIL. Yes. ITHAMORE. So sure did your father write, and I carry the challenge. ABIGAIL. Well, Ithamore, let me request thee this; Go to the new-made nunnery, and inquire For any of the friars of Saint Jaques, [102] And say, I pray them come and speak with me. ITHAMORE. I pray, mistress, will you answer me to one question? ABIGAIL. Well, sirrah, what is't? ITHAMORE. A very feeling one: have not the nuns fine sport with the friars now and then? ABIGAIL. Go to, Sirrah Sauce! is this your question? get ye gone. ITHAMORE. I will, forsooth, mistress. [Exit.] ABIGAIL. Hard-hearted father, unkind Barabas! Was this the pursuit of thy policy, To make me shew them favour severally, That by my favour they should both be slain? Admit thou lov'dst not Lodowick for his sire, [103] Yet Don Mathias ne'er offended thee: But thou wert set upon extreme revenge, Because the prior dispossess'd thee once, And couldst not venge it but upon his son; Nor on his son but by Mathias' means; Nor on Mathias but by murdering me: But I perceive there is no love on earth, Pity in Jews, nor piety in Turks.-- But here comes cursed Ithamore with the friar. Re-enter ITHAMORE with FRIAR JACOMO. FRIAR JACOMO. Virgo, salve. ITHAMORE. When duck you? ABIGAIL. Welcome, grave friar.--Ithamore, be gone. [Exit ITHAMORE.] Know, holy sir, I am bold to solicit thee. FRIAR JACOMO. Wherein? ABIGAIL. To get me be admitted for a nun. FRIAR JACOMO. Why, Abigail, it is not yet long since That I did labour thy admission, And then thou didst not like that holy life. ABIGAIL. Then were my thoughts so frail and unconfirm'd As [104] I was chain'd to follies of the world: But now experience, purchased with grief, Has made me see the difference of things. My sinful soul, alas, hath pac'd too long The fatal labyrinth of misbelief, Far from the sun that gives eternal life! FRIAR JACOMO. Who taught thee this? ABIGAIL. The abbess of the house, Whose zealous admonition I embrace: O, therefore, Jacomo, let me be one, Although unworthy, of that sisterhood! FRIAR JACOMO. Abigail, I will: but see thou change no more, For that will be most heavy to thy soul. ABIGAIL. That was my father's fault. FRIAR JACOMO. Thy father's! how? ABIGAIL. Nay, you shall pardon me.--O Barabas, Though thou deservest hardly at my hands, Yet never shall these lips bewray thy life! [Aside.] FRIAR JACOMO. Come, shall we go? ABIGAIL. My duty waits on you. [Exeunt.] Enter BARABAS, [105] reading a letter. BARABAS. What, Abigail become a nun again! False and unkind! what, hast thou lost thy father? And, all unknown and unconstrain'd of me, Art thou again got to the nunnery? Now here she writes, and wills me to repent: Repentance! Spurca! what pretendeth [106] this? I fear she knows--'tis so--of my device In Don Mathias' and Lodovico's deaths: If so, 'tis time that it be seen into; For she that varies from me in belief, Gives great presumption that she loves me not, Or, loving, doth dislike of something done.-- But who comes here? Enter ITHAMORE. O Ithamore, come near; Come near, my love; come near, thy master's life, My trusty servant, nay, my second self; [107] For I have now no hope but even in thee, And on that hope my happiness is built. When saw'st thou Abigail? ITHAMORE. To-day. BARABAS. With whom? ITHAMORE. A friar. BARABAS. A friar! false villain, he hath done the deed. ITHAMORE. How, sir! BARABAS. Why, made mine Abigail a nun. ITHAMORE. That's no lie; for she sent me for him. BARABAS. O unhappy day! False, credulous, inconstant Abigail! But let 'em go: and, Ithamore, from hence Ne'er shall she grieve me more with her disgrace; Ne'er shall she live to inherit aught of mine, Be bless'd of me, nor come within my gates, But perish underneath my bitter curse, Like Cain by Adam for his brother's death. ITHAMORE. O master-- BARABAS. Ithamore, entreat not for her; I am mov'd, And she is hateful to my soul and me: And, 'less [108] thou yield to this that I entreat, I cannot think but that thou hat'st my life. ITHAMORE. Who, I, master? why, I'll run to some rock, And throw myself headlong into the sea; Why, I'll do any thing for your sweet sake. BARABAS. O trusty Ithamore! no servant, but my friend! I here adopt thee for mine only heir: All that I have is thine when I am dead; And, whilst I live, use half; spend as myself; Here, take my keys,--I'll give 'em thee anon; Go buy thee garments; but thou shalt not want: Only know this, that thus thou art to do-- But first go fetch me in the pot of rice That for our supper stands upon the fire. ITHAMORE. I hold my head, my master's hungry [Aside].--I go, sir. [Exit.] BARABAS. Thus every villain ambles after wealth, Although he ne'er be richer than in hope:-- But, husht! Re-enter ITHAMORE with the pot. ITHAMORE. Here 'tis, master. BARABAS. Well said, [109] Ithamore! What, hast thou brought The ladle with thee too? ITHAMORE. Yes, sir; the proverb says, [110] he that eats with the devil had need of a long spoon; I have brought you a ladle. BARABAS. Very well, Ithamore; then now be secret; And, for thy sake, whom I so dearly love, Now shalt thou see the death of Abigail, That thou mayst freely live to be my heir. ITHAMORE. Why, master, will you poison her with a mess of rice- porridge? that will preserve life, make her round and plump, and batten [111] more than you are aware. BARABAS. Ay, but, Ithamore, seest thou this? It is a precious powder that I bought Of an Italian, in Ancona, once, Whose operation is to bind, infect, And poison deeply, yet not appear In forty hours after it is ta'en. ITHAMORE. How, master? BARABAS. Thus, Ithamore: This even they use in Malta here,--'tis call'd Saint Jaques' Even,--and then, I say, they use To send their alms unto the nunneries: Among the rest, bear this, and set it there: There's a dark entry where they take it in, Where they must neither see the messenger, Nor make inquiry who hath sent it them. ITHAMORE. How so? BARABAS. Belike there is some ceremony in't. There, Ithamore, must thou go place this pot: [112] Stay; let me spice it first. ITHAMORE. Pray, do, and let me help you, master. Pray, let me taste first. BARABAS. Prithee, do.[ITHAMORE tastes.] What say'st thou now? ITHAMORE. Troth, master, I'm loath such a pot of pottage should be spoiled. BARABAS. Peace, Ithamore! 'tis better so than spar'd. [Puts the powder into the pot.] Assure thyself thou shalt have broth by the eye: [113] My purse, my coffer, and myself is thine. ITHAMORE. Well, master, I go. BARABAS. Stay; first let me stir it, Ithamore. As fatal be it to her as the draught Of which great Alexander drunk, and died; And with her let it work like Borgia's wine, Whereof his sire the Pope was poisoned! In few, [114] the blood of Hydra, Lerna's bane, The juice of hebon, [115] and Cocytus' breath, And all the poisons of the Stygian pool, Break from the fiery kingdom, and in this Vomit your venom, and envenom her That, like a fiend, hath left her father thus! ITHAMORE. What a blessing has he given't! was ever pot of rice-porridge so sauced? [Aside].--What shall I do with it? BARABAS. O my sweet Ithamore, go set it down; And come again so soon as thou hast done, For I have other business for thee. ITHAMORE. Here's a drench to poison a whole stable of Flanders mares: I'll carry't to the nuns with a powder. BARABAS. And the horse-pestilence to boot: away! ITHAMORE. I am gone: Pay me my wages, for my work is done. [Exit with the pot.] BARABAS. I'll pay thee with a vengeance, Ithamore! [Exit.] Enter FERNEZE, [116] MARTIN DEL BOSCO, KNIGHTS, and BASSO. FERNEZE. Welcome, great basso: [117] how fares Calymath? What wind drives you thus into Malta-road? BASSO. The wind that bloweth all the world besides, Desire of gold. FERNEZE. Desire of gold, great sir! That's to be gotten in the Western Inde: In Malta are no golden minerals. BASSO. To you of Malta thus saith Calymath: The time you took for respite is at hand For the performance of your promise pass'd; And for the tribute-money I am sent. FERNEZE. Basso, in brief, shalt have no tribute here, Nor shall the heathens live upon our spoil: First will we raze the city-walls ourselves, Lay waste the island, hew the temples down, And, shipping off our goods to Sicily, Open an entrance for the wasteful sea, Whose billows, beating the resistless banks, [118] Shall overflow it with their refluence. BASSO. Well, governor, since thou hast broke the league By flat denial of the promis'd tribute, Talk not of razing down your city-walls; You shall not need trouble yourselves so far, For Selim Calymath shall come himself, And with brass bullets batter down your towers, And turn proud Malta to a wilderness, For these intolerable wrongs of yours: And so, farewell. FERNEZE. Farewell. [Exit BASSO.] And now, you men of Malta, look about, And let's provide to welcome Calymath: Close your port-cullis, charge your basilisks, [119] And, as you profitably take up arms, So now courageously encounter them, For by this answer broken is the league, And naught is to be look'd for now but wars, And naught to us more welcome is than wars. [Exeunt.] Enter FRIAR JACOMO [120] and FRIAR BARNARDINE. FRIAR JACOMO. O brother, brother, all the nuns are sick, And physic will not help them! they must die. FRIAR BARNARDINE. The abbess sent for me to be confess'd: O, what a sad confession will there be! FRIAR JACOMO. And so did fair Maria send for me: I'll to her lodging; hereabouts she lies. [Exit.] Enter ABIGAIL. FRIAR BARNARDINE. What, all dead, save only Abigail! ABIGAIL. And I shall die too, for I feel death coming. Where is the friar that convers'd with me? [121] FRIAR BARNARDINE. O, he is gone to see the other nuns. ABIGAIL. I sent for him; but, seeing you are come, Be you my ghostly father: and first know, That in this house I liv'd religiously, Chaste, and devout, much sorrowing for my sins; But, ere I came-- FRIAR BARNARDINE. What then? ABIGAIL. I did offend high heaven so grievously As I am almost desperate for my sins; And one offense torments me more than all. You knew Mathias and Don Lodowick? FRIAR BARNARDINE. Yes; what of them? ABIGAIL. My father did contract me to 'em both; First to Don Lodowick: him I never lov'd; Mathias was the man that I held dear, And for his sake did I become a nun. FRIAR BARNARDINE. So: say how was their end? ABIGAIL. Both, jealous of my love, envied [122] each other; And by my father's practice, [123] which is there [Gives writing.] Set down at large, the gallants were both slain. FRIAR BARNARDINE. O, monstrous villany! ABIGAIL. To work my peace, this I confess to thee: Reveal it not; for then my father dies. FRIAR BARNARDINE. Know that confession must not be reveal'd; The canon-law forbids it, and the priest That makes it known, being degraded first, Shall be condemn'd, and then sent to the fire. ABIGAIL. So I have heard; pray, therefore, keep it close. Death seizeth on my heart: ah, gentle friar, Convert my father that he may be sav'd, And witness that I die a Christian! [Dies.] FRIAR BARNARDINE. Ay, and a virgin too; that grieves me most. But I must to the Jew, and exclaim on him, And make him stand in fear of me. Re-enter FRIAR JACOMO. FRIAR JACOMO. O brother, all the nuns are dead! let's bury them. FRIAR BARNARDINE. First help to bury this; then go with me, And help me to exclaim against the Jew. FRIAR JACOMO. Why, what has he done? FRIAR BARNARDINE. A thing that makes me tremble to unfold. FRIAR JACOMO. What, has he crucified a child? [124] FRIAR BARNARDINE. No, but a worse thing: 'twas told me in shrift; Thou know'st 'tis death, an if it be reveal'd. Come, let's away. [Exeunt.]

https://web.archive.org/web/20210228041946/https://www.sparknotes.com/drama/jewofmalta/section5/

This scene introduces the courtesan Bellamira and her pimp Pilia-Borza. While the prostitute complains about the lack of business after the Turkish blockade of Malta , Pilia-Borza appears and throws her a moneybag of silver. He explains how he entered Barabas's counting house at night, was disrupted by a noise, and ran off with only one bag, although there was plenty of gold to be had. The friends are interrupted by the appearance of Ithamore; Pilia-Borza warns Bellamira not to stare at him. It is too late, however, because the slave has seen the prostitute and fallen in love with her. He knows that she is a courtesan by her clothing and states that he would give "a hundred of the Jew's crowns" to have her. Ithamore mentions that he has delivered the challenge to Mathias, and only awaits the duel where the young man and Lodowick will kill one another. Mathias and Lodowick meet to duel. Lodowick enters reading a letter--no doubt forged like the one Barabas sent to Mathias--which is in some manner offensive. The men start fighting, observed by Barabas from a balcony. Barabas jeers at the men as they fight. After they have killed each other, Ferneze and Mathias's mother, Katherine, enter and find their dead children. Both vow revenge, but, realizing that their sons have killed one another, they seek to find it in the person who set the young men against one another. The bereaved Ferneze suggests the young men should be buried together in a monument, where he can "offer up / My daily sacrifice of sighs and tears" and force heaven to reveal what caused these events. Ferneze then suggests to Katherine that they "take equal share." Ithamore meets Abigail and boasts about the success of his and Barabas's cunning plot. While the slave cackles in self-congratulation and lauds the "bravest policy" of his master, Abigail shows no reaction. She asks Ithamore to fetch her any friar from the order of "St Jacques" . The slave leaves, and Abigail is left to rail against her "hard-hearted" father and despair at what he has done to Mathias, Lodowick, and herself. Ithamore then enters with the priest Jacomo, and Abigail asks if she can be admitted to his convent. Although the priest brings up the fact that she was admitted before and "didn't like holy life," Abigail blames this on her father. She states that experience "purchased with grief" has taught her the error of her ways. When the friar asks her why Barabas is to be blamed, Abigail refuses to say and states to herself that she will be loyal to her father unto death. She leaves saying that her "duty" is now to the priest.

The introduction of the prostitute and her pimp add an ordinary criminal element into the plot. Bellamira and Pilia-Borza have no money because business has been slack; thus, they are attracted to the relatively easy pickings of Barabas's gold. Ithamore's vow to spend 100 "crowns" of his master's money hints at his growing lust for gold, although this is directed toward buying Bellamira. In some ways, this scene is reminiscent of Act II, scene iii, where Lodowick describes Abigail as a diamond that he wants to buy. Although Ithamore responds to the prostitute's beauty, his mind turns immediately to the money that would be required to purchase her. Throughout the play, the language of money is used in connection with the language of love. Characters express their romantic sentiments with a keen eye to striking a deal, and figures such as Bellamira and Barabas are fully aware of this reality. Just as Barabas bought Ithamore in Act II, scene iii, so the slave now seeks to procure Bellamira. Most characters in the play ascribe to the philosophy that money can get you what you want; if this also involves lying to or betraying someone else, so much the better. In fact, Marlowe uses this scene as the first link in the chain of events that will lead to Ithamore betraying and attempting to bribe Barabas in Act IV, scene ii. Vengeance again comes to the fore in Act III, scene ii. In their grief, both Ferneze and Katherine vow to avenge their sons' deaths and look to heaven for divine retribution. This contrasts with Abigail's reaction to news of the men's deaths in the next scene. Rather than railing against the world, she decides to enter a convent in atonement for her sins. Abigail remains outwardly composed while experiencing turbulent emotions; her reasoned response to Ithamore's callous joking shows her ability to keep a cool head. Abigail is different from the play's other characters in that she does not turn to vengeance as a means of channeling her grief. However, one suspects that Abigail's conversion to Christianity and her comment, "I perceive there is no love on earth, / Pity in Jews, nor piety in Turks," are intended to be heavily ironic. The Catholic clergy is so obviously corrupt that Abigail's decision to convert appears naive, not to say ridiculous. Marlowe warns us not to take this scene at face value when Ithamore states, "Why, was there ever seen such villainy, / So neatly plotted, and so well performed?" Seemingly, while Ithamore congratulates himself on his crimes, the playwright slyly commends his own stage work. We cannot ignore the sense that Marlowe is toying with his audience's expectations, as he does throughout the play. The playwright uses improbable events, such as Abigail's conversion, to make ironic statements about religious hypocrisy and society's prejudiced status quo.

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/901-chapters/act_4.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/The Jew of Malta/section_6_part_0.txt

The Jew of Malta.act 4

act 4

{"name": "", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210228041946/https://www.sparknotes.com/drama/jewofmalta/section7/", "summary": "Act IV begins with Barabas congratulating himself on the success of his plan to poison the nuns. Ithamore fears that they will be caught, but Barabas reminds him that only the two of them know they are to blame for the deed. The merchant says that he will cut the slave's throat if he confesses to anyone. Barabas admits that he is not upset at Abigail's death, although he still despairs that she converted to Christianity. The friars Jacomo and Bernardine enter and clumsily try to make Barabas confess his role in the deaths of Mathias and Lodowick. The dialogue between the three men is rather comic as Barabas keeps interrupting the stammering priests only to confess to irrelevant crimes. For example, when Bernardine states, \"Thou hast committed,\" Barabas interrupts with \"Fornication? / But that was in another country: / And besides, the wench is dead. \" When the merchant realizes that his plot against the young men has been uncovered he changes tack and starts to \"dissemble.\" Barabas assures the friars that he wants to convert to Christianity and atone for his sins, slyly promising that he will donate his wealth to whichever religious denomination he joins. Of course, the two priests start trying to persuade the protagonist to join each's own monastery. They denounce the strict rules of each other's groups. Barabas assures Bernardine that he will join his monastery, but, after the friar has left with Ithamore, the merchant promises Jacomo that he will join the Dominicans. Jacomo leaves after swearing that he will not tell anyone in his convent about Barabas's decision. Barabas then decides to murder Jacomo in retribution for Abigail's conversion, and to kill Bernardine because he knows too much. Ithamore tells his master that Bernardine is asleep and that there is no way he can escape from the merchant's house. Bernadine makes Ithamore strangle the priest with his own belt, and the two murderers leave the corpse propped up on his staff outside in the street. Jacomo appears, sees Bernardine, and deduces that the friar was lying in wait to intercept him. Jacomo hits Bernardine over the head with a staff, not realizing that Bernardine is already dead. Barabas and Ithamore suddenly appear and accuse Jacomo of killing the friar. Barabas pretends that he wanted to join Jacomo's monastery but states he will not do so given the bad example the friar has set. Barabas says he cannot let the terrified Jacomo escape because the \"law must have his course. \" The men leave to hand the priest over to officials. Pilia-Borza returns from delivering a letter to Ithamore from Bellamira. The pimp tells Bellamira that he met the slave at the gallows, where Ithamore was watching Jacomo's execution. It will emerge that Pilia-Borza and Bellamira plan to use Ithamore to get to Barabas's money. Ithamore then arrives at Bellamira's house, having been instructed to go there in the letter. He is totally bewildered by the respect the courtesan and the pimp show toward him. Bellamira professes her love for Ithamore, and Ithamore tells himself that he should leave and get money from Barabas to improve his appearance. The prostitute encourages Ithamore to stay and beguiles him into bribing his master. The slave writes a letter to Barabas, demanding 300 crowns or else he will confess about their crimes. While all this is happening, Bellamira and Pilia- Borza make disparaging remarks about Ithamore in asides to each other. The pimp leaves to deliver the ultimatum to Barabas. The prostitute promises to marry the slave, at which point he breaks off into poetic rhapsodies about their future together. Pilia-Borza returns and says that the merchant \"laughed and jeered\" about Ithamore's loyalty and only gave the pimp ten crowns. The slave writes another letter to Barabas, requesting 500 crowns for himself and 100 for Pilia- Borza. The pimp leaves, and Bellamira throws away the ten crowns Ithamore has offered her in an attempt to convince him of her love. She kisses the slave before inviting him to sleep with her.", "analysis": "Duplicity and cunning play a central role in the first and second scenes of Act IV. Barabas attains new heights of iniquity as he manages to kill both priests, leaving his role in Mathias's and Lodowick's deaths undisclosed. Barabas also has some sport with the friars as he enjoys watching them insult one another in a futile attempt to gain his wealth. As in previous scenes, such as Act III, scene vi, the clergymen come across as highly flawed individuals who care more about earthly riches than heavenly concerns. Interestingly, Marlowe chooses to have Barabas call the friars' weakness and inherent vice to our attention. When Barabas witnesses the priests' brawl he does not step in to separate them, as Ithamore suggests, but pronounces instead, \"This is mere frailty, brethren, be content.\" However, Barabas's jocularity is deadly rather than good-humored and he shows no remorse about letting Jacomo hang for a murder the friar did not commit. Clearly, it is the protagonist's intelligence as well as his sheer cunning that lets him get away with his acts. The merchant displays his legal knowledge when he notes to Ithamore that they must show officials the staff used by Jacomo to hit Bernardine, since \"aw wills that each particular be shown.\" Coming after Barabas's successful plots to gain revenge on Ferneze and poison the nuns, the completion of his new scheme underscores his genius as a criminal mastermind. This great villain delights in plotting for its own sake, since the gains he achieves through crime are merely a bonus. Barabas thus displays Machiavellian principles applied to the extreme. Rather than the end justifying the means, as Machiavelli holds, the means become an end in themselves as the criminal revels in his own villainy. Although less malevolent than Barabas, Bellamira and Pilia-Borza show themselves to be similarly unscrupulous in their manipulation of Ithamore. Although the slave is not an innocent character--in fact, as a murderer, he is more cunning than many people he encounters--he is out of his depth when confronted by Bellamira's wily seduction. He even seems naive on occasion, particularly when he rhapsodizes about what his future will be like with the courtesan. In a fine example of romantic self-delusion, Ithamore assures Bellamira, \"Where woods and forests go in goodly green, / I'll be Adonis, thou shalt be Love's Queen.\" However, while he professes to love the courtesan, Marlowe suggests that Ithamore lusts after money. He is perhaps too quick to jump at the chance of bribing Barabas; Ithamore's loyalty vanishes in an instant as he realizes he can coerce his master for gold. Truth has a price--and Barabas must pay to keep it undisclosed. Marlowe shows how those who are willing to trade on truth may profit."}

ACT IV. Enter BARABAS [125] and ITHAMORE. Bells within. BARABAS. There is no music to [126] a Christian's knell: How sweet the bells ring, now the nuns are dead, That sound at other times like tinkers' pans! I was afraid the poison had not wrought, Or, though it wrought, it would have done no good, For every year they swell, and yet they live: Now all are dead, not one remains alive. ITHAMORE. That's brave, master: but think you it will not be known? BARABAS. How can it, if we two be secret? ITHAMORE. For my part, fear you not. BARABAS. I'd cut thy throat, if I did. ITHAMORE. And reason too. But here's a royal monastery hard by; Good master, let me poison all the monks. BARABAS. Thou shalt not need; for, now the nuns are dead, They'll die with grief. ITHAMORE. Do you not sorrow for your daughter's death? BARABAS. No, but I grieve because she liv'd so long, An Hebrew born, and would become a Christian: Cazzo, [127] diabolo! ITHAMORE. Look, look, master; here come two religious caterpillars. Enter FRIAR JACOMO and FRIAR BARNARDINE. BARABAS. I smelt 'em ere they came. ITHAMORE. God-a-mercy, nose! [128] Come, let's begone. FRIAR BARNARDINE. Stay, wicked Jew; repent, I say, and stay. FRIAR JACOMO. Thou hast offended, therefore must be damn'd. BARABAS. I fear they know we sent the poison'd broth. ITHAMORE. And so do I, master; therefore speak 'em fair. FRIAR BARNARDINE. Barabas, thou hast-- FRIAR JACOMO. Ay, that thou hast-- BARABAS. True, I have money; what though I have? FRIAR BARNARDINE. Thou art a-- FRIAR JACOMO. Ay, that thou art, a-- BARABAS. What needs all this? I know I am a Jew. FRIAR BARNARDINE. Thy daughter-- FRIAR JACOMO. Ay, thy daughter-- BARABAS. O, speak not of her! then I die with grief. FRIAR BARNARDINE. Remember that-- FRIAR JACOMO. Ay, remember that-- BARABAS. I must needs say that I have been a great usurer. FRIAR BARNARDINE. Thou hast committed-- BARABAS. Fornication: but that was in another country; And besides, the wench is dead. FRIAR BARNARDINE. Ay, but, Barabas, Remember Mathias and Don Lodowick. BARABAS. Why, what of them? FRIAR BARNARDINE. I will not say that by a forged challenge they met. BARABAS. She has confess'd, and we are both undone, My bosom inmate! [129] but I must dissemble.-- [Aside to ITHAMORE.] O holy friars, the burden of my sins Lie heavy [130] on my soul! then, pray you, tell me, Is't not too late now to turn Christian? I have been zealous in the Jewish faith, Hard-hearted to the poor, a covetous wretch, That would for lucre's sake have sold my soul; A hundred for a hundred I have ta'en; And now for store of wealth may I compare With all the Jews in Malta: but what is wealth? I am a Jew, and therefore am I lost. Would penance serve [to atone] for this my sin, I could afford to whip myself to death,-- ITHAMORE. And so could I; but penance will not serve. BARABAS. To fast, to pray, and wear a shirt of hair, And on my knees creep to Jerusalem. Cellars of wine, and sollars [131] full of wheat, Warehouses stuff'd with spices and with drugs, Whole chests of gold in bullion and in coin, Besides, I know not how much weight in pearl Orient and round, have I within my house; At Alexandria merchandise untold; [132] But yesterday two ships went from this town, Their voyage will be worth ten thousand crowns; In Florence, Venice, Antwerp, London, Seville, Frankfort, Lubeck, Moscow, and where not, Have I debts owing; and, in most of these, Great sums of money lying in the banco; All this I'll give to some religious house, So I may be baptiz'd, and live therein. FRIAR JACOMO. O good Barabas, come to our house! FRIAR BARNARDINE. O, no, good Barabas, come to our house! And, Barabas, you know-- BARABAS. I know that I have highly sinn'd: You shall convert me, you shall have all my wealth. FRIAR JACOMO. O Barabas, their laws are strict! BARABAS. I know they are; and I will be with you. FRIAR BARNARDINE. They wear no shirts, and they go bare-foot too. BARABAS. Then 'tis not for me; and I am resolv'd You shall confess me, and have all my goods. FRIAR JACOMO. Good Barabas, come to me. BARABAS. You see I answer him, and yet he stays; Rid him away, and go you home with me. FRIAR JACOMO. I'll be with you to-night. BARABAS. Come to my house at one o'clock this night. FRIAR JACOMO. You hear your answer, and you may be gone. FRIAR BARNARDINE. Why, go, get you away. FRIAR JACOMO. I will not go for thee. FRIAR BARNARDINE. Not! then I'll make thee go. FRIAR JACOMO. How! dost call me rogue? [They fight.] ITHAMORE. Part 'em, master, part 'em. BARABAS. This is mere frailty: brethren, be content.-- Friar Barnardine, go you with Ithamore: You know my mind; let me alone with him. FRIAR JACOMO. Why does he go to thy house? let him be gone. [133] BARABAS. I'll give him something, and so stop his mouth. [Exit ITHAMORE with Friar BARNARDINE.] I never heard of any man but he Malign'd the order of the Jacobins: But do you think that I believe his words? Why, brother, you converted Abigail; And I am bound in charity to requite it, And so I will. O Jacomo, fail not, but come. FRIAR JACOMO. But, Barabas, who shall be your godfathers? For presently you shall be shriv'd. BARABAS. Marry, the Turk [134] shall be one of my godfathers, But not a word to any of your covent. [135] FRIAR JACOMO. I warrant thee, Barabas. [Exit.] BARABAS. So, now the fear is past, and I am safe; For he that shriv'd her is within my house: What, if I murder'd him ere Jacomo comes? Now I have such a plot for both their lives, As never Jew nor Christian knew the like: One turn'd my daughter, therefore he shall die; The other knows enough to have my life, Therefore 'tis not requisite he should live. [136] But are not both these wise men, to suppose That I will leave my house, my goods, and all, To fast and be well whipt? I'll none of that. Now, Friar Barnardine, I come to you: I'll feast you, lodge you, give you fair [137] words, And, after that, I and my trusty Turk-- No more, but so: it must and shall be done. [138] Enter ITHAMORE. Ithamore, tell me, is the friar asleep? ITHAMORE. Yes; and I know not what the reason is, Do what I can, he will not strip himself, Nor go to bed, but sleeps in his own clothes: I fear me he mistrusts what we intend. BARABAS. No; 'tis an order which the friars use: Yet, if he knew our meanings, could he scape? ITHAMORE. No, none can hear him, cry he ne'er so loud. BARABAS. Why, true; therefore did I place him there: The other chambers open towards the street. ITHAMORE. You loiter, master; wherefore stay we thus? O, how I long to see him shake his heels! BARABAS. Come on, sirrah: Off with your girdle; make a handsome noose.-- [ITHAMORE takes off his girdle, and ties a noose on it.] Friar, awake! [139] [They put the noose round the FRIAR'S neck.] FRIAR BARNARDINE. What, do you mean to strangle me? ITHAMORE. Yes, 'cause you use to confess. BARABAS. Blame not us, but the proverb,--Confess and be hanged.--Pull hard. FRIAR BARNARDINE. What, will you have [140] my life? BARABAS. Pull hard, I say.--You would have had my goods. ITHAMORE. Ay, and our lives too:--therefore pull amain. [They strangle the FRIAR.] 'Tis neatly done, sir; here's no print at all. BARABAS. Then is it as it should be. Take him up. ITHAMORE. Nay, master, be ruled by me a little. [Takes the body, sets it upright against the wall, and puts a staff in its hand.] So, let him lean upon his staff; excellent! he stands as if he were begging of bacon. BARABAS. Who would not think but that this friar liv'd? What time o' night is't now, sweet Ithamore? ITHAMORE. Towards one. [141] BARABAS. Then will not Jacomo be long from hence. [Exeunt.] Enter FRIAR JACOMO. [142] FRIAR JACOMO. This is the hour wherein I shall proceed; [143] O happy hour, wherein I shall convert An infidel, and bring his gold into our treasury! But soft! is not this Barnardine? it is; And, understanding I should come this way, Stands here o' purpose, meaning me some wrong, And intercept my going to the Jew.-- Barnardine! Wilt thou not speak? thou think'st I see thee not; Away, I'd wish thee, and let me go by: No, wilt thou not? nay, then, I'll force my way; And, see, a staff stands ready for the purpose. As thou lik'st that, stop me another time! [Takes the staff, and strikes down the body.] Enter BARABAS and ITHAMORE. BARABAS. Why, how now, Jacomo! what hast thou done? FRIAR JACOMO. Why, stricken him that would have struck at me. BARABAS. Who is it? Barnardine! now, out, alas, he is slain! ITHAMORE. Ay, master, he's slain; look how his brains drop out on's [144] nose. FRIAR JACOMO. Good sirs, I have done't: but nobody knows it but you two; I may escape. BARABAS. So might my man and I hang with you for company. ITHAMORE. No; let us bear him to the magistrates. FRIAR JACOMO. Good Barabas, let me go. BARABAS. No, pardon me; the law must have his course: I must be forc'd to give in evidence, That, being importun'd by this Barnardine To be a Christian, I shut him out, And there he sate: now I, to keep my word, And give my goods and substance to your house, Was up thus early, with intent to go Unto your friary, because you stay'd. ITHAMORE. Fie upon 'em! master, will you turn Christian, when holy friars turn devils and murder one another? BARABAS. No; for this example I'll remain a Jew: Heaven bless me! what, a friar a murderer! When shall you see a Jew commit the like? ITHAMORE. Why, a Turk could ha' done no more. BARABAS. To-morrow is the sessions; you shall to it.-- Come, Ithamore, let's help to take him hence. FRIAR JACOMO. Villains, I am a sacred person; touch me not. BARABAS. The law shall touch you; we'll but lead you, we: 'Las, I could weep at your calamity!-- Take in the staff too, for that must be shown: Law wills that each particular be known. [Exeunt.] Enter BELLAMIRA [145] and PILIA-BORZA. BELLAMIRA. Pilia-Borza, didst thou meet with Ithamore? PILIA-BORZA. I did. BELLAMIRA. And didst thou deliver my letter? PILIA-BORZA. I did. BELLAMIRA. And what thinkest thou? will he come? PILIA-BORZA. I think so: and yet I cannot tell; for, at the reading of the letter, he looked like a man of another world. BELLAMIRA. Why so? PILIA-BORZA. That such a base slave as he should be saluted by such a tall [146] man as I am, from such a beautiful dame as you. BELLAMIRA. And what said he? PILIA-BORZA. Not a wise word; only gave me a nod, as who should say, "Is it even so?" and so I left him, being driven to a non-plus at the critical aspect of my terrible countenance. BELLAMIRA. And where didst meet him? PILIA-BORZA. Upon mine own free-hold, within forty foot of the gallows, conning his neck-verse, [147] I take it, looking of [148] a friar's execution; whom I saluted with an old hempen proverb, Hodie tibi, cras mihi, and so I left him to the mercy of the hangman: but, the exercise [149] being done, see where he comes. Enter ITHAMORE. ITHAMORE. I never knew a man take his death so patiently as this friar; he was ready to leap off ere the halter was about his neck; and, when the hangman had put on his hempen tippet, he made such haste to his prayers, as if he had had another cure to serve. Well, go whither he will, I'll be none of his followers in haste: and, now I think on't, going to the execution, a fellow met me with a muschatoes [150] like a raven's wing, and a dagger with a hilt like a warming-pan; and he gave me a letter from one Madam Bellamira, saluting me in such sort as if he had meant to make clean my boots with his lips; the effect was, that I should come to her house: I wonder what the reason is; it may be she sees more in me than I can find in myself; for she writes further, that she loves me ever since she saw me; and who would not requite such love? Here's her house; and here she comes; and now would I were gone! I am not worthy to look upon her. PILIA-BORZA. This is the gentleman you writ to. ITHAMORE. Gentleman! he flouts me: what gentry can be in a poor Turk of tenpence? [151] I'll be gone. [Aside.] BELLAMIRA. Is't not a sweet-faced youth, Pilia? ITHAMORE. Again, sweet youth! [Aside.]--Did not you, sir, bring the sweet youth a letter? PILIA-BORZA. I did, sir, and from this gentlewoman, who, as myself and the rest of the family, stand or fall at your service. BELLAMIRA. Though woman's modesty should hale me back, I can withhold no longer: welcome, sweet love. ITHAMORE. Now am I clean, or rather foully, out of the way. [Aside.] BELLAMIRA. Whither so soon? ITHAMORE. I'll go steal some money from my master to make me handsome [Aside].--Pray, pardon me; I must go see a ship discharged. BELLAMIRA. Canst thou be so unkind to leave me thus? PILIA-BORZA. An ye did but know how she loves you, sir! ITHAMORE. Nay, I care not how much she loves me.--Sweet Bellamira, would I had my master's wealth for thy sake! PILIA-BORZA. And you can have it, sir, an if you please. ITHAMORE. If 'twere above ground, I could, and would have it; but he hides and buries it up, as partridges do their eggs, under the earth. PILIA-BORZA. And is't not possible to find it out? ITHAMORE. By no means possible. BELLAMIRA. What shall we do with this base villain, then? [Aside to PILIA-BORZA.] PILIA-BORZA. Let me alone; do but you speak him fair.-- [Aside to her.] But you know [152] some secrets of the Jew, Which, if they were reveal'd, would do him harm. ITHAMORE. Ay, and such as--go to, no more! I'll make him [153] send me half he has, and glad he scapes so too: I'll write unto him; we'll have money straight. PILIA-BORZA. Send for a hundred crowns at least. ITHAMORE. Ten hundred thousand crowns.--[writing] MASTER BARABAS,-- PILIA-BORZA. Write not so submissively, but threatening him. ITHAMORE. [writing] SIRRAH BARABAS, SEND ME A HUNDRED CROWNS. PILIA-BORZA. Put in two hundred at least. ITHAMORE. [writing] I CHARGE THEE SEND ME THREE HUNDRED BY THIS BEARER, AND THIS SHALL BE YOUR WARRANT: IF YOU DO NOT--NO MORE, BUT SO. PILIA-BORZA. Tell him you will confess. ITHAMORE. [writing] OTHERWISE I'LL CONFESS ALL.-- Vanish, and return in a twinkle. PILIA-BORZA. Let me alone; I'll use him in his kind. ITHAMORE. Hang him, Jew! [Exit PILIA-BORZA with the letter.] BELLAMIRA. Now, gentle Ithamore, lie in my lap.-- Where are my maids? provide a cunning [154] banquet; Send to the merchant, bid him bring me silks; Shall Ithamore, my love, go in such rags? ITHAMORE. And bid the jeweller come hither too. BELLAMIRA. I have no husband; sweet, I'll marry thee. ITHAMORE. Content: but we will leave this paltry land, And sail from hence to Greece, to lovely Greece;-- I'll be thy Jason, thou my golden fleece;-- Where painted carpets o'er the meads are hurl'd, And Bacchus' vineyards overspread the world; Where woods and forests go in goodly green;-- I'll be Adonis, thou shalt be Love's Queen;-- The meads, the orchards, and the primrose-lanes, Instead of sedge and reed, bear sugar-canes: Thou in those groves, by Dis above, Shalt live with me, and be my love. [155] BELLAMIRA. Whither will I not go with gentle Ithamore? Re-enter PILIA-BORZA. ITHAMORE. How now! hast thou the gold [?] PILIA-BORZA. Yes. ITHAMORE. But came it freely? did the cow give down her milk freely? PILIA-BORZA. At reading of the letter, he stared and stamped, and turned aside: I took him by the beard, [156] and looked upon him thus; told him he were best to send it: then he hugged and embraced me. ITHAMORE. Rather for fear than love. PILIA-BORZA. Then, like a Jew, he laughed and jeered, and told me he loved me for your sake, and said what a faithful servant you had been. ITHAMORE. The more villain he to keep me thus: here's goodly 'parel, is there not? PILIA-BORZA. To conclude, he gave me ten crowns. [Delivers the money to ITHAMORE.] ITHAMORE. But ten? I'll not leave him worth a grey groat. Give me a ream of paper: we'll have a kingdom of gold for't. [157] PILIA-BORZA. Write for five hundred crowns. ITHAMORE. [writing] SIRRAH JEW, AS YOU LOVE YOUR LIFE, SEND ME FIVE HUNDRED CROWNS, AND GIVE THE BEARER A HUNDRED.--Tell him I must have't. PILIA-BORZA. I warrant, your worship shall have't. ITHAMORE. And, if he ask why I demand so much, tell him I scorn to write a line under a hundred crowns. PILIA-BORZA. You'd make a rich poet, sir. I am gone. [Exit with the letter.] ITHAMORE. Take thou the money; spend it for my sake. BELLAMIRA. 'Tis not thy money, but thyself I weigh: Thus Bellamira esteems of gold; [Throws it aside.] But thus of thee. [Kisses him.] ITHAMORE. That kiss again!--She runs division [158] of my lips. What an eye she casts on me! it twinkles like a star. [Aside.] BELLAMIRA. Come, my dear love, let's in and sleep together. ITHAMORE. O, that ten thousand nights were put in one, that we might sleep seven years together afore we wake! BELLAMIRA. Come, amorous wag, first banquet, and then sleep. [Exeunt.] Enter BARABAS, [159] reading a letter. BARABAS. BARABAS, SEND ME THREE HUNDRED CROWNS;-- Plain Barabas! O, that wicked courtezan! He was not wont to call me Barabas;-- OR ELSE I WILL CONFESS;--ay, there it goes: But, if I get him, coupe de gorge for that. He sent a shaggy, tatter'd, [160] staring slave, That, when he speaks, draws out his grisly beard, And winds it twice or thrice about his ear; Whose face has been a grind-stone for men's swords; His hands are hack'd, some fingers cut quite off; Who, when he speaks, grunts like a hog, and looks Like one that is employ'd in catzery [161] And cross-biting; [162] such a rogue As is the husband to a hundred whores; And I by him must send three hundred crowns. Well, my hope is, he will not stay there still; And, when he comes--O, that he were but here! Enter PILIA-BORZA. PILIA-BORZA. Jew, I must ha' more gold. BARABAS. Why, want'st thou any of thy tale? [163] PILIA-BORZA. No; but three hundred will not serve his turn. BARABAS. Not serve his turn, sir! PILIA-BORZA. No, sir; and therefore I must have five hundred more. BARABAS. I'll rather---- PILIA-BORZA. O, good words, sir, and send it you were best! see, there's his letter. [Gives letter.] BARABAS. Might he not as well come as send? pray, bid him come and fetch it: what he writes for you, [164] ye shall have straight. PILIA-BORZA. Ay, and the rest too, or else---- BARABAS. I must make this villain away [Aside].--Please you dine with me, sir--and you shall be most heartily poisoned. [Aside.] PILIA-BORZA. No, God-a-mercy. Shall I have these crowns? BARABAS. I cannot do it; I have lost my keys. PILIA-BORZA. O, if that be all, I can pick ope your locks. BARABAS. Or climb up to my counting-house window: you know my meaning. PILIA-BORZA. I know enough, and therefore talk not to me of your counting-house. The gold! or know, Jew, it is in my power to hang thee. BARABAS. I am betray'd.-- [Aside.] 'Tis not five hundred crowns that I esteem; I am not mov'd at that: this angers me, That he, who knows I love him as myself, Should write in this imperious vein. Why, sir, You know I have no child, and unto whom Should I leave all, but unto Ithamore? PILIA-BORZA. Here's many words, but no crowns: the crowns! BARABAS. Commend me to him, sir, most humbly, And unto your good mistress as unknown. PILIA-BORZA. Speak, shall I have 'em, sir? BARABAS. Sir, here they are.-- [Gives money.] O, that I should part [165] with so much gold!-- [Aside.] Here, take 'em, fellow, with as good a will---- As I would see thee hang'd [Aside]. O, love stops my breath! Never lov'd man servant as I do Ithamore. PILIA-BORZA. I know it, sir. BARABAS. Pray, when, sir, shall I see you at my house? PILIA-BORZA. Soon enough to your cost, sir. Fare you well. [Exit.] BARABAS. Nay, to thine own cost, villain, if thou com'st! Was ever Jew tormented as I am? To have a shag-rag knave to come [force from me] Three hundred crowns, and then five hundred crowns! Well; I must seek a means to rid [166] 'em all, And presently; for in his villany He will tell all he knows, and I shall die for't. I have it: I will in some disguise go see the slave, And how the villain revels with my gold. [Exit.] Enter BELLAMIRA, [167] ITHAMORE, and PILIA-BORZA. BELLAMIRA. I'll pledge thee, love, and therefore drink it off. ITHAMORE. Say'st thou me so? have at it! and do you hear? [Whispers to her.] BELLAMIRA. Go to, it shall be so. ITHAMORE. Of [168] that condition I will drink it up: Here's to thee. BELLAMIRA. [169] Nay, I'll have all or none. ITHAMORE. There, if thou lov'st me, do not leave a drop. BELLAMIRA. Love thee! fill me three glasses. ITHAMORE. Three and fifty dozen: I'll pledge thee. PILIA-BORZA. Knavely spoke, and like a knight-at-arms. ITHAMORE. Hey, Rivo Castiliano! [170] a man's a man. BELLAMIRA. Now to the Jew. ITHAMORE. Ha! to the Jew; and send me money he [171] were best. PILIA-BORZA. What wouldst thou do, if he should send thee none? ITHAMORE. Do nothing: but I know what I know; he's a murderer. BELLAMIRA. I had not thought he had been so brave a man. ITHAMORE. You knew Mathias and the governor's son; he and I killed 'em both, and yet never touched 'em. PILIA-BORZA. O, bravely done! ITHAMORE. I carried the broth that poisoned the nuns; and he and I, snicle hand too fast, strangled a friar. [172] BELLAMIRA. You two alone? ITHAMORE. We two; and 'twas never known, nor never shall be for me. PILIA-BORZA. This shall with me unto the governor. [Aside to BELLAMIRA.] BELLAMIRA. And fit it should: but first let's ha' more gold.-- [Aside to PILIA-BORZA.] Come, gentle Ithamore, lie in my lap. ITHAMORE. Love me little, love me long: let music rumble, Whilst I in thy incony [173] lap do tumble. Enter BARABAS, disguised as a French musician, with a lute, and a nosegay in his hat. BELLAMIRA. A French musician!--Come, let's hear your skill. BARABAS. Must tuna my lute for sound, twang, twang, first. ITHAMORE. Wilt drink, Frenchman? here's to thee with a--Pox on this drunken hiccup! BARABAS. Gramercy, monsieur. BELLAMIRA. Prithee, Pilia-Borza, bid the fiddler give me the posy in his hat there. PILIA-BORZA. Sirrah, you must give my mistress your posy. BARABAS. A votre commandement, madame. [Giving nosegay.] BELLAMIRA. How sweet, my Ithamore, the flowers smell! ITHAMORE. Like thy breath, sweetheart; no violet like 'em. PILIA-BORZA. Foh! methinks they stink like a hollyhock. [174] BARABAS. So, now I am reveng'd upon 'em all: The scent thereof was death; I poison'd it. [Aside.] ITHAMORE. Play, fiddler, or I'll cut your cat's guts into chitterlings. BARABAS. Pardonnez moi, be no in tune yet: so, now, now all be in. ITHAMORE. Give him a crown, and fill me out more wine. PILIA-BORZA. There's two crowns for thee: play. [Giving money.] BARABAS. How liberally the villain gives me mine own gold! [Aside, and then plays.] PILIA-BORZA. Methinks he fingers very well. BARABAS. So did you when you stole my gold. [Aside.] PILIA-BORZA. How swift he runs! BARABAS. You run swifter when you threw my gold out of my window. [Aside.] BELLAMIRA. Musician, hast been in Malta long? BARABAS. Two, three, four month, madam. ITHAMORE. Dost not know a Jew, one Barabas? BARABAS. Very mush: monsieur, you no be his man? PILIA-BORZA. His man! ITHAMORE. I scorn the peasant: tell him so. BARABAS. He knows it already. [Aside.] ITHAMORE. 'Tis a strange thing of that Jew, he lives upon pickled grasshoppers and sauced mushrooms. [175] BARABAS. What a slave's this! the governor feeds not as I do. [Aside.] ITHAMORE. He never put on clean shirt since he was circumcised. BARABAS. O rascal! I change myself twice a-day. [Aside.] ITHAMORE. The hat he wears, Judas left under the elder when he hanged himself. [176] BARABAS. 'Twas sent me for a present from the Great Cham. [Aside.] PILIA-BORZA. A nasty [177] slave he is.--Whither now, fiddler? BARABAS. Pardonnez moi, monsieur; me [178] be no well. PILIA-BORZA. Farewell, fiddler [Exit BARABAS.] One letter more to the Jew. BELLAMIRA. Prithee, sweet love, one more, and write it sharp. ITHAMORE. No, I'll send by word of mouth now. --Bid him deliver thee a thousand crowns, by the same token that the nuns loved rice, that Friar Barnardine slept in his own clothes; any of 'em will do it. PILIA-BORZA. Let me alone to urge it, now I know the meaning. ITHAMORE. The meaning has a meaning. Come, let's in: To undo a Jew is charity, and not sin. [Exeunt.]

https://web.archive.org/web/20210228041946/https://www.sparknotes.com/drama/jewofmalta/section7/

Act IV begins with Barabas congratulating himself on the success of his plan to poison the nuns. Ithamore fears that they will be caught, but Barabas reminds him that only the two of them know they are to blame for the deed. The merchant says that he will cut the slave's throat if he confesses to anyone. Barabas admits that he is not upset at Abigail's death, although he still despairs that she converted to Christianity. The friars Jacomo and Bernardine enter and clumsily try to make Barabas confess his role in the deaths of Mathias and Lodowick. The dialogue between the three men is rather comic as Barabas keeps interrupting the stammering priests only to confess to irrelevant crimes. For example, when Bernardine states, "Thou hast committed," Barabas interrupts with "Fornication? / But that was in another country: / And besides, the wench is dead. " When the merchant realizes that his plot against the young men has been uncovered he changes tack and starts to "dissemble." Barabas assures the friars that he wants to convert to Christianity and atone for his sins, slyly promising that he will donate his wealth to whichever religious denomination he joins. Of course, the two priests start trying to persuade the protagonist to join each's own monastery. They denounce the strict rules of each other's groups. Barabas assures Bernardine that he will join his monastery, but, after the friar has left with Ithamore, the merchant promises Jacomo that he will join the Dominicans. Jacomo leaves after swearing that he will not tell anyone in his convent about Barabas's decision. Barabas then decides to murder Jacomo in retribution for Abigail's conversion, and to kill Bernardine because he knows too much. Ithamore tells his master that Bernardine is asleep and that there is no way he can escape from the merchant's house. Bernadine makes Ithamore strangle the priest with his own belt, and the two murderers leave the corpse propped up on his staff outside in the street. Jacomo appears, sees Bernardine, and deduces that the friar was lying in wait to intercept him. Jacomo hits Bernardine over the head with a staff, not realizing that Bernardine is already dead. Barabas and Ithamore suddenly appear and accuse Jacomo of killing the friar. Barabas pretends that he wanted to join Jacomo's monastery but states he will not do so given the bad example the friar has set. Barabas says he cannot let the terrified Jacomo escape because the "law must have his course. " The men leave to hand the priest over to officials. Pilia-Borza returns from delivering a letter to Ithamore from Bellamira. The pimp tells Bellamira that he met the slave at the gallows, where Ithamore was watching Jacomo's execution. It will emerge that Pilia-Borza and Bellamira plan to use Ithamore to get to Barabas's money. Ithamore then arrives at Bellamira's house, having been instructed to go there in the letter. He is totally bewildered by the respect the courtesan and the pimp show toward him. Bellamira professes her love for Ithamore, and Ithamore tells himself that he should leave and get money from Barabas to improve his appearance. The prostitute encourages Ithamore to stay and beguiles him into bribing his master. The slave writes a letter to Barabas, demanding 300 crowns or else he will confess about their crimes. While all this is happening, Bellamira and Pilia- Borza make disparaging remarks about Ithamore in asides to each other. The pimp leaves to deliver the ultimatum to Barabas. The prostitute promises to marry the slave, at which point he breaks off into poetic rhapsodies about their future together. Pilia-Borza returns and says that the merchant "laughed and jeered" about Ithamore's loyalty and only gave the pimp ten crowns. The slave writes another letter to Barabas, requesting 500 crowns for himself and 100 for Pilia- Borza. The pimp leaves, and Bellamira throws away the ten crowns Ithamore has offered her in an attempt to convince him of her love. She kisses the slave before inviting him to sleep with her.

Duplicity and cunning play a central role in the first and second scenes of Act IV. Barabas attains new heights of iniquity as he manages to kill both priests, leaving his role in Mathias's and Lodowick's deaths undisclosed. Barabas also has some sport with the friars as he enjoys watching them insult one another in a futile attempt to gain his wealth. As in previous scenes, such as Act III, scene vi, the clergymen come across as highly flawed individuals who care more about earthly riches than heavenly concerns. Interestingly, Marlowe chooses to have Barabas call the friars' weakness and inherent vice to our attention. When Barabas witnesses the priests' brawl he does not step in to separate them, as Ithamore suggests, but pronounces instead, "This is mere frailty, brethren, be content." However, Barabas's jocularity is deadly rather than good-humored and he shows no remorse about letting Jacomo hang for a murder the friar did not commit. Clearly, it is the protagonist's intelligence as well as his sheer cunning that lets him get away with his acts. The merchant displays his legal knowledge when he notes to Ithamore that they must show officials the staff used by Jacomo to hit Bernardine, since "aw wills that each particular be shown." Coming after Barabas's successful plots to gain revenge on Ferneze and poison the nuns, the completion of his new scheme underscores his genius as a criminal mastermind. This great villain delights in plotting for its own sake, since the gains he achieves through crime are merely a bonus. Barabas thus displays Machiavellian principles applied to the extreme. Rather than the end justifying the means, as Machiavelli holds, the means become an end in themselves as the criminal revels in his own villainy. Although less malevolent than Barabas, Bellamira and Pilia-Borza show themselves to be similarly unscrupulous in their manipulation of Ithamore. Although the slave is not an innocent character--in fact, as a murderer, he is more cunning than many people he encounters--he is out of his depth when confronted by Bellamira's wily seduction. He even seems naive on occasion, particularly when he rhapsodizes about what his future will be like with the courtesan. In a fine example of romantic self-delusion, Ithamore assures Bellamira, "Where woods and forests go in goodly green, / I'll be Adonis, thou shalt be Love's Queen." However, while he professes to love the courtesan, Marlowe suggests that Ithamore lusts after money. He is perhaps too quick to jump at the chance of bribing Barabas; Ithamore's loyalty vanishes in an instant as he realizes he can coerce his master for gold. Truth has a price--and Barabas must pay to keep it undisclosed. Marlowe shows how those who are willing to trade on truth may profit.

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/901-chapters/act_5.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/The Jew of Malta/section_8_part_0.txt

The Jew of Malta.act 5

act 5

{"name": "(V.i); (V.ii)", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210228041946/https://www.sparknotes.com/drama/jewofmalta/section9/", "summary": "Ferneze enters, instructing his soldiers to fortify the town in the face of an impending Turkish assault. Bellamira and Pilia-Borza appear and reveal Barabas's crimes to the governor. Ferneze orders that the protagonist be brought to him, along with Ithamore, who will provide proof of Barabas's crimes. When the two men arrive, Barabas tries to deny the charges, but Ithamore admits to everything. The merchant pleads with Ferneze to \"let me have law,\" to which the governor replies, \"you shall have law.\" Barabas leaves, mumbling that he hopes the poisoned flowers will work soon. Katherine arrives, and Ferneze tells her the truth about Mathias's death. She is vitriolic about Barabas, but the governor assures her that he is in jail waiting to receive justice. An officer tells Ferneze that both of the prisoners, along with the pimp and the prostitute, are dead. The governor orders that Barabas's body be thrown over the city walls to \"be a prey for vultures and wild beasts. \" Once this has happened, Barabas gets up and explains that he feigned death by taking a sleeping draught. He vows to help Calymath and be revenged on the Christians in Malta. Barabas finds Calymath and explains that he knows a secret passage whereby 500 troops can enter the city and open its gates. Calymath promises to make Barabas governor if he is telling the truth. The merchant states \"let me die\" if Calymath finds he has lied. A victorious Calymath enters with his Maltese captives. He assures Ferneze that the prisoners will \"under Turkish yokes groaning bear the burden of our ire,\" before he tells Barabas that he has been made governor. Ferneze despairs at this appointment and at Barabas's treachery, crying, \"What greater misery could Heaven inflict?\" Calymath leaves, promising the new governor that he will be guarded by his \"Janizaries.\" Barabas sends the captives to prison and wonders about his security. He concludes that many people hate him and that his life would be under threat as governor of Malta. Barabas concludes that he will only maintain his position \"bravely by firm policy.\" Barabas calls back Ferneze. Barabas asks him what he thinks will come of the state, and Ferneze replies that he sees \"no reason but of Malta's wrack.\" The protagonist assures Ferneze that he will help free Malta and her captured soldiers. Amazed, Ferneze assures Barabas that he will give him an enormous sum of money if the Jew will \"eal truly with us as thou intimatest. \" The protagonist explains that he will invite Calymath to a feast at which Ferneze will only have to perform \"one strategem\" in order to rid Malta of the Turks. The Ferneze offers Barabas his hand and states that he will deliver his money in the evening. Ferneze departs, and Barabas assures himself that he will make \"a profit of my policy.\" Barabas leaves to plan the details of his deadly feast.", "analysis": "Once again, Barabas finds himself brought before the governor. Barabas meets his accusers in Act V, scene i with a measure of proud disdain, asserting, \"I'll go alone; dogs, do not hale me thus.\" Clearly, his cold reserve contrasts with the self-righteous emotion displayed by the other characters. Ferneze, who dramatically orders Barabas away from him with the words \"his sight is death to me,\" appears particularly pompous and moralistic. Society's prejudice is shown by the fact that Barabas is only referred to as \"the Jew\" in this scene, even though he is not the only Jewish person in Malta. Our reaction to Barabas's unmasking is thus ambiguous. A measure of relief that he is being brought to justice is countered by a sense of disgust at society's hypocrisy. Marlowe levels a charge of legalism--meaning a pedantic observance of the letter rather than the spirit of the law--against Barabas in Act V, scene i. The protagonist's demand to \"have law\" echoes Shylock's determination to have his pound of flesh in Shakespeare's The Merchant of Venice. Barabas knows that none of the charges against him \"can prejudice my life. \" Are we to believe Barabas, or has the Barabas deluded himself into thinking he is invincible? The playwright leaves his audience to decide whether Barabas's knowledge of the law is accurate, or if he has lost whatever grasp of reality he has had left. Ferneze's response is typically evasive: the governor seems to promise everything and nothing. Barabas appears almost comically homicidal by the end of this scene; even as he is led to jail he mumbles his hope that the \"poisoned flowers will work anon.\" The audience is left wondering whether the great criminal mastermind has become a murmuring madman. Our fears that Barabas will simply fizzle out of the play are soon put to rest. The ugliness of Ferneze's comment that Barabas's body should be slung over the town walls \"o be a prey for vultures and wild beasts\" is countered by the farcical speed with which the protagonist recovers and continues about his scheming. As always, Marlowe balances the humorous elements of his play with its darker undertones of prejudice and racial hatred. These tensions even play out on the stage of international conflict and diplomacy. Barabas's decision to aid the Turkish and be revenged on the whole \"accursed town\" of Malta suggests how dangerous and all-encompassing his game of vengeance has become. While Elizabethan theatergoers might have chuckled at the poisoning of a convent of lusty nuns in Act III, scene iv, Marlowe clearly intends for them to blanch at the prospect of Christian \"children\" and \"wives\" dying at the hands of Malta's enemies. In the next scene, the stage widens to include God as a participant in the conflict. The governor calls on Heaven to suggest that human events are determined by Divine Providence. Ferneze's comment, \"Oh fatal day, to fall into the hands / Of such a traitor and unhallowed Jew! / What greater misery could Heaven inflict?\" is particularly suggestive. It foreshadows his comments at the end of the play that God is to be thanked for Malta's deliverance. Marlowe seems to be juxtaposing the idea of human strategy with divine will, posing the question of which has more influence on events in the world."}

ACT V. Enter FERNEZE, [179] KNIGHTS, MARTIN DEL BOSCO, and OFFICERS. FERNEZE. Now, gentlemen, betake you to your arms, And see that Malta be well fortified; And it behoves you to be resolute; For Calymath, having hover'd here so long, Will win the town, or die before the walls. FIRST KNIGHT. And die he shall; for we will never yield. Enter BELLAMIRA and PILIA-BORZA. BELLAMIRA. O, bring us to the governor! FERNEZE. Away with her! she is a courtezan. BELLAMIRA. Whate'er I am, yet, governor, hear me speak: I bring thee news by whom thy son was slain: Mathias did it not; it was the Jew. PILIA-BORZA. Who, besides the slaughter of these gentlemen, Poison'd his own daughter and the nuns, Strangled a friar, and I know not what Mischief beside. FERNEZE. Had we but proof of this---- BELLAMIRA. Strong proof, my lord: his man's now at my lodging, That was his agent; he'll confess it all. FERNEZE. Go fetch him [180] straight [Exeunt OFFICERS]. I always fear'd that Jew. Re-enter OFFICERS with BARABAS and ITHAMORE. BARABAS. I'll go alone; dogs, do not hale me thus. ITHAMORE. Nor me neither; I cannot out-run you, constable.--O, my belly! BARABAS. One dram of powder more had made all sure: What a damn'd slave was I! [Aside.] FERNEZE. Make fires, heat irons, let the rack be fetch'd. FIRST KNIGHT. Nay, stay, my lord; 't may be he will confess. BARABAS. Confess! what mean you, lords? who should confess? FERNEZE. Thou and thy Turk; 'twas that slew my son. ITHAMORE. Guilty, my lord, I confess. Your son and Mathias were both contracted unto Abigail: [he] forged a counterfeit challenge. BARABAS. Who carried that challenge? ITHAMORE. I carried it, I confess; but who writ it? marry, even he that strangled Barnardine, poisoned the nuns and his own daughter. FERNEZE. Away with him! his sight is death to me. BARABAS. For what, you men of Malta? hear me speak. She is a courtezan, and he a thief, And he my bondman: let me have law; For none of this can prejudice my life. FERNEZE. Once more, away with him!--You shall have law. BARABAS. Devils, do your worst!--I['ll] live in spite of you.-- [Aside.] As these have spoke, so be it to their souls!-- I hope the poison'd flowers will work anon. [Aside.] [Exeunt OFFICERS with BARABAS and ITHAMORE; BELLAMIRA, and PILIA-BORZA.] Enter KATHARINE. KATHARINE. Was my Mathias murder'd by the Jew? Ferneze, 'twas thy son that murder'd him. FERNEZE. Be patient, gentle madam: it was he; He forg'd the daring challenge made them fight. KATHARINE. Where is the Jew? where is that murderer? FERNEZE. In prison, till the law has pass'd on him. Re-enter FIRST OFFICER. FIRST OFFICER. My lord, the courtezan and her man are dead; So is the Turk and Barabas the Jew. FERNEZE. Dead! FIRST OFFICER. Dead, my lord, and here they bring his body. MARTIN DEL BOSCO. This sudden death of his is very strange. Re-enter OFFICERS, carrying BARABAS as dead. FERNEZE. Wonder not at it, sir; the heavens are just; Their deaths were like their lives; then think not of 'em.-- Since they are dead, let them be buried: For the Jew's body, throw that o'er the walls, To be a prey for vultures and wild beasts.-- So, now away and fortify the town. Exeunt all, leaving BARABAS on the floor. [181] BARABAS. [rising] What, all alone! well fare, sleepy drink! I'll be reveng'd on this accursed town; For by my means Calymath shall enter in: I'll help to slay their children and their wives, To fire the churches, pull their houses down, Take my goods too, and seize upon my lands. I hope to see the governor a slave, And, rowing in a galley, whipt to death. Enter CALYMATH, BASSOES, [182] and TURKS. CALYMATH. Whom have we there? a spy? BARABAS. Yes, my good lord, one that can spy a place Where you may enter, and surprize the town: My name is Barabas; I am a Jew. CALYMATH. Art thou that Jew whose goods we heard were sold For tribute-money? BARABAS. The very same, my lord: And since that time they have hir'd a slave, my man, To accuse me of a thousand villanies: I was imprisoned, but scap [']d their hands. CALYMATH. Didst break prison? BARABAS. No, no: I drank of poppy and cold mandrake juice; And being asleep, belike they thought me dead, And threw me o'er the walls: so, or how else, The Jew is here, and rests at your command. CALYMATH. 'Twas bravely done: but tell me, Barabas, Canst thou, as thou report'st, make Malta ours? BARABAS. Fear not, my lord; for here, against the trench, [183] The rock is hollow, and of purpose digg'd, To make a passage for the running streams And common channels [184] of the city. Now, whilst you give assault unto the walls, I'll lead five hundred soldiers through the vault, And rise with them i' the middle of the town, Open the gates for you to enter in; And by this means the city is your own. CALYMATH. If this be true, I'll make thee governor. BARABAS. And, if it be not true, then let me die. CALYMATH. Thou'st doom'd thyself.--Assault it presently. [Exeunt.] Alarums within. Enter CALYMATH, [185] BASSOES, TURKS, and BARABAS; with FERNEZE and KNIGHTS prisoners. CALYMATH. Now vail [186] your pride, you captive Christians, And kneel for mercy to your conquering foe: Now where's the hope you had of haughty Spain? Ferneze, speak; had it not been much better To kept [187] thy promise than be thus surpris'd? FERNEZE. What should I say? we are captives, and must yield. CALYMATH. Ay, villains, you must yield, and under Turkish yokes Shall groaning bear the burden of our ire:-- And, Barabas, as erst we promis'd thee, For thy desert we make thee governor; Use them at thy discretion. BARABAS. Thanks, my lord. FERNEZE. O fatal day, to fall into the hands Of such a traitor and unhallow'd Jew! What greater misery could heaven inflict? CALYMATH. 'Tis our command:--and, Barabas, we give, To guard thy person, these our Janizaries: Entreat [188] them well, as we have used thee.-- And now, brave bassoes, [189] come; we'll walk about The ruin'd town, and see the wreck we made.-- Farewell, brave Jew, farewell, great Barabas! BARABAS. May all good fortune follow Calymath! [Exeunt CALYMATH and BASSOES.] And now, as entrance to our safety, To prison with the governor and these Captains, his consorts and confederates. FERNEZE. O villain! heaven will be reveng'd on thee. BARABAS. Away! no more; let him not trouble me. [Exeunt TURKS with FERNEZE and KNIGHTS.] Thus hast thou gotten, [190] by thy policy, No simple place, no small authority: I now am governor of Malta; true,-- But Malta hates me, and, in hating me, My life's in danger; and what boots it thee, Poor Barabas, to be the governor, Whenas [191] thy life shall be at their command? No, Barabas, this must be look'd into; And, since by wrong thou gott'st authority, Maintain it bravely by firm policy; At least, unprofitably lose it not; For he that liveth in authority, And neither gets him friends nor fills his bags, Lives like the ass that Aesop speaketh of, That labours with a load of bread and wine, And leaves it off to snap on thistle-tops: But Barabas will be more circumspect. Begin betimes; Occasion's bald behind: Slip not thine opportunity, for fear too late Thou seek'st for much, but canst not compass it.-- Within here! [192] Enter FERNEZE, with a GUARD. FERNEZE. My lord? BARABAS. Ay, LORD; thus slaves will learn. Now, governor,--stand by there, wait within,-- [Exeunt GUARD.] This is the reason that I sent for thee: Thou seest thy life and Malta's happiness Are at my arbitrement; and Barabas At his discretion may dispose of both: Now tell me, governor, and plainly too, What think'st thou shall become of it and thee? FERNEZE. This, Barabas; since things are in thy power, I see no reason but of Malta's wreck, Nor hope of thee but extreme cruelty: Nor fear I death, nor will I flatter thee. BARABAS. Governor, good words; be not so furious 'Tis not thy life which can avail me aught; Yet you do live, and live for me you shall: And as for Malta's ruin, think you not 'Twere slender policy for Barabas To dispossess himself of such a place? For sith, [193] as once you said, within this isle, In Malta here, that I have got my goods, And in this city still have had success, And now at length am grown your governor, Yourselves shall see it shall not be forgot; For, as a friend not known but in distress, I'll rear up Malta, now remediless. FERNEZE. Will Barabas recover Malta's loss? Will Barabas be good to Christians? BARABAS. What wilt thou give me, governor, to procure A dissolution of the slavish bands Wherein the Turk hath yok'd your land and you? What will you give me if I render you The life of Calymath, surprise his men, And in an out-house of the city shut His soldiers, till I have consum'd 'em all with fire? What will you give him that procureth this? FERNEZE. Do but bring this to pass which thou pretendest, Deal truly with us as thou intimatest, And I will send amongst the citizens, And by my letters privately procure Great sums of money for thy recompense: Nay, more, do this, and live thou governor still. BARABAS. Nay, do thou this, Ferneze, and be free: Governor, I enlarge thee; live with me; Go walk about the city, see thy friends: Tush, send not letters to 'em; go thyself, And let me see what money thou canst make: Here is my hand that I'll set Malta free; And thus we cast [194] it: to a solemn feast I will invite young Selim Calymath, Where be thou present, only to perform One stratagem that I'll impart to thee, Wherein no danger shall betide thy life, And I will warrant Malta free for ever. FERNEZE. Here is my hand; believe me, Barabas, I will be there, and do as thou desirest. When is the time? BARABAS. Governor, presently; For Calymath, when he hath view'd the town, Will take his leave, and sail toward Ottoman. FERNEZE. Then will I, Barabas, about this coin, And bring it with me to thee in the evening. BARABAS. Do so; but fail not: now farewell, Ferneze:-- [Exit FERNEZE.] And thus far roundly goes the business: Thus, loving neither, will I live with both, Making a profit of my policy; And he from whom my most advantage comes, Shall be my friend. This is the life we Jews are us'd to lead; And reason too, for Christians do the like. Well, now about effecting this device; First, to surprise great Selim's soldiers, And then to make provision for the feast, That at one instant all things may be done: My policy detests prevention. To what event my secret purpose drives, I know; and they shall witness with their lives. [Exeunt.] Enter CALYMATH and BASSOES. [195] CALYMATH. Thus have we view'd the city, seen the sack, And caus'd the ruins to be new-repair'd, Which with our bombards' shot and basilisk[s] [196] We rent in sunder at our entry: And, now I see the situation, And how secure this conquer'd island stands, Environ'd with the Mediterranean sea, Strong-countermin'd with other petty isles, And, toward Calabria, [197] back'd by Sicily (Where Syracusian Dionysius reign'd), Two lofty turrets that command the town, I wonder how it could be conquer'd thus. Enter a MESSENGER. MESSENGER. From Barabas, Malta's governor, I bring A message unto mighty Calymath: Hearing his sovereign was bound for sea, To sail to Turkey, to great Ottoman, He humbly would entreat your majesty To come and see his homely citadel, And banquet with him ere thou leav'st the isle. CALYMATH. To banquet with him in his citadel! I fear me, messenger, to feast my train Within a town of war so lately pillag'd, Will be too costly and too troublesome: Yet would I gladly visit Barabas, For well has Barabas deserv'd of us. MESSENGER. Selim, for that, thus saith the governor,-- That he hath in [his] store a pearl so big, So precious, and withal so orient, As, be it valu'd but indifferently, The price thereof will serve to entertain Selim and all his soldiers for a month; Therefore he humbly would entreat your highness Not to depart till he has feasted you. CALYMATH. I cannot feast my men in Malta-walls, Except he place his tables in the streets. MESSENGER. Know, Selim, that there is a monastery Which standeth as an out-house to the town; There will he banquet them; but thee at home, With all thy bassoes and brave followers. CALYMATH. Well, tell the governor we grant his suit; We'll in this summer-evening feast with him. MESSENGER. I shall, my lord. [Exit.] CALYMATH. And now, bold bassoes, let us to our tents, And meditate how we may grace us best, To solemnize our governor's great feast. [Exeunt.] Enter FERNEZE, [198] KNIGHTS, and MARTIN DEL BOSCO. FERNEZE. In this, my countrymen, be rul'd by me: Have special care that no man sally forth Till you shall hear a culverin discharg'd By him that bears the linstock, [199] kindled thus; Then issue out and come to rescue me, For happily I shall be in distress, Or you released of this servitude. FIRST KNIGHT. Rather than thus to live as Turkish thralls, What will we not adventure? FERNEZE. On, then; be gone. KNIGHTS. Farewell, grave governor. [Exeunt, on one side, KNIGHTS and MARTIN DEL BOSCO; on the other, FERNEZE.] Enter, above, [200] BARABAS, with a hammer, very busy; and CARPENTERS. BARABAS. How stand the cords? how hang these hinges? fast? Are all the cranes and pulleys sure? FIRST CARPENTER. [201] All fast. BARABAS. Leave nothing loose, all levell'd to my mind. Why, now I see that you have art, indeed: There, carpenters, divide that gold amongst you; [Giving money.] Go, swill in bowls of sack and muscadine; Down to the cellar, taste of all my wines. FIRST CARPENTER. We shall, my lord, and thank you. [Exeunt CARPENTERS.] BARABAS. And, if you like them, drink your fill and die; For, so I live, perish may all the world! Now, Selim Calymath, return me word That thou wilt come, and I am satisfied. Enter MESSENGER. Now, sirrah; what, will he come? MESSENGER. He will; and has commanded all his men To come ashore, and march through Malta-streets, That thou mayst feast them in thy citadel. BARABAS. Then now are all things as my wish would have 'em; There wanteth nothing but the governor's pelf; And see, he brings it. Enter FERNEZE. Now, governor, the sum? FERNEZE. With free consent, a hundred thousand pounds. BARABAS. Pounds say'st thou, governor? well, since it is no more, I'll satisfy myself with that; nay, keep it still, For, if I keep not promise, trust not me: And, governor, now partake my policy. First, for his army, they are sent before, Enter'd the monastery, and underneath In several places are field-pieces pitch'd, Bombards, whole barrels full of gunpowder, That on the sudden shall dissever it, And batter all the stones about their ears, Whence none can possibly escape alive: Now, as for Calymath and his consorts, Here have I made a dainty gallery, The floor whereof, this cable being cut, Doth fall asunder, so that it doth sink Into a deep pit past recovery. Here, hold that knife; and, when thou seest he comes, [Throws down a knife.] And with his bassoes shall be blithely set, A warning-piece shall be shot off [202] from the tower, To give thee knowledge when to cut the cord, And fire the house. Say, will not this be brave? FERNEZE. O, excellent! here, hold thee, Barabas; I trust thy word; take what I promis'd thee. BARABAS. No, governor; I'll satisfy thee first; Thou shalt not live in doubt of any thing. Stand close, for here they come. [FERNEZE retires.] Why, is not this A kingly kind of trade, to purchase towns By treachery, and sell 'em by deceit? Now tell me, worldlings, underneath the sun [203] If greater falsehood ever has been done? Enter CALYMATH and BASSOES. CALYMATH. Come, my companion-bassoes: see, I pray, How busy Barabas is there above To entertain us in his gallery: Let us salute him.--Save thee, Barabas! BARABAS. Welcome, great Calymath! FERNEZE. How the slave jeers at him! [Aside.] BARABAS. Will't please thee, mighty Selim Calymath, To ascend our homely stairs? CALYMATH. Ay, Barabas.-- Come, bassoes, ascend. [204] FERNEZE. [coming forward] Stay, Calymath; For I will shew thee greater courtesy Than Barabas would have afforded thee. KNIGHT. [within] Sound a charge there! [A charge sounded within: FERNEZE cuts the cord; the floor of the gallery gives way, and BARABAS falls into a caldron placed in a pit. Enter KNIGHTS and MARTIN DEL BOSCO. [205] CALYMATH. How now! what means this? BARABAS. Help, help me, Christians, help! FERNEZE. See, Calymath! this was devis'd for thee. CALYMATH. Treason, treason! bassoes, fly! FERNEZE. No, Selim, do not fly: See his end first, and fly then if thou canst. BARABAS. O, help me, Selim! help me, Christians! Governor, why stand you all so pitiless? FERNEZE. Should I in pity of thy plaints or thee, Accursed Barabas, base Jew, relent? No, thus I'll see thy treachery repaid, But wish thou hadst behav'd thee otherwise. BARABAS. You will not help me, then? FERNEZE. No, villain, no. BARABAS. And, villains, know you cannot help me now.-- Then, Barabas, breathe forth thy latest fate, And in the fury of thy torments strive To end thy life with resolution.-- Know, governor, 'twas I that slew thy son,-- I fram'd the challenge that did make them meet: Know, Calymath, I aim'd thy overthrow: And, had I but escap'd this stratagem, I would have brought confusion on you all, Damn'd Christian [206] dogs, and Turkish infidels! But now begins the extremity of heat To pinch me with intolerable pangs: Die, life! fly, soul! tongue, curse thy fill, and die! [Dies.] CALYMATH. Tell me, you Christians, what doth this portend? FERNEZE. This train [207] he laid to have entrapp'd thy life; Now, Selim, note the unhallow'd deeds of Jews; Thus he determin'd to have handled thee, But I have rather chose to save thy life. CALYMATH. Was this the banquet he prepar'd for us? Let's hence, lest further mischief be pretended. [208] FERNEZE. Nay, Selim, stay; for, since we have thee here, We will not let thee part so suddenly: Besides, if we should let thee go, all's one, For with thy galleys couldst thou not get hence, Without fresh men to rig and furnish them. CALYMATH. Tush, governor, take thou no care for that; My men are all aboard, And do attend my coming there by this. FERNEZE. Why, heard'st thou not the trumpet sound a charge? CALYMATH. Yes, what of that? FERNEZE. Why, then the house was fir'd, Blown up, and all thy soldiers massacred. CALYMATH. O, monstrous treason! FERNEZE. A Jew's courtesy; For he that did by treason work our fall, By treason hath deliver'd thee to us: Know, therefore, till thy father hath made good The ruins done to Malta and to us, Thou canst not part; for Malta shall be freed, Or Selim ne'er return to Ottoman. CALYMATH. Nay, rather, Christians, let me go to Turkey, In person there to mediate [209] your peace: To keep me here will naught advantage you. FERNEZE. Content thee, Calymath, here thou must stay, And live in Malta prisoner; for come all [210] the world To rescue thee, so will we guard us now, As sooner shall they drink the ocean dry, Than conquer Malta, or endanger us. So, march away; and let due praise be given Neither to Fate nor Fortune, but to Heaven. [Exeunt.] Footnotes: [Footnote 1: Heywood dedicates the First Part of THE IRON AGE (printed 1632) "To my Worthy and much Respected Friend, Mr. Thomas Hammon, of Grayes Inne, Esquire."] [Footnote 2: Tho. Heywood: The well-known dramatist.] [Footnote 3: censures: i.e. judgments.] [Footnote 4: bin: i.e. been.] [Footnote 5: best of poets: "Marlo." Marg. note in old ed.] [Footnote 6: best of actors: "Allin." Marg. note in old. ed.--Any account of the celebrated actor, Edward Alleyn, the founder of Dulwich College, would be superfluous here.] [Footnote 7: In HERO AND LEANDER, &c.: The meaning is--The one (Marlowe) gained a lasting memory by being the author of HERO AND LEANDER; while the other (Alleyn) wan the attribute of peerless by playing the parts of Tamburlaine, the Jew of Malta, &c.--The passage happens to be mispointed in the old ed. thus, "In Hero and Leander, one did gaine A lasting memorie: in Tamberlaine, This Jew, with others many: th' other wan," &c. and hence Mr. Collier, in his HIST. OF ENG. DRAM. POET. iii. 114, understood the words, "in Tamburlaine, This Jew, with others many," as applying to Marlowe: he afterwards, however, in his MEMOIRS OF ALLEYN, p. 9, suspected that the punctuation of the old ed. might be wrong,--which it doubtless is.] [Footnote 8: him: "Perkins." Marg. note in old ed.--"This was Richard Perkins, one of the performers belonging to the Cock-pit theatre in Drury-Lane. His name is printed among those who acted in HANNIBAL AND SCIPIO by Nabbes, THE WEDDING by Shirley, and THE FAIR MAID OF THE WEST by Heywood. After the play-houses were shut up on account of the confusion arising from the civil wars, Perkins and Sumner, who belonged to the same house, lived together at Clerkenwell, where they died and were buried. They both died some years before the Restoration. See THE DIALOGUE ON PLAYS AND PLAYERS [Dodsley's OLD PLAYS, 1. clii., last ed.]." REED (apud Dodsley's O. P.). Perkins acted a prominent part in Webster's WHITE DEVIL, when it was first brought on the stage, --perhaps Brachiano (for Burbadge, who was celebrated in Brachiano, does not appear to have played it originally): in a notice to the reader at the end of that tragedy Webster says; "In particular I must remember the well-approved industry of my friend Master Perkins, and confess the worth of his action did crown both the beginning and end." About 1622-3 Perkins belonged to the Red Bull theatre: about 1637 he joined the company at Salisbury Court: see Webster's WORKS, note, p. 51, ed. Dyce, 1857.] [Footnote 9: prize was play'd: This expression (so frequent in our early writers) is properly applied to fencing: see Steevens's note on Shakespeare's MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR, act. i. sc. 1.] [Footnote 10: no wagers laid: "Wagers as to the comparative merits of rival actors in particular parts were not unfrequent of old," &c. Collier (apud Dodsley's O. P.). See my ed. of Peele's WORKS, i. x. ed. 1829; and Collier's MEMOIRS OF ALLEYN, p. 11.] [Footnote 11: the Guise: "i.e. the Duke of Guise, who had been the principal contriver and actor in the horrid massacre of St. Bartholomew's day, 1572. He met with his deserved fate, being assassinated, by order of the French king, in 1588." REED (apud Dodsley's O. P.). And see our author's MASSACRE AT PARIS.] [Footnote 12: empery: Old ed. "Empire."] [Footnote 13: the Draco's: "i.e. the severe lawgiver of Athens; 'whose statutes,' said Demades, 'were not written with ink, but blood.'" STEEVENS (apud Dodsley's O. P.).--Old ed. "the Drancus."] [Footnote 14: had: Qy. "had BUT"?] [Footnote 15: a lecture here: Qy. "a lecture TO YOU here"?] [Footnote 16: Act I.: The Scenes of this play are not marked in the old ed.; nor in the present edition,--because occasionally (where the audience were to SUPPOSE a change of place, it was impossible to mark them.] [Footnote 17: Samnites: Old ed. "Samintes."] [Footnote 18: silverlings: When Steevens (apud Dodsley's O. P.) called this "a diminutive, to express the Jew's contempt of a metal inferior in value to gold," he did not know that the word occurs in Scripture: "a thousand vines at a thousand SILVERLINGS." ISAIAH, vii. 23.--Old ed. "siluerbings."] [Footnote 19: Tell: i.e. count.] [Footnote 20: seld-seen: i.e. seldom-seen.] [Footnote 21: Into what corner peers my halcyon's bill?: "It was anciently believed that this bird (the king-fisher), if hung up, would vary with the wind, and by that means shew from what quarter it blew." STEEVENS (apud Dodsley's O. P.),--who refers to the note on the following passage of Shakespeare's KING LEAR, act ii. sc. 2; "Renege, affirm, and turn their HALCYON BEAKS With every gale and vary of their masters," &c.] [Footnote 22: custom them: "i.e. enter the goods they contain at the Custom-house." STEEVENS (apud Dodsley's O. P.).] [Footnote 23: But: Old ed. "By."] [Footnote 24: fraught: i.e. freight.] [Footnote 25: scambled: i.e. scrambled. (Coles gives in his DICT. "To SCAMBLE, certatim arripere"; and afterwards renders "To scramble" by the very same Latin words.)] [Footnote 26: Enter three JEWS: A change of scene is supposed here, --to a street or to the Exchange.] [Footnote 27: Fond: i.e. Foolish.] [Footnote 28: Aside: Mr. Collier (apud Dodsley's O. P.), mistaking the purport of this stage-direction (which, of course, applies only to the words "UNTO MYSELF"), proposed an alteration of the text.] [Footnote 29: BARABAS. Farewell, Zaareth, &c.: Old ed. "Iew. DOE SO; Farewell Zaareth," &c. But "Doe so" is evidently a stage- direction which has crept into the text, and which was intended to signify that the Jews DO "take their leaves" of Barabas: --here the old ed. has no "EXEUNT."] [Footnote 30: Turk has: So the Editor of 1826.--Old ed. "Turkes haue": but see what follows.] [Footnote 31: Ego mihimet sum semper proximus: The words of Terence are "Proximus sum egomet mihi." ANDRIA, iv. 1. 12.] [Footnote 32: Exit: The scene is now supposed to be changed to the interior of the Council-house.] [Footnote 33: bassoes: i.e. bashaws.] [Footnote 34: governor: Old ed. "Gouernours" here, and several times after in this scene.] [Footnote 35: CALYMATH. Stand all aside, &c.: "The Governor and the Maltese knights here consult apart, while Calymath gives these directions." COLLIER (apud Dodsley's O. P.).] [Footnote 36: happily: i.e. haply.] [Footnote 37: Officer: Old ed. "Reader."] [Footnote 38: denies: i.e. refuses.] [Footnote 39: convertite: "i.e. convert, as in Shakespeare's KING JOHN, act v. sc. 1." STEEVENS (apud Dodsley's O. P.).] [Footnote 40: Then we'll take, &c.: In the old ed. this line forms a portion of the preceding speech.] [Footnote 41: ecstasy: Equivalent here to--violent emotion. "The word was anciently used to signify some degree of alienation of mind." COLLIER (apud Dodsley's O. P.).] [Footnote 42: Exeunt three Jews: On their departure, the scene is supposed to be changed to a street near the house of Barabas.] [Footnote 43: reduce: If the right reading, is equivalent to--repair. But qy. "redress"?] [Footnote 44: fond: "i.e. foolish." REED (apud Dodsley's O. P.).] [Footnote 45: portagues: Portuguese gold coins, so called.] [Footnote 46: sect: "i.e. sex. SECT and SEX were, in our ancient dramatic writers, used synonymously." REED (apud Dodsley's O. P.).] [Footnote 47: Enter FRIAR JACOMO, &c.: Old ed. "Enter three Fryars and two Nuns:" but assuredly only TWO Friars figure in this play.] [Footnote 48: Abb.: In the old ed. the prefix to this speech is "1 Nun," and to the next speech but one "Nun." That both speeches belong to the Abbess is quite evident.] [Footnote 49: Sometimes: Equivalent here (as frequently in our early writers) to--Sometime.] [Footnote 50: forgive me--: Old ed. "GIUE me--"] [Footnote 51: thus: After this word the old ed. has "�",--to signify, perhaps, the motion which Barabas was to make here with his hand.] [Footnote 52: forget not: Qy. "forget IT not"] [Footnote 53: Enter BARABAS, with a light: The scene is now before the house of Barabas, which has been turned into a nunnery.] [Footnote 54: Thus, like the sad-presaging raven, that tolls The sick man's passport in her hollow beak Mr. Collier (HIST. OF ENG. DRAM. POET. iii. 136) remarks that these lines are cited (with some variation, and from memory, as the present play was not printed till 1633) in an epigram on T. Deloney, in Guilpin's SKIALETHEIA OR THE SHADOWE OF TRUTH, 1598,-- "LIKE TO THE FATALL OMINOUS RAVEN, WHICH TOLLS THE SICK MAN'S DIRGE WITHIN HIS HOLLOW BEAKE, So every paper-clothed post in Poules To thee, Deloney, mourningly doth speake," &c.] [Footnote 55: of: i.e. on.] [Footnote 56: wake: Old ed. "walke."] [Footnote 57: Bueno para todos mi ganado no era: Old ed. "Birn para todos, my ganada no er."] [Footnote 58: But stay: what star shines yonder in the east, &c. Shakespeare, it would seem, recollected this passage, when he wrote,-- "But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun!" ROMEO AND JULIET, act ii. sc. 2.] [Footnote 59: Hermoso placer de los dineros: Old ed. "Hormoso Piarer, de les Denirch."] [Footnote 60: Enter Ferneze, &c.: The scene is the interior of the Council-house.] [Footnote 61: entreat: i.e. treat.] [Footnote 62: vail'd not: "i.e. did not strike or lower our flags." STEEVENS (apud Dodsley's O. P.).] [Footnote 63: Turkish: Old ed. "Spanish."] [Footnote 64: luff'd and tack'd: Old ed. "LEFT, and TOOKE."] [Footnote 65: stated: i.e. estated, established, stationed.] [Footnote 66: Enter OFFICERS, &c.: The scene being the market-place.] [Footnote 67: Poor villains, such as were: Old ed. "SUCH AS poore villaines were", &c.] [Footnote 68: into: i.e. unto: see note �, p. 15. [note |, p. 15, The First Part of Tamburlaine the Great: "| into: Used here (as the word was formerly often used) for UNTO."] [Footnote 69: city: The preceding editors have not questioned this word, which I believe to be a misprint.] [Footnote 70: foil'd]=filed, i.e. defiled.] [Footnote 71: I'll have a saying to that nunnery: Compare Barnaby Barnes's DIVILS CHARTER, 1607; "Before I do this seruice, lie there, peece; For I must HAUE A SAYING to those bottels. HE DRINKETH. True stingo; stingo, by mine honour.* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * I must HAUE A SAYING to you, sir, I must, though you be prouided for his Holines owne mouth; I will be bould to be the Popes taster by his leaue." Sig. K 3.] [Footnote 72: plates: "i.e. pieces of silver money." STEEVENS (apud Dodsley's O. P.).--Old ed. "plats."] [Footnote 73: Slave: To the speeches of this Slave the old ed. prefixes "Itha." and "Ith.", confounding him with Ithamore.] [Footnote 74: Lady Vanity: So Jonson in his FOX, act ii. sc. 3., "Get you a cittern, LADY VANITY, And be a dealer with the virtuous man," &c.; and in his DEVIL IS AN ASS, act i. sc. 1.,-- "SATAN. What Vice? PUG. Why, any: Fraud, Or Covetousness, or LADY VANITY, Or old Iniquity."] [Footnote 75: Katharine: Old ed. "MATER."--The name of Mathias's mother was, as we afterwards learn, Katharine.] [Footnote 76: stay: i.e. forbear, break off our conversation.] [Footnote 77: was: Qy. "was BUT"?] [Footnote 78: O, brave, master: The modern editors strike out the comma after "BRAVE", understanding that word as an epithet to "MASTER": but compare what Ithamore says to Barabas in act iv.: "That's BRAVE, MASTER," p. 165, first col.] [Footnote 79: your nose: An allusion to the large artificial nose, with which Barabas was represented on the stage. See the passage cited from W. Rowley's SEARCH FOR MONEY, 1609, in the ACCOUNT OF MARLOWE AND HIS WRITINGS.] [Footnote 80: Ure: i.e. use, practice.] [Footnote 81: a-good: "i.e. in good earnest. Tout de bon." REED (apud Dodsley's O. P.).] [Footnote 82: Enter LODOWICK: A change of scene supposed here,--to the outside of Barabas's house.] [Footnote 83: vow love to him: Old ed. "vow TO LOUE him": but compare, in Barabas's next speech but one, "And she VOWS LOVE TO HIM," &c.] [Footnote 84: made sure: i.e. affianced.] [Footnote 85: Ludovico: Old ed. "Lodowicke."--In act iii. we have, "I fear she knows--'tis so--of my device In Don Mathias' and LODOVICO'S deaths." p. 162, sec. col.] [Footnote 86: happily: i.e. haply.] [Footnote 87: unsoil'd: "Perhaps we ought to read 'unfoil'd', consistently with what Barabas said of her before under the figure of a jewel-- 'The diamond that I talk of NE'ER WAS FOIL'D'." COLLIER (apud Dodsley's O. P.). But see that passage, p. 155, sec. col., and note ||. [i.e. note 70.]] [Footnote 88: cross: i.e. piece of money (many coins being marked with a cross on one side).] [Footnote 89: thou: Old ed. "thee."] [Footnote 90: resolv'd: "i.e. satisfied." GILCHRIST (apud Dodsley's O. P.).] [Footnote 91: Enter BELLAMIRA: She appears, we may suppose, in a veranda or open portico of her house (that the scene is not the interior of the house, is proved by what follows).] [Footnote 92: Enter MATHIAS. MATHIAS. This is the place, &c.: The scene is some pert of the town, as Barabas appears "ABOVE,"--in the balcony of a house. (He stood, of course, on what was termed the upper-stage.) Old ed. thus; "Enter MATHIAS. Math. This is the place, now Abigail shall see Whether Mathias holds her deare or no. Enter Lodow. reading. Math. What, dares the villain write in such base terms? Lod. I did it, and reuenge it if thou dar'st."] [Footnote 93: Lodovico: Old ed. "Lodowicke."--See note *, p. 158. (i.e. note 85.)] [Footnote 94: tall: i.e. bold, brave.] [Footnote 95: What sight is this!: i.e. What A sight is this! Our early writers often omit the article in such exclamations: compare Shakespeare's JULIUS CAESAR, act i. sc. 3, where Casca says, "Cassius, WHAT NIGHT IS THIS!" (after which words the modern editors improperly retain the interrogation-point of the first folio).] [Footnote 96: Lodovico: Old ed. "Lodowicke."] [Footnote 97: These arms of mine shall be thy sepulchre: So in Shakespeare's THIRD PART OF KING HENRY VI., act ii. sc. 5, the Father says to the dead Son whom he has killed in battle, "THESE ARMS OF MINE shall be thy winding-sheet; My heart, sweet boy, SHALL BE THY SEPULCHRE,"-- lines, let me add, not to be found in THE TRUE TRAGEDIE OF RICHARD DUKE OF YORKE, on which Shakespeare formed that play.] [Footnote 98: Katharine: Old ed. "Katherina."] [Footnote 99: Enter ITHAMORE: The scene a room in the house of Barabas.] [Footnote 100: held in hand: i.e. kept in expectation, having their hopes flattered.] [Footnote 101: bottle-nosed: See note �, p. 157. [i.e. note 79.]] [Footnote 102: Jaques: Old ed. "Iaynes."] [Footnote 103: sire: Old ed. "sinne" (which, modernised to "sin", the editors retain, among many other equally obvious errors of the old copy).] [Footnote 104: As: Old ed. "And."] [Footnote 105: Enter BARABAS: The scene is still within the house of Barabas; but some time is supposed to have elapsed since the preceding conference between Abigail and Friar Jacomo.] [Footnote 106: pretendeth: Equivalent to PORTENDETH; as in our author's FIRST BOOK OF LUCAN, "And which (ay me) ever PRETENDETH ill," &c.] [Footnote 107: self: Old ed. "life" (the compositor's eye having caught "life" in the preceding line).] [Footnote 108: 'less: Old ed. "least."] [Footnote 109: Well said: See note *, p. 69.] (note *, p. 69, The Second Part of Tamburlaine the Great: "* Well said: Equivalent to--Well done! as appears from innumerable passages of our early writers: see, for instances, my ed. of Beaumont and Fletcher's WORKS, vol. i. 328, vol. ii. 445, vol. viii. 254.")] [Footnote 110: the proverb says, &c.: A proverb as old as Chaucer's time: see the SQUIERES TALE, v. 10916, ed. Tyrwhitt.] [Footnote 111: batten: i.e. fatten.] [Footnote 112: pot: Old ed. "plot."] [Footnote 113: thou shalt have broth by the eye: "Perhaps he means--thou shalt SEE how the broth that is designed for thee is made, that no mischievous ingredients enter its composition. The passage is, however, obscure." STEEVENS (apud Dodsley's O. P.).--"BY THE EYE" seems to be equivalent to--in abundance. Compare THE CREED of Piers Ploughman: "Grey grete-heded quenes With gold BY THE EIGHEN." v. 167, ed. Wright (who has no note on the expression): and Beaumont and Fletcher's KNIGHT OF THE BURNING PESTLE, act ii. sc. 2; "here's money and gold BY TH' EYE, my boy." In Fletcher's BEGGARS' BUSH, act iii. sc. 1, we find, "Come, English beer, hostess, English beer BY THE BELLY!"] [Footnote 114: In few: i.e. in a few words, in short.] [Footnote 115: hebon: i.e. ebony, which was formerly supposed to be a deadly poison.] [Footnote 116: Enter FERNEZE, &c.: The scene is the interior of the Council-house.] [Footnote 117: basso: Old ed. "Bashaws" (the printer having added an S by mistake), and in the preceding stage-direction, and in the fifth speech of this scene, "Bashaw": but in an earlier scene (see p. 148, first col.) we have "bassoes" (and see our author's TAMBURLAINE, PASSIM). (From p. 148, this play: "Enter FERNEZE governor of Malta, KNIGHTS, and OFFICERS; met by CALYMATH, and BASSOES of the TURK.")] [Footnote 118: the resistless banks: i.e. the banks not able to resist.] [Footnote 119: basilisks: See note ||, p. 25. (note ||, p. 25, The First Part of Tamburlaine the Great:) "basilisks: Pieces of ordnance so called. They were of immense size; see Douce's ILLUST. OF SHAKESPEARE, i. 425."] [Footnote 120: Enter FRIAR JACOMO, &c.: Scene, the interior of the Nunnery.] [Footnote 121: convers'd with me: She alludes to her conversation with Jacomo, p. 162, sec. col. (p. 162, second column, this play: "ABIGAIL. Welcome, grave friar.--Ithamore, be gone. Exit ITHAMORE. Know, holy sir, I am bold to solicit thee. FRIAR JACOMO. Wherein?")] [Footnote 122: envied: i.e. hated.] [Footnote 123: practice: i.e. artful contrivance, stratagem.] [Footnote 124: crucified a child: A crime with which the Jews were often charged. "Tovey, in his ANGLIA JUDAICA, has given the several instances which are upon record of these charges against the Jews; which he observes they were never accused of, but at such times as the king was manifestly in great want of money." REED (apud Dodsley's O. P.).] [Footnote 125: Enter BARABAS, &c.: Scene a street.] [Footnote 126: to: Which the Editor of 1826 deliberately altered to "like," means--compared to, in comparison of.] [Footnote 127: Cazzo: Old ed. "catho."--See Florio's WORLDE OF WORDES (Ital. and Engl. Dict.) ed. 1598, in v.--"A petty oath, a cant exclamation, generally expressive, among the Italian populace, who have it constantly in their mouth, of defiance or contempt." Gifford's note on Jonson's WORKS, ii. 48.] [Footnote 128: nose: See note �, p. 157. [i.e. note 79.]] [Footnote 129: inmate: Old ed. "inmates."] [Footnote 130: the burden of my sins Lie heavy, &c.: One of the modern editors altered "LIE" to "Lies": but examples of similar phraseology,--of a nominative singular followed by a plural verb when a plural genitive intervenes,--are common in our early writers; see notes on Beaumont and Fletcher's WORKS, vol. v. 7, 94, vol. ix. 185, ed. Dyce.] [Footnote 131: sollars: "i.e. lofts, garrets." STEEVENS (apud Dodsley's O. P.).] [Footnote 132: untold: i.e. uncounted.--Old ed. "vnsold."] [Footnote 133: BARABAS. This is mere frailty: brethren, be content.-- Friar Barnardine, go you with Ithamore: You know my mind; let me alone with him.] FRIAR JACOMO. Why does he go to thy house? let him be gone Old ed. thus; "BAR. This is meere frailty, brethren, be content. Fryar Barnardine goe you with Ithimore. ITH. You know my mind, let me alone with him; Why does he goe to thy house, let him begone."] [Footnote 134: the Turk: "Meaning Ithamore." COLLIER (apud Dodsley's O. P.). Compare the last line but one of Barabas's next speech.] [Footnote 135: covent: i.e. convent.] [Footnote 136: Therefore 'tis not requisite he should live: Lest the reader should suspect that the author wrote, "Therefore 'tis requisite he should not live," I may observe that we have had before (p. 152, first col.) a similar form of expression,-- "It is not necessary I be seen."] [Footnote 137: fair: See note |||, p. 15. ('15' sic.) (note |||, p. 13, The First Part of Tamburlaine the Great:) "In fair, &c.: Here "FAIR" is to be considered as a dissyllable: compare, in the Fourth act of our author's JEW OF MALTA, "I'll feast you, lodge you, give you FAIR words, And, after that," &c."] [Footnote 138: shall be done: Here a change of scene is supposed, to the interior of Barabas's house.] [Footnote 139: Friar, awake: Here, most probably, Barabas drew a curtain, and discovered the sleeping Friar.] [Footnote 140: have: Old ed. "saue."] [Footnote 141: What time o' night is't now, sweet Ithamore? ITHAMORE. Towards one: Might be adduced, among other passages, to shew that the modern editors are right when they print in Shakespeare's KING JOHN. act iii. sc. 3, "If the midnight bell Did, with his iron tongue and brazen mouth, Sound ONE into the drowsy ear of NIGHT," &c.] [Footnote 142: Enter FRIAR JACOMO: The scene is now before Barabas's house,--the audience having had to SUPPOSE that the body of Barnardine, which Ithamore had set upright, was standing outside the door.] [Footnote 143: proceed: Seems to be used here as equivalent to--succeed.] [Footnote 144: on's: i.e. of his.] [Footnote 145: Enter BELLAMIRA, &c.: The scene, as in p. 160, a veranda or open portico of Bellamira's house. (p. 160, this play:) " Enter BELLAMIRA. (91) BELLAMIRA. Since this town was besieg'd," etc.] [Footnote 146: tall: Which our early dramatists generally use in the sense of--bold, brave (see note �, p. 161), [i.e. note 94: is here perhaps equivalent to--handsome. ("Tall or SEMELY." PROMPT. PARV. ed. 1499.)] [Footnote 147: neck-verse: i.e. the verse (generally the beginning of the 51st Psalm, MISERERE MEI, &c.) read by a criminal to entitle him to benefit of clergy.] [Footnote 148: of: i.e. on.] [Footnote 149: exercise: i.e. sermon, preaching.] [Footnote 150: with a muschatoes: i.e. with a pair of mustachios. The modern editors print "with MUSTACHIOS," and "with a MUSTACHIOS": but compare,-- "My Tuskes more stiffe than are a Cats MUSCHATOES." S. Rowley's NOBLE SPANISH SOLDIER, 1634, Sig. C. "His crow-black MUCHATOES." THE BLACK BOOK,--Middleton's WORKS, v. 516, ed. Dyce.] [Footnote 151: Turk of tenpence: An expression not unfrequently used by our early writers. So Taylor in some verses on Coriat; "That if he had A TURKE OF TENPENCE bin," &c. WORKES, p. 82, ed. 1630. And see note on Middleton's WORKS, iii. 489, ed. Dyce.] [Footnote 152: you know: Qy. "you know, SIR,"?] [Footnote 153: I'll make him, &c.: Old ed. thus: "I'le make him send me half he has, & glad he scapes so too. PEN AND INKE: I'll write vnto him, we'le haue mony strait." There can be no doubt that the words "Pen and inke" were a direction to the property-man to have those articles on the stage.] [Footnote 154: cunning: i.e. skilfully prepared.--Old ed. "running." (The MAIDS are supposed to hear their mistress' orders WITHIN.)] [Footnote 155: Shalt live with me, and be my love: A line, slightly varied, of Marlowe's well-known song. In the preceding line, the absurdity of "by Dis ABOVE" is, of course, intentional.] [Footnote 156: beard: Old ed. "sterd."] [Footnote 157: give me a ream of paper: we'll have a kingdom of gold for't: A quibble. REALM was frequently written ream; and frequently (as the following passages shew), even when the former spelling was given, the L was not sounded; "Vpon the siluer bosome of the STREAME First gan faire Themis shake her amber locks, Whom all the Nimphs that waight on Neptunes REALME Attended from the hollowe of the rocks." Lodge's SCILLAES METAMORPHOSIS, &c. 1589, Sig. A 2. "How he may surest stablish his new conquerd REALME, How of his glorie fardest to deriue the STREAME." A HERINGS TAYLE, &c. 1598, Sig. D 3. "Learchus slew his brother for the crowne; So did Cambyses fearing much the DREAME; Antiochus, of infamous renowne, His brother slew, to rule alone the REALME." MIROUR FOR MAGISTRATES, p. 78, ed. 1610.] [Footnote 158: runs division: "A musical term [of very common occurrence]." STEEVENS (apud Dodsley's O. P.).] [Footnote 159: Enter BARABAS: The scene certainly seems to be now the interior of Barabas's house, notwithstanding what he presently says to Pilia-Borza (p. 171, sec. col.), "Pray, when, sir, shall I see you at my house?"] [Footnote 160: tatter'd: Old ed. "totter'd": but in a passage of our author's EDWARD THE SECOND the two earliest 4tos have "TATTER'D robes":--and yet Reed in a note on that passage (apud Dodsley's OLD PLAYS, where the reading of the third 4to, "tottered robes", is followed) boldly declares that "in every writer of this period the word was spelt TOTTERED"! The truth is, it was spelt sometimes one way, sometimes the other.] [Footnote 161: catzery: i.e. cheating, roguery. It is formed from CATSO (CAZZO, see note *, p. 166 i.e. note 127), which our early writers used, not only as an exclamation, but as an opprobrious term.] [Footnote 162: cross-biting: i.e. swindling (a cant term).--Something has dropt out here.] [Footnote 163: tale: i.e. reckoning.] [Footnote 164: what he writes for you: i.e. the hundred crowns to be given to the bearer: see p. 170, sec. col. p. 170, second column, this play: "ITHAMORE. [writing: SIRRAH JEW, AS YOU LOVE YOUR LIFE, SEND ME FIVE HUNDRED CROWNS, AND GIVE THE BEARER A HUNDRED. --Tell him I must have't."] [Footnote 165: I should part: Qy. "I E'ER should part"?] [Footnote 166: rid: i.e. despatch, destroy.] [Footnote 167: Enter BELLAMIRA, &c.: They are supposed to be sitting in a veranda or open portico of Bellamira's house: see note *, p. 168. [i.e. note 145.] [Footnote 168: Of: i.e. on.] [Footnote 169: BELLAMIRA.: Old ed. "Pil."] [Footnote 170: Rivo Castiliano: The origin of this Bacchanalian exclamation has not been discovered. RIVO generally is used alone; but, among passages parallel to that of our text, is the following one (which has been often cited),-- "And RYUO will he cry and CASTILE too." LOOKE ABOUT YOU, 1600, Sig. L. 4. A writer in THE WESTMINSTER REVIEW, vol. xliii. 53, thinks that it "is a misprint for RICO-CASTELLANO, meaning a Spaniard belonging to the class of RICOS HOMBRES, and the phrase therefore is-- 'Hey, NOBLE CASTILIAN, a man's a man!' 'I can pledge like a man and drink like a man, MY WORTHY TROJAN;' as some of our farce-writers would say." But the frequent occurrence of RIVO in various authors proves that it is NOT a misprint.] [Footnote 171: he: Old ed. "you".] [Footnote 172: and he and I, snicle hand too fast, strangled a friar] There is surely some corruption here. Steevens (apud Dodsley's O. P.) proposes to read "hand TO FIST". Gilchrist (ibid.) observes, "a snicle is a north-country word for a noose, and when a person is hanged, they say he is snicled." See too, in V. SNICKLE, Forby's VOC. OF EAST ANGLIA, and the CRAVEN DIALECT.--The Rev. J. Mitford proposes the following (very violent) alteration of this passage; "Itha. I carried the broth that poisoned the nuns; and he and I-- Pilia. Two hands snickle-fast-- Itha. Strangled a friar."] [Footnote 173: incony: i.e. fine, pretty, delicate.--Old ed. "incoomy."] [Footnote 174: they stink like a hollyhock: "This flower, however, has no offensive smell. STEEVENS (apud Dodsley's O. P.). Its odour resembles that of the poppy.] [Footnote 175: mushrooms: For this word (as, indeed, for most words) our early writers had no fixed spelling. Here the old ed. has "Mushrumbs": and in our author's EDWARD THE SECOND, the 4tos have "mushrump."] [Footnote 176: under the elder when he hanged himself: That Judas hanged himself on an elder-tree, was a popular legend. Nay, the very tree was exhibited to the curious in Sir John Mandeville's days: "And faste by, is zit the Tree of Eldre, that Judas henge him self upon, for despeyt that he hadde, whan he solde and betrayed oure Lorde." VOIAGE AND TRAVAILE, &c. p. 112. ed. 1725. But, according to Pulci, Judas had recourse to a carob-tree: "Era di sopra a la fonte UN CARRUBBIO, L'ARBOR, SI DICE, OVE S'IMPICCO GIUDA," &c. MORGANTE MAG. C. xxv. st. 77.] [Footnote 177: nasty: Old ed. "masty."] [Footnote 178: me: Old ed. "we".] [Footnote 179: Enter Ferneze, &c.: Scene, the interior of the Council- house.] [Footnote 180: him: Qy. "'em"?] [Footnote 181: Exeunt all, leaving Barabas on the floor: Here the audience were to suppose that Barabas had been thrown over the walls, and that the stage now represented the outside of the city.] [Footnote 182: Bassoes: Here old ed. "Bashawes." See note Sec., p. 164. [Footnote i.e. note 117.]] [Footnote 183: trench: A doubtful reading.--Old ed. "Truce."--"Query 'sluice'? 'TRUCE' seems unintelligible." COLLIER (apud Dodsley's O. P.).--The Rev. J. Mitford proposes "turret" or "tower."] [Footnote 184: channels: i.e. kennels.] [Footnote 185: Enter CALYMATH, &c.: Scene, an open place in the city.] [Footnote 186: vail: i.e. lower, stoop.] [Footnote 187: To kept: i.e. To have kept.] [Footnote 188: Entreat: i.e. Treat.] [Footnote 189: Bassoes: Here old ed. "Bashawes." See note Sec., p. 164. [Footnote i.e. note 117.]] [Footnote 190: Thus hast thou gotten, &c.: A change of scene is supposed here--to the Citadel, the residence of Barabas as governor.] [Footnote 191: Whenas: i.e. When. [Footnote 192: Within here: The usual exclamation is "Within THERE!" but compare THE HOGGE HATH LOST HIS PEARLE (by R. Tailor), 1614; "What, ho! within HERE!" Sig. E 2.] [Footnote 193: sith: i.e. since.] [Footnote 194: cast: i.e. plot, contrive.] [Footnote 195: Bassoes: Here and afterwards old ed. "Bashawes." See note Sec., p. 164. [i.e. note 117.]--Scene, outside the walls of the city.] [Footnote 196: basilisk[s: See note �, p. 25. [note ||, p. 25, The First Part of Tamburlaine the Great: "|| basilisks: Pieces of ordnance so called. They were of immense size; see Douce's ILLUST. OF SHAKESPEARE, i. 425."] [Footnote 197: And, toward Calabria, &c.: So the Editor of 1826.--Old ed. thus: "And toward Calabria back'd by Sicily, Two lofty Turrets that command the Towne. WHEN Siracusian Dionisius reign'd; I wonder how it could be conquer'd thus?"] [Footnote 198: Enter FERNEZE, &c.: Scene, a street.] [Footnote 199: linstock: "i.e. the long match with which cannon are fired." STEEVENS (apud Dodsley's O. P.).] [Footnote 200: Enter, above, &c.: Scene, a hall in the Citadel, with a gallery.] [Footnote 201: FIRST CARPENTER.: Old ed. here "Serv."; but it gives "CARP." as the prefix to the second speech after this.] [Footnote 202: off: An interpolation perhaps.] [Footnote 203: sun: Old ed. "summe."] [Footnote 204: ascend: Old ed. "attend."] [Footnote 205: A charge sounded within: FERNEZE cuts the cord; the floor of the gallery gives way, and BARABAS falls into a caldron placed in a pit. Enter KNIGHTS and MARTIN DEL BOSCO Old ed. has merely "A charge, the cable cut, A Caldron discouered."] [Footnote 206: Christian: Old ed. "Christians."] [Footnote 207: train: i.e. stratagem.] [Footnote 208: pretended: i.e. intended.] [Footnote 209: mediate: Old ed. "meditate."] [Footnote 210: all: Old ed. "call."]

(V.i); (V.ii)

https://web.archive.org/web/20210228041946/https://www.sparknotes.com/drama/jewofmalta/section9/

Ferneze enters, instructing his soldiers to fortify the town in the face of an impending Turkish assault. Bellamira and Pilia-Borza appear and reveal Barabas's crimes to the governor. Ferneze orders that the protagonist be brought to him, along with Ithamore, who will provide proof of Barabas's crimes. When the two men arrive, Barabas tries to deny the charges, but Ithamore admits to everything. The merchant pleads with Ferneze to "let me have law," to which the governor replies, "you shall have law." Barabas leaves, mumbling that he hopes the poisoned flowers will work soon. Katherine arrives, and Ferneze tells her the truth about Mathias's death. She is vitriolic about Barabas, but the governor assures her that he is in jail waiting to receive justice. An officer tells Ferneze that both of the prisoners, along with the pimp and the prostitute, are dead. The governor orders that Barabas's body be thrown over the city walls to "be a prey for vultures and wild beasts. " Once this has happened, Barabas gets up and explains that he feigned death by taking a sleeping draught. He vows to help Calymath and be revenged on the Christians in Malta. Barabas finds Calymath and explains that he knows a secret passage whereby 500 troops can enter the city and open its gates. Calymath promises to make Barabas governor if he is telling the truth. The merchant states "let me die" if Calymath finds he has lied. A victorious Calymath enters with his Maltese captives. He assures Ferneze that the prisoners will "under Turkish yokes groaning bear the burden of our ire," before he tells Barabas that he has been made governor. Ferneze despairs at this appointment and at Barabas's treachery, crying, "What greater misery could Heaven inflict?" Calymath leaves, promising the new governor that he will be guarded by his "Janizaries." Barabas sends the captives to prison and wonders about his security. He concludes that many people hate him and that his life would be under threat as governor of Malta. Barabas concludes that he will only maintain his position "bravely by firm policy." Barabas calls back Ferneze. Barabas asks him what he thinks will come of the state, and Ferneze replies that he sees "no reason but of Malta's wrack." The protagonist assures Ferneze that he will help free Malta and her captured soldiers. Amazed, Ferneze assures Barabas that he will give him an enormous sum of money if the Jew will "eal truly with us as thou intimatest. " The protagonist explains that he will invite Calymath to a feast at which Ferneze will only have to perform "one strategem" in order to rid Malta of the Turks. The Ferneze offers Barabas his hand and states that he will deliver his money in the evening. Ferneze departs, and Barabas assures himself that he will make "a profit of my policy." Barabas leaves to plan the details of his deadly feast.

Once again, Barabas finds himself brought before the governor. Barabas meets his accusers in Act V, scene i with a measure of proud disdain, asserting, "I'll go alone; dogs, do not hale me thus." Clearly, his cold reserve contrasts with the self-righteous emotion displayed by the other characters. Ferneze, who dramatically orders Barabas away from him with the words "his sight is death to me," appears particularly pompous and moralistic. Society's prejudice is shown by the fact that Barabas is only referred to as "the Jew" in this scene, even though he is not the only Jewish person in Malta. Our reaction to Barabas's unmasking is thus ambiguous. A measure of relief that he is being brought to justice is countered by a sense of disgust at society's hypocrisy. Marlowe levels a charge of legalism--meaning a pedantic observance of the letter rather than the spirit of the law--against Barabas in Act V, scene i. The protagonist's demand to "have law" echoes Shylock's determination to have his pound of flesh in Shakespeare's The Merchant of Venice. Barabas knows that none of the charges against him "can prejudice my life. " Are we to believe Barabas, or has the Barabas deluded himself into thinking he is invincible? The playwright leaves his audience to decide whether Barabas's knowledge of the law is accurate, or if he has lost whatever grasp of reality he has had left. Ferneze's response is typically evasive: the governor seems to promise everything and nothing. Barabas appears almost comically homicidal by the end of this scene; even as he is led to jail he mumbles his hope that the "poisoned flowers will work anon." The audience is left wondering whether the great criminal mastermind has become a murmuring madman. Our fears that Barabas will simply fizzle out of the play are soon put to rest. The ugliness of Ferneze's comment that Barabas's body should be slung over the town walls "o be a prey for vultures and wild beasts" is countered by the farcical speed with which the protagonist recovers and continues about his scheming. As always, Marlowe balances the humorous elements of his play with its darker undertones of prejudice and racial hatred. These tensions even play out on the stage of international conflict and diplomacy. Barabas's decision to aid the Turkish and be revenged on the whole "accursed town" of Malta suggests how dangerous and all-encompassing his game of vengeance has become. While Elizabethan theatergoers might have chuckled at the poisoning of a convent of lusty nuns in Act III, scene iv, Marlowe clearly intends for them to blanch at the prospect of Christian "children" and "wives" dying at the hands of Malta's enemies. In the next scene, the stage widens to include God as a participant in the conflict. The governor calls on Heaven to suggest that human events are determined by Divine Providence. Ferneze's comment, "Oh fatal day, to fall into the hands / Of such a traitor and unhallowed Jew! / What greater misery could Heaven inflict?" is particularly suggestive. It foreshadows his comments at the end of the play that God is to be thanked for Malta's deliverance. Marlowe seems to be juxtaposing the idea of human strategy with divine will, posing the question of which has more influence on events in the world.

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{"name": "Letters I-XIX", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180327091504/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-coquette/study-guide/summary-letters-i-xix", "summary": "Eliza Wharton writes to Lucy Freeman, saying she is happy to leave her parents' roof. She spent time caring for her betrothed, Mr. Haly, on his deathbed, and although she esteemed the man, she did not love him. She admires the way he gracefully bid goodbye to the world, and hopes she can learn something from his behavior. She now happily resides with good friends. She continues in a new letter that she enjoys being with her friends after having been excluded from the world for some time now. She is thankful for Lucy's lecture not to be coquettish, but thinks even if she comes across that way, she is simply innocent and effusive. She says that the other evening at Colonel Farington's she met a young man named Mr. Boyer, who is a minister. During the evening, Mrs. Laiton asked her about the newly deceased Mr. Haly, which made her mad since it did not seem appropriate. Mr. Boyer joined them in their walk and gave her his arm. It was a lovely evening. Mr. Boyer writes to Mr. Selby about how he has met a lovely, fair, and admirable young woman named Eliza who currently resides with the Richmans. He speaks of how devoted she was to Mr. Haly. He also says he has not mentioned his attachment to her yet since she seems disinclined to entertain it, but he is very happy. Eliza writes to Lucy about how, against her desires, she appears to have a serious lover in Mr. Boyer. She details his attentions to her and says he is agreeable, but she does not want to give up her newly gained freedom. She writes again to Lucy and says she received a card this morning from a Major Sanford, who wished to take her to a ball at Mr. Atkins'. She thought she saw some disapproval flit across the faces of her friends but could not be sure. She is grateful for their kindness to her and hopes she can find out more about their reaction to Sanford's name. Mr. Boyer writes to Mr. Selby, morose and disappointed. He believes his earlier hopes have been proven unfounded. He went to visit Eliza, but Major Sanford was already there. She came in and seemed unnerved, but managed to remain composed to both of them. He spoke later with the Richmans who tried to assure him Eliza did not know he was coming, and is a very delightful and amiable young woman. However, she seemed clearly taken by the Major. Mrs. Richman said outright that while the man's rank made him accepted in polite society, his manners and reputation left something to be desired. Mr. Boyer concludes that he is very piqued. Peter Sanford writes to Mr. Charles Deighton that he has met a lovely young woman, who of late was attached to a dying man. He is amused to regard her as a coquette, and if this is confirmed, plans to \"avenge my sex, by retaliating the mischiefs, she mediates against us\" . He saw that the other man, Mr. Boyer, was better received by General Richman and his wife, but cares little. Eliza writes to Lucy of the same encounter. She was embarrassed at first but recovered, while Mr. Boyer seemed disappointed in something. The ball was lovely and Major Sanford was quite attendant. The next day, though, Mrs. Richman told her that he lacks virtue. This surprised Eliza and she became confused at how to proceed. In the next letter to Lucy she explains how Sanford came to visit her, and even though she was nervous about what her friend had said, she could not help but think of how agreeable, affectionate, and warm he was. Later she went to dine at the house of Mr. Laurence, who had one daughter, and encountered Major Sanford there as well. She finds him charming and pleasing. Sanford writes to Charles and tells of how he managed to win Eliza over even though at first she seemed cool towards him. He too finds her charming, but says marriage is not part of his plan. He would only marry to secure fortune, and this girl cannot do that. Eliza writes Lucy about how Mrs. Richman told her how pleased she would be if she gave Mr. Boyer her attention. Eliza wondered about marriage and friendship, and mused that marriage seemed to be the death knell of friendship. Mr. Boyer came by, and Eliza noticed how shy and reserved he was at first. He later relaxed and the two went for a walk. There he became more open about his interest in her, but she said she needed time to consider him and would relieve his mind soon. She asks for Lucy's advice. Lucy writes to her, telling her friend she is nervous that she seems to prefer Major Sanford, who is clearly a rake. She encourages her unabashedly to favor Mr. Boyer, who will be a good husband to her. She tells Eliza to leave off her coquettish ways. Eliza responds, saying how her friends too gave a long commendation of Mr. Boyer. She is hesitant, though, of forming a serious connection because she is just now participating in youth and freedom. She told that to her pursuer, and he said he understood and said he would wait for their connection to grow. After he left Mrs. Richman told Eliza how happy she was and that she should consider herself somewhat engaged to him. Eliza said she would not until it was an indissoluble knot. Lucy writes back and congratulates her friend. She informs her that she also heard Major Sanford was looking at an estate nearby. People seem to be pleased, but she knows that he has a \"vicious character\" and cannot be a member of respectable society. Eliza writes to Lucy that Mr. Boyer is setting out for his future residence and wants to write letters to her. She agreed. Major Sanford came in and this made the situation awkward. After the Major left, Mr. Boyer asked for more constancy, but she could give him none. She ends her letter saying what she cares about most right now is friendship, not marriage. Mr. Boyer joyfully writes his friend that he has made addresses to Eliza. She does not possess the same ardor, though, which he hopes will appear. Major Sanford writes his friend Charles and speaks of his intrigue with Eliza, but also his annoyance that she has another lover. He decides he will marry the daughter of Mr. Laurence, who will bring him a big fortune. She is not as appealing as Eliza but he can never risk a union with her. He still plans to carry on trying to make her love him though. Eliza writes to Lucy of Major Sanford coming across her in one of her walks and confessing his ardor and affection. He was full of passion and she tried to dissuade him. She knew it was wrong but was charmed by him nonetheless. She told him of Mr. Boyer, and he listened but asked if he could still see her socially. She spoke some harsh words to him and he claimed that he might be imprudent but he is not malignant. He merely grew up in affluence and ease and was influenced by that state of affairs. He pressed her hand to his lips. General Richman was spotted at the same time, and their discourse was over. Mrs. Richman warned her about his behavior and his \"insinuating attention\" . She warned her of her own sincerity leading her astray. Eliza tells Lucy she might want to come home soon and rid herself of this man.", "analysis": "One of the important elements of the novel is its structure comprised of epistles or letters. Epistolary novels were very popular in the 18th century, especially due to Samuel Richardson's two notable works, Clarissa and Pamela . The first American novel written in the form was Fanny Brooke's The History of Emily Montague , and Foster's Coquette followed thirty years later. An epistolary novel can heighten the sensation of realism, and provide great insights into the writer's character, but it can also be limited because there is no authorial distance. The character of Eliza is indelibly influenced by the structure of the novel, and much ink has been spilled endeavoring to parse out her personality and the reality of events from her own words. Immediately apparent about Eliza is that she is happy to be free from her deathbed watch - her betrothed, Mr. Haly, has died, and she is happy to engage with the \"gay world\" . She writes to Lucy that she is aware she is often deemed coquettish, but assures her friend that she will not act like that, and that even if she does, such behaviors \"are effusions of a youthful, and cheerful, mind\" . Right away, Foster begins to reveal Eliza's character through the eyes of others. This is an important theme in the novel because Eliza is constantly watched, scrutinized, and judged. Initially, she receives glowing reviews. The enamored Mr. Boyer sees Eliza as polished, accomplished, and possessing excellent manners. Major Sanford identifies her as a coquette, although he claims to admire her manners as well. Her friends approve mightily when she begins to say that she might marry Mr. Boyer. However, their support for Eliza falters when it comes to her perceived and stated interest in Major Sanford. Mrs. Richman tells her to be wary of his \"specious manners\" and that he is a \"professed libertine\" . She tells her that she should be wary of guarding her virtue and delicacy. Lucy also weighs in, gently admonishing Eliza for her \"predilection for this Major Sanford... he is a rake, my dear friend\" . She begins to offer her own advice as well, counseling her to marry a man of \"sense and honor\" , much, she implies, like her own fiance. Early on, the friendship between the women in the novel takes on great importance. Eliza is away from her mother, her father has died, and she is both physically and psychologically closer to her friends than anyone else. She is extremely confessional with Lucy and very open with the Richmans as well. She does not shy away from expressing her opinion that marriage can be the \"tomb of friendship\" and \"a very selfish state\" . Marriage weakens friendships because people focus more on their spouses and families than their former friends. Later in the novel when Lucy gets married, Eliza praises her new husband and how perfect they are for each other, but she also says frankly that she could not be entirely happy about it and refused to express \"the wishes of benevolence\" . Claire Pettengill's article on female friendship in the novel is very instructive. She begins by noting the \"crucial role played by the tightly knit circle of women which supports, encourages, protects and provides for Eliza, even as it scolds and criticizes her.\" Social historians have convincingly documented how a female network of sisters and friends was important to American women in the post-revolutionary period. These women turned to each other for a shared sense of value, a support network, and establishment of identity. Such a network holds overwhelming importance, but can also experience a natural breakdown, such as when members marry, have children, or even \"fall prey to seduction.\" Eliza's friends openly criticize her thoughts and actions, \"almost always using true friendship to justify their words.\" They demand she tell them all she is doing, but they do not reciprocate. Eliza does not demand a detailed account of their own lives, and besides \"platitudes about their happiness,\" they do not provide them. Mrs. Richman and Lucy, furthermore, are steps beyond Eliza in her journey. Julia is single, but much more moralizing than Eliza. Eliza needs her friends' support, especially as the novel progresses and her trouble deepens, but those friends cannot give her what she needs. Pettengill concludes her article by noting, \"Both enabling and constraining, warm and 'disinterested,' the female circle...serves a relentlessly contradictory function, reflecting the striking cultural ambivalence about rapid economic and social change that was manifested in and reproduced through separate sphere ideology.\""}

LETTER I. TO MISS LUCY FREEMAN. NEW HAVEN An unusual sensation possesses my breast--a sensation which I once thought could never pervade it on any occasion whatever. It is _pleasure_, pleasure, my dear Lucy, on leaving my paternal roof. Could you have believed that the darling child of an indulgent and dearly-beloved mother would feel a gleam of joy at leaving her? But so it is. The melancholy, the gloom, the condolence which surrounded me for a month after the death of Mr. Haly had depressed my spirits, and palled every enjoyment of life. Mr. Haly was a man of worth--a man of real and substantial merit. He is, therefore, deeply and justly regretted by _his_ friends. He was chosen to be a future guardian and companion for me, and was, therefore, beloved by _mine_. As their choice, as a good man, and a faithful friend, I esteemed him; but no one acquainted with the disparity of our tempers and dispositions, our views and designs, can suppose my heart much engaged in the alliance. Both nature and education had instilled into my mind an implicit obedience to the will and desires of my parents. To them, of course, I sacrificed my fancy in this affair, determined that my reason should concur with theirs, and on that to risk my future happiness. I was the more encouraged, as I saw, from our first acquaintance, his declining health, and expected that the event would prove as it has. Think not, however, that I rejoice in his death. No; far be it from me; for though I believe that I never felt the passion of love for Mr. Haly, yet a habit of conversing with him, of hearing daily the most virtuous, tender, and affectionate sentiments from his lips, inspired emotions of the sincerest friendship and esteem. He is gone. His fate is unalterably, and I trust happily, fixed. He lived the life, and died the death, of the righteous. O that my last end may be like his! This event will, I hope, make a suitable and abiding impression upon my mind, teach me the fading nature of all sublunary enjoyments, and the little dependence which is to be placed on earthly felicity. Whose situation was more agreeable, whose prospects more flattering, than Mr. Haly's? Social, domestic, and connubial joys were fondly anticipated, and friends and fortune seemed ready to crown every wish; yet, animated by still brighter hopes, he cheerfully bade them all adieu. In conversation with me but a few days before his exit, "There is," said he, "but one link in the chain of life undissevered; that, my dear Eliza, is my attachment to you. But God is wise and good in all his ways; and in this, as in all other respects, I would cheerfully say, His will be done." You, my friend, were witness to the concluding scene; and, therefore, I need not describe it. I shall only add on the subject, that if I have wisdom and prudence to follow his advice and example, if his prayers for my temporal and eternal welfare be heard and answered, I shall be happy indeed. The disposition of mind which I now feel I wish to cultivate. Calm, placid, and serene, thoughtful of my duty, and benevolent to all around me, I wish for no other connection than that of friendship. This letter is all an egotism. I have even neglected to mention the respectable and happy friends with whom I reside, but will do it in my next. Write soon and often; and believe me sincerely yours, ELIZA WHARTON. LETTER II. TO THE SAME. NEW HAVEN. Time, which effaces every occasional impression, I find gradually dispelling the pleasing pensiveness which the melancholy event, the subject of my last, had diffused over my mind. Naturally cheerful, volatile, and unreflecting, the opposite disposition I have found to contain sources of enjoyment which I was before unconscious of possessing. My friends here are the picture of conjugal felicity. The situation is delightful--the visiting parties perfectly agreeable. Every thing tends to facilitate the return of my accustomed vivacity. I have written to my mother, and received an answer. She praises my fortitude, and admires the philosophy which I have exerted under what she calls my heavy bereavement. Poor woman! she little thinks that my heart was untouched; and when that is unaffected, other sentiments and passions make but a transient impression. I have been, for a month or two, excluded from the gay world, and, indeed, fancied myself soaring above it. It is now that I begin to descend, and find my natural propensity for mixing in the busy scenes and active pleasures of life returning. I have received your letter--your moral lecture rather; and be assured, my dear, your monitorial lessons and advice shall be attended to. I believe I shall never again resume those airs which you term _coquettish_, but which I think deserve a softer appellation, as they proceed from an innocent heart, and are the effusions of a youthful and cheerful mind. We are all invited to spend the day to-morrow at Colonel Farington's, who has an elegant seat in this neighborhood. Both he and his lady are strangers to me; but the friends by whom I am introduced will procure me a welcome reception. Adieu. ELIZA WHARTON. LETTER III. TO THE SAME. NEW HAVEN. Is it time for me to talk again of conquests? or must I only enjoy them in silence? I must write to you the impulses of my mind, or I must not write at all. You are not so morose as to wish me to become a nun, would our country and religion allow it. I ventured, yesterday, to throw aside the habiliments of mourning, and to array myself in those more adapted to my taste. We arrived at Colonel Farington's about one o'clock. The colonel handed me out of the carriage, and introduced me to a large company assembled in the hall. My name was pronounced with an _emphasis_, and I was received with the most flattering tokens of respect. When we were summoned to dinner, a young gentleman in a clerical dress offered me his hand, and led me to a table furnished with an elegant and sumptuous repast, with more gallantry and address than commonly fall to the share of students. He sat opposite me at table; and whenever I raised my eye, it caught his. The ease and politeness of his manners, with his particular attention to me, raised my curiosity, and induced me to ask Mrs. Laiton who he was. She told me that his name was Boyer; that he was descended from a worthy family; had passed with honor and applause through the university where he was educated; had since studied divinity with success; and now had a call to settle as a minister in one of the first parishes in a neighboring state. The gates of a spacious garden were thrown open at this instant, and I accepted with avidity an invitation to walk in it. Mirth and hilarity prevailed, and the moments fled on downy wings, while we traced the beauties of Art and Nature, so liberally displayed and so happily blended in this delightful retreat. An enthusiastic admirer of scenes like these, I had rambled some way from the company, when I was followed by Mrs. Laiton to offer her condolence on the supposed loss which I had sustained in the death of Mr. Haly. My heart rose against the woman, so ignorant of human nature as to think such conversation acceptable at such a time. I made her little reply, and waved the subject, though I could not immediately dispel the gloom which it excited. The absurdity of a custom authorizing people at a first interview to revive the idea of griefs which time has lulled, perhaps obliterated, is intolerable. To have our enjoyments arrested by the empty compliments of unthinking persons for no other reason than a compliance with fashion, is to be treated in a manner which the laws of humanity forbid. We were soon joined by the gentlemen, who each selected his partner, and the walk was prolonged. Mr. Boyer offered me his arm, which I gladly accepted, happy to be relieved from the impertinence of my female companion. We returned to tea; after which the ladies sung, and played by turns on the piano forte; while some of the gentlemen accompanied with the flute, the clarinet, and the violin, forming in the whole a very decent concert. An elegant supper, and half an hour's conversation after it, closed the evening; when we returned home, delighted with our entertainment, and pleased with ourselves and each other. My imagination is so impressed with the festive scenes of the day that Morpheus waves his ebon wand in vain. The evening is fine beyond the power of description; all Nature is serene and harmonious, in perfect unison with my present disposition of mind. I have been taking a retrospect of my past life, and, a few juvenile follies excepted, which I trust the recording angel has blotted out with a tear of charity, find an approving conscience and a heart at ease. Fortune, indeed, has not been very liberal of her gifts to me; but I presume on a large stock in the bank of friendship, which, united with health and innocence, give me some pleasing anticipations of future felicity. Whatever my fate may be, I shall always continue your ELIZA WHARTON. LETTER IV. TO MR. SELBY. NEW HAVEN. You ask me, my friend, whether I am in pursuit of truth, or a lady. I answer, Both. I hope and trust they are united, and really expect to find Truth, and the Virtues and Graces besides, in a fair form. If you mean by the first part of your question whether I am searching into the sublimer doctrines of religion,--to these I would by no means be inattentive; but, to be honest, my studies of that kind have been very much interrupted of late. The respectable circle of acquaintances with which I am honored here has rendered my visits very frequent and numerous. In one of these I was introduced to Miss Eliza Wharton--a young lady whose elegant person, accomplished mind, and polished manners have been much celebrated. Her fame has often reached me; but, as the Queen of Sheba said to Solomon, the half was not told me. You will think that I talk in the style of a lover. I confess it; nor am I ashamed to rank myself among the professed admirers of this lovely fair one. I am in no danger, however, of becoming an enthusiastic devotee. No; I mean I act upon just and rational principles. Expecting soon to settle in an eligible situation, if such a companion as I am persuaded she will make me may fall to my lot, I shall deem myself as happy as this state of imperfection will admit. She is now resident at General Richman's. The general and his lady are her particular friends; they are warm in her praises. They tell me, however, that she is naturally of a gay disposition. No matter for that; it is an agreeable quality, where there is discretion sufficient for its regulation. A cheerful friend, much more a cheerful wife, is peculiarly necessary to a person of a studious and sedentary life. They dispel the gloom of retirement, and exhilarate the spirits depressed by intense application. She was formerly addressed by the late Mr. Haly, of Boston. He was not, it seems, the man of her choice; but her parents were extremely partial to him, and wished the connection to take place. She, like a dutiful child, sacrificed her own inclination to their pleasure so far as to acquiesce in his visits. This she more easily accomplished, as his health, which declined from their first acquaintance, led her to suppose, as the event has proved, that he would not live to enter into any lasting engagements. Her father, who died some months before him, invited him to reside at his house for the benefit of a change of air, agreeably to the advice of his physicians. She attended him during his last illness with all the care and assiduity of a nurse and with all the sympathizing tenderness of a sister. I have had several opportunities of conversing with her. She discovers an elevated mind, a ready apprehension, and an accurate knowledge of the various subjects which have been brought into view. I have not yet introduced the favorite subject of my heart. Indeed, she seems studiously to avoid noticing any expression which leads towards it; but she must hear it soon. I am sure of the favor and interest of the friends with whom she resides. They have promised to speak previously in my behalf. I am to call, as if accidentally, this afternoon just as they are to ride abroad. They are to refer me to Miss Wharton for entertainment till their return. What a delightful opportunity for my purpose! I am counting the hours--nay, the very moments. Adieu. You shall soon again hear from your most obedient, J. BOYER. LETTER V. TO MISS LUCY FREEMAN. NEW HAVEN. These bewitching charms of mine have a tendency to keep my mind in a state of perturbation. I am so pestered with these admirers! Not that I am so very handsome neither; but, I don't know how it is, I am certainly very much the taste of the other sex. Followed, flattered, and caressed, I have cards and compliments in profusion. But I must try to be serious; for I have, alas! one serious lover. As I promised you to be particular in my writing, I suppose I must proceed methodically. Yesterday we had a party to dine. Mr. Boyer was of the number. His attention was immediately engrossed; and I soon perceived that every word, every action, and every look was studied to gain my approbation. As he sat next me at dinner, his assiduity and politeness were pleasing; and as we walked together afterwards, his conversation was improving. Mine was sentimental and sedate--perfectly adapted to the taste of my gallant. Nothing, however, was said particularly expressive of his apparent wishes. I studiously avoided every kind of discourse which might lead to this topic. I wish not for a declaration from any one, especially from one whom I could not repulse and do not intend to encourage at present. His conversation, so similar to what I had often heard from a similar character, brought a deceased friend to mind, and rendered me somewhat pensive. I retired directly after supper. Mr. Boyer had just taken leave. Mrs. Richman came into my chamber as she was passing to her own. "Excuse my intrusion, Eliza," said she. "I thought I would just step in and ask you if you have passed a pleasant day." "Perfectly so, madam; and I have now retired to protract the enjoyment by recollection." "What, my dear, is your opinion of our favorite, Mr. Boyer?" "Declaring him your favorite, madam, is sufficient to render me partial to him; but to be frank, independent of that, I think him an agreeable man." "Your heart, I presume, is now free." "Yes, and I hope it will long remain so." "Your friends, my dear, solicitous for your welfare, wish to see you suitably and agreeably connected." "I hope my friends will never again interpose in my concerns of that nature. You, madam, who have ever known my heart, are sensible that, had the Almighty spared life in a certain instance, I must have sacrificed my own happiness or incurred their censure. I am young, gay, volatile. A melancholy event has lately extricated me from those shackles which parental authority had imposed on my mind. Let me, then, enjoy that freedom which I so highly prize. Let me have opportunity, unbiased by opinion, to gratify my natural disposition in a participation of those pleasures which youth and innocence afford." "Of such pleasures, no one, my dear, would wish to deprive you; but beware, Eliza! Though strewed with flowers, when contemplated by your lively imagination, it is, after all, a slippery, thorny path. The round of fashionable dissipation is dangerous. A phantom is often pursued, which leaves its deluded votary the real form of wretchedness." She spoke with an emphasis, and, taking up her candle, wished me a good night. I had not power to return the compliment. Something seemingly prophetic in her looks and expressions cast a momentary gloom upon my mind; but I despise those contracted ideas which confine virtue to a cell. I have no notion of becoming a recluse. Mrs. Richman has ever been a beloved friend of mine; yet I always thought her rather prudish. Adieu. ELIZA WHARTON. LETTER VI. TO THE SAME. NEW HAVEN. I had scarcely seated myself at the breakfast table this morning when a servant entered with a card of invitation from Major Sanford, requesting the happiness of my hand this evening at a ball given by Mr. Atkins, about three miles from this. I showed the billet to Mrs. Richman, saying, "I have not much acquaintance with this gentleman, madam; but I suppose his character sufficiently respectable to warrant an affirmative answer." "He is a gay man, my dear, to say no more; and such are the companions we wish when we join a party avowedly formed for pleasure." I then stepped into my apartment, wrote an answer, and despatched the servant. When I returned to the parlor, something disapprobating appeared in the countenances of both my friends. I endeavored, without seeming to observe, to dissipate it by chitchat; but they were better pleased with each other than with me, and, soon rising, walked into the garden, and left me to amuse myself alone. My eyes followed them through the window. "Happy pair!" said I. "Should it ever be my fate to wear the hymeneal chain, may I be thus united! The purest and most ardent affection, the greatest consonance of taste and disposition, and the most congenial virtue and wishes distinguish this lovely couple. Health and wealth, with every attendant blessing, preside over their favored dwelling, and shed their benign influence without alloy." The consciousness of exciting their displeasure gave me pain; but I consoled myself with the idea that it was ill founded. "They should consider," said I, "that they have no satisfaction to look for beyond each other; there every enjoyment is centred; but I am a poor solitary being, who need some amusement beyond what I can supply myself. The mind, after being confined at home for a while, sends the imagination abroad in quest of new treasures; and the body may as well accompany it, for aught I can see." General Richman and lady have ever appeared solicitous to promote my happiness since I have resided with them. They have urged my acceptance of invitations to join parties; though they have not been much themselves of late, as Mrs. Richman's present circumstances render her fond of retirement. What reason can be assigned for their apparent reluctance to this evening's entertainment is to me incomprehensible; but I shall apply the chemical powers of friendship, and extract the secret from Mrs. Richman to-morrow, if not before. Adieu. I am now summoned to dinner, and after that shall be engaged in preparation till the wished-for hour of hilarity and mirth engrosses every faculty of your ELIZA WHARTON. LETTER VII. TO MR. SELBY. NEW HAVEN. Divines need not declaim, nor philosophers expatiate, on the disappointments of human life. Are they not legibly written on every page of our existence? Are they not predominantly prevalent over every period of our lives? When I closed my last letter to you, my heart exulted in the pleasing anticipation of promised bliss; my wishes danced on the light breezes of hope; and my imagination dared to arrest the attention of, and even claim a return of affection from, the lovely Eliza Wharton. But imagination only it has proved, and that dashed with the bitter ranklings of jealousy and suspicion. But to resume my narrative. I reached the mansion of my friend about four. I was disagreeably struck with the appearance of a carriage at the door, as it raised an idea of company which might frustrate my plan; but still more disagreeable were my sensations when, on entering the parlor, I found Major Sanford evidently in a waiting posture. I was very politely received; and when Eliza entered the room with a brilliance of appearance and gayety of manner which I had never before connected with her character, I rose, as did Major Sanford, who offered his hand and led her to a chair. I forgot to sit down again, but stood transfixed by the pangs of disappointment. Miss Wharton appeared somewhat confused, but, soon resuming her vivacity, desired me to be seated, inquired after my health, and made some commonplace remarks on the weather; then, apologizing for leaving me, gave her hand again to Major Sanford, who had previously risen, and reminded her that the time and their engagements made it necessary to leave the good company; which, indeed, they both appeared very willing to do. General Richman and lady took every method in their power to remove my chagrin and atone for the absence of my fair one; but ill did they succeed. They told me that Miss Wharton had not the most distant idea of my visiting there this afternoon, much less of the design of my visit; that for some months together she had been lately confined by the sickness of Mr. Haly, whom she attended during the whole of his last illness; which confinement had eventually increased her desire of indulging her natural disposition for gayety. She had, however, they said, an excellent heart and reflecting mind, a great share of sensibility, and a temper peculiarly formed for the enjoyments of social life. "But this gentleman, madam, who is her gallant this evening,--is his character unexceptionable? Will a lady of delicacy associate with an immoral, not to say profligate, man?" "The rank and fortune of Major Sanford," said Mrs. Richman, "procure him respect; his specious manners render him acceptable in public company; but I must own that he is not the person with whom I wish my cousin to be connected even for a moment. She never consulted me so little on any subject as that of his card this morning. Before I had time to object, she dismissed the servant; and I forbore to destroy her expected happiness by acquainting her with my disapprobation of her partner. Her omission was not design; it was juvenile indiscretion. We must, my dear sir," continued she, "look with a candid eye on such eccentricities. Faults, not foibles, require the severity of censure." "Far, madam, be it from me to censure any conduct which as yet I have observed in Miss Wharton; she has too great an interest in my heart to admit of that." We now went into more general conversation. Tea was served; and I soon after took leave. General Richman, however, insisted on my dining with him on Thursday; which I promised. And here I am again over head and ears in the hypo--a disease, you will say, peculiar to students. I believe it peculiar to lovers; and with that class I must now rank myself, though I did not know, until this evening, that I was so much engaged as I find I really am. I knew, indeed, that I was extremely pleased with this amiable girl; that I was interested in her favor; that I was happier in her company than any where else; with innumerable other circumstances, which would have told me the truth had I examined them. But be that as it may, I hope and trust that I am, and ever shall be, a reasonable creature, and not suffer my judgment to be misled by the operations of a blind passion. I shall now lay aside this subject; endeavor to divest even my imagination of the charmer; and return, until Thursday, to the contemplation of those truths and duties which have a happy tendency to calm the jarring elements which compose our mortal frame. Adieu. J. BOYER. LETTER VIII. TO MR. CHARLES DEIGHTON. NEW HAVEN. We had an elegant ball, last night, Charles; and what is still more to the taste of your old friend, I had an elegant partner; one exactly calculated to please my fancy--gay, volatile, apparently thoughtless of every thing but present enjoyment. It was Miss Eliza Wharton--a young lady whose agreeable person, polished manners, and refined talents have rendered her the toast of the country around for these two years; though for half that time she has had a clerical lover imposed on her by her friends; for I am told it was not agreeable to her inclination. By this same clerical lover of hers she was for several months confined as a nurse. But his death has happily relieved her; and she now returns to the world with redoubled lustre. At present she is a visitor to Mrs. Richman, who is a relation. I first saw her on a party of pleasure at Mr. Frazier's, where we walked, talked, sang, and danced together. I thought her cousin watched her with a jealous eye; for she is, you must know, a prude; and immaculate--more so than you or I--must be the man who claims admission to her society. But I fancy this young lady is a coquette; and if so, I shall avenge my sex by retaliating the mischiefs she meditates against us. Not that I have any ill designs, but only to play off her own artillery by using a little unmeaning gallantry. And let her beware of the consequences. A young clergyman came in at General Richman's yesterday, while I was waiting for Eliza, who was much more cordially received by the general and his lady than was your humble servant; but I lay that up. When she entered the room, an air of mutual embarrassment was evident. The lady recovered her assurance much more easily than the gentleman. I am just going to ride, and shall make it in my way to call and inquire after the health of my dulcinea. Therefore, adieu for the present. PETER SANFORD. LETTER IX. TO MISS LUCY FREEMAN. NEW HAVEN. I am not so happy to-day in the recollection of last evening's entertainment as I was in the enjoyment. The explanation which I promised you from Mrs. Richman yesterday I could not obtain. When I went down to dinner some friends of General Richman's had accidentally dropped in, which precluded all particular conversation. I retired soon to dress, and saw Mrs. Richman no more till I was informed that Major Sanford waited for me. But I was surprised, on going into the parlor, to find Mr. Boyer there. I blushed and stammered; but I know not why; for certain I am that I neither love nor fear the good man yet, whatever I may do some future day. I would not be understood that I do not respect and esteem him; for I do both. But these are calm passions, which soothe rather than agitate the mind. It was not the consciousness of any impropriety of conduct; for I was far from feeling any. The entertainment for which I was prepared was such as virtue would not disapprove, and my gallant was a man of fortune, fashion, and, for aught I knew, of unblemished character. But Mr. Boyer was much more disconcerted than myself. Indeed, he did not recover his philosophy while I staid. I believe, by some hints I have received since, that he had some particular views in which he was disappointed. Our ball had every charm which could render a ball delightful. My partner was all ease, politeness, and attention; and your friend was as much flattered and caressed as vanity itself could wish. We returned to General Richman's about two. Major Sanford asked leave to call and inquire after my health this morning; and I am now expecting him. I rose to breakfast. The late hour of retiring to rest had not depressed, but rather exhilarated, my spirits. My friends were waiting for me in their parlor. They received me sociably, inquired after my health, my last evening's entertainment, the company, &c.; when, after a little pause, Mrs. Richman said, "And how do you like Major Sanford, Eliza?" "Very well indeed, madam; I think him a finished gentleman. Will you, who are a connoisseur, allow him that title?" "No, my dear; in my opinion he falls far below it, since he is deficient in one of the great essentials of the character; and that is _virtue_." "I am surprised," said I; "but how has he incurred so severe a censure?" "By being a professed libertine; by having but too successfully, practised the arts of seduction; by triumphing in the destruction of innocence and the peace of families." "O, why was I not informed of this before? But perhaps these are old affairs--the effects of juvenile folly--crimes of which he may have repented, and which charity ought to obliterate." "No, my dear, they are recent facts---facts which he dares not deny--facts for which he ought to be banished from all virtuous society. I should have intimated this to you before; but your precipitate acceptance of his invitation deprived me of an opportunity until it was too late to prevent your going with him; and we thought it best to protract your enjoyment as long as possible, not doubting but your virtue and delicacy would, in future, guard you against the like deception." "Must I, then, become an avowed prude at once, and refuse him admission if he call in compliance with the customary forms?" "By no means. I am sensible that even the false maxims of the world must be complied with in a degree. But a man of Major Sanford's art can easily distinguish between a forbidding and an encouraging reception. The former may, in this case, be given without any breach of the rules of politeness." Astonished and mortified, I knew not what further to say. I had been so pleased with the man that I wished to plead in his favor; but virtue and prudence forbade. I therefore rose and retired. He is this moment, I am told, below stairs; so that I must bid you adieu until the next post. ELIZA WHARTON. LETTER X. TO THE SAME. NEW HAVEN. Upon closing my last, I walked down, and found Major Sanford alone. He met me at the door of the parlor, and, taking my hand with an air of affectionate tenderness, led me to a seat, and took one beside me. I believe the gloom of suspicion had not entirely forsaken my brow. He appeared, however, not to notice it, but, after the compliments of the day had passed, entered into an easy and agreeable conversation on the pleasures of society--a conversation perfectly adapted to my taste, and calculated to dissipate my chagrin and pass the time imperceptibly. He inquired the place of my native abode; and, having informed him, he said he had thoughts of purchasing the seat of Captain Pribble, in that neighborhood, for his residence; and could he be assured of my society and friendship, his resolution would be fixed. I answered his compliment only by a slight bow. He took leave, and I retired to dress for the day, being engaged to accompany my cousin to dine at Mr. Lawrence's--a gentleman of fortune and fashion in this vicinity. Mr. Lawrence has but one daughter, heiress to a large estate, with an agreeable form, but a countenance which, to me, indicates not much soul. I was surprised in the afternoon to see Major Sanford alight at the gate. He entered with the familiarity of an old acquaintance, and, after accosting each of the company, told me, with a low bow, that he did not expect the happiness of seeing me again so soon. I received his compliment with a conscious awkwardness. Mrs. Richman's morning lecture still rang in my head; and her watchful eye now traced every turn of mine and every action of the major's. Indeed, his assiduity was painful to me; yet I found it impossible to disengage myself a moment from him, till the close of the day brought our carriage to the door; when he handed me in, and, pressing my hand to his lips, retired. What shall I say about this extraordinary man? Shall I own to you, my friend, that he is pleasing to me? His person, his manners, his situation, all combine to charm my fancy, and, to my lively imagination, strew the path of life with flowers. What a pity, my dear Lucy, that the graces and virtues are not oftener united! They must, however, meet in the man of my choice; and till I find such a one, I shall continue to subscribe my name ELIZA WHARTON. LETTER XI. TO MR. CHARLES DEIGHTON. NEW HAVEN. Well, Charles, I have been manoeuvring to-day a little revengefully. That, you will say, is out of character. So baleful a passion does not easily find admission among those softer ones which you well know I cherish. However, I am a mere Proteus, and can assume any shape that will best answer my purpose. I called this afternoon, as I told you I intended, at General Richman's. I waited some time in the parlor alone before Eliza appeared; and when she did appear, the distant reserve of her manners and the pensiveness of her countenance convinced me that she had been vexed, and I doubted not but Peter Sanford was the occasion. Her wise cousin, I could have sworn, had been giving her a detail of the vices of her gallant, and warning her against the dangers of associating with him in future. Notwithstanding, I took no notice of any alteration in her behavior, but entered with the utmost facetiousness into a conversation which I thought most to her taste. By degrees she assumed her usual vivacity; cheerfulness and good humor again animated her countenance. I tarried as long as decency would admit. She having intimated that they were to dine at my friend Lawrence's, I caught at this information, and determined to follow them, and tease the jealous Mrs. Richman by playing off all the gallantry I was master of in her presence. I went, and succeeded to the utmost of my wishes, as I read in the vexation visible in the one, and the ease and attention displayed by the other. I believe, too, that I have charmed the eye, at least, of the amiable Eliza. Indeed, Charles, she is a fine girl. I think it would hurt my conscience to wound her mind or reputation. Were I disposed to marry, I am persuaded she would make an excellent wife; but that, you know, is no part of my plan, so long as I can keep out of the noose. Whenever I do submit to be shackled, it must be from a necessity of mending my fortune. This girl would be far from doing that. However, I am pleased with her acquaintance, and mean not to abuse her credulity and good nature, if I can help it. PETER SANFORD. LETTER XII. TO MISS LUCY FREEMAN. NEW HAVEN. The heart of your friend is again besieged. Whether it will surrender to the assailants or not I am unable at present to determine. Sometimes I think of becoming a predestinarian, and submitting implicitly to fate, without any exercise of free will; but, as mine seems to be a wayward one, I would counteract the operations of it, if possible. Mrs. Richman told me this morning that she hoped I should be as agreeably entertained this afternoon as I had been the preceding; that she expected Mr. Boyer to dine and take tea, and doubted not but he would be as attentive and sincere to me, if not as gay and polite, as the gentleman who obtruded his civilities yesterday. I replied that I had no reason to doubt the sincerity of the one or the other, having never put them to the test, nor did I imagine I ever should. "Your friends, Eliza," said she, "would be very happy to see you united to a man of Mr. Boyer's worth, and so agreeably settled as he has a prospect of being." "I hope," said I, "that my friends are not so weary of my company as to wish to dispose of me. I am too happy in my present connections to quit them for new ones. Marriage is the tomb of friendship. It appears to me a very selfish state. Why do people in general, as soon as they are married, centre all their cares, their concerns, and pleasures in their own families? Former acquaintances are neglected or forgotten; the tenderest ties between friends are weakened or dissolved; and benevolence itself moves in a very limited sphere." "It is the glory of the marriage state," she rejoined, "to refine by circumscribing our enjoyments. Here we can repose in safety. 'The friendships of the world are oft Confed'racies in vice, or leagues in pleasure: Ours has the purest virtue for its basis; And such a friendship ends not but with life.' True, we cannot always pay that attention to former associates which we may wish; but the little community which we superintend is quite as important an object, and certainly renders us more beneficial to the public. True benevolence, though it may change its objects, is not limited by time or place. Its effects are the same, and, aided by a second self, are rendered more diffusive and salutary." Some pleasantry passed, and we retired to dress. When summoned to dinner, I found Mr. Boyer below. If what is sometimes said be true, that love is diffident, reserved, and unassuming, this man must be tinctured with it. These symptoms were visible in his deportment when I entered the room. However, he soon recovered himself, and the conversation took a general turn. The festive board was crowned with sociability, and we found in reality "the feast of reason and the flow of soul." After we rose from table, a walk in the garden was proposed--an amusement we are all peculiarly fond of. Mr. Boyer offered me his arm. When at a sufficient distance from our company, he begged leave to congratulate himself on having an opportunity, which he had ardently desired for some time, of declaring to me his attachment, and of soliciting an interest in my favor; or, if he might be allowed the term, affection. I replied, "That, sir, is indeed laying claim to an important interest. I believe you must substitute some more indifferent epithet for the present." "Well, then," said he, "if it must be so, let it be esteem or friendship." "Indeed, sir," said I, "you are entitled to them both. Merit has always a share in that bank; and I know of none who has a larger claim on that score than Mr. Boyer." I suppose my manner was hardly serious enough for what he considered a weighty cause. He was a little disconcerted, but, soon regaining his presence of mind, entreated me, with an air of earnestness, to encourage his suit, to admit his addresses, and, if possible, to reward his love. I told him that this was rather a sudden affair to me, and that I could not answer him without consideration. "Well, then," said he, "take what time you think proper; only relieve my suspense as soon as may be. Shall I visit you again to-morrow?" "O, not so soon," said I; "next Monday, I believe, will be early enough. I will endeavor to be at home." He thanked me even for that favor, recommended himself once more to my kindness, and we walked towards the company, returned with them to the house, and he soon took leave. I immediately retired to write this letter, which I shall close without a single observation on the subject until I know your opinion. ELIZA WHARTON. LETTER XIII. TO MISS ELIZA WHARTON. HARTFORD. And so you wish to have my opinion before you know the result of your own. This is playing a little too much with my patience; but, however, I will gratify you this once, in hopes that my epistle may have a good effect. You will ask, perhaps, whether I would influence your judgment. I answer, No, provided you will exercise it yourself; but I am a little apprehensive that your fancy will mislead you. Methinks I can gather from your letters a predilection for this Major Sanford. But he is a rake, my dear friend; and can a lady of your delicacy and refinement think of forming a connection with a man of that character? I hope not; nay, I am confident you do not. You mean only to exhibit a few more girlish airs before you turn matron; but I am persuaded, if you wish to lead down the dance of life with regularity, you will not find a more excellent partner than Mr. Boyer. Whatever you can reasonably expect in a lover, husband, or friend, you may perceive to be united in this worthy man. His taste is undebauched, his manners not vitiated, his morals uncorrupted. His situation in life is, perhaps, as elevated as you have a right to claim. Forgive my plainness, Eliza. It is the task of friendship, sometimes, to tell disagreeable truths. I know your ambition is to make a distinguished figure in the first class of polished society, to shine in the gay circle of fashionable amusements, and to bear off the palm amidst the votaries of pleasure. But these are fading honors, unsatisfactory enjoyments, incapable of gratifying those immortal principles of reason and religion which have been implanted in your mind by Nature, assiduously cultivated by the best of parents, and exerted, I trust, by yourself. Let me advise you, then, in conducting this affair,--an affair big, perhaps, with your future fate,--to lay aside those coquettish airs which you sometimes put on; and remember that you are not dealing with a fop, who will take advantage of every concession, but with a man of sense and honor, who will properly estimate your condescension and frankness. Act, then, with that modest freedom, that dignified unreserve, which bespeak conscious rectitude and sincerity of heart. I shall be extremely anxious to hear the process and progress of this business. Relieve my impatience as soon as possible; and believe me yours with undissembled affection. LUCY FREEMAN. LETTER XIV. TO MISS LUCY FREEMAN. NEW HAVEN. I have received, and read again and again, your friendly epistle. My reason and judgment entirely coincide with your opinion; but my fancy claims some share in the decision; and I cannot yet tell which will preponderate. This was the day fixed for deciding Mr. Boyer's cause. My friends here gave me a long dissertation on his merits. Your letter, likewise, had its weight; and I was candidly summoning up the _pros_ and _cons_ in the garden, whither I had walked, (General Richman and lady having rode out,) when I was informed that he was waiting in the parlor. I went immediately in, (a good symptom, you will say,) and received him very graciously. After the first compliments were over, he seemed eager to improve the opportunity to enter directly on the subject of his present visit. It is needless for me to recite to you, who have long been acquainted with the whole process of courtship, the declarations, propositions, protestations, entreaties, looks, words, and actions of a lover. They are, I believe, much the same in the whole sex, allowing for their different dispositions, educations, and characters; but you are impatient, I know, for the conclusion. You have hastily perused the preceding lines, and are straining your eye forward to my part of the farce; for such it may prove, after all. Well, then, not to play too long with the curiosity which I know to be excited and actuated by real friendship, I will relieve it. I think you would have been pleased to have seen my gravity on this important occasion. With all the candor and frankness which I was capable of assuming, I thus answered his long harangue, to which I had listened without interrupting him: "Self-knowledge, sir, that most important of all sciences, I have yet to learn. Such have been my situations in life, and the natural volatility of my temper, that I have looked but little into my own heart in regard to its future wishes and views. From a scene of constraint and confinement, ill suited to my years and inclination, I have just launched into society. My heart beats high in expectation of its fancied joys. My sanguine imagination paints, in alluring colors, the charms of youth and freedom, regulated by virtue and innocence. Of these I wish to partake. While I own myself under obligations for the esteem which you are pleased to profess for me, and, in return, acknowledge that neither your person nor manners are disagreeable to me, I recoil at the thought of immediately forming a connection which must confine me to the duties of domestic life, and make me dependent for happiness, perhaps, too, for subsistence, upon a class of people who will claim the right of scrutinizing every part of my conduct, and, by censuring those foibles which I am conscious of not having prudence to avoid, may render me completely miserable. While, therefore, I receive your visits, and cultivate towards you sentiments of friendship and esteem, I would not have you consider me as confined to your society, or obligated to a future connection. Our short acquaintance renders it impossible for me to decide what the operations of my mind may hereafter be. You must either quit the subject, or leave me to the exercise of my free will, which, perhaps, may coincide with your present wishes." "Madam," said he, "far is the wish from me to restrain your person or mind. In your breast I will repose my cause. It shall be my study to merit a return of affection; and I doubt not but generosity and honor will influence your conduct towards me. I expect soon to settle among a generous and enlightened people, where I flatter myself I shall be exempt from those difficulties and embarrassments to which too many of my brethren are subject. The local situation is agreeable, the society refined and polished; and if, in addition, I may obtain that felicity which you are formed to bestow in a family connection, I shall be happy indeed." He spoke with emphasis. The tear of sensibility sparkled in his eye. I involuntarily gave him my hand, which he pressed with ardor to his lips; then, rising, he walked to the window to conceal his emotion. I rang the bell and ordered tea, during and after which we shared that social converse which is the true zest of life, and in which I am persuaded none but virtuous minds can participate. General Richman and lady returned with the shades of the evening. The penetrating eye of my cousin traced in _our_ countenances the progress of the cause, and the smile of approbation animated _hers_. Mr. Boyer asked the favor of my company to ride to-morrow morning; which was granted. He tarried to supper, and took his leave. I retired immediately to my chamber, to which I was followed by Mrs. Richman. I related to her the conversation and the encouragement which I had given to Mr. Boyer. She was pleased, but insisted that I should own myself somewhat engaged to him. This, I told her, I should never do to any man before the indissoluble knot was tied. "That," said I, "will be time enough to resign my freedom." She replied, that I had wrong ideas of freedom and matrimony; but she hoped that Mr. Boyer would happily rectify them. I have now, my dear friend, given you an account of my present situation, and leave you to judge for yourself concerning it. Write me your opinion, and believe me ever yours, ELIZA WHARTON. LETTER XV. TO MISS ELIZA WHARTON. HARTFORD. I congratulate you, my dear Eliza, on the stability of your conduct towards Mr. Boyer. Pursue the system which you have adopted, and I dare say that happiness will crown your future days. You are indeed very tenacious of your freedom, as you call it; but that is a play about words. A man of Mr. Boyer's honor and good sense will never abridge any privileges which virtue can claim. When do you return to embellish our society here? I am impatient to see you, and likewise this amiable man. I am much interested in his favor. By the way, I am told that Major Sanford has been to look at the seat of Captain Pribble, which is upon sale. It is reported that he will probably purchase it. Many of our gentry are pleased with the prospect of such a neighbor. "As an accomplished gentleman," say they, "he will be an agreeable addition to our social parties; and as a man of property and public spirit, he will be an advantage to the town." But from what I have heard of him, I am far from supposing him a desirable acquisition in either of these respects. A man of a vicious character cannot be a good member of society. In order to that, his principles and practice must be uncorrupted; in his morals, at least, he must be a man of probity and honor. Of these qualifications, if I mistake not, this gallant of yours cannot boast. But I shall not set up for a censor. I hope neither you nor I shall have much connection with him. My swain interests himself very much in your affairs. You will possibly think him impertinent; but I give his curiosity a softer name. Should I own to you that I place great confidence in his integrity and honor, you would, perhaps, laugh at my weakness; but, my dear, I have pride enough to keep me above coquetry or prudery, and discretion enough, I hope, to secure me from the errors of both. With him I am determined to walk the future round of life. What folly, then, would it be to affect reserve and distance relative to an affair in which I have so much interest! Not that I am going to betray your secrets; these I have no right to divulge; but I must be the judge what may, and what may not, be communicated. I am very much pressed for an early day of consummation; but I shall not listen to a request of that kind till your return. Such is my regard for you, that a union of love would be imperfect if friendship attended not the rites. Adieu. LUCY FREEMAN. LETTER XVI. TO MISS LUCY FREEMAN. NEW HAVEN. We go on charmingly here, almost as soft and smooth as your ladyship. It seems to me that love must stagnate if it have not a light breeze of discord once in a while to keep it in motion. We have not tried any yet, however. We had a lovely tour this forenoon, were out three long hours, and returned to dinner in perfect harmony. Mr. Boyer informed me that he should set out to-morrow morning for his future residence, and soon put on the sacred bands. He solicited an epistolary correspondence, at the same time, as an alleviation of the care which that weighty charge would bring on his mind. I consented, telling him that he must not expect any thing more than general subjects from me. We were somewhat interrupted in our confidential intercourse, in the afternoon, by the arrival of Major Sanford. I cannot say that I was not agreeably relieved. So sweet a repast, for several hours together, was rather sickening to my taste. My inamorato looked a little mortified at the cheerful reception which I gave the intruder, and joined not so placidly in the social conversation as I could have wished. When Mr. Boyer, after the major took leave, pressed me to give him some assurance of my constancy, I only reminded him of the terms of our engagement. Seeing me decided, he was silent on the subject, and soon bade me an affectionate adieu, not expecting, as he told me, the pleasure of a personal interview again for two or three months. Thus far we have proceeded in this sober business. A good beginning, you will say. Perhaps it is. I do not, however, feel myself greatly interested in the progress of the negotiation. Time consolidate my affections, and enable me to fix them on some particular object. At present the most lively emotions of my heart are those of friendship, that friendship which I hope you will soon participate with your faithful ELIZA WHARTON. LETTER XVII. TO MR. SELBY. NEW HAVEN. I have succeeded in my addresses to the lovely Eliza Wharton--as far, at least, as I had any reason to expect from our short acquaintance. I find the graces of her person and mind rise in my esteem, and have already enjoyed in her society some of the happiest hours of my life. She is kind, affable, and condescending; yet I must own that I have not been able to infuse into her bosom the ardor which I feel in my own. I know that the native modesty of the sex would restrain the discovery; but there is an animation of countenance, which betrays the sensations of the heart, that I find wanting in hers on this occasion. I have just taken leave of my fair, and propose returning to-morrow morning to take upon me the solemn charge which lies with such weight upon my mind that I need every support, both human and divine. Eliza has promised to correspond with me. From this I anticipate a source of pleasure which alone can atone for her absence. I am, &c., J. BOYER. LETTER XVIII. TO MR. CHARLES DEIGHTON. NEW HAVEN. Do you know, Charles, that I have commenced lover? I was always a general one, but now I am somewhat particular. I shall be the more interested, as I am likely to meet with difficulties; and it is the glory of a rake, as well as of a Christian, to combat obstacles. This same Eliza, of whom I have told you, has really made more impression on my heart than I was aware of, or than the sex, take them as they rise, are wont to do. But she is besieged by a priest--a likely lad though. I know not how it is, but they are commonly successful with the girls, even the gayest of them. This one, too, has the interest of all her friends, as I am told. I called yesterday at General Richman's, and found this pair together, apparently too happy in each other's society for my wishes. I must own that I felt a glow of jealousy, which I never experienced before, and vowed revenge for the pain it gave me, though but momentary. Yet Eliza's reception of me was visibly cordial; nay, I fancied my company as pleasing to her as that which she had before. I tarried not long, but left him to the enjoyment of that pleasure which I flatter myself will be but shortlived. O, I have another plan in my head--a plan of necessity, which, you know, is the mother of invention. It is this: I am very much courted and caressed by the family of Mr. Lawrence, a man of large property in this neighborhood. He has only one child--a daughter, with whom I imagine the old folks intend to shackle me in the bonds of matrimony. The girl looks very well; she has no soul, though, that I can discover; she is heiress, nevertheless, to a great fortune, and that is all the soul I wish for in a wife. In truth, Charles, I know of no other way to mend my circumstances. But lisp not a word of my embarrassments for your life. Show and equipage are my hobby horse; and if any female wishes to share them with me, and will furnish me with the means of supporting them, I have no objection. Could I conform to the sober rules of wedded life, and renounce those dear enjoyments of dissipation in which I have so long indulged, I know not the lady in the world with whom I would sooner form a connection of this sort than with Eliza Wharton. But it will never do. If my fortune or hers were better, I would risk a union; but as they are, no idea of the kind can be admitted. I shall endeavor, notwithstanding, to enjoy her company as long as possible. Though I cannot possess her wholly myself, I will not tamely see her the property of another. I am now going to call at General Richman's, in hopes of an opportunity to profess my devotion to her. I know I am not a welcome visitor to the family; but I am independent of their censure or esteem, and mean to act accordingly. PETER SANFORD. LETTER XIX. TO MISS LUCY FREEMAN. NEW HAVEN. I find the ideas of sobriety and domestic solitude I have been cultivating for three days past somewhat deranged by the interruption of a visitor, with whom I know you will not be pleased. It is no other than Major Sanford. I was walking alone in the garden yesterday, when he suddenly appeared to my view. "How happy am I," said he, seizing my hand, "in this opportunity of finding you alone--an opportunity, Miss Wharton, which I must improve in expatiating on a theme that fills my heart and solely animates my frame!" I was startled at his impetuosity, and displeased with his freedom. Withdrawing my hand, I told him that my retirement was sacred. He bowed submissively; begged pardon for his intrusion; alleged that he found nobody but the servants in the house; that they informed him I was alone in the garden--which intelligence was too pleasing for him to consult any forms of ceremony for the regulation of his conduct. He then went on rhapsodically to declare his passion; his suspicions that I was forming a connection with Mr. Boyer, which would effectually destroy all his hopes of future happiness. He painted the restraint, the confinement, the embarrassments to which a woman connected with a man of Mr. Boyer's profession must be subjected, however agreeable his person might be. He asked if my generous mind could submit to cares and perplexities like these; whether I could not find greater sources of enjoyment in a more elevated sphere of life, or share pleasures better suited to my genius and disposition, even in a single state. I listened to him involuntarily. My heart did not approve his sentiments; but my ear was charmed with his rhetoric, and my fancy captivated by his address. He invited my confidence by the most ardent professions of friendship, and labored to remove my suspicions by vows of sincerity. I was induced by his importunity gradually to disclose the state of affairs between Mr. Boyer and myself. He listened eagerly; wished not, he said, to influence me unduly; but if I were not otherwise engaged, might he presume to solicit a place in my friendship and esteem, be admitted to enjoy my society, to visit me as an acquaintance, and to attend my excursions and amusements as a brother, if not more? I replied that I was a pensioner of friendship at present; that friends were extremely refined in their notions of propriety; and that I had no right to receive visitants independent of them. "I understand you, madam," said he. "You intimate that my company is not agreeable to them; but I know not why. Surely my rank in life is as elevated, and my knowledge of and acceptance in the world are as extensive, as General Richman's." "I hope," said I, "since we are engaged in the conversation, that you will excuse my frankness if I tell you that the understanding and virtue of this worthy couple induce them, without any regard to rank, to bestow their esteem wherever it is merited. I cannot say that you are not a sharer. Your own heart can best determine whether upon their principles you are or not." He appeared mortified and chagrined; and we had walked some distance without exchanging a word or a look. At last he rejoined, "I plead guilty to the charge, madam, which they have undoubtedly brought against me, of imprudence and folly in many particulars; yet of malignancy and vice I am innocent. Brought up in affluence, inured from my infancy to the gratification of every passion, the indulgence of every wish, it is not strange that a life of dissipation and gayety should prove alluring to a youthful mind which had no care but to procure what is deemed enjoyment. In this pursuit I have, perhaps, deviated from the rigid rules of discretion and the harsher laws of morality. But let the veil of charity be drawn over my faults; let the eye of candor impartially examine my present behavior; let the kind and lenient hand of friendship assist in directing my future steps; and perhaps I may not prove unworthy of associating with the respectable inhabitants of this happy mansion; for such I am sure it must be while honored with Miss Wharton's presence. But, circumstanced as you and I are at present, I will not sue for your attention as a lover, but rest contented, if possible, with that share of kindness and regard which your benevolence may afford me as a friend." I bowed in approbation of his resolution. He pressed my hand with ardor to his lips; and at that instant General Richman entered the garden. He approached us cheerfully, offered Major Sanford his hand with apparent cordiality, and told us pleasantly that he hoped he should not be considered as an intruder. "By no means, sir," said Major Sanford; "it is I who have incurred that imputation. I called this afternoon to pay you my respects, when, being informed that you and your lady were abroad, and that Miss Wharton was in the garden, I took the liberty to invade her retirement. She has graciously forgiven my crime, and I was just affixing the seal to my pardon as you entered." We then returned into the house. Mrs. Richman received us politely. During tea, the conversation turned on literary subjects, in which I cannot say that the major bore a very distinguished part. After he was gone, Mrs. Richman said, "I hope you have been agreeably entertained, Miss Wharton." "I did not choose my company, madam," said I. "Nor," said she, "did you refuse it, I presume." "Would you not have me respect the rights of hospitality towards your guests when you are absent, madam?" "If you had acted from that motive, I own my obligations to you, my dear; but even that consideration can hardly reconcile me to the sacrifice of time which you have made to the amusement of a seducer." "I hope, madam, you do not think me an object of seduction." "I do not think you seducible; nor was Richardson's Clarissa till she made herself the victim by her own indiscretion. Pardon me, Eliza--this is a second Lovelace. I am alarmed by his artful intrusions. His insinuating attentions to you are characteristic of the man. Come, I presume you are not interested to keep his secrets if you know them; will you give me a little sketch of his conversation?" "Most willingly," said I, and accordingly related the whole. When I had concluded, she shook her head, and replied, "Beware, my friend, of his arts. Your own heart is too sincere to suspect treachery and dissimulation in another; but suffer not your ear to be charmed by the siren voice of flattery, nor your eye to be caught by the phantom of gayety and pleasure. Remember your engagements to Mr. Boyer. Let sincerity and virtue be your guides, and they will lead you to happiness and peace." She waited not for an answer, but, immediately rising, begged leave to retire, alleging that she was fatigued. General Richman accompanied her, and I hastened to my apartment, where I have written thus far, and shall send it on for your comments. I begin to think of returning soon to your circle. One inducement is, that I may be free from the intrusions of this man. Adieu. ELIZA WHARTON.

Letters I-XIX

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Eliza Wharton writes to Lucy Freeman, saying she is happy to leave her parents' roof. She spent time caring for her betrothed, Mr. Haly, on his deathbed, and although she esteemed the man, she did not love him. She admires the way he gracefully bid goodbye to the world, and hopes she can learn something from his behavior. She now happily resides with good friends. She continues in a new letter that she enjoys being with her friends after having been excluded from the world for some time now. She is thankful for Lucy's lecture not to be coquettish, but thinks even if she comes across that way, she is simply innocent and effusive. She says that the other evening at Colonel Farington's she met a young man named Mr. Boyer, who is a minister. During the evening, Mrs. Laiton asked her about the newly deceased Mr. Haly, which made her mad since it did not seem appropriate. Mr. Boyer joined them in their walk and gave her his arm. It was a lovely evening. Mr. Boyer writes to Mr. Selby about how he has met a lovely, fair, and admirable young woman named Eliza who currently resides with the Richmans. He speaks of how devoted she was to Mr. Haly. He also says he has not mentioned his attachment to her yet since she seems disinclined to entertain it, but he is very happy. Eliza writes to Lucy about how, against her desires, she appears to have a serious lover in Mr. Boyer. She details his attentions to her and says he is agreeable, but she does not want to give up her newly gained freedom. She writes again to Lucy and says she received a card this morning from a Major Sanford, who wished to take her to a ball at Mr. Atkins'. She thought she saw some disapproval flit across the faces of her friends but could not be sure. She is grateful for their kindness to her and hopes she can find out more about their reaction to Sanford's name. Mr. Boyer writes to Mr. Selby, morose and disappointed. He believes his earlier hopes have been proven unfounded. He went to visit Eliza, but Major Sanford was already there. She came in and seemed unnerved, but managed to remain composed to both of them. He spoke later with the Richmans who tried to assure him Eliza did not know he was coming, and is a very delightful and amiable young woman. However, she seemed clearly taken by the Major. Mrs. Richman said outright that while the man's rank made him accepted in polite society, his manners and reputation left something to be desired. Mr. Boyer concludes that he is very piqued. Peter Sanford writes to Mr. Charles Deighton that he has met a lovely young woman, who of late was attached to a dying man. He is amused to regard her as a coquette, and if this is confirmed, plans to "avenge my sex, by retaliating the mischiefs, she mediates against us" . He saw that the other man, Mr. Boyer, was better received by General Richman and his wife, but cares little. Eliza writes to Lucy of the same encounter. She was embarrassed at first but recovered, while Mr. Boyer seemed disappointed in something. The ball was lovely and Major Sanford was quite attendant. The next day, though, Mrs. Richman told her that he lacks virtue. This surprised Eliza and she became confused at how to proceed. In the next letter to Lucy she explains how Sanford came to visit her, and even though she was nervous about what her friend had said, she could not help but think of how agreeable, affectionate, and warm he was. Later she went to dine at the house of Mr. Laurence, who had one daughter, and encountered Major Sanford there as well. She finds him charming and pleasing. Sanford writes to Charles and tells of how he managed to win Eliza over even though at first she seemed cool towards him. He too finds her charming, but says marriage is not part of his plan. He would only marry to secure fortune, and this girl cannot do that. Eliza writes Lucy about how Mrs. Richman told her how pleased she would be if she gave Mr. Boyer her attention. Eliza wondered about marriage and friendship, and mused that marriage seemed to be the death knell of friendship. Mr. Boyer came by, and Eliza noticed how shy and reserved he was at first. He later relaxed and the two went for a walk. There he became more open about his interest in her, but she said she needed time to consider him and would relieve his mind soon. She asks for Lucy's advice. Lucy writes to her, telling her friend she is nervous that she seems to prefer Major Sanford, who is clearly a rake. She encourages her unabashedly to favor Mr. Boyer, who will be a good husband to her. She tells Eliza to leave off her coquettish ways. Eliza responds, saying how her friends too gave a long commendation of Mr. Boyer. She is hesitant, though, of forming a serious connection because she is just now participating in youth and freedom. She told that to her pursuer, and he said he understood and said he would wait for their connection to grow. After he left Mrs. Richman told Eliza how happy she was and that she should consider herself somewhat engaged to him. Eliza said she would not until it was an indissoluble knot. Lucy writes back and congratulates her friend. She informs her that she also heard Major Sanford was looking at an estate nearby. People seem to be pleased, but she knows that he has a "vicious character" and cannot be a member of respectable society. Eliza writes to Lucy that Mr. Boyer is setting out for his future residence and wants to write letters to her. She agreed. Major Sanford came in and this made the situation awkward. After the Major left, Mr. Boyer asked for more constancy, but she could give him none. She ends her letter saying what she cares about most right now is friendship, not marriage. Mr. Boyer joyfully writes his friend that he has made addresses to Eliza. She does not possess the same ardor, though, which he hopes will appear. Major Sanford writes his friend Charles and speaks of his intrigue with Eliza, but also his annoyance that she has another lover. He decides he will marry the daughter of Mr. Laurence, who will bring him a big fortune. She is not as appealing as Eliza but he can never risk a union with her. He still plans to carry on trying to make her love him though. Eliza writes to Lucy of Major Sanford coming across her in one of her walks and confessing his ardor and affection. He was full of passion and she tried to dissuade him. She knew it was wrong but was charmed by him nonetheless. She told him of Mr. Boyer, and he listened but asked if he could still see her socially. She spoke some harsh words to him and he claimed that he might be imprudent but he is not malignant. He merely grew up in affluence and ease and was influenced by that state of affairs. He pressed her hand to his lips. General Richman was spotted at the same time, and their discourse was over. Mrs. Richman warned her about his behavior and his "insinuating attention" . She warned her of her own sincerity leading her astray. Eliza tells Lucy she might want to come home soon and rid herself of this man.

One of the important elements of the novel is its structure comprised of epistles or letters. Epistolary novels were very popular in the 18th century, especially due to Samuel Richardson's two notable works, Clarissa and Pamela . The first American novel written in the form was Fanny Brooke's The History of Emily Montague , and Foster's Coquette followed thirty years later. An epistolary novel can heighten the sensation of realism, and provide great insights into the writer's character, but it can also be limited because there is no authorial distance. The character of Eliza is indelibly influenced by the structure of the novel, and much ink has been spilled endeavoring to parse out her personality and the reality of events from her own words. Immediately apparent about Eliza is that she is happy to be free from her deathbed watch - her betrothed, Mr. Haly, has died, and she is happy to engage with the "gay world" . She writes to Lucy that she is aware she is often deemed coquettish, but assures her friend that she will not act like that, and that even if she does, such behaviors "are effusions of a youthful, and cheerful, mind" . Right away, Foster begins to reveal Eliza's character through the eyes of others. This is an important theme in the novel because Eliza is constantly watched, scrutinized, and judged. Initially, she receives glowing reviews. The enamored Mr. Boyer sees Eliza as polished, accomplished, and possessing excellent manners. Major Sanford identifies her as a coquette, although he claims to admire her manners as well. Her friends approve mightily when she begins to say that she might marry Mr. Boyer. However, their support for Eliza falters when it comes to her perceived and stated interest in Major Sanford. Mrs. Richman tells her to be wary of his "specious manners" and that he is a "professed libertine" . She tells her that she should be wary of guarding her virtue and delicacy. Lucy also weighs in, gently admonishing Eliza for her "predilection for this Major Sanford... he is a rake, my dear friend" . She begins to offer her own advice as well, counseling her to marry a man of "sense and honor" , much, she implies, like her own fiance. Early on, the friendship between the women in the novel takes on great importance. Eliza is away from her mother, her father has died, and she is both physically and psychologically closer to her friends than anyone else. She is extremely confessional with Lucy and very open with the Richmans as well. She does not shy away from expressing her opinion that marriage can be the "tomb of friendship" and "a very selfish state" . Marriage weakens friendships because people focus more on their spouses and families than their former friends. Later in the novel when Lucy gets married, Eliza praises her new husband and how perfect they are for each other, but she also says frankly that she could not be entirely happy about it and refused to express "the wishes of benevolence" . Claire Pettengill's article on female friendship in the novel is very instructive. She begins by noting the "crucial role played by the tightly knit circle of women which supports, encourages, protects and provides for Eliza, even as it scolds and criticizes her." Social historians have convincingly documented how a female network of sisters and friends was important to American women in the post-revolutionary period. These women turned to each other for a shared sense of value, a support network, and establishment of identity. Such a network holds overwhelming importance, but can also experience a natural breakdown, such as when members marry, have children, or even "fall prey to seduction." Eliza's friends openly criticize her thoughts and actions, "almost always using true friendship to justify their words." They demand she tell them all she is doing, but they do not reciprocate. Eliza does not demand a detailed account of their own lives, and besides "platitudes about their happiness," they do not provide them. Mrs. Richman and Lucy, furthermore, are steps beyond Eliza in her journey. Julia is single, but much more moralizing than Eliza. Eliza needs her friends' support, especially as the novel progresses and her trouble deepens, but those friends cannot give her what she needs. Pettengill concludes her article by noting, "Both enabling and constraining, warm and 'disinterested,' the female circle...serves a relentlessly contradictory function, reflecting the striking cultural ambivalence about rapid economic and social change that was manifested in and reproduced through separate sphere ideology."

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/12431-chapters/chapters_20_to_36.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/The Coquette/section_1_part_0.txt

The Coquette.chapters 20-36

chapters 20-36

{"name": "XX-XXXVI", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180327091504/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-coquette/study-guide/summary-xx-xxxvi", "summary": "Eliza writes to her mother, saying she thinks it can be confusing to hear from so many people but a mother always provides \"disinterested affection\" . She desperately wants her mother's advice. She does not want to enter the life of a clergyman's wife; there seem to be other lives that may be more to her taste. Her mother writes her back, opening with how much she misses her. As a widow, watching over her children has given her satisfaction. She tells her daughter that clergymen make fine husbands and are respected by all. She urges Eliza to remain upright and fortitudinous. Mr. Boyer writes to Eliza about how he can only think of her, even as he begins his new profession. In particular, he thinks of their conversation and hopes to continue to retain her favor. He says his friend, Mr. Selby, will deliver the letter and can continue their conversation by bringing a letter from her. Mr. Selby writes back to Mr. Boyer that he was charmed by Eliza. He found her form and her face pleasing, and that she is both dignified and easy. She seemed pleased with the letter. A Major Sanford was already there, along with Mr. Laurence and his daughter. Mr. Selby observed how he seemed very attentive to their conversation, but tried to look careless. The conversation turned to politics, and Major Sanford and Miss Laurence remained quiet. Eliza and Mrs. Richman expressed their opinion that women \"think ourselves interested in the welfare and prosperity of our country; and, consequently, claim the right of inquiring into those affairs\" . He was invited to dinner that evening by Mr. Richman. He continues, saying that the next morning he was riding to the dinner and came upon Major Sanford and Eliza on horseback. They seemed disconcerted. The Major left, and Eliza and Mr. Selby went to the Richmans' house. He asked about her encounter and she explained that she had gone on a ride with Miss Laurence and the Major came to them. They made plans to go to the assembly that evening. Mr. Selby is still impressed with Eliza's wit, reading and knowledge, and manners. He will be at the assembly too, though he did not mention it to Eliza at the time. Eliza writes to the Reverend Boyer that she enjoys their letter writing, and does not think there is any reason for critics to satirize or censure it between the sexes. She prefers not to say anything about the specific subject he mentioned. She thanks him for talking about a poet, and says she enjoyed meeting Mr. Selby. Eliza then writes to Lucy, begging her for advice about Major Sanford. She explains how Major Sanford watched the transaction of Boyer's letter to her, and appeared pensive. She and Miss Laurence agreed to ride and the Major came to them unbidden. He showed her much attention, which frustrated Miss Laurence. He heard she was going to the assembly with Mr. Gordon and asked if he could go with her. The other girl left and he asked her if they could talk. He then confessed his jealousy and suspense. He hoped she would not listen to what her friends said about him, and asked if she truly planned to marry Boyer. He asked for her favor. This was when they encountered Mr. Selby. Later, Mrs. Richman gave more advice to her about avoiding Major Sanford. She said she might not know about his present conduct but his past had sealed his reputation. Eliza wondered if he could be reformed but Mrs. Richman asked why a lady would stake her life on the slender possibility of reformation. She said to Lucy that she was confused and that \"in regard to these men, my fancy and my judgment are in scales\" , with one sometimes outweighing the others. She then recounted how it was time to attend the assembly, and that Mr. Selby was there. She found the Major very bold that night, insisting on finding out if she cared for Mr. Boyer. He asked if he could visit her often but she said no because he was not welcome, but he urged her not to think about what her friends thought. She ends her letter by ruminating on the Major's manner, temper, and fortune, and wonders if the old adage of \"a reformed rake makes the best husband\" might be true. She knows she is too wild for traditional domestic pleasures and does not want to enter those with Mr. Boyer even though he is agreeable. She wishes he and the Major were combined somehow, and then she would be happy. Mr. Selby writes to Mr. Boyer, opening his letter with the assertion that \"Every woman is, at heart, a rake\" . He rues how even the most virtuous can be dissipated and inappropriate. He is upset on his friend's account, for he observed Eliza at the assembly , and saw how the whole room buzzed about them. He could not get a minute with her, as the lothario was attached to her at the hip. He wonders why if she is attached to Boyer she associates with that man. He hopes his friend will not be made a dupe of a coquette. Maybe Eliza does posses virtue and good sense, but her current behavior mystifies him. Major Sanford writes to his friend Charles Deighton, exclaiming how even though Eliza's friends speak ill of him, he is triumphing. He knows all women love the pleasures of flirtation, think themselves above delusion, and believe they can \" the libertine\" . He is attached to her though, and annoyed at his lack of clear-cut success. He plans to overcome this failure, and feels quite vengeful at the moment. He is not sure if he should try to seduce her, but assumes she would succumb. This would be her fault, he says, since she is aware of his character. Lucy writes to Eliza and warns her that the Major has never said one thing about marriage. Thinking a rake can reform is a dangerous idea. Furthermore, why would she want to align herself with this man? He will never respect her and will always be prone to jealousy. They may seem charming but they are hard-hearted and cruel. She warns Eliza that the Major's charms are misleading and superficial. She should not allow herself to be \"wounded by the frothy and illiberal sallies of licentious wit\" . She ends by saying she saw Eliza's mother, who wishes to see her, and that she - Lucy -is getting ready for her own nuptials. Eliza writes back to Lucy and says she has decided to be with Mr. Boyer. She spoke with Major Sanford and said that she appreciated his attention but that their connection should cease. He was full of protestation and despair, and eventually left. She admitted that she was attracted to his fortune because she never had much. She also tells Lucy how Miss Laurence called on her and asked her if she knew that the Major had left. Eliza did not. The other girl also told Eliza that he had bought property near her home - the Captain Pribble estate. She ends her letter by saying Mr. Boyer wrote her again and wants to kiss her hand, and that she admires General Richman for how devoted he is to his wife and how he does not like to go places without her. Finally, a Mr. Emmons asked to come see her, and she said yes, for if she must give up these amusements soon she might as well enjoy herself. Lucy writes to Eliza of Major Sanford, who has taken up residence in the neighborhood. She does not wish to spend any time with him - she finds his character disreputable and his manners loathsome. She writes warmly to take up this cause important to her sex. She mentions that she saw Eliza's mother while riding, and they spoke briefly of the Major, who had tried to reach out to Mrs. Wharton. Sanford writes to Charles of how Eliza has banished him, but he intends to befriend her friends. He hopes to keep up his appearance of affluence until he marries rich. Eliza writes Lucy that she has been spending time with Mr. Boyer, who is ardent about getting married. She does not wish to discuss it as much, but has allowed him to escort her to see her mother and Lucy. Eliza writes Mrs. Richman that she has arrived home, and saw her brother and his wife as well as her mother and Lucy. The next day she saw people in her neighborhood, including the Major. The two men were coolly polite to each other. Eliza is assured she will stay steady because she has decided on Boyer. She laughingly muses that her mother might be a better fit for him if she were not a little older. General Richman writes to Eliza that his wife has delivered a daughter and he could not be more affectionate towards the child. Eliza writes to Mrs. Richman of how happy she is about the child. She also says Lucy married Mr. George Sumner yesterday. She calls them a charming couple but is melancholy because she knows their friendship will be affected. Mr. Boyer tried to speak to her on the same subject but she did not want to hear it then. A ball was held, and she happened to draw the Major as a partner and had a lot of fun with him. Mr. Boyer seemed upset though. She plans to accompany Lucy and her husband to Boston to stay for a month or two.", "analysis": "Eliza spends the bulk of this section of letters vacillating between the two men. She compares the situation to weighing them on a scale, explaining in one of her letters that when one seemed to rise in her esteem the other would fall. It is Mr. Boyer, though that she remains the most ambivalent about. She writes that he is not disagreeable himself, but \"his situation in life! I dare not enter it!\" . She sees that \"the idea of relinquishing those delightful amusements and flattering attentions, which wealth and equipage bestow, is painful\" . There is little that excites her about marrying him, even when that is what she finally decides to do. As for Major Sanford, although she pretends to be offended by his impertinent advances, she is completely enamored: \"This man, to an agreeable person has superadded, graceful manners, an amiable temper, and a fortune sufficient to ensure the enjoyments of all the pleading varieties of social life\" . These reasons for favoring Major Sanford are very important. As critic Laura Korobkin has noted, most critics tend to celebrate Eliza for being a paragon of independence and individuality in her desire not to become ensnared in a marriage she does not want, but Korobkin seeks to offer more insight into the character of Eliza that places her in a slightly more negative light. Korobkin notes that the freedom Eliza seeks \"is not self-sufficiency or even self-realization but self-indulgence and luxury, the banes of the old world rather than the potentials of the new.\" Indeed, the \"social dissipation, luxuries, and class-based idleness\" evinced or desired by Eliza are affiliated with Britain and used to justify the Revolution. Foster is suggesting that \"if the new nation is to succeed... it must do a better job of weaning its most promising daughters away from corrupt aristocratic values.\" Eliza, described as volatile by multiple people, including herself, lacks the ability to analyze her motivations and her desires. She is \"living for the moment of present pleasure; drawn towards superficial social activities and dispersing her energies in them; unwilling to keep a steady emotional focus on important issues long enough to make significant decisions or think her way toward real maturity.\" She lives for amusements and frivolous activities, and hopes marriage will be a continuation of them. This means she needs to marry someone of wealth, which is why she primarily gravitates to Major Sanford. She talks often of his ability to make her comfortable. As Sanford knows that \"her desire for luxury is her dominant erotic motivator,\" he pretends to be rich. Foster is sympathetic to Eliza's desires up to a point, but seems to suggest that she has pushed them too far and cannot accept an adult life. In terms of the men Eliza finds herself caught between, their personalities develop in these chapters. Mr. Boyer comes across as rather bland and sanctimonious. In the next section of letters he becomes annoyed with Eliza for being so lively and enjoying herself in social activities. Then, of course, his letter breaking off their erstwhile engagement reeks of affectation and pseudo-holiness . Major Sanford reveals a great deal of his character in his letters to Mr. Charles Deighton. He condemns women for being frivolous and flirtatious, and mocks them for thinking they can reform a libertine. He is prideful, annoyed that he cannot succeed with Eliza as he thinks he ought to. He states outright that he does not intend to marry her, but does not want her to marry Mr. Boyer either. He tells Charles he wants to sleep with her, and that if he succeeds it will be her fault for not understanding that if she \" with a lion let her beware of his paw\" . He plans to buy a house in her neighborhood and ingratiate himself with her friends, all the while searching for a rich woman to fool into marrying him. Clearly Foster intends to reverse the entrenched assumptions regarding the real woman Eliza Wharton is based off - Elizabeth Whitman - by showing that the man she was involved with was one of trickery, manipulation, and baseness. Scholar Cathy Davidson notes in her introduction to the novel, \"the twelve letters that Sanford sends his friend, Charles Deighton... effectively the self-justifying evasions, the hypocrisy, and the overt misogyny of the seducer - all of which he skillfully conceals in his conversations with Eliza.\" Gender norms of the era unfortunately allowed for a man like Major Sanford, and justified his actions as a rake. Critic Kristie Hamilton notes, \"Built into this masculine code is an automatic displacement of responsibility for one's actions that allows a man to practice deception without forethought or reflection.\" Readers should engage with the question of how much blame for Eliza's downfall should be placed on Eliza herself, Major Sanford, and the era in which she lived with its straitened-yet-in-flux gender roles and definitions of freedom."}

LETTER XX. TO MRS. M. WHARTON. NEW HAVEN. From the conversation of the polite, the sedate, the engaging, and the gay,--from corresponding with the learned, the sentimental, and the refined,--my heart and my pen turn with ardor and alacrity to a tender and affectionate parent, the faithful guardian and guide of my youth, the unchanging friend of my riper years. The different dispositions of various associates sometimes perplex the mind which seeks direction; but in the disinterested affection of the maternal breast we fear no dissonance of passion, no jarring interests, no disunion of love. In this seat of felicity is every enjoyment which fancy can form, or friendship, with affluence, bestow; but still my mind frequently returns to the happy shades of my nativity. I wish there to impart my pleasures, and share the counsels of my best, my long-tried, and experienced friend. At this time, my dear mamma, I am peculiarly solicitous for your advice. I am again importuned to listen to the voice of love; again called upon to accept the addresses of a gentleman of merit and respectability. You will know the character of the man when I tell you it is Mr. Boyer. But his situation in life! I dare not enter it. My disposition is not calculated for that sphere. There are duties arising from the station which I fear I should not be able to fulfil, cares and restraints to which I could not submit. _This_ man is not disagreeable to me; but if I must enter the connubial state, are there not _others_ who may be equally pleasing in their persons, and whose profession may be more conformable to my taste? You, madam, have passed through this scene of trial with honor and applause. But, alas! can your volatile daughter ever acquire your wisdom--ever possess your resolution, dignity, and prudence? I hope soon to converse with you personally upon the subject, and to profit by your precepts and example. I anticipate the hour of my return to your bosom with impatience. My daily thoughts and nightly dreams restore me to the society of my beloved mamma; and, till I enjoy in reality, I subscribe myself your dutiful daughter, ELIZA WHARTON. LETTER XXI. TO MISS ELIZA WHARTON. HARTFORD. How welcome to me, my dear Eliza, are the tidings of your return! My widowed heart has mourned your absence, and languished for the company of its now dearest connection. When stripped of one dependence, the mind naturally collects and rests itself in another. Your father's death deprived me, for a while, of every enjoyment. But a reviving sense of the duties which I owed to a rising family roused me from the lethargy of grief. In my cares I found an alleviation of my sorrows. The expanding virtues of my children soothed and exhilarated my drooping spirits, and my attention to their education and interest was amply rewarded by their proficiency and duty. In them every hope, every pleasure, now centres. They are the axis on which revolves the temporal felicity of their mother. Judge, then, my dear, how anxiously I must watch, how solicitously I must regard, every circumstance which relates to their welfare and prosperity! Exquisitely alive to these sensations, your letter awakens my hopes and my fears. As you are young and charming, a thousand dangers lurk unseen around you. I wish you to find a friend and protector worthy of being rewarded by your love and your society. Such a one I think Mr. Boyer will prove. I am, therefore, sorry, since there can be no other, that his profession should be an objection in your mind. You say that I have experienced the scenes of trial connected with that station. I have, indeed; and I will tell you the result of this experience. It is, that I have found it replete with happiness. No class of society has domestic enjoyment more at command than clergymen. Their circumstances are generally a decent competency. They are removed alike from the perplexing cares of want and from the distracting parade of wealth. They are respected by all ranks, and partakers of the best company. With regard to its being a dependent situation, what one is not so? Are we not all links in the great chain of society, some more, some less important, but each upheld by others, throughout the confederated whole? In whatever situation we are placed, our greater or less degree of happiness must be derived from ourselves. Happiness is in a great measure the result of our own dispositions and actions. Let us conduct uprightly and justly; with propriety and steadiness; not servilely cringing for favor, nor arrogantly claiming more attention and respect than our due; let us bear with fortitude the providential and unavoidable evils of life, and we shall spend our days with respectability and contentment at least. I will not expatiate on the topic of your letter till we have a personal interview, for which I am indeed impatient. Return, my daughter, as soon as politeness will allow, to your expecting friends; more especially to the fond embraces of your affectionate mother. M. WHARTON. LETTER XXII. TO MISS ELIZA WHARTON. HAMPSHIRE. Can time, can distance, can absence allay or extinguish the sentiments of refined affection, the ardor of true love? No, my dear Eliza. If I may judge by my own heart, I shall say they cannot. Amidst the parade which has attended me, the interesting scenes in which I have been engaged, and the weighty cares which have occupied my attention, your idea has been the solace of my retired moments, the soother of every anxious thought. I recall with pleasure the conversation which we have shared. I dwell with rapture on the marks of favor which I have received from you. My first wish is the continuance and increase of these favors; my highest ambition, to deserve them. I look forward and anticipate with impatience the future enjoyment of your society, and hope we shall one day experience the reality of those beautiful lines of Thomson:-- "--an elegant sufficiency, Content, retirement, rural quiet, friendship, Books, ease, and alternate labor; useful life, Progressive virtue, and approving Heaven; These are the matchless joys of virtuous love. Mr. Selby, my particular friend, will have the honor of delivering this letter. He will be able to give you any information, relative to our public transactions, which you may wish. May I solicit the favor of a line, through him, in return? It will relieve, in some measure, the tediousness of this separation. I intend to pay my respects to you personally in about a fortnight; till when I subscribe myself your sincere and affectionate friend, J. BOYER. LETTER XXIII. TO THE REV. J. BOYER. NEW HAVEN. I have executed your commission, and been amply rewarded for my trouble by the pleasures I enjoyed in the society of the agreeable family to which I was introduced; especially of the amiable and accomplished lady who is the object of your particular regard. I think she fully justifies your partiality to her. She appears to possess both the virtues and the graces. Her form is fine, and her countenance interests us at once in her favor. There is a mixture of dignity and ease which commands respect and conciliates affection. After these encomiums, will you permit me to say there is an air of gayety in her appearance and deportment which savors a little of coquetry? I am persuaded, however, that she has too much good sense to practise its arts. She received your letter very graciously, asked leave to retire a few moments, and returned with a smile of complacency on her brow, which I construe favorably to you. There was a Mr. Lawrence, with his lady and daughter, and a certain Major Sanford, at the house. The latter, I believe, in the modern sense of the phrase, _is much of a gentleman_; that is, a man of show and fashion. Miss Wharton asked me when I should leave town, and when I should return, or have an opportunity of conveyance to Hampshire. I told her I should write by the next post, and, if she had any commands, would be happy to execute them. She would send a line to her friend, she said, if I would take the trouble to enclose it in my letter. I readily consented, and told her that I would call and receive her favor to-morrow morning. This chitchat was a little aside; but I could not but observe that the aforesaid Major Sanford had dropped his part in the conversation of the rest of the company, and was attending to us, though he endeavored to conceal his attention by looking carelessly over a play which lay on the window by him. Yet he evidently watched every word and action of Miss Wharton, as if he were really interested in her movements. It is said she has many admirers, and I conceive it very possible that this may be one of them; though, truly, I do not think that she would esteem such a conquest any great honor. I now joined in the general topic of conversation, which was politics; Mrs. Richman and Miss Wharton judiciously, yet modestly, bore a part; while the other ladies amused themselves with Major Sanford, who was making his sage remarks on the play, which he still kept in his hand. General Richman at length observed that we had formed into parties. Major Sanford, upon, this, laid aside his book. Miss Lawrence simpered, and looked as if she was well pleased with being in a party with so fine a man; while her mother replied that she never meddled with politics. "Miss Wharton and I," said Mrs. Richman, "must beg leave to differ from you, madam. We think ourselves interested in the welfare and prosperity of our country; and, consequently, claim the right of inquiring into those affairs which may conduce to or interfere with the common weal. We shall not be called to the senate or the field to assert its privileges and defend its rights, but we shall feel, for the honor and safety of our friends and connections who are thus employed. If the community flourish and enjoy health and freedom, shall we not share in the happy effects? If it be oppressed and disturbed, shall we not endure our proportion of the evil? Why, then, should the love of our country be a masculine passion only? Why should government, which involves the peace and order of the society of which we are a part, be wholly excluded from our observation?" Mrs. Lawrence made some slight reply, and waived the subject. The gentlemen applauded Mrs. Richman's sentiments as truly Roman, and, what was more, they said, truly republican. I rose to take leave, observing to Miss Wharton that I should call to-morrow, as agreed. Upon this, General Richman politely requested the favor of my company at dinner. I accepted his invitation, and bade them good night. I shall do the same to you for the present, as I intend, to-morrow, to scribble the cover, which is to enclose your Eliza's letter. T. SELBY. LETTER XXIV. TO THE REV. J. BOYER. NEW HAVEN. I resume my pen, having just returned from General Richman's; not with an expectation, however, of your reading this till you have perused and reperused the enclosed. I can bear such neglect in this case, as I have been alike interested myself. I went to General Richman's at twelve o'clock. About a mile from thence, upon turning a corner, I observed a gentleman and lady on horseback, some way before me, riding at a very moderate pace, and seemingly in close conversation. I kept at the same distance from them till I saw them stop at the general's gate. I then put on, and, coming up with them just as they alighted, was surprised to find them no other than Major Sanford and Miss Wharton. They were both a little disconcerted at my salutation: I know not why. Miss Wharton invited him in; but he declined, being engaged to dine. General Richman received us at the door. As I handed Miss Wharton in, he observed, jocosely, that she had changed company. "Yes, sir," she replied, "more than once since I went out, as you doubtless observed." "I was not aware," said Mrs. Richman, "that Major Sanford was to be of your party to-day." "It was quite accidental, madam," said Miss Wharton. "Miss Lawrence and I had agreed, last evening, to take a little airing this forenoon. A young gentleman, a relation of hers, who is making them a visit, was to attend us. "We had not rode more than two miles when we were overtaken by Major Sanford, who very politely asked leave to join our party. Miss Lawrence very readily consented; and we had a very sociable ride. The fineness of the day induced me to protract the enjoyment of it abroad; but Miss Lawrence declined riding so far as I proposed, as she had engaged company to dine. We therefore parted till the evening, when we are to meet again." "What, another engagement!" said Mrs. Richman. "Only to the assembly, madam." "May I inquire after your gallant, my dear? But I have no right, perhaps, to be inquisitive," said Mrs. Richman. Miss Wharton made no reply, and the conversation took a general turn. Miss Wharton sustained her part with great propriety. Indeed, she discovers a fund of useful knowledge and extensive reading, which render her peculiarly entertaining; while the brilliancy of her wit, the fluency of her language, the vivacity and ease of her manners are inexpressibly engaging. I am going myself to the assembly this evening, though I did not mention it to General Richman. I therefore took my leave soon after dinner. I have heard so much in praise of Miss Wharton's penmanship, in addition to her other endowments, that I am almost tempted to break the seal of her letter to you; but I forbear. Wishing you much happiness in the perusal of it, and more in the possession of its writer, I subscribe myself yours, &c., T. SELBY. LETTER XXV. TO THE REV. J. BOYER. NEW HAVEN. Sir: Your favor of the 4th instant came to hand yesterday. I received it with pleasure, and embrace this early opportunity of contributing my part to a correspondence tending to promote a friendly and social intercourse. An epistolary communication between the sexes has been with some a subject of satire and censure; but unjustly, in my opinion. With persons of refinement and information, it may be a source of entertainment and utility. The knowledge and masculine virtues of your sex may be softened and rendered more diffusive by the inquisitiveness, vivacity, and docility of ours, drawn forth and exercised by each other. In regard to the _particular_ subject of yours, I shall be silent. Ideas of that kind are better conveyed, on my part, by words than by the pen. I congratulate you on your agreeable settlement, and hope it will be productive of real and lasting happiness. I am convinced that felicity is not confined to any particular station or condition in life; yet, methinks, some are better calculated to afford it to me than others. Your extract from a favorite poet is charmingly descriptive; but is it not difficult to ascertain what we can pronounce "an elegant sufficiency"? Perhaps you will answer, as some others have done, we can attain it by circumscribing our wishes within the compass of our abilities. I am not very avaricious; yet I must own that I should like to enjoy it without so much trouble as that would cost me. Excuse my seeming levity. You have flattered my cheerfulness by commending it, and must, therefore, indulge me in the exercise of it. I cannot conveniently be at the pains of restraining its sallies when I write in confidence. Is a sprightly disposition, in your view, indicative of a giddy mind or an innocent heart? Of the latter, I presume; for I know you are not a misanthrope. We expect the pleasure of Mr. Selby's company to dinner. You are certainly under obligations to his friendship for the liberal encomiums he bestowed on you and your prospects yesterday. Mrs. Richman rallied me, after he was gone, on my listening ear. The general and she unite in requesting me to present their respects. Wishing you health and happiness, I subscribe myself your friend, ELIZA WHARTON. LETTER XXVI. TO MISS LUCY FREEMAN. NEW HAVEN. I am perplexed and embarrassed, my friend, by the assiduous attentions of this Major Sanford. I shall write circumstantially and frankly to you, that I may have the benefit of your advice. He came here last Monday in company with Mr. Lawrence, his wife, and daughter, to make us a visit. While they were present, a Mr. Selby, a particular friend of Mr. Boyer, came in, and delivered me a letter from him. I was really happy in the reception of this proof of his affection. His friend gave a very flattering account of his situation and prospects. The watchful eye of Major Sanford traced every word and action respecting Mr. Boyer with an attention which seemed to border on anxiety. That, however, did not restrain, but rather accelerated, my vivacity and inquisitiveness on the subject; for I wished to know whether it would produce any real effect upon him or not. After Mr. Selby's departure, he appeared pensive and thoughtful the remainder of the evening, and evidently sought an opportunity of speaking to me aside, which I studiously avoided. Miss Lawrence and I formed an engagement to take an airing in the morning on horseback, attended by a relation of hers who is now with them. They called for me about ten, when we immediately set out upon our preconcerted excursion. We had not proceeded far before we were met by Major Sanford. He was extremely polite, and finding our destination was not particular, begged leave to join our party. This was granted; and we had an agreeable tour for several miles, the time being passed in easy and unstudied remarks upon obvious occurrences. Major Sanford could not, however, conceal his particular attention to me, which rather nettled Miss Lawrence. She grew somewhat serious, and declined riding so far as we had intended, alleging that she expected company to dine. Major Sanford, understanding that she was going to the assembly in the evening with Mr. Gordon, solicited me to accept a ticket, and form a party with them. The entertainment was alluring, and I consented. When we had parted with Miss Lawrence, Major Sanford insisted on my riding a little farther, saying he must converse with me on a particular subject, and if I refused him this opportunity, that he must visit me at my residence, let it offend whom it would. I yielded to his importunity, and we rode on. He then told me that his mind was in a state of suspense and agitation which was very painful to bear, and which I only could relieve; that my cheerful reception of Mr. Boyer's letter yesterday, and deportment respecting him, had awakened in his breast all the pangs of jealousy which the most ardent love could feel; that my treatment of Mr. Boyer's friend convinced him that I was more interested in his affairs than I was willing to own; that he foresaw himself to be condemned to an eternal separation, and the total loss of my favor and society, as soon as time and circumstances would allow. His zeal, his pathos, alarmed me. I begged him to be calm. "To you," said I, "as a friend, I have intrusted my situation in relation to Mr. Boyer. You know that I am under no special obligation to him, and I do not intend to form any immediate connection." "Mr. Boyer must have different ideas, madam; and he has reason for them, if I may judge by appearances. When do you expect another visit from him?" "In about a fortnight." "And is my fate to be then decided? and so decided, as I fear it will be, through the influence of your friends, if not by your own inclination?" "My friends, sir, will not control, they will only advise to what they think most for my interest, and I hope that my conduct will not be unworthy of their approbation." "Pardon me, my dear Eliza," said he, "if I am impertinent; it is my regard for you which impels me to the presumption. Do you intend to give your hand to Mr. Boyer?" "I do not intend to give my hand to any man at present. I have but lately entered society, and wish, for a while, to enjoy my freedom in the participation of pleasures suited to my age and sex." "These," said he, "you are aware, I suppose, when you form a connection with that man, you must renounce, and content yourself with a confinement to the tedious round of domestic duties, the pedantic conversation of scholars, and the invidious criticisms of a whole town." "I have been accustomed," said I, "and am therefore attached, to men of letters; and as to the praise or censure of the populace, I hope always to enjoy that approbation of conscience which will render me superior to both. But you forget your promise not to talk in this style, and have deviated far from the character of a friend and brother, with, which you consented to rest satisfied." "Yes; but I find myself unequal to the task. I am not stoic enough tamely to make so great a sacrifice. I must plead for an interest in your favor till you banish me from your presence, and tell me plainly that you hate me." We had by this time reached the gate, and as we dismounted, were unexpectedly accosted by Mr. Selby, who had come, agreeably to promise, to dine with us, and receive my letter to Mr. Boyer. Major Sanford took his leave as General Richman appeared at the door. The general and his lady rallied me on my change of company, but very prudently concealed their sentiments of Major Sanford while Mr. Selby was present. Nothing material occurred before and during dinner, soon after which Mr. Selby went away. I retired to dress for the assembly, and had nearly completed the labor of the toilet when Mrs. Richman entered. "My friendship for you, my dear Eliza," said she, "interests me so much in your affairs that I cannot repress my curiosity to know who has the honor of your hand this evening." "If it be any honor," said I, "it will be conferred on Major Sanford." "I think it far too great to be thus bestowed," returned she. "It is perfectly astonishing to me that the virtuous part of my sex will countenance, caress, and encourage those men whose profession it is to blast their reputation, destroy their peace, and triumph in their infamy." "Is this, madam, the avowed design of Major Sanford?" "I know not what he avows, but his practice too plainly bespeaks his principles and views." "Does he now practise the arts you mention? or do you refer to past follies?" "I cannot answer for his present conduct; his past has established his character." "You, madam, are an advocate for charity; that, perhaps, if exercised in this instance, might lead you to think it possible for him to reform, to become a valuable member of society, and, when connected with a lady of virtue and refinement, to be capable of making a good husband." "I cannot conceive that such a lady would be willing to risk her all upon the slender prospect of his reformation. I hope the one with whom I am conversing has no inclination to so hazardous an experiment." "Why, not much." "Not much! If you have any, why do you continue to encourage Mr. Boyer's addresses?" "I am not sufficiently acquainted with either, yet, to determine which to take. At present, I shall not confine myself in any way. In regard to these men, my fancy and my judgment are in scales; sometimes one preponderates, sometimes the other; which will finally prevail, time alone can reveal." "O my cousin, beware of the delusions of fancy! Reason must be our guide if we would expect durable happiness." At this instant a servant opened the door, and told me that Major Sanford waited in the parlor. Being ready, I wished Mrs. Richman a good evening, and went down. Neither General Richman nor his lady appeared. He therefore handed me immediately into his phaeton, and we were soon in the assembly room. I was surprised, on my entrance, to find Mr. Selby there, as he did not mention, at dinner, his intention of going. He attached himself to our party, and, in the intervals of dancing, took every opportunity of conversing with me. These, however, were not many; for Major Sanford assiduously precluded the possibility of my being much engaged by any one else. We passed the evening very agreeably; but the major's importunity was rather troublesome as we returned home. He insisted upon my declaring whether Mr. Boyer really possessed my affections, and whether I intended to confer myself on him or not. "If," said he, "you answer me in the affirmative, I must despair; but if you have not absolutely decided against me, I will still hope that my persevering assiduity, my faithful love, may at last be rewarded." I told him that I was under no obligation to give him any account of my disposition towards another, and that he must remember the terms of our present association to which he had subscribed. I therefore begged him to waive the subject now, if not forever. He asked my pardon, if he had been impertinent, but desired leave to renew his request that I would receive his visits, his friendly visits. I replied that I could not grant this, and that he must blame himself, not me, if he was an unwelcome guest at General Richman's. He lamented the prejudices which my friends had imbibed against him, but flattered himself that I was more liberal than to be influenced by them without any positive proof of demerit, as it was impossible that his conduct towards me should ever deviate from the strictest rules of honor and love. What shall I say now, my friend? This man to an agreeable person has superadded graceful manners, an amiable temper, and a fortune sufficient to insure the enjoyments of all the pleasing varieties of social life. Perhaps a gay disposition and a lax education may have betrayed him into some scenes of dissipation. But is it not an adage generally received, that "_a reformed rake makes the best husband_"? My fancy leads me for happiness to the festive haunts of fashionable life. I am at present, and know not but I ever shall be, too volatile for a confinement to domestic avocations and sedentary pleasures. I dare not, therefore, place myself in a situation where these must be indispensable. Mr. Boyer's person and character are agreeable. I really esteem the man. My reason and judgment, as I have observed before, declare for a connection with him, as a state of tranquillity and rational happiness. But the idea of relinquishing those delightful amusements and flattering attentions which wealth and equipage bestow is painful. Why were not the virtues of the one and the graces and affluence of the other combined? I should then have been happy indeed. But, as the case now stands, I am loath to give up either; being doubtful which will conduce most to my felicity. Pray write me impartially; let me know your real sentiments, for I rely greatly upon your opinion. I am, &c., ELIZA WHARTON. LETTER XXVII. TO THE REV. MR. BOYER. NEW HAVEN. I am quite a convert to Pope's assertion, that "Every woman is at heart a rake." How else can we account for the pleasure which they evidently receive from the society, the flattery, the caresses of men of that character? Even the most virtuous of them seem naturally prone to gayety, to pleasure, and, I had almost said, to dissipation. How else shall we account for the existence of this disposition in your favorite fair? It cannot be the result of her education. Such a one as she has received is calculated to give her a very different turn of mind. You must forgive me, my friend, for I am a little vexed and alarmed on your-account. I went last evening to the assembly, as I told you in my last that I intended. I was purposely without a partner, that I might have the liberty to exercise my gallantry as circumstances should invite. Indeed I must own that my particular design was to observe Miss Wharton's movements, being rather inclined to jealousy in your behalf. She was handed into the assembly room by Major Sanford. The brilliance of their appearance, the levity of their manners, and the contrast of their characters I found to be a general subject of speculation. I endeavored to associate with Miss Wharton, but found it impossible to detach her a moment from the coxcomb who attended her. If she has any idea of a connection with you, why does she continue to associate with another, especially with one of so opposite a description? I am seriously afraid that there is more intimacy between them than there ought to be, considering the encouragement she has given you. I hope you will not be offended by my freedom in this matter. It originates in a concern for your honor and future happiness. I am anxious lest you should be made the dupe of a coquette, and your peace of mind fall a sacrifice to an artful debauchee. Yet I must believe that Miss Wharton has, in reality, all that virtue and good sense of which she enjoys the reputation; but her present conduct is mysterious. I have said enough (more than I ought, perhaps) to awaken your attention to circumstances which _may_ lead to important events. If they appear of little or no consequence to you, you will at least ascribe the mention of them to motives of sincere regard in your friend and humble servant, T. SELBY. LETTER XXVIII. TO MR. CHARLES DEIGHTON. NEW HAVEN. I go on finely with my amour. I have every encouragement that I could wish. Indeed my fair one does not verbally declare in my favor; but then, according to the vulgar proverb, that "_actions speak louder than words,_" I have no reason to complain; since she evidently approves my gallantry, is pleased with my company, and listens to my flattery. Her sagacious friends have undoubtedly given her a detail of my vices. If, therefore, my past conduct has been repugnant to her notions of propriety, why does she not act consistently, and refuse at once to associate with a man whose character she cannot esteem? But no; that, Charles, is no part of the female plan; our entrapping a few of their sex only discovers the gayety of our dispositions, the insinuating graces of our manners, and the irresistible charms of our persons and address. These qualifications are very alluring to the sprightly fancy of the fair. They think to enjoy the pleasures which result from this source, while their vanity and ignorance prompt each one to imagine herself superior to delusion, and to anticipate the honor of reclaiming the libertine and reforming the rake. I don't know, however, but this girl will really have that merit with me; for I am so much attached to her that I begin to suspect I should sooner become a convert to sobriety than lose her. I cannot find that I have made much impression on her heart as yet. Want of success in this point mortifies me extremely, as it is the first time I ever failed. Besides, I am apprehensive that she is prepossessed in favor of the other swain, the clerical lover, whom I have mentioned to you before. The chord, therefore, upon which I play the most, is the dissimilarity of their dispositions and pleasures. I endeavor to detach her from him, and disaffect her towards him; knowing that, if I can separate them entirely, I shall be more likely to succeed in my plan. Not that I have any thoughts of marrying her myself; that will not do at present. But I love her too well to see her connected with another for life. I must own myself a little revengeful, too, in this affair. I wish to punish her friends, as she calls them, for their malice towards me, for their cold and negligent treatment of me whenever I go to the house. I know that to frustrate their designs of a connection between Mr. Boyer and Eliza would be a grievous disappointment. I have not yet determined to seduce her, though, with all her pretensions to virtue, I do not think it impossible. And if I should, she can blame none but herself, since she knows my character, and has no reason to wonder if I act consistently with it. If she will play with a lion, let her beware of his paw, I say. At present, I wish innocently to enjoy her society; it is a luxury which I never tasted before. She is the very soul of pleasure. The gayest circle is irradiated by her presence, and the highest entertainment receives its greatest charms from her smiles. Besides, I have purchased the seat of Captain Pribble, about a mile from her mother's; and can I think of suffering her to leave the neighborhood just as I enter it? I shall exert every nerve to prevent that, and hope to meet with the usual success of PETER SANFORD. LETTER XXIX. TO MISS ELIZA WHARTON. HARTFORD. You desire me to write to you, my friend; but if you had not, I should by no means have refrained. I tremble at the precipice on which you stand, and must echo and reecho the seasonable admonition of the excellent Mrs. Richman, "Beware of the delusions of fancy." You are strangely infatuated by them! Let not the magic arts of that worthless Sanford lead you, like an _ignis fatuus_, from the path of rectitude and virtue. I do not find, in all your conversations with him, that one word about marriage drops from his lips. This is mysterious. No, it is characteristic of the man. Suppose, however, that his views are honorable; yet what can you expect, what can you promise yourself, from such a connection? "A reformed rake," you say, "makes the best husband"--a trite, but a very erroneous maxim, as the fatal experience of thousands of our sex can testify. In the first place, I believe that rakes very seldom _do_ reform while their fortunes and constitutions enable them to pursue their licentious pleasures. But even allowing this to happen; can a woman of refinement and delicacy enjoy the society of a man whose mind has been corrupted, whose taste has been vitiated, and who has contracted a depravity, both of sentiment and manners, which no degree of repentance can wholly efface? Besides, of true love they are absolutely incapable. Their passions have been much too hackneyed to admit so pure a flame. You cannot anticipate sincere and lasting respect from them. They have been so long accustomed to the company of those of our sex who deserve no esteem, that the greatest dignity and purity of character can never excite it in their breasts. They are naturally prone to jealousy. Habituated to an intercourse with the baser part of the sex, they level the whole, and seldom believe any to be incorruptible. They are always hardhearted and cruel. How else could they triumph in the miseries which they frequently occasion? Their specious manners may render them agreeable companions abroad, but at home the evil propensities of their minds will invariably predominate. They are steeled against the tender affections which render domestic life delightful; strangers to the kind, the endearing sympathies of husband, father, and friend. The thousand nameless attentions which soften the rugged path of life are neglected, and deemed unworthy of notice, by persons who have been inured to scenes of dissipation and debauchery. And is a man of this description to be the partner, the companion, the bosom friend of my Eliza? Forbid it, Heaven! Let not the noble qualities so lavishly bestowed upon her be thus unworthily sacrificed! You seem to be particularly charmed with the fortune of Major Sanford, with the gayety of his appearance, with the splendor of his equipage, with the politeness of his manners, with what you call the graces of his person. These, alas! are superficial, insnaring endowments. As to fortune, prudence, economy, and regularity are necessary to preserve it when possessed. Of these Major Sanford is certainly destitute--unless common fame (which more frequently tells the truth than some are willing to allow) does him great injustice. As to external parade, it will not satisfy the rational mind when it aspires to those substantial pleasures for which yours is formed. And as to the graces of person and manners, they are but a wretched substitute for those virtues which adorn and dignify human life. Can you, who have always been used to serenity and order in a family, to rational, refined, and improving conversation, relinquish them, and launch into the whirlpool of frivolity, where the correct taste and the delicate sensibility which you possess must constantly be wounded by the frothy and illiberal sallies of licentious wit? This, my dear, is but a faint picture of the situation to which you seem inclined. Reverse the scene, and you will perceive the alternative which is submitted to your option in a virtuous connection with Mr. Boyer. Remember that you are acting for life, and that your happiness in this world, perhaps in the next, depends on your present choice. I called last evening to see your mamma. She is fondly anticipating your return, and rejoicing in the prospect of your agreeable and speedy settlement. I could not find it in my heart to distress her by intimating that you had other views. I wish her benevolent bosom nevermore to feel the pangs of disappointed hope. I am busily engaged in preparing for my nuptials. The solemn words, "As long as ye both shall live," render me thoughtful and serious. I hope for your enlivening presence soon, which will prove a seasonable cordial to the spirits of your LUCY FREEMAN. LETTER XXX. TO MISS LUCY FREEMAN. NEW HAVEN. I believe your spirits need a cordial indeed, my dear Lucy, after drawing so dreadful a portrait of my swain. But I call him mine no longer. I renounce him entirely. My friends shall be gratified; and if their predictions are verified, I shall be happy in a union with a man of their choice. General Richman and lady have labored abundantly to prove that my ruin was inevitable if I did not immediately break all intercourse with Major Sanford. I promised a compliance with their wishes, and have accomplished the task, though a hard one I found it. Last Thursday he was here, and desired leave to spend an hour with me. I readily consented, assuring my friends it should be the last hour which I would ever spend in his company. He told me that he was obliged to leave town for a few days; and as I should probably see Mr. Boyer before his return, he could not depart in peace without once more endeavoring to interest me in his favor, to obtain some token of esteem, some glimpse of hope that I would not utterly reject him, to support him in his absence. I thanked him for the polite attention he had paid me since our acquaintance, told him that I should ever retain a grateful sense of his partiality to me, that he would ever share my best wishes, but that all connection of the kind to which he alluded must from that time forever cease. He exerted all his eloquence to obtain a retraction of that sentence, and ran with the greatest volubility through all the protestations, prayers, entreaties, professions, and assurances which love could feel or art contrive. I had resolution, however, to resist them, and to command my own emotions on the occasion better than my natural sensibility gave me reason to expect. Finding every effort vain, he rose precipitately, and bade me adieu. I urged his tarrying to tea; but he declined, saying that he must retire to his chamber, being, in his present state of mind, unfit for any society, as he was banished from mine. I offered him my hand, which he pressed with ardor to his lips, and, bowing in silence, left the room. Thus terminated this affair--an affair which, perhaps, was only the effect of mere gallantry on his part, and of unmeaning pleasantry on mine, and which, I am sorry to say, has given my friends so much anxiety and concern. I am under obligations to them for their kind solicitude, however causeless it may have been. As an agreeable companion, as a polite and finished gallant, Major Sanford is all that the most lively fancy could wish. And as you have always affirmed that I was a little inclined to coquetry, can you wonder at my exercising it upon so happy a subject? Besides, when I thought more seriously, his liberal fortune was extremely alluring to me, who, you know, have been hitherto confined to the rigid rules of prudence and economy, not to say necessity, in my finances. Miss Lawrence called on me yesterday, as she was taking the air, and asked me whether Major Sanford took leave of me when he left town. "He was here last week," said I, "but I did not know that he was gone away." "O, yes," she replied, "he is gone to take possession of his seat which he has lately purchased of Captain Pribble. I am told it is superb; and it ought to be, if it has the honor of his residence." "Then you have a great opinion of Major Sanford," said I. "Certainly; and has not every body else?" said she. "I am sure he is a very fine gentleman." Mrs. Richman smiled rather contemptuously, and I changed the subject. I believe that the innocent heart of this simple girl is a little taken in. I have just received a letter from Mr. Boyer in the usual style. He expects the superlative happiness of kissing my hand next week. O, dear! I believe I must begin to fix my phiz. Let me run to the glass, and try if I can make up one that will look _madamish_. Yes, I succeeded very well. I congratulate you on your new neighbor; but I advise friend George to have the Gordian knot tied immediately, lest you should be insnared by this bewitching squire. I have been trying to seduce General Richman to accompany me to the assembly this evening, but cannot prevail. Were Mrs. Richman able to go with us, he would be very happy to wait on us together; but, to tell the truth, he had rather enjoy her company at home than any which is to be found abroad. I rallied him on his old-fashioned taste, but my heart approved and applauded his attachment. I despise the married man or woman who harbors an inclination to partake of separate pleasures. I am told that a servant man inquires for me below--the messenger of some enamoured swain, I suppose. I will step down and learn what message he brings. Nothing extraordinary; it is only a card of compliments from a Mr. Emmons, a respectable merchant of this city, requesting the honor to wait on me to the assembly this evening--a welcome request, which I made no hesitation to grant. If I must resign these favorite amusements, let me enjoy as large a share as possible till the time arrives. I must repair to the toilet, and adorn for a new conquest the person of ELIZA WHARTON. LETTER XXXI. TO MISS ELIZA WHARTON. HARTFORD. I am very happy to find you are in so good spirits, Eliza, after parting with your favorite swain; for I perceive that he is really the favorite of your fancy, though your heart cannot esteem him; and, independent of that, no sensations can be durable. I can tell you some news of this strange man. He has arrived, and taken possession of his seat. Having given general invitations, he has been called upon and welcomed by most of the neighboring gentry. Yesterday he made an elegant entertainment. Friend George (as you call him) and I were of the number who had cards. Twenty-one couple went, I am told. We did not go. I consider my time too valuable to be spent in cultivating acquaintance with a person from whom neither pleasure nor improvement is to be expected. His profuseness may bribe the unthinking multitude to show him respect; but he must know that, though "Places and honors have been bought for gold, Esteem and love were never to be sold." I look upon the vicious habits and abandoned character of Major Sanford to have more pernicious effects on society than the perpetrations of the robber and the assassin. These, when detected, are rigidly punished by the laws of the land. If their lives be spared, they are shunned by society, and treated with every mark of disapprobation and contempt. But, to the disgrace of humanity and virtue, the assassin of honor, the wretch who breaks the peace of families, who robs virgin innocence of its charms, who triumphs over the ill-placed confidence of the inexperienced, unsuspecting, and too credulous fair, is received and caressed, not only by his own sex, to which he is a reproach, but even by ours, who have every conceivable reason to despise and avoid him. Influenced by these principles, I am neither ashamed nor afraid openly to avow my sentiments of this man, and my reasons for treating him with the most pointed neglect. I write warmly on the subject; for it is a subject in which I think the honor and happiness of my sex concerned. I wish they would more generally espouse their own cause. It would conduce to the public, weal, and to their personal respectability. I rejoice, heartily, that you have had resolution to resist his allurements, to detect and repel his artifices. Resolution in such a case is absolutely necessary; for, "In spite of all the virtue we can boast, The woman that deliberates is lost." As I was riding out yesterday I met your mamma. She wondered that I was not one of the party at our new neighbor's. "The reason, madam," said I, "is, that I do not like the character of the man." "I know nothing of him," said she; "he is quite a stranger to me, only as he called at my house last week to pay me his respects, as he said, for the sake of my late husband, whose memory he revered, and because I was the mother of Miss Eliza Wharton, with whom he had the honor of some little acquaintance. His manners are engaging, and I am sorry to hear that his morals are corrupt." This, my dear, is a very extraordinary visit. I fear that he has not yet laid aside his arts. Be still on your guard, is the advice of your sincere and faithful friend, LUCY FREEMAN. LETTER XXXII. TO MR. CHARLES DEIGHTON. HARTFORD. I am really banished and rejected--desired nevermore to think of the girl I love with a view of indulging that love or of rendering it acceptable to its object. You will perhaps dispute the propriety of the term, and tell me it is not love--it is only gallantry, and a desire to exercise it with her as a favorite nymph. I neither know nor care by what appellation you distinguish it; but it truly gives me pain. I have not felt one sensation of genuine pleasure since I heard my sentence; yet I acquiesced in it, and submissively took my leave; though I doubt not but I shall retaliate the indignity one time or other. I have taken possession of my new purchase--an elegant and delightful residence. It is rendered more so by being in the vicinity of my charmer's native abode. This circumstance will conduce much to my enjoyment, if I can succeed in my plan of separating her from Mr. Boyer. I know that my situation and mode of life are far more pleasing to her than his, and shall therefore trust to my appearance and address for a reestablishment in her favor. I intend, if possible, to ingratiate myself with her particular friends. For this purpose I called last week at her mother's to pay my respects to her (so I told the good woman) as an object of my particular regard, and as the parent of a young lady whom I had the honor to know and admire. She received me very civilly, thanked me for my attention, and invited me to call whenever I had opportunity; which was the very thing I wanted. I intend, likewise, to court popularity. I don't know but I must accept, by and by, some lucrative office in the civil department; yet I cannot bear the idea of confinement to business. It appears to me quite inconsistent with the character of a gentleman; I am sure it is with that of a man of pleasure. But something I must do; for I tell you, in confidence, that I was obliged to mortgage this place because I had not wherewithal to pay for it. But I shall manage matters very well, I have no doubt, and keep up the appearance of affluence till I find some lady in a strait for a husband whose fortune will enable me to extricate myself from these embarrassments. Do come and see me, Charles; for, notwithstanding all my gayety and parade, I have some turns of the hypo, some qualms of conscience, you will call them; but I meddle not with such obsolete words. And so good by to you, says PETER SANFORD. LETTER XXXIII. TO MISS LUCY FREEMAN. NEW HAVEN. My dear friend: I believe I must begin to assume airs of gravity; and they will not be quite so foreign to my feelings now as at some other times. You shall know the reason. I have been associated for three days with sentiment and sobriety in the person of Mr. Boyer. I don't know but this man will seduce me into matrimony. He is very eloquent upon the subject; and his manners are so solemn that I am strongly tempted--yet I dare not--to laugh. Really, Lucy, there is something extremely engaging, and soothing, too, in virtuous and refined conversation. It is a source of enjoyment which cannot be realized by the dissolute and unreflecting. But then this particular theme of his is not a favorite one to me; I mean as connected with its consequences--care and confinement. However, I have compounded the matter with him, and conditioned that he shall expatiate on the subject, and call it by what name he pleases, _platonic_ or _conjugal_, provided he will let me take my own time for the consummation. I have consented that he shall escort me next week to see my mamma and my Lucy. O, how the idea of returning to that revered mansion, to those beloved friends, exhilarates my spirits! General Richman's politeness to me has induced him to invite a large party of those gentlemen and ladies who have been particularly attentive to me during my residence here to dine and take tea to-morrow. After that, I expect to be engaged in making farewell visits till I leave the place. I shall, therefore, forego the pleasure of telling you any occurrences subsequent to this date until you see and converse with your sincere friend, ELIZA WHARTON. LETTER XXXIV. TO MRS. RICHMAN. HARTFORD. Dear madam: The day after I left your hospitable dwelling brought me safe to that of my honored mamma; to the seat of maternal and filial affection; of social ease and domestic peace; of every species of happiness which can result from religion and virtue, from refinement in morals and manners. I found my brother and his wife, with Lucy Freeman and Mr. Sumner, waiting to receive and bid me welcome. I flew with ecstasy to the bosom of my mamma, who received me with her accustomed affection, testified by the expressive tears of tenderness which stole silently down her widowed cheek. She was unable to speak. I was equally so. We therefore indulged a moment the pleasing emotions of sympathizing sensibility. When disengaged from her fond embrace, I was saluted by the others in turn; and, having recovered myself, I presented Mr. Boyer to each of the company, and each of the company to him. He was cordially received by all, but more especially by my mamma. The next day I was called upon and welcomed by several of my neighboring acquaintance; among whom I was not a little surprised to see Major Sanford. He came in company with Mr. Stoddard and lady, whom he overtook, as he told me, near by; and, as they informed him that the design of their visit was to welcome me home, he readily accepted their invitation to partake of the pleasure which every one must receive on my return. I bowed slightly at his compliment, taking no visible notice of any peculiarity of expression either in his words or looks. His politeness to Mr. Boyer appeared to be the result of habit; Mr. Boyer's to him to be forced by respect to the company to which he had gained admission. I dare say that each felt a conscious superiority--the one on the score of merit, the other on that of fortune. Which ought to outweigh the judicious mind will easily decide. The scale, as I once observed to you, will turn as fancy or reason preponderates. I believe the esteem which I now have for Mr. Boyer will keep me steady; except, perhaps, some little eccentricities now and then, just by way of variety. I am going to-morrow morning to spend a few days with Lucy Freeman, to assist in the preparation for, and the solemnization of, her nuptials. Mr. Boyer, in the mean time, will tarry among his friends in town. My mamma is excessively partial to him, though I am not yet jealous that she means to rival me. I am not certain, however, but it might be happy for him if she should; for I suspect, not withstanding the disparity of her age, that she is better calculated to make him a good wife than I am or ever shall be. But to be sober. Please, madam, to make my compliments acceptable to those of your neighbors, whose politeness and attention to me while at your house have laid me under particular obligations of gratitude and respect. My best regards attend General Richman. Pray tell him that, though I never expect to be so good a wife as he is blessed with, yet I intend, after a while, (when I have sowed all my wild oats,) to make a tolerable one. I am anxious to hear of a wished-for event, and of your safety. All who know you feel interested in your health and happiness, but none more warmly than your obliged and affectionate ELIZA WHARTON. LETTER XXXV. TO MISS ELIZA WHARTON. NEW HAVEN. I write a line, at Mrs. Richman's request, just to inform you, Eliza, that, yesterday, that lovely and beloved woman presented me with a daughter. This event awakens new sensations in my mind, and calls into exercise a kind of affection which had before lain dormant. I feel already the tenderness of a parent, while imagination fondly traces the mother's likeness in the infant form. Mrs. Richman expects to receive your congratulations in a letter by the next post. She bids me tell you, moreover, that she hopes soon to receive an invitation, and be able to attend, to the consummation you talk of. Give Mrs. Richman's and my particular regards to your excellent mother and to the worthy Mr. Boyer. With sentiments of esteem and friendship, I am, &c., S. RICHMAN. LETTER XXXVI. TO MRS. RICHMAN. HARTFORD. From the scenes of festive mirth, from the conviviality of rejoicing friends, and from the dissipating amusements of the gay world, I retire with alacrity, to hail my beloved friend on the important charge which she has received; on the accession to her family, and, may I not say, on the addition to her care? since that care will be more than counterbalanced by the pleasure it confers. Hail, happy babe! ushered into the world by the best of mothers; entitled by birthright to virtue and honor; defended by parental love from the weakness of infancy and childhood, by guardian wisdom from the perils of youth, and by affluent independence from the griping hand of poverty in more advanced life! May these animating prospects be realized by your little daughter, and may you long enjoy the rich reward of seeing her all that you wish. Yesterday, my dear friend, Lucy Freeman, gave her hand to the amiable and accomplished Mr. George Sumner. A large circle of congratulating friends were present. Her dress was such as wealth and elegance required. Her deportment was every thing that modesty and propriety could suggest. They are, indeed, a charming couple. The consonance of their dispositions, the similarity of their tastes, and the equality of their ages are a sure pledge of happiness. Every eye beamed with pleasure on the occasion, and every tongue echoed the wishes of benevolence. Mine only was silent. Though not less interested in the felicity of my friend than the rest, yet the idea of a separation, perhaps of an alienation of affection, by means of her entire devotion to another, cast an involuntary gloom over my mind. Mr. Boyer took my hand after the ceremony was past. "Permit me, Miss Wharton," said he, "to lead you to your lovely friend; her happiness must be heightened by your participation of it." "O, no," said I, "I am too selfish for that. She has conferred upon another that affection which I wished to engross. My love was too fervent to admit a rival." "Retaliate, then," said he, "this fancied wrong by doing likewise." I observed that this was not a proper time to discuss that subject, and, resuming my seat, endeavored to put on the appearance of my accustomed vivacity. I need not relate the remaining particulars of-the evening's entertainment. Mr. Boyer returned with my mamma, and I remained at Mrs. Freeman's. We are to have a ball here this evening. Mr. Boyer has been with us, and tried to monopolize my company; but in vain. I am too much engaged by the exhilarating scenes around for attending to a subject which affords no variety. I shall not close this till to-morrow. I am rather fatigued with the amusements of last night, which were protracted to a late hour. Mr. Boyer was present; and I was pleased to see him not averse to the entertainment, though his profession prevented him from taking an active part. As all the neighboring gentry were invited, Mr. Freeman would by no means omit Major Sanford, which his daughter earnestly solicited. It happened (unfortunately, shall I say?) that I drew him for a partner. Yet I must own that I felt very little reluctance to my lot. He is an excellent dancer, and well calculated for a companion in the hours of mirth and gayety. I regretted Mr. Boyer's being present, however, because my enjoyment seemed to give him pain. I hope he is not inclined to the passion of jealousy. If he is, I fear it will be somewhat exercised. Lucy Freeman, now Mrs. Sumner, removes next week to Boston. I have agreed to accompany her, and spend a month or two in her family. This will give variety to the journey of life. Be so kind as to direct your next letter to me there. Kiss the dear little babe for me. Give love, compliments, &c., as respectively due; and believe me, with every sentiment of respect, your affectionate ELIZA WHARTON.

XX-XXXVI

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Eliza writes to her mother, saying she thinks it can be confusing to hear from so many people but a mother always provides "disinterested affection" . She desperately wants her mother's advice. She does not want to enter the life of a clergyman's wife; there seem to be other lives that may be more to her taste. Her mother writes her back, opening with how much she misses her. As a widow, watching over her children has given her satisfaction. She tells her daughter that clergymen make fine husbands and are respected by all. She urges Eliza to remain upright and fortitudinous. Mr. Boyer writes to Eliza about how he can only think of her, even as he begins his new profession. In particular, he thinks of their conversation and hopes to continue to retain her favor. He says his friend, Mr. Selby, will deliver the letter and can continue their conversation by bringing a letter from her. Mr. Selby writes back to Mr. Boyer that he was charmed by Eliza. He found her form and her face pleasing, and that she is both dignified and easy. She seemed pleased with the letter. A Major Sanford was already there, along with Mr. Laurence and his daughter. Mr. Selby observed how he seemed very attentive to their conversation, but tried to look careless. The conversation turned to politics, and Major Sanford and Miss Laurence remained quiet. Eliza and Mrs. Richman expressed their opinion that women "think ourselves interested in the welfare and prosperity of our country; and, consequently, claim the right of inquiring into those affairs" . He was invited to dinner that evening by Mr. Richman. He continues, saying that the next morning he was riding to the dinner and came upon Major Sanford and Eliza on horseback. They seemed disconcerted. The Major left, and Eliza and Mr. Selby went to the Richmans' house. He asked about her encounter and she explained that she had gone on a ride with Miss Laurence and the Major came to them. They made plans to go to the assembly that evening. Mr. Selby is still impressed with Eliza's wit, reading and knowledge, and manners. He will be at the assembly too, though he did not mention it to Eliza at the time. Eliza writes to the Reverend Boyer that she enjoys their letter writing, and does not think there is any reason for critics to satirize or censure it between the sexes. She prefers not to say anything about the specific subject he mentioned. She thanks him for talking about a poet, and says she enjoyed meeting Mr. Selby. Eliza then writes to Lucy, begging her for advice about Major Sanford. She explains how Major Sanford watched the transaction of Boyer's letter to her, and appeared pensive. She and Miss Laurence agreed to ride and the Major came to them unbidden. He showed her much attention, which frustrated Miss Laurence. He heard she was going to the assembly with Mr. Gordon and asked if he could go with her. The other girl left and he asked her if they could talk. He then confessed his jealousy and suspense. He hoped she would not listen to what her friends said about him, and asked if she truly planned to marry Boyer. He asked for her favor. This was when they encountered Mr. Selby. Later, Mrs. Richman gave more advice to her about avoiding Major Sanford. She said she might not know about his present conduct but his past had sealed his reputation. Eliza wondered if he could be reformed but Mrs. Richman asked why a lady would stake her life on the slender possibility of reformation. She said to Lucy that she was confused and that "in regard to these men, my fancy and my judgment are in scales" , with one sometimes outweighing the others. She then recounted how it was time to attend the assembly, and that Mr. Selby was there. She found the Major very bold that night, insisting on finding out if she cared for Mr. Boyer. He asked if he could visit her often but she said no because he was not welcome, but he urged her not to think about what her friends thought. She ends her letter by ruminating on the Major's manner, temper, and fortune, and wonders if the old adage of "a reformed rake makes the best husband" might be true. She knows she is too wild for traditional domestic pleasures and does not want to enter those with Mr. Boyer even though he is agreeable. She wishes he and the Major were combined somehow, and then she would be happy. Mr. Selby writes to Mr. Boyer, opening his letter with the assertion that "Every woman is, at heart, a rake" . He rues how even the most virtuous can be dissipated and inappropriate. He is upset on his friend's account, for he observed Eliza at the assembly , and saw how the whole room buzzed about them. He could not get a minute with her, as the lothario was attached to her at the hip. He wonders why if she is attached to Boyer she associates with that man. He hopes his friend will not be made a dupe of a coquette. Maybe Eliza does posses virtue and good sense, but her current behavior mystifies him. Major Sanford writes to his friend Charles Deighton, exclaiming how even though Eliza's friends speak ill of him, he is triumphing. He knows all women love the pleasures of flirtation, think themselves above delusion, and believe they can " the libertine" . He is attached to her though, and annoyed at his lack of clear-cut success. He plans to overcome this failure, and feels quite vengeful at the moment. He is not sure if he should try to seduce her, but assumes she would succumb. This would be her fault, he says, since she is aware of his character. Lucy writes to Eliza and warns her that the Major has never said one thing about marriage. Thinking a rake can reform is a dangerous idea. Furthermore, why would she want to align herself with this man? He will never respect her and will always be prone to jealousy. They may seem charming but they are hard-hearted and cruel. She warns Eliza that the Major's charms are misleading and superficial. She should not allow herself to be "wounded by the frothy and illiberal sallies of licentious wit" . She ends by saying she saw Eliza's mother, who wishes to see her, and that she - Lucy -is getting ready for her own nuptials. Eliza writes back to Lucy and says she has decided to be with Mr. Boyer. She spoke with Major Sanford and said that she appreciated his attention but that their connection should cease. He was full of protestation and despair, and eventually left. She admitted that she was attracted to his fortune because she never had much. She also tells Lucy how Miss Laurence called on her and asked her if she knew that the Major had left. Eliza did not. The other girl also told Eliza that he had bought property near her home - the Captain Pribble estate. She ends her letter by saying Mr. Boyer wrote her again and wants to kiss her hand, and that she admires General Richman for how devoted he is to his wife and how he does not like to go places without her. Finally, a Mr. Emmons asked to come see her, and she said yes, for if she must give up these amusements soon she might as well enjoy herself. Lucy writes to Eliza of Major Sanford, who has taken up residence in the neighborhood. She does not wish to spend any time with him - she finds his character disreputable and his manners loathsome. She writes warmly to take up this cause important to her sex. She mentions that she saw Eliza's mother while riding, and they spoke briefly of the Major, who had tried to reach out to Mrs. Wharton. Sanford writes to Charles of how Eliza has banished him, but he intends to befriend her friends. He hopes to keep up his appearance of affluence until he marries rich. Eliza writes Lucy that she has been spending time with Mr. Boyer, who is ardent about getting married. She does not wish to discuss it as much, but has allowed him to escort her to see her mother and Lucy. Eliza writes Mrs. Richman that she has arrived home, and saw her brother and his wife as well as her mother and Lucy. The next day she saw people in her neighborhood, including the Major. The two men were coolly polite to each other. Eliza is assured she will stay steady because she has decided on Boyer. She laughingly muses that her mother might be a better fit for him if she were not a little older. General Richman writes to Eliza that his wife has delivered a daughter and he could not be more affectionate towards the child. Eliza writes to Mrs. Richman of how happy she is about the child. She also says Lucy married Mr. George Sumner yesterday. She calls them a charming couple but is melancholy because she knows their friendship will be affected. Mr. Boyer tried to speak to her on the same subject but she did not want to hear it then. A ball was held, and she happened to draw the Major as a partner and had a lot of fun with him. Mr. Boyer seemed upset though. She plans to accompany Lucy and her husband to Boston to stay for a month or two.

Eliza spends the bulk of this section of letters vacillating between the two men. She compares the situation to weighing them on a scale, explaining in one of her letters that when one seemed to rise in her esteem the other would fall. It is Mr. Boyer, though that she remains the most ambivalent about. She writes that he is not disagreeable himself, but "his situation in life! I dare not enter it!" . She sees that "the idea of relinquishing those delightful amusements and flattering attentions, which wealth and equipage bestow, is painful" . There is little that excites her about marrying him, even when that is what she finally decides to do. As for Major Sanford, although she pretends to be offended by his impertinent advances, she is completely enamored: "This man, to an agreeable person has superadded, graceful manners, an amiable temper, and a fortune sufficient to ensure the enjoyments of all the pleading varieties of social life" . These reasons for favoring Major Sanford are very important. As critic Laura Korobkin has noted, most critics tend to celebrate Eliza for being a paragon of independence and individuality in her desire not to become ensnared in a marriage she does not want, but Korobkin seeks to offer more insight into the character of Eliza that places her in a slightly more negative light. Korobkin notes that the freedom Eliza seeks "is not self-sufficiency or even self-realization but self-indulgence and luxury, the banes of the old world rather than the potentials of the new." Indeed, the "social dissipation, luxuries, and class-based idleness" evinced or desired by Eliza are affiliated with Britain and used to justify the Revolution. Foster is suggesting that "if the new nation is to succeed... it must do a better job of weaning its most promising daughters away from corrupt aristocratic values." Eliza, described as volatile by multiple people, including herself, lacks the ability to analyze her motivations and her desires. She is "living for the moment of present pleasure; drawn towards superficial social activities and dispersing her energies in them; unwilling to keep a steady emotional focus on important issues long enough to make significant decisions or think her way toward real maturity." She lives for amusements and frivolous activities, and hopes marriage will be a continuation of them. This means she needs to marry someone of wealth, which is why she primarily gravitates to Major Sanford. She talks often of his ability to make her comfortable. As Sanford knows that "her desire for luxury is her dominant erotic motivator," he pretends to be rich. Foster is sympathetic to Eliza's desires up to a point, but seems to suggest that she has pushed them too far and cannot accept an adult life. In terms of the men Eliza finds herself caught between, their personalities develop in these chapters. Mr. Boyer comes across as rather bland and sanctimonious. In the next section of letters he becomes annoyed with Eliza for being so lively and enjoying herself in social activities. Then, of course, his letter breaking off their erstwhile engagement reeks of affectation and pseudo-holiness . Major Sanford reveals a great deal of his character in his letters to Mr. Charles Deighton. He condemns women for being frivolous and flirtatious, and mocks them for thinking they can reform a libertine. He is prideful, annoyed that he cannot succeed with Eliza as he thinks he ought to. He states outright that he does not intend to marry her, but does not want her to marry Mr. Boyer either. He tells Charles he wants to sleep with her, and that if he succeeds it will be her fault for not understanding that if she " with a lion let her beware of his paw" . He plans to buy a house in her neighborhood and ingratiate himself with her friends, all the while searching for a rich woman to fool into marrying him. Clearly Foster intends to reverse the entrenched assumptions regarding the real woman Eliza Wharton is based off - Elizabeth Whitman - by showing that the man she was involved with was one of trickery, manipulation, and baseness. Scholar Cathy Davidson notes in her introduction to the novel, "the twelve letters that Sanford sends his friend, Charles Deighton... effectively the self-justifying evasions, the hypocrisy, and the overt misogyny of the seducer - all of which he skillfully conceals in his conversations with Eliza." Gender norms of the era unfortunately allowed for a man like Major Sanford, and justified his actions as a rake. Critic Kristie Hamilton notes, "Built into this masculine code is an automatic displacement of responsibility for one's actions that allows a man to practice deception without forethought or reflection." Readers should engage with the question of how much blame for Eliza's downfall should be placed on Eliza herself, Major Sanford, and the era in which she lived with its straitened-yet-in-flux gender roles and definitions of freedom.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/12431-chapters/chapters_37_to_47.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/The Coquette/section_2_part_0.txt

The Coquette.chapters 37-47

chapters 37-47

{"name": "XXXVII-XLVII", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180327091504/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-coquette/study-guide/summary-xxxvii-xlvii", "summary": "Sanford exults to Charles that Eliza no longer slights him. He wishes he could marry her but knows he cannot. His goal is to break her and Mr. Boyer up though. He is thinking about marrying Miss Laurence but hopes she does not think she can reform him or confine him. Eliza writes to her mother of how she enjoys her time with Mrs. Sumner. She spent a lot of money to keep up appearances though, and Mr. Boyer tried to lecture her and in the end annoyed her by doing so. She wonders how, if their dispositions are so different, they could be happy. Mr. Boyer writes his friend Mr. Selby about how he now believes there is foundation to the suspicions of Eliza's character. He saw at parties her frivolity and decadence, and began to notice her engagement with Major Sanford. He tried to get a clear answer from her about their relationship but she said she was not ready. She even became frustrated with him when he sounded jealous about the other man. However, he still loves her. He writes another letter, this time stating that all is over between Eliza and himself. He is finally free from her deceits and coquetries. He recounts how he asked her for more commitment but she would never provide it. He asked about Sanford and she became defensive and mad. They later made up, but one of his other friends warned him about the rumors flying about her and Sanford. He spoke with Eliza's mother and she confessed she did not know what her daughter was up to. He asked to see her but she was lying down. He said he would come back, and when he did, he was told she had gone for a private walk in the garden. He went there and was shocked to see her with the Major, looking confused and deceitful. He could only give them a look of indignation before he ran off. Eliza came in, and begged to tell him what had really happened, but he did not want to hear it. He bowed, and left. Later he found himself in tears, but eventually began to thank God for delivering him and \"enabling me to break asunder the snares of the deceiver\" . He includes a copy of a letter he sent to Eliza. It addresses her as a friend but states that he sees now that she rejects \"the sober, rational frugal mode of living\" and prefers a man whom her friends warn her against. He cautions her about Major Sanford. He also chastises her for her manners, extravagance in her attire, and lack of prudishness. He says he does not want an answer because his mind is fixed, but hopes she will find wisdom. Eliza writes Lucy of how delightful Major Sanford's presence is in the neighborhood, and how he is decorous though some of the old men do not find it easy to get over their preconceptions. She still plans to marry Mr. Boyer but wants to have fun before she becomes a recluse. She likes how the Major enlivens her days, and is annoyed with those who seek to tell her about her own happiness or unhappiness. She does see that he wants to break her and Mr. Boyer up, but wonders why he is so mysterious about his own plans. She asks Lucy what to do about this man. She continues the same letter, detailing the irrevocable separation between her and Mr. Boyer. Major Sanford had gone to see her mother and wrote her a note begging her to see him in the garden the next day. She gave him a time. The next day came and she was prepared to accept Mr. Boyer, even though the duress it would cause the Major distressed her. She met him in the garden and told him her plan. He was upset, and then Mr. Boyer found them. She tried to defend herself but could not. After he had gone, she fainted. Her night was restless. She received his farewell letter the next day and fell into despair. Major Sanford writes to Charles, exalting that the girl is his. He laughs that he has no conscience. He writes of how he went to see her after her separation from Mr. Boyer. He told her he would be gone for a few months. He left her with regret, claiming he wanted to make her his own and let no one else have her. Mrs. Richman writes Eliza and tells her she has heard what happened. She believes there is still happiness in store for her, and that no one is perfect. She details her own glee in being a mother, exclaiming, \"conjugal and parental love are the main springs of my life\" . She relates news that Miss Laurence is to marry Mr. Laiton, and invites Eliza back to visit. Eliza writes Lucy that she is depressed and plans to go visit the Richmans. She begins to think more on Mr. Boyer's merits and worth, and how she lost a great man. She is tired of being gossiped about. In a follow-up letter she says her visit to her friends was fine but could not calm her disturbed mind. She wonders why she has not heard of the Major in a long time, but cares more about how she lost Mr. Boyer, who now seems inestimable. There is a rumor that Major Sanford plans to marry, but she plans to try to get Mr. Boyer back. She writes to the Rev. J. Boyer, saying she cannot offer a meaningful apology but states that she loved him very much. She offers him her heart and her hand. If he is already with someone, she hopes for happiness for them. Boyer writes back, and says he is happy to hear from her and does not have an accusing thought in his mind for her. He says, though, he is now with Maria Selby, and esteems her greatly. He and Eliza should not regret their separation, as it was for the best. He is her friend now, not her lover. He thanks her for her kindness.", "analysis": "At the beginning of this section Eliza exhibits the same ambivalence about marrying Mr. Boyer as she always has. This ambivalence seems justified in the obnoxious way Mr. Boyer tries to control her behavior in public and treats her more like a child or parishioner than his future wife. Eliza decides to eventually marry him regardless of the bleak future he poses for her, but she feels compelled to tell Major Sanford about her decision. The discovery of the two of them in the garden is, then, partly an unfortunate coincidence that makes the reader feel badly for Eliza. However, she is also at fault for entertaining the Major and feeling as if she needed to account for her decision to him rather than simply refusing to see him. Foster makes Eliza sympathetic, but also reveals her immaturity and lack of thinking. Mr. Boyer's character is revealed further in his vicious letter breaking off their engagement. Critics debate whether or not he was justified in his anger. Critic Laure Korobkin notes, \"Rev. Boyer's letter has received unqualified condemnation from critics, who complain with some justice that it shows him to be prudish, carping, and more concerned with reputation than real virtue.\" One could add hypocrisy to this list as well, for the very things that Boyer proclaimed to like about Eliza - her vivacity, manners, and charm - he now censures. He makes sure to assume a paternalistic tone about her putative relationship with the Major. He attacks her character as well as her fashion choices and pursuits. His tone and histrionics reveal him as wounded by her, but he assumes a mantle of superiority by avowing, \"I wish you to regard this letter as the legacy of a friend\" . He also acts holier-than-thou: \"But should you hereafter be convinced of the justice of my conduct; and become a convert to my advice, I shall be happy to hear it.\" On the other hand, as Korobkin notes, Boyer's argument may contain some credence as to his hurt feelings. After all, Eliza did lead him on in the sense that she never broke things off with him or gave him a definitive answer. By modern standards there is nothing wrong with flirtation or lack of interest in settling down, but when one receives a proposal, a definitive answer is required. Boyer correctly identifies Eliza's passion for luxury and her desire to move up in social class. Mr. Selby, while a relatively minor character, offers more insights into gender norms and double standards. Initially he is quite pleased by Eliza, commenting that he finds the \"brilliancy of her wit, the fluency of her language, the vivacity and ease of her manners\" appealing. He quickly becomes judgmental, though, critiquing all women, even the most virtuous, as \"naturally prone to gaiety, to pleasure, and, I had almost said, to dissipation!\" . He even refers to women as the natural \"rakes\" when any look at Sanford's letters disabuse that notion completely. A voyeur, he spends his whole evening watching Eliza diligently, looking for any instance when she might do anything that could warrant being \"jealous\" on his friend's behalf. Mr. Selby and Mr. Boyer are both watching Eliza to make sure she does not make a coquette of him, but her friends are watching and judging her as well for her choices. Indeed, much of this novel takes place in a public arena in which watching and looking for cues takes on paramount importance. In his article on the novel, David Waldstreicher writes that the novel depicts \"an economy of vision: a new system of exchanged signs of sentiment governed by particular rules for viewing and interpretation.\" The characters live in a public sphere and a circle of respectability \"that is never absent, even in the characters' self-scrutiny.\" Eliza's reputation of \"sensibility\" is first constructed by this public sphere, and then celebrated and sustained by the community. This means, though, that she is also subject to scrutiny, as all acts of looking in this republican community are part of the politics of virtue. Waldstreicher notes that as Eliza enters the public \"she regulates her sensibility and rises in the view of others, her prospects, in her own mind, seem to rise. Actually, she becomes less free, for in virtue's marketplace she is a defined commodity: not allowed to change, to be various, or even to have an interior will that differs from the true feelings she must show.\" He sees the central conflict of the novel as one in which this young woman faces both intense scrutiny and an ethic of sensibility , which makes it difficult for her to actually act."}

LETTER XXXVII. TO MR. CHARLES DEIGHTON. HARTFORD. Dear Charles: My hopes begin to revive. I am again permitted to associate with my Eliza--invited to the same entertainment. She does not refuse to join with me in the mazy dance, and partake the scenes of festive mirth. Nay, more; she allows me to press her hand to my lips, and listens to the sighing accents of love. Love her I certainly do. Would to Heaven I could marry her! Would to Heaven I had preserved my fortune, or she had one to supply its place! I am distracted at the idea of losing her forever. I am sometimes tempted to solicit her hand in serious earnest; but if I should, poverty and want must be the consequence. Her disappointment in the expectation of affluence and splendor, which I believe her ruling passion, would afford a perpetual source of discontent and mutual wretchedness. She is going to Boston with her friend, Mrs. Sumner. I must follow her. I must break the connection which is rapidly forming between her and Mr. Boyer, and enjoy her society a while longer, if no more. I have had a little intimation from New Haven that Miss Lawrence is partial to me, and might easily be obtained, with a handsome property into the bargain. I am neither pleased with nor averse to the girl; but she has money, and that may supply the place of love, by enabling me to pursue independent pleasures. This she must expect, if she marries a man of my cast. She, doubtless, knows my character; and if she is so vain of her charms or influence as to think of reforming or confining me, she must bear the consequences. However, I can keep my head up at present without recourse to the noose of matrimony, and shall therefore defer any particular attention to her till necessity requires it. I am, &c., PETER SANFORD. LETTER XXXVIII. TO MRS. M. WHARTON. BOSTON. You commanded me, my dear mamma, to write to you. That command I cheerfully obey, in testimony of my ready submission and respect. No other avocation could arrest my time, which is now completely occupied in scenes of amusement. Mrs. Sumner is agreeably settled and situated. She appears to be possessed of every blessing which can render life desirable. Almost every day since our arrival has been engrossed by visitants. Our evenings we have devoted to company abroad; and that more generally than we should otherwise have done, as my stay is limited to so short a period. The museum, the theatres, the circus, and the assemblies have been frequented. Mrs. Sumner has made me several presents; notwithstanding which, the articles requisite to a fashionable appearance have involved me in considerable expense. I fear that you will think me extravagant when you are told how much. Mr. Boyer tarried in town about a week, having business. He appeared a little concerned at my taste for dissipation, as he once termed it. He even took the liberty to converse seriously on the subject. I was displeased with his freedom, and reminded him that I had the disposal of my own time as yet, and that, while I escaped the censure of my own heart, I hoped that no one else would presume to arraign it. He apologized, and gave up his argument. I was much surprised, the first time I went to the play, to see Major Sanford in the very next box. He immediately joined our party; and wherever I have been since, I have been almost sure to meet him. Mr. Boyer has taken his departure; and I do not expect to see him again till I return home. O mamma, I am embarrassed about this man. His worth I acknowledge; nay, I esteem him very highly. But can there be happiness with such a disparity of dispositions? I shall soon return to the bosom of domestic tranquillity, to the arms of maternal tenderness, where I can deliberate and advise at leisure about this important matter. Till when, I am, &c., ELIZA WHARTON. LETTER XXXIX. TO MR. T. SELBY. HAMPSHIRE. Dear sir: I believe that I owe you an apology for my long silence. But my time has been much engrossed of late, and my mind much more so. When it will be otherwise I cannot foresee. I fear, my friend, that there is some foundation for your suspicions respecting my beloved Eliza. What pity it is that so fair a form, so accomplished a mind, should be tarnished in the smallest degree by the follies of coquetry! If this be the fact, which I am loath to believe, all my regard for her shall never make me the dupe of it. When I arrived at her residence at New Haven, where I told you in my last I was soon to go, she gave me a most cordial reception. Her whole behavior to me was correspondent with those sentiments of esteem and affection which she modestly avowed. She permitted me to accompany her to Hartford, to restore her to her mother, and to declare my wish to receive her again from her hand. Thus far all was harmony and happiness. As all my wishes were consistent with virtue and honor, she readily indulged them. She took apparent pleasure in my company, encouraged my hopes of a future union, and listened to the tender accents of love. But the scenes of gayety which invited her attention reversed her conduct. The delightful hours of mutual confidence, of sentimental converse, and of the interchange of refined affection were no more. Instead of these, parties were formed unpleasing to my taste, and every opportunity was embraced to join in diversions in which she knew I could not consistently take a share. I, however, acquiesced in her pleasure, though I sometimes thought myself neglected, and even hinted it to her mother. The old lady apologized for her daughter, by alleging that she had been absent for a long time; that her acquaintances were rejoiced at her return, and welcomed her by striving to promote her amusement. One of her most intimate friends was married during my stay, and she appeared deeply interested in the event. She spent several days in assisting her previous to the celebration. I resided, in the mean time, at her mamma's, visiting her at her friend's, where Major Sanford, among others, was received as a guest. Mrs. Sumner acquainted me that she had prevailed on Miss Wharton to go and spend a few weeks with her at Boston, whither she was removing, and urged my accompanying them. I endeavored to excuse myself, as I had been absent from my people a considerable time, and my return was now expected. But their importunity was so great, and Eliza's declaration that it would be very agreeable to her so tempting, that I consented. Here I took lodgings, and spent about a week, taking every opportunity to converse with Eliza, striving to discover her real disposition towards me. I mentioned the inconvenience of visiting her so often as I wished, and suggested my desire to enter, as soon as might be, into a family relation. I painted, in the most alluring colors, the pleasures resulting from domestic tranquillity, mutual confidence, and conjugal affection, and insisted on her declaring frankly whether she designed to share this happiness with me, and when it should commence. She owned that she intended to give me her hand, but when she should be ready she could not yet determine. She pretended a promise from me to wait her time, to consent that she should share the pleasures of the fashionable world as long as she chose, &c. I then attempted to convince her of her mistaken ideas of pleasure; that the scenes of dissipation, of which she was so passionately fond, afforded no true enjoyment; that the adulation of the coxcomb could not give durability to her charms, or secure the approbation of the wise and good; nor could the fashionable amusements of brilliant assemblies and crowded theatres furnish the mind with "That which nothing earthly gives or can destroy-- The soul's calm sunshine and the heartfelt joy." These friendly suggestions, I found, were considered as the theme of a priest, and my desire to detach her from such empty pursuits as the selfishness of a lover. She was even offended at my freedom, and warmly affirmed that no one had a right to arraign her conduct. I mentioned Major Sanford, who was then in town, and who (though she went to places of public resort with Mr. and Mrs. Sumner) always met and gallanted her home. She rallied me upon my jealousy, as she termed it, wished that I would attend her myself, and then she should need no other gallant. I answered that I had rather resign that honor to another, but wished, for her sake, that he might be a gentleman whose character would not disgrace the company with which he associated. She appeared mortified and chagrined in the extreme. However, she studiously suppressed her emotions, and even soothed me with the blandishments of female softness. We parted amicably. She promised to return soon and prepare for a compliance with my wishes. I cannot refuse to believe her. I cannot cease to love her. My heart is in her possession. She has a perfect command of my passions. Persuasion dwells on her tongue. With all the boasted fortitude and resolution of our sex, we are but mere machines. Let love once pervade our breasts, and its object may mould us into any form that pleases her fancy, or even caprice. I have just received a letter from Eliza, informing me of her return to Hartford. To-morrow I shall set out on a visit to the dear girl; for, my friend, notwithstanding all her foibles, she is very dear to me. Before you hear from me again I expect that the happy day will be fixed--the day which shall unite in the-most sacred bands this lovely maid and your faithful friend, J. BOYER. LETTER XL. TO MR. T. SELBY. HAMPSHIRE. I have returned; and the day, indeed, is fixed; but O, how different from my fond expectations! It is not the day of union, but the day of final separation; the day which divides me from my charmer; the day which breaks asunder the bands of love; the day on which my reason assumes its empire, and triumphs over the arts of a finished coquette. Congratulate me, my friend, that I have thus overcome my feelings, and repelled the infatuating wiles of a deceitful girl. I would not be understood to impeach Miss Wharton's virtue; I mean her chastity. Virtue, in the common acceptation of the term, as applied to the sex, is confined to that particular, you know. But in my view, this is of little importance where all other virtues are wanting. When I arrived at Mrs. Wharton's, and inquired for Eliza, I was told that she had rode out, but was soon expected home. An hour after, a phaeton stopped at the door, from which my fair one alighted, and was handed into the house by Major Sanford, who immediately took leave. I met her, and offered my hand, which she received with apparent tenderness. When the family had retired after supper, and left us to talk on our particular affairs, I found the same indecision, the same loathness to bring our courtship to a period, as formerly. Her previous excuses were renewed, and her wishes to have a union still longer delayed were zealously urged. She could not bear the idea of confinement to the cares of a married life at present, and begged me to defer all solicitation on that subject to some future day. I found my temper rise, and told her plainly that I was not thus to be trifled with; that if her regard for me was sincere, if she really intended to form a connection with me, she could not thus protract the time, try my patience, and prefer every other pleasure to the rational interchange of affection, to the calm delights of domestic life. But in vain did I argue against her false notions of happiness, in vain did I represent the dangerous system of conduct which she now pursued, and urge her to accept, before it was too late, the hand and heart which were devoted to her service. That, she said, she purposed ere long to do, and hoped amply to reward my faithful love; but she could not fix the time this evening. She must consider a little further, and likewise consult her mother. "Is it not Major Sanford whom you wish to consult, madam?" said I. She blushed, and gave me no answer. "Tell me, Eliza," I continued, "tell me frankly, if he has not supplanted me in your affections--if he be not the cause of my being thus evasively, thus cruelly, treated." "Major Sanford, sir," replied she, "has done you no harm. He is a particular friend of mine, a polite gentleman, and an agreeable neighbor, and therefore I treat him with civility; but he is not so much interested in my concerns as to alter my disposition towards any other person." "Why," said I, "do you talk of friendship with a man of his character? Between his society and mine there is a great contrast. Such opposite pursuits and inclinations cannot be equally pleasing to the same taste. It is, therefore, necessary that you renounce the one to enjoy the other; I will give you time to decide which. I am going to a friend's house to spend the night, and will call on you to-morrow, if agreeable, and converse with you further upon the matter." She bowed assent, and I retired. The next afternoon I went, as agreed, and found her mamma and her alone in the parlor. She was very pensive, and appeared to have been in tears. The sight affected me. The idea of having treated her harshly the evening before disarmed me of my resolution to insist on her decision that day. I invited her to ride with me and visit a friend, to which she readily consented. We spent our time agreeably. I forbore to press her on the subject of our future union, but strove rather to soothe her mind, and inspire her with sentiments of tenderness towards me. I conducted her home, and returned early in the evening to my friend's, who met me at the door, and jocosely told me that he expected that I should now rob them of their agreeable neighbor. "But," added he, "we have been apprehensive that you would be rivalled if you delayed your visit much longer." "I did not suspect a rival," said I. "Who can the happy man be?" "I can say nothing from personal observation," said he; "but fame, of late, has talked loudly of Major Sanford and Miss Wharton. Be not alarmed," continued he, seeing me look grave; "I presume no harm is intended; the major is a man of gallantry, and Miss Wharton is a gay lady; but I dare say that your connection will be happy, _if it be formed_" I noticed a particular emphasis on the word _if_; and, as we were alone, I followed him with questions till the whole affair was developed. I informed him of my embarrassment, and he gave me to understand that Eliza's conduct had, for some time past, been a subject of speculation in the town; that, formerly, her character was highly esteemed; but that her intimacy with a man of Sanford's known libertinism, more especially as she was supposed to be engaged to another, had rendered her very censurable; that they were often together; that wherever she went he was sure to follow, as if by appointment; that they walked, talked, sung, and danced together in all companies; that some supposed he he would marry her; others, that he only meditated adding her name to the black catalogue of deluded wretches, whom he had already ruined! I rose, and walked the room in great agitation. He apologized for his freedom; was sorry if he had wounded my feelings; but friendship alone had induced him frankly to declare the truth, that I might guard against duplicity and deceit. I thanked him for his kind intensions; and assured him that I should not quit the town till I had terminated this affair, in one way or another. I retired to bed, but sleep was a stranger to my eyes. With the dawn I rose; and after breakfast walked to Mrs. Wharton's, who informed me, that Eliza was in her chamber, writing to a friend, but would be down in a few minutes. I entered into conversation with the old lady on the subject of her daughter's conduct; hinted my suspicions of the cause, and declared my resolution of knowing my destiny immediately. She endeavored to extenuate, and excuse her as much as possible; but frankly owned that her behavior was mysterious; that no pains had been wanting, on her part, to alter and rectify it; that she had remonstrated, expostulated, advised and entreated, as often as occasion required. She hoped that my resolution would have a good effect, as she knew that her daughter esteemed me very highly. In this manner we conversed till the clock struck twelve; and, Eliza not appearing, I desired her mamma to send up word that I waited to see her. The maid returned with an answer that she was indisposed, and had lain down. Mrs. Wharton observed that she had not slept for several nights, and complained of the headache in the morning. The girl added that she would wait on Mr. Boyer in the evening. Upon this information I rose, and abruptly took my leave. I went to dine with a friend, to whom I had engaged myself the day before; but my mind was too much agitated to enjoy either the company or the dinner. I excused myself from tarrying to tea, and returned to Miss Wharton's. On inquiry, I was told that Eliza had gone to walk in the garden, but desired that no person might intrude on her retirement. The singularity of the request awakened my curiosity, and determined me to follow her. I sought her in vain in different parts of the garden, till, going towards an arbor, almost concealed from sight by surrounding shrubbery, I discovered her sitting in close conversation with Major Sanford! My blood chilled in my veins, and I stood petrified with astonishment at the disclosure of such baseness and deceit. They both rose in visible confusion. I dared not trust myself to accost them. My passions were raised, and I feared that I might say or do something unbecoming my character. I therefore gave them a look of indignation and contempt, and retreated to the house. I traversed the parlor hastily, overwhelmed with chagrin and resentment. Mrs. Wharton inquired the cause. I attempted to tell her, but my tongue refused utterance. While in this situation, Eliza entered the room. She was not less discomposed than myself. She sat down at the window and wept. Her mamma wept likewise. At length she recovered herself, in a degree, and desired me to sit down. I answered, No, and continued walking. "Will you," said she, "permit me to vindicate my conduct, and explain my motives?" "Your conduct," said I, "cannot be vindicated; your motives need no explanation; they are too apparent. How, Miss Wharton, have I merited this treatment from you? But I can bear it no longer. Your indifference to me proceeds from an attachment to another, and, forgive me if I add, to one who is the disgrace of his own sex and the destroyer of yours. I have been too long the dupe of your dissimulation and coquetry--too long has my peace of mind been sacrificed to the arts of a woman whose conduct has proved her unworthy of my regard; insensible to love, gratitude, and honor. "To you, madam," said I, turning to her mother, "I acknowledge my obligations for your friendship, politeness, and attention. I once hoped for the privilege of rocking for you the cradle of declining age. I am deprived of that privilege; but I pray that you may never want a child whose love and duty shall prove a source of consolation and comfort. "Farewell. If we never meet again in this life, I hope and trust we shall in a better--where the parent's eye shall cease to weep for the disobedience of a child, and the lover's heart to bleed for the infidelity of his mistress." I turned to Eliza, and attempted to speak; but her extreme emotion softened me, and I could not command my voice. I took her hand, and bowing, in token of an adieu, went precipitately out of the house. The residence of my friend, with whom I lodged, was at no great distance, and thither I repaired. As I met him in the entry, I rushed by him, and betook myself to my chamber. The fever of resentment and the tumult of passion began now to give place to the softer emotions of the soul. I found myself perfectly unmanned. I gave free scope to the sensibility of my heart; and the effeminate relief of tears materially lightened the load which oppressed me. After this arduous struggle I went to bed, and slept more calmly than for several nights before. The next morning I wrote a farewell letter to Eliza, (a copy of which I shall enclose to you,) and, ordering my horse to be brought, left town immediately. My resentment of her behavior has much assisted me in erasing her image from my breast. In this exertion I have succeeded beyond my most sanguine expectations. The more I reflect on her temper and disposition, the more my gratitude is enlivened towards the wise Disposer of all events for enabling me to break asunder the snares of the deluder. I am convinced that the gayety and extravagance of her taste, the frivolous levity of her manners, disqualify her for the station in which I wished to have placed her. These considerations, together with that resignation to an overruling Providence which the religion I profess and teach requires me to cultivate, induce me cheerfully to adopt the following lines of an ingenious poet:-- "Since all the downward tracts of time God's watchful eye surveys, O, who so wise to choose our lot, Or regulate our ways? "Since none can doubt his equal love, Unmeasurably kind, To his unerring, gracious will Be every wish, resigned. "Good when he gives, supremely good; Not less when he denies; E'en crosses from his sovereign hand Are blessings in disguise." I am, &c., J. BOYER. TO MISS ELIZA WHARTON. [_Enclosed in the foregoing_.] HARTFORD. Madam: Fearing that my resolution may not be proof against the eloquence of those charms which has so long commanded me, I take this method of bidding you a final adieu. I write not as a lover,--that connection between us is forever dissolved,--but I address you as a friend; as a friend to your happiness, to your reputation, to your temporal and eternal welfare. I will not rehearse the innumerable instances of your imprudence and misconduct which have fallen under my observation. Your own heart must be your monitor. Suffice it for me to warn you against the dangerous tendency of so dissipated a life, and to tell you that I have traced (I believe aright) the cause of your dissimulation and indifference to me. They are an aversion to the sober, rational, frugal mode of living to which my profession leads; a fondness for the parade, the gayety, not to say the licentiousness, of a station calculated to gratify such a disposition; and a prepossession for Major Sanford, infused into your giddy mind by the frippery, flattery, and artifice of that worthless and abandoned man. Hence you preferred a connection with him, if it could be accomplished; but a doubt whether it could, together with the advice of your friends, who have kindly espoused my cause, has restrained you from the avowal of your real sentiments, and led you to continue your civilities to me. What the result of your coquetry would have been had I waited for it, I cannot say; nor have I now any desire or interest to know. I tear from my breast the idea which I have long cherished of future union and happiness with you in the conjugal state. I bid a last farewell to these fond hopes, and leave you forever. For your own sake, however, let me conjure you to review your conduct, and, before you have advanced beyond the possibility of returning to rectitude and honor, to restrain your steps from the dangerous path in which you now tread. Fly Major Sanford. That man is a deceiver. Trust not his professions. They are certainly insincere, or he would not affect concealment; he would not induce you to a clandestine intercourse. Many have been the victims to his treachery. O Eliza, add not to the number. Banish him from your society if you wish to preserve your virtue unsullied, your character unsuspicious. It already begins to depreciate. Snatch it from the envenomed tongue of slander before it receive an incurable wound. Many faults have been visible to me, over which my affection once drew a veil. That veil is now removed; and acting the part of a disinterested friend, I shall mention some few of them with freedom. There is a levity in your manners which is inconsistent with the solidity and decorum becoming a lady who has arrived to years of discretion. There is also an unwarrantable extravagance betrayed in your dress. Prudence and economy are such necessary, at least such decent, virtues, that they claim the attention of every female, whatever be her station or her property. To these virtues you are apparently inattentive. Too large a portion of your time is devoted to the adorning of your person. Think not that I write thus plainly from resentment. No, it is from benevolence. I mention your foibles, not to reproach you with them, but that you may consider their nature and effects, and renounce them. I wish you to regard this letter as the legacy of a friend, and to improve it accordingly. I shall leave town before you receive it. O, how different are my sensations at going from what they were when I came! But I forbear description. Think not, Eliza, that I leave you with indifference. The conquest is great, the trial more than I can calmly support; yet the consciousness of duty affords consolation---a duty I conceive it to be which I owe to myself and to the people of my charge, who are interested in my future connection. I wish not for an answer; my resolution is unalterably fixed. But should you hereafter be convinced of the justice of my conduct, and become a convert to my advice, I shall be happy to hear it. That you may have wisdom to keep you from falling, and conduct you safely through this state of trial to the regions of immortal bliss, is the fervent prayer of your sincere friend and humble servant, J. BOYER. LETTER XLI. TO MRS. LUCY SUMNER. HARTFORD. The retirement of my native home is not so gloomy, since my return from Boston, as I expected, from the contrast between them. Indeed, the customs and amusements of this place are materially altered since the residence of Major Sanford among us. The dull, old-fashioned sobriety which formerly prevailed is nearly banished, and cheerfulness, vivacity, and enjoyment are substituted in its stead. Pleasure is now diffused through all ranks of the people, especially the rich; and surely it ought to be cultivated, since the wisest of men informs us that a merry heart "doth good like a medicine." As human life hath many diseases which require medicines, are we not right in selecting the most agreeable and palatable? Major Sanford's example has had great influence upon our society in general; and though some of our old ones think him rather licentious, yet, for aught I can see, he is as strict an observer of decorum as the best of them. True, he seldom goes to church; but what of that? The Deity is not confined to temples made with hands. He may worship him as devoutly elsewhere, if he chooses; and who has a right to say he does not? His return from Boston was but a day or two after mine. He paid me an early visit, and, indeed, has been very attentive ever since. My mamma is somewhat precise in her notions of propriety, and, of course, blames me for associating so freely with him. She says that my engagements to Mr. Boyer ought to render me more sedate, and more indifferent to the gallantry of mere pleasure _hunters_, to use her phrase. But I think otherwise. If I am to become a recluse, let me at least enjoy those amusements which are suited to my taste a short time first. Why should I refuse the polite attentions of this gentleman? They smooth the rugged path of life, and wonderfully accelerate the lagging wheels of time. Indeed, Lucy, he has an admirable talent for contributing to vary and increase amusement. We have few hours unimproved. Some new plan of pleasure and sociability is constantly courting our adoption. He lives in all the magnificence of a prince: and why should I, who can doubtless share that magnificence if I please, forego the advantages and indulgences it offers, merely to gratify those friends who pretend to be better judges of my happiness than I am myself? I have not yet told my mamma that he entertains me with the lover's theme, or, at least, that I listen to it. Yet I must own to you, from whom I have never concealed an action or idea, that his situation in life charms my imagination; that the apparent fervor and sincerity of his passion affect my heart. Yet there is something extremely problematical in his conduct. He is very urgent with me to dissolve my connection with Mr. Boyer, and engage not to marry him without his consent, or knowledge, to say no more. He warmly applauds my wish still longer to enjoy the freedom and independence of a single state, and professedly adopts it for his own. While he would disconnect me from another, he mysteriously conceals his own intentions and views. In conversation with him yesterday, I plainly told him that his conduct was unaccountable; that, if his professions and designs were honorable, he could not neglect to mention them to my mamma; that I should no longer consent to carry on a clandestine intercourse with him; that I hourly expected Mr. Boyer, whom I esteemed, and who was the favorite of my friends; and that, unless he acted openly in this affair before his arrival, I should give my hand to him. He appeared thunderstruck at this declaration. All his words and actions were indicative of the most violent emotions of mind. He entreated me to recall the sentence; for I knew not, he said, his motives for secrecy; yet he solemnly swore that they were honorable. I replied in the words of the poet,-- "Trust not a man; they are by nature cruel, False, deceitful, treacherous, and inconstant. When a man talks of love, with caution hear him; But if he swear, he'll certainly deceive you." He begged that he might know by what means he had provoked my suspicions; by what means he had forfeited my confidence. His importunity vanquished my fortitude; and before we parted, I again promised to make him acquainted, from time to time, with the progress of my connection with Mr. Boyer. Now, my dear friend, I want your advice more than ever. I am inadvertently embarrassed by this man; and how to extricate myself I know not. I am sensible that the power is in my hands; but the disposition (shall I confess it?) is wanting. "I know the right; and I approve it too; I know the wrong, and yet the wrong pursue." I have just received a card from Major Sanford, inviting me to ride this afternoon. At first I thought of returning a negative answer; but, recollecting that Mr. Boyer must soon be here, I concluded it best to embrace this opportunity of talking further with him. I must now prepare to go, but shall not close this letter, for I intend writing in continuation, as events occur, till this important business is decided. _Tuesday evening_.--The little tour which I mentioned to you this afternoon was not productive of a final determination. The same plea was repeated over and over again without closing the cause. On my return I found Mr. Boyer waiting to receive me. My heart beat an involuntary welcome. I received him very cordially, though with a kind of pleasure mixed with apprehension. I must own that his conversation and manners are much better calculated to bear the scrutinizing eye of a refined understanding and taste than Major Sanford's. But whether the fancy ought not to be consulted about our settlement in life, is with me a question. When we parted last I had promised Mr. Boyer to inform him positively, at this visit, when my hand should be given. He therefore came, as he told me in the course of our conversation, with the resolution of claiming the fulfilment of this promise. I begged absolution, told him that I could not possibly satisfy his claim, and sought still to evade and put off the important decision. He grew warm, and affirmed that I treated him ungenerously and made needless delays. He even accused me of indifference towards him, and of partiality to another. Major Sanford, he believed, was the man who robbed him of the affection which he had supposed his due. He warned me against any intercourse with him, and insisted that I must renounce the society of the one or the other immediately. He would leave me, he said, this evening, and call to-morrow to know the result of my determination. It was late before he bade me good night, since which I have written these particulars. It is now time to lay aside my pen, and deliberate what course to take. _Wednesday evening_.--Last night I closed not my eyes. I rose this morning with the sun, and went into the garden till breakfast. My mamma doubtless saw the disorder of my mind, but kindly avoided any inquiry about it. She was affectionately attentive to me, but said nothing of my particular concerns. I mentioned not my embarrassment to her. She had declared herself in favor of Mr. Boyer; therefore I had no expectation that she would advise impartially. I retired to my chamber, and remained in a kind of revery for more than an hour, when I was roused by the rattling of a carriage at the door. I hastened to the window, and saw Major Sanford just driving away. The idea of his having been to converse with my mamma gave me new sensations. A thousand perplexities occurred to my mind relative to the part most proper for me to act in this critical situation. All these might have been avoided, had I gone down and inquired into the matter; but this I delayed till dinner. My mamma then informed me that Major Sanford had been with her, and inquired for me, but that she thought it unnecessary to call me, as she presumed I had no particular business with him. I knew the motives by which she was actuated, and was vexed at her evasions. I told her plainly that she would never carry her point in this way; that Thought myself capable of conducting my own affairs, and wished her not to interfere, except by her advice, which I should always listen to and comply with when I could possibly make it consistent with my inclination and interest. She wept at my undutiful anger, (of which I have severely repented since,) and affectionately replied, that my happiness was the object of her wishes and prayers; conformably to which she felt constrained freely to speak her mind, though it incurred my displeasure. She then went through again with all the comparative circumstances and merits of the two candidates for my favor, which have perpetually rung in my ears for months. I shed tears at the idea of my embarrassment; and in this condition Mr. Boyer found us. He appeared to be affected by my visible disorder, and, without inquiring the cause, endeavored to dissipate it. This was kindly done. He conversed upon indifferent subjects, and invited me to ride, and take tea with your mamma, to which I readily consented. We found her at home, and passed the time agreeably, excepting the alloy of your absence. Mr. Boyer touched lightly on the subject of our last evening's debate, but expatiated largely on the pleasing power of love, and hoped that we should one day both realize and exemplify it in perfection. When we returned he observed that it was late, and took his leave, telling me that he should call to-morrow, and begged that I would then relieve his suspense. As I was retiring to bed, the maid gave me a hint that Major Sanford's servant had been here and left a letter. I turned instantly back to my mamma, and, telling her my information, demanded the letter. She hesitated, but I insisted on having it; and seeing me resolute, she reluctantly gave it into my hand. It contained the following words:-- "Am I forsaken? am I abandoned? O my adorable Eliza, have you sacrificed me to my rival? have you condemned me to perpetual banishment without a hearing? "I came this day to plead my cause at your feet, but was cruelly denied the privilege of seeing you. My mind is all anarchy and confusion. My soul is harrowed up with jealousy. I will be revenged on those who separate us, if that distracting event take place. But it is from your lips only that I can hear my sentence. You must witness its effects. To what lengths my despair may carry me I know not. You are the arbitress of my fate. "Let me conjure you to meet me in your garden to-morrow at any hour you shall appoint. My servant will call for an answer in the morning. Deny me not an interview, but have pity on your faithful SANFORD." I wrote for answer that I would meet him to-morrow, at five o'clock in the afternoon. I have now before me another night for consideration, and shall pass it in that employment. I purpose not to see Mr. Boyer till I have conversed with Major Sanford. _Thursday morning_.--The morning dawns, and ushers in the day--a day, perhaps, big with the fate of your friend. What that fate may be is wrapped in the womb of futurity--that futurity which a kind Providence has wisely concealed from the penetration of mortals. After mature consideration, after revolving and re-revolving every circumstance on both sides of the question, I have nearly determined, in compliance with the advice of my friends and the dictates of my own judgment, to give Mr. Boyer the preference, and with him to tread the future round of life. As to the despair of Major Sanford, it does not much alarm me. Such violent passions are seldom so deeply rooted as to produce lasting effects. I must, however, keep my word, and meet him according to promise. Mr. Boyer is below. My mamma has just sent me word that he wished to see me. My reply was, that I had lain down, which was a fact. _One o'clock._--My mamma, alarmed by my indisposition, has visited my apartment. I soon convinced her that it was but trifling, owing principally to the want of sleep, and that an airing in the garden, which I intended towards night, would restore me. _Ten o'clock at night_.--The day is past; and such a day it has been as I hope nevermore to see. At the hour appointed, I went, tolerably composed and resolute, into the garden. I had taken several turns, and retired into the little arbor, where you and I have spent so many happy hours, before Major Sanford entered. When he appeared, a consciousness of the impropriety of this clandestine intercourse suffused my cheek, and gave a coldness to my manners. He immediately penetrated the cause, and observed that my very countenance told him he was no longer a welcome guest to me. I asked him if he ought so to be, since his motives for seeking admission were unworthy of being communicated to my friends. That, he said, was not the case, but that prudence in the present instance required a temporary concealment. He then undertook to exculpate himself from blame, assuring me that as soon as I should discountenance the expectations of Mr. Boyer, and discontinue the reception of his address, his intentions should be made known. He was enlarging upon this topic, when we heard a footstep approaching us, and, looking up, saw Mr. Boyer within a few paces of the arbor. Confusion seized us both. We rose involuntarily from our seats, but were mute as statues. He spoke not a word, but casting a look of indignant accusation at me,--a glance which penetrated my very soul,--turned on his heel, and walked hastily back to the house. I stood a few moments, considering what course to take, though shame and regret had almost taken from me the power of thought. Major Sanford took my hand. I withdrew it from him. "I _must_ leave you," said I. "Where will you go?" said he. "I will go and try to retrieve my character. It has suffered greatly by this fatal interview." He threw himself at my feet, and exclaimed, "Leave me not, Eliza; I conjure you not to leave me." "Let me go now," I rejoined, "or I bid you farewell forever." I flew precipitately by him, and went into the parlor, where I found Mr. Boyer and my mamma, the one traversing the room in the greatest agitation, the other in a flood of tears. Their appearance affected me, and I wept like an infant. When I had a little recovered myself, I begged him to sit down. He answered, No. I then told him that however unjustifiable my conduct might appear, perhaps I might explain it to his satisfaction if he would hear me; that my motives were innocent, though they doubtless wore the aspect of criminality in his view. He sternly replied, that no palliation could avail; that my motives were sufficiently notorious. He accused me of treating him ill, of rendering him the dupe of coquetting artifice, of having an intrigue with Major Sanford, and declared his determination to leave me forever, as unworthy of his regard, and incapable of love, gratitude, or honor. There was too much reason in support of his accusations for me to gainsay them, had his impetuosity suffered me to attempt it. But, in truth, I had no inclination to self-defence. My natural vivacity had forsaken me, and I listened without interrupting him to the fluency of reproachful language which his resentment inspired. He took a very solemn and affectionate leave of my mamma, thanking her for her politeness, and wishing her much future felicity. He attempted to address me, I suppose, somewhat in the same way; but his sensibility somewhat overcame him, and he only took my hand, and, bowing in silence, departed. The want of rest for two long nights together, the exercise of mind, and conflict of passions which now tortured my breast, were too much for me to support. When I saw that he was gone, that he had actually forsaken me, I fainted. My mamma, with the assistance of the maid, soon restored me. When I opened my eyes and beheld this amiable and tender parent watching and attending me with the most anxious concern, without one reproachful word, without one accusing look, my reflections upon the part I had acted, in defeating her benevolent wishes, were exquisitely afflictive. But we mutually forbore to mention the occasion of my illness; and I complied with her advice to take some refreshment, and retire to my chamber. I am so much fatigued by the exertions of the day that rest is absolutely necessary; and I lay aside my pen to seek it. _Friday morning_.--When I shall again receive the balmy influence of sleep, I know not. It has absolutely forsaken me at present. I have had a most restless night. Every awakening idea presented itself to my imagination; whether I had sustained a real loss in Mr. Boyer's departure, reflections on my own misconduct, with the censure of my friends, and the ill-natured remarks of my enemies, excited the most painful anxiety in my mind. I am going down; but how shall I see my mamma? To her I will confess my faults, in her maternal breast repose my cares, and by her friendly advice regulate my conduct. Had I done this before, I might have escaped this trouble, and saved both her and myself many distressing emotions. _Friday evening_'.--I have had a long conversation with my mamma, which has greatly relieved my mind. She has soothed me with the most endearing tenderness. Mr. Atkins, with whom Mr. Boyer lodged while in town, called here this afternoon. I did not see him; but he told my mamma that Mr. Boyer had returned home, and left a letter for me, which he had promised to convey with his own hand. By this I am convinced that the die is absolutely cast with respect to him, and that no attempts on my part to bring about a reconciliation would be either prudent or successful. He has penetrated the cause of my proceedings; and such is his resentment, that I am inclined not much to regret his avoiding another interview. My excuses would be deemed utterly insufficient, and truth would not befriend and justify me. As I know you are impatient to hear from me, I will now despatch this long letter without any other addition than that I am your sincere friend, ELIZA WHARTON. LETTER XLII. TO MR. CHARLES DEIGHTON. HARTFORD. Well, Charles, the show is over, as we Yankees say, and the girl is my own; that is, if I will have her. I shall take my own time for that, however. I have carried my point, and am amply revenged on the whole posse of those dear friends of hers. She was entangled by a promise (not to marry this priest without my knowledge) which her conscience would not let her break. Thank God, I have no conscience. If I had, I believe it would make wretched work with me. I suppose she intended to have one or the other of us, but preferred me. I have escaped the noose this time, and I'll be fairly hanged if I ever get so near it again; for indeed, Charles, I was seriously alarmed. I watched all their motions, and the appearance of harmony between them awakened all my activity and zeal. So great was my infatuation, that I verily believe I should have asked her in marriage, and risked the consequences, rather than to have lost her. I went to the house while Mr. Boyer was in town; but her mamma refused to call her, or to acquaint her that I was there. I then wrote a despairing letter, and obtained a conference with her in the garden. This was a fortunate event for me. True, Eliza was very haughty, and resolutely insisted on an immediate declaration or rejection; and I cannot say what would have been the result if Mr. Boyer had not surprised us together. He gave us a pretty harsh look, and retired without speaking a word. I endeavored to detain Eliza, but in vain. She left me on my knees, which are always ready to bend on such occasions. This finished the matter, it seems. I rose, and went into a neighbor's to observe what happened, and in about half an hour saw Mr. Boyer come out and go to his lodgings. "This," said I to myself, "is a good omen." I went home, and was informed, next day, that he had mounted his horse and departed. I heard nothing more of her till yesterday, when I determined to know how she stood affected towards me. I therefore paid her a visit, her mamma being luckily abroad. She received me very placidly, and told me, on inquiry, that Mr. Boyer's resentment at her meeting me in the garden was so great that he had bade her a final adieu. I congratulated myself on having no rival, hoped that her favor would now be unbiased, and that in due time I should reap the reward of my fidelity. She begged me not to mention the subject, said she had been perplexed by our competition, and wished not to hear any thing further about it at present. I bowed in obedience to her commands, and changed the discourse. I informed her that I was about taking a tour to the southward; that I should be absent several months, and trusted that on my return her embarrassments would be over. I left her with regret After all, Charles, she is the _summum bonum_ of my life. I must have her in some way or other. Nobody else shall, I am resolved. I am making preparations for my journey, which, between you and me, is occasioned by the prospect of making a speculation, by which I hope to mend my affairs. The voyage will at least lessen my expenses, and screen me from the importunity of creditors till I can look about me. PETER SANFORD. LETTER XLIII. TO MISS ELIZA WHARTON. NEW HAVEN. My dear Eliza: Through the medium of my friends at Hartford, I have been informed of the progress of your affairs as they have transpired. The detail which my sister gave me of your separation from Mr. Boyer was painful, as I had long contemplated a happy union between you; but still more disagreeable sensations possessed my breast when told that you had suffered your lively spirits to be depressed, and resigned yourself to solitude and dejection. Why, my dear friend, should you allow this event thus to affect you? Heaven, I doubt not, has happiness still in store for you--perhaps greater than you could have enjoyed in that connection. If the conviction of any misconduct on your part gives you pain, dissipate it by the reflection that unerring rectitude is not the lot of mortals; that few are to be found who have not deviated, in a greater or less degree, from the maxims of prudence. Our greatest mistakes may teach lessons which will be useful through life. But I will not moralize. Come and see us, and we will talk over the matter once, and then dismiss it forever. Do prevail on your mamma to part with you a month or two at least. I wish you to witness how well I manage my nursery business. You will be charmed with little Harriet. I am already enough of the mother to think her a miniature of beauty and perfection. How natural and how easy the transition from one stage of life to another! Not long since, I was a gay, volatile girl, seeking satisfaction in fashionable circles and amusements; but now I am thoroughly domesticated. All my happiness is centred within the limits of my own walls, and I grudge every moment that calls me from the pleasing scenes of domestic life. Not that I am so selfish as to exclude my friends from my affection or society. I feel interested in their concerns, and enjoy their company. I must own, however, that conjugal and parental love are the mainsprings of my life. The conduct of some mothers, in depriving their helpless offspring of the care and kindness which none but a mother can feel, is to me unaccountable. There are many nameless attentions which nothing short of maternal tenderness and solicitude can pay, and for which the endearing smiles and progressive improvements of the lovely babe are an ample reward. How delightful to trace from day to day the expansion of reason and the dawnings of intelligence! O, how I anticipate the time when these faculties shall be displayed by the organs of speech, when the lisping accent shall heighten our present pleasure, and the young idea be capable of direction "how to shoot"! General Richman is not less interested by these enjoyments than myself. All the father beams in his eye; all the husband reigns in his heart and pervades his every action. Miss Lawrence is soon to be married to Mr. Laiton. I believe he is a mere fortune hunter. Indeed, she has little to recommend her to any other. Nature has not been very bountiful either to her body or mind. Her parents have been shamefully deficient in her education, but have secured to her what they think the chief good--not considering that happiness is by no means the invariable attendant of wealth. I hope this incoherent scrawl will amuse, while it induces you speedily to favor us with another visit. My best wishes attend your honored mamma, while I subscribe myself, &c., A. RICHMAN. LETTER XLIV. TO MRS. LUCY SUMNER. HARTFORD. I am extremely depressed, my dear Lucy. The agitating scenes through which I have lately passed have broken my spirits, and rendered me unfit for society. Major Sanford has visited me, and taken his leave. He is gone to the southward on a tour of two or three months. I declined any further conversation with him on the subject of love. At present I wish not to hear it mentioned by any one. I have received a very friendly and consolatory letter from Mrs. Richman. She invites me to spend a few months with her, which, with my mamma's consent, I shall do. I hope the change of situation and company will dissipate the gloom which hangs over my mind. It is a common observation, that we know not the value of a blessing but by deprivation. This is strictly verified in my case. I was insensible of my regard for Mr. Boyer till this fatal separation took place. His merit and worth now appear in the brightest colors. I am convinced of that excellence which I once slighted, and the shade of departed happiness haunts me perpetually. I am sometimes tempted to write to him and confess my faults; to tell him the situation of my mind, and to offer him my hand; but he has precluded all hopes of success by the severity of his letter to me. At any rate, I shall do nothing of the kind till my return from New Haven. I am the more willing to leave home as my affairs are made a town talk. My mamma persuades me to disregard it; but how can I rise superior to "the world's dread laugh, which scarce the firm philosopher can scorn"? Pray remember me to Mr. Sumner. You are happy, my friend, in the love and esteem of a worthy man, but more happy still in deserving them. Adieu. ELIZA WHARTON. LETTER XLV. TO THE SAME. HARTFORD. I have returned to the once smiling seat of maternal affection; but I find not repose and happiness even here. In the society of my amiable friends at New Haven, I enjoyed every thing that friendship could bestow; but rest to a disturbed mind was not in their power. I was on various parties of pleasure, and passed through different scenes of amusement; but with me they have lost their charms. I relished them not as formerly. Mrs. Richman advises me to write to Mr. Boyer, and I have concluded to act accordingly. If it answer no other purpose, it will be a relief to my mind. If he ever felt for me the tenderness and regard which he professed, I think they cannot be entirely obliterated. If they still remain, perhaps I may rekindle the gentle flame, and we may both be happy. I may at least recall his esteem, and that will be a satisfaction to my conscious mind. I wonder what has become of Major Sanford. Has he, too, forsaken me? Is it possible for him wilfully to neglect me? I will not entertain so injurious a suspicion. Yet, if it were the case, it would not affect me like Mr. Boyer's disaffection; for I frankly own that my fancy, and a taste for gayety of life, induced me to cherish the idea of a connection with Major Sanford; while Mr. Boyer's real merit has imprinted those sentiments of esteem and love in my heart which time can never efface. Instead of two or three, more than twelve months have elapsed, and I have not received a line from Major Sanford in all that time, which I fully expected, though he made no mention of writing; nor have I heard a syllable about him, except a report circulated by his servants, that he is on the point of marrying, which I do not believe. No; it is impossible. I am persuaded that his passion for me was sincere, however deceitful he may have been with others. But I will not bestow an anxious thought upon him. My design relative to Mr. Boyer demands my whole attention. My hopes and fears alternately prevail, and my resolution is extremely fluctuating. How it finally terminates you shall hear in my next. Pray write to me soon. I stand in need of the consoling power of friendship. Nothing can beguile my pensive hours, and exhilarate my drooping spirits, like your letters. Let me know how you are to be entertained this winter at the theatre. That, you know, is a favorite amusement of mine. You see I can step out of myself a little. Afford an assisting hand, and perhaps I may again be fit for society. ELIZA WHARTON LETTER XLVI. TO THE REV. J. BOYER. HARTFORD. Sir: It is partly in compliance with your desire, in your last letter to me, in which you tell me "that when I am convinced of the justice of your conduct, and become a convert to your advice, you shall be happy to hear it," and partly from a wish to inform you that such is in truth my present state of mind, that I now write to you. I cannot but hope that this letter, coming from the hand which you once sought, will not be unacceptable. Pope very justly observes, that "every year is a critic on the last." The truth of this observation is fully exemplified in my years. How severely this condemns the follies of the preceding, my own heart alone can testify. I shall not offer any palliation or apology for my misconduct. You told me it admitted none. I frankly confess it; and if the most humble acknowledgment of my offences, with an assurance that they have cost me the deepest repentance, can in any degree atone for them, I now make that atonement. Casting off the veil of dissimulation, I shall write with frankness, believing you possessed of more honor than to make any ungenerous use of the confidence reposed in you. To say that I ever esteemed you may, perhaps, appear paradoxical when compared with certain circumstances which occurred during our acquaintance; but to assert that I loved you may be deemed still more so. Yet these are real facts--facts of which I was then sensible, and by which I am now more than ever affected. I think you formerly remarked that absence served but to heighten real love. This I find by experience. Need I blush to declare these sentiments, when occasion like this calls for the avowal? I will go even further, and offer you that heart which you once prized, that hand which you once solicited. The sentiments of affection which you then cultivated, though suppressed, I flatter myself are not wholly obliterated. Suffer me, then, to rekindle the latent flame, to revive that friendship and tenderness which I have so foolishly neglected. The endeavor of my future life shall be to reward your benevolence, and perhaps we may yet be happy together. But let not this offer of myself constrain you. Let not pity influence your conduct. I would have your return, if that pleasing event take place, a voluntary act. Receive, or consent not to confer, happiness. I thought it a duty which I owed to you, and to myself, to make this expiation, this sacrifice of female reserve, for the wrongs I have done you. As such I wish you to accept it; and if your affections are entirely alienated or otherwise engaged, if you cannot again command the respect and love which I would recall, do not despise me for the concessions I have made. Think as favorably of my past faults and of my present disposition as charity will allow. Continue, if possible, to be my friend, though you cease to be my lover. Should this letter find you in the full possession of happiness, let not the idea of your once loved Eliza, thus intruding itself again upon your thoughts, interrupt your enjoyments. May some distinguished female, as deserving as fair, partake with you of that bliss which I have forfeited. Whatever may be my destiny, my best wishes shall ever attend you, and a pleasing remembrance of your honorable attentions preside, till death, in the breast of ELIZA WHARTON. LETTER XLVII. TO MISS ELIZA WHARTON. HAMPSHIRE. Madam: As I was sitting last evening in my study, a letter was handed me by a servant; upon which I no sooner cast my eye than I recognized, with surprise, the hand and seal of my once loved, but to me long lost, Eliza. I opened it hastily, and with still greater surprise read the contents. You write with frankness; I shall answer in the same manner. On reviewing our former intercourse, be assured that I have not an accusing thought in my heart. The regard which I felt for you was tender and animated, but it was not of that passionate kind which ends in death or despair. It was governed by reason, and had a nobler object in view than mere sensual gratification. It was excited by the appearance of excellent qualities. Your conduct, at length, convinced me it was misplaced; that you possessed not in reality those charms which I had fondly ascribed to you. They were inconsistent, I conceived, with that artifice and dissimulation of which you strove to render me the dupe. But, thank Heaven, the snare was broken. My eyes were open to discover your folly; and my heart, engaged as it was, exerted resolution and strength to burst asunder the chain by which you held me enslaved, and to assert the rights of an injured man. The parting scene you remember. I reluctantly bade you adieu. I tore myself from you, determined to eradicate your idea from my breast. Long and severe was the struggle; at last I vanquished, as I thought, every tender passion of my soul, (for they all centred in you,) and resigned myself to my God and my duty, devoting those affections to friendship which had been disappointed in love. But they are again called into exercise. The virtuous, the amiable, the accomplished Maria Selby possesses my entire confidence and esteem; and I trust I am not deceived when I think her highly deserving of both. With her I expect soon to be united in the most sacred and endearing of human relations, with her to pass my future days in serenity and peace. Your letter, therefore, came too late, were there no other obstacle to the renewal of our connection. I hope at the close of life, when we take a retrospect of the past, that neither of us shall have reason to regret our separation. Permit me to add, that for your own sake, and for the sake of your ever-valued friends, I sincerely rejoice that your mind has regained its native strength and beauty; that you have emerged from the shade of fanciful vanity. For although, to adopt your own phrase, I cease to style myself your lover, among the number of your friends I am happy to be reckoned. As such, let me conjure you, by all that is dear and desirable, both in this life and another, to adhere with undeviating exactness to the paths of rectitude and innocence, and to improve the noble talents which Heaven has liberally bestowed upon you in rendering yourself amiable and, useful to your friends. Thus will you secure your own, while you promote the happiness of all around you. I shall ever cherish sentiments of kindness towards you, and with gratitude remember your condescension in the testimony of regard which you have given me in your last letter. I hope soon to hear that your heart and hand are bestowed on some worthy man, who deserves the happiness you are formed to communicate. Whatever we may have called errors will, on my part, be forever buried in oblivion; and for your own peace of mind I entreat you to forget that any idea of a connection between us ever existed. I shall always rejoice at the news of your welfare, and my ardent prayers will daily arise for your temporal and eternal felicity. J. BOYER.

XXXVII-XLVII

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Sanford exults to Charles that Eliza no longer slights him. He wishes he could marry her but knows he cannot. His goal is to break her and Mr. Boyer up though. He is thinking about marrying Miss Laurence but hopes she does not think she can reform him or confine him. Eliza writes to her mother of how she enjoys her time with Mrs. Sumner. She spent a lot of money to keep up appearances though, and Mr. Boyer tried to lecture her and in the end annoyed her by doing so. She wonders how, if their dispositions are so different, they could be happy. Mr. Boyer writes his friend Mr. Selby about how he now believes there is foundation to the suspicions of Eliza's character. He saw at parties her frivolity and decadence, and began to notice her engagement with Major Sanford. He tried to get a clear answer from her about their relationship but she said she was not ready. She even became frustrated with him when he sounded jealous about the other man. However, he still loves her. He writes another letter, this time stating that all is over between Eliza and himself. He is finally free from her deceits and coquetries. He recounts how he asked her for more commitment but she would never provide it. He asked about Sanford and she became defensive and mad. They later made up, but one of his other friends warned him about the rumors flying about her and Sanford. He spoke with Eliza's mother and she confessed she did not know what her daughter was up to. He asked to see her but she was lying down. He said he would come back, and when he did, he was told she had gone for a private walk in the garden. He went there and was shocked to see her with the Major, looking confused and deceitful. He could only give them a look of indignation before he ran off. Eliza came in, and begged to tell him what had really happened, but he did not want to hear it. He bowed, and left. Later he found himself in tears, but eventually began to thank God for delivering him and "enabling me to break asunder the snares of the deceiver" . He includes a copy of a letter he sent to Eliza. It addresses her as a friend but states that he sees now that she rejects "the sober, rational frugal mode of living" and prefers a man whom her friends warn her against. He cautions her about Major Sanford. He also chastises her for her manners, extravagance in her attire, and lack of prudishness. He says he does not want an answer because his mind is fixed, but hopes she will find wisdom. Eliza writes Lucy of how delightful Major Sanford's presence is in the neighborhood, and how he is decorous though some of the old men do not find it easy to get over their preconceptions. She still plans to marry Mr. Boyer but wants to have fun before she becomes a recluse. She likes how the Major enlivens her days, and is annoyed with those who seek to tell her about her own happiness or unhappiness. She does see that he wants to break her and Mr. Boyer up, but wonders why he is so mysterious about his own plans. She asks Lucy what to do about this man. She continues the same letter, detailing the irrevocable separation between her and Mr. Boyer. Major Sanford had gone to see her mother and wrote her a note begging her to see him in the garden the next day. She gave him a time. The next day came and she was prepared to accept Mr. Boyer, even though the duress it would cause the Major distressed her. She met him in the garden and told him her plan. He was upset, and then Mr. Boyer found them. She tried to defend herself but could not. After he had gone, she fainted. Her night was restless. She received his farewell letter the next day and fell into despair. Major Sanford writes to Charles, exalting that the girl is his. He laughs that he has no conscience. He writes of how he went to see her after her separation from Mr. Boyer. He told her he would be gone for a few months. He left her with regret, claiming he wanted to make her his own and let no one else have her. Mrs. Richman writes Eliza and tells her she has heard what happened. She believes there is still happiness in store for her, and that no one is perfect. She details her own glee in being a mother, exclaiming, "conjugal and parental love are the main springs of my life" . She relates news that Miss Laurence is to marry Mr. Laiton, and invites Eliza back to visit. Eliza writes Lucy that she is depressed and plans to go visit the Richmans. She begins to think more on Mr. Boyer's merits and worth, and how she lost a great man. She is tired of being gossiped about. In a follow-up letter she says her visit to her friends was fine but could not calm her disturbed mind. She wonders why she has not heard of the Major in a long time, but cares more about how she lost Mr. Boyer, who now seems inestimable. There is a rumor that Major Sanford plans to marry, but she plans to try to get Mr. Boyer back. She writes to the Rev. J. Boyer, saying she cannot offer a meaningful apology but states that she loved him very much. She offers him her heart and her hand. If he is already with someone, she hopes for happiness for them. Boyer writes back, and says he is happy to hear from her and does not have an accusing thought in his mind for her. He says, though, he is now with Maria Selby, and esteems her greatly. He and Eliza should not regret their separation, as it was for the best. He is her friend now, not her lover. He thanks her for her kindness.

At the beginning of this section Eliza exhibits the same ambivalence about marrying Mr. Boyer as she always has. This ambivalence seems justified in the obnoxious way Mr. Boyer tries to control her behavior in public and treats her more like a child or parishioner than his future wife. Eliza decides to eventually marry him regardless of the bleak future he poses for her, but she feels compelled to tell Major Sanford about her decision. The discovery of the two of them in the garden is, then, partly an unfortunate coincidence that makes the reader feel badly for Eliza. However, she is also at fault for entertaining the Major and feeling as if she needed to account for her decision to him rather than simply refusing to see him. Foster makes Eliza sympathetic, but also reveals her immaturity and lack of thinking. Mr. Boyer's character is revealed further in his vicious letter breaking off their engagement. Critics debate whether or not he was justified in his anger. Critic Laure Korobkin notes, "Rev. Boyer's letter has received unqualified condemnation from critics, who complain with some justice that it shows him to be prudish, carping, and more concerned with reputation than real virtue." One could add hypocrisy to this list as well, for the very things that Boyer proclaimed to like about Eliza - her vivacity, manners, and charm - he now censures. He makes sure to assume a paternalistic tone about her putative relationship with the Major. He attacks her character as well as her fashion choices and pursuits. His tone and histrionics reveal him as wounded by her, but he assumes a mantle of superiority by avowing, "I wish you to regard this letter as the legacy of a friend" . He also acts holier-than-thou: "But should you hereafter be convinced of the justice of my conduct; and become a convert to my advice, I shall be happy to hear it." On the other hand, as Korobkin notes, Boyer's argument may contain some credence as to his hurt feelings. After all, Eliza did lead him on in the sense that she never broke things off with him or gave him a definitive answer. By modern standards there is nothing wrong with flirtation or lack of interest in settling down, but when one receives a proposal, a definitive answer is required. Boyer correctly identifies Eliza's passion for luxury and her desire to move up in social class. Mr. Selby, while a relatively minor character, offers more insights into gender norms and double standards. Initially he is quite pleased by Eliza, commenting that he finds the "brilliancy of her wit, the fluency of her language, the vivacity and ease of her manners" appealing. He quickly becomes judgmental, though, critiquing all women, even the most virtuous, as "naturally prone to gaiety, to pleasure, and, I had almost said, to dissipation!" . He even refers to women as the natural "rakes" when any look at Sanford's letters disabuse that notion completely. A voyeur, he spends his whole evening watching Eliza diligently, looking for any instance when she might do anything that could warrant being "jealous" on his friend's behalf. Mr. Selby and Mr. Boyer are both watching Eliza to make sure she does not make a coquette of him, but her friends are watching and judging her as well for her choices. Indeed, much of this novel takes place in a public arena in which watching and looking for cues takes on paramount importance. In his article on the novel, David Waldstreicher writes that the novel depicts "an economy of vision: a new system of exchanged signs of sentiment governed by particular rules for viewing and interpretation." The characters live in a public sphere and a circle of respectability "that is never absent, even in the characters' self-scrutiny." Eliza's reputation of "sensibility" is first constructed by this public sphere, and then celebrated and sustained by the community. This means, though, that she is also subject to scrutiny, as all acts of looking in this republican community are part of the politics of virtue. Waldstreicher notes that as Eliza enters the public "she regulates her sensibility and rises in the view of others, her prospects, in her own mind, seem to rise. Actually, she becomes less free, for in virtue's marketplace she is a defined commodity: not allowed to change, to be various, or even to have an interior will that differs from the true feelings she must show." He sees the central conflict of the novel as one in which this young woman faces both intense scrutiny and an ethic of sensibility , which makes it difficult for her to actually act.

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{"name": "XLVIII- LXIV", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180327091504/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-coquette/study-guide/summary-xlviii-lxiv", "summary": "Eliza writes to Lucy of her embarrassment over writing to Mr. Boyer. Even though he was not cruel, she has \"given him the power of triumphing in my distress\" . She feels her bloom is lessening and she is not comforted by her mother's Christian principles. She has to pretend to be happy. She asks if their friend Julia Granby can come visit her. Lucy responds, first gently chastising her. She asks her to regain her former sense, independence, and passions. She was indeed a coquette, and erred, but she must still have admirers. She should stop being so gloomy. Lucy also writes that Julia will visit. Eliza writes Lucy of how happy she is with the young and beautiful Julia. Julia encourages her to go visit her favorite former places and amusements, but lacks the mood to do so. She asks Lucy for new books to read. Julia writes to Lucy of their friend Eliza, who is practically a recluse now. They heard Major Sanford was to be married but Eliza does not believe it. One day Julia found her holding a small miniature portrait of him, which was very distressing. She wonders how Eliza can love this man and not see his vices. She hopes Eliza will come to Boston with her. Lucy writes to Eliza, begging her to \"dissipate the cloud which hangs over your imagination\" . She says courage is not ignoring the storms but by steering through them with prudence. There is much joy to be found in the world's amusements. Lucy then discusses her opinions on theater and the circus, the latter of which bothers her because of women acting too unladylike. Eliza writes to Lucy, anguished that Major Sanford is married. Before this, she had felt like she was regaining cheerfulness, but now she is depressed again. Sanford writes to his friend Charles, saying that he is a married man, forced into this state. He feels some remorse for taking a wife, but she should only blame herself for being captivated by his looks. He still believes himself in love with Eliza, not his wife, and is glad she is still single. He wants to see her and make her the friend of his wife, which will \"alleviate the confinement of a married state\" . Eliza writes to Lucy that Major Sanford came to visit her. She was sitting with Julia and her mother and did not feel like seeing him, but Julia encouraged it as a way to get over him. She thought he looked ashamed and confused. When they were alone he told her he wished she was his wife and he wished he had gotten his situation together in time to marry her. That is why, he said, he could not marry her - because he did not want to impoverish her. He then wept, at which she marveled. She asked him never to speak of such things again. On his way out he asked if she could be friends with his wife and she said she could not yet do that. After the interview, she writes, she felt satisfied. She felt she only wanted to marry him because of his putative money, and actually preferred Mr. Boyer. She is glad not to be confused, and hopes to emerge from darkness. She is not sure about Boston. Julia writes to Lucy that Eliza seems more cheerful but says there is evidence of \"a mind not perfectly right\" . She thinks Eliza was fooled by the Major's visit, and still wonders how she cannot read his countenance. When they encountered him and his wife the other day, Julia was struck how he stared only at Eliza. Eliza spoke kindly of Mrs. Sanford and said she planned to visit her. Eliza writes to Lucy that she received an invitation to dine from the Sanfords, and she and Julia went. At the party the Major spoke privately to her, and she said she was not the same, and a tear rolled down her cheek. The Major seemed distressed. Julia noticed and told Eliza later that she thought he was too attentive, and the world was noticing. Eliza responded that she cared not for the \"ill-natured, misjudging world\" . She sees no harm in being friends with the Major since he is married and therefore harmless. Major Sanford writes to Charles, exulting that he is now at peace with Eliza. He teases that it took a little time since he married someone else. She is different now, and calm, which he attributes to himself, not Mr. Boyer. He laughs that he doubts he is really reformed, and hopes to see the lovely Eliza often. His wife has commented on her, but he cares not, and irritably replied that he should have married Eliza instead. He ends by saying he hopes Charles will never be \"embarrassed with a wife, nor lack some favorite nymph to supply the place of one\" . Eliza writes Julia that she is not coming to Boston, and sends Julia alone. She does not wish to join society. She does not think the Major is partial to her anymore, and feels at ease with him and his wife. She ends by apologizing for not writing as much, for she does not enjoy it anymore. She thinks her friends must be weary of her sadness. Julia writes to Lucy that she is disappointed Eliza will not come to Boston. She thinks her much different after her interaction with the Major as well; he is too attentive and, once after a party, she saw him kiss Eliza's hand. She asks Eliza why his behavior does not alarm her. She then says she should not trick herself that he is sincere and that their engagement is a \"baser passion\" . Eliza eventually burst into tears and beseeched Julia to end the discussion. Julia prepares to leave but is nervous to leave Eliza. Lucy writes to Eliza, trying to convince her to see how Major Sanford is a libertine and her reputation, \"an inestimable jewel\" , is the only thing that matters. Eliza responds, saying she is not interested in writing of late. She conveys the news she heard that Mrs. Richman's daughter died. She muses about how she is pleased with no one, especially not herself. She is also trying to be strong for her mother, but feels terrible inside. Julia writes to Eliza, saying she had hoped she would feel better but it seems she is not. She speaks a bit about Lucy and Mr. Sumner's happy union, and that she hopes she and Eliza will not \"ever be tried by a man of debauched principles\" . Julia writes to Lucy of her return to the Wharton home and how Eliza is consumed by her grief. She seems haunted and her health appears to be in decline. Mrs. Wharton told Julia that Eliza and the Major talked occasionally but Eliza shied away from the public. It also seemed that the Major's character was worse than ever, as he was always traveling with his debauched friends and spending massive amounts of money.", "analysis": "In the aftermath of Eliza's failure to secure marriage to Mr. Boyer, the climax of the novel, she suffers a precipitous decline. She is humiliated not only by the original event but also when he smugly writes back that he is married to Maria Selby, who, his subtext reads, is actually worthy of him. She grows reclusive and depressed, which everyone who sees her noticed. She claims that her looks are fading and her friends' words are no consolation. The news of Major Sanford's marriage is a terrible blow, but he does his best to secure her sympathy and continued friendship by a display of love, regret, and apology. This does little to improve Eliza's spirits, however, as she becomes further enmeshed with him. She states that she does not love him, and can regard him as a friend because he is married, but it is clear to the reader that the combination of the marriages of Boyer and Sanford and her own ascending years and dismal failure of her attempt to act in a sphere of freedom has rendered her mordantly melancholy. The danger now, as her friends see it, is that she may enter into an inappropriate relationship with Sanford as a married man. Julia continually chastises her, with comments such as \"His assiduity, and obtrusion ought to alarm you\" and \"it is not love, which induces him to entertain you with the subject! It is baser passion\" . Lucy sums up what is at stake in her pronouncement: \"Slight not the opinion of the world... No female, whose mind is uncorrupted, can be indifferent to reputation. It is an inestimable jewel, the loss of which can never be repaired\" . Eliza's friends are right to note that Major Sanford is dangerous, and that she should not dally with a married man, but the entire situation is a result of the gendered system in which the characters exist. Critic David Waldstreicher writes, \"The injustices of the patriarchal society constitute both the tragedy and the realism in this story of seduction.\" Eliza is, as most contemporary critics agree, the typical 18th-century woman. Heidi Johnson notes, \"the novel shows that even with middle-class status and an education, women had few choices.\" Eliza is firmly put in her place when she attempts to exercise her freedom. Having escaped one marriage that would have been disastrous, she tries to listen to her heart before entering another, but is not allowed to consider the shortcomings of a potential husband. She must accept someone in her social class with a decent reputation. She is not allowed to entertain multiple flirtations. As Cathy Davidson notes, the problem does not lie in the fact that Eliza sets her sights too high, but rather the model she seeks to emulate - the egalitarian and mutually affirming Richmans. She is offered, \"instead, a difficult choice between unsatisfactory alternatives, a common quandary in early American sentimental novels and a dilemma no doubt faced by many young American women.\" Another interesting lens with which to view Eliza and her quest for freedom is in the context of the young nation's own quest for freedom. Walter P. Wenska, Jr. acclaims Foster's commitment to making her novel about something more than just a young woman's misadventures in love. He writes that it \"suggests that the health of the republic in no small way depends on the maintenance of a social order newly threatened by misapprehensions of the nature and meaning of freedom.\" Eliza, exhilarated by her freedom in the aftermath of the death of Mr. Haly, reflects an equally exhilarated America. This makes her similar to other classic American questers for freedom, such as Natty Bumppo, Isabel Archer, and Dean Moriarty. Her choices of suitors reflect a choice between reason and emotion, but Eliza regards marriage as \"unfreedom.\" Wenska calls her an antinomian, and says in this case she actually has a lot in common with Sanford. Both of them are defeated in their quests, however - \"what neither can ever be free from, of course, is their imperfect selves, their 'natural dispositions.'\" Wenska concludes that their quests are doomed from the beginning, \"compromised by biological and economic facts of our social life. Inevitably frustrated by psychological determinants beyond our comprehension or control.\" Wenska admires Lucy, who, tellingly, gives up the name \"Freeman\" and reconciles liberty and matrimony, the individual and the social order. She is the ideal that citizens of the young nation must look to. Eliza may be a hero of sorts, and most certainly a rebel, but Foster notes that that is not entirely sustainable in this time period."}

LETTER XLVIII. TO MRS. LUCY SUMNER. HARTFORD. Health, placid serenity, and every domestic pleasure are the lot of my friend; while I, who once possessed the means of each, and the capacity of tasting them, have been tossed upon the waves of folly, till I am shipwrecked on the shoals of despair. O my friend, I am undone. I am slighted, rejected, by the man who once sought my hand, by the man who still retains my heart. And what adds an insupportable poignancy to the reflection is self-condemnation. From this inward torture where shall I flee? Where shall I seek that happiness which I have madly trifled away? The enclosed letters[A] will show you whence this tumult of soul arises. But I blame not Mr. Boyer. He has acted nobly. I approve his conduct, though it operates my ruin. He is worthy of his intended bride, and she is---what I am not--worthy of him. Peace and joy be their portion both here and hereafter. But what are now my prospects? What are to be the future enjoyments of my life? O that I had not written to Mr. Boyer! By confessing my faults, and by avowing my partiality to him, I have given him the power of triumphing in my distress; of returning to my tortured heart all the pangs of slighted love. And what have I now to console me? My bloom is decreasing, my health is sensibly impaired. Those talents, with the possession of which I have been flattered, will be of little avail when unsupported by respectability of character. My mamma, who knows too well the distraction of my mind, endeavors to soothe and compose me on Christian principles; but they have not their desired effect. I dare not converse freely with her on the subject of my present uneasiness, lest I should distress her. I am therefore obliged to conceal my disquietude, and appear as cheerful as possible in her company, though my heart is ready to burst with grief. O that you were near me, as formerly, to share and alleviate my cares!. To have some friend in whom I could repose confidence, and with whom I could freely converse and advise on this occasion, would be an unspeakable comfort. Such a one, next to yourself, I think Julia Granby to be. With your leave and consent, I should esteem it a special favor if she would come and spend a few months with me. My mamma joins in this request. I would write to her on the subject, but cannot compose myself at present. Will you prefer my petition for me? If I have not forfeited your friendship, my dear Mrs. Sumner, write to me, and pour its healing balm into the wounded mind of your ELIZA WHARTON. [Footnote A: See the two preceding letters.] LETTER XLIX. TO MISS ELIZA WHARTON. Your truly romantic letter came safe to hand. Indeed, my dear, it would make a very pretty figure in a novel. A bleeding heart, slighted love, and all the _et ceteras_ of romance enter into the composition. Excuse this raillery, and I will now write more seriously. You refer yourself to my friendship for consolation. It shall be exerted for the purpose. But I must act the part of a skilful surgeon, and probe the wound which I undertake to heal. Where, O Eliza Wharton, where is that fund of sense and sentiment which once animated your engaging form? Where that strength of mind, that independence of soul, that alacrity and sprightliness of deportment, which formerly raised you superior to every adverse occurrence? Why have you resigned these valuable endowments, and suffered yourself to become the sport of contending passions? You have now emerged from that mist of fanciful folly which in a measure obscured the brilliance of your youthful days. True, you figured among the first-rate coquettes, while your friends, who knew your accomplishments, lamented the misapplication of them; but now they rejoice at the returning empire of reason. True, you have erred; misled by the gayety of your disposition, and that volatility and inconsideration which were incident to your years; but you have seen and nobly confessed your errors. Why do you talk of slighted love? True, Mr. Boyer, supposing you disregarded him, transferred his affections to another object; but have you not your admirers still among men of real merit? Are you not esteemed and caressed by numbers who know you capable of shining in a distinguished sphere of life? Turn then, my friend, from the gloomy prospect which your disturbed imagination has brought into view. Let reason and religion erect their throne in your breast; obey their dictates, and be happy. Past experience will point out the quicksands which you are to avoid in your future course. Date then, from this, a new era of life; and may every moment be attended with felicity. Follow Mr. Boyer's advice and forget all former connections. Julia accepts your invitation. Nothing short of your request could induce me to part with her. She is a good girl, and her society will amuse and instruct you. I am, &c., LUCY SUMNER. LETTER L. TO MRS. LUCY SUMNER. HARTFORD. My Julia Granby has arrived. She is all that I once was--easy, sprightly, _debonnaire_. Already has she done much towards relieving my mind. She endeavors to divert and lead my thoughts into a different channel from that to which they are now prone. Yesterday we had each an invitation to a ball. She labored hard to prevail on me to go, but I obstinately refused. I cannot yet mix with gay and cheerful circles. I therefore alleged that I was indisposed, and persuaded her to go without me. The events of my life have always been unaccountably wayward. In many instances I have been ready to suppose that some evil genius presided over my actions, which has directed them contrary to the sober dictates of my own judgment. I am sometimes tempted to adopt the sentiment expressed in the following lines of the poet:-- "To you, great gods, I make my last appeal; O, clear my conscience, or my crimes reveal! If wandering through the paths of life I've run, And backward trod the steps I sought to shun, Impute my errors to your own decree; My feet were guilty, but my heart was free." I suppose you will tell me that the fate I accuse through the poet is only the result of my own imprudence. Well, be it what it may,--either the impulse of my own passions or some higher efficiency,--sure I am that I pay dear for its operation. I have heard it remarked that experience is the preceptor of fools, but that the wise need not its instruction. I believe I must be content to rank accordingly, and endeavor to reap advantage from its tuition. Julia urges me to revisit the scenes of amusements and pleasure, in which, she tells me, she is actuated by selfish motives. She wishes it for her own sake. She likes neither to be secluded from them nor to go alone. I am sometimes half inclined to seek in festive mirth a refuge from thought and reflection. I would escape, if possible, from the idea of Mr. Boyer. This I have never been able to accomplish since he dropped a tear upon my hand and left me. I marked the spot with my eye, and twenty times in a day do I view it, and fondly imagine it still there. How could I give him pain! I hope his happy Maria never will. I hope she will reward that merit which I have slighted. But I forbear. This theme carries away my pen if I but touch upon it. And no wonder, for it is the sole exercise of my thoughts. Yet I will endeavor to divert them. Send me some new books; not such, however, as will require much attention. Let them be plays and novels, or any thing else that will amuse or extort a smile. Julia and I have been rambling in the garden. She insisted upon my going with her into the arbor, where I was surprised with Major Sanford. What a crowd of painful ideas rushed upon my imagination! I believe she repented of her rashness. But no more of this. I must lay aside my pen, for I can write nothing else. ELIZA WHARTON. LETTER LI. TO MRS. LUCY SUMNER. HARTFORD. Dear madam: You commanded me to write you respecting Miss Wharton, and I obey. But I cannot describe to you the surprising change which she has undergone. Her vivacity has certainly forsaken her; and she has actually become, what she once dreaded above all things, a recluse. She flies from company as eagerly as she formerly sought it; her mamma is exceedingly distressed by the settled melancholy which appears in her darling child; but neither of us think it best to mention the subject to her. We endeavor to find means to amuse her; and we flatter ourselves that the prospect of success rather increases. It would add greatly to my happiness to contribute, in any degree, to restore her to herself, to her friends, and to society. We are all invited to dine abroad to-morrow; and, to oblige me, she has consented to go. Pray, madam, write to her often. Your letters may do much for her. She is still feelingly alive to the power of friendship; and none can exercise it upon her to greater acceptance or with more advantage than yourself. Major Sanford's house is undergoing a complete repair. The report is, that he is soon to be married. Miss Wharton has heard, but does not believe it. I hope for her sake it will prove true; for, at any rate, he is about returning; and from her mamma's account of his past conduct towards Eliza, were he to return unconnected, he would probably renew his attentions; and though they might end in marriage, her happiness would not be secured. She has too nice a sense of love and honor to compound with his licentious principles. A man who has been dissolute before marriage will very seldom be faithful afterwards. I went into Eliza's chamber the other day, and found her with a miniature picture in her hand. "You pretend to be a physiognomist, Julia," said she. "What can you trace in that countenance?" I guessed whose it was; and looking wistfully at it, replied, "I believe the original is an artful, designing man. He looks to me like a Chesterfieldian. Pray who is he?" "Major Sanford," said she; "and I am afraid you have hit his character exactly. Sure I am that the appearance of those traits in it has made my heart ache." She wept as she spoke it. Poor girl, I wish he may never give you greater cause to weep! She is strongly blind to the vices and imperfections of this man. Though naturally penetrating, he has somehow or other cast a deceptious mist over her imagination with respect to himself. She professes neither to love nor esteem him, and owns that his ungenerous artifice misled her in her treatment of Mr. Boyer. Yet she has forgiven him, and thinks him a pleasing companion. How prone to error is the human mind! how much lighter than the breath of zephyrs the operations of fancy! Strange, then, it should ever preponderate over the weightier powers of the understanding. But I will not moralize. My business here is to dissipate, not to collect, ideas; and I must regulate myself accordingly. I am endeavoring to prepare Eliza, by degrees, to accompany me to Boston the ensuing winter, but think it doubtful whether I shall succeed. I shall, however, return myself: till when, I am, &c., JULIA GRANBY. LETTER LII. TO MISS ELIZA WHARTON. BOSTON. My dear Eliza: I received yours of the 24th ult., and thank you for it, though it did not afford me those lively sensations of pleasure which I usually feel at the perusal of your letters. It inspired me both with concern and chagrin--with concern lest your dejection of mind should affect your health, and with chagrin at your apparent indulgence of melancholy. Indeed, my friend, your own happiness and honor require you to dissipate the cloud which hangs over your imagination. Rise then above it, and prove yourself superior to the adverse occurrences which have befallen you. It is by surmounting difficulties, not by sinking under them, that we discover our fortitude. True courage consists not in flying from the storms of life, but in braving and steering through them with prudence. Avoid solitude. It is the bane of a disordered mind, though of great utility to a healthy one. Your once favorite amusements court your attention. Refuse not their solicitations. I have contributed my mite by sending you a few books, such as you requested. They are of the lighter kind of reading, yet perfectly chaste, and, if I mistake not, well adapted to your taste. You wish to hear from our theatre. I believe it will be well supplied with performers this winter. Come and see whether they can afford you any entertainment. Last evening I attended a tragedy; but never will I attend another. I have not yet been able to erase the gloom which it impressed upon my mind. It was Romeo and Juliet. Distressing enough to sensibility this! Are there not real woes (if not in our own families, at least among our own friends and neighbors) sufficient to exercise our sympathy and pity, without introducing fictitious ones into our very diversions? How can that be a diversion which racks the soul with grief, even though that grief be imaginary? The introduction of a funeral solemnity upon the stage is shocking indeed! Death is too serious a matter to be sported with. An opening grave cannot be a source of amusement to any considerate mind. The closing scene of life can be no pastime when realized. It must therefore awaken painful sensations in the representation. The circus is a place of fashionable resort of late, but not agreeable to-me. I think it inconsistent with the delicacy of a lady even to witness the indecorums which are practised there, especially when the performers of equestrian feats are of our own sex. To see a woman depart so far from the female character as to assume the masculine habit and attitude, and appear entirely indifferent even to the externals of modesty, is truly disgusting, and ought not to be countenanced by our attendance, much less by our approbation. But, setting aside the circumstance, I cannot conceive it to be a pleasure to sit a whole evening trembling with apprehension lest the poor wight of a horseman, or juggler, or whatever he is to be called, should break his neck in contributing to our entertainment. With Mr. Bowen's museum I think you were much pleased. He has made a number of judicious additions to it since you were here. It is a source of rational and refined amusement. Here the eye is gratified, the imagination charmed, and the understanding improved. It will bear frequent reviews without palling on the taste. It always affords something new; and, for one, I am never a weary spectator. Our other public and private places of resort are much as you left them. I am happy in my present situation; but when the summer returns, I intend to visit my native home. Again, my Eliza, will we ramble together in those retired shades which friendship has rendered so delightful to us. Adieu, my friend, till then. Be cheerful, and you will yet be happy. LUCY SUMNER. LETTER LIII. TO MRS. LUCY SUMNER. HARTFORD. Gracious Heaven! What have I heard? Major Sanford is married! Yes; the ungrateful, the deceitful wretch is married. He has forsworn, he has perjured and given himself to another. That, you will say, is nothing strange. It is characteristic of the man. It may be so; but I could not be convinced of his perfidy till now. Perhaps it is all for the best. Perhaps, had he remained unconnected, he might still have deceived me; but now I defy his arts. They tell me he has married a woman of fortune. I suppose he thinks, as I once did, that wealth can insure happiness. I wish he may enjoy it. This event would not affect me at all were it not for the depression of spirits which I feel in consequence of a previous disappointment; since which every thing of the kind agitates and overcomes me. I will not see him. If I do, I shall betray my weakness, and flatter his vanity, as he will doubtless think he has the power of mortifying me by his connection with another. Before this news discomposed me, I had attained to a good degree of cheerfulness. Your kind letter, seconded by Julia's exertions, had assisted me in regulating my sensibility. I have been frequently into company, and find my relish for it gradually returning. I intend to accept the pleasure, to which you invite me, of spending a little time with you this winter. Julia and I will come together. Varying the scene may contribute effectually to dissipate the gloom of my imagination. I would fly to almost any resort rather than my own mind. What a dreadful thing it is to be afraid of one's own reflections, which ought to be a constant source of enjoyment! But I will not moralize. I am sufficiently melancholy without any additional cause to increase it. ELIZA WHARTON. LETTER LIV. TO MR. CHARLES DEIGHTON. HARTFORD. Dear Deighton: Who do you think is writing to you? Why, it is your old friend, metamorphosed into a _married man_! You stare, and can hardly credit the assertion. I cannot realize it myself; yet I assure you, Charles, it is absolutely true. Necessity, dire necessity, forced me into this dernier resort. I told you some time ago it would come to this. I stood aloof as long as possible; but in vain did I attempt to shun the noose. I must either fly to this resource or give up all my show, equipage, and pleasure, and degenerate into a downright, plodding money catcher for a subsistence. I chose the first; and who would not? Yet I feel some remorse at taking the girl to wife from no better motives. She is really too good for such an imposition. But she must blame herself if she suffer hereafter; for she was visibly captivated by my external appearance, and wanted but very little solicitation to confer herself and fortune on so charming a fellow. Her parents opposed her inclination for a while, because I was a stranger, and rather too gay for their taste. But she had not been used to contradiction, and could not bear it, and therefore they ventured not to cross her. So I bore off the prize; and a prize she really is--five thousand pounds in possession, and more in reversion, if I do not forfeit it. This will compensate for some of my past mistakes, and set matters right for the present. I think it doing much better than to have taken the little Lawrence girl I told you of with half the sum. Besides, my Nancy is a handsomer and more agreeable person; but that is of little consequence to me, you know. "Beauty soon grows familiar to the lover." Were I a lover, it would be of no great avail. A lover I am, yet not of my wife. The dart which I received from Miss Wharton sticks fast in my heart; and, I assure you, I could hardly persuade myself even to appear unfaithful to her. O Eliza! accuse me not of infidelity; for your image is my constant companion. A thousand times have I cursed the unpropitious stars which withheld from her a fortune. That would have enabled me to marry her; and with her even wedlock would have been supportable. I am told that she is still single. Her sober lover never returned. Had he loved as I did, and do, he could not have been so precipitate. But these stoic souls are good for nothing, that I know of, but, "Fixed, like a plant, to one peculiar spot, To draw nutrition, propagate, and rot." I want to see Eliza, and I must see her; yet I dread an interview. I shall frankly confess my motives for marrying, and the reasons of my conduct before I went away. I shall own that my circumstances would not allow me to possess her, and yet that I could not resign her to another. When I make up the matter with her, I shall solicit her friendship for my wife. By this means I may enjoy her society, at least, which will alleviate the confinement of a married state. To my spouse I must be as civil as possible. I really wish she had less merit, that I might have a plausible excuse for neglecting her. To-morrow I shall go to Mrs. Wharton's. I am very much taken up with complimental visits at present. What deference is always paid to equipage! They may talk of their virtue, their learning, and what not; but, without either of them, I shall bear off the palm of respect from those who have them, unadorned with gold and its shining appendages. Every thing hereabouts recalls Eliza to my mind. I impatiently anticipate the hour which will convey me to her presence. PETER SANFORD. LETTER LV. TO MRS. LUCY SUMNER. HARTFORD. A new scene has opened upon us to-day, my dear Mrs. Sumner--a visit from Major Sanford. My mamma, Miss Granby, and myself were sitting together in the chamber. Miss Granby was entertaining us by reading aloud in Millot's Elements of History, when a servant rapped at the door, and handed in the following billet:-- "Will Miss Wharton condescend to converse a few moments with her once-favored Sanford? He is but too sensible that he has forfeited all claim to the privilege. He therefore presumes not to request it on the score of merit, nor of former acquaintance, but solicits it from her benevolence and pity." I read and showed it to my mamma and Julia. "What," said I, "shall I do? I wish not to see him. His artifice has destroyed my peace of mind, and his presence may open the wounds which time is closing." "Act," said my mamma, "agreeably to the dictates of your own judgment." "I see no harm in conversing with him," said Julia. "Perhaps it may remove some disagreeable thoughts which now oppress and give you pain. And as he is no longer a candidate for your affections," added she with a smile, "it will be less hazardous than formerly. He will not have the insolence to speak, nor you the folly to hear, the language of love." He was accordingly invited in. When I rose to go down, I hesitated, and even trembled. "I fear," said I to myself, "it will be too much for me; yet why should it? Conscious innocence will support me. This he has not." When I entered the room he stepped forward to meet me. Confusion and shame were visibly depicted in his countenance. He approached me hastily and without uttering a word, took my hand. I withdrew it. "O Miss Wharton," said he, "despise me not. I am convinced that I deserve your displeasure and disdain; but my own heart has avenged your cause." "To your own heart, then," said I, "I will leave you. But why do you again seek an interview with one whom you have endeavored to mislead--with one whom you have treated with unmerited neglect?" "Justice to myself required my appearing before you, that, by confessing my faults and obtaining your forgiveness, I might soften the reproaches of my own mind." "Will you be seated, sir?" said I. "Will you," rejoined he, "condescend to sit with me, Eliza?" "I will, sir," answered I "The rights of hospitality I shall not infringe. In my own house, therefore, I shall treat you with civility." "Indeed," said he, "you are very severe; but I have provoked all the coldness and reserve which you can inflict. "I am a married man, Eliza." "So I understand," said I; "and I hope you will never treat your wife with that dissimulation and falsehood which you have exercised towards me." "Would to Heaven," exclaimed he, "that you were my wife. I should not, then, fail in my love or duty as a husband; yet she is an amiable girl, and, had I a heart to give her, I might still be happy; but that, alas! I can never recall." "Why, then," said I, "did you marry her? You were, doubtless, master of your own actions." "No," said he, "I was not. The embarrassed state of my affairs precluded the possibility of acting as I wished. Loving you most ardently, I was anxious to prevent your union with another, till I could so far improve my circumstances as to secure you from poverty and want in a connection with me. My regard was too sincere to permit me to deceive you by a marriage which might have proved unhappy for us both. My pride forbade my telling you the motives of my delay; and I left you to see if I could place myself in a situation worthy of your acceptance. This I could not effect, and, therefore, have run the risk of my future happiness by marrying a lady of affluence. This secures to me the externals of enjoyment, but my heart, I fear, will never participate it; yet it affords me some degree of satisfaction that I have not involved you in distress. The only alleviation of which my banishment from you is capable, is your forgiveness. In compassion, then, refuse it not. It cannot injure you. To me it will be worth millions." He wept. Yes, Lucy, this libertine, this man of pleasure and gallantly, wept. I really pitied him from my heart. "I forgive you," said I, "and wish you happy; yet on this condition only, that you never again pollute my ears with the recital of your infamous passion. Yes, infamous I call it; for what softer appellation can be given to such professions from a married man? Harbor not an idea of me, in future, inconsistent with the love and fidelity which you owe your wife; much less presume to mention it, if you wish not to be detested by me, and forever banished from my presence." He expressed gratitude for his absolution, even upon these terms, and hoped his future conduct would entitle him to my friendship and esteem. "That," I replied, "time only can determine." One favor more he begged leave to solicit; which was, that I would be a neighbor to his wife. "She was a stranger," he said, "and would deem my society a particular privilege." This, I told him, I could not grant at present, whatever I might do hereafter. He did not urge it any further, but inquired after my mamma, and expressed a wish to see her. I rang the bell, and ordered her and Miss Granby to be called. When they came he was very polite to them both, and, after usual compliments, told my mamma that he was happy in having obtained my forgiveness, to which he was anxious to have her seal affixed. "My daughter," said she, "is the injured party; and if she be satisfied, I shall not complain." He thanked her for her condescension, informed her that he was married, and requested her to visit his wife. We then conversed upon different subjects for a short time, and he took his leave. A sigh escaped him as he departed, and a gloom was visible in his countenance which I never observed before. I must acknowledge that this interview has given me satisfaction. I have often told you, that if I married Major Sanford, it would be from a predilection for his situation in life. How wretched must have been my lot, had I discovered, too late, that he was by no means possessed of the independence which I fondly anticipated! I knew not my own heart, when I contemplated a connection with him. Little did I think that my regard for Mr. Boyer was so deeply rooted as I now find it. I foolishly imagined that I could turn my affections into what channel I pleased. What, then, must have been my feelings, when I found myself deprived both of inward peace and outward enjoyment! I begin now to emerge from the darkness in which I have been long benighted. I hope the tragic comedy, in which I have acted so conspicuous a part, will come to a happy end. Julia and I talk, now and then, of a journey to Boston. As yet, I have not resolution to act with much decision upon the subject; but, wherever I am, and whatever may be my fate, I shall always be yours in truth, ELIZA WHARTON. LETTER LVI. TO MRS. LUCY SUMNER. HARTFORD. I begin to hope we shall come to rights here by and by. Major Sanford has returned, has made us a visit, and a treaty of peace and amity (but not of commerce) is ratified. Eliza appears to be rapidly returning to her former cheerfulness--if not gayety. I hope she will not diverge too far from her present sedateness and solidity; yet I am not without apprehensions of danger on that score. One extreme commonly succeeds another. She tells me that she assiduously cultivates her natural vivacity; that she finds her taste for company and amusements increasing; that she dreads being alone, because past scenes arise to view which vex and discompose her. These are indications of a mind not perfectly right. I flatter myself, however, that the time is not far distant when her passions will vibrate with regularity. I need not repeat to you any thing relative to Major Sanford's conciliatory visit. Eliza has given you a particular, and, I believe, a faithful detail. I was called down to see this wonderful man, and disliked him exceedingly. I am astonished that Eliza's penetrating eye has not long since read his vices in his very countenance. I am told by a friend, who has visited them, that he has an agreeable wife; and I wish she may find him a husband of the same description; but I very much doubt the accomplishment of my wish, for I have no charity for these reformed rakes. We were walking abroad the other afternoon, and met Major Sanford and lady. Eliza did not see them till they were very near us. She started, turned pale, and then colored like crimson. I cannot but think a little envy rankled in her heart. Major Sanford very politely accosted us, and congratulated Mrs. Sanford on this opportunity of introducing her to a particular friend, presenting Eliza. She received her with an easy dignity, and bade her welcome to this part of the country. Mrs. Sanford answered her modestly, hoped for the pleasure of a further acquaintance, and urged us, as we were not far from their house, to return with them to tea. We declined, and wishing each other good evening, parted. Major Sanford's eyes were riveted on Eliza the whole time we were together, and he seemed loath to remove them when we separated. I suspect there is some truth in his tale of love. I shall therefore discourage Eliza from associating with him under any pretext whatever. She appeared more pensive and thoughtful than common as we returned home, and said little the rest of the evening, but next morning was as chatty as ever. She is warm in the praises of Mrs. Sanford, thinks her an accomplished woman, and wonders that the major could suggest an idea of marrying her for her money. She intends, she says, to visit her soon, and wishes me to accompany her. This, for her own sake, I shall defer as long as possible. I am, &c., JULIA GRANBY. LETTER LVII. TO MRS. LUCY SUMNER. HARTFORD. By Julia's advice we have neglected the repeated invitations of Major Sanford to visit and commence neighborhood with them till yesterday, when we received a polite billet requesting the honor of our company to dine. My mamma declined going, but said she had no objection to our compliance with the message if we thought proper. Julia and I accordingly went. We found a large company assembled in a spacious hall, splendidly furnished and decorated. They were all very polite and attentive to me, but none more so than Major Sanford and his lady, who jointly strove to dissipate the pensiveness of my mind, which I found it impossible to conceal. When we were summoned to dinner, the major, being near me, offered his hand, and, leading me into the dining room, seated me at a table furnished with all the variety which could please the eye or regale the taste of the most luxurious epicure. The conversation turned on various subjects--literary, political, and miscellaneous. In the evening we had a ball. Major Sanford gave the hand of his wife to a Mr. Grey, alleging that he was a stranger, and therefore entitled to particular attention, and then solicited mine himself. I was on the point of refusing him, but recollecting that it might have the appearance of continued resentment, contrary to my declaration of forgiving what was past, I complied. He was all kindness and assiduity; the more so, I imagined, with a view to make amends for his former ingratitude and neglect. Tenderness is now peculiarly soothing to my wounded heart. He took an opportunity of conversing with his wife and me together, hoped she would be honored with my friendship and acquaintance, and begged for her sake that I would not be a stranger at his house. His Nancy, he said, was far removed from her maternal friends, but I could supply their place if I would generously undertake the task. She joined in expressing the same sentiments and wishes. "Alas! sir," said I, "Eliza Wharton is not now what she once was. I labor under a depression of spirits which must render my company rather painful than pleasing to my friends." The idea of what I had been, contrasted with what I then was, touched my sensibility, and I could not restrain the too officious tear from stealing down my cheek. He took me by the hand, and said, "You distress me, Miss Wharton; indeed you distress me. Happiness must and shall attend you. Cursed be the wretch who could wound a heart like yours." Julia Granby now joined us. An inquisitive concern was visible in her countenance. I related this conversation to her after we returned home; but she approved it not. She thought Major Sanford too particularly attentive to me, considering what had previously happened. She said it would be noticed by others, and the world would make unfavorable remarks upon any appearance of intimacy between us. "I care not for that," said I; "it is an ill-natured, misjudging world, and I am not obliged to sacrifice my friends to its opinion. Were Major Sanford a single man, I should avoid his society; but since he is married, since his wife is young, beautiful, and lovely, he can have no temptation to injure me. I therefore see no evil which can arise from the cultivation of friendship with her at least. I relish company so little, that I may surely be indulged in selecting that which is most agreeable to my taste, to prevent my becoming quite a misanthrope." I thank you, my dear Mrs. Sumner, for your kind letter. It was a seasonable cordial to my mind, and I will endeavor to profit by your advice. Your remarks on the public entertainments are amusing, and, as far as I am a judge, perfectly just. I think it a pity they have not female managers for the theatre. I believe it would be under much better regulations than at present. With cordial respects to Mr. Sumner, I subscribe myself, yours in sincerity, ELIZA WHARTON. LETTER LVIII. TO MR. CHARLES DEIGHTON. HARTFORD. Rejoice with me, my friend, that I have made my peace with the mistress of my heart. No devotee could have been more sincere in his penitence than I was in mine. Indeed, Charles, I never knew I had so much sensibility before. Why, I was as much a woman as the very weakest of the sex. But I dealt very plainly and sincerely with her, to be sure; and this atones for all past offences, and procures absolution for many others yet to be committed. The dear girl was not inexorable; she was as placable and condescending as I could expect, considering the nature of the crime, which was apparently slighting her person and charms by marrying another. This, you know, is one of the nicest points with the ladies. Attack their honor, that is, their chastity, and they construe it to be the effect of excessive love, which hurries you a little beyond the bounds of prudence. But touch their vanity by preferring another, and they will seldom pardon you. You will say I am very severe upon the sex; and have I not reason to be so, since I have found so many frail ones among them? This, however, is departing from my subject. Eliza is extremely altered. Her pale, dejected countenance, with the sedateness of her manners, so different from the lively glow of health, cheerfulness, and activity which formerly animated her appearance and deportment, struck me very disagreeably. With all my gallantry and fluency in love matters, I was unable to acquit myself tolerably, or to address her with any degree of ease and confidence. She was very calm, and spoke with great indifference about my marriage, &c., which mortified me exceedingly. Yet I cannot consent to believe that her present depression of spirits arises solely from Mr. Boyer's infidelity. I flatter myself that I am of sufficient consequence to her to have contributed in a degree. When I inquired after her health, she told me she had been indisposed; but was now much better. This indisposition, I am informed, was purely mental; and I am happy to observe her recovering from it. I frequently visit her, sometimes with and sometimes without my wife, of whom, through my mediation, she has become a favorite. I have married, and according to the general opinion reformed. Yet I suspect my reformation, like most others of the kind, will prove instable as "the baseless fabric of a vision," unless I banish myself entirely from her society. But that I can never do; for she is still lovely in my eyes, and I cannot control my passions. When absent from her I am lost to every thing but her idea. My wife begins to rally me on my fondness for Miss Wharton. She asked me the other day if she had a fortune. "No," said I; "if she had I should have married her." This wounded her sensibility. I repented of my sincerity, and made my peace for that time. Yet I find myself growing extremely irritable, and she must take heed how she provokes me; for I do not love her, and I think the name of wife becomes more and more distasteful to me every day. In my mind, Eliza has no competitor. But I must keep up appearances, though I endeavor to regain her love. I imagine that the enjoyment of her society as a neighbor and friend may content me for the present, and render my condition supportable. Farewell, Charles. I hope you will never be embarrassed with a wife, nor lack some favorite nymph to supply the place of one. PETER SANFORD. LETTER LIX. TO MRS. LUCY SUMNER. HARTFORD. Dear Lucy: I intended this week to have journeyed to Boston with Julia Granby; but my resolution fails me. I find it painful even to think of mixing again with the gay multitude. I believe the melancholy reflections by which I am oppressed will be more effectually, if not more easily, surmounted by tarrying where they are rendered familiar, than by going from them awhile and then returning. Julia will therefore go without me. I envy her no enjoyment there, except your company. The substitution of friendship, in the place of love, for Major Sanford, I find productive of agreeable sensations. With him, he assures me, it is a far more calm and rational pleasure. _He_ treats me with the affection and tenderness of a brother, and his _wife,_ who exceeds him in professions of regard, with all the consoling softness and attention of a sister. Indeed, their politeness has greatly contributed to revive the cheerfulness of my natural disposition. I believe the major's former partiality to me as a lover is entirely obliterated; and for my part, I feel as little restraint in his company and his lady's as in that of any other in the neighborhood. I very much regret the departure of Julia, and hope you will permit her to return to me again as soon as possible. She is a valuable friend. Her mind is well cultivated, and she has treasured up a fund of knowledge and information which renders her company both agreeable and useful in every situation of life. We lately spent the afternoon and evening at Mr. Smith's. They had a considerable number of visitants, and among the rest Major Sanford. His wife was expected, but did not come, being indisposed. I believe, my friend, you must excuse me if my letters are shorter than formerly. Writing is not so agreeable to me as it used to be. I love my friends as well as ever, but I think they must be weary of the gloom and dulness which pervade my present correspondence. When my pen shall have regained its original fluency and alertness, I will resume and prolong the pleasing task. I am, my dear Lucy, yours most affectionately, ELIZA WHARTON. LETTER LX. TO THE SAME. HARTFORD. Dear madam: Agreeably to your desire every art has been tried, every allurement held out, every argument used, and every plan adopted, which Mrs. Wharton and I could devise to induce Eliza to accompany me to Boston; but all in vain. Sometimes she has been almost persuaded to a compliance with our united request, but soon has resolutely determined against it. I have observed her sentiments to be suddenly changed after being in company with Major Sanford. This alarms us exceedingly. Indeed, the major seems to have insinuated himself into her good opinion more than ever. She is flattered into the belief that his attention to her is purely the result of friendship and benevolence. I have not so favorable an opinion of the man as to suppose him capable of either. He has become very familiar here. He calls in almost every day. Sometimes he but just inquires after our health, and sometimes makes long visits. The latter is his invariable practice when he finds Eliza alone. Mrs. Wharton always avoids seeing him if she can. She dreads, she says, his approaching the house. I entered the parlor the other day, somewhat suddenly, and found him sitting very near Eliza, in a low conversation. They both rose in apparent confusion, and he soon retired. When he was gone, "I suspect," said I, "that the major was whispering a tale of love, Eliza." "Do you imagine," said she, "that I would listen to such a theme from a married man?" "I hope not," said I, "but his conduct towards you indicates a revival of his former sentiments, at least." "I was not aware of that," said she. "As yet I have observed nothing in his behavior to me inconsistent with the purest friendship." We drank tea not long since at Mr. Smith's. Late in the afternoon Major Sanford made his appearance, to apologize, as he said, for Mrs. Sanford, who was indisposed, and could not enjoy the pleasure of the visit she had contemplated. He was very gay the whole evening; and when the company separated, he was the first to present his arm to Eliza, who accepted it without hesitation. A Mr. Newhall attended me, and we endeavored to keep them company; but they evidently chose to walk by themselves. Mr. Newhall observed, that if Major Sanford were not married he should suspect he still intended a union with Miss Wharton. I replied, that their former intercourse, having terminated in friendship, rendered them more familiar with each other than with the generality of their acquaintance. When we reached the house, Mr. Newhall chose not to go in, and took his leave. I waited at the door for Eliza and Major Sanford. At some little distance, I saw him press her hand to his lips. It vexed me exceedingly; and no sooner had they come up, than I sullenly bade them good night, and walked directly in. Eliza soon followed me. I sat down by the fire in a thoughtful posture. She did the same. In this situation we both remained for some time without speaking a word. At length she said, "You seem not to have enjoyed your walk, Miss Granby: did you not like your gallant?" "Yes," said I, "very well; but I am mortified that you were not better provided for." "I make no complaint," rejoined she; "I was very well entertained." "That is what displeases me," said I; "I mean your visible fondness for the society of such a man. Were you averse to it, as you ought to be, there would be no danger. But he has an alluring tongue and a treacherous heart. How can you be pleased and entertained by his conversation? To me it appears totally repugnant to that refinement and delicacy for which you have always been esteemed. "His assiduity and obtrusion ought to alarm you. You well know what his character has been. Marriage has not changed his disposition. It is only a cloak which conceals it. Trust him not, then, my dear Eliza; if you do, depend upon it you will find his professions of friendship to be mere hypocrisy and deceit. I fear that he is acting over again the same unworthy arts which formerly misled you. Beware of his wiles. Your friends are anxious for you. They tremble at your professed regard and apparent intimacy with that unprincipled man." "My friends," said she, "are very jealous of me lately. I know not how I have forfeited their confidence, or incurred their suspicion." "By encouraging that attention," I warmly replied, "and receiving those caresses, from a married man which are due from him to none but his wife. He is a villain if he deceived her into marriage by insincere professions of love. If he had then an affection for her, and has already discarded it, he is equally guilty. Can _you_ expect sincerity from the man who withholds it from an amiable and deserving wife? No, Eliza; it is not love which induces him to entertain you with the subject. It is a baser passion; and if you disdain not his artifice, if you listen to his flattery, you will, I fear, fall a victim to his evil machinations. If he conducted like a man of honor, he would merit your esteem; but his behavior is quite the reverse: yet, vile as he is, he would not dare to lisp his insolent hopes of your regard if you punished his presumption with the indignation it deserves; if you spurned from your presence the ungrateful wretch who would requite your condescension by triumphing in your ruin." She now burst into tears, and begged me to drop the subject. Her mind, she said, was racked by her own reflections. She could bear but little. Kindness deceived, and censure distressed her. I assured her of my good intentions; that, as I saw her danger, I thought it a duty of the friendship and affection I bore her solemnly to warn her against it before we parted. We talked over the matter more calmly, till she professed herself resolved in future to avoid his company, and reject his insinuations. The next day, as I walked out, I met Major Sanford. He accosted me very civilly. I barely bade him good morning, and passed on. I made it in my way to call at his house, and bid Mrs. Sanford adieu; not expecting another opportunity equally favorable. When I entered the parlor, she was playing a melancholy air on the harpsichord. She rose, and gave me a polite and graceful reception. I told her, as I was soon to leave the town, I called to take my leave of her--a compliment which her attention to me required. "Are you going to leave us then, Miss Granby?" said she. "I shall regret your departure exceedingly. I have so few friends in this part of the country, that it will give me sensible pain to part with one I so highly value." I told her, in the course of conversation, that I expected the pleasure of seeing her yesterday at Mr. Smith's, and was very sorry for the indisposition which prevented her favoring us with her company. "Indeed," said she, "I did not know I was expected there. Were you there, pray?" "Yes," said I; "and Major Sanford excused your not coming, on the account I have mentioned." "Well," said she, "this is the first word that I ever heard about it; he told me that business led him abroad. Did he gallant any lady?" "O," said I, "he was with us all together. We had no particular gallants." Seeing her curiosity excited, I heartily repented saying any thing of the matter, and waived the subject. Little did I suspect him to have been guilty of so base an artifice. It was evidently contrived to facilitate an interview with Eliza. When I returned, I related this affair to Mrs. Wharton and her daughter. The old lady and I expatiated largely on the vileness of this conduct, and endeavored to expose it to Eliza's view in its true colors. She pretended not to justify it; yet she looked as if she wished it in her power. I am now preparing for my journey to Boston, which I must, however, defer another week for the sake of a more agreeable passage in the stage. I regret leaving Eliza. I tremble at her danger. She has not the resolution to resist temptation which she once possessed. Her mind is surprisingly weakened. She appears sensible of this, yet adds to it by yielding to her own imbecility. You will receive a letter from her with this, though I had much difficulty to persuade her to write. She has unfortunately become very averse to this, her once favorite amusement. As I shall soon have the pleasure of conversing with you personally, I conclude without any other addition to this scrawl than the name of your obliged JULIA GRANBY. LETTER LXI. TO MISS ELIZA WHARTON. BOSTON. My dear friend: I have received your letters, and must own to you that the perusal of them gave me pain. Pardon my suspicions, Eliza; they are excited by real friendship. Julia, you say, approves not Major Sanford's particular attention to you. Neither do I. If you recollect and examine his conversation in his conciliatory visit, you will find it replete with sentiments for the avowal of which he ought to be banished from all virtuous society. Does he not insidiously declare that you are the only object of his affections; that his union with another was formed from interested views; and, though that other is acknowledged to be amiable and excellent, still he has not a heart to bestow, and expects not happiness with her? Does this discover even the appearance of amendment? Has he not, by false pretensions, misled a virtuous woman, and induced her to form a connection with him? She was a stranger to his manner of life, and doubtless allured, as you have been, by flattery, deceit, and external appearance, to trust his honor, little thinking him wholly devoid of that sacred tie. What is the reward of her confidence? Insensibility to her charms, neglect of her person, and professed attachment to another! Is he a man, my dear Eliza, whose friendship you wish to cultivate? Can that heavenly passion reside in a breast which is the seat of treachery, duplicity, and ingratitude? You are too sensible of its purity and worth to suppose it possible. The confessions of his own mouth condemn him. They convince me that he is still the abandoned libertine, and that marriage is but the cloak of his intrigues. His officious attentions to you are alarming to your friends. Your own mind weakened, and peculiarly susceptible of tender impressions, beware how you receive them from him. Listen not a moment to his flattering professions; it is an insult upon your understanding for him to offer them; it is derogatory to virtue for you to hear them. Slight not the opinion of the world. We are dependent beings; and while the smallest traces of virtuous sensibility remain, we must feel the force of that dependence in a greater or less degree. No female, whose mind is uncorrupted, can be indifferent to reputation. It is an inestimable jewel, the loss of which can never be repaired. While retained, it affords conscious peace to our own minds, and insures the esteem and respect of all around us. Blessed with the company of so disinterested and faithful a friend as Julia Granby, some deference is certainly due to her opinion and advice. To an enlarged understanding, a cultivated taste, and an extensive knowledge of the world, she unites the most liberal sentiments with a benevolence and candor of disposition, which render her equally deserving of your confidence and affection. I cannot relinquish my claim to a visit from you this winter. Marriage has not alienated nor weakened my regard for my friends. Come, then, to your faithful Lucy. Have you sorrows? I will soothe and alleviate them. Have you cares? I will dispel them. Have you pleasures? I will heighten them. Come, then, let me fold you to my expecting heart. My happiness will be partly suspended till your society renders it complete. Adieu. LUCY SUMNER. LETTER LXII. TO MISS JULIA GRANBY. HARTFORD. Dear Julia: I hope Mrs. Sumner and you will excuse my writing but one letter in answer to the number I have received from you both. Writing is an employment which suits me not at present. It was pleasing to me formerly, and therefore, by recalling the idea of circumstances and events which frequently occupied my pen in happier days, it now gives me pain. Yet I have just written a long consolatory letter to Mrs. Richman. She has buried, her babe--her little Harriet, of whom she was dotingly fond. It was a custom with some of the ancients, we are told, to weep at the birth of their children. Often should we be impelled to a compliance with this custom, could we foresee the future incidents of their lives. I think, at least, that the uncertainty of their conduct and condition in more advanced age may reconcile us to their removal to a happier state before they are capable of tasting the bitterness of woe. "Happy the babe, who, privileged by fate To shorter labors and a lighter weight, Received but yesterday the gift of breath, Ordered to-morrow to return to death." Our domestic affairs are much as when you left us. Nothing remarkable has occurred in the neighborhood worth communicating. The company and amusements of the town are as usual, I suppose. I frequent neither of them. Having incurred so much censure by the indulgence of a gay disposition, I am now trying what a recluse and solitary mode of life will, produce. You will call me splenetic. I own it. I am pleased with nobody; still less with myself. I look around for happiness, and find it not. The world is to me a desert. If I indulge myself in temporary enjoyment, the consciousness or apprehension of doing amiss destroys my peace of mind. And when I have recourse to books, if I read those of serious descriptions, they remind me of an awful futurity, for which I am unprepared; if history, it discloses facts in which I have no interest; if novels, they exhibit scenes of pleasure which I have no prospect of realizing. My mamma is solicitously attentive to my happiness; and though she fails of promoting it, yet I endeavor to save her the pangs of disappointment by appearing what she wishes. I anticipate, and yet I dread, your return; a paradox this, which time alone can solve. Continue writing to me, and entreat Mrs. Sumner, in my name, to do likewise. Your benevolence must be your reward. ELIZA WHARTON. LETTER LXIII. TO MISS ELIZA WHARTON. BOSTON. A paradox, indeed, is the greater part of your letter to us, my dear Eliza. We had fondly flattered ourselves that the melancholy of your mind was exterminated. I hope no new cause has revived it. Little did I intend, when I left you, to have been absent so long; but Mrs. Summer's disappointment, in her plan of spending the summer at Hartford, induced me, in compliance with her request, to prolong my residence here. But for your sake, she now consents to my leaving her, in hopes I may be so happy as to contribute to your amusement. I am both pleased and instructed by the conduct of this amiable woman. As I always endeavored to imitate her discreet, and modest behavior in a single state, so likewise shall I take her for a pattern should I ever enter a married life. She is most happily united. Mr. Sumner, to all the graces and accomplishments of the gentleman, adds the still more important and essential properties of virtue, integrity, and honor. I was once present when a person was recommended to her for a husband. She objected that he was a rake. "True," said the other, "he has been, but he has reformed." "That will never do for me," rejoined she; "I wish my future companion to need no reformation"--a sentiment worthy the attention of our whole sex; the general adoption of which, I am persuaded, would have a happy influence upon the manners of the other. I hope neither you nor I, Eliza, shall ever be tried by a man of debauched principles. Such characters I conceive to be totally unfit for the society of women who have any claim to virtue and delicacy. I intend to be with you in about a month. If agreeable to you, we will visit and spend a few weeks with the afflicted Mrs. Richman. I sincerely sympathize with her under her bereavement. I know her fondness for you will render your company very consoling to her; and I flatter myself that I should not be an unwelcome guest. Make my respects to your mamma, and believe me ever yours, JULIA GRANBY. LETTER LXIV. TO MRS. LUCY SUMNER. HARTFORD. Dear madam: I have arrived in safety to the mansion of our once happy and social friends. But I cannot describe to you how changed, how greatly changed this amiable family appears since I left it. Mrs. Wharton met me at the door, and, tenderly embracing, bade me a cordial welcome. "You are come, Julia," said she, "I hope, to revive and comfort us. We have been very solitary during your absence." "I am happy, madam," said I, "to return; and my endeavors to restore cheerfulness and content shall not be wanting. But where is Eliza?" By this time we had reached the back parlor, whither Mrs. Wharton led me; and, the door being open, I saw Eliza reclined on a settee, in a very thoughtful posture. When I advanced to meet her, she never moved, but sat, "like Patience on a monument, smiling at Grief." I stopped involuntarily, and involuntarily raising my eyes to heaven, exclaimed, "Is that Eliza Wharton?" She burst into tears, and attempted to rise, but sank again into her seat. Seeing her thus affected, I sat down by her, and, throwing my arm about her neck, "Why these tears?" said I. "Why this distress, my dear friend? Let not the return of your Julia give you pain; she comes to soothe you with the consolations of friendship." "It is not pain," said she, clasping me to her breast; "it is pleasure too exquisite for my weak nerves to bear. See you not, Julia, how I am altered? Should you have known me for the sprightly girl who was always welcome at the haunts of hilarity and mirth?" "Indeed," said I, "you appear indisposed; but I will be your physician. Company and change of air will, I doubt not, restore you." "Will these cure disorders of the mind, Julia?" "They will have a powerful tendency to remove them, if rightly applied; and I profess considerable skill in that art Come," continued I, "we will try these medicines in the morning. Let us rise early, and step into the chaise, and, after riding a few miles, call and breakfast with Mrs. Freeman. I have some commissions from her daughter. We shall be agreeably entertained there, you know." Being summoned to supper, I took her by the hand, and we walked into another room, where we found her brother and his wife, with her mamma, waiting for us. We were all very chatty; even Eliza resumed, in a degree, her former sociability. A settled gloom, notwithstanding, brooded on her countenance; and a deep sigh often escaped her in spite of her evident endeavors to suppress it. She went to bed before us, when her mamma informed me that her health had been declining for some months; that she never complained, but studiously concealed every symptom of indisposition. Whether it were any real disorder of body, or whether it arose from her depression of spirits, she could not tell, but supposed they operated together, and mutually heightened each other. I inquired after Major Sanford; whether he and Eliza had associated together during my absence. Sometimes, she said, they seemed on good terms, and he frequently called to see her; at others they had very little, if any, correspondence at all. She told me that Eliza never went abroad, and was very loath to see company at home; that her chief amusement consisted in solitary walks; that the dreadful idea of her meeting Major Sanford in these walks had now and then intruded upon her imagination; that she had not the least evidence of the fact, however, and, indeed, was afraid to make any inquiries into the matter, lest her own suspicions should be discovered; that the major's character was worse than ever; that he was much abroad, and frequently entertained large parties of worthless bacchanalians at his house; that common report said he treated his wife with indifference, neglect, and ill nature; with many other circumstances which it is not material to relate. Adieu, my dear friend, for the present. When occasion requires, you shall hear again from your affectionate JULIA GRANBY.

XLVIII- LXIV

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Eliza writes to Lucy of her embarrassment over writing to Mr. Boyer. Even though he was not cruel, she has "given him the power of triumphing in my distress" . She feels her bloom is lessening and she is not comforted by her mother's Christian principles. She has to pretend to be happy. She asks if their friend Julia Granby can come visit her. Lucy responds, first gently chastising her. She asks her to regain her former sense, independence, and passions. She was indeed a coquette, and erred, but she must still have admirers. She should stop being so gloomy. Lucy also writes that Julia will visit. Eliza writes Lucy of how happy she is with the young and beautiful Julia. Julia encourages her to go visit her favorite former places and amusements, but lacks the mood to do so. She asks Lucy for new books to read. Julia writes to Lucy of their friend Eliza, who is practically a recluse now. They heard Major Sanford was to be married but Eliza does not believe it. One day Julia found her holding a small miniature portrait of him, which was very distressing. She wonders how Eliza can love this man and not see his vices. She hopes Eliza will come to Boston with her. Lucy writes to Eliza, begging her to "dissipate the cloud which hangs over your imagination" . She says courage is not ignoring the storms but by steering through them with prudence. There is much joy to be found in the world's amusements. Lucy then discusses her opinions on theater and the circus, the latter of which bothers her because of women acting too unladylike. Eliza writes to Lucy, anguished that Major Sanford is married. Before this, she had felt like she was regaining cheerfulness, but now she is depressed again. Sanford writes to his friend Charles, saying that he is a married man, forced into this state. He feels some remorse for taking a wife, but she should only blame herself for being captivated by his looks. He still believes himself in love with Eliza, not his wife, and is glad she is still single. He wants to see her and make her the friend of his wife, which will "alleviate the confinement of a married state" . Eliza writes to Lucy that Major Sanford came to visit her. She was sitting with Julia and her mother and did not feel like seeing him, but Julia encouraged it as a way to get over him. She thought he looked ashamed and confused. When they were alone he told her he wished she was his wife and he wished he had gotten his situation together in time to marry her. That is why, he said, he could not marry her - because he did not want to impoverish her. He then wept, at which she marveled. She asked him never to speak of such things again. On his way out he asked if she could be friends with his wife and she said she could not yet do that. After the interview, she writes, she felt satisfied. She felt she only wanted to marry him because of his putative money, and actually preferred Mr. Boyer. She is glad not to be confused, and hopes to emerge from darkness. She is not sure about Boston. Julia writes to Lucy that Eliza seems more cheerful but says there is evidence of "a mind not perfectly right" . She thinks Eliza was fooled by the Major's visit, and still wonders how she cannot read his countenance. When they encountered him and his wife the other day, Julia was struck how he stared only at Eliza. Eliza spoke kindly of Mrs. Sanford and said she planned to visit her. Eliza writes to Lucy that she received an invitation to dine from the Sanfords, and she and Julia went. At the party the Major spoke privately to her, and she said she was not the same, and a tear rolled down her cheek. The Major seemed distressed. Julia noticed and told Eliza later that she thought he was too attentive, and the world was noticing. Eliza responded that she cared not for the "ill-natured, misjudging world" . She sees no harm in being friends with the Major since he is married and therefore harmless. Major Sanford writes to Charles, exulting that he is now at peace with Eliza. He teases that it took a little time since he married someone else. She is different now, and calm, which he attributes to himself, not Mr. Boyer. He laughs that he doubts he is really reformed, and hopes to see the lovely Eliza often. His wife has commented on her, but he cares not, and irritably replied that he should have married Eliza instead. He ends by saying he hopes Charles will never be "embarrassed with a wife, nor lack some favorite nymph to supply the place of one" . Eliza writes Julia that she is not coming to Boston, and sends Julia alone. She does not wish to join society. She does not think the Major is partial to her anymore, and feels at ease with him and his wife. She ends by apologizing for not writing as much, for she does not enjoy it anymore. She thinks her friends must be weary of her sadness. Julia writes to Lucy that she is disappointed Eliza will not come to Boston. She thinks her much different after her interaction with the Major as well; he is too attentive and, once after a party, she saw him kiss Eliza's hand. She asks Eliza why his behavior does not alarm her. She then says she should not trick herself that he is sincere and that their engagement is a "baser passion" . Eliza eventually burst into tears and beseeched Julia to end the discussion. Julia prepares to leave but is nervous to leave Eliza. Lucy writes to Eliza, trying to convince her to see how Major Sanford is a libertine and her reputation, "an inestimable jewel" , is the only thing that matters. Eliza responds, saying she is not interested in writing of late. She conveys the news she heard that Mrs. Richman's daughter died. She muses about how she is pleased with no one, especially not herself. She is also trying to be strong for her mother, but feels terrible inside. Julia writes to Eliza, saying she had hoped she would feel better but it seems she is not. She speaks a bit about Lucy and Mr. Sumner's happy union, and that she hopes she and Eliza will not "ever be tried by a man of debauched principles" . Julia writes to Lucy of her return to the Wharton home and how Eliza is consumed by her grief. She seems haunted and her health appears to be in decline. Mrs. Wharton told Julia that Eliza and the Major talked occasionally but Eliza shied away from the public. It also seemed that the Major's character was worse than ever, as he was always traveling with his debauched friends and spending massive amounts of money.

In the aftermath of Eliza's failure to secure marriage to Mr. Boyer, the climax of the novel, she suffers a precipitous decline. She is humiliated not only by the original event but also when he smugly writes back that he is married to Maria Selby, who, his subtext reads, is actually worthy of him. She grows reclusive and depressed, which everyone who sees her noticed. She claims that her looks are fading and her friends' words are no consolation. The news of Major Sanford's marriage is a terrible blow, but he does his best to secure her sympathy and continued friendship by a display of love, regret, and apology. This does little to improve Eliza's spirits, however, as she becomes further enmeshed with him. She states that she does not love him, and can regard him as a friend because he is married, but it is clear to the reader that the combination of the marriages of Boyer and Sanford and her own ascending years and dismal failure of her attempt to act in a sphere of freedom has rendered her mordantly melancholy. The danger now, as her friends see it, is that she may enter into an inappropriate relationship with Sanford as a married man. Julia continually chastises her, with comments such as "His assiduity, and obtrusion ought to alarm you" and "it is not love, which induces him to entertain you with the subject! It is baser passion" . Lucy sums up what is at stake in her pronouncement: "Slight not the opinion of the world... No female, whose mind is uncorrupted, can be indifferent to reputation. It is an inestimable jewel, the loss of which can never be repaired" . Eliza's friends are right to note that Major Sanford is dangerous, and that she should not dally with a married man, but the entire situation is a result of the gendered system in which the characters exist. Critic David Waldstreicher writes, "The injustices of the patriarchal society constitute both the tragedy and the realism in this story of seduction." Eliza is, as most contemporary critics agree, the typical 18th-century woman. Heidi Johnson notes, "the novel shows that even with middle-class status and an education, women had few choices." Eliza is firmly put in her place when she attempts to exercise her freedom. Having escaped one marriage that would have been disastrous, she tries to listen to her heart before entering another, but is not allowed to consider the shortcomings of a potential husband. She must accept someone in her social class with a decent reputation. She is not allowed to entertain multiple flirtations. As Cathy Davidson notes, the problem does not lie in the fact that Eliza sets her sights too high, but rather the model she seeks to emulate - the egalitarian and mutually affirming Richmans. She is offered, "instead, a difficult choice between unsatisfactory alternatives, a common quandary in early American sentimental novels and a dilemma no doubt faced by many young American women." Another interesting lens with which to view Eliza and her quest for freedom is in the context of the young nation's own quest for freedom. Walter P. Wenska, Jr. acclaims Foster's commitment to making her novel about something more than just a young woman's misadventures in love. He writes that it "suggests that the health of the republic in no small way depends on the maintenance of a social order newly threatened by misapprehensions of the nature and meaning of freedom." Eliza, exhilarated by her freedom in the aftermath of the death of Mr. Haly, reflects an equally exhilarated America. This makes her similar to other classic American questers for freedom, such as Natty Bumppo, Isabel Archer, and Dean Moriarty. Her choices of suitors reflect a choice between reason and emotion, but Eliza regards marriage as "unfreedom." Wenska calls her an antinomian, and says in this case she actually has a lot in common with Sanford. Both of them are defeated in their quests, however - "what neither can ever be free from, of course, is their imperfect selves, their 'natural dispositions.'" Wenska concludes that their quests are doomed from the beginning, "compromised by biological and economic facts of our social life. Inevitably frustrated by psychological determinants beyond our comprehension or control." Wenska admires Lucy, who, tellingly, gives up the name "Freeman" and reconciles liberty and matrimony, the individual and the social order. She is the ideal that citizens of the young nation must look to. Eliza may be a hero of sorts, and most certainly a rebel, but Foster notes that that is not entirely sustainable in this time period.

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The Coquette.chapters 65-74

chapters 65-74

{"name": "LXV-LXXIV", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180327091504/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-coquette/study-guide/summary-lxv-lxxiv", "summary": "Sanford exults that he has finally possessed Eliza completely . He says it was a long siege and he had to try every trick possible, but he has succeeded. However, \"a miraculous accident, has taken place, which must soon expose our amour\" ; it seems she is pregnant. His own wife just bore a child but it was dead. He does not care, though, and wants to be with his friends or Eliza. Julia is coming back, and he tells Charles how attractive she is but that she accepts no flirtation from him. Julia writes to Lucy in tremendous distress because she knows Eliza's secret. She saw a man leaving the house very late. She confronted Eliza and she admitted it. Julia criticized her harshly for abandoning her virtue. Eliza, frail and wan, says she will most likely not be around longer, and asks for pity. Julia wonders what her poor mother would say, and burst into tears. Eliza was very affected, and said she was guilty and expected no mercy, but hoped to reconcile with her mother. The next morning Julia had breakfast with Mrs. Wharton, who asked Julia if she knew why Eliza was suffering so much of late, but Julia kept her friend's secret for the time. The girls went out riding, and Julia asked Eliza how she could have been entranced by such a libertine. Eliza replied that it was because she was coquettish and lost Mr. Boyer, and believed foolishly that the Major's marriage would keep her safe. She wanted to renounce him but felt it was too late. Now she is full of grief and has a disordered mind. She added, \"the little innocent I bear, will quickly disclose its mother's shame!\" . She hoped it will not live because of the shame and lack of parents. She said she had a plan, and Julia worried it might be to take her own life. Eliza said she would not do so, but she wanted to write her mother and go forward from there. Julia writes to Lucy again, wailing that Eliza is gone. She is forsaken and gone from her home. She recounts the tale of Eliza's vanishing. Eliza went into the garden to meet Major Sanford, then went back upstairs. She was weighed down with depression, and told Julia it was all done and would be known tomorrow. Julia was confused, but still did not tell Mrs. Wharton when the older woman confessed her worries about what might be upsetting her daughter. At dinner Eliza was overwhelmed and fell to her mother's feet, crying that she was a wretch and forfeited her mother's love. Her mother implored that that could never happen and she forgave her. Eliza rushed out. Later Julia met with Eliza, and Eliza gave her two letters: one for Eliza's mother, one for herself. They were not to be opened until tomorrow. Julia told Eliza that she forgave her and did not hold her guilty anymore, as her repentant tears blotted the guilt out. Eliza thanked her and said her heart was lightened. Later, though, Julia heard the rattling of a carriage and saw Eliza taken away. Aghast, she ran to see Eliza's empty room, then told Mrs. Wharton. The woman was overcome, especially after she read the letter. They wondered where she might have fled. After two days they wrote to Major Sanford after hearing he was at home. He assured them Eliza was comfortable and taken care of. The women were mildly mollified but still tried to find her whereabouts. Eliza's letter to her mother is full of apologies and explanations of her despair and regret. She says she cannot bear her mother's sighs or the company of her reproachful friends. She cannot call on her mother's pity but hopes for her forgiveness, especially as her internal distress is acute. She must leave her paternal roof and be at rest, trusting in God. Eliza's letter to Julia says she is going away forever. If she is restored to health, perhaps she will come back and lead a life in which she \"expiate my past offenses\" . If she dies and her child lives, she hopes her mother will raise it in an affectionate and pious manner. She also asks Julia to put in a good word for her with Mrs. Richman and Lucy Sumner. She thanks her for her love and affection, and implores her to remember her before she was corrupted. Major Sanford writes to Charles that he has finally secured the removal of his darling Eliza. He was a bit confused at her romantic notions and her sadness at leaving her mother. He is also distressed that she is so depressed, and hopes she will not die. He even wonders if he might not marry her if his wife, who hates him and plans to return to her father, divorces him. He likes this idea but is not sure he wants to marry a girl who could be seduced. He wishes he could have had both his passion and her virtue. He tells Charles he might have to move because everyone in the neighborhood is against him. He speaks of how harshly Eliza chastised him and told him how she was destroyed, but how she was also to blame because his character was obvious. He hopes to visit her and find her more agreeable. Julia writes to Lucy that the tragedy has reached its apotheosis. She first heard that Major Sanford was bankrupt and had to give up his property. He told Julia he did not know how Eliza was doing. A Boston paper, though, revealed to Julia the horrid truth - Eliza bore a child, it died, and then she died too. Julia was horrified that she died alone. Eliza's brother went to the place - a small tavern - and found it comfortable and the people kind. Some of Eliza's last scraps of writing were there, which revealed a calm mood. Julia also heard the Major was frantic. He had lost his property and his wife and was now impoverished. Julia railed against men like him, especially the one who took away her friend. Major Sanford writes to Charles that he is traumatized by Eliza's death. He must flee the area but does not know how he can ever find happiness again. He feels his tremendous guilt and recoils at his past behavior. Lucy writes to Julia, sharing in her grief and hoping Mrs. Wharton finds consolation. She proclaims that only virtue alone has meaning. Julia writes to Mrs. Wharton of going to see where Eliza passed, and of the humble gravestone paid for by Mrs. Sumner by which to remember their friend.", "analysis": "Eliza's sorry tale is over - she is completely lost, her terrible fate irreversible. There are many possible messages to take away from the end of the work. In its own day, it was read as a morality tale: Eliza more or less deserved her fate because she allowed her virtue to be corrupted. Now, however, we see it as an example of the limitations faced by young women in a patriarchal society. Foster's own intentions seem to fall somewhere in the middle. She was a product of her time, and no doubt saw some fault in Eliza's behavior, but she also had great sympathy for the woman upon which her tale was based . She strove to flesh out the story and her characters, moving away from stereotypes and endeavoring to show that Eliza was not simply a silly, stupid coquette. Instead, she portrayed Eliza as a young woman who genuinely desired to make her own choices but was limited by society and beset upon by a complicated man . Critic Heidi Johnson notes this complexity in the characters. \"Wharton is virtuous but indecisive, Boyer is moderate but proud, and Sanford is calculating yet strangely sincere.\" She also notes, \"the female voice comes through most clearly. The novel offers a rare chance for the fallen woman to explain herself... is sincere and intelligent, she knows her weaknesses and her strengths; she is human and stumbles only after her options have disappeared.\" The tomb erected for her at the end of the novel, as Claire C. Pettengill writes, \"does rescue her from eternal infamy\" and is a \"witness to her virtues and her friends' enduring love, demonstrating that there is more than one way of seeing even the most conventional moral tale.\" One of the main reasons that Eliza has issues with her marriage options is social class, which many critics have identified as a main theme of the novel. Eliza is caught, as critic Kristie Hamilton writes, between the \"competing appeals of the republican expectation of marrying within one's own socioeconomic class... and the opportunities for upward mobility in the late eighteenth-century, urban America.\" This was a difficult time period in which to be a middle-class woman searching for stability, as the country tried to mediate between order and freedom. Eliza is stuck, wondering if she should settle for Mr. Boyer or look upward to Major Sanford. Other issues complicate the situation further . Hamilton writes, \"with the fluidity of class identification came the vulnerability of young men and women to a whole new spectrum of confidence games.\" This is why it is so problematic that Eliza is labeled a coquette, as the coquette was usually seen as despicable and depraved. Coquettes were associated with urban America, which was full of fashion, entertainment, and leisure. Hamilton argues that \"a major achievement of Foster's novel is, therefore, that it dramatizes in all its complexity the conflict in the mind of her protagonist between republican virtue and the appeal of materialism in an urban context.\" Eliza is chastised for her behavior at the same time as she is encouraged in it. At different points both Lucy and Mrs. Richman tell her to go out and enjoy herself. However, the message from all of her confidantes and advisers is that she should be content with the station she was given. Eliza knows she should choose Boyer - and halfheartedly does - because he is at her level, but remains entranced by the possibilities of a union with Sanford. The marriages that succeed in the novel - the Sumners and the Richmans - are those in which the participants are from the same class. Eliza cannot help escaping the lures of the city and of possible affluence, which takes away some of the blame for her eventual demise. Hamilton ends her analysis by saying that the main question the novel poses is if American society can \"find a way of resolving the conflict between necessity and desire, between ideology and experience, that will provide clearly defined and workable roles for women as well as men in a rapidly developing urban environment.\" One final thing to look at is the character of Sanford, who also suffers greatly. A question throughout the text is whether or not he loved Eliza, and by the end of the novel it seems clear that, in his own way, he did. He too is \"punished\" for his bad behavior, losing his wife, Eliza, money, and reputation. He is forced out of the neighborhood and left alone with his grief and guilt. It is possible that he could move on quickly to some other young woman in a far-off town, but for the time being, he seems truly affected by what happened to Eliza."}

LETTER LXV. TO MR. CHARLES DEIGHTON. HARTFORD. Good news, Charles, good news! I have arrived to the utmost bounds of my wishes--the full possession of my adorable Eliza. I have heard a quotation from a certain book, but what book it was I have forgotten, if I ever knew. No matter for that; the quotation is, that "stolen waters are sweet, and bread eaten in secret is pleasant." If it has reference to the pleasures which I have enjoyed with Eliza, I like it hugely, as Tristram Shandy's father said of Yorick's sermon; and I think it fully verified. I had a long and tedious siege. Every method which love could suggest, or art invent, was adopted. I was sometimes ready to despair, under an idea that her resolution was unconquerable, her virtue impregnable. Indeed, I should have given over the pursuit long ago, but for the hopes of success I entertained from her parleying with me, and, in reliance upon her own strength, endeavoring to combat and counteract my designs. Whenever this has been the case, Charles, I have never yet been defeated in my plan. If a lady will consent to enter the lists against the antagonist of her honor, she may be sure of losing the prize. Besides, were her delicacy genuine, she would banish the man at once who presumed to doubt, which he certainly does who attempts to vanquish it. But far be it from me to criticize the pretensions of the sex. If I gain the rich reward of my dissimulation and gallantry, that, you know, is all I want. To return, then, to the point. An unlucky, but not a miraculous accident has taken place which must soon expose our amour. What can be done? At the first discovery, absolute distraction seized the soul of Eliza, which has since terminated in a fixed melancholy. Her health, too, is much impaired. She thinks herself rapidly declining, and I tremble when I see her emaciated form. My wife has been reduced very low of late. She brought me a boy a few weeks past, a dead one though. These circumstances give me neither pain nor pleasure. I am too much engrossed by my divinity to take an interest in any thing else. True, I have lately suffered myself to be somewhat engaged here and there by a few jovial lads who assist me in dispelling the anxious thoughts which my perplexed situation excites. I must, however, seek some means to relieve Eliza's distress. My finances are low; but the last fraction shall be expended in her service, if she need it. Julia Granby is expected at Mrs. Wharton's every hour. I fear that her inquisitorial eye will soon detect our intrigue and obstruct its continuation. Now, there's a girl, Charles, I should never attempt to seduce; yet she is a most alluring object, I assure you. But the dignity of her manners forbids all assaults upon her virtue. Why, the very expression of her eye blasts in the bud every thought derogatory to her honor, and tells you plainly that the first insinuation of the kind would be punished with eternal banishment and displeasure. Of her there is no danger. But I can write no more, except that I am, &c., PETER SANFORD. LETTER LXVI. TO MRS. LUCY SUMNER. HARTFORD. O my friend, I have a tale to unfold--a tale which will rend every nerve of sympathizing pity, which will rack the breast of sensibility, and unspeakably distress your benevolent heart. Eliza--O, the ruined, lost Eliza! I want words to express the emotions of indignation and grief which oppress me. But I will endeavor to compose myself, and relate the circumstances as they came to my knowledge. After my last letter Eliza remained much in the same gloomy situation as I found her. She refused to go, agreeably to her promise, to visit your mamma, and, under one pretext or another, has constantly declined accompanying me any where else since my arrival. Till last Thursday night she slept in the same bed with me, when she excused herself by saying she was restless, and should disturb my repose. I yielded to her humor of taking a different apartment, little suspecting the real cause. She frequently walked out, and though I sometimes followed, I very seldom found her. Two or three times, when I happened to be awake, I heard her go down stairs; and, on inquiry in the morning, she told me that she was very thirsty, and went down for water. I observed a degree of hesitancy in her answers for which I could not account. But last night the dreadful mystery was developed. A little before day, I heard the front door open with great caution. I sprang from my bed, and, running to the window, saw by the light of the moon a man going from the house. Soon after, I perceived a footstep upon the stairs, which carefully approached, and entered Eliza's chamber. Judge of my astonishment, my surprise, my feelings upon this occasion. I doubted not but Major Sanford was the person I had seen; and the discovery of Eliza's guilt in this infamous intrigue almost deprived me of thought and recollection. My blood thrilled with horror at this sacrifice of virtue. After a while I recovered myself, and put on my clothes. But what to do I knew not--whether to go directly to her chamber, and let her know that she was detected, or to wait another opportunity. I resolved on the first. The day had now dawned. I tapped at her door, and she bade me come in. She was sitting in an easy chair by the side of her bed. As I entered she withdrew her handkerchief from her face, and, looking earnestly at me, said, "What procures me the favor of a visit at this early hour, Miss Granby?" "I was disturbed," said I, "and wished not to return to my bed. But what breaks your rest, and calls you up so unseasonably, Eliza?" "Remorse and despair," answered she, weeping. "After what I have witnessed, this morning," rejoined I, "I cannot wonder at it. Was it not Major Sanford whom I saw go from the house some time ago?" She was silent, but tears flowed abundantly. "It is too late," continued I, "to deny or evade. Answer my question sincerely; for, believe me, Eliza, it is not malice, but concern for you, which prompts it." "I will answer you, Julia," said she. "You have discovered a secret which harrows up my very soul--a secret which I wished you to know, but could not exert resolution to reveal. Yes, it was Major Sanford--the man who has robbed me of my peace, who has triumphed in my destruction, and who will cause my sun to set at noon." "I shudder," said I, "at your confession! Wretched, deluded girl! Is this a return for your parent's love and assiduous care; for your friends' solicitude and premonitory advice? You are ruined, you say! You have sacrificed your virtue to an abandoned, despicable profligate! And you live to acknowledge and bear your infamy!" "I do," said she; "but not long shall I support this burden. See you not, Julia, my decaying frame, my faded cheek, and tottering limbs? Soon shall I be insensible to censure and reproach. Soon shall I be sequestered in that mansion 'where the wicked cease from troubling, and where the weary are at rest.'" "Rest!" said I; "can you expect to find rest, either in this world or another, with such a weight of guilt on your head?" She exclaimed, with great emotion, "Add not to the upbraidings of a wounded spirit. Have pity upon me, O my friend, have pity upon me. Could you know what I suffer, you would think me sufficiently punished." "I wish you no other punishment," said I, "than what may effect your repentance and reformation. But your mother, Eliza! She cannot long be ignorant of your fall; and I tremble to think of her distress. It will break her widowed heart. How has she loved, how has she doted upon you! Dreadful is the requital which you have made." "My mother," rejoined she, "O, name her not! The very sound is distraction to me. O my Julia, if your heart be not shut against mercy and compassion towards me, aid me through this trying scene. Let my situation call forth your pity, and induce you, undeserving as I am, to exert it in my behalf." During this time, I had walked the chamber. My spirits had been raised above their natural key, and were exhausted. I sat down, but thought I should have fainted, till a copious flood of tears gave me relief. Eliza was extremely affected. The appearance of calamity which she exhibited would have softened the most obdurate anger. Indeed, I feared some immediate and fatal effect. I therefore seated myself beside her; and assuming an air of kindness, "Compose yourself, Eliza," said I; "I repeat what I told you before--it is the purest friendship which thus interests me in your concerns. This, under the direction of charity, induces me again to offer you my hand. Yet you have erred against knowledge and reason, against warning and counsel. You have forfeited the favor of your friends, and reluctant will be their forgiveness." "I plead guilty," said she, "to all your charges. From the general voice I expect no clemency. If I can make my peace with my mother, it is all I seek or wish on this side the grave. In your benevolence I confide for this. In you I hope to find an intercessor. By the remembrance of our former affection and happiness, I conjure you, refuse me not At present, I entreat you to conceal from her this distressing tale. A short, reprieve is all I ask." "Why," said I, "should you defer it? When the painful task is over, you may find relief in her lenient kindness." "After she knows my condition, I cannot see her," resumed she, "till I am assured of her forgiveness. I have not strength to support the appearance of her anger and grief. I will write to her what I cannot speak. You must bear the melancholy message, and plead for me, that her displeasure may not follow me to the grave, whither I am rapidly hastening." "Be assured," replied I, "that I will keep your secret as long as prudence requires. But I must leave you now; your mamma will wonder at our being thus closeted together. When opportunity presents, we will converse further on the subject. In the mean time keep yourself as composed as possible, if you would avoid suspicion." She raised her clasped hands, and with a piteous look, threw her handkerchief over her face, and reclined in her chair, without speaking a word. I returned to my chamber, and endeavored to dissipate every idea which might tend to disorder my countenance, and break the silence I wished to observe relative to what had happened. When I went down, Mrs. Wharton desired me to step up and inform Eliza that breakfast was ready. She told me she could not yet compose herself sufficiently to see her mamma, and begged me to excuse her absence as I thought proper. I accordingly returned for answer to Mrs. Wharton, that Eliza had rested but indifferently, and being somewhat indisposed, would not come down, but wished me to bring her a bowl of chocolate, when we had breakfasted. I was obliged studiously to suppress even my thoughts concerning her, lest the emotions they excited might be observed. Mrs. Wharton conversed much of her daughter, and expressed great concern about her health and state of mind. Her return to this state of dejection, after having recovered her spirits and cheerfulness in a great degree, was owing, she feared, to some cause unknown to her; and she entreated me to extract the secret, if possible. I assured her of my best endeavors, and doubted not, I told her, but I should be able in a few days to effect what she wished. Eliza came down and walked in the garden before dinner; at which she commanded herself much better than I expected. She said that a little ride might, she imagined, be of service to her, and asked me if I would accompany her a few miles in the afternoon. Her mamma was much pleased with the proposition, and the chaise was accordingly ordered. I observed to Eliza, as we rode, that with her natural and acquired abilities, with her advantages of education, with her opportunities of knowing the world, and of tracing the virtues and vices of mankind to their origin, I was surprised at her becoming the prey of an insidious libertine, with whose character she was well acquainted, and whose principles, she was fully apprised, would prompt him to deceive and betray her. "Your surprise is very natural," said she. "The same will doubtless be felt and expressed by every one to whom my sad story is related. But the cause may be found in that unrestrained levity of disposition, that fondness for dissipation and coquetry, which alienated the affections of Mr. Boyer from me. This event fatally depressed and enfeebled my mind. I embraced with avidity the consoling power of friendship, insnaringly offered by my seducer; vainly inferring, from his marriage with a virtuous woman, that he had seen the error of his ways, and forsaken his licentious practices, as he affirmed, and I, fool that I was, believed it. "It is needless for me to rehearse the perfidious arts by which he insinuated himself into my affections and gained my confidence. Suffice it to say, he effected his purpose. But not long did I continue in the delusive dream of sensual gratification. I soon awoke to a most poignant sense of his baseness, and of my own crime and misery. I would have fled from him; I would have renounced him forever, and by a life of sincere humility and repentance endeavored to make my peace with Heaven, and to obliterate, by the rectitude of my future conduct, the guilt I had incurred; but I found it too late. My circumstances called for attention; and I had no one to participate my cares, to witness my distress, and to alleviate my sorrows, but him. I could not therefore prevail on myself wholly to renounce his society. At times I have admitted his visits, always meeting him in the garden, or grove adjoining; till, of late, the weather and my ill health induced me to comply with his solicitations, and receive him into the parlor. "Not long, however, shall I be subject to these embarrassments. Grief has undermined my constitution. My health has fallen a sacrifice to a disordered mind. But I regret not its departure. I have not a single wish to live. Nothing which the world affords can restore my former serenity and happiness. "The little innocent I bear will quickly disclose its mother's shame. God Almighty grant it may not live as a monument of my guilt, and a partaker of the infamy and sorrow, which is all I have to bequeath it. Should it be continued in life, it will never know the tenderness of a parent; and, perhaps, want and disgrace may be its wretched portion. The greatest consolation I can have will be to carry it with me to a state of eternal rest; which, vile as I am, I hope to obtain, through the infinite mercy of Heaven, as revealed in the gospel of Christ. I must see Major Sanford again. It is necessary to converse further with him in order to carry my plan of operation into execution." "What is this plan of operation, Eliza?" said I. "I am on the rack of anxiety for your safety." "Be patient," continued she, "and you shall soon be informed. To-morrow I shall write my dreadful story to my mother. She will be acquainted with my future intentions; and you shall know, at the same time, the destination of your lost friend." "I hope," said I, "that you have formed no resolution against your own life." "God forbid," rejoined she. "My breath is in his hands; let him do what seemeth good in his sight! Keep my secret one day longer, and I will never more impose so painful a silence upon you." By this time we had reached home. She drank tea with composure, and soon retired to rest. Mrs. Wharton eagerly inquired whether I had found out the cause of Eliza's melancholy. "I have urged her," said I, "on the subject; but she alleges that she has particular reasons for present concealment. She has, notwithstanding, promised to let me know the day after to-morrow." "O," said she, "I shall not rest till the period arrives." "Dear, good woman," said I to myself, "I fear you will never rest afterwards." This is our present situation. Think what a scene rises to the view of your Julia. She must share the distress of others, though her own feelings on this unhappy occasion are too keen to admit a moment's serenity. My greatest relief is in writing to you; which I shall do again by the next post. In the mean time, I must beg leave to subscribe myself sincerely yours, JULIA GRANBY. LETTER LXVII. TO THE SAME. HARTFORD. All is now lost; lost indeed! She is gone! Yes, my dear friend, our beloved Eliza is gone! Never more shall we behold this once amiable companion, this once innocent and happy girl. She has forsaken, and, as she says, bid an everlasting adieu to her home, her afflicted parent, and her friends. But I will take up my melancholy story where I left it in my last. She went, as she told me she expected, into the garden, and met her detestable paramour. In about an hour she returned, and went directly to her chamber. At one o'clock I went up, and found her writing, and weeping. I begged her to compose herself, and go down to dinner. No, she said, she should not eat; and was not fit to appear before any body. I remonstrated against her immoderate grief, represented the injury she must sustain by the indulgence of it, and conjured her to suppress the violence of its emotions. She entreated me to excuse her to her mamma; said she was writing to her, and found it a task too painful to be performed with any degree of composure; that she was almost ready to sink under the weight of her affliction; but hoped and prayed for support both in this and another trying scene which awaited her. In compliance with her desire, I now left her, and told her mamma that she was very busy writing, wished not to be interrupted at present, but would take some refreshment an hour or two hence. I visited her again about four o'clock; when she appeared more calm and tranquil. "It is finished," said she, as I entered her apartment; "it is finished." "What," said I, "is finished?" "No matter," replied she; "you will know all to-morrow, Julia." She complained of excessive fatigue, and expressed an inclination to lie down; in which I assisted her, and then retired. Some time after, her mamma went up, and found her still on the bed. She rose, however, and accompanied her down stairs. I met her at the door of the parlor, and, taking her by the hand, inquired how she did. "O Julia, miserably indeed," said she. "How severely does my mother's kindness reproach me! How insupportably it increases my self-condemnation!" She wept; she rung her hands, and walked the room in the greatest agony. Mrs. Wharton was exceedingly distressed by her appearance. "Tell me, Eliza," said she, "tell me the cause of your trouble. O, kill me not by your mysterious concealment. My dear child, let me by sharing alleviate your affliction." "Ask me not, madam," said she; "O my mother, I conjure you not to insist on my divulging to-night the fatal secret which engrosses and distracts my mind; to-morrow I will hide nothing from you." "I will press you no further," rejoined her mamma. "Choose your own time, my dear; but remember, I must participate your grief, though I know not the cause." Supper was brought in, and we endeavored to prevail on Eliza to eat, but in vain. She sat down in compliance with our united importunities; but neither of us tasted food. It was removed untouched. For a while, Mrs. Wharton and I gazed in silent anguish upon the spectacle of woe before us. At length Eliza rose to retire. "Julia," said she, "you will call at my chamber as you pass to your own?" I assented. She then approached her mamma, fell upon her knees before her, and clasping her hand, said, in broken accents, "O madam, can you forgive a wretch, who has forfeited your love, your kindness, and your compassion?" "Surely, Eliza," said she, "you are not that being! No, it is impossible! But however great your transgression, be assured of my forgiveness, my compassion, and my continued love." Saying this, she threw her arms about her daughter's neck, and affectionately kissed her. Eliza struggled from her embrace, and looking at her with wild despair, exclaimed, "This is too much! O, this unmerited goodness is more than I can bear!" She then rushed precipitately out of the room, and left us overwhelmed in sympathy and astonishment. When Mrs. Wharton had recovered herself a little, she observed that Eliza's brain was evidently disordered. "Nothing else," continued she, "could impel her to act in this extraordinary manner." At first she was resolved to follow her; but I dissuaded her from it, alleging that, as she had desired me to come into her chamber, I thought it better for me to go alone. She acquiesced, but said she should not think of going to bed, but would, however, retire to her chamber, and seek consolation there. I bade her good night, and went up to Eliza, who took me by the hand, and led me to the toilet, upon which she laid the two enclosed letters, the one to her mamma, and the other to me. "These," said she, "contain what I had not resolution to express. Promise me, Julia, that they shall not be opened till to-morrow morning." "I will," said I. "I have thought and wept," continued she, "till I have almost exhausted my strength and my reason. I would now obtain a little respite, that I may prepare my mind for the account I am one day to give at a higher tribunal than that of earthly friends. For this purpose, what I have written, and what I shall yet say to you, must close the account between you and me." "I have certainly no balance against you," said I. "In my breast you are fully acquitted. Your penitential tears have obliterated your guilt and blotted out your errors with your Julia. Henceforth, be they all forgotten. Live, and be happy." "Talk not," said she, "of life; it would be a vain hope, though I cherished it myself. 'That I must die, it is my only comfort; Death is the privilege of human nature, And life without it were not worth the taking. Thither the poor, the prisoner, and the mourner Fly for relief, and lay their burdens down.' You have forgiven me, Julia; my mother has assured me of her forgiveness; and what have I more to wish? My heart is much lightened by these kind assurances; they will be a great support to me in the dreadful hour which awaits me." "What mean you, Eliza?" said I. "I fear some dreadful purpose labors in your mind." "O, no," she replied; "you may be assured your fear is groundless. I know not what I say; my brain is on fire; I am all confusion. Leave me, Julia; when I have had a little rest, I shall be composed. These letters have almost distracted me; but they are written, and I am comparatively easy." "I will not leave you, Eliza," said I, "unless you will go directly to bed, and endeavor to rest." "I will," said she, "and the sooner the better." I tenderly embraced her, and retired, though not to bed. About an hour after, I returned to her chamber, and opening the door very softly, found her apparently asleep. I acquainted Mrs. Wharton with her situation, which was a great consolation to us both, and encouraged us to go to bed: having suffered much in my mind, and being much fatigued, I soon fell asleep; but the rattling of a carriage, which appeared to stop a little distance from the house, awoke me. I listened a moment, and heard the door turn slowly on its hinges. I sprang from my bed, and reached the window just in time to see a female handed into a chaise by a man who hastily followed her, and drove furiously away. I at once concluded they could be no other than Eliza and Major Sanford. Under this impression I made no delay, but ran immediately to her chamber. A candle was burning on the table, but Eliza was not there. I thought it best to acquaint her mamma with the melancholy discovery, and, stepping to her apartment for the purpose, found her rising. She had heard me walk, and was anxious to know the cause. "What is the matter, Julia?" said she; "what is the matter?" "Dear madam," said I, "arm yourself with fortitude." "What new occurrence demands it?" rejoined she. "Eliza has left us." "Left us! What mean you?" "She has just gone; I saw her handed into a chaise, which instantly disappeared." At this intelligence she gave a shriek, and fell back on her bed. I alarmed the family, and by their assistance soon recovered her. She desired me to inform her of every particular relative to her elopement, which I did, and then delivered her the letter which Eliza had left for her. "I suspect," said she, as she took it; "I have long suspected what I dared not believe. The anguish of my mind has been known only to myself and my God." I could not answer her, and therefore withdrew. When I had read Eliza's letter to me, and wept over the sad fall, and, as I fear, the total loss of this once amiable and accomplished girl, I returned to Mrs. Wharton. She was sitting in her easy chair, and still held the fatal letter in her hand. When I entered, she fixed her streaming eyes upon me, and exclaimed, "O Julia, this is more than the bitterness of death." "True, madam," said I, "your affliction must be great; yet that all-gracious Being who controls every event is able, and I trust disposed, to support you." "To him," replied she, "I desire humbly to resign myself; but I think I could have borne almost any other calamity with greater resignation and composure than this. With how much comparative ease could I have followed her to the grave at any period since her birth! O, my child, my child! dear, very dear, hast thou been to my fond heart. Little did I think it possible for you to prepare so dreadful a cup of sorrow for your widowed mother. But where," continued she, "where can the poor fugitive have fled? Where can she find that protection and tenderness, which, notwithstanding her great apostasy, I should never have withheld? From whom can she receive those kind attentions which her situation demands." The agitation of her mind had exhausted her strength, and I prevailed on her to refresh and endeavor to compose herself to rest, assuring her of my utmost exertions to find out Eliza's retreat, and restore her to a mother's arms. I am obliged to suppress my own emotions, and to bend all my thoughts towards the alleviation of Mrs. Wharton's anxiety and grief. Major Sanford is from home, as I expected; and I am determined, if he return, to see him myself, and extort from him the place of Eliza's concealment. Her flight in her present state of health is inexpressibly distressing to her mother; and unless we find her soon, I dread the effects. I shall not close this till I have seen or heard from the vile miscreant who has involved a worthy family in wretchedness. _Friday morning._--Two days have elapsed without affording us much relief. Last evening, I was told that Major Sanford was at home. I immediately wrote him a billet, entreating and conjuring him to let me know where the hapless Eliza had fled. He returned me the following answer:-- "Miss Granby need be under no apprehensions respecting the situation of our beloved Eliza. She is well provided for, conveniently accommodated, and has every thing to make her happy which love and affluence can give. "Major Sanford has solemnly sworn not to discover her retreat. She wishes to avoid the accusations of her friends till she is better able to bear them. "Her mother may rest assured of immediate information, should any danger threaten her amiable daughter; and also of having seasonable notice of her safety." Although little dependence can be placed upon this man, yet these assurances have, in a great degree, calmed our minds. We are, however, contriving means to explore the refuge of the wanderer, and hope, by tracing his steps, to accomplish our purpose. This we have engaged a friend to do. I know, my dear Mrs. Sumner, the kind interest you will take in this disastrous affair. I tremble to think what the event may be. To relieve your suspense, however, I shall write you every circumstance as It occurs; but at present, I shall only enclose Eliza's letters to her mamma and me, and subscribe myself your sincere and obliged friend, JULIA GRANBY. LETTER LXVIII. TO MRS. M. WHARTON. TUESDAY. My honored and dear mamma: In what words, in what language shall I address you? What shall I say on a subject which deprives me of the power of expression? Would to God I had been totally deprived of that power before so fatal a subject required its exertion. Repentance comes too late, when it cannot prevent the evil lamented: for your kindness, your more than maternal affection towards me, from my infancy to the present moment, a long life of filial duty and unerring rectitude could hardly compensate. How greatly deficient in gratitude must I appear, then, while I confess that precept and example, counsel and advice, instruction and admonition, have been all lost upon me! Your kind endeavors to promote my happiness have been repaid by the inexcusable folly of sacrificing it. The various emotions of shame and remorse, penitence and regret, which torture and distract my guilty breast, exceed description. Yes, madam, your Eliza has fallen, fallen indeed. She has become the victim of her own indiscretion, and of the intrigue and artifice of a designing libertine, who is the husband of another. She is polluted, and no more worthy of her parentage. She flies from you, not to conceal her guilt, (that she humbly and penitently owns,) but to avoid what she has never experienced, and feels herself unable to support--a mother's frown; to escape the heart-rending sight of a parent's grief, occasioned by the crimes of her guilty child. I have become a reproach and disgrace to my friends. The consciousness of having forfeited their favor and incurred their disapprobation and resentment induces me to conceal from them the place of my retirement; but lest your benevolence should render you anxious for my comfort in my present situation, I take the liberty to assure you that I am amply provided for. I have no claim even upon your pity; but from my long experience of your tenderness. I presume to hope it will be extended to me. O my mother, if you knew what the state of my mind is, and has been for months past, you would surely compassionate my case. Could tears efface the stain which I have brought upon my family, it would long since have been washed away; but, alas! tears are in vain; and vain is my bitter repentance; it cannot obliterate my crime, nor restore me to innocence and peace. In this life I have no ideas of happiness. These I have wholly resigned. The only hope which affords me any solace is that of your forgiveness. If the deepest contrition can make an atonement,--if the severest pains, both of body and mind, can restore me to your charity,--you will not be inexorable. O, let my sufferings be deemed a sufficient punishment, and add not the insupportable weight of a parent's wrath. At present I cannot see you. The effect of my crime is too obvious to be longer concealed, to elude the invidious eye of curiosity. This night, therefore, I leave your hospitable mansion. This night I become a wretched wanderer from my paternal roof. O that the grave were this night to be my lodging! Then should I lie down and be at rest. Trusting in the mercy of God, through the mediation of his Son, I think I could meet my heavenly Father with more composure and confidence than my earthly parent. Let not the faults and misfortunes of your daughter oppress your mind. Rather let the conviction of having faithfully discharged your duty to your lost child support and console you in this trying scene. Since I wrote the above, you have kindly granted me your forgiveness, though you knew not how great, how aggravated was my offence. You forgive me, you say. O, the harmonious, the transporting sound! It has revived my drooping spirits, and will enable me to encounter, with resolution, the trials before me. Farewell, my dear mamma! Pity and pray for your ruined child; and be assured that affection and gratitude will be the last sentiments which expire in the breast of your repenting daughter, ELIZA WHARTON. LETTER LXIX. TO MISS JULIA GRANBY. TUESDAY. My dear friend: By that endearing title you permit me still to address you, and such you have always proved yourself by a participation of my distresses, as well as by the consoling voice of pity and forgiveness. What destiny Providence designs for me I know not, but I have my forebodings that this is the last time I shall ever accost you. Nor does this apprehension arise merely from a disturbed imagination. I have reason to think myself in a confirmed consumption, which commonly proves fatal to persons in my situation. I have carefully concealed every complaint of the kind from my mamma, for fear of distressing her; yet I have never been insensible of their probable issue, and have bidden a sincere welcome to them, as the harbingers of my speedy release from a life of guilt and woe. I am going from you, Julia. This night separates us, perhaps, forever. I have not resolution to encounter the tears of my friends, and therefore seek shelter among strangers, where none knows or is interested in my melancholy story. The place of my seclusion I studiously conceal; yet I shall take measures that you may be apprised of my fate. Should it please God to spare and restore me to health, I shall return, and endeavor, by a life of penitence and rectitude, to expiate my past offences. But should I be called from this scene of action, and leave behind me a helpless babe, the innocent sufferer of its mother's shame, O Julia, let your friendship for me extend to the little stranger. Intercede with my mother to take it under her protection, and transfer to it all her affection for me; to train it up in the ways of piety and virtue, that it may compensate her for the afflictions which I have occasioned. One thing more I have to request. Plead for me with my two best friends, Mrs. Richman and Mrs. Sumner. I ask you not to palliate my faults,--that cannot be done,--but to obtain, if possible, their forgiveness. I cannot write all my full mind suggests on this subject. You know the purport, and can better express it for me. And now, my dear Julia, recommending myself again to your benevolence, to your charity, and (may I add?) to your affection, and entreating that the fatal consequences of my folly, now fallen upon my devoted head, may suffice for my punishment, let me conjure you to bury my crimes in the grave with me, and to preserve the remembrance of my former virtues, which engaged your love and confidence; more especially of that ardent esteem for you, which will glow till the last expiring breath of your despairing ELIZA WHARTON. LETTER LXX. TO MR. CHARLES DEIGHTON. HARTFORD. I have, at last, accomplished the removal of my darling girl from a place where she thought every eye accused and every heart condemned her. She has become quite romantic in her notions. She would not permit me to accompany her, lest it should be reported that we had eloped together. I provided amply for her future exigencies, and conveyed her by night to the distance of ten or twelve miles, where we met the stage, in which I had previously secured her a seat. The agony of her grief at being thus obliged to leave her mother's house baffles all description. It very sensibly affected me, I know. I was almost a penitent. I am sure I acted like one, whether I were sincere or not. She chose to go where she was totally unknown. She would leave the stage, she said, before it reached Boston, and take passage in a more private carriage to Salem, or its vicinity, where she would fix her abode; chalking the initials of my name over the door, as a signal to me of her residence. She is exceedingly depressed, and says she neither expects nor wishes to survive her lying in. Insanity, for aught I know, must be my lot if she should die. But I will not harbor the idea. I hope, one time or other, to have the power to make her amends, even by marriage. My wife may be provoked, I imagine, to sue for a divorce. If she should, she would find no difficulty in obtaining it, and then I would take Eliza in her stead; though I confess that the idea of being thus connected with a woman whom I have been enabled to dishonor, would be rather hard to surmount. It would hurt even my delicacy, little as you may think me to possess, to have a wife whom I know to be seducible. And on this account I cannot be positive that even Eliza would retain my love. My Nancy and I have lived a pretty uncomfortable life of late. She has been very suspicious of my amour with Eliza, and now and then expressed her jealous sentiments a little more warmly than my patience would bear. But the news of Eliza's circumstances and retirement, being publicly talked of, have reached her ears, and rendered her quite outrageous. She tells me she will no longer brook my indifference and infidelity; intends soon to return to her father's house, and extricate herself from me entirely. My general reply to all this is, that she knew my character before we married, and could reasonably expect nothing less than what has happened. I shall not oppose her leaving me, as it may conduce to the execution of the plan I have hinted above. To-morrow I shall set out to visit my disconsolate fair one. From my very soul I pity her, and wish I could have preserved her virtue consistently with the indulgence of my passion. To her I lay not the principal blame, as in like cases I do the sex in general. My finesse was too well planned for detection, and my snares too deeply laid for any one to escape who had the least warmth in her constitution, or affection in her heart. I shall, therefore, be the less whimsical about a future connection, and the more solicitous to make her reparation, should it ever be in my power. Her friends are all in arms about her. I dare say I have the imprecations of the whole fraternity. They may thank themselves in part, for I always swore revenge for their dislike and coldness towards me. Had they been politic, they would have conducted more like the aborigines of the country, who are said to worship the devil out of fear. I am afraid I shall be obliged to remove my quarters, for Eliza was so great a favorite in town that I am looked upon with an evil eye. I pleaded with her, before we parted last, to forgive my seducing her, alleged my ardent love, and my inability to possess her in any other way. "How," said she, "can that be love which destroys its object? But granting what you say, you have frustrated your own purpose. You have deprived yourself-of my society, which might have been innocently enjoyed. You have cut me off from life in the midst of my days. You have rendered me the reproach of my friends, the disgrace of my family and a dishonor to virtue and my sex. But I forgive you," added she. "Yes, Sanford, I forgive you, and sincerely pray for your repentance and reformation. I hope to be the last wretched female sacrificed by you to the arts of falsehood and seduction. May my unhappy story serve as a beacon to warn the American fair of the dangerous tendency and destructive consequences of associating with men of your character, of destroying their time and risking their reputation by the practice of coquetry and its attendant follies. But for these I might have been honorably connected, and capable, at this moment, of diffusing and receiving happiness. But for your arts I might have remained a blessing to society, as well as the delight and comfort of my friends. You being a married man unspeakably aggravates both your guilt and mine. This circumstance annexes indelible shame to our crime. You have rent asunder the tenderest ties of nature. You have broken the bonds of conjugal love, which ought ever to be kept sacred and inviolate. You have filled with grief and discontent the heart of your amiable wife, whom gratitude, if no other principle, should have induced you to cherish with tenderness; and I, wretch that I am, have been your accomplice. But I cease to reproach you. You have acted but too consistently with the character which I was sufficiently apprised you sustained. The blame, then, may be retorted on myself, for disregarding the counsels, warnings, and admonitions of my best friends. You have prided yourself in the character of a libertine. Glory no longer in your shame. You have accomplished your designs, your dreadful designs, against me. Let this suffice. Add not to the number of those deluded creatures who will one day rise up in judgment against you and condemn you." By this time we had nearly reached the inn, and were soon to part. I seized her hand, and exclaimed, "You must not leave me, Eliza, with that awful anathema on your lips. O, say that you will forget my past faults." "That," said she, "I shall soon do; for in the grave there is no remembrance." This, to my mind, was a harsher sentence than the other, and almost threw me into despair. Never was I so wrought upon before. I knew not what to say or do. She saw my distress, and kindly softened her manner. "If I am severe," said she, "it is because I wish to impress your mind with such a sense of your offences against your Maker, your friends, and society in general, as may effect your repentance and amendment. I wish not to be your accuser, but your reformer. On several accounts, I view my own crime in a more aggravated light than yours; but my conscience is awakened to a conviction of my guilt. Yours, I fear, is not. Let me conjure you to return home, and endeavor, by your future kindness and fidelity to your wife, to make her all the amends in your power. By a life of virtue and religion, you may yet become a valuable member of society, and secure happiness both here and hereafter." I begged leave to visit her retirement next week, not in continuation of our amour, but as a friend solicitous to know her situation and welfare. Unable to speak, she only bowed assent. The stage being now ready, I whispered some tender things in her ear, and kissing her cheek, which was all she would permit, suffered her to depart. My body remains behind; but my soul, if I have any, went with her. This was a horrid lecture, Charles. She brought every charge against me which a fruitful and gloomy imagination could suggest. But I hope when she recovers she will resume her former cheerfulness, and become as kind and agreeable as ever. My anxiety for her safety is very great. I trust, however, it will soon be removed, and peace and pleasure be restored to your humble servant, PETER SANFORD. LETTER LXXI. TO MRS. LUCY SUMNER. HARTFORD. The drama is now closed! A tragical one it has proved! How sincerely, my dear Mrs. Sumner, must the friends of our departed Eliza sympathize with each other, and with her afflicted, bereaved parent! You have doubtless seen the account in the public papers which gave us the melancholy intelligence. But I will give you a detail of circumstances. A few days after my last was written, we heard that Major Sanford's property was attached, and he a prisoner in his own house. He was the last man to whom we wished to apply for information respecting the forlorn wanderer; yet we had no other resource. And after waiting a fortnight in the most cruel suspense, we wrote a billet, entreating him, if possible, to give some intelligence concerning her. He replied that he was unhappily deprived of all means of knowing himself, but hoped soon to relieve his own and our anxiety about her. In this situation we continued till a neighbor (purposely, we since concluded) sent us a Boston paper. Mrs. Wharton took it, and unconscious of its contents, observed that the perusal might divert her a few moments. She read for some time, when it suddenly dropped upon the floor. She clasped her hands together, and raising her streaming eyes to heaven, exclaimed, "It is the Lord; let him do what he will. Be still, O my soul, and know that he is God." "What, madam," said I, "can be the matter?" She answered not, but, with inexpressible anguish depicted in her countenance, pointed to the paper. I took it up, and soon found the fatal paragraph. I shall not attempt to paint our heartfelt grief and lamentation upon this occasion; for we had no doubt of Eliza's being the person described, as a stranger, who died, at Danvers, last July. Her delivery of a child, her dejected state of mind, the marks upon her linen, indeed every circumstance in the advertisement, convinced us, beyond dispute, that it could be no other. Mrs. Wharton retired immediately to her chamber, where she continued overwhelmed with sorrow that night and the following day. Such in fact has been her habitual frame ever since; though the endeavors of her friends, who have sought to console her, have rendered her somewhat more conversable. My testimony of Eliza's penitence before her departure is a source of comfort to this disconsolate parent. She fondly cherished the idea that, having expiated her offence by sincere repentance and amendment, her deluded child finally made a happy exchange of worlds. But the desperate resolution, which she formed and executed, of becoming a fugitive, of deserting her mother's house and protection, and of wandering and dying among strangers, is a most distressing reflection to her friends; especially to her mother, in whose breast so many painful ideas arise, that she finds it extremely difficult to compose herself to that resignation which she evidently strives to exemplify. Eliza's brother has been to visit her last retreat, and to learn the particulars of her melancholy exit. He relates that she was well accommodated, and had every attention and assistance which her situation required. The people where she resided appear to have a lively sense of her merit and misfortunes. They testify her modest deportment, her fortitude under the sufferings to which she was called, and the serenity and composure with which she bade a last adieu to the world. Mr. Wharton has brought back several scraps of her writing, containing miscellaneous reflections on her situation, the death of her babe, and the absence of her friends. Some of these were written before, some after, her confinement. These valuable testimonies of the affecting sense and calm expectation she entertained of her approaching dissolution are calculated to soothe and comfort the minds of mourning connections. They greatly alleviate the regret occasioned by her absence at this awful period. Her elopement can be equalled only by the infatuation which caused her ruin. "But let no one reproach her memory. Her life has paid the forfeit of her folly. Let that suffice." I am told that Major Sanford is quite frantic. Sure I am that he has reason to be. If the mischiefs he has brought upon others return upon his own head, dreadful indeed must be his portion. His wife has left him, and returned to her parents. His estate, which has been long mortgaged, is taken from him, and poverty and disgrace await him. Heaven seldom leaves injured innocence unavenged. Wretch that he is, he ought forever to be banished from human society! I shall continue with Mrs. Wharton till the lenient hand of time has assuaged her sorrows, and then make my promised visit to you. I will bring Eliza's posthumous papers with me when I come to Boston, as I have not time to copy them now. I foresee, my dear Mrs. Sumner, that this disastrous affair will suspend your enjoyments, as it has mine. But what are our feelings, compared with the pangs which rend a parent's heart? This parent I here behold inhumanly stripped of the best solace of her declining years by the insnaring machinations of a profligate debauchee. Not only the life, but, what was still dearer, the reputation and virtue? of the unfortunate Eliza have fallen victims at the shrine of _libertinism_. Detested be the epithet. Let it henceforth bear its true signature, and candor itself shall call it _lust_ and _brutality_. Execrable is the man, however arrayed in magnificence, crowned with wealth, or decorated with the external graces and accomplishments of fashionable life, who shall presume to display them at the expense of virtue and innocence. Sacred name attended with real blessings--blessings too useful and important to be trifled away. My resentment at the base arts which must have been employed to complete the seduction of Eliza I cannot suppress. I wish them to be exposed, and stamped with universal ignominy. Nor do I doubt but you will join with me in execrating the measures by which _we_ have been robbed of so valuable a friend, and _society_ of so ornamental a member. I am, &c., JULIA GRANBY. LETTER LXXII. TO MR. CHARLES DEIGHTON. HARTFORD. Confusion, horror, and despair are the portion of your wretched, unhappy friend. O Deighton, I am undone. Misery irremediable is my future lot. She is gone; yes, she is gone forever. The darling of my soul, the centre of all my wishes and enjoyments, is no more. Cruel fate has snatched her from me, and she is irretrievably lost. I rave, and then reflect; I reflect, and then rave. I have no patience to bear this calamity, nor power to remedy it. Where shall I fly from the upbraidings of my mind, which accuse me as the murderer of my Eliza? I would fly to death, and seek a refuge in the grave; but the forebodings of a retribution to come I cannot away with. O that I had seen her! that I had once more asked her forgiveness! But even that privilege, that consolation, was denied me! The day on which I meant to visit her, most of my property was attached, and, to secure the rest, I was obliged to shut my doors and become a prisoner in my own house. High living, and old debts incurred by extravagance, had reduced the fortune of my wife to very little, and I could not satisfy the clamorous demands of my creditors. I would have given millions, had I possessed them, to have been at liberty to see, and to have had the power to preserve Eliza from death. But in vain was my anxiety; it could not relieve, it could not liberate me. When I first heard the dreadful tidings of her exit, I believe I acted like a madman; indeed, I am little else now. I have compounded with my creditors, and resigned the whole of my property. Thus that splendor and equipage, to secure which I have sacrificed a virtuous woman, is taken from me. That poverty, the dread of which prevented my forming an honorable connection with an amiable and accomplished girl,--the only one I ever loved,--has fallen with redoubled vengeance upon my guilty head, and I must become a vagabond on the earth. I shall fly my country as soon as possible. I shall go from every object which reminds me of my departed Eliza; but never, never shall I eradicate from my bosom the idea of her excellence, nor the painful remembrance of the injuries I have done her. Her shade will perpetually haunt me; the image of her--as she appeared when mounting the carriage which conveyed her forever from my sight, waving her hand in token of a last adieu--will always be present to my imagination; the solemn counsel she gave me before we parted, never more to meet, will not cease to resound in my ears. While my being is prolonged, I must feel the disgraceful and torturing effects of my guilt in seducing her. How madly have I deprived her of happiness, of reputation, of life! Her friends, could they know the pangs of contrition and the horrors of conscience which attend me, would be amply revenged. It is said she quitted the world with composure and peace. Well she might. She had not that insupportable weight of iniquity which sinks me to despair. She found consolation in that religion which I have ridiculed as priestcraft and hypocrisy. But, whether it be true or false, would to Heaven I could now enjoy the comforts which its votaries evidently feel. My wife has left me. As we lived together without love, we parted without regret. Now, Charles, I am to bid you a long, perhaps a last farewell. Where I shall roam in future, I neither know nor care. I shall go where the name of Sanford is unknown, and his person and sorrows unnoticed. In this happy clime I have nothing to induce my stay. I have not money to support me with my profligate companions, nor have I any relish, at present, for their society. By the virtuous part of the community I am shunned as the pest and bane of social enjoyment. In short, I am debarred from every kind of happiness. If I look back, I recoil with horror from the black catalogue of vices which have stained my past life, and reduced me to indigence and contempt. If I look forward, I shudder at the prospects which my foreboding mind presents to view both in this and a coming world. This is a deplorable, yet just, picture of myself. How totally the reverse of what I once appeared! Let it warn you, my friend, to shun the dangerous paths which I have trodden, that you may never be involved in the hopeless ignominy and wretchedness of PETER SANFORD. LETTER LXXIII. TO MISS JULIA GRANBY. BOSTON. A melancholy tale have you unfolded, my dear Julia; and tragic indeed is the concluding scene. Is she then gone? gone in this most distressing manner? Have I lost my once-loved friend? lost her in a way which I could never have conceived to be possible? Our days of childhood were spent together in the same pursuits, in the same amusements. Our riper years increased our mutual affection, and maturer judgment most firmly cemented our friendship. Can I, then, calmly resign her to so severe a fate? Can I bear the idea of her being lost to honor, to fame, and to life? No; she shall still live in the heart of her faithful Lucy, whose experience of her numerous virtues and engaging qualities has imprinted her image too deeply on the memory to be obliterated. However she may have erred, her sincere repentance is sufficient to restore her to charity. Your letter gave me the first information of this awful event. I had taken a short excursion into the country, where I had not seen the papers, or, if I had, paid little or no attention to them. By your directions I found the distressing narrative of her exit. The poignancy of my grief, and the unavailing lamentations which the intelligence excited, need no delineation. To scenes of this nature you have been habituated in the mansion of sorrow where you reside. How sincerely I sympathize with the bereaved parent of the dear, deceased Eliza, I can feel, but have not power to express. Let it be her consolation that her child is at rest. The resolution which carried this deluded wanderer thus far from her friends, and supported her through her various trials, is astonishing. Happy would it have been had she exerted an equal degree of fortitude in repelling the first attacks upon her virtue. But she is no more, and Heaven forbid that I should accuse or reproach her. Yet in what language shall I express my abhorrence of the monster whose detestable arts have blasted one of the fairest flowers in creation? I leave him to God and his own conscience. Already is he exposed in his true colors. Vengeance already begins to overtake him. His sordid mind must now suffer the deprivation of those sensual gratifications beyond which he is incapable of enjoyment. Upon your reflecting and steady mind, my dear Julia, I need not inculcate the lessons which may be drawn from this woe-fraught tale; but for the sake of my sex in general, I wish it engraved upon every heart, that virtue alone, independent of the trappings of wealth, the parade of equipage, and the adulation of gallantry, can secure lasting felicity. From the melancholy story of Eliza Wharton let the American fair learn to reject with disdain every insinuation derogatory to their true dignity and honor. Let them despise and forever banish the man who can glory in the seduction of innocence and the ruin of reputation. To associate is to approve; to approve is to be betrayed. I am, &c., LUCY SUMNER. LETTER LXXIV. TO MRS. M. WHARTON. BOSTON. Dear madam: We have paid the last tribute of respect to your beloved daughter. The day after my arrival, Mrs. Sumner proposed that we should visit the sad spot which contains the remains of our once amiable friend. "The grave of Eliza Wharton," said she, "shall not be unbedewed by the tears of friendship." Yesterday we went accordingly, and were much pleased with the apparent sincerity of the people in their assurances that every thing in their power had been done to render her situation comfortable. The minutest circumstances were faithfully related; and, from the state of her mind in her last hours, I think much comfort may be derived to her afflicted friends. We spent a mournful hour in the place where she is interred, and then returned to the inn, while Mrs. Sumner gave orders for a decent stone to be erected over her grave, with the following inscription:-- THIS HUMBLE STONE, IN MEMORY OF ELIZA WHARTON, IS INSCRIBED BY HER WEEPING FRIENDS, TO WHOM SHE ENDEARED HERSELF BY UNCOMMON TENDERNESS AND AFFECTION. ENDOWED WITH SUPERIOR ACQUIREMENTS, SHE WAS STILL MORE DISTINGUISHED BY HUMILITY AND BENEVOLENCE. LET CANDOR THROW A VEIL OVER HER FRAILTIES, FOR GREAT WAS HER CHARITY TO OTHERS. SHE SUSTAINED THE LAST PAINFUL SCENE FAR FROM EVERY FRIEND, AND EXHIBITED AN EXAMPLE OF CALM RESIGNATION. HER DEPARTURE WAS ON THE 25TH DAY OF JULY, A.D.----, IN THE 37TH YEAR OF HER AGE; AND THE TEARS OF STRANGERS WATERED HER GRAVE. I hope, madam, that you will derive satisfaction from these exertions of friendship, and that, united to the many other sources of consolation with which you are furnished, they may alleviate your grief, and, while they leave the pleasing remembrance of her virtues, add the supporting persuasion that your Eliza is happy. I am, &c., JULIA GRANBY.

LXV-LXXIV

https://web.archive.org/web/20180327091504/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-coquette/study-guide/summary-lxv-lxxiv

Sanford exults that he has finally possessed Eliza completely . He says it was a long siege and he had to try every trick possible, but he has succeeded. However, "a miraculous accident, has taken place, which must soon expose our amour" ; it seems she is pregnant. His own wife just bore a child but it was dead. He does not care, though, and wants to be with his friends or Eliza. Julia is coming back, and he tells Charles how attractive she is but that she accepts no flirtation from him. Julia writes to Lucy in tremendous distress because she knows Eliza's secret. She saw a man leaving the house very late. She confronted Eliza and she admitted it. Julia criticized her harshly for abandoning her virtue. Eliza, frail and wan, says she will most likely not be around longer, and asks for pity. Julia wonders what her poor mother would say, and burst into tears. Eliza was very affected, and said she was guilty and expected no mercy, but hoped to reconcile with her mother. The next morning Julia had breakfast with Mrs. Wharton, who asked Julia if she knew why Eliza was suffering so much of late, but Julia kept her friend's secret for the time. The girls went out riding, and Julia asked Eliza how she could have been entranced by such a libertine. Eliza replied that it was because she was coquettish and lost Mr. Boyer, and believed foolishly that the Major's marriage would keep her safe. She wanted to renounce him but felt it was too late. Now she is full of grief and has a disordered mind. She added, "the little innocent I bear, will quickly disclose its mother's shame!" . She hoped it will not live because of the shame and lack of parents. She said she had a plan, and Julia worried it might be to take her own life. Eliza said she would not do so, but she wanted to write her mother and go forward from there. Julia writes to Lucy again, wailing that Eliza is gone. She is forsaken and gone from her home. She recounts the tale of Eliza's vanishing. Eliza went into the garden to meet Major Sanford, then went back upstairs. She was weighed down with depression, and told Julia it was all done and would be known tomorrow. Julia was confused, but still did not tell Mrs. Wharton when the older woman confessed her worries about what might be upsetting her daughter. At dinner Eliza was overwhelmed and fell to her mother's feet, crying that she was a wretch and forfeited her mother's love. Her mother implored that that could never happen and she forgave her. Eliza rushed out. Later Julia met with Eliza, and Eliza gave her two letters: one for Eliza's mother, one for herself. They were not to be opened until tomorrow. Julia told Eliza that she forgave her and did not hold her guilty anymore, as her repentant tears blotted the guilt out. Eliza thanked her and said her heart was lightened. Later, though, Julia heard the rattling of a carriage and saw Eliza taken away. Aghast, she ran to see Eliza's empty room, then told Mrs. Wharton. The woman was overcome, especially after she read the letter. They wondered where she might have fled. After two days they wrote to Major Sanford after hearing he was at home. He assured them Eliza was comfortable and taken care of. The women were mildly mollified but still tried to find her whereabouts. Eliza's letter to her mother is full of apologies and explanations of her despair and regret. She says she cannot bear her mother's sighs or the company of her reproachful friends. She cannot call on her mother's pity but hopes for her forgiveness, especially as her internal distress is acute. She must leave her paternal roof and be at rest, trusting in God. Eliza's letter to Julia says she is going away forever. If she is restored to health, perhaps she will come back and lead a life in which she "expiate my past offenses" . If she dies and her child lives, she hopes her mother will raise it in an affectionate and pious manner. She also asks Julia to put in a good word for her with Mrs. Richman and Lucy Sumner. She thanks her for her love and affection, and implores her to remember her before she was corrupted. Major Sanford writes to Charles that he has finally secured the removal of his darling Eliza. He was a bit confused at her romantic notions and her sadness at leaving her mother. He is also distressed that she is so depressed, and hopes she will not die. He even wonders if he might not marry her if his wife, who hates him and plans to return to her father, divorces him. He likes this idea but is not sure he wants to marry a girl who could be seduced. He wishes he could have had both his passion and her virtue. He tells Charles he might have to move because everyone in the neighborhood is against him. He speaks of how harshly Eliza chastised him and told him how she was destroyed, but how she was also to blame because his character was obvious. He hopes to visit her and find her more agreeable. Julia writes to Lucy that the tragedy has reached its apotheosis. She first heard that Major Sanford was bankrupt and had to give up his property. He told Julia he did not know how Eliza was doing. A Boston paper, though, revealed to Julia the horrid truth - Eliza bore a child, it died, and then she died too. Julia was horrified that she died alone. Eliza's brother went to the place - a small tavern - and found it comfortable and the people kind. Some of Eliza's last scraps of writing were there, which revealed a calm mood. Julia also heard the Major was frantic. He had lost his property and his wife and was now impoverished. Julia railed against men like him, especially the one who took away her friend. Major Sanford writes to Charles that he is traumatized by Eliza's death. He must flee the area but does not know how he can ever find happiness again. He feels his tremendous guilt and recoils at his past behavior. Lucy writes to Julia, sharing in her grief and hoping Mrs. Wharton finds consolation. She proclaims that only virtue alone has meaning. Julia writes to Mrs. Wharton of going to see where Eliza passed, and of the humble gravestone paid for by Mrs. Sumner by which to remember their friend.

Eliza's sorry tale is over - she is completely lost, her terrible fate irreversible. There are many possible messages to take away from the end of the work. In its own day, it was read as a morality tale: Eliza more or less deserved her fate because she allowed her virtue to be corrupted. Now, however, we see it as an example of the limitations faced by young women in a patriarchal society. Foster's own intentions seem to fall somewhere in the middle. She was a product of her time, and no doubt saw some fault in Eliza's behavior, but she also had great sympathy for the woman upon which her tale was based . She strove to flesh out the story and her characters, moving away from stereotypes and endeavoring to show that Eliza was not simply a silly, stupid coquette. Instead, she portrayed Eliza as a young woman who genuinely desired to make her own choices but was limited by society and beset upon by a complicated man . Critic Heidi Johnson notes this complexity in the characters. "Wharton is virtuous but indecisive, Boyer is moderate but proud, and Sanford is calculating yet strangely sincere." She also notes, "the female voice comes through most clearly. The novel offers a rare chance for the fallen woman to explain herself... is sincere and intelligent, she knows her weaknesses and her strengths; she is human and stumbles only after her options have disappeared." The tomb erected for her at the end of the novel, as Claire C. Pettengill writes, "does rescue her from eternal infamy" and is a "witness to her virtues and her friends' enduring love, demonstrating that there is more than one way of seeing even the most conventional moral tale." One of the main reasons that Eliza has issues with her marriage options is social class, which many critics have identified as a main theme of the novel. Eliza is caught, as critic Kristie Hamilton writes, between the "competing appeals of the republican expectation of marrying within one's own socioeconomic class... and the opportunities for upward mobility in the late eighteenth-century, urban America." This was a difficult time period in which to be a middle-class woman searching for stability, as the country tried to mediate between order and freedom. Eliza is stuck, wondering if she should settle for Mr. Boyer or look upward to Major Sanford. Other issues complicate the situation further . Hamilton writes, "with the fluidity of class identification came the vulnerability of young men and women to a whole new spectrum of confidence games." This is why it is so problematic that Eliza is labeled a coquette, as the coquette was usually seen as despicable and depraved. Coquettes were associated with urban America, which was full of fashion, entertainment, and leisure. Hamilton argues that "a major achievement of Foster's novel is, therefore, that it dramatizes in all its complexity the conflict in the mind of her protagonist between republican virtue and the appeal of materialism in an urban context." Eliza is chastised for her behavior at the same time as she is encouraged in it. At different points both Lucy and Mrs. Richman tell her to go out and enjoy herself. However, the message from all of her confidantes and advisers is that she should be content with the station she was given. Eliza knows she should choose Boyer - and halfheartedly does - because he is at her level, but remains entranced by the possibilities of a union with Sanford. The marriages that succeed in the novel - the Sumners and the Richmans - are those in which the participants are from the same class. Eliza cannot help escaping the lures of the city and of possible affluence, which takes away some of the blame for her eventual demise. Hamilton ends her analysis by saying that the main question the novel poses is if American society can "find a way of resolving the conflict between necessity and desire, between ideology and experience, that will provide clearly defined and workable roles for women as well as men in a rapidly developing urban environment." One final thing to look at is the character of Sanford, who also suffers greatly. A question throughout the text is whether or not he loved Eliza, and by the end of the novel it seems clear that, in his own way, he did. He too is "punished" for his bad behavior, losing his wife, Eliza, money, and reputation. He is forced out of the neighborhood and left alone with his grief and guilt. It is possible that he could move on quickly to some other young woman in a far-off town, but for the time being, he seems truly affected by what happened to Eliza.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/61-chapters/1.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Communist Manifesto/section_2_part_0.txt

The Communist Manifesto.chapter 1

chapter 1: bourgeois and proletarians

{"name": "Section 1: Bourgeois and Proletarians", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210518104134/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/communist-manifesto/summary/section-1-bourgeois-and-proletarians", "summary": "Another famous line: \"The history of all hitherto existing society is the history of class struggles\" . In other words, rich people, poor or enslaved people, and those in the middle have been duking it out ever since society began. These fights between oppressor and oppressed--whether during the Roman Empire, feudal Europe, or other times--result in either a revolutionary rebuilding of all society or ruin for everyone. Sounds fun. So, about the bourgeoisie--wait, who are they? They're an economic class that developed, toward the end of feudalism, from the citizens of towns who were neither aristocrats nor serfs (peasants who were basically enslaved). These people successfully built up businesses, becoming upper class--a.k.a. rich people--who controlled capital. That makes them capitalists who control the means of production and exchange . See our \"Characters\" section for a fuller explanation of these peeps. The rise of the bourgeoisie hasn't changed anything about class struggle, Marx says. It has only established new forms of it and made it a lot more obvious. On the opposite side of the bourgeoisie is the proletariat. Who are these folks? They're workers who are paid wages. See our \"Characters\" section for a fuller explanation. Back to the bourgeoisie. As feudalism--the system of aristocracy versus serfs--was collapsing, the discovery of the Americas by Europeans and the colonial trade increased the bourgeoisie's power rapidly. Basically, colonialism gave the bourgeoisie new markets and resources for their businesses. Marx is going into full history-teacher mode here. The way industry was organized in the medieval period, with closed guilds, could not keep up with the growing wants of the new marketplaces. So the manufacturing industry arose to supply the wants. Even that wasn't enough, so steam and machinery came along to further revolutionize industrial production. The Industrial Revolution made new millionaires out of much of the bourgeoisie. Thus, Marx concludes, the bourgeoisie results from a long course of revolutions in the modes of production and exchange. What the heck are modes of production and exchange? Well, comrade, production is building products like iPhones, and circulation is sort of managing their distribution--and we're not talking about the way truck drivers haul loads, but instead about the way banks manage this stuff by investing. (Marx thinks of investing as something like gambling or manipulation.) As the bourgeoisie developed, it won various political gains, often helping the absolute monarchs by serving as a balancing factor against the aristocratic nobility, which the monarchs had to keep in check. However, now the bourgeoisie is the most powerful force in the world. Indeed, Marx says, the bourgeoisie has played a revolutionary role in history. This is a startling line, comrade, because usually communists think of the workers as the revolutionaries. But Marx is talking about the past, about the bourgeoisie ending the medieval period's feudalism. Whenever they gained power, the bourgeoisie was able to replace the feudal connections between people with the connection of self-interest and money. In other words, instead of the belief that aristocrats were naturally superior to serfs, for example, the profit motive has now become the principle organizing relationship. Everything boils down to money. The bourgeoisie took away the honor of occupations, such as physician or poet, and made them, again, all about profit--their work is nothing more than wage-labor, an important term you can read more about in the \"Symbols, Imagery, Allegory\" section. The bourgeoisie built wonders far surpassing the pyramids and other ancient monuments and did a bunch of other impressive stuff. That business is competition requires the bourgeoisie to constantly innovate --indeed, to revolutionize everything about production. These changes sweep away the familiar, including opinions and relationships, as business is conducted. It's all about the moolah. The need for a constantly expanding market chases the bourgeoisie around the globe and makes them exploit, or take advantage of, everyone. The bourgeoisie removes what's unique about each nation, reshapes faraway countries in its own image, and uses various nations' natural resources (like oil, for example) for their own purpose: profit. The requirements of business have concentrated populations into the cities and made undeveloped countries dependent on developed ones. Laws and taxes have become more and more unified in organization. What is unique is dying away; everything is becoming capitalist--money is the bottom line everywhere. So, Marx sums up, the means of production , which are the foundation of the bourgeoisie, began their development under feudalism and eventually grew so much that feudalism had to collapse and give way to capitalism's rule. There is a similar change going on before our eyes, Karl continues. The history of industry has been about the bourgeoisie's massive forces of production breaking apart old property relations and establishing new ones. Increasingly severe economic recessions and depressions are the absurd consequence of too much production taking place. But there is another consequence of this growth of capital, or the extra wealth that allows for the creation of more wealth rather than just paying bills (see \"Symbols, Imagery, Allegory\" for more): the growth of the proletariat, which will overthrow the bourgeoisie, just as the bourgeoisie overthrew feudalism. The proletariat is a class of laborers who must find work to live but who can only find work when it financially benefits the bourgeoisie. These workers have to sell themselves to the bourgeoisie and are treated like just another commodity, or just another thing for sale. Example: getting fired simply because a company is cutting expenses. Sad face. Due to the division of labor and the increased use of machinery, workers have become mere cogs in the machine. Their jobs are not personal any longer; they don't have the opportunity to personalize their work. They're stuck in factories and ordered around like soldiers. As soon as the worker is finished at the factory and paid, more members of the bourgeoisie, such as the landlord and shopkeeper, demand his or her money. The members of the lower middle class, such as tradespeople, fall into the proletariat because their small amount of capital isn't enough to compete against the large capitalists. The proletariat goes through stages of development, comrade. First individual workers, then the workpeople at an individual factory, and eventually more and more workers elsewhere retaliate against those who directly exploit them--they smash machinery, they set factories on fire. But at this stage, the proletariat is still made up of various groups competing against one another. The bourgeoisie finds ways to profit from the proletariat's competition against itself. But over time, the proletariat, increasing in number, grows stronger from its repeated conflicts with the bourgeoisie and from shared frustrations over fluctuations in their pay. They create labor unions to try to increase their bargaining power. Sometimes the contest between proletariat and the bourgeoisie breaks out into riots. The real victory of these various battles is that the workers, despite their differences, join together more and more as a force standing against the bourgeoisie. That capitalism causes competition between workers for jobs, however, is a fact that continues to divide them. Still, the proletariat keeps rising up and joining together, even to the point of creating political parties, aided by new technology improving communication and travel. Competition makes the bourgeoisie struggle, too. They have to compete against the aristocracy, against each other, and against the bourgeoisie in foreign countries. They ask the proletariat--the bulk of the population--for help, but in doing so, they have to educate them... which is something that will help the proletariat overthrow the bourgeoisie down the road. Some of the bourgeoisie can't successfully maintain their class status, due to competition, and they become proletarians. Other bourgeoisie (such as Marx and Engels themselves) who understand the historical movement of politics, join the proletariat intentionally to further the revolution. It's the proletariat who are the revolutionary class, according to Marx. Those in the middle class either try to maintain their position, thus contributing to the capitalist system, or fall into the proletariat by the pressures of competition. The lumpenproletariat, such as beggars, criminals, and drifters, aren't particularly relevant in the class struggle, Marx says. The proletariat cannot win power without eliminating exploitation altogether. They cannot raise themselves up without changing the structures that allow for exploitation. The struggles of the proletariat will thus lead to the final revolution: the violent overthrow of the bourgeoisie. To rule, the bourgeoisie has to keep profiting, which requires wage-labor (working for wages, which is what the proletariat does). But wage-labor can only continue as long as the workers fight one another in competition. Instead, Marx says, they're joining together to resist their dangerous workplace conditions. The very foundation of the bourgeoisie is being cut out under its feet. With a famous image, Marx writes that the bourgeoisie produces its own gravediggers.", "analysis": ""}

I. BOURGEOIS AND PROLETARIANS The history of all hitherto existing societies is the history of class struggles. Freeman and slave, patrician and plebeian, lord and serf, guild-master and journeyman, in a word, oppressor and oppressed, stood in constant opposition to one another, carried on an uninterrupted, now hidden, now open fight, a fight that each time ended, either in a revolutionary re-constitution of society at large, or in the common ruin of the contending classes. In the earlier epochs of history, we find almost everywhere a complicated arrangement of society into various orders, a manifold gradation of social rank. In ancient Rome we have patricians, knights, plebeians, slaves; in the Middle Ages, feudal lords, vassals, guild-masters, journeymen, apprentices, serfs; in almost all of these classes, again, subordinate gradations. The modern bourgeois society that has sprouted from the ruins of feudal society has not done away with class antagonisms. It has but established new classes, new conditions of oppression, new forms of struggle in place of the old ones. Our epoch, the epoch of the bourgeoisie, possesses, however, this distinctive feature: it has simplified the class antagonisms. Society as a whole is more and more splitting up into two great hostile camps, into two great classes, directly facing each other: Bourgeoisie and Proletariat. From the serfs of the Middle Ages sprang the chartered burghers of the earliest towns. From these burgesses the first elements of the bourgeoisie were developed. The discovery of America, the rounding of the Cape, opened up fresh ground for the rising bourgeoisie. The East-Indian and Chinese markets, the colonisation of America, trade with the colonies, the increase in the means of exchange and in commodities generally, gave to commerce, to navigation, to industry, an impulse never before known, and thereby, to the revolutionary element in the tottering feudal society, a rapid development. The feudal system of industry, under which industrial production was monopolised by closed guilds, now no longer sufficed for the growing wants of the new markets. The manufacturing system took its place. The guild-masters were pushed on one side by the manufacturing middle class; division of labour between the different corporate guilds vanished in the face of division of labour in each single workshop. Meantime the markets kept ever growing, the demand ever rising. Even manufacture no longer sufficed. Thereupon, steam and machinery revolutionised industrial production. The place of manufacture was taken by the giant, Modern Industry, the place of the industrial middle class, by industrial millionaires, the leaders of whole industrial armies, the modern bourgeois. Modern industry has established the world-market, for which the discovery of America paved the way. This market has given an immense development to commerce, to navigation, to communication by land. This development has, in its time, reacted on the extension of industry; and in proportion as industry, commerce, navigation, railways extended, in the same proportion the bourgeoisie developed, increased its capital, and pushed into the background every class handed down from the Middle Ages. We see, therefore, how the modern bourgeoisie is itself the product of a long course of development, of a series of revolutions in the modes of production and of exchange. Each step in the development of the bourgeoisie was accompanied by a corresponding political advance of that class. An oppressed class under the sway of the feudal nobility, an armed and self-governing association in the mediaeval commune; here independent urban republic (as in Italy and Germany), there taxable "third estate" of the monarchy (as in France), afterwards, in the period of manufacture proper, serving either the semi-feudal or the absolute monarchy as a counterpoise against the nobility, and, in fact, corner-stone of the great monarchies in general, the bourgeoisie has at last, since the establishment of Modern Industry and of the world-market, conquered for itself, in the modern representative State, exclusive political sway. The executive of the modern State is but a committee for managing the common affairs of the whole bourgeoisie. The bourgeoisie, historically, has played a most revolutionary part. The bourgeoisie, wherever it has got the upper hand, has put an end to all feudal, patriarchal, idyllic relations. It has pitilessly torn asunder the motley feudal ties that bound man to his "natural superiors," and has left remaining no other nexus between man and man than naked self-interest, than callous "cash payment." It has drowned the most heavenly ecstasies of religious fervour, of chivalrous enthusiasm, of philistine sentimentalism, in the icy water of egotistical calculation. It has resolved personal worth into exchange value, and in place of the numberless and indefeasible chartered freedoms, has set up that single, unconscionable freedom--Free Trade. In one word, for exploitation, veiled by religious and political illusions, naked, shameless, direct, brutal exploitation. The bourgeoisie has stripped of its halo every occupation hitherto honoured and looked up to with reverent awe. It has converted the physician, the lawyer, the priest, the poet, the man of science, into its paid wage labourers. The bourgeoisie has torn away from the family its sentimental veil, and has reduced the family relation to a mere money relation. The bourgeoisie has disclosed how it came to pass that the brutal display of vigour in the Middle Ages, which Reactionists so much admire, found its fitting complement in the most slothful indolence. It has been the first to show what man's activity can bring about. It has accomplished wonders far surpassing Egyptian pyramids, Roman aqueducts, and Gothic cathedrals; it has conducted expeditions that put in the shade all former Exoduses of nations and crusades. The bourgeoisie cannot exist without constantly revolutionising the instruments of production, and thereby the relations of production, and with them the whole relations of society. Conservation of the old modes of production in unaltered form, was, on the contrary, the first condition of existence for all earlier industrial classes. Constant revolutionising of production, uninterrupted disturbance of all social conditions, everlasting uncertainty and agitation distinguish the bourgeois epoch from all earlier ones. All fixed, fast-frozen relations, with their train of ancient and venerable prejudices and opinions, are swept away, all new-formed ones become antiquated before they can ossify. All that is solid melts into air, all that is holy is profaned, and man is at last compelled to face with sober senses, his real conditions of life, and his relations with his kind. The need of a constantly expanding market for its products chases the bourgeoisie over the whole surface of the globe. It must nestle everywhere, settle everywhere, establish connexions everywhere. The bourgeoisie has through its exploitation of the world-market given a cosmopolitan character to production and consumption in every country. To the great chagrin of Reactionists, it has drawn from under the feet of industry the national ground on which it stood. All old-established national industries have been destroyed or are daily being destroyed. They are dislodged by new industries, whose introduction becomes a life and death question for all civilised nations, by industries that no longer work up indigenous raw material, but raw material drawn from the remotest zones; industries whose products are consumed, not only at home, but in every quarter of the globe. In place of the old wants, satisfied by the productions of the country, we find new wants, requiring for their satisfaction the products of distant lands and climes. In place of the old local and national seclusion and self-sufficiency, we have intercourse in every direction, universal inter-dependence of nations. And as in material, so also in intellectual production. The intellectual creations of individual nations become common property. National one-sidedness and narrow-mindedness become more and more impossible, and from the numerous national and local literatures, there arises a world literature. The bourgeoisie, by the rapid improvement of all instruments of production, by the immensely facilitated means of communication, draws all, even the most barbarian, nations into civilisation. The cheap prices of its commodities are the heavy artillery with which it batters down all Chinese walls, with which it forces the barbarians' intensely obstinate hatred of foreigners to capitulate. It compels all nations, on pain of extinction, to adopt the bourgeois mode of production; it compels them to introduce what it calls civilisation into their midst, i.e., to become bourgeois themselves. In one word, it creates a world after its own image. The bourgeoisie has subjected the country to the rule of the towns. It has created enormous cities, has greatly increased the urban population as compared with the rural, and has thus rescued a considerable part of the population from the idiocy of rural life. Just as it has made the country dependent on the towns, so it has made barbarian and semi-barbarian countries dependent on the civilised ones, nations of peasants on nations of bourgeois, the East on the West. The bourgeoisie keeps more and more doing away with the scattered state of the population, of the means of production, and of property. It has agglomerated production, and has concentrated property in a few hands. The necessary consequence of this was political centralisation. Independent, or but loosely connected provinces, with separate interests, laws, governments and systems of taxation, became lumped together into one nation, with one government, one code of laws, one national class-interest, one frontier and one customs-tariff. The bourgeoisie, during its rule of scarce one hundred years, has created more massive and more colossal productive forces than have all preceding generations together. Subjection of Nature's forces to man, machinery, application of chemistry to industry and agriculture, steam-navigation, railways, electric telegraphs, clearing of whole continents for cultivation, canalisation of rivers, whole populations conjured out of the ground--what earlier century had even a presentiment that such productive forces slumbered in the lap of social labour? We see then: the means of production and of exchange, on whose foundation the bourgeoisie built itself up, were generated in feudal society. At a certain stage in the development of these means of production and of exchange, the conditions under which feudal society produced and exchanged, the feudal organisation of agriculture and manufacturing industry, in one word, the feudal relations of property became no longer compatible with the already developed productive forces; they became so many fetters. They had to be burst asunder; they were burst asunder. Into their place stepped free competition, accompanied by a social and political constitution adapted to it, and by the economical and political sway of the bourgeois class. A similar movement is going on before our own eyes. Modern bourgeois society with its relations of production, of exchange and of property, a society that has conjured up such gigantic means of production and of exchange, is like the sorcerer, who is no longer able to control the powers of the nether world whom he has called up by his spells. For many a decade past the history of industry and commerce is but the history of the revolt of modern productive forces against modern conditions of production, against the property relations that are the conditions for the existence of the bourgeoisie and of its rule. It is enough to mention the commercial crises that by their periodical return put on its trial, each time more threateningly, the existence of the entire bourgeois society. In these crises a great part not only of the existing products, but also of the previously created productive forces, are periodically destroyed. In these crises there breaks out an epidemic that, in all earlier epochs, would have seemed an absurdity--the epidemic of over-production. Society suddenly finds itself put back into a state of momentary barbarism; it appears as if a famine, a universal war of devastation had cut off the supply of every means of subsistence; industry and commerce seem to be destroyed; and why? Because there is too much civilisation, too much means of subsistence, too much industry, too much commerce. The productive forces at the disposal of society no longer tend to further the development of the conditions of bourgeois property; on the contrary, they have become too powerful for these conditions, by which they are fettered, and so soon as they overcome these fetters, they bring disorder into the whole of bourgeois society, endanger the existence of bourgeois property. The conditions of bourgeois society are too narrow to comprise the wealth created by them. And how does the bourgeoisie get over these crises? On the one hand inforced destruction of a mass of productive forces; on the other, by the conquest of new markets, and by the more thorough exploitation of the old ones. That is to say, by paving the way for more extensive and more destructive crises, and by diminishing the means whereby crises are prevented. The weapons with which the bourgeoisie felled feudalism to the ground are now turned against the bourgeoisie itself. But not only has the bourgeoisie forged the weapons that bring death to itself; it has also called into existence the men who are to wield those weapons--the modern working class--the proletarians. In proportion as the bourgeoisie, i.e., capital, is developed, in the same proportion is the proletariat, the modern working class, developed--a class of labourers, who live only so long as they find work, and who find work only so long as their labour increases capital. These labourers, who must sell themselves piece-meal, are a commodity, like every other article of commerce, and are consequently exposed to all the vicissitudes of competition, to all the fluctuations of the market. Owing to the extensive use of machinery and to division of labour, the work of the proletarians has lost all individual character, and consequently, all charm for the workman. He becomes an appendage of the machine, and it is only the most simple, most monotonous, and most easily acquired knack, that is required of him. Hence, the cost of production of a workman is restricted, almost entirely, to the means of subsistence that he requires for his maintenance, and for the propagation of his race. But the price of a commodity, and therefore also of labour, is equal to its cost of production. In proportion therefore, as the repulsiveness of the work increases, the wage decreases. Nay more, in proportion as the use of machinery and division of labour increases, in the same proportion the burden of toil also increases, whether by prolongation of the working hours, by increase of the work exacted in a given time or by increased speed of the machinery, etc. Modern industry has converted the little workshop of the patriarchal master into the great factory of the industrial capitalist. Masses of labourers, crowded into the factory, are organised like soldiers. As privates of the industrial army they are placed under the command of a perfect hierarchy of officers and sergeants. Not only are they slaves of the bourgeois class, and of the bourgeois State; they are daily and hourly enslaved by the machine, by the over-looker, and, above all, by the individual bourgeois manufacturer himself. The more openly this despotism proclaims gain to be its end and aim, the more petty, the more hateful and the more embittering it is. The less the skill and exertion of strength implied in manual labour, in other words, the more modern industry becomes developed, the more is the labour of men superseded by that of women. Differences of age and sex have no longer any distinctive social validity for the working class. All are instruments of labour, more or less expensive to use, according to their age and sex. No sooner is the exploitation of the labourer by the manufacturer, so far at an end, that he receives his wages in cash, than he is set upon by the other portions of the bourgeoisie, the landlord, the shopkeeper, the pawnbroker, etc. The lower strata of the middle class--the small tradespeople, shopkeepers, retired tradesmen generally, the handicraftsmen and peasants--all these sink gradually into the proletariat, partly because their diminutive capital does not suffice for the scale on which Modern Industry is carried on, and is swamped in the competition with the large capitalists, partly because their specialized skill is rendered worthless by the new methods of production. Thus the proletariat is recruited from all classes of the population. The proletariat goes through various stages of development. With its birth begins its struggle with the bourgeoisie. At first the contest is carried on by individual labourers, then by the workpeople of a factory, then by the operatives of one trade, in one locality, against the individual bourgeois who directly exploits them. They direct their attacks not against the bourgeois conditions of production, but against the instruments of production themselves; they destroy imported wares that compete with their labour, they smash to pieces machinery, they set factories ablaze, they seek to restore by force the vanished status of the workman of the Middle Ages. At this stage the labourers still form an incoherent mass scattered over the whole country, and broken up by their mutual competition. If anywhere they unite to form more compact bodies, this is not yet the consequence of their own active union, but of the union of the bourgeoisie, which class, in order to attain its own political ends, is compelled to set the whole proletariat in motion, and is moreover yet, for a time, able to do so. At this stage, therefore, the proletarians do not fight their enemies, but the enemies of their enemies, the remnants of absolute monarchy, the landowners, the non-industrial bourgeois, the petty bourgeoisie. Thus the whole historical movement is concentrated in the hands of the bourgeoisie; every victory so obtained is a victory for the bourgeoisie. But with the development of industry the proletariat not only increases in number; it becomes concentrated in greater masses, its strength grows, and it feels that strength more. The various interests and conditions of life within the ranks of the proletariat are more and more equalised, in proportion as machinery obliterates all distinctions of labour, and nearly everywhere reduces wages to the same low level. The growing competition among the bourgeois, and the resulting commercial crises, make the wages of the workers ever more fluctuating. The unceasing improvement of machinery, ever more rapidly developing, makes their livelihood more and more precarious; the collisions between individual workmen and individual bourgeois take more and more the character of collisions between two classes. Thereupon the workers begin to form combinations (Trades Unions) against the bourgeois; they club together in order to keep up the rate of wages; they found permanent associations in order to make provision beforehand for these occasional revolts. Here and there the contest breaks out into riots. Now and then the workers are victorious, but only for a time. The real fruit of their battles lies, not in the immediate result, but in the ever-expanding union of the workers. This union is helped on by the improved means of communication that are created by modern industry and that place the workers of different localities in contact with one another. It was just this contact that was needed to centralise the numerous local struggles, all of the same character, into one national struggle between classes. But every class struggle is a political struggle. And that union, to attain which the burghers of the Middle Ages, with their miserable highways, required centuries, the modern proletarians, thanks to railways, achieve in a few years. This organisation of the proletarians into a class, and consequently into a political party, is continually being upset again by the competition between the workers themselves. But it ever rises up again, stronger, firmer, mightier. It compels legislative recognition of particular interests of the workers, by taking advantage of the divisions among the bourgeoisie itself. Thus the ten-hours' bill in England was carried. Altogether collisions between the classes of the old society further, in many ways, the course of development of the proletariat. The bourgeoisie finds itself involved in a constant battle. At first with the aristocracy; later on, with those portions of the bourgeoisie itself, whose interests have become antagonistic to the progress of industry; at all times, with the bourgeoisie of foreign countries. In all these battles it sees itself compelled to appeal to the proletariat, to ask for its help, and thus, to drag it into the political arena. The bourgeoisie itself, therefore, supplies the proletariat with its own instruments of political and general education, in other words, it furnishes the proletariat with weapons for fighting the bourgeoisie. Further, as we have already seen, entire sections of the ruling classes are, by the advance of industry, precipitated into the proletariat, or are at least threatened in their conditions of existence. These also supply the proletariat with fresh elements of enlightenment and progress. Finally, in times when the class struggle nears the decisive hour, the process of dissolution going on within the ruling class, in fact within the whole range of society, assumes such a violent, glaring character, that a small section of the ruling class cuts itself adrift, and joins the revolutionary class, the class that holds the future in its hands. Just as, therefore, at an earlier period, a section of the nobility went over to the bourgeoisie, so now a portion of the bourgeoisie goes over to the proletariat, and in particular, a portion of the bourgeois ideologists, who have raised themselves to the level of comprehending theoretically the historical movement as a whole. Of all the classes that stand face to face with the bourgeoisie today, the proletariat alone is a really revolutionary class. The other classes decay and finally disappear in the face of Modern Industry; the proletariat is its special and essential product. The lower middle class, the small manufacturer, the shopkeeper, the artisan, the peasant, all these fight against the bourgeoisie, to save from extinction their existence as fractions of the middle class. They are therefore not revolutionary, but conservative. Nay more, they are reactionary, for they try to roll back the wheel of history. If by chance they are revolutionary, they are so only in view of their impending transfer into the proletariat, they thus defend not their present, but their future interests, they desert their own standpoint to place themselves at that of the proletariat. The "dangerous class," the social scum, that passively rotting mass thrown off by the lowest layers of old society, may, here and there, be swept into the movement by a proletarian revolution; its conditions of life, however, prepare it far more for the part of a bribed tool of reactionary intrigue. In the conditions of the proletariat, those of old society at large are already virtually swamped. The proletarian is without property; his relation to his wife and children has no longer anything in common with the bourgeois family-relations; modern industrial labour, modern subjection to capital, the same in England as in France, in America as in Germany, has stripped him of every trace of national character. Law, morality, religion, are to him so many bourgeois prejudices, behind which lurk in ambush just as many bourgeois interests. All the preceding classes that got the upper hand, sought to fortify their already acquired status by subjecting society at large to their conditions of appropriation. The proletarians cannot become masters of the productive forces of society, except by abolishing their own previous mode of appropriation, and thereby also every other previous mode of appropriation. They have nothing of their own to secure and to fortify; their mission is to destroy all previous securities for, and insurances of, individual property. All previous historical movements were movements of minorities, or in the interests of minorities. The proletarian movement is the self-conscious, independent movement of the immense majority, in the interests of the immense majority. The proletariat, the lowest stratum of our present society, cannot stir, cannot raise itself up, without the whole superincumbent strata of official society being sprung into the air. Though not in substance, yet in form, the struggle of the proletariat with the bourgeoisie is at first a national struggle. The proletariat of each country must, of course, first of all settle matters with its own bourgeoisie. In depicting the most general phases of the development of the proletariat, we traced the more or less veiled civil war, raging within existing society, up to the point where that war breaks out into open revolution, and where the violent overthrow of the bourgeoisie lays the foundation for the sway of the proletariat. Hitherto, every form of society has been based, as we have already seen, on the antagonism of oppressing and oppressed classes. But in order to oppress a class, certain conditions must be assured to it under which it can, at least, continue its slavish existence. The serf, in the period of serfdom, raised himself to membership in the commune, just as the petty bourgeois, under the yoke of feudal absolutism, managed to develop into a bourgeois. The modern laborer, on the contrary, instead of rising with the progress of industry, sinks deeper and deeper below the conditions of existence of his own class. He becomes a pauper, and pauperism develops more rapidly than population and wealth. And here it becomes evident, that the bourgeoisie is unfit any longer to be the ruling class in society, and to impose its conditions of existence upon society as an over-riding law. It is unfit to rule because it is incompetent to assure an existence to its slave within his slavery, because it cannot help letting him sink into such a state, that it has to feed him, instead of being fed by him. Society can no longer live under this bourgeoisie, in other words, its existence is no longer compatible with society. The essential condition for the existence, and for the sway of the bourgeois class, is the formation and augmentation of capital; the condition for capital is wage-labour. Wage-labour rests exclusively on competition between the laborers. The advance of industry, whose involuntary promoter is the bourgeoisie, replaces the isolation of the labourers, due to competition, by their revolutionary combination, due to association. The development of Modern Industry, therefore, cuts from under its feet the very foundation on which the bourgeoisie produces and appropriates products. What the bourgeoisie, therefore, produces, above all, is its own grave-diggers. Its fall and the victory of the proletariat are equally inevitable.

Section 1: Bourgeois and Proletarians

https://web.archive.org/web/20210518104134/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/communist-manifesto/summary/section-1-bourgeois-and-proletarians

Another famous line: "The history of all hitherto existing society is the history of class struggles" . In other words, rich people, poor or enslaved people, and those in the middle have been duking it out ever since society began. These fights between oppressor and oppressed--whether during the Roman Empire, feudal Europe, or other times--result in either a revolutionary rebuilding of all society or ruin for everyone. Sounds fun. So, about the bourgeoisie--wait, who are they? They're an economic class that developed, toward the end of feudalism, from the citizens of towns who were neither aristocrats nor serfs (peasants who were basically enslaved). These people successfully built up businesses, becoming upper class--a.k.a. rich people--who controlled capital. That makes them capitalists who control the means of production and exchange . See our "Characters" section for a fuller explanation of these peeps. The rise of the bourgeoisie hasn't changed anything about class struggle, Marx says. It has only established new forms of it and made it a lot more obvious. On the opposite side of the bourgeoisie is the proletariat. Who are these folks? They're workers who are paid wages. See our "Characters" section for a fuller explanation. Back to the bourgeoisie. As feudalism--the system of aristocracy versus serfs--was collapsing, the discovery of the Americas by Europeans and the colonial trade increased the bourgeoisie's power rapidly. Basically, colonialism gave the bourgeoisie new markets and resources for their businesses. Marx is going into full history-teacher mode here. The way industry was organized in the medieval period, with closed guilds, could not keep up with the growing wants of the new marketplaces. So the manufacturing industry arose to supply the wants. Even that wasn't enough, so steam and machinery came along to further revolutionize industrial production. The Industrial Revolution made new millionaires out of much of the bourgeoisie. Thus, Marx concludes, the bourgeoisie results from a long course of revolutions in the modes of production and exchange. What the heck are modes of production and exchange? Well, comrade, production is building products like iPhones, and circulation is sort of managing their distribution--and we're not talking about the way truck drivers haul loads, but instead about the way banks manage this stuff by investing. (Marx thinks of investing as something like gambling or manipulation.) As the bourgeoisie developed, it won various political gains, often helping the absolute monarchs by serving as a balancing factor against the aristocratic nobility, which the monarchs had to keep in check. However, now the bourgeoisie is the most powerful force in the world. Indeed, Marx says, the bourgeoisie has played a revolutionary role in history. This is a startling line, comrade, because usually communists think of the workers as the revolutionaries. But Marx is talking about the past, about the bourgeoisie ending the medieval period's feudalism. Whenever they gained power, the bourgeoisie was able to replace the feudal connections between people with the connection of self-interest and money. In other words, instead of the belief that aristocrats were naturally superior to serfs, for example, the profit motive has now become the principle organizing relationship. Everything boils down to money. The bourgeoisie took away the honor of occupations, such as physician or poet, and made them, again, all about profit--their work is nothing more than wage-labor, an important term you can read more about in the "Symbols, Imagery, Allegory" section. The bourgeoisie built wonders far surpassing the pyramids and other ancient monuments and did a bunch of other impressive stuff. That business is competition requires the bourgeoisie to constantly innovate --indeed, to revolutionize everything about production. These changes sweep away the familiar, including opinions and relationships, as business is conducted. It's all about the moolah. The need for a constantly expanding market chases the bourgeoisie around the globe and makes them exploit, or take advantage of, everyone. The bourgeoisie removes what's unique about each nation, reshapes faraway countries in its own image, and uses various nations' natural resources (like oil, for example) for their own purpose: profit. The requirements of business have concentrated populations into the cities and made undeveloped countries dependent on developed ones. Laws and taxes have become more and more unified in organization. What is unique is dying away; everything is becoming capitalist--money is the bottom line everywhere. So, Marx sums up, the means of production , which are the foundation of the bourgeoisie, began their development under feudalism and eventually grew so much that feudalism had to collapse and give way to capitalism's rule. There is a similar change going on before our eyes, Karl continues. The history of industry has been about the bourgeoisie's massive forces of production breaking apart old property relations and establishing new ones. Increasingly severe economic recessions and depressions are the absurd consequence of too much production taking place. But there is another consequence of this growth of capital, or the extra wealth that allows for the creation of more wealth rather than just paying bills (see "Symbols, Imagery, Allegory" for more): the growth of the proletariat, which will overthrow the bourgeoisie, just as the bourgeoisie overthrew feudalism. The proletariat is a class of laborers who must find work to live but who can only find work when it financially benefits the bourgeoisie. These workers have to sell themselves to the bourgeoisie and are treated like just another commodity, or just another thing for sale. Example: getting fired simply because a company is cutting expenses. Sad face. Due to the division of labor and the increased use of machinery, workers have become mere cogs in the machine. Their jobs are not personal any longer; they don't have the opportunity to personalize their work. They're stuck in factories and ordered around like soldiers. As soon as the worker is finished at the factory and paid, more members of the bourgeoisie, such as the landlord and shopkeeper, demand his or her money. The members of the lower middle class, such as tradespeople, fall into the proletariat because their small amount of capital isn't enough to compete against the large capitalists. The proletariat goes through stages of development, comrade. First individual workers, then the workpeople at an individual factory, and eventually more and more workers elsewhere retaliate against those who directly exploit them--they smash machinery, they set factories on fire. But at this stage, the proletariat is still made up of various groups competing against one another. The bourgeoisie finds ways to profit from the proletariat's competition against itself. But over time, the proletariat, increasing in number, grows stronger from its repeated conflicts with the bourgeoisie and from shared frustrations over fluctuations in their pay. They create labor unions to try to increase their bargaining power. Sometimes the contest between proletariat and the bourgeoisie breaks out into riots. The real victory of these various battles is that the workers, despite their differences, join together more and more as a force standing against the bourgeoisie. That capitalism causes competition between workers for jobs, however, is a fact that continues to divide them. Still, the proletariat keeps rising up and joining together, even to the point of creating political parties, aided by new technology improving communication and travel. Competition makes the bourgeoisie struggle, too. They have to compete against the aristocracy, against each other, and against the bourgeoisie in foreign countries. They ask the proletariat--the bulk of the population--for help, but in doing so, they have to educate them... which is something that will help the proletariat overthrow the bourgeoisie down the road. Some of the bourgeoisie can't successfully maintain their class status, due to competition, and they become proletarians. Other bourgeoisie (such as Marx and Engels themselves) who understand the historical movement of politics, join the proletariat intentionally to further the revolution. It's the proletariat who are the revolutionary class, according to Marx. Those in the middle class either try to maintain their position, thus contributing to the capitalist system, or fall into the proletariat by the pressures of competition. The lumpenproletariat, such as beggars, criminals, and drifters, aren't particularly relevant in the class struggle, Marx says. The proletariat cannot win power without eliminating exploitation altogether. They cannot raise themselves up without changing the structures that allow for exploitation. The struggles of the proletariat will thus lead to the final revolution: the violent overthrow of the bourgeoisie. To rule, the bourgeoisie has to keep profiting, which requires wage-labor (working for wages, which is what the proletariat does). But wage-labor can only continue as long as the workers fight one another in competition. Instead, Marx says, they're joining together to resist their dangerous workplace conditions. The very foundation of the bourgeoisie is being cut out under its feet. With a famous image, Marx writes that the bourgeoisie produces its own gravediggers.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/61-chapters/2.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Communist Manifesto/section_3_part_0.txt

The Communist Manifesto.chapter 2

chapter 2: proletarians and communists

{"name": "Section 2: Proletarians and Communists", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210518104134/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/communist-manifesto/summary/section-2-proletarians-and-communists", "summary": "Okay here we go. Now Marx talks about the relationship between proletarians and communists, meaning the Communist League who commissioned him to write the Manifesto. The communists have no interests apart from the proletariat, he says. They point out the common interests of the entire proletariat regardless of country, and they support the whole working class movement's interests. They understand the historical picture and push it forward. The immediate aim of the communists is to form the proletariat into a massive group, to overthrow the bourgeoisie's supremacy, and to conquer political power. Now we get into the specifics of communism. The bourgeoisie objects that communists want to abolish property. But property has always been abolished, Marx says; that the communists want to abolish it is nothing new. The French Revolution abolished feudal property in favor of bourgeoisie property, for example. The distinguishing feature of the communists is that they want to abolish the private nature of bourgeois property , which would leave workers the personal product of their labor but not capital with which to exploit others. In other words, under communism, you're supposed to get to keep your own toothbrush and other personal belongings. But you won't be exploiting a bunch of laborers, forcing them to create toothbrushes for you to sell. Property under the bourgeois system means exploitation and antagonism between capital and wage-labor. Capital, remember, is the profit of the rich. Wage-labor--that is, the proletariat's work for wages--doesn't create property for laborers; it creates capital for the bourgeoisie. Here's an example. You might be paid to bake bread at a grocery store for the bourgeoisie to sell. You haven't created bread for yourself to eat; you've created profit for your employer. Now you have to buy food to eat from other members of the bourgeoisie rather than freely eat the bread you just made. Capital is all that labor added up and taken by the bourgeoisie, rather than the labor serving as means to enrich the lives of the laborers. Abolition of this property system means abolition of bourgeois freedom, of free trade: selling and buying. By free trade, the bourgeoisie meant freedom from feudalism, not freedom for everyone. Marx says people are horrified by the communists' proposals to abolish private property, but he says it's already been abolished for ninety percent of the population, since the proletariat has been left with the bare minimum of property, just enough to allow them to survive. Communists want to do away with the class character of property and the misery with which the fruits of labor are acquired. Karl emphasizes again that communism doesn't take away the power of people to acquire and make use of society's products; it only deprives people of the power to turn these products into capital and enslave others with that capital. The bourgeoisie argues that people will become lazy once bourgeois property is abolished, but Marx says the bourgeoisie is already lazy. It's wage-labor and capital that are to be done away with, not human productivity, comrade. The bourgeoisie thinks that the disappearance of bourgeois culture means the disappearance of all culture. But for the proletariat, it means ending the culture of having to be a cog in the machine. Bourgeois notions of culture, law, and stuff like that are reflections of the bourgeois mode of production: capitalism. Ruling classes have always been unable to see that their eternal truths are merely reflections of their own class. Now we get even more extreme. Marx says that people get angry with the communist proposal to abolish the family. Once again, though, communists are referring to the bourgeois family, which is founded on capital and self-interest. The proletariat practically has no family , and one result is prostitution. Once capital vanishes, proper relations between people will exist. Similarly, communists aim to do away with bourgeois education by rescuing education from the ruling class. The bourgeoisie has turned family and education into commerce. The bourgeoisie protest that communists would introduce a community of women. Basically, that means they think communists want women to be sexually available to the entire community rather than married or otherwise unavailable. But the bourgeoisie, Marx says, see their wives as mere means of production and imagine that because communists want to share the means of production, they must want to make women common to all. But the communist idea, Marx says, is to end the status of women being little production factories in the first place. Whereas the bourgeoisie is used to seducing each other's wives--and to going to prostitutes--the communists would end the need for prostitution. And besides, he adds, a community of women has nearly always existed to some extent. See the \"Women and Femininity\" theme for more. The communists are accused of wanting to abolish countries and nationalities. But, Marx says, the proletariat has no country. National differences and antagonisms are disappearing due to business and the world market, and the coming supremacy of the proletariat will cause nationalities to disappear even faster, since the revolution requires unity from the proletariat to succeed. Hostilities between nations will end, comrade. Accusations against communism coming from religious, philosophical, or ideological standpoints are not worth consideration, Marx says. Well, that's one way to deal with your opponents. Anyway, Marx says people's ideas change due to system-wide changes in production, not the other way around. When production changes, ideas change. But all past ideas have developed in the context of class exploitation, so communism is the most radical idea, as the proletarian revolution will end exploitation and thus exploitation-based ideas altogether. Marx announces that he's sick of talking about the bourgeois objections to communism. So now he's going to get into what his guys, the proletariat, should do once they're in charge. The proletariat should use its political power to take capital from the bourgeoisie, centralize the means of production into the hands of the State , and increase total production as quickly as possible. The measures a proletarian State will take will differ from country to country, but Marx outlines ten general steps that there might be. They involve putting credit, communication, transport, the means of production , and more into the hands of the State as inheritance and ownership of land are abolished, taxes are increased, and free education is provided to all. Once this program ends class distinctions, the power of the proletariat will cease to be political power, because political power is nothing more than the organized power to oppress. And all oppression is class oppression, according to Marx. In place of the bourgeois society, with all its class antagonisms, people will associate under the principle that freedom for any particular person to develop is the same as the freedom for all to develop.", "analysis": ""}

II. PROLETARIANS AND COMMUNISTS In what relation do the Communists stand to the proletarians as a whole? The Communists do not form a separate party opposed to other working-class parties. They have no interests separate and apart from those of the proletariat as a whole. They do not set up any sectarian principles of their own, by which to shape and mould the proletarian movement. The Communists are distinguished from the other working-class parties by this only: (1) In the national struggles of the proletarians of the different countries, they point out and bring to the front the common interests of the entire proletariat, independently of all nationality. (2) In the various stages of development which the struggle of the working class against the bourgeoisie has to pass through, they always and everywhere represent the interests of the movement as a whole. The Communists, therefore, are on the one hand, practically, the most advanced and resolute section of the working-class parties of every country, that section which pushes forward all others; on the other hand, theoretically, they have over the great mass of the proletariat the advantage of clearly understanding the line of march, the conditions, and the ultimate general results of the proletarian movement. The immediate aim of the Communist is the same as that of all the other proletarian parties: formation of the proletariat into a class, overthrow of the bourgeois supremacy, conquest of political power by the proletariat. The theoretical conclusions of the Communists are in no way based on ideas or principles that have been invented, or discovered, by this or that would-be universal reformer. They merely express, in general terms, actual relations springing from an existing class struggle, from a historical movement going on under our very eyes. The abolition of existing property relations is not at all a distinctive feature of Communism. All property relations in the past have continually been subject to historical change consequent upon the change in historical conditions. The French Revolution, for example, abolished feudal property in favour of bourgeois property. The distinguishing feature of Communism is not the abolition of property generally, but the abolition of bourgeois property. But modern bourgeois private property is the final and most complete expression of the system of producing and appropriating products, that is based on class antagonisms, on the exploitation of the many by the few. In this sense, the theory of the Communists may be summed up in the single sentence: Abolition of private property. We Communists have been reproached with the desire of abolishing the right of personally acquiring property as the fruit of a man's own labour, which property is alleged to be the groundwork of all personal freedom, activity and independence. Hard-won, self-acquired, self-earned property! Do you mean the property of the petty artisan and of the small peasant, a form of property that preceded the bourgeois form? There is no need to abolish that; the development of industry has to a great extent already destroyed it, and is still destroying it daily. Or do you mean modern bourgeois private property? But does wage-labour create any property for the labourer? Not a bit. It creates capital, i.e., that kind of property which exploits wage-labour, and which cannot increase except upon condition of begetting a new supply of wage-labour for fresh exploitation. Property, in its present form, is based on the antagonism of capital and wage-labour. Let us examine both sides of this antagonism. To be a capitalist, is to have not only a purely personal, but a social status in production. Capital is a collective product, and only by the united action of many members, nay, in the last resort, only by the united action of all members of society, can it be set in motion. Capital is, therefore, not a personal, it is a social power. When, therefore, capital is converted into common property, into the property of all members of society, personal property is not thereby transformed into social property. It is only the social character of the property that is changed. It loses its class-character. Let us now take wage-labour. The average price of wage-labour is the minimum wage, i.e., that quantum of the means of subsistence, which is absolutely requisite in bare existence as a labourer. What, therefore, the wage-labourer appropriates by means of his labour, merely suffices to prolong and reproduce a bare existence. We by no means intend to abolish this personal appropriation of the products of labour, an appropriation that is made for the maintenance and reproduction of human life, and that leaves no surplus wherewith to command the labour of others. All that we want to do away with, is the miserable character of this appropriation, under which the labourer lives merely to increase capital, and is allowed to live only in so far as the interest of the ruling class requires it. In bourgeois society, living labour is but a means to increase accumulated labour. In Communist society, accumulated labour is but a means to widen, to enrich, to promote the existence of the labourer. In bourgeois society, therefore, the past dominates the present; in Communist society, the present dominates the past. In bourgeois society capital is independent and has individuality, while the living person is dependent and has no individuality. And the abolition of this state of things is called by the bourgeois, abolition of individuality and freedom! And rightly so. The abolition of bourgeois individuality, bourgeois independence, and bourgeois freedom is undoubtedly aimed at. By freedom is meant, under the present bourgeois conditions of production, free trade, free selling and buying. But if selling and buying disappears, free selling and buying disappears also. This talk about free selling and buying, and all the other "brave words" of our bourgeoisie about freedom in general, have a meaning, if any, only in contrast with restricted selling and buying, with the fettered traders of the Middle Ages, but have no meaning when opposed to the Communistic abolition of buying and selling, of the bourgeois conditions of production, and of the bourgeoisie itself. You are horrified at our intending to do away with private property. But in your existing society, private property is already done away with for nine-tenths of the population; its existence for the few is solely due to its non-existence in the hands of those nine-tenths. You reproach us, therefore, with intending to do away with a form of property, the necessary condition for whose existence is the non-existence of any property for the immense majority of society. In one word, you reproach us with intending to do away with your property. Precisely so; that is just what we intend. From the moment when labour can no longer be converted into capital, money, or rent, into a social power capable of being monopolised, i.e., from the moment when individual property can no longer be transformed into bourgeois property, into capital, from that moment, you say individuality vanishes. You must, therefore, confess that by "individual" you mean no other person than the bourgeois, than the middle-class owner of property. This person must, indeed, be swept out of the way, and made impossible. Communism deprives no man of the power to appropriate the products of society; all that it does is to deprive him of the power to subjugate the labour of others by means of such appropriation. It has been objected that upon the abolition of private property all work will cease, and universal laziness will overtake us. According to this, bourgeois society ought long ago to have gone to the dogs through sheer idleness; for those of its members who work, acquire nothing, and those who acquire anything, do not work. The whole of this objection is but another expression of the tautology: that there can no longer be any wage-labour when there is no longer any capital. All objections urged against the Communistic mode of producing and appropriating material products, have, in the same way, been urged against the Communistic modes of producing and appropriating intellectual products. Just as, to the bourgeois, the disappearance of class property is the disappearance of production itself, so the disappearance of class culture is to him identical with the disappearance of all culture. That culture, the loss of which he laments, is, for the enormous majority, a mere training to act as a machine. But don't wrangle with us so long as you apply, to our intended abolition of bourgeois property, the standard of your bourgeois notions of freedom, culture, law, etc. Your very ideas are but the outgrowth of the conditions of your bourgeois production and bourgeois property, just as your jurisprudence is but the will of your class made into a law for all, a will, whose essential character and direction are determined by the economical conditions of existence of your class. The selfish misconception that induces you to transform into eternal laws of nature and of reason, the social forms springing from your present mode of production and form of property--historical relations that rise and disappear in the progress of production--this misconception you share with every ruling class that has preceded you. What you see clearly in the case of ancient property, what you admit in the case of feudal property, you are of course forbidden to admit in the case of your own bourgeois form of property. Abolition of the family! Even the most radical flare up at this infamous proposal of the Communists. On what foundation is the present family, the bourgeois family, based? On capital, on private gain. In its completely developed form this family exists only among the bourgeoisie. But this state of things finds its complement in the practical absence of the family among the proletarians, and in public prostitution. The bourgeois family will vanish as a matter of course when its complement vanishes, and both will vanish with the vanishing of capital. Do you charge us with wanting to stop the exploitation of children by their parents? To this crime we plead guilty. But, you will say, we destroy the most hallowed of relations, when we replace home education by social. And your education! Is not that also social, and determined by the social conditions under which you educate, by the intervention, direct or indirect, of society, by means of schools, etc.? The Communists have not invented the intervention of society in education; they do but seek to alter the character of that intervention, and to rescue education from the influence of the ruling class. The bourgeois clap-trap about the family and education, about the hallowed co-relation of parent and child, becomes all the more disgusting, the more, by the action of Modern Industry, all family ties among the proletarians are torn asunder, and their children transformed into simple articles of commerce and instruments of labour. But you Communists would introduce community of women, screams the whole bourgeoisie in chorus. The bourgeois sees in his wife a mere instrument of production. He hears that the instruments of production are to be exploited in common, and, naturally, can come to no other conclusion than that the lot of being common to all will likewise fall to the women. He has not even a suspicion that the real point is to do away with the status of women as mere instruments of production. For the rest, nothing is more ridiculous than the virtuous indignation of our bourgeois at the community of women which, they pretend, is to be openly and officially established by the Communists. The Communists have no need to introduce community of women; it has existed almost from time immemorial. Our bourgeois, not content with having the wives and daughters of their proletarians at their disposal, not to speak of common prostitutes, take the greatest pleasure in seducing each other's wives. Bourgeois marriage is in reality a system of wives in common and thus, at the most, what the Communists might possibly be reproached with, is that they desire to introduce, in substitution for a hypocritically concealed, an openly legalised community of women. For the rest, it is self-evident that the abolition of the present system of production must bring with it the abolition of the community of women springing from that system, i.e., of prostitution both public and private. The Communists are further reproached with desiring to abolish countries and nationality. The working men have no country. We cannot take from them what they have not got. Since the proletariat must first of all acquire political supremacy, must rise to be the leading class of the nation, must constitute itself the nation, it is, so far, itself national, though not in the bourgeois sense of the word. National differences and antagonisms between peoples are daily more and more vanishing, owing to the development of the bourgeoisie, to freedom of commerce, to the world-market, to uniformity in the mode of production and in the conditions of life corresponding thereto. The supremacy of the proletariat will cause them to vanish still faster. United action, of the leading civilised countries at least, is one of the first conditions for the emancipation of the proletariat. In proportion as the exploitation of one individual by another is put an end to, the exploitation of one nation by another will also be put an end to. In proportion as the antagonism between classes within the nation vanishes, the hostility of one nation to another will come to an end. The charges against Communism made from a religious, a philosophical, and, generally, from an ideological standpoint, are not deserving of serious examination. Does it require deep intuition to comprehend that man's ideas, views and conceptions, in one word, man's consciousness, changes with every change in the conditions of his material existence, in his social relations and in his social life? What else does the history of ideas prove, than that intellectual production changes its character in proportion as material production is changed? The ruling ideas of each age have ever been the ideas of its ruling class. When people speak of ideas that revolutionise society, they do but express the fact, that within the old society, the elements of a new one have been created, and that the dissolution of the old ideas keeps even pace with the dissolution of the old conditions of existence. When the ancient world was in its last throes, the ancient religions were overcome by Christianity. When Christian ideas succumbed in the 18th century to rationalist ideas, feudal society fought its death battle with the then revolutionary bourgeoisie. The ideas of religious liberty and freedom of conscience merely gave expression to the sway of free competition within the domain of knowledge. "Undoubtedly," it will be said, "religious, moral, philosophical and juridical ideas have been modified in the course of historical development. But religion, morality philosophy, political science, and law, constantly survived this change." "There are, besides, eternal truths, such as Freedom, Justice, etc. that are common to all states of society. But Communism abolishes eternal truths, it abolishes all religion, and all morality, instead of constituting them on a new basis; it therefore acts in contradiction to all past historical experience." What does this accusation reduce itself to? The history of all past society has consisted in the development of class antagonisms, antagonisms that assumed different forms at different epochs. But whatever form they may have taken, one fact is common to all past ages, viz., the exploitation of one part of society by the other. No wonder, then, that the social consciousness of past ages, despite all the multiplicity and variety it displays, moves within certain common forms, or general ideas, which cannot completely vanish except with the total disappearance of class antagonisms. The Communist revolution is the most radical rupture with traditional property relations; no wonder that its development involves the most radical rupture with traditional ideas. But let us have done with the bourgeois objections to Communism. We have seen above, that the first step in the revolution by the working class, is to raise the proletariat to the position of ruling as to win the battle of democracy. The proletariat will use its political supremacy to wrest, by degrees, all capital from the bourgeoisie, to centralise all instruments of production in the hands of the State, i.e., of the proletariat organised as the ruling class; and to increase the total of productive forces as rapidly as possible. Of course, in the beginning, this cannot be effected except by means of despotic inroads on the rights of property, and on the conditions of bourgeois production; by means of measures, therefore, which appear economically insufficient and untenable, but which, in the course of the movement, outstrip themselves, necessitate further inroads upon the old social order, and are unavoidable as a means of entirely revolutionising the mode of production. These measures will of course be different in different countries. Nevertheless in the most advanced countries, the following will be pretty generally applicable. 1. Abolition of property in land and application of all rents of land to public purposes. 2. A heavy progressive or graduated income tax. 3. Abolition of all right of inheritance. 4. Confiscation of the property of all emigrants and rebels. 5. Centralisation of credit in the hands of the State, by means of a national bank with State capital and an exclusive monopoly. 6. Centralisation of the means of communication and transport in the hands of the State. 7. Extension of factories and instruments of production owned by the State; the bringing into cultivation of waste-lands, and the improvement of the soil generally in accordance with a common plan. 8. Equal liability of all to labour. Establishment of industrial armies, especially for agriculture. 9. Combination of agriculture with manufacturing industries; gradual abolition of the distinction between town and country, by a more equable distribution of the population over the country. 10. Free education for all children in public schools. Abolition of children's factory labour in its present form. Combination of education with industrial production, &c., &c. When, in the course of development, class distinctions have disappeared, and all production has been concentrated in the hands of a vast association of the whole nation, the public power will lose its political character. Political power, properly so called, is merely the organised power of one class for oppressing another. If the proletariat during its contest with the bourgeoisie is compelled, by the force of circumstances, to organise itself as a class, if, by means of a revolution, it makes itself the ruling class, and, as such, sweeps away by force the old conditions of production, then it will, along with these conditions, have swept away the conditions for the existence of class antagonisms and of classes generally, and will thereby have abolished its own supremacy as a class. In place of the old bourgeois society, with its classes and class antagonisms, we shall have an association, in which the free development of each is the condition for the free development of all.

Section 2: Proletarians and Communists

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Okay here we go. Now Marx talks about the relationship between proletarians and communists, meaning the Communist League who commissioned him to write the Manifesto. The communists have no interests apart from the proletariat, he says. They point out the common interests of the entire proletariat regardless of country, and they support the whole working class movement's interests. They understand the historical picture and push it forward. The immediate aim of the communists is to form the proletariat into a massive group, to overthrow the bourgeoisie's supremacy, and to conquer political power. Now we get into the specifics of communism. The bourgeoisie objects that communists want to abolish property. But property has always been abolished, Marx says; that the communists want to abolish it is nothing new. The French Revolution abolished feudal property in favor of bourgeoisie property, for example. The distinguishing feature of the communists is that they want to abolish the private nature of bourgeois property , which would leave workers the personal product of their labor but not capital with which to exploit others. In other words, under communism, you're supposed to get to keep your own toothbrush and other personal belongings. But you won't be exploiting a bunch of laborers, forcing them to create toothbrushes for you to sell. Property under the bourgeois system means exploitation and antagonism between capital and wage-labor. Capital, remember, is the profit of the rich. Wage-labor--that is, the proletariat's work for wages--doesn't create property for laborers; it creates capital for the bourgeoisie. Here's an example. You might be paid to bake bread at a grocery store for the bourgeoisie to sell. You haven't created bread for yourself to eat; you've created profit for your employer. Now you have to buy food to eat from other members of the bourgeoisie rather than freely eat the bread you just made. Capital is all that labor added up and taken by the bourgeoisie, rather than the labor serving as means to enrich the lives of the laborers. Abolition of this property system means abolition of bourgeois freedom, of free trade: selling and buying. By free trade, the bourgeoisie meant freedom from feudalism, not freedom for everyone. Marx says people are horrified by the communists' proposals to abolish private property, but he says it's already been abolished for ninety percent of the population, since the proletariat has been left with the bare minimum of property, just enough to allow them to survive. Communists want to do away with the class character of property and the misery with which the fruits of labor are acquired. Karl emphasizes again that communism doesn't take away the power of people to acquire and make use of society's products; it only deprives people of the power to turn these products into capital and enslave others with that capital. The bourgeoisie argues that people will become lazy once bourgeois property is abolished, but Marx says the bourgeoisie is already lazy. It's wage-labor and capital that are to be done away with, not human productivity, comrade. The bourgeoisie thinks that the disappearance of bourgeois culture means the disappearance of all culture. But for the proletariat, it means ending the culture of having to be a cog in the machine. Bourgeois notions of culture, law, and stuff like that are reflections of the bourgeois mode of production: capitalism. Ruling classes have always been unable to see that their eternal truths are merely reflections of their own class. Now we get even more extreme. Marx says that people get angry with the communist proposal to abolish the family. Once again, though, communists are referring to the bourgeois family, which is founded on capital and self-interest. The proletariat practically has no family , and one result is prostitution. Once capital vanishes, proper relations between people will exist. Similarly, communists aim to do away with bourgeois education by rescuing education from the ruling class. The bourgeoisie has turned family and education into commerce. The bourgeoisie protest that communists would introduce a community of women. Basically, that means they think communists want women to be sexually available to the entire community rather than married or otherwise unavailable. But the bourgeoisie, Marx says, see their wives as mere means of production and imagine that because communists want to share the means of production, they must want to make women common to all. But the communist idea, Marx says, is to end the status of women being little production factories in the first place. Whereas the bourgeoisie is used to seducing each other's wives--and to going to prostitutes--the communists would end the need for prostitution. And besides, he adds, a community of women has nearly always existed to some extent. See the "Women and Femininity" theme for more. The communists are accused of wanting to abolish countries and nationalities. But, Marx says, the proletariat has no country. National differences and antagonisms are disappearing due to business and the world market, and the coming supremacy of the proletariat will cause nationalities to disappear even faster, since the revolution requires unity from the proletariat to succeed. Hostilities between nations will end, comrade. Accusations against communism coming from religious, philosophical, or ideological standpoints are not worth consideration, Marx says. Well, that's one way to deal with your opponents. Anyway, Marx says people's ideas change due to system-wide changes in production, not the other way around. When production changes, ideas change. But all past ideas have developed in the context of class exploitation, so communism is the most radical idea, as the proletarian revolution will end exploitation and thus exploitation-based ideas altogether. Marx announces that he's sick of talking about the bourgeois objections to communism. So now he's going to get into what his guys, the proletariat, should do once they're in charge. The proletariat should use its political power to take capital from the bourgeoisie, centralize the means of production into the hands of the State , and increase total production as quickly as possible. The measures a proletarian State will take will differ from country to country, but Marx outlines ten general steps that there might be. They involve putting credit, communication, transport, the means of production , and more into the hands of the State as inheritance and ownership of land are abolished, taxes are increased, and free education is provided to all. Once this program ends class distinctions, the power of the proletariat will cease to be political power, because political power is nothing more than the organized power to oppress. And all oppression is class oppression, according to Marx. In place of the bourgeois society, with all its class antagonisms, people will associate under the principle that freedom for any particular person to develop is the same as the freedom for all to develop.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/61-chapters/3.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Communist Manifesto/section_4_part_0.txt

The Communist Manifesto.chapter 3

chapter 3: socialist and communist literature

{"name": "Section 3: Socialist and Communist Literature", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210518104134/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/communist-manifesto/summary/section-3-socialist-and-communist-literature", "summary": "In this section, Marx clarifies how his and the Communist League's communism differs from the socialism or communism of others. First, he takes on the aristocrats who advocated for feudal socialism. Basically, as feudalism was coming to an end, the aristocrats were threatened by the rise of the bourgeoisie. So the aristocrats wrote attacks against them and made offerings to the proletariat, hoping for the support of the masses. But the feudal aristocrats, according to Marx, didn't realize that their rule happened under different forms of production that were now gone. The aristocrats accused the bourgeoisie of creating a revolutionary proletariat and working against their interests. Clerical Socialism and Christian asceticism were nothing more than religious ways of approving of the aristocracy. Next up on Marx's hit list is petty-bourgeois socialism. The petty bourgeoisie is sort of like the middle class today. They were threatened with losing their position and being turned into proletarians. So they advocated for reforms to the system that might help them improve their lives for the time being, but they didn't advocate for revolution--not for anything that would fundamentally alter the system and cause them to lose their status. The petty-bourgeois writers were sometimes great at criticizing the economic theories of the upper class, but in the final analysis, they didn't want any fundamental changes. The economic views of liberals and the Democratic Party would generally be the example of the petty bourgeoisie outlook in the United States today. Now Marx gets to German Socialism, also known as True Socialism. These guys, according to him, were philosophers or book-smart people who took on French communist ideas but didn't pay attention to the context of the French Revolution. Instead of understanding the specifics of France, these Germans made the French writings conform to the ideas of their German philosophers. Marx criticizes specific works of the German Socialists and basically says that the authors sucked the revolutionary life out of the French writings and talked about grand philosophical fantasies instead of the actual revolution. As the German bourgeoisie arose against the aristocrats, German Socialism had a chance to attack, but instead it wound up misunderstanding everything and promoting grand-sounding notions about the ideal German man, who was more of a middle-class person than a proletarian. So much for German Socialism. Okay, we're moving right along to Conservative or Bourgeois Socialism. Those promoting this view were members of the bourgeoisie who were just offering reforms in order to keep the proletarians' pitchforks away. It's similar to the petty-bourgeois socialism described above. Marx sums these views up as saying that the bourgeoisie is to stay bourgeois, and that's somehow supposed to benefit the proletariat. Finally, Marx asks us to look at Critical-Utopian socialism or communism, and we say, \"Okay.\" This school of thought basically consisted of writers who understood the problems with capitalism quite well but believed the solution was to form ideal little communities where people could live as communists. They effectively supported the bourgeoisie by rejecting revolution in favor of peaceful, experimental societies that were doomed to failure. At least, Marx says, the Critical-Utopians offered good criticisms of capitalism. But they didn't understand that the entire working class had to be supported to create real change.", "analysis": ""}

III. SOCIALIST AND COMMUNIST LITERATURE 1. REACTIONARY SOCIALISM A. Feudal Socialism Owing to their historical position, it became the vocation of the aristocracies of France and England to write pamphlets against modern bourgeois society. In the French revolution of July 1830, and in the English reform agitation, these aristocracies again succumbed to the hateful upstart. Thenceforth, a serious political contest was altogether out of the question. A literary battle alone remained possible. But even in the domain of literature the old cries of the restoration period had become impossible. In order to arouse sympathy, the aristocracy were obliged to lose sight, apparently, of their own interests, and to formulate their indictment against the bourgeoisie in the interest of the exploited working class alone. Thus the aristocracy took their revenge by singing lampoons on their new master, and whispering in his ears sinister prophecies of coming catastrophe. In this way arose Feudal Socialism: half lamentation, half lampoon; half echo of the past, half menace of the future; at times, by its bitter, witty and incisive criticism, striking the bourgeoisie to the very heart's core; but always ludicrous in its effect, through total incapacity to comprehend the march of modern history. The aristocracy, in order to rally the people to them, waved the proletarian alms-bag in front for a banner. But the people, so often as it joined them, saw on their hindquarters the old feudal coats of arms, and deserted with loud and irreverent laughter. One section of the French Legitimists and "Young England" exhibited this spectacle. In pointing out that their mode of exploitation was different to that of the bourgeoisie, the feudalists forget that they exploited under circumstances and conditions that were quite different, and that are now antiquated. In showing that, under their rule, the modern proletariat never existed, they forget that the modern bourgeoisie is the necessary offspring of their own form of society. For the rest, so little do they conceal the reactionary character of their criticism that their chief accusation against the bourgeoisie amounts to this, that under the bourgeois regime a class is being developed, which is destined to cut up root and branch the old order of society. What they upbraid the bourgeoisie with is not so much that it creates a proletariat, as that it creates a revolutionary proletariat. In political practice, therefore, they join in all coercive measures against the working class; and in ordinary life, despite their high falutin phrases, they stoop to pick up the golden apples dropped from the tree of industry, and to barter truth, love, and honour for traffic in wool, beetroot-sugar, and potato spirits. As the parson has ever gone hand in hand with the landlord, so has Clerical Socialism with Feudal Socialism. Nothing is easier than to give Christian asceticism a Socialist tinge. Has not Christianity declaimed against private property, against marriage, against the State? Has it not preached in the place of these, charity and poverty, celibacy and mortification of the flesh, monastic life and Mother Church? Christian Socialism is but the holy, water with which the priest consecrates the heart-burnings of the aristocrat. B. Petty-Bourgeois Socialism The feudal aristocracy was not the only class that was ruined by the bourgeoisie, not the only class whose conditions of existence pined and perished in the atmosphere of modern bourgeois society. The mediaeval burgesses and the small peasant proprietors were the precursors of the modern bourgeoisie. In those countries which are but little developed, industrially and commercially, these two classes still vegetate side by side with the rising bourgeoisie. In countries where modern civilisation has become fully developed, a new class of petty bourgeois has been formed, fluctuating between proletariat and bourgeoisie and ever renewing itself as a supplementary part of bourgeois society. The individual members of this class, however, are being constantly hurled down into the proletariat by the action of competition, and, as modern industry develops, they even see the moment approaching when they will completely disappear as an independent section of modern society, to be replaced, in manufactures, agriculture and commerce, by overlookers, bailiffs and shopmen. In countries like France, where the peasants constitute far more than half of the population, it was natural that writers who sided with the proletariat against the bourgeoisie, should use, in their criticism of the bourgeois regime, the standard of the peasant and petty bourgeois, and from the standpoint of these intermediate classes should take up the cudgels for the working class. Thus arose petty-bourgeois Socialism. Sismondi was the head of this school, not only in France but also in England. This school of Socialism dissected with great acuteness the contradictions in the conditions of modern production. It laid bare the hypocritical apologies of economists. It proved, incontrovertibly, the disastrous effects of machinery and division of labour; the concentration of capital and land in a few hands; overproduction and crises; it pointed out the inevitable ruin of the petty bourgeois and peasant, the misery of the proletariat, the anarchy in production, the crying inequalities in the distribution of wealth, the industrial war of extermination between nations, the dissolution of old moral bonds, of the old family relations, of the old nationalities. In its positive aims, however, this form of Socialism aspires either to restoring the old means of production and of exchange, and with them the old property relations, and the old society, or to cramping the modern means of production and of exchange, within the framework of the old property relations that have been, and were bound to be, exploded by those means. In either case, it is both reactionary and Utopian. Its last words are: corporate guilds for manufacture, patriarchal relations in agriculture. Ultimately, when stubborn historical facts had dispersed all intoxicating effects of self-deception, this form of Socialism ended in a miserable fit of the blues. C. German, or "True," Socialism The Socialist and Communist literature of France, a literature that originated under the pressure of a bourgeoisie in power, and that was the expression of the struggle against this power, was introduced into Germany at a time when the bourgeoisie, in that country, had just begun its contest with feudal absolutism. German philosophers, would-be philosophers, and beaux esprits, eagerly seized on this literature, only forgetting, that when these writings immigrated from France into Germany, French social conditions had not immigrated along with them. In contact with German social conditions, this French literature lost all its immediate practical significance, and assumed a purely literary aspect. Thus, to the German philosophers of the eighteenth century, the demands of the first French Revolution were nothing more than the demands of "Practical Reason" in general, and the utterance of the will of the revolutionary French bourgeoisie signified in their eyes the law of pure Will, of Will as it was bound to be, of true human Will generally. The world of the German literate consisted solely in bringing the new French ideas into harmony with their ancient philosophical conscience, or rather, in annexing the French ideas without deserting their own philosophic point of view. This annexation took place in the same way in which a foreign language is appropriated, namely, by translation. It is well known how the monks wrote silly lives of Catholic Saints over the manuscripts on which the classical works of ancient heathendom had been written. The German literate reversed this process with the profane French literature. They wrote their philosophical nonsense beneath the French original. For instance, beneath the French criticism of the economic functions of money, they wrote "Alienation of Humanity," and beneath the French criticism of the bourgeois State they wrote "dethronement of the Category of the General," and so forth. The introduction of these philosophical phrases at the back of the French historical criticisms they dubbed "Philosophy of Action," "True Socialism," "German Science of Socialism," "Philosophical Foundation of Socialism," and so on. The French Socialist and Communist literature was thus completely emasculated. And, since it ceased in the hands of the German to express the struggle of one class with the other, he felt conscious of having overcome "French one-sidedness" and of representing, not true requirements, but the requirements of truth; not the interests of the proletariat, but the interests of Human Nature, of Man in general, who belongs to no class, has no reality, who exists only in the misty realm of philosophical fantasy. This German Socialism, which took its schoolboy task so seriously and solemnly, and extolled its poor stock-in-trade in such mountebank fashion, meanwhile gradually lost its pedantic innocence. The fight of the German, and especially, of the Prussian bourgeoisie, against feudal aristocracy and absolute monarchy, in other words, the liberal movement, became more earnest. By this, the long wished-for opportunity was offered to "True" Socialism of confronting the political movement with the Socialist demands, of hurling the traditional anathemas against liberalism, against representative government, against bourgeois competition, bourgeois freedom of the press, bourgeois legislation, bourgeois liberty and equality, and of preaching to the masses that they had nothing to gain, and everything to lose, by this bourgeois movement. German Socialism forgot, in the nick of time, that the French criticism, whose silly echo it was, presupposed the existence of modern bourgeois society, with its corresponding economic conditions of existence, and the political constitution adapted thereto, the very things whose attainment was the object of the pending struggle in Germany. To the absolute governments, with their following of parsons, professors, country squires and officials, it served as a welcome scarecrow against the threatening bourgeoisie. It was a sweet finish after the bitter pills of floggings and bullets with which these same governments, just at that time, dosed the German working-class risings. While this "True" Socialism thus served the governments as a weapon for fighting the German bourgeoisie, it, at the same time, directly represented a reactionary interest, the interest of the German Philistines. In Germany the petty-bourgeois class, a relic of the sixteenth century, and since then constantly cropping up again under various forms, is the real social basis of the existing state of things. To preserve this class is to preserve the existing state of things in Germany. The industrial and political supremacy of the bourgeoisie threatens it with certain destruction; on the one hand, from the concentration of capital; on the other, from the rise of a revolutionary proletariat. "True" Socialism appeared to kill these two birds with one stone. It spread like an epidemic. The robe of speculative cobwebs, embroidered with flowers of rhetoric, steeped in the dew of sickly sentiment, this transcendental robe in which the German Socialists wrapped their sorry "eternal truths," all skin and bone, served to wonderfully increase the sale of their goods amongst such a public. And on its part, German Socialism recognised, more and more, its own calling as the bombastic representative of the petty-bourgeois Philistine. It proclaimed the German nation to be the model nation, and the German petty Philistine to be the typical man. To every villainous meanness of this model man it gave a hidden, higher, Socialistic interpretation, the exact contrary of its real character. It went to the extreme length of directly opposing the "brutally destructive" tendency of Communism, and of proclaiming its supreme and impartial contempt of all class struggles. With very few exceptions, all the so-called Socialist and Communist publications that now (1847) circulate in Germany belong to the domain of this foul and enervating literature. 2. CONSERVATIVE, OR BOURGEOIS, SOCIALISM A part of the bourgeoisie is desirous of redressing social grievances, in order to secure the continued existence of bourgeois society. To this section belong economists, philanthropists, humanitarians, improvers of the condition of the working class, organisers of charity, members of societies for the prevention of cruelty to animals, temperance fanatics, hole-and-corner reformers of every imaginable kind. This form of Socialism has, moreover, been worked out into complete systems. We may cite Proudhon's Philosophie de la Misere as an example of this form. The Socialistic bourgeois want all the advantages of modern social conditions without the struggles and dangers necessarily resulting therefrom. They desire the existing state of society minus its revolutionary and disintegrating elements. They wish for a bourgeoisie without a proletariat. The bourgeoisie naturally conceives the world in which it is supreme to be the best; and bourgeois Socialism develops this comfortable conception into various more or less complete systems. In requiring the proletariat to carry out such a system, and thereby to march straightway into the social New Jerusalem, it but requires in reality, that the proletariat should remain within the bounds of existing society, but should cast away all its hateful ideas concerning the bourgeoisie. A second and more practical, but less systematic, form of this Socialism sought to depreciate every revolutionary movement in the eyes of the working class, by showing that no mere political reform, but only a change in the material conditions of existence, in economic relations, could be of any advantage to them. By changes in the material conditions of existence, this form of Socialism, however, by no means understands abolition of the bourgeois relations of production, an abolition that can be effected only by a revolution, but administrative reforms, based on the continued existence of these relations; reforms, therefore, that in no respect affect the relations between capital and labour, but, at the best, lessen the cost, and simplify the administrative work, of bourgeois government. Bourgeois Socialism attains adequate expression, when, and only when, it becomes a mere figure of speech. Free trade: for the benefit of the working class. Protective duties: for the benefit of the working class. Prison Reform: for the benefit of the working class. This is the last word and the only seriously meant word of bourgeois Socialism. It is summed up in the phrase: the bourgeois is a bourgeois--for the benefit of the working class. 3. CRITICAL-UTOPIAN SOCIALISM AND COMMUNISM We do not here refer to that literature which, in every great modern revolution, has always given voice to the demands of the proletariat, such as the writings of Babeuf and others. The first direct attempts of the proletariat to attain its own ends, made in times of universal excitement, when feudal society was being overthrown, these attempts necessarily failed, owing to the then undeveloped state of the proletariat, as well as to the absence of the economic conditions for its emancipation, conditions that had yet to be produced, and could be produced by the impending bourgeois epoch alone. The revolutionary literature that accompanied these first movements of the proletariat had necessarily a reactionary character. It inculcated universal asceticism and social levelling in its crudest form. The Socialist and Communist systems properly so called, those of Saint-Simon, Fourier, Owen and others, spring into existence in the early undeveloped period, described above, of the struggle between proletariat and bourgeoisie (see Section 1. Bourgeois and Proletarians). The founders of these systems see, indeed, the class antagonisms, as well as the action of the decomposing elements, in the prevailing form of society. But the proletariat, as yet in its infancy, offers to them the spectacle of a class without any historical initiative or any independent political movement. Since the development of class antagonism keeps even pace with the development of industry, the economic situation, as they find it, does not as yet offer to them the material conditions for the emancipation of the proletariat. They therefore search after a new social science, after new social laws, that are to create these conditions. Historical action is to yield to their personal inventive action, historically created conditions of emancipation to fantastic ones, and the gradual, spontaneous class-organisation of the proletariat to the organisation of society specially contrived by these inventors. Future history resolves itself, in their eyes, into the propaganda and the practical carrying out of their social plans. In the formation of their plans they are conscious of caring chiefly for the interests of the working class, as being the most suffering class. Only from the point of view of being the most suffering class does the proletariat exist for them. The undeveloped state of the class struggle, as well as their own surroundings, causes Socialists of this kind to consider themselves far superior to all class antagonisms. They want to improve the condition of every member of society, even that of the most favoured. Hence, they habitually appeal to society at large, without distinction of class; nay, by preference, to the ruling class. For how can people, when once they understand their system, fail to see in it the best possible plan of the best possible state of society? Hence, they reject all political, and especially all revolutionary, action; they wish to attain their ends by peaceful means, and endeavour, by small experiments, necessarily doomed to failure, and by the force of example, to pave the way for the new social Gospel. Such fantastic pictures of future society, painted at a time when the proletariat is still in a very undeveloped state and has but a fantastic conception of its own position correspond with the first instinctive yearnings of that class for a general reconstruction of society. But these Socialist and Communist publications contain also a critical element. They attack every principle of existing society. Hence they are full of the most valuable materials for the enlightenment of the working class. The practical measures proposed in them--such as the abolition of the distinction between town and country, of the family, of the carrying on of industries for the account of private individuals, and of the wage system, the proclamation of social harmony, the conversion of the functions of the State into a mere superintendence of production, all these proposals, point solely to the disappearance of class antagonisms which were, at that time, only just cropping up, and which, in these publications, are recognised in their earliest, indistinct and undefined forms only. These proposals, therefore, are of a purely Utopian character. The significance of Critical-Utopian Socialism and Communism bears an inverse relation to historical development. In proportion as the modern class struggle develops and takes definite shape, this fantastic standing apart from the contest, these fantastic attacks on it, lose all practical value and all theoretical justification. Therefore, although the originators of these systems were, in many respects, revolutionary, their disciples have, in every case, formed mere reactionary sects. They hold fast by the original views of their masters, in opposition to the progressive historical development of the proletariat. They, therefore, endeavour, and that consistently, to deaden the class struggle and to reconcile the class antagonisms. They still dream of experimental realisation of their social Utopias, of founding isolated "phalansteres," of establishing "Home Colonies," of setting up a "Little Icaria"--duodecimo editions of the New Jerusalem--and to realise all these castles in the air, they are compelled to appeal to the feelings and purses of the bourgeois. By degrees they sink into the category of the reactionary conservative Socialists depicted above, differing from these only by more systematic pedantry, and by their fanatical and superstitious belief in the miraculous effects of their social science. They, therefore, violently oppose all political action on the part of the working class; such action, according to them, can only result from blind unbelief in the new Gospel. The Owenites in England, and the Fourierists in France, respectively, oppose the Chartists and the Reformistes.

Section 3: Socialist and Communist Literature

https://web.archive.org/web/20210518104134/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/communist-manifesto/summary/section-3-socialist-and-communist-literature

In this section, Marx clarifies how his and the Communist League's communism differs from the socialism or communism of others. First, he takes on the aristocrats who advocated for feudal socialism. Basically, as feudalism was coming to an end, the aristocrats were threatened by the rise of the bourgeoisie. So the aristocrats wrote attacks against them and made offerings to the proletariat, hoping for the support of the masses. But the feudal aristocrats, according to Marx, didn't realize that their rule happened under different forms of production that were now gone. The aristocrats accused the bourgeoisie of creating a revolutionary proletariat and working against their interests. Clerical Socialism and Christian asceticism were nothing more than religious ways of approving of the aristocracy. Next up on Marx's hit list is petty-bourgeois socialism. The petty bourgeoisie is sort of like the middle class today. They were threatened with losing their position and being turned into proletarians. So they advocated for reforms to the system that might help them improve their lives for the time being, but they didn't advocate for revolution--not for anything that would fundamentally alter the system and cause them to lose their status. The petty-bourgeois writers were sometimes great at criticizing the economic theories of the upper class, but in the final analysis, they didn't want any fundamental changes. The economic views of liberals and the Democratic Party would generally be the example of the petty bourgeoisie outlook in the United States today. Now Marx gets to German Socialism, also known as True Socialism. These guys, according to him, were philosophers or book-smart people who took on French communist ideas but didn't pay attention to the context of the French Revolution. Instead of understanding the specifics of France, these Germans made the French writings conform to the ideas of their German philosophers. Marx criticizes specific works of the German Socialists and basically says that the authors sucked the revolutionary life out of the French writings and talked about grand philosophical fantasies instead of the actual revolution. As the German bourgeoisie arose against the aristocrats, German Socialism had a chance to attack, but instead it wound up misunderstanding everything and promoting grand-sounding notions about the ideal German man, who was more of a middle-class person than a proletarian. So much for German Socialism. Okay, we're moving right along to Conservative or Bourgeois Socialism. Those promoting this view were members of the bourgeoisie who were just offering reforms in order to keep the proletarians' pitchforks away. It's similar to the petty-bourgeois socialism described above. Marx sums these views up as saying that the bourgeoisie is to stay bourgeois, and that's somehow supposed to benefit the proletariat. Finally, Marx asks us to look at Critical-Utopian socialism or communism, and we say, "Okay." This school of thought basically consisted of writers who understood the problems with capitalism quite well but believed the solution was to form ideal little communities where people could live as communists. They effectively supported the bourgeoisie by rejecting revolution in favor of peaceful, experimental societies that were doomed to failure. At least, Marx says, the Critical-Utopians offered good criticisms of capitalism. But they didn't understand that the entire working class had to be supported to create real change.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/61-chapters/4.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Communist Manifesto/section_5_part_0.txt

The Communist Manifesto.chapter 4

chapter 4: position of the communists in relation to the various existing opposition parties

{"name": "Section 4: Position of the Communists in Relation to the Various Existing Opposition Parties", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210518104134/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/communist-manifesto/summary/section-4-position-of-the-communists-in-relation-to-the-various-existing-opposition-parties", "summary": "Final section! Marx starts by listing the parties the Communist League supports in various countries as a matter of tactics, but he emphasizes that they always reserve the right to criticize any party and will always bring the question of abolishing property to the forefront. The communists even support the bourgeoisie in some cases, such as when the bourgeoisie opposes the aristocracy, since it's the aristocracy that has to be taken down first. Marx says Germany deserves particular focus because the bourgeois revolution against the aristocracy about to happen there will soon lead to proletarian revolution. The Manifesto concludes by saying that the communists do not wish to hide their views and goals. They openly state that their goals can only be accomplished by the forcible overthrow of all existing social conditions. The ruling class should tremble at the coming communist revolution. The proletarians have nothing to lose but their chains, and they have a world to win. And here's the famous last line, which is entirely capitalized : WORKING MEN OF ALL COUNTRIES, UNITE!", "analysis": ""}

IV. POSITION OF THE COMMUNISTS IN RELATION TO THE VARIOUS EXISTING OPPOSITION PARTIES Section II has made clear the relations of the Communists to the existing working-class parties, such as the Chartists in England and the Agrarian Reformers in America. The Communists fight for the attainment of the immediate aims, for the enforcement of the momentary interests of the working class; but in the movement of the present, they also represent and take care of the future of that movement. In France the Communists ally themselves with the Social-Democrats, against the conservative and radical bourgeoisie, reserving, however, the right to take up a critical position in regard to phrases and illusions traditionally handed down from the great Revolution. In Switzerland they support the Radicals, without losing sight of the fact that this party consists of antagonistic elements, partly of Democratic Socialists, in the French sense, partly of radical bourgeois. In Poland they support the party that insists on an agrarian revolution as the prime condition for national emancipation, that party which fomented the insurrection of Cracow in 1846. In Germany they fight with the bourgeoisie whenever it acts in a revolutionary way, against the absolute monarchy, the feudal squirearchy, and the petty bourgeoisie. But they never cease, for a single instant, to instil into the working class the clearest possible recognition of the hostile antagonism between bourgeoisie and proletariat, in order that the German workers may straightaway use, as so many weapons against the bourgeoisie, the social and political conditions that the bourgeoisie must necessarily introduce along with its supremacy, and in order that, after the fall of the reactionary classes in Germany, the fight against the bourgeoisie itself may immediately begin. The Communists turn their attention chiefly to Germany, because that country is on the eve of a bourgeois revolution that is bound to be carried out under more advanced conditions of European civilisation, and with a much more developed proletariat, than that of England was in the seventeenth, and of France in the eighteenth century, and because the bourgeois revolution in Germany will be but the prelude to an immediately following proletarian revolution. In short, the Communists everywhere support every revolutionary movement against the existing social and political order of things. In all these movements they bring to the front, as the leading question in each, the property question, no matter what its degree of development at the time. Finally, they labour everywhere for the union and agreement of the democratic parties of all countries. The Communists disdain to conceal their views and aims. They openly declare that their ends can be attained only by the forcible overthrow of all existing social conditions. Let the ruling classes tremble at a Communistic revolution. The proletarians have nothing to lose but their chains. They have a world to win. WORKING MEN OF ALL COUNTRIES, UNITE!

Section 4: Position of the Communists in Relation to the Various Existing Opposition Parties

https://web.archive.org/web/20210518104134/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/communist-manifesto/summary/section-4-position-of-the-communists-in-relation-to-the-various-existing-opposition-parties

Final section! Marx starts by listing the parties the Communist League supports in various countries as a matter of tactics, but he emphasizes that they always reserve the right to criticize any party and will always bring the question of abolishing property to the forefront. The communists even support the bourgeoisie in some cases, such as when the bourgeoisie opposes the aristocracy, since it's the aristocracy that has to be taken down first. Marx says Germany deserves particular focus because the bourgeois revolution against the aristocracy about to happen there will soon lead to proletarian revolution. The Manifesto concludes by saying that the communists do not wish to hide their views and goals. They openly state that their goals can only be accomplished by the forcible overthrow of all existing social conditions. The ruling class should tremble at the coming communist revolution. The proletarians have nothing to lose but their chains, and they have a world to win. And here's the famous last line, which is entirely capitalized : WORKING MEN OF ALL COUNTRIES, UNITE!

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/885-chapters/act_i.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/An Ideal Husband/section_0_part_0.txt

An Ideal Husband.act i

act i

{"name": "Act I", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180409031947/http://www.gradesaver.com/an-ideal-husband/study-guide/summary-act-i", "summary": "The play opens at a party at Sir Robert Chiltern's house in Grosvenor Square, London. The party exemplifies much of the play's tendency towards quick and witty conversation. The Chiltern home is regal and their guests are impeccably dressed. Much of the action takes place in the Chiltern home's Octagonal room. Lady Chiltern stands at the top of her regal staircase greeting arriving friends. Behind her, on the back wall, hangs Boucher's \"Triumph of Love.\" The tapestry plays a prominent role in the play, and highlights the theme of love conquering all. This first scene consists of many conversations between various guests. Mrs. Marchmont and Lady Basildon discuss the tedious, boring and uninteresting Hartlock parties, and the triviality of men. Mrs. Marchmont mentions that she has come to the party to be educated, while Lady Basildon admits she despises education. Mrs. Marchmont notes that Lady Chiltern is often encouraging her and others to expand their educations and find purpose in life, which seems to be a futile pursuit as few in London society take their lives or careers very seriously. As the act continues, additional characters enter and converse, all announced by the butler who stands at the door. Lord Caversham enters and asks for his 'good-for-nothing' son. Mabel Chiltern asks him why he speaks so ill of Lord Goring, and Lord Caversham explains that his son leads an idle life. Mabel Chiltern disagrees, and Lord Caversham calls her charming. Caversham also admits being sick of London Society while Mabel thinks it is lovely and composed of beautiful idiots and brilliants lunatics, Lord Goring included. Lady Markby and Mrs. Cheveley enter next. Mrs. Cheveley is a striking woman who demands attention. She wears a purple gown, bright red lipstick, and has red hair. Lady Markby greets Lady Chiltern warmly, but Lady Chiltern suddenly recognizes Mrs. Cheveley and greets her with a distant bow. She explains that they knew each other in their school days. Mrs. Cheveley, who has been in Vienna for many years, is obviously overly sweet to her cold acquaintance, and describes her eagerness to meet Sir Robert Chiltern, as he is well known in Vienna. Lady Chiltern is taken aback by this comment and before quickly moving away, assures Mrs. Cheveley that she and her husband have very little in common. The Vicomte de Nanjac, a young anglophile who spices up the play with comical malapropisms, approaches as Lady Chiltern moves off, and flirts with Mrs. Cheveley. Sir Robert Chiltern enters, greets Lady Markby, and meets and compliments Mrs. Cheveley. She responds by saying that any acquaintance that begins with a compliment is sure to develop into a true friendship. She tells Sir Robert that she knew his wife at school, but unlike Lady Chiltern she never received any good conduct prizes. Sir Robert inquires as to whether she is a pessimist or an optimist and she claims she is neither. Mrs. Cheveley notes that her only pleasure is politics. Next, she asks for a tour of his house, and casually references Baron Arnheim, whom she claims to have known intimately and is a previous acquaintance of Chiltern. Sir Robert starts at the name and appears distraught. Lord Goring arrives. He is a British dandy, one who plays with life, dresses well, socializes extensively and likes to be misunderstood. Sir Robert introduces him to Mrs. Cheveley, and it appears they have met before. Lording Goring then turns to Mabel Chiltern and the two easily fall into a flirtatious banter. Vicomte de Nanjac interrupts and asks Mabel if he may escort her to the music room. She is clearly disappointed and tries to get Lord Goring to follow them, but he remains in the Octagon room. Lord Caversham approaches his son and demands to know what he is doing at the party. He accuses him of a wasted life, and claims London society has gone to the dogs. Lady Basildon and Mrs. Marchmont approach Lord Goring and begin complaining about their annoyingly perfect husbands. Lord Goring sympathizes with them, and they soon start gossiping about Mrs. Cheveley. As the guests all go to dinner, the action returns to Sir Robert and Mrs. Cheveley, who remain in the Octagon room. Mrs. Cheveley explains her stay in England depends upon him and tells him about the Argentine Canal Company, which she calls a \"great political and financial scheme.\" Sir Robert was involved in the Suez Canal endeavor as Lord Radley's secretary, but he does not think highly of this new venture. While Mrs. Cheveley believes it a daring speculation, he calls it a swindle. She admits to investing heavily in it based on the advice of Baron Arnheim. Sir Robert admits that the following night he will give a report to the House suggesting the scheme will not succeed. Mrs. Cheveley urges him not to make the report in both her interest and in his own, which offends Sir Robert. Finally, Mrs. Cheveley reveals that she possesses a letter Sir Robert wrote to Baron Arnheim when he was Lord Radley's secretary. In the letter, Sir Robert sold a Cabinet secret, telling the Baron to buy Suez Canal shares three days before the government announced the purchase of it. Through this unscrupulous act Sir Robert made his current fortune, and Mrs. Cheveley threatens to hand the letter over to the newspapers if he does not publicly support her scheme. Sir Robert's public image and career would be ruined. Mrs. Cheveley refuses any money in exchange for the letter and leaves no negotiating room. Finally, Sir Robert gives in and tells her he will withdraw the report. He leaves the room. The guests return from the dining room and Mrs. Cheveley speaks with Lady Chiltern and reveals she has gained Sir Robert's support in the canal scheme. Lady Chiltern does not believe this news and claims her husband's principles are stronger than that. She is quite troubled. Sir Robert returns to escort Mrs. Cheveley to her carriage. Lord Goring and Mabel converse and Mabel finds a brooch half-hidden in a sofa. Lord Goring immediately recognizes it and explains that he gave it someone as a gift years ago. He asks her to notify him first if anyone asks about it. Mabel agrees and bids him goodnight. When everyone has left, Lady Chiltern confronts Sir Robert about Mrs. Cheveley's canal scheme claim. She explains that in their schooldays Mrs. Cheveley was dishonest and evil. Sir Robert argues that she should not be judged by her past, but Lady Chiltern claims that the past defines one's character. Sir Robert admits he has agreed to support the scheme, but his wife knows something is amiss. She suspects he has altered his principles, and asks why is suddenly behaving in such a different manner. He explains that circumstances dictate his choice, but she claims circumstances should never change principles. In a passion, Lady Chiltern tells her husband it is never necessary to do the dishonorable deed, and that power and money are nothing in themselves. She claims she loves him because he has always been ideal and honest. She begs him to continue being the honorable man she knows and loves and to not kill her love for him. Sir Robert denies that he has any secrets and Lady Chiltern urges him to immediately write Mrs. Cheveley to explain he will not support the scheme after all. She stands over him, praising him, as he writes the letter. They declare their love for each other. The scene closes with Sir Robert calling the butler to deliver the letter, and the chandelier lighting up the \"Triumph of Love\" tapestry.", "analysis": "Wilde creates his characters as artistic objects within society, and through their conversations and seemingly carefree banter, explores the themes of love, loyalty and honor. Wilde's writing, which relies on these sorts of conversation, is often referred to as epigrammatic. An epigram is defined as a concise and witty statement that expresses insight and is often ironic in tone. The opening act contains many epigrammatic statements, including Mrs. Marchmont's claim of abhorring education, and Lord Goring's claim that the only thing he knows anything about is nothing. Clearly, neither truly believes these statements, but there is truth to them. Wilde's reliance on epigrammatic conversation forces the reader to determine when there is seriousness in such statements, and when they are simply witty and somewhat false tools used to extend somewhat meaningless conversation. As such, Wilde successfully weaves the most serious themes of the play in with the most frivolous of its banter and conversation. Throughout the party that takes up the majority of the first act, the guests and hosts are highly concerned with their appearance and the nature of their social interactions. All the guests are members of London \"society\" and spend much of their lives in similarly superficial scenarios. Thus, they are all present themselves very specifically, through well defined performances. The selves they present in these social interactions are specific to such events, and not necessarily true representations. The most notable character that presents a false veneer in this social event is Mrs. Cheveley. She sees this party as a chance to perform, and brings with her a powerfully false sense of saccharine kindness in her interactions with Lady Chiltern. Even during her interactions with Sir Robert, she maintains a veneer of civility when threatening his very reputation. Wilde's use of the party to introduce each character is fascinating, as the reader learns how the characters wish to be seen in such social gatherings rather than whom they truly are. Here, we begin to see the disconnect between the \"ideal\" and the \"real\". Act I also deals extensively with the role of women in society, and the dialogue between Sir Robert and Mrs. Cheveley touches briefly on this topic. Sir Robert implies that the issue of the nature of women is a modern topic - he asks her if she thinks science can grapple with the problem of women. His question suggests that he sees women as very complex, but also acknowledges the increasing role women play within society, and the complex issues that arise from this. Mrs. Cheveley's words suggest a more traditional view of women; that women cannot be understood and should be viewed as aesthetic pieces of art. In fact, Wilde describes many of the female characters in this opening act as works of art, and even notes that Watteau would have loved to paint some of them. The tapestry of the \"Triumph of Love\" plays a prominent thematic role in this opening act and the remainder of the play. Love and what defines it in its purest and strongest form is clearly of great importance to the main theme of the play, marriage. Lady Markby arrives at the party and notes that people now marry as many times as possible because it is in fashion. When introducing Mrs. Cheveley to Sir Robert she comments that families are very mixed nowadays, and Lord Goring revels in his status as a bachelor. Lady Basildon and Mrs. Marchmont ironically sympathize with each other over their overly perfect husbands, which mocks the idea of a perfect marriage. Mrs. Cheveley states that in the London season, people are \"either hunting from husbands, or hiding from them.\" Much of this act discusses the confusion and conflict inherent in marriage, while Lady Chiltern and Sir Robert represent an ideal marriage. The conversation between Lady Chiltern and her husband in the conclusion of the first act provides a strong contrast to the frivolous banter that dominated the party scene. They address each other with earnestness, intimacy, and powerful emotion. Lady Chiltern states that her love for Sir Robert rests on his ideal morality, purity and honesty. When presented with his request for a moral compromise, Lady Chiltern refuses. She can only love him in his ideal and pure state. Later on, she will be confronted with her idealistic perspective, but in this act, it dominates and defines their marriage. Interestingly, the theme of politics is powerfully interwoven with that of love and marriage. In the play, choices regarding ethical political behavior relate directly to the triumph or failure of love. Lady Chiltern clearly represents a strong adherence to the ideal, while Mrs. Cheveley represents the opposite. These two forces of good and evil pull on Sir Robert Chiltern, forcing him to define himself and his life as either an ideal or morally imperfect husband."}

FIRST ACT SCENE _The octagon room at Sir Robert Chiltern's house in Grosvenor Square_. [_The room is brilliantly lighted and full of guests_. _At the top of the staircase stands_ LADY CHILTERN, _a woman of grave Greek beauty_, _about twenty-seven years of age_. _She receives the guests as they come up_. _Over the well of the staircase hangs a great chandelier with wax lights_, _which illumine a large eighteenth-century French tapestry--representing the Triumph of Love_, _from a design by Boucher--that is stretched on the staircase wall_. _On the right is the entrance to the music-room_. _The sound of a string quartette is faintly heard_. _The entrance on the left leads to other reception-rooms_. MRS. MARCHMONT _and_ LADY BASILDON, _two very pretty women_, _are seated together on a Louis Seize sofa_. _They are types of exquisite fragility_. _Their affectation of manner has a delicate charm_. _Watteau would have loved to paint them_.] MRS. MARCHMONT. Going on to the Hartlocks' to-night, Margaret? LADY BASILDON. I suppose so. Are you? MRS. MARCHMONT. Yes. Horribly tedious parties they give, don't they? LADY BASILDON. Horribly tedious! Never know why I go. Never know why I go anywhere. MRS. MARCHMONT. I come here to be educated. LADY BASILDON. Ah! I hate being educated! MRS. MARCHMONT. So do I. It puts one almost on a level with the commercial classes, doesn't it? But dear Gertrude Chiltern is always telling me that I should have some serious purpose in life. So I come here to try to find one. LADY BASILDON. [_Looking round through her lorgnette_.] I don't see anybody here to-night whom one could possibly call a serious purpose. The man who took me in to dinner talked to me about his wife the whole time. MRS. MARCHMONT. How very trivial of him! LADY BASILDON. Terribly trivial! What did your man talk about? MRS. MARCHMONT. About myself. LADY BASILDON. [_Languidly_.] And were you interested? MRS. MARCHMONT. [_Shaking her head_.] Not in the smallest degree. LADY BASILDON. What martyrs we are, dear Margaret! MRS. MARCHMONT. [_Rising_.] And how well it becomes us, Olivia! [_They rise and go towards the music-room_. _The_ VICOMTE DE NANJAC, _a young attache known for his neckties and his Anglomania_, _approaches with a low bow_, _and enters into conversation_.] MASON. [_Announcing guests from the top of the staircase_.] Mr. and Lady Jane Barford. Lord Caversham. [_Enter_ LORD CAVERSHAM, _an old gentleman of seventy_, _wearing the riband and star of the Garter_. _A fine Whig type_. _Rather like a portrait by Lawrence_.] LORD CAVERSHAM. Good evening, Lady Chiltern! Has my good-for-nothing young son been here? LADY CHILTERN. [_Smiling_.] I don't think Lord Goring has arrived yet. MABEL CHILTERN. [_Coming up to_ LORD CAVERSHAM.] Why do you call Lord Goring good-for-nothing? [MABEL CHILTERN _is a perfect example of the English type of prettiness_, _the apple-blossom type_. _She has all the fragrance and freedom of a flower_. _There is ripple after ripple of sunlight in her hair_, _and the little mouth_, _with its parted lips_, _is expectant_, _like the mouth of a child_. _She has the fascinating tyranny of youth_, _and the astonishing courage of innocence_. _To sane people she is not reminiscent of any work of art_. _But she is really like a Tanagra statuette_, _and would be rather annoyed if she were told so_.] LORD CAVERSHAM. Because he leads such an idle life. MABEL CHILTERN. How can you say such a thing? Why, he rides in the Row at ten o'clock in the morning, goes to the Opera three times a week, changes his clothes at least five times a day, and dines out every night of the season. You don't call that leading an idle life, do you? LORD CAVERSHAM. [_Looking at her with a kindly twinkle in his eyes_.] You are a very charming young lady! MABEL CHILTERN. How sweet of you to say that, Lord Caversham! Do come to us more often. You know we are always at home on Wednesdays, and you look so well with your star! LORD CAVERSHAM. Never go anywhere now. Sick of London Society. Shouldn't mind being introduced to my own tailor; he always votes on the right side. But object strongly to being sent down to dinner with my wife's milliner. Never could stand Lady Caversham's bonnets. MABEL CHILTERN. Oh, I love London Society! I think it has immensely improved. It is entirely composed now of beautiful idiots and brilliant lunatics. Just what Society should be. LORD CAVERSHAM. Hum! Which is Goring? Beautiful idiot, or the other thing? MABEL CHILTERN. [_Gravely_.] I have been obliged for the present to put Lord Goring into a class quite by himself. But he is developing charmingly! LORD CAVERSHAM. Into what? MABEL CHILTERN. [_With a little curtsey_.] I hope to let you know very soon, Lord Caversham! MASON. [_Announcing guests_.] Lady Markby. Mrs. Cheveley. [_Enter_ LADY MARKBY _and_ MRS. CHEVELEY. LADY MARKBY _is a pleasant_, _kindly_, _popular woman_, _with gray hair a la marquise and good lace_. MRS. CHEVELEY, _who accompanies her_, _is tall and rather slight_. _Lips very thin and highly-coloured_, _a line of scarlet on a pallid face_. _Venetian red hair_, _aquiline nose_, _and long throat_. _Rouge accentuates the natural paleness of her complexion_. _Gray-green eyes that move restlessly_. _She is in heliotrope_, _with diamonds_. _She looks rather like an orchid_, _and makes great demands on one's curiosity_. _In all her movements she is extremely graceful_. _A work of art_, _on the whole_, _but showing the influence of too many schools_.] LADY MARKBY. Good evening, dear Gertrude! So kind of you to let me bring my friend, Mrs. Cheveley. Two such charming women should know each other! LADY CHILTERN. [_Advances towards_ MRS. CHEVELEY _with a sweet smile_. _Then suddenly stops_, _and bows rather distantly_.] I think Mrs. Cheveley and I have met before. I did not know she had married a second time. LADY MARKBY. [_Genially_.] Ah, nowadays people marry as often as they can, don't they? It is most fashionable. [_To_ DUCHESS OF MARYBOROUGH.] Dear Duchess, and how is the Duke? Brain still weak, I suppose? Well, that is only to be expected, is it not? His good father was just the same. There is nothing like race, is there? MRS. CHEVELEY. [_Playing with her fan_.] But have we really met before, Lady Chiltern? I can't remember where. I have been out of England for so long. LADY CHILTERN. We were at school together, Mrs. Cheveley. MRS. CHEVELEY [_Superciliously_.] Indeed? I have forgotten all about my schooldays. I have a vague impression that they were detestable. LADY CHILTERN. [_Coldly_.] I am not surprised! MRS. CHEVELEY. [_In her sweetest manner_.] Do you know, I am quite looking forward to meeting your clever husband, Lady Chiltern. Since he has been at the Foreign Office, he has been so much talked of in Vienna. They actually succeed in spelling his name right in the newspapers. That in itself is fame, on the continent. LADY CHILTERN. I hardly think there will be much in common between you and my husband, Mrs. Cheveley! [_Moves away_.] VICOMTE DE NANJAC. Ah! chere Madame, queue surprise! I have not seen you since Berlin! MRS. CHEVELEY. Not since Berlin, Vicomte. Five years ago! VICOMTE DE NANJAC. And you are younger and more beautiful than ever. How do you manage it? MRS. CHEVELEY. By making it a rule only to talk to perfectly charming people like yourself. VICOMTE DE NANJAC. Ah! you flatter me. You butter me, as they say here. MRS. CHEVELEY. Do they say that here? How dreadful of them! VICOMTE DE NANJAC. Yes, they have a wonderful language. It should be more widely known. [SIR ROBERT CHILTERN _enters_. _A man of forty_, _but looking somewhat younger_. _Clean-shaven_, _with finely-cut features_, _dark-haired and dark-eyed_. _A personality of mark_. _Not popular--few personalities are_. _But intensely admired by the few_, _and deeply respected by the many_. _The note of his manner is that of perfect distinction_, _with a slight touch of pride_. _One feels that he is conscious of the success he has made in life_. _A nervous temperament_, _with a tired look_. _The firmly-chiselled mouth and chin contrast strikingly with the romantic expression in the deep-set eyes_. _The variance is suggestive of an almost complete separation of passion and intellect_, _as though thought and emotion were each isolated in its own sphere through some violence of will-power_. _There is nervousness in the nostrils_, _and in the pale_, _thin_, _pointed hands_. _It would be inaccurate to call him picturesque_. _Picturesqueness cannot survive the House of Commons_. _But Vandyck would have liked to have painted his head_.] SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Good evening, Lady Markby! I hope you have brought Sir John with you? LADY MARKBY. Oh! I have brought a much more charming person than Sir John. Sir John's temper since he has taken seriously to politics has become quite unbearable. Really, now that the House of Commons is trying to become useful, it does a great deal of harm. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I hope not, Lady Markby. At any rate we do our best to waste the public time, don't we? But who is this charming person you have been kind enough to bring to us? LADY MARKBY. Her name is Mrs. Cheveley! One of the Dorsetshire Cheveleys, I suppose. But I really don't know. Families are so mixed nowadays. Indeed, as a rule, everybody turns out to be somebody else. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Mrs. Cheveley? I seem to know the name. LADY MARKBY. She has just arrived from Vienna. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Ah! yes. I think I know whom you mean. LADY MARKBY. Oh! she goes everywhere there, and has such pleasant scandals about all her friends. I really must go to Vienna next winter. I hope there is a good chef at the Embassy. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. If there is not, the Ambassador will certainly have to be recalled. Pray point out Mrs. Cheveley to me. I should like to see her. LADY MARKBY. Let me introduce you. [_To_ MRS. CHEVELEY.] My dear, Sir Robert Chiltern is dying to know you! SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Bowing_.] Every one is dying to know the brilliant Mrs. Cheveley. Our attaches at Vienna write to us about nothing else. MRS. CHEVELEY. Thank you, Sir Robert. An acquaintance that begins with a compliment is sure to develop into a real friendship. It starts in the right manner. And I find that I know Lady Chiltern already. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Really? MRS. CHEVELEY. Yes. She has just reminded me that we were at school together. I remember it perfectly now. She always got the good conduct prize. I have a distinct recollection of Lady Chiltern always getting the good conduct prize! SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Smiling_.] And what prizes did you get, Mrs. Cheveley? MRS. CHEVELEY. My prizes came a little later on in life. I don't think any of them were for good conduct. I forget! SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I am sure they were for something charming! MRS. CHEVELEY. I don't know that women are always rewarded for being charming. I think they are usually punished for it! Certainly, more women grow old nowadays through the faithfulness of their admirers than through anything else! At least that is the only way I can account for the terribly haggard look of most of your pretty women in London! SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. What an appalling philosophy that sounds! To attempt to classify you, Mrs. Cheveley, would be an impertinence. But may I ask, at heart, are you an optimist or a pessimist? Those seem to be the only two fashionable religions left to us nowadays. MRS. CHEVELEY. Oh, I'm neither. Optimism begins in a broad grin, and Pessimism ends with blue spectacles. Besides, they are both of them merely poses. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. You prefer to be natural? MRS. CHEVELEY. Sometimes. But it is such a very difficult pose to keep up. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. What would those modern psychological novelists, of whom we hear so much, say to such a theory as that? MRS. CHEVELEY. Ah! the strength of women comes from the fact that psychology cannot explain us. Men can be analysed, women . . . merely adored. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. You think science cannot grapple with the problem of women? MRS. CHEVELEY. Science can never grapple with the irrational. That is why it has no future before it, in this world. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. And women represent the irrational. MRS. CHEVELEY. Well-dressed women do. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_With a polite bow_.] I fear I could hardly agree with you there. But do sit down. And now tell me, what makes you leave your brilliant Vienna for our gloomy London--or perhaps the question is indiscreet? MRS. CHEVELEY. Questions are never indiscreet. Answers sometimes are. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Well, at any rate, may I know if it is politics or pleasure? MRS. CHEVELEY. Politics are my only pleasure. You see nowadays it is not fashionable to flirt till one is forty, or to be romantic till one is forty-five, so we poor women who are under thirty, or say we are, have nothing open to us but politics or philanthropy. And philanthropy seems to me to have become simply the refuge of people who wish to annoy their fellow-creatures. I prefer politics. I think they are more . . . becoming! SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. A political life is a noble career! MRS. CHEVELEY. Sometimes. And sometimes it is a clever game, Sir Robert. And sometimes it is a great nuisance. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Which do you find it? MRS. CHEVELEY. I? A combination of all three. [_Drops her fan_.] SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Picks up fan_.] Allow me! MRS. CHEVELEY. Thanks. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. But you have not told me yet what makes you honour London so suddenly. Our season is almost over. MRS. CHEVELEY. Oh! I don't care about the London season! It is too matrimonial. People are either hunting for husbands, or hiding from them. I wanted to meet you. It is quite true. You know what a woman's curiosity is. Almost as great as a man's! I wanted immensely to meet you, and . . . to ask you to do something for me. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I hope it is not a little thing, Mrs. Cheveley. I find that little things are so very difficult to do. MRS. CHEVELEY. [_After a moment's reflection_.] No, I don't think it is quite a little thing. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I am so glad. Do tell me what it is. MRS. CHEVELEY. Later on. [_Rises_.] And now may I walk through your beautiful house? I hear your pictures are charming. Poor Baron Arnheim--you remember the Baron?--used to tell me you had some wonderful Corots. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_With an almost imperceptible start_.] Did you know Baron Arnheim well? MRS. CHEVELEY. [_Smiling_.] Intimately. Did you? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. At one time. MRS. CHEVELEY. Wonderful man, wasn't he? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_After a pause_.] He was very remarkable, in many ways. MRS. CHEVELEY. I often think it such a pity he never wrote his memoirs. They would have been most interesting. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Yes: he knew men and cities well, like the old Greek. MRS. CHEVELEY. Without the dreadful disadvantage of having a Penelope waiting at home for him. MASON. Lord Goring. [_Enter_ LORD GORING. _Thirty-four_, _but always says he is younger_. _A well-bred_, _expressionless face_. _He is clever_, _but would not like to be thought so_. _A flawless dandy_, _he would be annoyed if he were considered romantic_. _He plays with life_, _and is on perfectly good terms with the world_. _He is fond of being misunderstood_. _It gives him a post of vantage_.] SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Good evening, my dear Arthur! Mrs. Cheveley, allow me to introduce to you Lord Goring, the idlest man in London. MRS. CHEVELEY. I have met Lord Goring before. LORD GORING. [_Bowing_.] I did not think you would remember me, Mrs. Cheveley. MRS. CHEVELEY. My memory is under admirable control. And are you still a bachelor? LORD GORING. I . . . believe so. MRS. CHEVELEY. How very romantic! LORD GORING. Oh! I am not at all romantic. I am not old enough. I leave romance to my seniors. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Lord Goring is the result of Boodle's Club, Mrs. Cheveley. MRS. CHEVELEY. He reflects every credit on the institution. LORD GORING. May I ask are you staying in London long? MRS. CHEVELEY. That depends partly on the weather, partly on the cooking, and partly on Sir Robert. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. You are not going to plunge us into a European war, I hope? MRS. CHEVELEY. There is no danger, at present! [_She nods to_ LORD GORING, _with a look of amusement in her eyes_, _and goes out with_ SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. LORD GORING _saunters over to_ MABEL CHILTERN.] MABEL CHILTERN. You are very late! LORD GORING. Have you missed me? MABEL CHILTERN. Awfully! LORD GORING. Then I am sorry I did not stay away longer. I like being missed. MABEL CHILTERN. How very selfish of you! LORD GORING. I am very selfish. MABEL CHILTERN. You are always telling me of your bad qualities, Lord Goring. LORD GORING. I have only told you half of them as yet, Miss Mabel! MABEL CHILTERN. Are the others very bad? LORD GORING. Quite dreadful! When I think of them at night I go to sleep at once. MABEL CHILTERN. Well, I delight in your bad qualities. I wouldn't have you part with one of them. LORD GORING. How very nice of you! But then you are always nice. By the way, I want to ask you a question, Miss Mabel. Who brought Mrs. Cheveley here? That woman in heliotrope, who has just gone out of the room with your brother? MABEL CHILTERN. Oh, I think Lady Markby brought her. Why do you ask? LORD GORING. I haven't seen her for years, that is all. MABEL CHILTERN. What an absurd reason! LORD GORING. All reasons are absurd. MABEL CHILTERN. What sort of a woman is she? LORD GORING. Oh! a genius in the daytime and a beauty at night! MABEL CHILTERN. I dislike her already. LORD GORING. That shows your admirable good taste. VICOMTE DE NANJAC. [_Approaching_.] Ah, the English young lady is the dragon of good taste, is she not? Quite the dragon of good taste. LORD GORING. So the newspapers are always telling us. VICOMTE DE NANJAC. I read all your English newspapers. I find them so amusing. LORD GORING. Then, my dear Nanjac, you must certainly read between the lines. VICOMTE DE NANJAC. I should like to, but my professor objects. [_To_ MABEL CHILTERN.] May I have the pleasure of escorting you to the music-room, Mademoiselle? MABEL CHILTERN. [_Looking very disappointed_.] Delighted, Vicomte, quite delighted! [_Turning to_ LORD GORING.] Aren't you coming to the music-room? LORD GORING. Not if there is any music going on, Miss Mabel. MABEL CHILTERN. [_Severely_.] The music is in German. You would not understand it. [_Goes out with the_ VICOMTE DE NANJAC. LORD CAVERSHAM _comes up to his son_.] LORD CAVERSHAM. Well, sir! what are you doing here? Wasting your life as usual! You should be in bed, sir. You keep too late hours! I heard of you the other night at Lady Rufford's dancing till four o'clock in the morning! LORD GORING. Only a quarter to four, father. LORD CAVERSHAM. Can't make out how you stand London Society. The thing has gone to the dogs, a lot of damned nobodies talking about nothing. LORD GORING. I love talking about nothing, father. It is the only thing I know anything about. LORD CAVERSHAM. You seem to me to be living entirely for pleasure. LORD GORING. What else is there to live for, father? Nothing ages like happiness. LORD CAVERSHAM. You are heartless, sir, very heartless! LORD GORING. I hope not, father. Good evening, Lady Basildon! LADY BASILDON. [_Arching two pretty eyebrows_.] Are you here? I had no idea you ever came to political parties! LORD GORING. I adore political parties. They are the only place left to us where people don't talk politics. LADY BASILDON. I delight in talking politics. I talk them all day long. But I can't bear listening to them. I don't know how the unfortunate men in the House stand these long debates. LORD GORING. By never listening. LADY BASILDON. Really? LORD GORING. [_In his most serious manner_.] Of course. You see, it is a very dangerous thing to listen. If one listens one may be convinced; and a man who allows himself to be convinced by an argument is a thoroughly unreasonable person. LADY BASILDON. Ah! that accounts for so much in men that I have never understood, and so much in women that their husbands never appreciate in them! MRS. MARCHMONT. [_With a sigh_.] Our husbands never appreciate anything in us. We have to go to others for that! LADY BASILDON. [_Emphatically_.] Yes, always to others, have we not? LORD GORING. [_Smiling_.] And those are the views of the two ladies who are known to have the most admirable husbands in London. MRS. MARCHMONT. That is exactly what we can't stand. My Reginald is quite hopelessly faultless. He is really unendurably so, at times! There is not the smallest element of excitement in knowing him. LORD GORING. How terrible! Really, the thing should be more widely known! LADY BASILDON. Basildon is quite as bad; he is as domestic as if he was a bachelor. MRS. MARCHMONT. [_Pressing_ LADY BASILDON'S _hand_.] My poor Olivia! We have married perfect husbands, and we are well punished for it. LORD GORING. I should have thought it was the husbands who were punished. MRS. MARCHMONT. [_Drawing herself up_.] Oh, dear no! They are as happy as possible! And as for trusting us, it is tragic how much they trust us. LADY BASILDON. Perfectly tragic! LORD GORING. Or comic, Lady Basildon? LADY BASILDON. Certainly not comic, Lord Goring. How unkind of you to suggest such a thing! MRS. MARCHMONT. I am afraid Lord Goring is in the camp of the enemy, as usual. I saw him talking to that Mrs. Cheveley when he came in. LORD GORING. Handsome woman, Mrs. Cheveley! LADY BASILDON. [_Stiffly_.] Please don't praise other women in our presence. You might wait for us to do that! LORD GORING. I did wait. MRS. MARCHMONT. Well, we are not going to praise her. I hear she went to the Opera on Monday night, and told Tommy Rufford at supper that, as far as she could see, London Society was entirely made up of dowdies and dandies. LORD GORING. She is quite right, too. The men are all dowdies and the women are all dandies, aren't they? MRS. MARCHMONT. [_After a pause_.] Oh! do you really think that is what Mrs. Cheveley meant? LORD GORING. Of course. And a very sensible remark for Mrs. Cheveley to make, too. [_Enter_ MABEL CHILTERN. _She joins the group_.] MABEL CHILTERN. Why are you talking about Mrs. Cheveley? Everybody is talking about Mrs. Cheveley! Lord Goring says--what did you say, Lord Goring, about Mrs. Cheveley? Oh! I remember, that she was a genius in the daytime and a beauty at night. LADY BASILDON. What a horrid combination! So very unnatural! MRS. MARCHMONT. [_In her most dreamy manner_.] I like looking at geniuses, and listening to beautiful people. LORD GORING. Ah! that is morbid of you, Mrs. Marchmont! MRS. MARCHMONT. [_Brightening to a look of real pleasure_.] I am so glad to hear you say that. Marchmont and I have been married for seven years, and he has never once told me that I was morbid. Men are so painfully unobservant! LADY BASILDON. [_Turning to her_.] I have always said, dear Margaret, that you were the most morbid person in London. MRS. MARCHMONT. Ah! but you are always sympathetic, Olivia! MABEL CHILTERN. Is it morbid to have a desire for food? I have a great desire for food. Lord Goring, will you give me some supper? LORD GORING. With pleasure, Miss Mabel. [_Moves away with her_.] MABEL CHILTERN. How horrid you have been! You have never talked to me the whole evening! LORD GORING. How could I? You went away with the child-diplomatist. MABEL CHILTERN. You might have followed us. Pursuit would have been only polite. I don't think I like you at all this evening! LORD GORING. I like you immensely. MABEL CHILTERN. Well, I wish you'd show it in a more marked way! [_They go downstairs_.] MRS. MARCHMONT. Olivia, I have a curious feeling of absolute faintness. I think I should like some supper very much. I know I should like some supper. LADY BASILDON. I am positively dying for supper, Margaret! MRS. MARCHMONT. Men are so horribly selfish, they never think of these things. LADY BASILDON. Men are grossly material, grossly material! [_The_ VICOMTE DE NANJAC _enters from the music-room with some other guests_. _After having carefully examined all the people present_, _he approaches_ LADY BASILDON.] VICOMTE DE NANJAC. May I have the honour of taking you down to supper, Comtesse? LADY BASILDON. [_Coldly_.] I never take supper, thank you, Vicomte. [_The_ VICOMTE _is about to retire_. LADY BASILDON, _seeing this_, _rises at once and takes his arm_.] But I will come down with you with pleasure. VICOMTE DE NANJAC. I am so fond of eating! I am very English in all my tastes. LADY BASILDON. You look quite English, Vicomte, quite English. [_They pass out_. MR. MONTFORD, _a perfectly groomed young dandy_, _approaches_ MRS. MARCHMONT.] MR. MONTFORD. Like some supper, Mrs. Marchmont? MRS. MARCHMONT. [_Languidly_.] Thank you, Mr. Montford, I never touch supper. [_Rises hastily and takes his arm_.] But I will sit beside you, and watch you. MR. MONTFORD. I don't know that I like being watched when I am eating! MRS. MARCHMONT. Then I will watch some one else. MR. MONTFORD. I don't know that I should like that either. MRS. MARCHMONT. [_Severely_.] Pray, Mr. Montford, do not make these painful scenes of jealousy in public! [_They go downstairs with the other guests_, _passing_ SIR ROBERT CHILTERN _and_ MRS. CHEVELEY, _who now enter_.] SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. And are you going to any of our country houses before you leave England, Mrs. Cheveley? MRS. CHEVELEY. Oh, no! I can't stand your English house-parties. In England people actually try to be brilliant at breakfast. That is so dreadful of them! Only dull people are brilliant at breakfast. And then the family skeleton is always reading family prayers. My stay in England really depends on you, Sir Robert. [_Sits down on the sofa_.] SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Taking a seat beside her_.] Seriously? MRS. CHEVELEY. Quite seriously. I want to talk to you about a great political and financial scheme, about this Argentine Canal Company, in fact. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. What a tedious, practical subject for you to talk about, Mrs. Cheveley! MRS. CHEVELEY. Oh, I like tedious, practical subjects. What I don't like are tedious, practical people. There is a wide difference. Besides, you are interested, I know, in International Canal schemes. You were Lord Radley's secretary, weren't you, when the Government bought the Suez Canal shares? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Yes. But the Suez Canal was a very great and splendid undertaking. It gave us our direct route to India. It had imperial value. It was necessary that we should have control. This Argentine scheme is a commonplace Stock Exchange swindle. MRS. CHEVELEY. A speculation, Sir Robert! A brilliant, daring speculation. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Believe me, Mrs. Cheveley, it is a swindle. Let us call things by their proper names. It makes matters simpler. We have all the information about it at the Foreign Office. In fact, I sent out a special Commission to inquire into the matter privately, and they report that the works are hardly begun, and as for the money already subscribed, no one seems to know what has become of it. The whole thing is a second Panama, and with not a quarter of the chance of success that miserable affair ever had. I hope you have not invested in it. I am sure you are far too clever to have done that. MRS. CHEVELEY. I have invested very largely in it. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Who could have advised you to do such a foolish thing? MRS. CHEVELEY. Your old friend--and mine. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Who? MRS. CHEVELEY. Baron Arnheim. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Frowning_.] Ah! yes. I remember hearing, at the time of his death, that he had been mixed up in the whole affair. MRS. CHEVELEY. It was his last romance. His last but one, to do him justice. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Rising_.] But you have not seen my Corots yet. They are in the music-room. Corots seem to go with music, don't they? May I show them to you? MRS. CHEVELEY. [_Shaking her head_.] I am not in a mood to-night for silver twilights, or rose-pink dawns. I want to talk business. [_Motions to him with her fan to sit down again beside her_.] SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I fear I have no advice to give you, Mrs. Cheveley, except to interest yourself in something less dangerous. The success of the Canal depends, of course, on the attitude of England, and I am going to lay the report of the Commissioners before the House to-morrow night. MRS. CHEVELEY. That you must not do. In your own interests, Sir Robert, to say nothing of mine, you must not do that. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Looking at her in wonder_.] In my own interests? My dear Mrs. Cheveley, what do you mean? [_Sits down beside her_.] MRS. CHEVELEY. Sir Robert, I will be quite frank with you. I want you to withdraw the report that you had intended to lay before the House, on the ground that you have reasons to believe that the Commissioners have been prejudiced or misinformed, or something. Then I want you to say a few words to the effect that the Government is going to reconsider the question, and that you have reason to believe that the Canal, if completed, will be of great international value. You know the sort of things ministers say in cases of this kind. A few ordinary platitudes will do. In modern life nothing produces such an effect as a good platitude. It makes the whole world kin. Will you do that for me? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Mrs. Cheveley, you cannot be serious in making me such a proposition! MRS. CHEVELEY. I am quite serious. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Coldly_.] Pray allow me to believe that you are not. MRS. CHEVELEY. [_Speaking with great deliberation and emphasis_.] Ah! but I am. And if you do what I ask you, I . . . will pay you very handsomely! SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Pay me! MRS. CHEVELEY. Yes. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I am afraid I don't quite understand what you mean. MRS. CHEVELEY. [_Leaning back on the sofa and looking at him_.] How very disappointing! And I have come all the way from Vienna in order that you should thoroughly understand me. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I fear I don't. MRS. CHEVELEY. [_In her most nonchalant manner_.] My dear Sir Robert, you are a man of the world, and you have your price, I suppose. Everybody has nowadays. The drawback is that most people are so dreadfully expensive. I know I am. I hope you will be more reasonable in your terms. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Rises indignantly_.] If you will allow me, I will call your carriage for you. You have lived so long abroad, Mrs. Cheveley, that you seem to be unable to realise that you are talking to an English gentleman. MRS. CHEVELEY. [_Detains him by touching his arm with her fan_, _and keeping it there while she is talking_.] I realise that I am talking to a man who laid the foundation of his fortune by selling to a Stock Exchange speculator a Cabinet secret. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Biting his lip_.] What do you mean? MRS. CHEVELEY. [_Rising and facing him_.] I mean that I know the real origin of your wealth and your career, and I have got your letter, too. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. What letter? MRS. CHEVELEY. [_Contemptuously_.] The letter you wrote to Baron Arnheim, when you were Lord Radley's secretary, telling the Baron to buy Suez Canal shares--a letter written three days before the Government announced its own purchase. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Hoarsely_.] It is not true. MRS. CHEVELEY. You thought that letter had been destroyed. How foolish of you! It is in my possession. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. The affair to which you allude was no more than a speculation. The House of Commons had not yet passed the bill; it might have been rejected. MRS. CHEVELEY. It was a swindle, Sir Robert. Let us call things by their proper names. It makes everything simpler. And now I am going to sell you that letter, and the price I ask for it is your public support of the Argentine scheme. You made your own fortune out of one canal. You must help me and my friends to make our fortunes out of another! SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. It is infamous, what you propose--infamous! MRS. CHEVELEY. Oh, no! This is the game of life as we all have to play it, Sir Robert, sooner or later! SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I cannot do what you ask me. MRS. CHEVELEY. You mean you cannot help doing it. You know you are standing on the edge of a precipice. And it is not for you to make terms. It is for you to accept them. Supposing you refuse-- SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. What then? MRS. CHEVELEY. My dear Sir Robert, what then? You are ruined, that is all! Remember to what a point your Puritanism in England has brought you. In old days nobody pretended to be a bit better than his neighbours. In fact, to be a bit better than one's neighbour was considered excessively vulgar and middle-class. Nowadays, with our modern mania for morality, every one has to pose as a paragon of purity, incorruptibility, and all the other seven deadly virtues--and what is the result? You all go over like ninepins--one after the other. Not a year passes in England without somebody disappearing. Scandals used to lend charm, or at least interest, to a man--now they crush him. And yours is a very nasty scandal. You couldn't survive it. If it were known that as a young man, secretary to a great and important minister, you sold a Cabinet secret for a large sum of money, and that that was the origin of your wealth and career, you would be hounded out of public life, you would disappear completely. And after all, Sir Robert, why should you sacrifice your entire future rather than deal diplomatically with your enemy? For the moment I am your enemy. I admit it! And I am much stronger than you are. The big battalions are on my side. You have a splendid position, but it is your splendid position that makes you so vulnerable. You can't defend it! And I am in attack. Of course I have not talked morality to you. You must admit in fairness that I have spared you that. Years ago you did a clever, unscrupulous thing; it turned out a great success. You owe to it your fortune and position. And now you have got to pay for it. Sooner or later we have all to pay for what we do. You have to pay now. Before I leave you to-night, you have got to promise me to suppress your report, and to speak in the House in favour of this scheme. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. What you ask is impossible. MRS. CHEVELEY. You must make it possible. You are going to make it possible. Sir Robert, you know what your English newspapers are like. Suppose that when I leave this house I drive down to some newspaper office, and give them this scandal and the proofs of it! Think of their loathsome joy, of the delight they would have in dragging you down, of the mud and mire they would plunge you in. Think of the hypocrite with his greasy smile penning his leading article, and arranging the foulness of the public placard. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Stop! You want me to withdraw the report and to make a short speech stating that I believe there are possibilities in the scheme? MRS. CHEVELEY. [_Sitting down on the sofa_.] Those are my terms. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_In a low voice_.] I will give you any sum of money you want. MRS. CHEVELEY. Even you are not rich enough, Sir Robert, to buy back your past. No man is. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I will not do what you ask me. I will not. MRS. CHEVELEY. You have to. If you don't . . . [_Rises from the sofa_.] SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Bewildered and unnerved_.] Wait a moment! What did you propose? You said that you would give me back my letter, didn't you? MRS. CHEVELEY. Yes. That is agreed. I will be in the Ladies' Gallery to-morrow night at half-past eleven. If by that time--and you will have had heaps of opportunity--you have made an announcement to the House in the terms I wish, I shall hand you back your letter with the prettiest thanks, and the best, or at any rate the most suitable, compliment I can think of. I intend to play quite fairly with you. One should always play fairly . . . when one has the winning cards. The Baron taught me that . . . amongst other things. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. You must let me have time to consider your proposal. MRS. CHEVELEY. No; you must settle now! SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Give me a week--three days! MRS. CHEVELEY. Impossible! I have got to telegraph to Vienna to-night. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. My God! what brought you into my life? MRS. CHEVELEY. Circumstances. [_Moves towards the door_.] SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Don't go. I consent. The report shall be withdrawn. I will arrange for a question to be put to me on the subject. MRS. CHEVELEY. Thank you. I knew we should come to an amicable agreement. I understood your nature from the first. I analysed you, though you did not adore me. And now you can get my carriage for me, Sir Robert. I see the people coming up from supper, and Englishmen always get romantic after a meal, and that bores me dreadfully. [_Exit_ SIR ROBERT CHILTERN.] [_Enter Guests_, LADY CHILTERN, LADY MARKBY, LORD CAVERSHAM, LADY BASILDON, MRS. MARCHMONT, VICOMTE DE NANJAC, MR. MONTFORD.] LADY MARKBY. Well, dear Mrs. Cheveley, I hope you have enjoyed yourself. Sir Robert is very entertaining, is he not? MRS. CHEVELEY. Most entertaining! I have enjoyed my talk with him immensely. LADY MARKBY. He has had a very interesting and brilliant career. And he has married a most admirable wife. Lady Chiltern is a woman of the very highest principles, I am glad to say. I am a little too old now, myself, to trouble about setting a good example, but I always admire people who do. And Lady Chiltern has a very ennobling effect on life, though her dinner-parties are rather dull sometimes. But one can't have everything, can one? And now I must go, dear. Shall I call for you to-morrow? MRS. CHEVELEY. Thanks. LADY MARKBY. We might drive in the Park at five. Everything looks so fresh in the Park now! MRS. CHEVELEY. Except the people! LADY MARKBY. Perhaps the people are a little jaded. I have often observed that the Season as it goes on produces a kind of softening of the brain. However, I think anything is better than high intellectual pressure. That is the most unbecoming thing there is. It makes the noses of the young girls so particularly large. And there is nothing so difficult to marry as a large nose; men don't like them. Good-night, dear! [_To_ LADY CHILTERN.] Good-night, Gertrude! [_Goes out on_ LORD CAVERSHAM'S _arm_.] MRS. CHEVELEY. What a charming house you have, Lady Chiltern! I have spent a delightful evening. It has been so interesting getting to know your husband. LADY CHILTERN. Why did you wish to meet my husband, Mrs. Cheveley? MRS. CHEVELEY. Oh, I will tell you. I wanted to interest him in this Argentine Canal scheme, of which I dare say you have heard. And I found him most susceptible,--susceptible to reason, I mean. A rare thing in a man. I converted him in ten minutes. He is going to make a speech in the House to-morrow night in favour of the idea. We must go to the Ladies' Gallery and hear him! It will be a great occasion! LADY CHILTERN. There must be some mistake. That scheme could never have my husband's support. MRS. CHEVELEY. Oh, I assure you it's all settled. I don't regret my tedious journey from Vienna now. It has been a great success. But, of course, for the next twenty-four hours the whole thing is a dead secret. LADY CHILTERN. [_Gently_.] A secret? Between whom? MRS. CHEVELEY. [_With a flash of amusement in her eyes_.] Between your husband and myself. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Entering_.] Your carriage is here, Mrs. Cheveley! MRS. CHEVELEY. Thanks! Good evening, Lady Chiltern! Good-night, Lord Goring! I am at Claridge's. Don't you think you might leave a card? LORD GORING. If you wish it, Mrs. Cheveley! MRS. CHEVELEY. Oh, don't be so solemn about it, or I shall be obliged to leave a card on you. In England I suppose that would hardly be considered en regle. Abroad, we are more civilised. Will you see me down, Sir Robert? Now that we have both the same interests at heart we shall be great friends, I hope! [_Sails out on_ SIR ROBERT CHILTERN'S _arm_. LADY CHILTERN _goes to the top of the staircase and looks down at them as they descend_. _Her expression is troubled_. _After a little time she is joined by some of the guests_, _and passes with them into another reception-room_.] MABEL CHILTERN. What a horrid woman! LORD GORING. You should go to bed, Miss Mabel. MABEL CHILTERN. Lord Goring! LORD GORING. My father told me to go to bed an hour ago. I don't see why I shouldn't give you the same advice. I always pass on good advice. It is the only thing to do with it. It is never of any use to oneself. MABEL CHILTERN. Lord Goring, you are always ordering me out of the room. I think it most courageous of you. Especially as I am not going to bed for hours. [_Goes over to the sofa_.] You can come and sit down if you like, and talk about anything in the world, except the Royal Academy, Mrs. Cheveley, or novels in Scotch dialect. They are not improving subjects. [_Catches sight of something that is lying on the sofa half hidden by the cushion_.] What is this? Some one has dropped a diamond brooch! Quite beautiful, isn't it? [_Shows it to him_.] I wish it was mine, but Gertrude won't let me wear anything but pearls, and I am thoroughly sick of pearls. They make one look so plain, so good and so intellectual. I wonder whom the brooch belongs to. LORD GORING. I wonder who dropped it. MABEL CHILTERN. It is a beautiful brooch. LORD GORING. It is a handsome bracelet. MABEL CHILTERN. It isn't a bracelet. It's a brooch. LORD GORING. It can be used as a bracelet. [_Takes it from her_, _and_, _pulling out a green letter-case_, _puts the ornament carefully in it_, _and replaces the whole thing in his breast-pocket with the most perfect sang froid_.] MABEL CHILTERN. What are you doing? LORD GORING. Miss Mabel, I am going to make a rather strange request to you. MABEL CHILTERN. [_Eagerly_.] Oh, pray do! I have been waiting for it all the evening. LORD GORING. [_Is a little taken aback_, _but recovers himself_.] Don't mention to anybody that I have taken charge of this brooch. Should any one write and claim it, let me know at once. MABEL CHILTERN. That is a strange request. LORD GORING. Well, you see I gave this brooch to somebody once, years ago. MABEL CHILTERN. You did? LORD GORING. Yes. [LADY CHILTERN _enters alone_. _The other guests have gone_.] MABEL CHILTERN. Then I shall certainly bid you good-night. Good-night, Gertrude! [_Exit_.] LADY CHILTERN. Good-night, dear! [_To_ LORD GORING.] You saw whom Lady Markby brought here to-night? LORD GORING. Yes. It was an unpleasant surprise. What did she come here for? LADY CHILTERN. Apparently to try and lure Robert to uphold some fraudulent scheme in which she is interested. The Argentine Canal, in fact. LORD GORING. She has mistaken her man, hasn't she? LADY CHILTERN. She is incapable of understanding an upright nature like my husband's! LORD GORING. Yes. I should fancy she came to grief if she tried to get Robert into her toils. It is extraordinary what astounding mistakes clever women make. LADY CHILTERN. I don't call women of that kind clever. I call them stupid! LORD GORING. Same thing often. Good-night, Lady Chiltern! LADY CHILTERN. Good-night! [_Enter_ SIR ROBERT CHILTERN.] SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. My dear Arthur, you are not going? Do stop a little! LORD GORING. Afraid I can't, thanks. I have promised to look in at the Hartlocks'. I believe they have got a mauve Hungarian band that plays mauve Hungarian music. See you soon. Good-bye! [_Exit_] SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. How beautiful you look to-night, Gertrude! LADY CHILTERN. Robert, it is not true, is it? You are not going to lend your support to this Argentine speculation? You couldn't! SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Starting_.] Who told you I intended to do so? LADY CHILTERN. That woman who has just gone out, Mrs. Cheveley, as she calls herself now. She seemed to taunt me with it. Robert, I know this woman. You don't. We were at school together. She was untruthful, dishonest, an evil influence on every one whose trust or friendship she could win. I hated, I despised her. She stole things, she was a thief. She was sent away for being a thief. Why do you let her influence you? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Gertrude, what you tell me may be true, but it happened many years ago. It is best forgotten! Mrs. Cheveley may have changed since then. No one should be entirely judged by their past. LADY CHILTERN. [_Sadly_.] One's past is what one is. It is the only way by which people should be judged. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. That is a hard saying, Gertrude! LADY CHILTERN. It is a true saying, Robert. And what did she mean by boasting that she had got you to lend your support, your name, to a thing I have heard you describe as the most dishonest and fraudulent scheme there has ever been in political life? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Biting his lip_.] I was mistaken in the view I took. We all may make mistakes. LADY CHILTERN. But you told me yesterday that you had received the report from the Commission, and that it entirely condemned the whole thing. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Walking up and down_.] I have reasons now to believe that the Commission was prejudiced, or, at any rate, misinformed. Besides, Gertrude, public and private life are different things. They have different laws, and move on different lines. LADY CHILTERN. They should both represent man at his highest. I see no difference between them. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Stopping_.] In the present case, on a matter of practical politics, I have changed my mind. That is all. LADY CHILTERN. All! SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Sternly_.] Yes! LADY CHILTERN. Robert! Oh! it is horrible that I should have to ask you such a question--Robert, are you telling me the whole truth? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Why do you ask me such a question? LADY CHILTERN. [_After a pause_.] Why do you not answer it? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Sitting down_.] Gertrude, truth is a very complex thing, and politics is a very complex business. There are wheels within wheels. One may be under certain obligations to people that one must pay. Sooner or later in political life one has to compromise. Every one does. LADY CHILTERN. Compromise? Robert, why do you talk so differently to-night from the way I have always heard you talk? Why are you changed? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I am not changed. But circumstances alter things. LADY CHILTERN. Circumstances should never alter principles! SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. But if I told you-- LADY CHILTERN. What? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. That it was necessary, vitally necessary? LADY CHILTERN. It can never be necessary to do what is not honourable. Or if it be necessary, then what is it that I have loved! But it is not, Robert; tell me it is not. Why should it be? What gain would you get? Money? We have no need of that! And money that comes from a tainted source is a degradation. Power? But power is nothing in itself. It is power to do good that is fine--that, and that only. What is it, then? Robert, tell me why you are going to do this dishonourable thing! SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Gertrude, you have no right to use that word. I told you it was a question of rational compromise. It is no more than that. LADY CHILTERN. Robert, that is all very well for other men, for men who treat life simply as a sordid speculation; but not for you, Robert, not for you. You are different. All your life you have stood apart from others. You have never let the world soil you. To the world, as to myself, you have been an ideal always. Oh! be that ideal still. That great inheritance throw not away--that tower of ivory do not destroy. Robert, men can love what is beneath them--things unworthy, stained, dishonoured. We women worship when we love; and when we lose our worship, we lose everything. Oh! don't kill my love for you, don't kill that! SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Gertrude! LADY CHILTERN. I know that there are men with horrible secrets in their lives--men who have done some shameful thing, and who in some critical moment have to pay for it, by doing some other act of shame--oh! don't tell me you are such as they are! Robert, is there in your life any secret dishonour or disgrace? Tell me, tell me at once, that-- SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. That what? LADY CHILTERN. [_Speaking very slowly_.] That our lives may drift apart. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Drift apart? LADY CHILTERN. That they may be entirely separate. It would be better for us both. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Gertrude, there is nothing in my past life that you might not know. LADY CHILTERN. I was sure of it, Robert, I was sure of it. But why did you say those dreadful things, things so unlike your real self? Don't let us ever talk about the subject again. You will write, won't you, to Mrs. Cheveley, and tell her that you cannot support this scandalous scheme of hers? If you have given her any promise you must take it back, that is all! SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Must I write and tell her that? LADY CHILTERN. Surely, Robert! What else is there to do? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I might see her personally. It would be better. LADY CHILTERN. You must never see her again, Robert. She is not a woman you should ever speak to. She is not worthy to talk to a man like you. No; you must write to her at once, now, this moment, and let your letter show her that your decision is quite irrevocable! SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Write this moment! LADY CHILTERN. Yes. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. But it is so late. It is close on twelve. LADY CHILTERN. That makes no matter. She must know at once that she has been mistaken in you--and that you are not a man to do anything base or underhand or dishonourable. Write here, Robert. Write that you decline to support this scheme of hers, as you hold it to be a dishonest scheme. Yes--write the word dishonest. She knows what that word means. [SIR ROBERT CHILTERN _sits down and writes a letter_. _His wife takes it up and reads it_.] Yes; that will do. [_Rings bell_.] And now the envelope. [_He writes the envelope slowly_. _Enter_ MASON.] Have this letter sent at once to Claridge's Hotel. There is no answer. [_Exit_ MASON. LADY CHILTERN _kneels down beside her husband_, _and puts her arms around him_.] Robert, love gives one an instinct to things. I feel to-night that I have saved you from something that might have been a danger to you, from something that might have made men honour you less than they do. I don't think you realise sufficiently, Robert, that you have brought into the political life of our time a nobler atmosphere, a finer attitude towards life, a freer air of purer aims and higher ideals--I know it, and for that I love you, Robert. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Oh, love me always, Gertrude, love me always! LADY CHILTERN. I will love you always, because you will always be worthy of love. We needs must love the highest when we see it! [_Kisses him and rises and goes out_.] [SIR ROBERT CHILTERN _walks up and down for a moment_; _then sits down and buries his face in his hands_. _The Servant enters and begins pulling out the lights_. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN _looks up_.] SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Put out the lights, Mason, put out the lights! [_The Servant puts out the lights_. _The room becomes almost dark_. _The only light there is comes from the great chandelier that hangs over the staircase and illumines the tapestry of the Triumph of Love_.] ACT DROP

Act I

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The play opens at a party at Sir Robert Chiltern's house in Grosvenor Square, London. The party exemplifies much of the play's tendency towards quick and witty conversation. The Chiltern home is regal and their guests are impeccably dressed. Much of the action takes place in the Chiltern home's Octagonal room. Lady Chiltern stands at the top of her regal staircase greeting arriving friends. Behind her, on the back wall, hangs Boucher's "Triumph of Love." The tapestry plays a prominent role in the play, and highlights the theme of love conquering all. This first scene consists of many conversations between various guests. Mrs. Marchmont and Lady Basildon discuss the tedious, boring and uninteresting Hartlock parties, and the triviality of men. Mrs. Marchmont mentions that she has come to the party to be educated, while Lady Basildon admits she despises education. Mrs. Marchmont notes that Lady Chiltern is often encouraging her and others to expand their educations and find purpose in life, which seems to be a futile pursuit as few in London society take their lives or careers very seriously. As the act continues, additional characters enter and converse, all announced by the butler who stands at the door. Lord Caversham enters and asks for his 'good-for-nothing' son. Mabel Chiltern asks him why he speaks so ill of Lord Goring, and Lord Caversham explains that his son leads an idle life. Mabel Chiltern disagrees, and Lord Caversham calls her charming. Caversham also admits being sick of London Society while Mabel thinks it is lovely and composed of beautiful idiots and brilliants lunatics, Lord Goring included. Lady Markby and Mrs. Cheveley enter next. Mrs. Cheveley is a striking woman who demands attention. She wears a purple gown, bright red lipstick, and has red hair. Lady Markby greets Lady Chiltern warmly, but Lady Chiltern suddenly recognizes Mrs. Cheveley and greets her with a distant bow. She explains that they knew each other in their school days. Mrs. Cheveley, who has been in Vienna for many years, is obviously overly sweet to her cold acquaintance, and describes her eagerness to meet Sir Robert Chiltern, as he is well known in Vienna. Lady Chiltern is taken aback by this comment and before quickly moving away, assures Mrs. Cheveley that she and her husband have very little in common. The Vicomte de Nanjac, a young anglophile who spices up the play with comical malapropisms, approaches as Lady Chiltern moves off, and flirts with Mrs. Cheveley. Sir Robert Chiltern enters, greets Lady Markby, and meets and compliments Mrs. Cheveley. She responds by saying that any acquaintance that begins with a compliment is sure to develop into a true friendship. She tells Sir Robert that she knew his wife at school, but unlike Lady Chiltern she never received any good conduct prizes. Sir Robert inquires as to whether she is a pessimist or an optimist and she claims she is neither. Mrs. Cheveley notes that her only pleasure is politics. Next, she asks for a tour of his house, and casually references Baron Arnheim, whom she claims to have known intimately and is a previous acquaintance of Chiltern. Sir Robert starts at the name and appears distraught. Lord Goring arrives. He is a British dandy, one who plays with life, dresses well, socializes extensively and likes to be misunderstood. Sir Robert introduces him to Mrs. Cheveley, and it appears they have met before. Lording Goring then turns to Mabel Chiltern and the two easily fall into a flirtatious banter. Vicomte de Nanjac interrupts and asks Mabel if he may escort her to the music room. She is clearly disappointed and tries to get Lord Goring to follow them, but he remains in the Octagon room. Lord Caversham approaches his son and demands to know what he is doing at the party. He accuses him of a wasted life, and claims London society has gone to the dogs. Lady Basildon and Mrs. Marchmont approach Lord Goring and begin complaining about their annoyingly perfect husbands. Lord Goring sympathizes with them, and they soon start gossiping about Mrs. Cheveley. As the guests all go to dinner, the action returns to Sir Robert and Mrs. Cheveley, who remain in the Octagon room. Mrs. Cheveley explains her stay in England depends upon him and tells him about the Argentine Canal Company, which she calls a "great political and financial scheme." Sir Robert was involved in the Suez Canal endeavor as Lord Radley's secretary, but he does not think highly of this new venture. While Mrs. Cheveley believes it a daring speculation, he calls it a swindle. She admits to investing heavily in it based on the advice of Baron Arnheim. Sir Robert admits that the following night he will give a report to the House suggesting the scheme will not succeed. Mrs. Cheveley urges him not to make the report in both her interest and in his own, which offends Sir Robert. Finally, Mrs. Cheveley reveals that she possesses a letter Sir Robert wrote to Baron Arnheim when he was Lord Radley's secretary. In the letter, Sir Robert sold a Cabinet secret, telling the Baron to buy Suez Canal shares three days before the government announced the purchase of it. Through this unscrupulous act Sir Robert made his current fortune, and Mrs. Cheveley threatens to hand the letter over to the newspapers if he does not publicly support her scheme. Sir Robert's public image and career would be ruined. Mrs. Cheveley refuses any money in exchange for the letter and leaves no negotiating room. Finally, Sir Robert gives in and tells her he will withdraw the report. He leaves the room. The guests return from the dining room and Mrs. Cheveley speaks with Lady Chiltern and reveals she has gained Sir Robert's support in the canal scheme. Lady Chiltern does not believe this news and claims her husband's principles are stronger than that. She is quite troubled. Sir Robert returns to escort Mrs. Cheveley to her carriage. Lord Goring and Mabel converse and Mabel finds a brooch half-hidden in a sofa. Lord Goring immediately recognizes it and explains that he gave it someone as a gift years ago. He asks her to notify him first if anyone asks about it. Mabel agrees and bids him goodnight. When everyone has left, Lady Chiltern confronts Sir Robert about Mrs. Cheveley's canal scheme claim. She explains that in their schooldays Mrs. Cheveley was dishonest and evil. Sir Robert argues that she should not be judged by her past, but Lady Chiltern claims that the past defines one's character. Sir Robert admits he has agreed to support the scheme, but his wife knows something is amiss. She suspects he has altered his principles, and asks why is suddenly behaving in such a different manner. He explains that circumstances dictate his choice, but she claims circumstances should never change principles. In a passion, Lady Chiltern tells her husband it is never necessary to do the dishonorable deed, and that power and money are nothing in themselves. She claims she loves him because he has always been ideal and honest. She begs him to continue being the honorable man she knows and loves and to not kill her love for him. Sir Robert denies that he has any secrets and Lady Chiltern urges him to immediately write Mrs. Cheveley to explain he will not support the scheme after all. She stands over him, praising him, as he writes the letter. They declare their love for each other. The scene closes with Sir Robert calling the butler to deliver the letter, and the chandelier lighting up the "Triumph of Love" tapestry.

Wilde creates his characters as artistic objects within society, and through their conversations and seemingly carefree banter, explores the themes of love, loyalty and honor. Wilde's writing, which relies on these sorts of conversation, is often referred to as epigrammatic. An epigram is defined as a concise and witty statement that expresses insight and is often ironic in tone. The opening act contains many epigrammatic statements, including Mrs. Marchmont's claim of abhorring education, and Lord Goring's claim that the only thing he knows anything about is nothing. Clearly, neither truly believes these statements, but there is truth to them. Wilde's reliance on epigrammatic conversation forces the reader to determine when there is seriousness in such statements, and when they are simply witty and somewhat false tools used to extend somewhat meaningless conversation. As such, Wilde successfully weaves the most serious themes of the play in with the most frivolous of its banter and conversation. Throughout the party that takes up the majority of the first act, the guests and hosts are highly concerned with their appearance and the nature of their social interactions. All the guests are members of London "society" and spend much of their lives in similarly superficial scenarios. Thus, they are all present themselves very specifically, through well defined performances. The selves they present in these social interactions are specific to such events, and not necessarily true representations. The most notable character that presents a false veneer in this social event is Mrs. Cheveley. She sees this party as a chance to perform, and brings with her a powerfully false sense of saccharine kindness in her interactions with Lady Chiltern. Even during her interactions with Sir Robert, she maintains a veneer of civility when threatening his very reputation. Wilde's use of the party to introduce each character is fascinating, as the reader learns how the characters wish to be seen in such social gatherings rather than whom they truly are. Here, we begin to see the disconnect between the "ideal" and the "real". Act I also deals extensively with the role of women in society, and the dialogue between Sir Robert and Mrs. Cheveley touches briefly on this topic. Sir Robert implies that the issue of the nature of women is a modern topic - he asks her if she thinks science can grapple with the problem of women. His question suggests that he sees women as very complex, but also acknowledges the increasing role women play within society, and the complex issues that arise from this. Mrs. Cheveley's words suggest a more traditional view of women; that women cannot be understood and should be viewed as aesthetic pieces of art. In fact, Wilde describes many of the female characters in this opening act as works of art, and even notes that Watteau would have loved to paint some of them. The tapestry of the "Triumph of Love" plays a prominent thematic role in this opening act and the remainder of the play. Love and what defines it in its purest and strongest form is clearly of great importance to the main theme of the play, marriage. Lady Markby arrives at the party and notes that people now marry as many times as possible because it is in fashion. When introducing Mrs. Cheveley to Sir Robert she comments that families are very mixed nowadays, and Lord Goring revels in his status as a bachelor. Lady Basildon and Mrs. Marchmont ironically sympathize with each other over their overly perfect husbands, which mocks the idea of a perfect marriage. Mrs. Cheveley states that in the London season, people are "either hunting from husbands, or hiding from them." Much of this act discusses the confusion and conflict inherent in marriage, while Lady Chiltern and Sir Robert represent an ideal marriage. The conversation between Lady Chiltern and her husband in the conclusion of the first act provides a strong contrast to the frivolous banter that dominated the party scene. They address each other with earnestness, intimacy, and powerful emotion. Lady Chiltern states that her love for Sir Robert rests on his ideal morality, purity and honesty. When presented with his request for a moral compromise, Lady Chiltern refuses. She can only love him in his ideal and pure state. Later on, she will be confronted with her idealistic perspective, but in this act, it dominates and defines their marriage. Interestingly, the theme of politics is powerfully interwoven with that of love and marriage. In the play, choices regarding ethical political behavior relate directly to the triumph or failure of love. Lady Chiltern clearly represents a strong adherence to the ideal, while Mrs. Cheveley represents the opposite. These two forces of good and evil pull on Sir Robert Chiltern, forcing him to define himself and his life as either an ideal or morally imperfect husband.

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all_chapterized_books/885-chapters/act_ii.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/An Ideal Husband/section_1_part_0.txt

An Ideal Husband.act ii

act ii

{"name": "Act II", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180409031947/http://www.gradesaver.com/an-ideal-husband/study-guide/summary-act-ii", "summary": "The act begins with Sir Robert and Lord Goring in the Chiltern house discussing how to manage the crisis put in action the preceding night. Goring appears somewhat unsettled by Chiltern's moral failure and urges him to tell his wife the truth about his past as soon as possible. Robert, who kept the secret to maintain his wife's idealistic view of him, is concerned she will never forgive his impurity. Lord Goring, in a serious and weighted tone in stark contrast to the preceding act, still urges him to be honest and promises to talk with Lady Chiltern about the negative influence of expecting and accepting only perfection. Chiltern tells Lord Goring about his history with Baron Arnheim and the circumstances of his ill-gotten fortune. Despite his name and family, Chiltern was poor while under the Baron's mentorship. As an impressionable young man, he took the Baron's advice about the importance of wealth and money to heart, and therefore took advantage of an opportunity to ensure his financial stability. Sir Robert vehemently says that his decision to sell government secrets to the Baron was an act of courage and not weakness. He also admits that he has not felt regret for it. Lord Goring expresses sorrow for his friend, but Sir Robert talks about how he paid his debt with his guilt, and by giving to charity. After hearing about Chiltern's past, Lord Goring responds with potential actions to take to quell the coming storm, and concludes he must fight against Mrs. Cheveley's blackmail. Chiltern aggress, but recoils at the thought of telling Lady Chiltern, saying that it would kill her love for him. At this point, Goring reveals that he and Mrs. Cheveley were once engaged. Sir Robert decides to write a letter to Vienna to investigate Mrs. Cheveley's life and dig out any scandals that might weaken her power against him. Goring reluctantly concedes this plan, but also explains that he believes Mrs. Cheveley would revel in a scandal rather than run from it. Lady Chiltern then arrives from the Woman's Liberal Association, and asks Lord Goring to stay for tea. Lord Goring engages in a light banter with her about her bonnet. She leaves briefly, in which time Sir Robert gratefully thanks Lord Goring, but Lord Goring says he has not done anything for him yet. Sir Robert tells him that at the very least he has allowed him to tell the truth. When his wife returns he escapes by giving the excuse that he has letters to write. Lord Goring and Lady Chiltern have an interesting conversation where Lord Goring becomes serious and talks with Lady Chiltern about the situation with Mrs. Cheveley. Lady Chiltern only knows that she tried to persuade Sir Robert to support her financial scheme, and she firmly believes it would be a stain on his character. Lord Goring discusses a hypothetical situation to test Lady Chiltern's understanding of her husband's true situation, but she cannot imagine him doing such a foolish thing. Lord Goring tells her that her views on life are quite hard and unforgiving of people's natural tendency to make mistakes. He explains that love is the only thing that can explain the world. Lady Chiltern asks Lord Goring if he is a pessimist, and he tells her that life must be lived with charity, and only through charity can life be understood. Finally, with intense seriousness of which Lady Chiltern takes note, he offers her help whenever she needs it. Mabel arrives and proclaims that seriousness does not suit Lord Goring. He tells her that he must be leaving, which causes her to comment on his bad manners. They exchange light banter for several more minutes before Lord Goring finally leaves. Mabel asks Lady Chiltern to speak to Tommy Trafford for her, because he constantly proposes to her in awkward situations. Lady Chiltern responds by saying Tommy has a bright future, while Mabel claims she will never marry anyone with a bright future. Lady Markby and Mrs. Cheveley arrive. Mabel starts to leave, but speaks with the two guests first. Lady Markby tells her that she is becoming very modern, which can be dangerous in that one might suddenly become out of date. Mabel leaves and Lady Markby tells Lady Chiltern they have come to find Mrs. Cheveley's diamond brooch, which she lost. As they wait for the Mason, Lady Markby comments that London has become over populated. The Mason arrives explaining that no bracelet has turned up overnight. The ladies wait for tea. Lady Markby makes a derogatory comment about the Higher Education of Women, and Lady Chiltern proclaims that she and her husband are great champions of women's rights. They continue to discuss the education of men, their husbands, and the modern woman. Lady Markby declines tea and goes out for a short visit to a nearby friend. She leaves Lady Chiltern and Mrs. Cheveley together. Mrs. Cheveley comments that Lady Markby talks more but says less than anyone she has ever met. Lady Chiltern remains standing and coldly tells her that had she recognized Mrs. Cheveley from their schooldays she would never have invited her to her party the previous night. Mrs. Cheveley appears amused and notes Lady Chiltern has not changed. Mrs. Cheveley discovers that Lady Chiltern made Sir Robert write a letter revoking his promise to support her financial scheme and demands Sir Robert reverse his decision. Sir Robert enters the room, and Mrs. Cheveley angrily tells Lady Chiltern that Sir Robert is fraudulent and dishonest and sold a cabinet secret to a stockbroker to gain his fortune. Lady Chiltern asks Sir Robert if the story is true, and he orders Mrs. Cheveley from his house. Lady Chiltern begs her husband to deny these accusations, but he does not, and moves towards her to console her. She warns him off, and cries out that he lied to the whole world but will not lie to her. She thrusts him off her, and in dismay wonders why she made him her ideal in life and worshipped him. Sir Robert passionately proclaims that this was her mistake, and one that all women make. He wonders aloud why all women cannot love men with all their faults. Why do they place their men on pedestals? In contrast, he says, men love women with their imperfections, and it is in all their imperfection that men need love. He tells his wife she has made a false idol of him, and he was not strong enough to show her his imperfections. Now, in losing her love she has ruined his life.", "analysis": "Lord Goring and Robert Chiltern agree that men do corrupt things everyday, but Lord Goring points out that is the reason why they are all so eager to expose one another, because it takes attention away from their own dishonesty. Sir Robert explains how his access to private information was nothing new, and that all modern fortunes are built on such information. Wilde understood the power of information from contemporary events, and throughout the plot, information , rather than money, is the source of power. Once again Sir Robert references the idea of modernity, and how in this new age information leads to wealth and power. He tells Lord Goring about Baron Arnheim's formula for success in the modern day: wealth, which leads to domination. Ironically, Lord Goring who is the picture of a Victorian dandy and revels in the superficial aspects of life, disagrees with this theory. Wilde criticizes this philosophy throughout the play by effectively making wealth useless. Sir Robert cannot buy his way out of his predicament and Mrs. Cheveley laughs at the fact that he would even try. In the realm of the play, money has little power. Sir Robert's primary concern is detection. He fears his wife will hate him and his career will be ruined. With frustration he asks Lord Goring whether a foolish mistake made in his youth should cost him so much. His corruption does not cause him any real sense of guilt or regret, and he justifies it by pointing out others who have done the same. He thanks Lord Goring for enabling him to tell the truth, but in reality he only tells it because he knows Lord Goring will not judge him for it. Thus, he is willing to face the truth only when there are no consequences attached. Sir Robert's words connect with Wilde's disdain for the lack of morality in contemporary society, especially the loose moral principles of politicians. One of the main themes of the play is society's moral corruption. Wilde criticizes the way characters gravitate towards material possessions, such as wealth, rather than cherishing the importance of kindness and love. Even Lady Chiltern, for all her moral sermons, is hypocritical, for she values Sir Robert's social status. When Lady Chiltern enters the scene, and tells the two men she has been at a meeting for the Women's Liberal Association, Lord Goring mocks her and asks if they discussed bonnets. The question of a woman's role in society and marriage constantly arises, and Lord Goring clearly sees women's work as rather trivial. This scene engages with the topic of what a woman's proper role is within society and marriage, as does the discussion between Lady Markby, Lady Chiltern, and Mrs. Cheveley, when Lady Markby argues that the House of Commons is the worst thing to happen to marriage since the higher education of women. As a member of the more conservative part of London society, Lady Markby does not believe in the advancement of women, while Lady Chiltern, as a member of the Women's Liberal Association, clearly does. The differences between these two women, and Lady Chiltern's constant defense of women's rights and liberal values demonstrates that this new, modern perspective of a more independent woman was just beginning to gain strength in the Victorian era. Lord Goring becomes quite serious in his conversation with Lady Chiltern, which is a contrast from his lighthearted behavior at the party the night before. After acting as a confidant and advisor to her husband, he acts as a teacher to Lady Chiltern, telling her that her views on life are rather harsh and she must understand that all people are flawed. Lady Chiltern says that she loves her husband, but really she adores the version of him that she has created - the Sir Robert who exemplifies the best of English life. If he must be perfect, how sincere can her love be? Lord Goring tells Lady Chiltern that it is love, and not German philosophy, that truly explains the world, and that one must live life with charity towards others. His speech ties together several themes that continually arise throughout the play, specifically that love and forgiveness must guide one through life. With this statement, the readers begin to see that the truth will come out and forgiveness will be necessary for the Chiltern marriage to survive. Mabel's complaints about Tommy Trafford, who insistently and secretly proposes to her, provide a comic interlude, but also again discuss the notion of marriage. Mabel complains that she wouldn't find the whole process so frustrating if his statements had any kind of effect on the public. Apparently, it is not his proposals that bother her so much, but the way in which he proposes. She wishes his feelings were in the public domain, and believes only then they would be worth responding to. Mabel wants public intrusion in her life, while such public intrusion threatens to ruin Sir Robert's public career and his marriage. The definition of love and marriage is at the heart of the action here. The lighthearted conversation of the first act is replaced by a more serious tone that analyzes and discusses the morality of human beings and why and how people should love each other. Lord Goring, who often carries the voice and opinions of the author, mocks Lady Chiltern's expectations of moral perfection. Lord Goring finds it a shame that Lady Chiltern cannot accept her husband, faults and all. This analysis of love supports the social values and gender inequality of the Victorian era. Sir Robert Chiltern argues that a man's love allows for faults and errors, while a woman's love is unforgiving and demanding of unattainable perfection. Although this analysis of love presents the image of the unyielding woman, the play will actually conclude with Lady Chiltern forgiving and supporting her husband. Thus, the play depicts the woman's role of a caregiver and supporter of her male counterparts, a classic Victorian perspective. The climax of this act is Lady Chiltern's discovery of her husband's moral faults. She is shocked and sees a new person in her husband's skin, claiming, \"what a mask you have been wearing all these years!\" The images presented by all the party guests and the hosts the night prior are the pieces of themselves people want the public to see. With the revelation of Sir Robert's fallibility, this false image of perfection and the socially acceptable image are torn down. Now, the reader is left to wonder if Lady Chiltern will manage to overcome the reality of a husband who is imperfect. She must determine what true love means, and how to define an ideal marriage."}

SECOND ACT SCENE _Morning-room at Sir Robert Chiltern's house_. [LORD GORING, _dressed in the height of fashion_, _is lounging in an armchair_. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN _is standing in front of the fireplace_. _He is evidently in a state of great mental excitement and distress_. _As the scene progresses he paces nervously up and down the room_.] LORD GORING. My dear Robert, it's a very awkward business, very awkward indeed. You should have told your wife the whole thing. Secrets from other people's wives are a necessary luxury in modern life. So, at least, I am always told at the club by people who are bald enough to know better. But no man should have a secret from his own wife. She invariably finds it out. Women have a wonderful instinct about things. They can discover everything except the obvious. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Arthur, I couldn't tell my wife. When could I have told her? Not last night. It would have made a life-long separation between us, and I would have lost the love of the one woman in the world I worship, of the only woman who has ever stirred love within me. Last night it would have been quite impossible. She would have turned from me in horror . . . in horror and in contempt. LORD GORING. Is Lady Chiltern as perfect as all that? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Yes; my wife is as perfect as all that. LORD GORING. [_Taking off his left-hand glove_.] What a pity! I beg your pardon, my dear fellow, I didn't quite mean that. But if what you tell me is true, I should like to have a serious talk about life with Lady Chiltern. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. It would be quite useless. LORD GORING. May I try? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Yes; but nothing could make her alter her views. LORD GORING. Well, at the worst it would simply be a psychological experiment. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. All such experiments are terribly dangerous. LORD GORING. Everything is dangerous, my dear fellow. If it wasn't so, life wouldn't be worth living. . . . Well, I am bound to say that I think you should have told her years ago. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. When? When we were engaged? Do you think she would have married me if she had known that the origin of my fortune is such as it is, the basis of my career such as it is, and that I had done a thing that I suppose most men would call shameful and dishonourable? LORD GORING. [_Slowly_.] Yes; most men would call it ugly names. There is no doubt of that. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Bitterly_.] Men who every day do something of the same kind themselves. Men who, each one of them, have worse secrets in their own lives. LORD GORING. That is the reason they are so pleased to find out other people's secrets. It distracts public attention from their own. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. And, after all, whom did I wrong by what I did? No one. LORD GORING. [_Looking at him steadily_.] Except yourself, Robert. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_After a pause_.] Of course I had private information about a certain transaction contemplated by the Government of the day, and I acted on it. Private information is practically the source of every large modern fortune. LORD GORING. [_Tapping his boot with his cane_.] And public scandal invariably the result. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Pacing up and down the room_.] Arthur, do you think that what I did nearly eighteen years ago should be brought up against me now? Do you think it fair that a man's whole career should be ruined for a fault done in one's boyhood almost? I was twenty-two at the time, and I had the double misfortune of being well-born and poor, two unforgiveable things nowadays. Is it fair that the folly, the sin of one's youth, if men choose to call it a sin, should wreck a life like mine, should place me in the pillory, should shatter all that I have worked for, all that I have built up. Is it fair, Arthur? LORD GORING. Life is never fair, Robert. And perhaps it is a good thing for most of us that it is not. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Every man of ambition has to fight his century with its own weapons. What this century worships is wealth. The God of this century is wealth. To succeed one must have wealth. At all costs one must have wealth. LORD GORING. You underrate yourself, Robert. Believe me, without wealth you could have succeeded just as well. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. When I was old, perhaps. When I had lost my passion for power, or could not use it. When I was tired, worn out, disappointed. I wanted my success when I was young. Youth is the time for success. I couldn't wait. LORD GORING. Well, you certainly have had your success while you are still young. No one in our day has had such a brilliant success. Under-Secretary for Foreign Affairs at the age of forty--that's good enough for any one, I should think. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. And if it is all taken away from me now? If I lose everything over a horrible scandal? If I am hounded from public life? LORD GORING. Robert, how could you have sold yourself for money? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Excitedly_.] I did not sell myself for money. I bought success at a great price. That is all. LORD GORING. [_Gravely_.] Yes; you certainly paid a great price for it. But what first made you think of doing such a thing? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Baron Arnheim. LORD GORING. Damned scoundrel! SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. No; he was a man of a most subtle and refined intellect. A man of culture, charm, and distinction. One of the most intellectual men I ever met. LORD GORING. Ah! I prefer a gentlemanly fool any day. There is more to be said for stupidity than people imagine. Personally I have a great admiration for stupidity. It is a sort of fellow-feeling, I suppose. But how did he do it? Tell me the whole thing. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Throws himself into an armchair by the writing-table_.] One night after dinner at Lord Radley's the Baron began talking about success in modern life as something that one could reduce to an absolutely definite science. With that wonderfully fascinating quiet voice of his he expounded to us the most terrible of all philosophies, the philosophy of power, preached to us the most marvellous of all gospels, the gospel of gold. I think he saw the effect he had produced on me, for some days afterwards he wrote and asked me to come and see him. He was living then in Park Lane, in the house Lord Woolcomb has now. I remember so well how, with a strange smile on his pale, curved lips, he led me through his wonderful picture gallery, showed me his tapestries, his enamels, his jewels, his carved ivories, made me wonder at the strange loveliness of the luxury in which he lived; and then told me that luxury was nothing but a background, a painted scene in a play, and that power, power over other men, power over the world, was the one thing worth having, the one supreme pleasure worth knowing, the one joy one never tired of, and that in our century only the rich possessed it. LORD GORING. [_With great deliberation_.] A thoroughly shallow creed. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Rising_.] I didn't think so then. I don't think so now. Wealth has given me enormous power. It gave me at the very outset of my life freedom, and freedom is everything. You have never been poor, and never known what ambition is. You cannot understand what a wonderful chance the Baron gave me. Such a chance as few men get. LORD GORING. Fortunately for them, if one is to judge by results. But tell me definitely, how did the Baron finally persuade you to--well, to do what you did? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. When I was going away he said to me that if I ever could give him any private information of real value he would make me a very rich man. I was dazed at the prospect he held out to me, and my ambition and my desire for power were at that time boundless. Six weeks later certain private documents passed through my hands. LORD GORING. [_Keeping his eyes steadily fixed on the carpet_.] State documents? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Yes. [LORD GORING _sighs_, _then passes his hand across his forehead and looks up_.] LORD GORING. I had no idea that you, of all men in the world, could have been so weak, Robert, as to yield to such a temptation as Baron Arnheim held out to you. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Weak? Oh, I am sick of hearing that phrase. Sick of using it about others. Weak? Do you really think, Arthur, that it is weakness that yields to temptation? I tell you that there are terrible temptations that it requires strength, strength and courage, to yield to. To stake all one's life on a single moment, to risk everything on one throw, whether the stake be power or pleasure, I care not--there is no weakness in that. There is a horrible, a terrible courage. I had that courage. I sat down the same afternoon and wrote Baron Arnheim the letter this woman now holds. He made three-quarters of a million over the transaction. LORD GORING. And you? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I received from the Baron 110,000 pounds. LORD GORING. You were worth more, Robert. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. No; that money gave me exactly what I wanted, power over others. I went into the House immediately. The Baron advised me in finance from time to time. Before five years I had almost trebled my fortune. Since then everything that I have touched has turned out a success. In all things connected with money I have had a luck so extraordinary that sometimes it has made me almost afraid. I remember having read somewhere, in some strange book, that when the gods wish to punish us they answer our prayers. LORD GORING. But tell me, Robert, did you never suffer any regret for what you had done? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. No. I felt that I had fought the century with its own weapons, and won. LORD GORING. [_Sadly_.] You thought you had won. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I thought so. [_After a long pause_.] Arthur, do you despise me for what I have told you? LORD GORING. [_With deep feeling in his voice_.] I am very sorry for you, Robert, very sorry indeed. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I don't say that I suffered any remorse. I didn't. Not remorse in the ordinary, rather silly sense of the word. But I have paid conscience money many times. I had a wild hope that I might disarm destiny. The sum Baron Arnheim gave me I have distributed twice over in public charities since then. LORD GORING. [_Looking up_.] In public charities? Dear me! what a lot of harm you must have done, Robert! SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Oh, don't say that, Arthur; don't talk like that! LORD GORING. Never mind what I say, Robert! I am always saying what I shouldn't say. In fact, I usually say what I really think. A great mistake nowadays. It makes one so liable to be misunderstood. As regards this dreadful business, I will help you in whatever way I can. Of course you know that. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Thank you, Arthur, thank you. But what is to be done? What can be done? LORD GORING. [_Leaning back with his hands in his pockets_.] Well, the English can't stand a man who is always saying he is in the right, but they are very fond of a man who admits that he has been in the wrong. It is one of the best things in them. However, in your case, Robert, a confession would not do. The money, if you will allow me to say so, is . . . awkward. Besides, if you did make a clean breast of the whole affair, you would never be able to talk morality again. And in England a man who can't talk morality twice a week to a large, popular, immoral audience is quite over as a serious politician. There would be nothing left for him as a profession except Botany or the Church. A confession would be of no use. It would ruin you. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. It would ruin me. Arthur, the only thing for me to do now is to fight the thing out. LORD GORING. [_Rising from his chair_.] I was waiting for you to say that, Robert. It is the only thing to do now. And you must begin by telling your wife the whole story. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. That I will not do. LORD GORING. Robert, believe me, you are wrong. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I couldn't do it. It would kill her love for me. And now about this woman, this Mrs. Cheveley. How can I defend myself against her? You knew her before, Arthur, apparently. LORD GORING. Yes. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Did you know her well? LORD GORING. [_Arranging his necktie_.] So little that I got engaged to be married to her once, when I was staying at the Tenbys'. The affair lasted for three days . . . nearly. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Why was it broken off? LORD GORING. [_Airily_.] Oh, I forget. At least, it makes no matter. By the way, have you tried her with money? She used to be confoundedly fond of money. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I offered her any sum she wanted. She refused. LORD GORING. Then the marvellous gospel of gold breaks down sometimes. The rich can't do everything, after all. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Not everything. I suppose you are right. Arthur, I feel that public disgrace is in store for me. I feel certain of it. I never knew what terror was before. I know it now. It is as if a hand of ice were laid upon one's heart. It is as if one's heart were beating itself to death in some empty hollow. LORD GORING. [_Striking the table_.] Robert, you must fight her. You must fight her. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. But how? LORD GORING. I can't tell you how at present. I have not the smallest idea. But every one has some weak point. There is some flaw in each one of us. [_Strolls to the fireplace and looks at himself in the glass_.] My father tells me that even I have faults. Perhaps I have. I don't know. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. In defending myself against Mrs. Cheveley, I have a right to use any weapon I can find, have I not? LORD GORING. [_Still looking in the glass_.] In your place I don't think I should have the smallest scruple in doing so. She is thoroughly well able to take care of herself. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Sits down at the table and takes a pen in his hand_.] Well, I shall send a cipher telegram to the Embassy at Vienna, to inquire if there is anything known against her. There may be some secret scandal she might be afraid of. LORD GORING. [_Settling his buttonhole_.] Oh, I should fancy Mrs. Cheveley is one of those very modern women of our time who find a new scandal as becoming as a new bonnet, and air them both in the Park every afternoon at five-thirty. I am sure she adores scandals, and that the sorrow of her life at present is that she can't manage to have enough of them. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Writing_.] Why do you say that? LORD GORING. [_Turning round_.] Well, she wore far too much rouge last night, and not quite enough clothes. That is always a sign of despair in a woman. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Striking a bell_.] But it is worth while my wiring to Vienna, is it not? LORD GORING. It is always worth while asking a question, though it is not always worth while answering one. [_Enter_ MASON.] SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Is Mr. Trafford in his room? MASON. Yes, Sir Robert. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Puts what he has written into an envelope_, _which he then carefully closes_.] Tell him to have this sent off in cipher at once. There must not be a moment's delay. MASON. Yes, Sir Robert. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Oh! just give that back to me again. [_Writes something on the envelope_. MASON _then goes out with the letter_.] SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. She must have had some curious hold over Baron Arnheim. I wonder what it was. LORD GORING. [_Smiling_.] I wonder. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I will fight her to the death, as long as my wife knows nothing. LORD GORING. [_Strongly_.] Oh, fight in any case--in any case. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_With a gesture of despair_.] If my wife found out, there would be little left to fight for. Well, as soon as I hear from Vienna, I shall let you know the result. It is a chance, just a chance, but I believe in it. And as I fought the age with its own weapons, I will fight her with her weapons. It is only fair, and she looks like a woman with a past, doesn't she? LORD GORING. Most pretty women do. But there is a fashion in pasts just as there is a fashion in frocks. Perhaps Mrs. Cheveley's past is merely a slightly decollete one, and they are excessively popular nowadays. Besides, my dear Robert, I should not build too high hopes on frightening Mrs. Cheveley. I should not fancy Mrs. Cheveley is a woman who would be easily frightened. She has survived all her creditors, and she shows wonderful presence of mind. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Oh! I live on hopes now. I clutch at every chance. I feel like a man on a ship that is sinking. The water is round my feet, and the very air is bitter with storm. Hush! I hear my wife's voice. [_Enter_ LADY CHILTERN _in walking dress_.] LADY CHILTERN. Good afternoon, Lord Goring! LORD GORING. Good afternoon, Lady Chiltern! Have you been in the Park? LADY CHILTERN. No; I have just come from the Woman's Liberal Association, where, by the way, Robert, your name was received with loud applause, and now I have come in to have my tea. [_To_ LORD GORING.] You will wait and have some tea, won't you? LORD GORING. I'll wait for a short time, thanks. LADY CHILTERN. I will be back in a moment. I am only going to take my hat off. LORD GORING. [_In his most earnest manner_.] Oh! please don't. It is so pretty. One of the prettiest hats I ever saw. I hope the Woman's Liberal Association received it with loud applause. LADY CHILTERN. [_With a smile_.] We have much more important work to do than look at each other's bonnets, Lord Goring. LORD GORING. Really? What sort of work? LADY CHILTERN. Oh! dull, useful, delightful things, Factory Acts, Female Inspectors, the Eight Hours' Bill, the Parliamentary Franchise. . . . Everything, in fact, that you would find thoroughly uninteresting. LORD GORING. And never bonnets? LADY CHILTERN. [_With mock indignation_.] Never bonnets, never! [LADY CHILTERN _goes out through the door leading to her boudoir_.] SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Takes_ LORD GORING'S _hand_.] You have been a good friend to me, Arthur, a thoroughly good friend. LORD GORING. I don't know that I have been able to do much for you, Robert, as yet. In fact, I have not been able to do anything for you, as far as I can see. I am thoroughly disappointed with myself. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. You have enabled me to tell you the truth. That is something. The truth has always stifled me. LORD GORING. Ah! the truth is a thing I get rid of as soon as possible! Bad habit, by the way. Makes one very unpopular at the club . . . with the older members. They call it being conceited. Perhaps it is. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I would to God that I had been able to tell the truth . . . to live the truth. Ah! that is the great thing in life, to live the truth. [_Sighs_, _and goes towards the door_.] I'll see you soon again, Arthur, shan't I? LORD GORING. Certainly. Whenever you like. I'm going to look in at the Bachelors' Ball to-night, unless I find something better to do. But I'll come round to-morrow morning. If you should want me to-night by any chance, send round a note to Curzon Street. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Thank you. [_As he reaches the door_, LADY CHILTERN _enters from her boudoir_.] LADY CHILTERN. You are not going, Robert? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I have some letters to write, dear. LADY CHILTERN. [_Going to him_.] You work too hard, Robert. You seem never to think of yourself, and you are looking so tired. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. It is nothing, dear, nothing. [_He kisses her and goes out_.] LADY CHILTERN. [_To_ LORD GORING.] Do sit down. I am so glad you have called. I want to talk to you about . . . well, not about bonnets, or the Woman's Liberal Association. You take far too much interest in the first subject, and not nearly enough in the second. LORD GORING. You want to talk to me about Mrs. Cheveley? LADY CHILTERN. Yes. You have guessed it. After you left last night I found out that what she had said was really true. Of course I made Robert write her a letter at once, withdrawing his promise. LORD GORING. So he gave me to understand. LADY CHILTERN. To have kept it would have been the first stain on a career that has been stainless always. Robert must be above reproach. He is not like other men. He cannot afford to do what other men do. [_She looks at_ LORD GORING, _who remains silent_.] Don't you agree with me? You are Robert's greatest friend. You are our greatest friend, Lord Goring. No one, except myself, knows Robert better than you do. He has no secrets from me, and I don't think he has any from you. LORD GORING. He certainly has no secrets from me. At least I don't think so. LADY CHILTERN. Then am I not right in my estimate of him? I know I am right. But speak to me frankly. LORD GORING. [_Looking straight at her_.] Quite frankly? LADY CHILTERN. Surely. You have nothing to conceal, have you? LORD GORING. Nothing. But, my dear Lady Chiltern, I think, if you will allow me to say so, that in practical life-- LADY CHILTERN. [_Smiling_.] Of which you know so little, Lord Goring-- LORD GORING. Of which I know nothing by experience, though I know something by observation. I think that in practical life there is something about success, actual success, that is a little unscrupulous, something about ambition that is unscrupulous always. Once a man has set his heart and soul on getting to a certain point, if he has to climb the crag, he climbs the crag; if he has to walk in the mire-- LADY CHILTERN. Well? LORD GORING. He walks in the mire. Of course I am only talking generally about life. LADY CHILTERN. [_Gravely_.] I hope so. Why do you look at me so strangely, Lord Goring? LORD GORING. Lady Chiltern, I have sometimes thought that . . . perhaps you are a little hard in some of your views on life. I think that . . . often you don't make sufficient allowances. In every nature there are elements of weakness, or worse than weakness. Supposing, for instance, that--that any public man, my father, or Lord Merton, or Robert, say, had, years ago, written some foolish letter to some one . . . LADY CHILTERN. What do you mean by a foolish letter? LORD GORING. A letter gravely compromising one's position. I am only putting an imaginary case. LADY CHILTERN. Robert is as incapable of doing a foolish thing as he is of doing a wrong thing. LORD GORING. [_After a long pause_.] Nobody is incapable of doing a foolish thing. Nobody is incapable of doing a wrong thing. LADY CHILTERN. Are you a Pessimist? What will the other dandies say? They will all have to go into mourning. LORD GORING. [_Rising_.] No, Lady Chiltern, I am not a Pessimist. Indeed I am not sure that I quite know what Pessimism really means. All I do know is that life cannot be understood without much charity, cannot be lived without much charity. It is love, and not German philosophy, that is the true explanation of this world, whatever may be the explanation of the next. And if you are ever in trouble, Lady Chiltern, trust me absolutely, and I will help you in every way I can. If you ever want me, come to me for my assistance, and you shall have it. Come at once to me. LADY CHILTERN. [_Looking at him in surprise_.] Lord Goring, you are talking quite seriously. I don't think I ever heard you talk seriously before. LORD GORING. [_Laughing_.] You must excuse me, Lady Chiltern. It won't occur again, if I can help it. LADY CHILTERN. But I like you to be serious. [_Enter_ MABEL CHILTERN, _in the most ravishing frock_.] MABEL CHILTERN. Dear Gertrude, don't say such a dreadful thing to Lord Goring. Seriousness would be very unbecoming to him. Good afternoon Lord Goring! Pray be as trivial as you can. LORD GORING. I should like to, Miss Mabel, but I am afraid I am . . . a little out of practice this morning; and besides, I have to be going now. MABEL CHILTERN. Just when I have come in! What dreadful manners you have! I am sure you were very badly brought up. LORD GORING. I was. MABEL CHILTERN. I wish I had brought you up! LORD GORING. I am so sorry you didn't. MABEL CHILTERN. It is too late now, I suppose? LORD GORING. [_Smiling_.] I am not so sure. MABEL CHILTERN. Will you ride to-morrow morning? LORD GORING. Yes, at ten. MABEL CHILTERN. Don't forget. LORD GORING. Of course I shan't. By the way, Lady Chiltern, there is no list of your guests in _The Morning Post_ of to-day. It has apparently been crowded out by the County Council, or the Lambeth Conference, or something equally boring. Could you let me have a list? I have a particular reason for asking you. LADY CHILTERN. I am sure Mr. Trafford will be able to give you one. LORD GORING. Thanks, so much. MABEL CHILTERN. Tommy is the most useful person in London. LORD GORING [_Turning to her_.] And who is the most ornamental? MABEL CHILTERN [_Triumphantly_.] I am. LORD GORING. How clever of you to guess it! [_Takes up his hat and cane_.] Good-bye, Lady Chiltern! You will remember what I said to you, won't you? LADY CHILTERN. Yes; but I don't know why you said it to me. LORD GORING. I hardly know myself. Good-bye, Miss Mabel! MABEL CHILTERN [_With a little moue of disappointment_.] I wish you were not going. I have had four wonderful adventures this morning; four and a half, in fact. You might stop and listen to some of them. LORD GORING. How very selfish of you to have four and a half! There won't be any left for me. MABEL CHILTERN. I don't want you to have any. They would not be good for you. LORD GORING. That is the first unkind thing you have ever said to me. How charmingly you said it! Ten to-morrow. MABEL CHILTERN. Sharp. LORD GORING. Quite sharp. But don't bring Mr. Trafford. MABEL CHILTERN. [_With a little toss of the head_.] Of course I shan't bring Tommy Trafford. Tommy Trafford is in great disgrace. LORD GORING. I am delighted to hear it. [_Bows and goes out_.] MABEL CHILTERN. Gertrude, I wish you would speak to Tommy Trafford. LADY CHILTERN. What has poor Mr. Trafford done this time? Robert says he is the best secretary he has ever had. MABEL CHILTERN. Well, Tommy has proposed to me again. Tommy really does nothing but propose to me. He proposed to me last night in the music-room, when I was quite unprotected, as there was an elaborate trio going on. I didn't dare to make the smallest repartee, I need hardly tell you. If I had, it would have stopped the music at once. Musical people are so absurdly unreasonable. They always want one to be perfectly dumb at the very moment when one is longing to be absolutely deaf. Then he proposed to me in broad daylight this morning, in front of that dreadful statue of Achilles. Really, the things that go on in front of that work of art are quite appalling. The police should interfere. At luncheon I saw by the glare in his eye that he was going to propose again, and I just managed to check him in time by assuring him that I was a bimetallist. Fortunately I don't know what bimetallism means. And I don't believe anybody else does either. But the observation crushed Tommy for ten minutes. He looked quite shocked. And then Tommy is so annoying in the way he proposes. If he proposed at the top of his voice, I should not mind so much. That might produce some effect on the public. But he does it in a horrid confidential way. When Tommy wants to be romantic he talks to one just like a doctor. I am very fond of Tommy, but his methods of proposing are quite out of date. I wish, Gertrude, you would speak to him, and tell him that once a week is quite often enough to propose to any one, and that it should always be done in a manner that attracts some attention. LADY CHILTERN. Dear Mabel, don't talk like that. Besides, Robert thinks very highly of Mr. Trafford. He believes he has a brilliant future before him. MABEL CHILTERN. Oh! I wouldn't marry a man with a future before him for anything under the sun. LADY CHILTERN. Mabel! MABEL CHILTERN. I know, dear. You married a man with a future, didn't you? But then Robert was a genius, and you have a noble, self-sacrificing character. You can stand geniuses. I have no character at all, and Robert is the only genius I could ever bear. As a rule, I think they are quite impossible. Geniuses talk so much, don't they? Such a bad habit! And they are always thinking about themselves, when I want them to be thinking about me. I must go round now and rehearse at Lady Basildon's. You remember, we are having tableaux, don't you? The Triumph of something, I don't know what! I hope it will be triumph of me. Only triumph I am really interested in at present. [_Kisses_ LADY CHILTERN _and goes out_; _then comes running back_.] Oh, Gertrude, do you know who is coming to see you? That dreadful Mrs. Cheveley, in a most lovely gown. Did you ask her? LADY CHILTERN. [_Rising_.] Mrs. Cheveley! Coming to see me? Impossible! MABEL CHILTERN. I assure you she is coming upstairs, as large as life and not nearly so natural. LADY CHILTERN. You need not wait, Mabel. Remember, Lady Basildon is expecting you. MABEL CHILTERN. Oh! I must shake hands with Lady Markby. She is delightful. I love being scolded by her. [_Enter_ MASON.] MASON. Lady Markby. Mrs. Cheveley. [_Enter_ LADY MARKBY _and_ MRS. CHEVELEY.] LADY CHILTERN. [_Advancing to meet them_.] Dear Lady Markby, how nice of you to come and see me! [_Shakes hands with her_, _and bows somewhat distantly to_ MRS. CHEVELEY.] Won't you sit down, Mrs. Cheveley? MRS. CHEVELEY. Thanks. Isn't that Miss Chiltern? I should like so much to know her. LADY CHILTERN. Mabel, Mrs. Cheveley wishes to know you. [MABEL CHILTERN _gives a little nod_.] MRS. CHEVELEY [_Sitting down_.] I thought your frock so charming last night, Miss Chiltern. So simple and . . . suitable. MABEL CHILTERN. Really? I must tell my dressmaker. It will be such a surprise to her. Good-bye, Lady Markby! LADY MARKBY. Going already? MABEL CHILTERN. I am so sorry but I am obliged to. I am just off to rehearsal. I have got to stand on my head in some tableaux. LADY MARKBY. On your head, child? Oh! I hope not. I believe it is most unhealthy. [_Takes a seat on the sofa next_ LADY CHILTERN.] MABEL CHILTERN. But it is for an excellent charity: in aid of the Undeserving, the only people I am really interested in. I am the secretary, and Tommy Trafford is treasurer. MRS. CHEVELEY. And what is Lord Goring? MABEL CHILTERN. Oh! Lord Goring is president. MRS. CHEVELEY. The post should suit him admirably, unless he has deteriorated since I knew him first. LADY MARKBY. [_Reflecting_.] You are remarkably modern, Mabel. A little too modern, perhaps. Nothing is so dangerous as being too modern. One is apt to grow old-fashioned quite suddenly. I have known many instances of it. MABEL CHILTERN. What a dreadful prospect! LADY MARKBY. Ah! my dear, you need not be nervous. You will always be as pretty as possible. That is the best fashion there is, and the only fashion that England succeeds in setting. MABEL CHILTERN. [_With a curtsey_.] Thank you so much, Lady Markby, for England . . . and myself. [_Goes out_.] LADY MARKBY. [_Turning to_ LADY CHILTERN.] Dear Gertrude, we just called to know if Mrs. Cheveley's diamond brooch has been found. LADY CHILTERN. Here? MRS. CHEVELEY. Yes. I missed it when I got back to Claridge's, and I thought I might possibly have dropped it here. LADY CHILTERN. I have heard nothing about it. But I will send for the butler and ask. [_Touches the bell_.] MRS. CHEVELEY. Oh, pray don't trouble, Lady Chiltern. I dare say I lost it at the Opera, before we came on here. LADY MARKBY. Ah yes, I suppose it must have been at the Opera. The fact is, we all scramble and jostle so much nowadays that I wonder we have anything at all left on us at the end of an evening. I know myself that, when I am coming back from the Drawing Room, I always feel as if I hadn't a shred on me, except a small shred of decent reputation, just enough to prevent the lower classes making painful observations through the windows of the carriage. The fact is that our Society is terribly over-populated. Really, some one should arrange a proper scheme of assisted emigration. It would do a great deal of good. MRS. CHEVELEY. I quite agree with you, Lady Markby. It is nearly six years since I have been in London for the Season, and I must say Society has become dreadfully mixed. One sees the oddest people everywhere. LADY MARKBY. That is quite true, dear. But one needn't know them. I'm sure I don't know half the people who come to my house. Indeed, from all I hear, I shouldn't like to. [_Enter_ MASON.] LADY CHILTERN. What sort of a brooch was it that you lost, Mrs. Cheveley? MRS. CHEVELEY. A diamond snake-brooch with a ruby, a rather large ruby. LADY MARKBY. I thought you said there was a sapphire on the head, dear? MRS. CHEVELEY [_Smiling_.] No, lady Markby--a ruby. LADY MARKBY. [_Nodding her head_.] And very becoming, I am quite sure. LADY CHILTERN. Has a ruby and diamond brooch been found in any of the rooms this morning, Mason? MASON. No, my lady. MRS. CHEVELEY. It really is of no consequence, Lady Chiltern. I am so sorry to have put you to any inconvenience. LADY CHILTERN. [_Coldly_.] Oh, it has been no inconvenience. That will do, Mason. You can bring tea. [_Exit_ MASON.] LADY MARKBY. Well, I must say it is most annoying to lose anything. I remember once at Bath, years ago, losing in the Pump Room an exceedingly handsome cameo bracelet that Sir John had given me. I don't think he has ever given me anything since, I am sorry to say. He has sadly degenerated. Really, this horrid House of Commons quite ruins our husbands for us. I think the Lower House by far the greatest blow to a happy married life that there has been since that terrible thing called the Higher Education of Women was invented. LADY CHILTERN. Ah! it is heresy to say that in this house, Lady Markby. Robert is a great champion of the Higher Education of Women, and so, I am afraid, am I. MRS. CHEVELEY. The higher education of men is what I should like to see. Men need it so sadly. LADY MARKBY. They do, dear. But I am afraid such a scheme would be quite unpractical. I don't think man has much capacity for development. He has got as far as he can, and that is not far, is it? With regard to women, well, dear Gertrude, you belong to the younger generation, and I am sure it is all right if you approve of it. In my time, of course, we were taught not to understand anything. That was the old system, and wonderfully interesting it was. I assure you that the amount of things I and my poor dear sister were taught not to understand was quite extraordinary. But modern women understand everything, I am told. MRS. CHEVELEY. Except their husbands. That is the one thing the modern woman never understands. LADY MARKBY. And a very good thing too, dear, I dare say. It might break up many a happy home if they did. Not yours, I need hardly say, Gertrude. You have married a pattern husband. I wish I could say as much for myself. But since Sir John has taken to attending the debates regularly, which he never used to do in the good old days, his language has become quite impossible. He always seems to think that he is addressing the House, and consequently whenever he discusses the state of the agricultural labourer, or the Welsh Church, or something quite improper of that kind, I am obliged to send all the servants out of the room. It is not pleasant to see one's own butler, who has been with one for twenty-three years, actually blushing at the side-board, and the footmen making contortions in corners like persons in circuses. I assure you my life will be quite ruined unless they send John at once to the Upper House. He won't take any interest in politics then, will he? The House of Lords is so sensible. An assembly of gentlemen. But in his present state, Sir John is really a great trial. Why, this morning before breakfast was half over, he stood up on the hearthrug, put his hands in his pockets, and appealed to the country at the top of his voice. I left the table as soon as I had my second cup of tea, I need hardly say. But his violent language could be heard all over the house! I trust, Gertrude, that Sir Robert is not like that? LADY CHILTERN. But I am very much interested in politics, Lady Markby. I love to hear Robert talk about them. LADY MARKBY. Well, I hope he is not as devoted to Blue Books as Sir John is. I don't think they can be quite improving reading for any one. MRS. CHEVELEY [_Languidly_.] I have never read a Blue Book. I prefer books . . . in yellow covers. LADY MARKBY. [_Genially unconscious_.] Yellow is a gayer colour, is it not? I used to wear yellow a good deal in my early days, and would do so now if Sir John was not so painfully personal in his observations, and a man on the question of dress is always ridiculous, is he not? MRS. CHEVELEY. Oh, no! I think men are the only authorities on dress. LADY MARKBY. Really? One wouldn't say so from the sort of hats they wear? would one? [_The butler enters_, _followed by the footman_. _Tea is set on a small table close to_ LADY CHILTERN.] LADY CHILTERN. May I give you some tea, Mrs. Cheveley? MRS. CHEVELEY. Thanks. [_The butler hands_ MRS. CHEVELEY _a cup of tea on a salver_.] LADY CHILTERN. Some tea, Lady Markby? LADY MARKBY. No thanks, dear. [_The servants go out_.] The fact is, I have promised to go round for ten minutes to see poor Lady Brancaster, who is in very great trouble. Her daughter, quite a well-brought-up girl, too, has actually become engaged to be married to a curate in Shropshire. It is very sad, very sad indeed. I can't understand this modern mania for curates. In my time we girls saw them, of course, running about the place like rabbits. But we never took any notice of them, I need hardly say. But I am told that nowadays country society is quite honeycombed with them. I think it most irreligious. And then the eldest son has quarrelled with his father, and it is said that when they meet at the club Lord Brancaster always hides himself behind the money article in _The Times_. However, I believe that is quite a common occurrence nowadays and that they have to take in extra copies of _The Times_ at all the clubs in St. James's Street; there are so many sons who won't have anything to do with their fathers, and so many fathers who won't speak to their sons. I think myself, it is very much to be regretted. MRS. CHEVELEY. So do I. Fathers have so much to learn from their sons nowadays. LADY MARKBY. Really, dear? What? MRS. CHEVELEY. The art of living. The only really Fine Art we have produced in modern times. LADY MARKBY. [_Shaking her head_.] Ah! I am afraid Lord Brancaster knew a good deal about that. More than his poor wife ever did. [_Turning to_ LADY CHILTERN.] You know Lady Brancaster, don't you, dear? LADY CHILTERN. Just slightly. She was staying at Langton last autumn, when we were there. LADY MARKBY. Well, like all stout women, she looks the very picture of happiness, as no doubt you noticed. But there are many tragedies in her family, besides this affair of the curate. Her own sister, Mrs. Jekyll, had a most unhappy life; through no fault of her own, I am sorry to say. She ultimately was so broken-hearted that she went into a convent, or on to the operatic stage, I forget which. No; I think it was decorative art-needlework she took up. I know she had lost all sense of pleasure in life. [_Rising_.] And now, Gertrude, if you will allow me, I shall leave Mrs. Cheveley in your charge and call back for her in a quarter of an hour. Or perhaps, dear Mrs. Cheveley, you wouldn't mind waiting in the carriage while I am with Lady Brancaster. As I intend it to be a visit of condolence, I shan't stay long. MRS. CHEVELEY [_Rising_.] I don't mind waiting in the carriage at all, provided there is somebody to look at one. LADY MARKBY. Well, I hear the curate is always prowling about the house. MRS. CHEVELEY. I am afraid I am not fond of girl friends. LADY CHILTERN [_Rising_.] Oh, I hope Mrs. Cheveley will stay here a little. I should like to have a few minutes' conversation with her. MRS. CHEVELEY. How very kind of you, Lady Chiltern! Believe me, nothing would give me greater pleasure. LADY MARKBY. Ah! no doubt you both have many pleasant reminiscences of your schooldays to talk over together. Good-bye, dear Gertrude! Shall I see you at Lady Bonar's to-night? She has discovered a wonderful new genius. He does . . . nothing at all, I believe. That is a great comfort, is it not? LADY CHILTERN. Robert and I are dining at home by ourselves to-night, and I don't think I shall go anywhere afterwards. Robert, of course, will have to be in the House. But there is nothing interesting on. LADY MARKBY. Dining at home by yourselves? Is that quite prudent? Ah, I forgot, your husband is an exception. Mine is the general rule, and nothing ages a woman so rapidly as having married the general rule. [_Exit_ LADY MARKBY.] MRS. CHEVELEY. Wonderful woman, Lady Markby, isn't she? Talks more and says less than anybody I ever met. She is made to be a public speaker. Much more so than her husband, though he is a typical Englishman, always dull and usually violent. LADY CHILTERN. [_Makes no answer_, _but remains standing_. _There is a pause_. _Then the eyes of the two women meet_. LADY CHILTERN _looks stern and pale_. MRS. CHEVELEY _seem rather amused_.] Mrs. Cheveley, I think it is right to tell you quite frankly that, had I known who you really were, I should not have invited you to my house last night. MRS. CHEVELEY [_With an impertinent smile_.] Really? LADY CHILTERN. I could not have done so. MRS. CHEVELEY. I see that after all these years you have not changed a bit, Gertrude. LADY CHILTERN. I never change. MRS. CHEVELEY [_Elevating her eyebrows_.] Then life has taught you nothing? LADY CHILTERN. It has taught me that a person who has once been guilty of a dishonest and dishonourable action may be guilty of it a second time, and should be shunned. MRS. CHEVELEY. Would you apply that rule to every one? LADY CHILTERN. Yes, to every one, without exception. MRS. CHEVELEY. Then I am sorry for you, Gertrude, very sorry for you. LADY CHILTERN. You see now, I was sure, that for many reasons any further acquaintance between us during your stay in London is quite impossible? MRS. CHEVELEY [_Leaning back in her chair_.] Do you know, Gertrude, I don't mind your talking morality a bit. Morality is simply the attitude we adopt towards people whom we personally dislike. You dislike me. I am quite aware of that. And I have always detested you. And yet I have come here to do you a service. LADY CHILTERN. [_Contemptuously_.] Like the service you wished to render my husband last night, I suppose. Thank heaven, I saved him from that. MRS. CHEVELEY. [_Starting to her feet_.] It was you who made him write that insolent letter to me? It was you who made him break his promise? LADY CHILTERN. Yes. MRS. CHEVELEY. Then you must make him keep it. I give you till to-morrow morning--no more. If by that time your husband does not solemnly bind himself to help me in this great scheme in which I am interested-- LADY CHILTERN. This fraudulent speculation-- MRS. CHEVELEY. Call it what you choose. I hold your husband in the hollow of my hand, and if you are wise you will make him do what I tell him. LADY CHILTERN. [_Rising and going towards her_.] You are impertinent. What has my husband to do with you? With a woman like you? MRS. CHEVELEY [_With a bitter laugh_.] In this world like meets with like. It is because your husband is himself fraudulent and dishonest that we pair so well together. Between you and him there are chasms. He and I are closer than friends. We are enemies linked together. The same sin binds us. LADY CHILTERN. How dare you class my husband with yourself? How dare you threaten him or me? Leave my house. You are unfit to enter it. [SIR ROBERT CHILTERN _enters from behind_. _He hears his wife's last words_, _and sees to whom they are addressed_. _He grows deadly pale_.] MRS. CHEVELEY. Your house! A house bought with the price of dishonour. A house, everything in which has been paid for by fraud. [_Turns round and sees_ SIR ROBERT CHILTERN.] Ask him what the origin of his fortune is! Get him to tell you how he sold to a stockbroker a Cabinet secret. Learn from him to what you owe your position. LADY CHILTERN. It is not true! Robert! It is not true! MRS. CHEVELEY. [_Pointing at him with outstretched finger_.] Look at him! Can he deny it? Does he dare to? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Go! Go at once. You have done your worst now. MRS. CHEVELEY. My worst? I have not yet finished with you, with either of you. I give you both till to-morrow at noon. If by then you don't do what I bid you to do, the whole world shall know the origin of Robert Chiltern. [SIR ROBERT CHILTERN _strikes the bell_. _Enter_ MASON.] SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Show Mrs. Cheveley out. [MRS. CHEVELEY _starts_; _then bows with somewhat exaggerated politeness to_ LADY CHILTERN, _who makes no sign of response_. _As she passes by_ SIR ROBERT CHILTERN, _who is standing close to the door_, _she pauses for a moment and looks him straight in the face_. _She then goes out_, _followed by the servant_, _who closes the door after him_. _The husband and wife are left alone_. LADY CHILTERN _stands like some one in a dreadful dream_. _Then she turns round and looks at her husband_. _She looks at him with strange eyes_, _as though she were seeing him for the first time_.] LADY CHILTERN. You sold a Cabinet secret for money! You began your life with fraud! You built up your career on dishonour! Oh, tell me it is not true! Lie to me! Lie to me! Tell me it is not true! SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. What this woman said is quite true. But, Gertrude, listen to me. You don't realise how I was tempted. Let me tell you the whole thing. [_Goes towards her_.] LADY CHILTERN. Don't come near me. Don't touch me. I feel as if you had soiled me for ever. Oh! what a mask you have been wearing all these years! A horrible painted mask! You sold yourself for money. Oh! a common thief were better. You put yourself up to sale to the highest bidder! You were bought in the market. You lied to the whole world. And yet you will not lie to me. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Rushing towards her_.] Gertrude! Gertrude! LADY CHILTERN. [_Thrusting him back with outstretched hands_.] No, don't speak! Say nothing! Your voice wakes terrible memories--memories of things that made me love you--memories of words that made me love you--memories that now are horrible to me. And how I worshipped you! You were to me something apart from common life, a thing pure, noble, honest, without stain. The world seemed to me finer because you were in it, and goodness more real because you lived. And now--oh, when I think that I made of a man like you my ideal! the ideal of my life! SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. There was your mistake. There was your error. The error all women commit. Why can't you women love us, faults and all? Why do you place us on monstrous pedestals? We have all feet of clay, women as well as men; but when we men love women, we love them knowing their weaknesses, their follies, their imperfections, love them all the more, it may be, for that reason. It is not the perfect, but the imperfect, who have need of love. It is when we are wounded by our own hands, or by the hands of others, that love should come to cure us--else what use is love at all? All sins, except a sin against itself, Love should forgive. All lives, save loveless lives, true Love should pardon. A man's love is like that. It is wider, larger, more human than a woman's. Women think that they are making ideals of men. What they are making of us are false idols merely. You made your false idol of me, and I had not the courage to come down, show you my wounds, tell you my weaknesses. I was afraid that I might lose your love, as I have lost it now. And so, last night you ruined my life for me--yes, ruined it! What this woman asked of me was nothing compared to what she offered to me. She offered security, peace, stability. The sin of my youth, that I had thought was buried, rose up in front of me, hideous, horrible, with its hands at my throat. I could have killed it for ever, sent it back into its tomb, destroyed its record, burned the one witness against me. You prevented me. No one but you, you know it. And now what is there before me but public disgrace, ruin, terrible shame, the mockery of the world, a lonely dishonoured life, a lonely dishonoured death, it may be, some day? Let women make no more ideals of men! let them not put them on alters and bow before them, or they may ruin other lives as completely as you--you whom I have so wildly loved--have ruined mine! [_He passes from the room_. LADY CHILTERN _rushes towards him_, _but the door is closed when she reaches it_. _Pale with anguish_, _bewildered_, _helpless_, _she sways like a plant in the water_. _Her hands_, _outstretched_, _seem to tremble in the air like blossoms in the mind_. _Then she flings herself down beside a sofa and buries her face_. _Her sobs are like the sobs of a child_.] ACT DROP

Act II

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The act begins with Sir Robert and Lord Goring in the Chiltern house discussing how to manage the crisis put in action the preceding night. Goring appears somewhat unsettled by Chiltern's moral failure and urges him to tell his wife the truth about his past as soon as possible. Robert, who kept the secret to maintain his wife's idealistic view of him, is concerned she will never forgive his impurity. Lord Goring, in a serious and weighted tone in stark contrast to the preceding act, still urges him to be honest and promises to talk with Lady Chiltern about the negative influence of expecting and accepting only perfection. Chiltern tells Lord Goring about his history with Baron Arnheim and the circumstances of his ill-gotten fortune. Despite his name and family, Chiltern was poor while under the Baron's mentorship. As an impressionable young man, he took the Baron's advice about the importance of wealth and money to heart, and therefore took advantage of an opportunity to ensure his financial stability. Sir Robert vehemently says that his decision to sell government secrets to the Baron was an act of courage and not weakness. He also admits that he has not felt regret for it. Lord Goring expresses sorrow for his friend, but Sir Robert talks about how he paid his debt with his guilt, and by giving to charity. After hearing about Chiltern's past, Lord Goring responds with potential actions to take to quell the coming storm, and concludes he must fight against Mrs. Cheveley's blackmail. Chiltern aggress, but recoils at the thought of telling Lady Chiltern, saying that it would kill her love for him. At this point, Goring reveals that he and Mrs. Cheveley were once engaged. Sir Robert decides to write a letter to Vienna to investigate Mrs. Cheveley's life and dig out any scandals that might weaken her power against him. Goring reluctantly concedes this plan, but also explains that he believes Mrs. Cheveley would revel in a scandal rather than run from it. Lady Chiltern then arrives from the Woman's Liberal Association, and asks Lord Goring to stay for tea. Lord Goring engages in a light banter with her about her bonnet. She leaves briefly, in which time Sir Robert gratefully thanks Lord Goring, but Lord Goring says he has not done anything for him yet. Sir Robert tells him that at the very least he has allowed him to tell the truth. When his wife returns he escapes by giving the excuse that he has letters to write. Lord Goring and Lady Chiltern have an interesting conversation where Lord Goring becomes serious and talks with Lady Chiltern about the situation with Mrs. Cheveley. Lady Chiltern only knows that she tried to persuade Sir Robert to support her financial scheme, and she firmly believes it would be a stain on his character. Lord Goring discusses a hypothetical situation to test Lady Chiltern's understanding of her husband's true situation, but she cannot imagine him doing such a foolish thing. Lord Goring tells her that her views on life are quite hard and unforgiving of people's natural tendency to make mistakes. He explains that love is the only thing that can explain the world. Lady Chiltern asks Lord Goring if he is a pessimist, and he tells her that life must be lived with charity, and only through charity can life be understood. Finally, with intense seriousness of which Lady Chiltern takes note, he offers her help whenever she needs it. Mabel arrives and proclaims that seriousness does not suit Lord Goring. He tells her that he must be leaving, which causes her to comment on his bad manners. They exchange light banter for several more minutes before Lord Goring finally leaves. Mabel asks Lady Chiltern to speak to Tommy Trafford for her, because he constantly proposes to her in awkward situations. Lady Chiltern responds by saying Tommy has a bright future, while Mabel claims she will never marry anyone with a bright future. Lady Markby and Mrs. Cheveley arrive. Mabel starts to leave, but speaks with the two guests first. Lady Markby tells her that she is becoming very modern, which can be dangerous in that one might suddenly become out of date. Mabel leaves and Lady Markby tells Lady Chiltern they have come to find Mrs. Cheveley's diamond brooch, which she lost. As they wait for the Mason, Lady Markby comments that London has become over populated. The Mason arrives explaining that no bracelet has turned up overnight. The ladies wait for tea. Lady Markby makes a derogatory comment about the Higher Education of Women, and Lady Chiltern proclaims that she and her husband are great champions of women's rights. They continue to discuss the education of men, their husbands, and the modern woman. Lady Markby declines tea and goes out for a short visit to a nearby friend. She leaves Lady Chiltern and Mrs. Cheveley together. Mrs. Cheveley comments that Lady Markby talks more but says less than anyone she has ever met. Lady Chiltern remains standing and coldly tells her that had she recognized Mrs. Cheveley from their schooldays she would never have invited her to her party the previous night. Mrs. Cheveley appears amused and notes Lady Chiltern has not changed. Mrs. Cheveley discovers that Lady Chiltern made Sir Robert write a letter revoking his promise to support her financial scheme and demands Sir Robert reverse his decision. Sir Robert enters the room, and Mrs. Cheveley angrily tells Lady Chiltern that Sir Robert is fraudulent and dishonest and sold a cabinet secret to a stockbroker to gain his fortune. Lady Chiltern asks Sir Robert if the story is true, and he orders Mrs. Cheveley from his house. Lady Chiltern begs her husband to deny these accusations, but he does not, and moves towards her to console her. She warns him off, and cries out that he lied to the whole world but will not lie to her. She thrusts him off her, and in dismay wonders why she made him her ideal in life and worshipped him. Sir Robert passionately proclaims that this was her mistake, and one that all women make. He wonders aloud why all women cannot love men with all their faults. Why do they place their men on pedestals? In contrast, he says, men love women with their imperfections, and it is in all their imperfection that men need love. He tells his wife she has made a false idol of him, and he was not strong enough to show her his imperfections. Now, in losing her love she has ruined his life.

Lord Goring and Robert Chiltern agree that men do corrupt things everyday, but Lord Goring points out that is the reason why they are all so eager to expose one another, because it takes attention away from their own dishonesty. Sir Robert explains how his access to private information was nothing new, and that all modern fortunes are built on such information. Wilde understood the power of information from contemporary events, and throughout the plot, information , rather than money, is the source of power. Once again Sir Robert references the idea of modernity, and how in this new age information leads to wealth and power. He tells Lord Goring about Baron Arnheim's formula for success in the modern day: wealth, which leads to domination. Ironically, Lord Goring who is the picture of a Victorian dandy and revels in the superficial aspects of life, disagrees with this theory. Wilde criticizes this philosophy throughout the play by effectively making wealth useless. Sir Robert cannot buy his way out of his predicament and Mrs. Cheveley laughs at the fact that he would even try. In the realm of the play, money has little power. Sir Robert's primary concern is detection. He fears his wife will hate him and his career will be ruined. With frustration he asks Lord Goring whether a foolish mistake made in his youth should cost him so much. His corruption does not cause him any real sense of guilt or regret, and he justifies it by pointing out others who have done the same. He thanks Lord Goring for enabling him to tell the truth, but in reality he only tells it because he knows Lord Goring will not judge him for it. Thus, he is willing to face the truth only when there are no consequences attached. Sir Robert's words connect with Wilde's disdain for the lack of morality in contemporary society, especially the loose moral principles of politicians. One of the main themes of the play is society's moral corruption. Wilde criticizes the way characters gravitate towards material possessions, such as wealth, rather than cherishing the importance of kindness and love. Even Lady Chiltern, for all her moral sermons, is hypocritical, for she values Sir Robert's social status. When Lady Chiltern enters the scene, and tells the two men she has been at a meeting for the Women's Liberal Association, Lord Goring mocks her and asks if they discussed bonnets. The question of a woman's role in society and marriage constantly arises, and Lord Goring clearly sees women's work as rather trivial. This scene engages with the topic of what a woman's proper role is within society and marriage, as does the discussion between Lady Markby, Lady Chiltern, and Mrs. Cheveley, when Lady Markby argues that the House of Commons is the worst thing to happen to marriage since the higher education of women. As a member of the more conservative part of London society, Lady Markby does not believe in the advancement of women, while Lady Chiltern, as a member of the Women's Liberal Association, clearly does. The differences between these two women, and Lady Chiltern's constant defense of women's rights and liberal values demonstrates that this new, modern perspective of a more independent woman was just beginning to gain strength in the Victorian era. Lord Goring becomes quite serious in his conversation with Lady Chiltern, which is a contrast from his lighthearted behavior at the party the night before. After acting as a confidant and advisor to her husband, he acts as a teacher to Lady Chiltern, telling her that her views on life are rather harsh and she must understand that all people are flawed. Lady Chiltern says that she loves her husband, but really she adores the version of him that she has created - the Sir Robert who exemplifies the best of English life. If he must be perfect, how sincere can her love be? Lord Goring tells Lady Chiltern that it is love, and not German philosophy, that truly explains the world, and that one must live life with charity towards others. His speech ties together several themes that continually arise throughout the play, specifically that love and forgiveness must guide one through life. With this statement, the readers begin to see that the truth will come out and forgiveness will be necessary for the Chiltern marriage to survive. Mabel's complaints about Tommy Trafford, who insistently and secretly proposes to her, provide a comic interlude, but also again discuss the notion of marriage. Mabel complains that she wouldn't find the whole process so frustrating if his statements had any kind of effect on the public. Apparently, it is not his proposals that bother her so much, but the way in which he proposes. She wishes his feelings were in the public domain, and believes only then they would be worth responding to. Mabel wants public intrusion in her life, while such public intrusion threatens to ruin Sir Robert's public career and his marriage. The definition of love and marriage is at the heart of the action here. The lighthearted conversation of the first act is replaced by a more serious tone that analyzes and discusses the morality of human beings and why and how people should love each other. Lord Goring, who often carries the voice and opinions of the author, mocks Lady Chiltern's expectations of moral perfection. Lord Goring finds it a shame that Lady Chiltern cannot accept her husband, faults and all. This analysis of love supports the social values and gender inequality of the Victorian era. Sir Robert Chiltern argues that a man's love allows for faults and errors, while a woman's love is unforgiving and demanding of unattainable perfection. Although this analysis of love presents the image of the unyielding woman, the play will actually conclude with Lady Chiltern forgiving and supporting her husband. Thus, the play depicts the woman's role of a caregiver and supporter of her male counterparts, a classic Victorian perspective. The climax of this act is Lady Chiltern's discovery of her husband's moral faults. She is shocked and sees a new person in her husband's skin, claiming, "what a mask you have been wearing all these years!" The images presented by all the party guests and the hosts the night prior are the pieces of themselves people want the public to see. With the revelation of Sir Robert's fallibility, this false image of perfection and the socially acceptable image are torn down. Now, the reader is left to wonder if Lady Chiltern will manage to overcome the reality of a husband who is imperfect. She must determine what true love means, and how to define an ideal marriage.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/885-chapters/act_iii.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/An Ideal Husband/section_2_part_0.txt

An Ideal Husband.act iii

act iii

{"name": "Act III", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180409031947/http://www.gradesaver.com/an-ideal-husband/study-guide/summary-act-iii", "summary": "The third act opens in Lord Goring's house while he prepares to go out for the evening. There is a description of the room and of Phipps the butler who Wilde describes as the \"dominance of form.\" In the stage notes, Phipps is referred to as the \"ideal butler,\" and his main distinction is his impassivity. Lord Goring enters in very fine attire, and Wilde proclaims that he masters modern life as the first well-dressed philosopher. Goring speaks to Phipps, but the conversation is clearly very one-sided as Goring espouses about fashion, society, and his buttonhole through a series of epigrams. Throughout the conversation Phipps simply plays the yes man and demonstrates no discernible personality. Phipps hands him three letters delivered earlier in the day. One is from Lady Chiltern, who wrote, \"I want you. I trust you. I am coming to you.\" The letter is not addressed to anyone, but it is signed \"Gertrude\". Lord Caversham enters to the dismay of his son. He makes himself comfortable and makes it clear he wants to have a serious talk. He tells Lord Goring that he must be married, and since bachelors are no longer in fashion, he must do so at once. While Lord Caversham calls him heartless, Lord Goring resorts to trivial discussion of his buttonhole. They move into the smoking room, and Lord Goring comments on the state of sympathy in the modern world. His father takes his comment as a paradox and wonders aloud whether his son understands what he says. The conversation between the two men is quite lengthy and demonstrates the differences in age and perspective between them. Lord Caversham complains of a draught in the room, and Goring suggests they move to the smoking room. As Caversham goes into the smoking room, Lord Goring takes an aside to instruct Phipps that a lady is calling on him and to show her into the drawing room to wait for him. He tells Phipps that it is the matter of gravest importance and that no one else but this lady should be admitted. Lord Goring then attends to his father in the smoking room. Harold the footman shows Mrs. Cheveley in. She asks for Lord Goring, and Phipps explains he is presently with Lord Caversham. He also tells her that Lord Goring has asked if she would be kind enough to wait in the drawing room, where he will come to her. Mrs. Cheveley is surprised that Lord Goring seems to expect her. Phipps explains that Goring told him if a lady were to call he should have her wait in the drawing room, and he opens the drawing room door for Mrs. Cheveley. Mrs. Cheveley makes a comment to herself about how expecting the unexpected shows a modern intellect, and then looks into the drawing room. She declares that it is a dreary bachelor's room and that she will have to alter all this. Mrs. Cheveley begins wondering what woman Lord Goring is waiting for and looks forward to \"catching\" him. She rifles through Goring's papers and correspondence and after recognizing Lady Chiltern's handwriting on one of the letters, reads it. A \"look of triumph\" appears on her face. She almost steals the letter but Phipps appears in the room. He tells her the candles are lit in the drawing room and she follows him in. After Phipps retires, she sneaks back towards the writing desk in the other room, but hears voices from the smoking room growing louder an quickly retreats to the drawing room. Lord Goring and Lord Caversham argue about marriage. Goring wants to choose the girl, time and place for himself. Caversham believes he would make a foolish decision. Goring escorts Lord Caversham to the door and somewhat helplessly returns with Sir Robert Chiltern. Chiltern says he is so glad to find Goring at home, but Goring replies that he is very busy and cannot see him. Chiltern tells him that his wife has discovered everything from Mrs. Cheveley and that Goring must talk with him. He buries his face in his hands. Upon questioning from Lord Goring Chiltern says he has heard back from Vienna and that nothing valuable was sent. He only learned that Mrs. Cheveley occupies a high position in society and that Baron Arnheim left a lot of his wealth to her. Robert keeps repeating that he doesn't know what to do and asks Goring if he can trust him, to which Goring replies in the affirmative. When Goring goes out to speak with Phipps he discovers that the lady he was expecting is waiting in the drawing room. Thinking that the lady is Lady Chiltern he decides that he will give her advice through the door with his conversation with Robert Chiltern. Returning to Robert, Goring asks him if he loves his wife, and Robert replies that he loves her more than anything in the world. Goring then says that since Lady Chiltern loves him she will forgive. Goring tries to get Chiltern to leave but Chiltern says he must stay for five minutes to tell him what he is going to say in the House on this night about the Argentine Canal deal. There is a sound of a chair falling from the drawing room. Chiltern wants to know who has been listening to his secrets. Goring denies anyone is there, but Chiltern insists that someone must be in the drawing room. He demands to see for himself. Chiltern rushes to the door and Goring finally admits that someone is inside who cannot be revealed. Chiltern goes in anyway and Goring is dismayed thinking Lady Chiltern has been discovered. Sir Robert returns looking angry and asks for an explanation. Goring, who does not yet know that Mrs. Cheveley is in the drawing room, says that the lady is stainless and guiltless of all offenses. Chiltern replies that she is a vile and infamous thing. Goring goes on trying to defend the woman he thinks is Lady Chiltern, while Sir Chiltern continues to throw insults and accusations at Mrs. Cheveley and also Lord Goring, calling him a false friend and an enemy. Sir Robert leaves and Mrs. Cheveley reveals herself to an astonished Lord Goring. He recovers from his shock quickly and the two begin talking. Lord Goring correctly guesses she has come to give him Sir Robert's letter to Baron Arnheim. We learn that in their youth, Mrs. Cheveley seduced Lord Goring for financial gain. However, she claims her love for him is stronger than ever, and says she will hand over the letter if Lord Goring marries her. She explains that she wants to settle down in London, and that when she saw Goring at the party the previous night, she realized he was the only person she ever cared for. Lord Goring responds by claiming he would be a very bad husband and indicates he does not wish to marry. Mrs. Cheveley says she expected him to show self sacrifice by marrying her to save Sir Robert's career, but Lord Goring replies that he believes self-sacrifice should be outlawed because it is so demoralizing to those it benefits. Mrs. Cheveley says nothing can demoralize Chiltern's character based upon his corruption, and Goring jumps to his defense saying it was not worthy of him and merely a mistake of youth. Mrs. Cheveley comments on how men stand up for each other, and Goring replies that women are always at war with each other. Mrs. Cheveley explains the only woman she is at war with is Lady Chiltern. Mrs. Cheveley readies to leave and wants to shake hands with Lord Goring but he refuses, saying there can be no forgiveness for what she did to the gentle Lady Chiltern. Mrs. Cheveley says she had not gone to Lady Chiltern with the purpose of revealing her husband's guilt, but had in fact visited with Lady Markby to ask about a brooch lost at the party. Lord Goring asks if it is a diamond snake brooch with a ruby, and Mrs. Cheveley confirms that it is. Goring has meanwhile pulled the brooch from his drawer. He tells her he found it and deftly puts it on her arm. Mrs. Cheveley is surprised, as she didn't know it could be used as a bracelet. Goring says it looks better on her than the last time he saw it, which was ten ago on Lady Berkshire to whom he gave it as a wedding present. Goring accuses Mrs. Cheveley of stealing the brooch, although at the time a servant was accused and disgraced. She denies it, and tries in vain to remove the bracelet. Goring explains that the spring clasp is impossible to find unless you are shown where it is. Mrs. Cheveley becomes panicked, scratching at her wrist. Lord Goring, who has gained all the power in this interaction threatens to have his servant fetch the police. Terrified, Mrs. Cheveley asks him not to, saying she will do anything for him. He demands Sir Robert's letter to Baron Arnheim, and after some stalling she gives it to him. Afterwards, she asks for a drink of water. When Lord Goring's back is turned she steals Lady Chiltern's letter. She then tells Lord Goring she is going to render Sir Robert Chiltern a great service by showing him how he has been deceived in his marriage, and explains she will forward Lady Chiltern's apparent love letter to Sir Robert. Goring tells her to give it back, threatening force. He rushes toward her but she presses the servant bell and Phipps enters. Slyly, she tells Phipps that Goring rang him so he could show her out. She leaves with a look of triumph.", "analysis": "In the opening stage directions, Wilde describes Lord Goring as a master of modern life. In the next scene, Lord Goring tutors Phipps about fashion, falsehoods, and vulgarity with many of Wilde's epigrams that highlight Goring's selfish view of the world. Goring describes vulgarity as a problem of \"others\", and refined behavior as characteristic of the individual. Ironically, Goring is clearly extremely self-involved, but also is the only character working to save his friends' marriage and protect their images. Although Lord Goring represents generosity and is a good friend throughout the play, he still remains a very egotistical character. His attention to a buttonhole is so trivial that one might consider it an allegory for other characters' obsession with other materials, such as social status or wealth. Throughout this opening scene, Phipps is a comedic tool with an impassive demeanor, responding to all of Goring's statements without emotion and with simple agreement and affirmation. Lord Goring receives a letter from Lady Chiltern, and resolves to make her stand by her husband, Sir Robert Chiltern. In his view, every woman must stand by her husband, and he laments the growth of moral sense in women, which he believes is responsible for making the institution of marriage hopeless and one-sided. The validity of this claim is questionable at best, but reminds the reader that Wilde wants to emphasize the foolishness of the Chilterns for trying to construct the perfect marriage. Lord Goring and his father Lord Caversham have a very lengthy discussion that presents the opposition of their world views. Lord Caversham, an aged and respected man, represents conservative London society and the morals of the Victorian era, which encourage a focus on family and public and private success. However, his son is a dandy who lives beyond the restrictions conservative society would impose on him, is extremely narcissistic, and places pleasure, beauty and idleness at the forefront of his life. The two men find it very difficult to see eye to eye. In fact, throughout their conversation, Lord Goring's wit and irony are hard for Lord Caversham to follow and result in his general confusion. Lord Caversham argues that his son should marry for practical reasons such as property and name, while Goring plans to marry only for love. His father sees an immediate need to take action, but Goring claims he is still a young man and need not think so seriously about such things. In reality, Goring is in his mid thirties, and as a dandy is living his life with a false sense of youth. In addition, Lord Caversham urges Lord Goring to enter some kind of professional work and perhaps follow the example of Sir Robert Chiltern who is such a noble servant of the government. The irony of this suggestion is quite clear. In his conversation with Sir Robert Chiltern, Lord Goring focuses on two aspects of the situation: love and forgiveness. The mistaken identity of the woman behind the door is highly ironic, as the evil Mrs. Cheveley stands in the place of the idealistic and good Lady Chiltern. Sir Robert's discovery of Mrs. Cheveley furthers the plot and adds yet another complication to the problems Lord Goring must solve. When Mrs. Cheveley and Lord Goring are left alone together, the two are clearly equals. They mirror each other in the quality of dress and presentation, and also in their selfish perspectives. However, Lord Goring, who demonstrates an eagerness to help his friends and right wrongs, proves superior. First, Lord Goring offers Mrs. Cheveley money for Sir Robert's letter, but she scoffs at the proposal. Here, again, money has no real power in social context. Instead of accepting money, Mrs. Cheveley wants to marry Lord Goring in exchange for the letter, claiming he is the only man she ever really loved. In Lord Goring's eyes, Mrs. Cheveley has desecrated the idea of love through this proposal and through trying to kill Lady Chiltern's love for her husband, an act he can never forgive. As such, Lord Goring refuses her offer and therefore removes her bargaining power. The idea of forgiveness has some emotional pull, even on a character like Mrs. Cheveley, for she feels the need to explain that she went to the Chiltern house to find her lost brooch rather than to reveal Sir Robert's moral faults. As a result, Lord Goring discovers that she stole this brooch from Lady Berkshire, and he suddenly holds all the power in their interaction. The brooch/bracelet is a pivotal object in the play. The diamond snake shape alludes to the evil character of Mrs. Cheveley who is suddenly trapped by it. When placed on her wrist, Mrs. Cheveley cannot escape and her true character is revealed. Clawing at the bracelet, threatened with legal action, and suddenly without any bargaining power, she becomes so angry that she cannot speak, and the monstrous being underneath the guise of her makeup and dress reveals itself. Again, a mask is pulled away and a true identity discovered. The two letters are also clearly very important objects. Lord Goring succeeds in capturing the letter from Sir Robert to Baron Arnheim, but Mrs. Cheveley succeeds in stealing Lady Chiltern's apparent love letter to Lord Goring. In this act, both letters and the brooch all pass through both Lord Goring's and Mrs. Cheveley's hands. Clearly, the interaction between these two pivotal characters will lead to the play's resolution. At the conclusion of this act, the reader is relieved that Sir Robert's public image is no longer threatened, but wonders at the power and influence of Lady Chiltern's letter to Lord Goring, which has suddenly fallen into the wrong hands. At the end of the act the stage directions note that Mrs. Cheveley has a look of evil triumph, the second time a look of triumph has graced her face this act . The idea of triumph was introduced at the end of Act I with the tapestry, \"Triumph of Love.\" Mrs. Cheveley's triumph at the end of this act leaves the reader questioning whether in the end, love or evil will win. Currently, it seems evil has the upper hand."}

THIRD ACT SCENE _The Library in Lord Goring's house_. _An Adam room_. _On the right is the door leading into the hall_. _On the left_, _the door of the smoking-room_. _A pair of folding doors at the back open into the drawing-room_. _The fire is lit_. _Phipps_, _the butler_, _is arranging some newspapers on the writing-table_. _The distinction of Phipps is his impassivity_. _He has been termed by enthusiasts the Ideal Butler_. _The Sphinx is not so incommunicable_. _He is a mask with a manner_. _Of his intellectual or emotional life_, _history knows nothing_. _He represents the dominance of form_. [_Enter_ LORD GORING _in evening dress with a buttonhole_. _He is wearing a silk hat and Inverness cape_. _White-gloved_, _he carries a Louis Seize cane_. _His are all the delicate fopperies of Fashion_. _One sees that he stands in immediate relation to modern life_, _makes it indeed_, _and so masters it_. _He is the first well-dressed philosopher in the history of thought_.] LORD GORING. Got my second buttonhole for me, Phipps? PHIPPS. Yes, my lord. [_Takes his hat_, _cane_, _and cape_, _and presents new buttonhole on salver_.] LORD GORING. Rather distinguished thing, Phipps. I am the only person of the smallest importance in London at present who wears a buttonhole. PHIPPS. Yes, my lord. I have observed that, LORD GORING. [_Taking out old buttonhole_.] You see, Phipps, Fashion is what one wears oneself. What is unfashionable is what other people wear. PHIPPS. Yes, my lord. LORD GORING. Just as vulgarity is simply the conduct of other people. PHIPPS. Yes, my lord. LORD GORING. [_Putting in a new buttonhole_.] And falsehoods the truths of other people. PHIPPS. Yes, my lord. LORD GORING. Other people are quite dreadful. The only possible society is oneself. PHIPPS. Yes, my lord. LORD GORING. To love oneself is the beginning of a lifelong romance, Phipps. PHIPPS. Yes, my lord. LORD GORING. [_Looking at himself in the glass_.] Don't think I quite like this buttonhole, Phipps. Makes me look a little too old. Makes me almost in the prime of life, eh, Phipps? PHIPPS. I don't observe any alteration in your lordship's appearance. LORD GORING. You don't, Phipps? PHIPPS. No, my lord. LORD GORING. I am not quite sure. For the future a more trivial buttonhole, Phipps, on Thursday evenings. PHIPPS. I will speak to the florist, my lord. She has had a loss in her family lately, which perhaps accounts for the lack of triviality your lordship complains of in the buttonhole. LORD GORING. Extraordinary thing about the lower classes in England--they are always losing their relations. PHIPPS. Yes, my lord! They are extremely fortunate in that respect. LORD GORING. [_Turns round and looks at him_. PHIPPS _remains impassive_.] Hum! Any letters, Phipps? PHIPPS. Three, my lord. [_Hands letters on a salver_.] LORD GORING. [_Takes letters_.] Want my cab round in twenty minutes. PHIPPS. Yes, my lord. [_Goes towards door_.] LORD GORING. [_Holds up letter in pink envelope_.] Ahem! Phipps, when did this letter arrive? PHIPPS. It was brought by hand just after your lordship went to the club. LORD GORING. That will do. [_Exit_ PHIPPS.] Lady Chiltern's handwriting on Lady Chiltern's pink notepaper. That is rather curious. I thought Robert was to write. Wonder what Lady Chiltern has got to say to me? [_Sits at bureau and opens letter_, _and reads it_.] 'I want you. I trust you. I am coming to you. Gertrude.' [_Puts down the letter with a puzzled look_. _Then takes it up_, _and reads it again slowly_.] 'I want you. I trust you. I am coming to you.' So she has found out everything! Poor woman! Poor woman! [ _Pulls out watch and looks at it_.] But what an hour to call! Ten o'clock! I shall have to give up going to the Berkshires. However, it is always nice to be expected, and not to arrive. I am not expected at the Bachelors', so I shall certainly go there. Well, I will make her stand by her husband. That is the only thing for her to do. That is the only thing for any woman to do. It is the growth of the moral sense in women that makes marriage such a hopeless, one-sided institution. Ten o'clock. She should be here soon. I must tell Phipps I am not in to any one else. [_Goes towards bell_] [_Enter_ PHIPPS.] PHIPPS. Lord Caversham. LORD GORING. Oh, why will parents always appear at the wrong time? Some extraordinary mistake in nature, I suppose. [_Enter_ LORD CAVERSHAM.] Delighted to see you, my dear father. [_Goes to meet him_.] LORD CAVERSHAM. Take my cloak off. LORD GORING. Is it worth while, father? LORD CAVERSHAM. Of course it is worth while, sir. Which is the most comfortable chair? LORD GORING. This one, father. It is the chair I use myself, when I have visitors. LORD CAVERSHAM. Thank ye. No draught, I hope, in this room? LORD GORING. No, father. LORD CAVERSHAM. [_Sitting down_.] Glad to hear it. Can't stand draughts. No draughts at home. LORD GORING. Good many breezes, father. LORD CAVERSHAM. Eh? Eh? Don't understand what you mean. Want to have a serious conversation with you, sir. LORD GORING. My dear father! At this hour? LORD CAVERSHAM. Well, sir, it is only ten o'clock. What is your objection to the hour? I think the hour is an admirable hour! LORD GORING. Well, the fact is, father, this is not my day for talking seriously. I am very sorry, but it is not my day. LORD CAVERSHAM. What do you mean, sir? LORD GORING. During the Season, father, I only talk seriously on the first Tuesday in every month, from four to seven. LORD CAVERSHAM. Well, make it Tuesday, sir, make it Tuesday. LORD GORING. But it is after seven, father, and my doctor says I must not have any serious conversation after seven. It makes me talk in my sleep. LORD CAVERSHAM. Talk in your sleep, sir? What does that matter? You are not married. LORD GORING. No, father, I am not married. LORD CAVERSHAM. Hum! That is what I have come to talk to you about, sir. You have got to get married, and at once. Why, when I was your age, sir, I had been an inconsolable widower for three months, and was already paying my addresses to your admirable mother. Damme, sir, it is your duty to get married. You can't be always living for pleasure. Every man of position is married nowadays. Bachelors are not fashionable any more. They are a damaged lot. Too much is known about them. You must get a wife, sir. Look where your friend Robert Chiltern has got to by probity, hard work, and a sensible marriage with a good woman. Why don't you imitate him, sir? Why don't you take him for your model? LORD GORING. I think I shall, father. LORD CAVERSHAM. I wish you would, sir. Then I should be happy. At present I make your mother's life miserable on your account. You are heartless, sir, quite heartless. LORD GORING. I hope not, father. LORD CAVERSHAM. And it is high time for you to get married. You are thirty-four years of age, sir. LORD GORING. Yes, father, but I only admit to thirty-two--thirty-one and a half when I have a really good buttonhole. This buttonhole is not . . . trivial enough. LORD CAVERSHAM. I tell you you are thirty-four, sir. And there is a draught in your room, besides, which makes your conduct worse. Why did you tell me there was no draught, sir? I feel a draught, sir, I feel it distinctly. LORD GORING. So do I, father. It is a dreadful draught. I will come and see you to-morrow, father. We can talk over anything you like. Let me help you on with your cloak, father. LORD CAVERSHAM. No, sir; I have called this evening for a definite purpose, and I am going to see it through at all costs to my health or yours. Put down my cloak, sir. LORD GORING. Certainly, father. But let us go into another room. [_Rings bell_.] There is a dreadful draught here. [_Enter_ PHIPPS.] Phipps, is there a good fire in the smoking-room? PHIPPS. Yes, my lord. LORD GORING. Come in there, father. Your sneezes are quite heartrending. LORD CAVERSHAM. Well, sir, I suppose I have a right to sneeze when I choose? LORD GORING. [_Apologetically_.] Quite so, father. I was merely expressing sympathy. LORD CAVERSHAM. Oh, damn sympathy. There is a great deal too much of that sort of thing going on nowadays. LORD GORING. I quite agree with you, father. If there was less sympathy in the world there would be less trouble in the world. LORD CAVERSHAM. [_Going towards the smoking-room_.] That is a paradox, sir. I hate paradoxes. LORD GORING. So do I, father. Everybody one meets is a paradox nowadays. It is a great bore. It makes society so obvious. LORD CAVERSHAM. [_Turning round_, _and looking at his son beneath his bushy eyebrows_.] Do you always really understand what you say, sir? LORD GORING. [_After some hesitation_.] Yes, father, if I listen attentively. LORD CAVERSHAM. [_Indignantly_.] If you listen attentively! . . . Conceited young puppy! [_Goes off grumbling into the smoking-room_. PHIPPS _enters_.] LORD GORING. Phipps, there is a lady coming to see me this evening on particular business. Show her into the drawing-room when she arrives. You understand? PHIPPS. Yes, my lord. LORD GORING. It is a matter of the gravest importance, Phipps. PHIPPS. I understand, my lord. LORD GORING. No one else is to be admitted, under any circumstances. PHIPPS. I understand, my lord. [_Bell rings_.] LORD GORING. Ah! that is probably the lady. I shall see her myself. [_Just as he is going towards the door_ LORD CAVERSHAM _enters from the smoking-room_.] LORD CAVERSHAM. Well, sir? am I to wait attendance on you? LORD GORING. [_Considerably perplexed_.] In a moment, father. Do excuse me. [LORD CAVERSHAM _goes back_.] Well, remember my instructions, Phipps--into that room. PHIPPS. Yes, my lord. [LORD GORING _goes into the smoking-room_. HAROLD, _the footman shows_ MRS. CHEVELEY _in_. _Lamia-like_, _she is in green and silver_. _She has a cloak of black satin_, _lined with dead rose-leaf silk_.] HAROLD. What name, madam? MRS. CHEVELEY. [_To_ PHIPPS, _who advances towards her_.] Is Lord Goring not here? I was told he was at home? PHIPPS. His lordship is engaged at present with Lord Caversham, madam. [_Turns a cold_, _glassy eye on_ HAROLD, _who at once retires_.] MRS. CHEVELEY. [_To herself_.] How very filial! PHIPPS. His lordship told me to ask you, madam, to be kind enough to wait in the drawing-room for him. His lordship will come to you there. MRS. CHEVELEY. [_With a look of surprise_.] Lord Goring expects me? PHIPPS. Yes, madam. MRS. CHEVELEY. Are you quite sure? PHIPPS. His lordship told me that if a lady called I was to ask her to wait in the drawing-room. [_Goes to the door of the drawing-room and opens it_.] His lordship's directions on the subject were very precise. MRS. CHEVELEY. [_To herself_] How thoughtful of him! To expect the unexpected shows a thoroughly modern intellect. [_Goes towards the drawing-room and looks in_.] Ugh! How dreary a bachelor's drawing-room always looks. I shall have to alter all this. [PHIPPS _brings the lamp from the writing-table_.] No, I don't care for that lamp. It is far too glaring. Light some candles. PHIPPS. [_Replaces lamp_.] Certainly, madam. MRS. CHEVELEY. I hope the candles have very becoming shades. PHIPPS. We have had no complaints about them, madam, as yet. [_Passes into the drawing-room and begins to light the candles_.] MRS. CHEVELEY. [_To herself_.] I wonder what woman he is waiting for to-night. It will be delightful to catch him. Men always look so silly when they are caught. And they are always being caught. [_Looks about room and approaches the writing-table_.] What a very interesting room! What a very interesting picture! Wonder what his correspondence is like. [_Takes up letters_.] Oh, what a very uninteresting correspondence! Bills and cards, debts and dowagers! Who on earth writes to him on pink paper? How silly to write on pink paper! It looks like the beginning of a middle-class romance. Romance should never begin with sentiment. It should begin with science and end with a settlement. [_Puts letter down_, _then takes it up again_.] I know that handwriting. That is Gertrude Chiltern's. I remember it perfectly. The ten commandments in every stroke of the pen, and the moral law all over the page. Wonder what Gertrude is writing to him about? Something horrid about me, I suppose. How I detest that woman! [_Reads it_.] 'I trust you. I want you. I am coming to you. Gertrude.' 'I trust you. I want you. I am coming to you.' [_A look of triumph comes over her face_. _She is just about to steal the letter_, _when_ PHIPPS _comes in_.] PHIPPS. The candles in the drawing-room are lit, madam, as you directed. MRS. CHEVELEY. Thank you. [_Rises hastily and slips the letter under a large silver-cased blotting-book that is lying on the table_.] PHIPPS. I trust the shades will be to your liking, madam. They are the most becoming we have. They are the same as his lordship uses himself when he is dressing for dinner. MRS. CHEVELEY. [_With a smile_.] Then I am sure they will be perfectly right. PHIPPS. [_Gravely_.] Thank you, madam. [MRS. CHEVELEY _goes into the drawing-room_. PHIPPS _closes the door and retires_. _The door is then slowly opened_, _and_ MRS. CHEVELEY _comes out and creeps stealthily towards the writing-table_. _Suddenly voices are heard from the smoking-room_. MRS. CHEVELEY _grows pale_, _and stops_. _The voices grow louder_, _and she goes back into the drawing-room_, _biting her lip_.] [_Enter_ LORD GORING _and_ LORD CAVERSHAM.] LORD GORING. [_Expostulating_.] My dear father, if I am to get married, surely you will allow me to choose the time, place, and person? Particularly the person. LORD CAVERSHAM. [_Testily_.] That is a matter for me, sir. You would probably make a very poor choice. It is I who should be consulted, not you. There is property at stake. It is not a matter for affection. Affection comes later on in married life. LORD GORING. Yes. In married life affection comes when people thoroughly dislike each other, father, doesn't it? [_Puts on_ LORD CAVERSHAM'S _cloak for him_.] LORD CAVERSHAM. Certainly, sir. I mean certainly not, air. You are talking very foolishly to-night. What I say is that marriage is a matter for common sense. LORD GORING. But women who have common sense are so curiously plain, father, aren't they? Of course I only speak from hearsay. LORD CAVERSHAM. No woman, plain or pretty, has any common sense at all, sir. Common sense is the privilege of our sex. LORD GORING. Quite so. And we men are so self-sacrificing that we never use it, do we, father? LORD CAVERSHAM. I use it, sir. I use nothing else. LORD GORING. So my mother tells me. LORD CAVERSHAM. It is the secret of your mother's happiness. You are very heartless, sir, very heartless. LORD GORING. I hope not, father. [_Goes out for a moment_. _Then returns_, _looking rather put out_, _with_ SIR ROBERT CHILTERN.] SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. My dear Arthur, what a piece of good luck meeting you on the doorstep! Your servant had just told me you were not at home. How extraordinary! LORD GORING. The fact is, I am horribly busy to-night, Robert, and I gave orders I was not at home to any one. Even my father had a comparatively cold reception. He complained of a draught the whole time. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Ah! you must be at home to me, Arthur. You are my best friend. Perhaps by to-morrow you will be my only friend. My wife has discovered everything. LORD GORING. Ah! I guessed as much! SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Looking at him_.] Really! How? LORD GORING. [_After some hesitation_.] Oh, merely by something in the expression of your face as you came in. Who told her? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Mrs. Cheveley herself. And the woman I love knows that I began my career with an act of low dishonesty, that I built up my life upon sands of shame--that I sold, like a common huckster, the secret that had been intrusted to me as a man of honour. I thank heaven poor Lord Radley died without knowing that I betrayed him. I would to God I had died before I had been so horribly tempted, or had fallen so low. [_Burying his face in his hands_.] LORD GORING. [_After a pause_.] You have heard nothing from Vienna yet, in answer to your wire? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Looking up_.] Yes; I got a telegram from the first secretary at eight o'clock to-night. LORD GORING. Well? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Nothing is absolutely known against her. On the contrary, she occupies a rather high position in society. It is a sort of open secret that Baron Arnheim left her the greater portion of his immense fortune. Beyond that I can learn nothing. LORD GORING. She doesn't turn out to be a spy, then? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Oh! spies are of no use nowadays. Their profession is over. The newspapers do their work instead. LORD GORING. And thunderingly well they do it. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Arthur, I am parched with thirst. May I ring for something? Some hock and seltzer? LORD GORING. Certainly. Let me. [_Rings the bell_.] SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Thanks! I don't know what to do, Arthur, I don't know what to do, and you are my only friend. But what a friend you are--the one friend I can trust. I can trust you absolutely, can't I? [_Enter_ PHIPPS.] LORD GORING. My dear Robert, of course. Oh! [_To_ PHIPPS.] Bring some hock and seltzer. PHIPPS. Yes, my lord. LORD GORING. And Phipps! PHIPPS. Yes, my lord. LORD GORING. Will you excuse me for a moment, Robert? I want to give some directions to my servant. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Certainly. LORD GORING. When that lady calls, tell her that I am not expected home this evening. Tell her that I have been suddenly called out of town. You understand? PHIPPS. The lady is in that room, my lord. You told me to show her into that room, my lord. LORD GORING. You did perfectly right. [_Exit_ PHIPPS.] What a mess I am in. No; I think I shall get through it. I'll give her a lecture through the door. Awkward thing to manage, though. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Arthur, tell me what I should do. My life seems to have crumbled about me. I am a ship without a rudder in a night without a star. LORD GORING. Robert, you love your wife, don't you? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I love her more than anything in the world. I used to think ambition the great thing. It is not. Love is the great thing in the world. There is nothing but love, and I love her. But I am defamed in her eyes. I am ignoble in her eyes. There is a wide gulf between us now. She has found me out, Arthur, she has found me out. LORD GORING. Has she never in her life done some folly--some indiscretion--that she should not forgive your sin? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. My wife! Never! She does not know what weakness or temptation is. I am of clay like other men. She stands apart as good women do--pitiless in her perfection--cold and stern and without mercy. But I love her, Arthur. We are childless, and I have no one else to love, no one else to love me. Perhaps if God had sent us children she might have been kinder to me. But God has given us a lonely house. And she has cut my heart in two. Don't let us talk of it. I was brutal to her this evening. But I suppose when sinners talk to saints they are brutal always. I said to her things that were hideously true, on my side, from my stand-point, from the standpoint of men. But don't let us talk of that. LORD GORING. Your wife will forgive you. Perhaps at this moment she is forgiving you. She loves you, Robert. Why should she not forgive? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. God grant it! God grant it! [_Buries his face in his hands_.] But there is something more I have to tell you, Arthur. [_Enter_ PHIPPS _with drinks_.] PHIPPS. [_Hands hock and seltzer to_ SIR ROBERT CHILTERN.] Hock and seltzer, sir. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Thank you. LORD GORING. Is your carriage here, Robert? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. No; I walked from the club. LORD GORING. Sir Robert will take my cab, Phipps. PHIPPS. Yes, my lord. [_Exit_.] LORD GORING. Robert, you don't mind my sending you away? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Arthur, you must let me stay for five minutes. I have made up my mind what I am going to do to-night in the House. The debate on the Argentine Canal is to begin at eleven. [_A chair falls in the drawing-room_.] What is that? LORD GORING. Nothing. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I heard a chair fall in the next room. Some one has been listening. LORD GORING. No, no; there is no one there. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. There is some one. There are lights in the room, and the door is ajar. Some one has been listening to every secret of my life. Arthur, what does this mean? LORD GORING. Robert, you are excited, unnerved. I tell you there is no one in that room. Sit down, Robert. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Do you give me your word that there is no one there? LORD GORING. Yes. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Your word of honour? [_Sits down_.] LORD GORING. Yes. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Rises_.] Arthur, let me see for myself. LORD GORING. No, no. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. If there is no one there why should I not look in that room? Arthur, you must let me go into that room and satisfy myself. Let me know that no eavesdropper has heard my life's secret. Arthur, you don't realise what I am going through. LORD GORING. Robert, this must stop. I have told you that there is no one in that room--that is enough. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Rushes to the door of the room_.] It is not enough. I insist on going into this room. You have told me there is no one there, so what reason can you have for refusing me? LORD GORING. For God's sake, don't! There is some one there. Some one whom you must not see. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Ah, I thought so! LORD GORING. I forbid you to enter that room. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Stand back. My life is at stake. And I don't care who is there. I will know who it is to whom I have told my secret and my shame. [_Enters room_.] LORD GORING. Great heavens! his own wife! [SIR ROBERT CHILTERN _comes back_, _with a look of scorn and anger on his face_.] SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. What explanation have you to give me for the presence of that woman here? LORD GORING. Robert, I swear to you on my honour that that lady is stainless and guiltless of all offence towards you. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. She is a vile, an infamous thing! LORD GORING. Don't say that, Robert! It was for your sake she came here. It was to try and save you she came here. She loves you and no one else. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. You are mad. What have I to do with her intrigues with you? Let her remain your mistress! You are well suited to each other. She, corrupt and shameful--you, false as a friend, treacherous as an enemy even-- LORD GORING. It is not true, Robert. Before heaven, it is not true. In her presence and in yours I will explain all. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Let me pass, sir. You have lied enough upon your word of honour. [SIR ROBERT CHILTERN _goes out_. LORD GORING _rushes to the door of the drawing-room_, _when_ MRS. CHEVELEY _comes out_, _looking radiant and much amused_.] MRS. CHEVELEY. [_With a mock curtsey_] Good evening, Lord Goring! LORD GORING. Mrs. Cheveley! Great heavens! . . . May I ask what you were doing in my drawing-room? MRS. CHEVELEY. Merely listening. I have a perfect passion for listening through keyholes. One always hears such wonderful things through them. LORD GORING. Doesn't that sound rather like tempting Providence? MRS. CHEVELEY. Oh! surely Providence can resist temptation by this time. [_Makes a sign to him to take her cloak off_, _which he does_.] LORD GORING. I am glad you have called. I am going to give you some good advice. MRS. CHEVELEY. Oh! pray don't. One should never give a woman anything that she can't wear in the evening. LORD GORING. I see you are quite as wilful as you used to be. MRS. CHEVELEY. Far more! I have greatly improved. I have had more experience. LORD GORING. Too much experience is a dangerous thing. Pray have a cigarette. Half the pretty women in London smoke cigarettes. Personally I prefer the other half. MRS. CHEVELEY. Thanks. I never smoke. My dressmaker wouldn't like it, and a woman's first duty in life is to her dressmaker, isn't it? What the second duty is, no one has as yet discovered. LORD GORING. You have come here to sell me Robert Chiltern's letter, haven't you? MRS. CHEVELEY. To offer it to you on conditions. How did you guess that? LORD GORING. Because you haven't mentioned the subject. Have you got it with you? MRS. CHEVELEY. [_Sitting down_.] Oh, no! A well-made dress has no pockets. LORD GORING. What is your price for it? MRS. CHEVELEY. How absurdly English you are! The English think that a cheque-book can solve every problem in life. Why, my dear Arthur, I have very much more money than you have, and quite as much as Robert Chiltern has got hold of. Money is not what I want. LORD GORING. What do you want then, Mrs. Cheveley? MRS. CHEVELEY. Why don't you call me Laura? LORD GORING. I don't like the name. MRS. CHEVELEY. You used to adore it. LORD GORING. Yes: that's why. [MRS. CHEVELEY _motions to him to sit down beside her_. _He smiles_, _and does so_.] MRS. CHEVELEY. Arthur, you loved me once. LORD GORING. Yes. MRS. CHEVELEY. And you asked me to be your wife. LORD GORING. That was the natural result of my loving you. MRS. CHEVELEY. And you threw me over because you saw, or said you saw, poor old Lord Mortlake trying to have a violent flirtation with me in the conservatory at Tenby. LORD GORING. I am under the impression that my lawyer settled that matter with you on certain terms . . . dictated by yourself. MRS. CHEVELEY. At that time I was poor; you were rich. LORD GORING. Quite so. That is why you pretended to love me. MRS. CHEVELEY. [_Shrugging her shoulders_.] Poor old Lord Mortlake, who had only two topics of conversation, his gout and his wife! I never could quite make out which of the two he was talking about. He used the most horrible language about them both. Well, you were silly, Arthur. Why, Lord Mortlake was never anything more to me than an amusement. One of those utterly tedious amusements one only finds at an English country house on an English country Sunday. I don't think any one at all morally responsible for what he or she does at an English country house. LORD GORING. Yes. I know lots of people think that. MRS. CHEVELEY. I loved you, Arthur. LORD GORING. My dear Mrs. Cheveley, you have always been far too clever to know anything about love. MRS. CHEVELEY. I did love you. And you loved me. You know you loved me; and love is a very wonderful thing. I suppose that when a man has once loved a woman, he will do anything for her, except continue to love her? [_Puts her hand on his_.] LORD GORING. [_Taking his hand away quietly_.] Yes: except that. MRS. CHEVELEY. [_After a pause_.] I am tired of living abroad. I want to come back to London. I want to have a charming house here. I want to have a salon. If one could only teach the English how to talk, and the Irish how to listen, society here would be quite civilised. Besides, I have arrived at the romantic stage. When I saw you last night at the Chilterns', I knew you were the only person I had ever cared for, if I ever have cared for anybody, Arthur. And so, on the morning of the day you marry me, I will give you Robert Chiltern's letter. That is my offer. I will give it to you now, if you promise to marry me. LORD GORING. Now? MRS. CHEVELEY. [_Smiling_.] To-morrow. LORD GORING. Are you really serious? MRS. CHEVELEY. Yes, quite serious. LORD GORING. I should make you a very bad husband. MRS. CHEVELEY. I don't mind bad husbands. I have had two. They amused me immensely. LORD GORING. You mean that you amused yourself immensely, don't you? MRS. CHEVELEY. What do you know about my married life? LORD GORING. Nothing: but I can read it like a book. MRS. CHEVELEY. What book? LORD GORING. [_Rising_.] The Book of Numbers. MRS. CHEVELEY. Do you think it is quite charming of you to be so rude to a woman in your own house? LORD GORING. In the case of very fascinating women, sex is a challenge, not a defence. MRS. CHEVELEY. I suppose that is meant for a compliment. My dear Arthur, women are never disarmed by compliments. Men always are. That is the difference between the two sexes. LORD GORING. Women are never disarmed by anything, as far as I know them. MRS. CHEVELEY. [_After a pause_.] Then you are going to allow your greatest friend, Robert Chiltern, to be ruined, rather than marry some one who really has considerable attractions left. I thought you would have risen to some great height of self-sacrifice, Arthur. I think you should. And the rest of your life you could spend in contemplating your own perfections. LORD GORING. Oh! I do that as it is. And self-sacrifice is a thing that should be put down by law. It is so demoralising to the people for whom one sacrifices oneself. They always go to the bad. MRS. CHEVELEY. As if anything could demoralise Robert Chiltern! You seem to forget that I know his real character. LORD GORING. What you know about him is not his real character. It was an act of folly done in his youth, dishonourable, I admit, shameful, I admit, unworthy of him, I admit, and therefore . . . not his true character. MRS. CHEVELEY. How you men stand up for each other! LORD GORING. How you women war against each other! MRS. CHEVELEY. [_Bitterly_.] I only war against one woman, against Gertrude Chiltern. I hate her. I hate her now more than ever. LORD GORING. Because you have brought a real tragedy into her life, I suppose. MRS. CHEVELEY. [_With a sneer_.] Oh, there is only one real tragedy in a woman's life. The fact that her past is always her lover, and her future invariably her husband. LORD GORING. Lady Chiltern knows nothing of the kind of life to which you are alluding. MRS. CHEVELEY. A woman whose size in gloves is seven and three-quarters never knows much about anything. You know Gertrude has always worn seven and three-quarters? That is one of the reasons why there was never any moral sympathy between us. . . . Well, Arthur, I suppose this romantic interview may be regarded as at an end. You admit it was romantic, don't you? For the privilege of being your wife I was ready to surrender a great prize, the climax of my diplomatic career. You decline. Very well. If Sir Robert doesn't uphold my Argentine scheme, I expose him. Voila tout. LORD GORING. You mustn't do that. It would be vile, horrible, infamous. MRS. CHEVELEY. [_Shrugging her shoulders_.] Oh! don't use big words. They mean so little. It is a commercial transaction. That is all. There is no good mixing up sentimentality in it. I offered to sell Robert Chiltern a certain thing. If he won't pay me my price, he will have to pay the world a greater price. There is no more to be said. I must go. Good-bye. Won't you shake hands? LORD GORING. With you? No. Your transaction with Robert Chiltern may pass as a loathsome commercial transaction of a loathsome commercial age; but you seem to have forgotten that you came here to-night to talk of love, you whose lips desecrated the word love, you to whom the thing is a book closely sealed, went this afternoon to the house of one of the most noble and gentle women in the world to degrade her husband in her eyes, to try and kill her love for him, to put poison in her heart, and bitterness in her life, to break her idol, and, it may be, spoil her soul. That I cannot forgive you. That was horrible. For that there can be no forgiveness. MRS. CHEVELEY. Arthur, you are unjust to me. Believe me, you are quite unjust to me. I didn't go to taunt Gertrude at all. I had no idea of doing anything of the kind when I entered. I called with Lady Markby simply to ask whether an ornament, a jewel, that I lost somewhere last night, had been found at the Chilterns'. If you don't believe me, you can ask Lady Markby. She will tell you it is true. The scene that occurred happened after Lady Markby had left, and was really forced on me by Gertrude's rudeness and sneers. I called, oh!--a little out of malice if you like--but really to ask if a diamond brooch of mine had been found. That was the origin of the whole thing. LORD GORING. A diamond snake-brooch with a ruby? MRS. CHEVELEY. Yes. How do you know? LORD GORING. Because it is found. In point of fact, I found it myself, and stupidly forgot to tell the butler anything about it as I was leaving. [_Goes over to the writing-table and pulls out the drawers_.] It is in this drawer. No, that one. This is the brooch, isn't it? [_Holds up the brooch_.] MRS. CHEVELEY. Yes. I am so glad to get it back. It was . . a present. LORD GORING. Won't you wear it? MRS. CHEVELEY. Certainly, if you pin it in. [LORD GORING _suddenly clasps it on her arm_.] Why do you put it on as a bracelet? I never knew it could he worn as a bracelet. LORD GORING. Really? MRS. CHEVELEY. [_Holding out her handsome arm_.] No; but it looks very well on me as a bracelet, doesn't it? LORD GORING. Yes; much better than when I saw it last. MRS. CHEVELEY. When did you see it last? LORD GORING. [_Calmly_.] Oh, ten years ago, on Lady Berkshire, from whom you stole it. MRS. CHEVELEY. [_Starting_.] What do you mean? LORD GORING. I mean that you stole that ornament from my cousin, Mary Berkshire, to whom I gave it when she was married. Suspicion fell on a wretched servant, who was sent away in disgrace. I recognised it last night. I determined to say nothing about it till I had found the thief. I have found the thief now, and I have heard her own confession. MRS. CHEVELEY. [_Tossing her head_.] It is not true. LORD GORING. You know it is true. Why, thief is written across your face at this moment. MRS. CHEVELEY. I will deny the whole affair from beginning to end. I will say that I have never seen this wretched thing, that it was never in my possession. [MRS. CHEVELEY _tries to get the bracelet off her arm_, _but fails_. LORD GORING _looks on amused_. _Her thin fingers tear at the jewel to no purpose_. _A curse breaks from her_.] LORD GORING. The drawback of stealing a thing, Mrs. Cheveley, is that one never knows how wonderful the thing that one steals is. You can't get that bracelet off, unless you know where the spring is. And I see you don't know where the spring is. It is rather difficult to find. MRS. CHEVELEY. You brute! You coward! [_She tries again to unclasp the bracelet_, _but fails_.] LORD GORING. Oh! don't use big words. They mean so little. MRS. CHEVELEY. [_Again tears at the bracelet in a paroxysm of rage_, _with inarticulate sounds_. _Then stops_, _and looks at_ LORD GORING.] What are you going to do? LORD GORING. I am going to ring for my servant. He is an admirable servant. Always comes in the moment one rings for him. When he comes I will tell him to fetch the police. MRS. CHEVELEY. [_Trembling_.] The police? What for? LORD GORING. To-morrow the Berkshires will prosecute you. That is what the police are for. MRS. CHEVELEY. [_Is now in an agony of physical terror_. _Her face is distorted_. _Her mouth awry_. _A mask has fallen from her_. _She it_, _for the moment_, _dreadful to look at_.] Don't do that. I will do anything you want. Anything in the world you want. LORD GORING. Give me Robert Chiltern's letter. MRS. CHEVELEY. Stop! Stop! Let me have time to think. LORD GORING. Give me Robert Chiltern's letter. MRS. CHEVELEY. I have not got it with me. I will give it to you to-morrow. LORD GORING. You know you are lying. Give it to me at once. [MRS. CHEVELEY _pulls the letter out_, _and hands it to him_. _She is horribly pale_.] This is it? MRS. CHEVELEY. [_In a hoarse voice_.] Yes. LORD GORING. [_Takes the letter_, _examines it_, _sighs_, _and burns it with the lamp_.] For so well-dressed a woman, Mrs. Cheveley, you have moments of admirable common sense. I congratulate you. MRS. CHEVELEY. [_Catches sight of_ LADY CHILTERN'S _letter_, _the cover of which is just showing from under the blotting-book_.] Please get me a glass of water. LORD GORING. Certainly. [_Goes to the corner of the room and pours out a glass of water_. _While his back is turned_ MRS. CHEVELEY _steals_ LADY CHILTERN'S _letter_. _When_ LORD GORING _returns the glass she refuses it with a gesture_.] MRS. CHEVELEY. Thank you. Will you help me on with my cloak? LORD GORING. With pleasure. [_Puts her cloak on_.] MRS. CHEVELEY. Thanks. I am never going to try to harm Robert Chiltern again. LORD GORING. Fortunately you have not the chance, Mrs. Cheveley. MRS. CHEVELEY. Well, if even I had the chance, I wouldn't. On the contrary, I am going to render him a great service. LORD GORING. I am charmed to hear it. It is a reformation. MRS. CHEVELEY. Yes. I can't bear so upright a gentleman, so honourable an English gentleman, being so shamefully deceived, and so-- LORD GORING. Well? MRS. CHEVELEY. I find that somehow Gertrude Chiltern's dying speech and confession has strayed into my pocket. LORD GORING. What do you mean? MRS. CHEVELEY. [_With a bitter note of triumph in her voice_.] I mean that I am going to send Robert Chiltern the love-letter his wife wrote to you to-night. LORD GORING. Love-letter? MRS. CHEVELEY. [_Laughing_.] 'I want you. I trust you. I am coming to you. Gertrude.' [LORD GORING _rushes to the bureau and takes up the envelope_, _finds is empty_, _and turns round_.] LORD GORING. You wretched woman, must you always be thieving? Give me back that letter. I'll take it from you by force. You shall not leave my room till I have got it. [_He rushes towards her_, _but_ MRS. CHEVELEY _at once puts her hand on the electric bell that is on the table_. _The bell sounds with shrill reverberations_, _and_ PHIPPS _enters_.] MRS. CHEVELEY. [_After a pause_.] Lord Goring merely rang that you should show me out. Good-night, Lord Goring! [_Goes out followed by_ PHIPPS. _Her face is illumined with evil triumph_. _There is joy in her eyes_. _Youth seems to have come back to her_. _Her last glance is like a swift arrow_. LORD GORING _bites his lip_, _and lights his a cigarette_.] ACT DROPS

Act III

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The third act opens in Lord Goring's house while he prepares to go out for the evening. There is a description of the room and of Phipps the butler who Wilde describes as the "dominance of form." In the stage notes, Phipps is referred to as the "ideal butler," and his main distinction is his impassivity. Lord Goring enters in very fine attire, and Wilde proclaims that he masters modern life as the first well-dressed philosopher. Goring speaks to Phipps, but the conversation is clearly very one-sided as Goring espouses about fashion, society, and his buttonhole through a series of epigrams. Throughout the conversation Phipps simply plays the yes man and demonstrates no discernible personality. Phipps hands him three letters delivered earlier in the day. One is from Lady Chiltern, who wrote, "I want you. I trust you. I am coming to you." The letter is not addressed to anyone, but it is signed "Gertrude". Lord Caversham enters to the dismay of his son. He makes himself comfortable and makes it clear he wants to have a serious talk. He tells Lord Goring that he must be married, and since bachelors are no longer in fashion, he must do so at once. While Lord Caversham calls him heartless, Lord Goring resorts to trivial discussion of his buttonhole. They move into the smoking room, and Lord Goring comments on the state of sympathy in the modern world. His father takes his comment as a paradox and wonders aloud whether his son understands what he says. The conversation between the two men is quite lengthy and demonstrates the differences in age and perspective between them. Lord Caversham complains of a draught in the room, and Goring suggests they move to the smoking room. As Caversham goes into the smoking room, Lord Goring takes an aside to instruct Phipps that a lady is calling on him and to show her into the drawing room to wait for him. He tells Phipps that it is the matter of gravest importance and that no one else but this lady should be admitted. Lord Goring then attends to his father in the smoking room. Harold the footman shows Mrs. Cheveley in. She asks for Lord Goring, and Phipps explains he is presently with Lord Caversham. He also tells her that Lord Goring has asked if she would be kind enough to wait in the drawing room, where he will come to her. Mrs. Cheveley is surprised that Lord Goring seems to expect her. Phipps explains that Goring told him if a lady were to call he should have her wait in the drawing room, and he opens the drawing room door for Mrs. Cheveley. Mrs. Cheveley makes a comment to herself about how expecting the unexpected shows a modern intellect, and then looks into the drawing room. She declares that it is a dreary bachelor's room and that she will have to alter all this. Mrs. Cheveley begins wondering what woman Lord Goring is waiting for and looks forward to "catching" him. She rifles through Goring's papers and correspondence and after recognizing Lady Chiltern's handwriting on one of the letters, reads it. A "look of triumph" appears on her face. She almost steals the letter but Phipps appears in the room. He tells her the candles are lit in the drawing room and she follows him in. After Phipps retires, she sneaks back towards the writing desk in the other room, but hears voices from the smoking room growing louder an quickly retreats to the drawing room. Lord Goring and Lord Caversham argue about marriage. Goring wants to choose the girl, time and place for himself. Caversham believes he would make a foolish decision. Goring escorts Lord Caversham to the door and somewhat helplessly returns with Sir Robert Chiltern. Chiltern says he is so glad to find Goring at home, but Goring replies that he is very busy and cannot see him. Chiltern tells him that his wife has discovered everything from Mrs. Cheveley and that Goring must talk with him. He buries his face in his hands. Upon questioning from Lord Goring Chiltern says he has heard back from Vienna and that nothing valuable was sent. He only learned that Mrs. Cheveley occupies a high position in society and that Baron Arnheim left a lot of his wealth to her. Robert keeps repeating that he doesn't know what to do and asks Goring if he can trust him, to which Goring replies in the affirmative. When Goring goes out to speak with Phipps he discovers that the lady he was expecting is waiting in the drawing room. Thinking that the lady is Lady Chiltern he decides that he will give her advice through the door with his conversation with Robert Chiltern. Returning to Robert, Goring asks him if he loves his wife, and Robert replies that he loves her more than anything in the world. Goring then says that since Lady Chiltern loves him she will forgive. Goring tries to get Chiltern to leave but Chiltern says he must stay for five minutes to tell him what he is going to say in the House on this night about the Argentine Canal deal. There is a sound of a chair falling from the drawing room. Chiltern wants to know who has been listening to his secrets. Goring denies anyone is there, but Chiltern insists that someone must be in the drawing room. He demands to see for himself. Chiltern rushes to the door and Goring finally admits that someone is inside who cannot be revealed. Chiltern goes in anyway and Goring is dismayed thinking Lady Chiltern has been discovered. Sir Robert returns looking angry and asks for an explanation. Goring, who does not yet know that Mrs. Cheveley is in the drawing room, says that the lady is stainless and guiltless of all offenses. Chiltern replies that she is a vile and infamous thing. Goring goes on trying to defend the woman he thinks is Lady Chiltern, while Sir Chiltern continues to throw insults and accusations at Mrs. Cheveley and also Lord Goring, calling him a false friend and an enemy. Sir Robert leaves and Mrs. Cheveley reveals herself to an astonished Lord Goring. He recovers from his shock quickly and the two begin talking. Lord Goring correctly guesses she has come to give him Sir Robert's letter to Baron Arnheim. We learn that in their youth, Mrs. Cheveley seduced Lord Goring for financial gain. However, she claims her love for him is stronger than ever, and says she will hand over the letter if Lord Goring marries her. She explains that she wants to settle down in London, and that when she saw Goring at the party the previous night, she realized he was the only person she ever cared for. Lord Goring responds by claiming he would be a very bad husband and indicates he does not wish to marry. Mrs. Cheveley says she expected him to show self sacrifice by marrying her to save Sir Robert's career, but Lord Goring replies that he believes self-sacrifice should be outlawed because it is so demoralizing to those it benefits. Mrs. Cheveley says nothing can demoralize Chiltern's character based upon his corruption, and Goring jumps to his defense saying it was not worthy of him and merely a mistake of youth. Mrs. Cheveley comments on how men stand up for each other, and Goring replies that women are always at war with each other. Mrs. Cheveley explains the only woman she is at war with is Lady Chiltern. Mrs. Cheveley readies to leave and wants to shake hands with Lord Goring but he refuses, saying there can be no forgiveness for what she did to the gentle Lady Chiltern. Mrs. Cheveley says she had not gone to Lady Chiltern with the purpose of revealing her husband's guilt, but had in fact visited with Lady Markby to ask about a brooch lost at the party. Lord Goring asks if it is a diamond snake brooch with a ruby, and Mrs. Cheveley confirms that it is. Goring has meanwhile pulled the brooch from his drawer. He tells her he found it and deftly puts it on her arm. Mrs. Cheveley is surprised, as she didn't know it could be used as a bracelet. Goring says it looks better on her than the last time he saw it, which was ten ago on Lady Berkshire to whom he gave it as a wedding present. Goring accuses Mrs. Cheveley of stealing the brooch, although at the time a servant was accused and disgraced. She denies it, and tries in vain to remove the bracelet. Goring explains that the spring clasp is impossible to find unless you are shown where it is. Mrs. Cheveley becomes panicked, scratching at her wrist. Lord Goring, who has gained all the power in this interaction threatens to have his servant fetch the police. Terrified, Mrs. Cheveley asks him not to, saying she will do anything for him. He demands Sir Robert's letter to Baron Arnheim, and after some stalling she gives it to him. Afterwards, she asks for a drink of water. When Lord Goring's back is turned she steals Lady Chiltern's letter. She then tells Lord Goring she is going to render Sir Robert Chiltern a great service by showing him how he has been deceived in his marriage, and explains she will forward Lady Chiltern's apparent love letter to Sir Robert. Goring tells her to give it back, threatening force. He rushes toward her but she presses the servant bell and Phipps enters. Slyly, she tells Phipps that Goring rang him so he could show her out. She leaves with a look of triumph.

In the opening stage directions, Wilde describes Lord Goring as a master of modern life. In the next scene, Lord Goring tutors Phipps about fashion, falsehoods, and vulgarity with many of Wilde's epigrams that highlight Goring's selfish view of the world. Goring describes vulgarity as a problem of "others", and refined behavior as characteristic of the individual. Ironically, Goring is clearly extremely self-involved, but also is the only character working to save his friends' marriage and protect their images. Although Lord Goring represents generosity and is a good friend throughout the play, he still remains a very egotistical character. His attention to a buttonhole is so trivial that one might consider it an allegory for other characters' obsession with other materials, such as social status or wealth. Throughout this opening scene, Phipps is a comedic tool with an impassive demeanor, responding to all of Goring's statements without emotion and with simple agreement and affirmation. Lord Goring receives a letter from Lady Chiltern, and resolves to make her stand by her husband, Sir Robert Chiltern. In his view, every woman must stand by her husband, and he laments the growth of moral sense in women, which he believes is responsible for making the institution of marriage hopeless and one-sided. The validity of this claim is questionable at best, but reminds the reader that Wilde wants to emphasize the foolishness of the Chilterns for trying to construct the perfect marriage. Lord Goring and his father Lord Caversham have a very lengthy discussion that presents the opposition of their world views. Lord Caversham, an aged and respected man, represents conservative London society and the morals of the Victorian era, which encourage a focus on family and public and private success. However, his son is a dandy who lives beyond the restrictions conservative society would impose on him, is extremely narcissistic, and places pleasure, beauty and idleness at the forefront of his life. The two men find it very difficult to see eye to eye. In fact, throughout their conversation, Lord Goring's wit and irony are hard for Lord Caversham to follow and result in his general confusion. Lord Caversham argues that his son should marry for practical reasons such as property and name, while Goring plans to marry only for love. His father sees an immediate need to take action, but Goring claims he is still a young man and need not think so seriously about such things. In reality, Goring is in his mid thirties, and as a dandy is living his life with a false sense of youth. In addition, Lord Caversham urges Lord Goring to enter some kind of professional work and perhaps follow the example of Sir Robert Chiltern who is such a noble servant of the government. The irony of this suggestion is quite clear. In his conversation with Sir Robert Chiltern, Lord Goring focuses on two aspects of the situation: love and forgiveness. The mistaken identity of the woman behind the door is highly ironic, as the evil Mrs. Cheveley stands in the place of the idealistic and good Lady Chiltern. Sir Robert's discovery of Mrs. Cheveley furthers the plot and adds yet another complication to the problems Lord Goring must solve. When Mrs. Cheveley and Lord Goring are left alone together, the two are clearly equals. They mirror each other in the quality of dress and presentation, and also in their selfish perspectives. However, Lord Goring, who demonstrates an eagerness to help his friends and right wrongs, proves superior. First, Lord Goring offers Mrs. Cheveley money for Sir Robert's letter, but she scoffs at the proposal. Here, again, money has no real power in social context. Instead of accepting money, Mrs. Cheveley wants to marry Lord Goring in exchange for the letter, claiming he is the only man she ever really loved. In Lord Goring's eyes, Mrs. Cheveley has desecrated the idea of love through this proposal and through trying to kill Lady Chiltern's love for her husband, an act he can never forgive. As such, Lord Goring refuses her offer and therefore removes her bargaining power. The idea of forgiveness has some emotional pull, even on a character like Mrs. Cheveley, for she feels the need to explain that she went to the Chiltern house to find her lost brooch rather than to reveal Sir Robert's moral faults. As a result, Lord Goring discovers that she stole this brooch from Lady Berkshire, and he suddenly holds all the power in their interaction. The brooch/bracelet is a pivotal object in the play. The diamond snake shape alludes to the evil character of Mrs. Cheveley who is suddenly trapped by it. When placed on her wrist, Mrs. Cheveley cannot escape and her true character is revealed. Clawing at the bracelet, threatened with legal action, and suddenly without any bargaining power, she becomes so angry that she cannot speak, and the monstrous being underneath the guise of her makeup and dress reveals itself. Again, a mask is pulled away and a true identity discovered. The two letters are also clearly very important objects. Lord Goring succeeds in capturing the letter from Sir Robert to Baron Arnheim, but Mrs. Cheveley succeeds in stealing Lady Chiltern's apparent love letter to Lord Goring. In this act, both letters and the brooch all pass through both Lord Goring's and Mrs. Cheveley's hands. Clearly, the interaction between these two pivotal characters will lead to the play's resolution. At the conclusion of this act, the reader is relieved that Sir Robert's public image is no longer threatened, but wonders at the power and influence of Lady Chiltern's letter to Lord Goring, which has suddenly fallen into the wrong hands. At the end of the act the stage directions note that Mrs. Cheveley has a look of evil triumph, the second time a look of triumph has graced her face this act . The idea of triumph was introduced at the end of Act I with the tapestry, "Triumph of Love." Mrs. Cheveley's triumph at the end of this act leaves the reader questioning whether in the end, love or evil will win. Currently, it seems evil has the upper hand.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/885-chapters/act_iv.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/An Ideal Husband/section_3_part_0.txt

An Ideal Husband.act iv

act iv

{"name": "Act IV", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180409031947/http://www.gradesaver.com/an-ideal-husband/study-guide/summary-act-iv", "summary": "The scene is the same as the opening of Act II. Lord Goring stands in front of the fireplace in Sir Robert's morning room. Summoned by a bell, the footman enters and tells Lord Goring Mabel has just returned from riding, Lady Chiltern is elsewhere in the house, and Lord Caversham is waiting for him in the library. Lord Caversham enters and asks his son if he has thought about their discussion of marriage. Lord Goring assures his father he has thought of nothing else, but Caversham, sensing his son's sarcasm, says he can never tell when he is being serious. Lord Goring states he can't tell either. Caversham encourages Goring to propose to Mabel, even though he doubts she would ever accept him. Lord Caversham then tells his son about Sir Robert's rousing speech to Parliament denouncing the Argentine Canal scheme, which the newspapers are praising as a turning point in his already excellent career. Mabel enters and chats with Lord Caversham, ignoring Lord Goring as punishment for standing her up for their riding appointment. Finally, Mabel acknowledges Lord Goring, only to say she will never speak with him again. Pointedly, Mabel asks Lord Caversham if he can make his son behave more appropriately, but he responds by saying he has no influence over his son. Lord Caversham exists, leaving Mabel and Lord Goring to themselves. Mabel says people who fail to keep appointments in the park are horrid, and Lord Goring agrees. However, he tells her she must remain with him, because in her presence he cannot help but feel pleased. He then tells her has something to say and asks her to be serious for once. He declares his love and asks if she can love him in return, thus proposing marriage. Mabel quickly replies that she thinks it silly that he does not know how much she loves him, especially since the rest of London knows it. They kiss, and he tells her he was afraid of being refused. Lady Chiltern enters and greets the couple before Mabel exits to wait for Lord Goring in the conservatory. Lord Goring tells Lady Chiltern he has obtained the letter from Mrs. Cheveley and burned it, and thus Robert is safe. With great relief, Lady Chiltern tells him how good a friend he has been to them. Lord Goring reveals that Mrs. Cheveley stole the letter Lady Chiltern had sent him and plans to send it to Sir Robert to \"reveal\" a non-existent affair. Lord Goring wants to tell Sir Robert the entire story to clear everything up, but Lady Chiltern forbids him to. They devise a plan to have Tommy Trafford intercept the letter before it reaches Sir Robert, but as Lord Goring moves to go speak to the secretary, he sees Sir Robert coming up the stairs with the letter in his hand. Sir Robert enters and makes it clear he believes his wife wrote the letter to him. He shows pure joy that she needs him and wants him. He asks her to verify the truth of the letter, and with the urging of a pointed look from Goring, Lady Chiltern says she does indeed trust him. Lord Goring exits to the conservatory. Lady Chiltern then tells Sir Robert he is safe from the threat of Mrs. Cheveley, and relates how Lord Goring burned the letter. He proclaims how wonderful it is to see this one sin of his youth disappear and asks her if he should retire from public life. She suggests he should, but he fears he will surrender much by retiring. Lady Chiltern argues that rather than losing, he will gain much from this noble decision. Sir Robert approaches Lord Goring and thanks him profusely for his help. Lord Caversham enters, congratulates Sir Robert on his brilliant speech and \"high moral tone\", and tells him the Prime Minister is hoping Sir Robert will fill his vacant seat in the cabinet. Sir Robert looks proud and triumphant, but after meeting eyes with his wife, he realizes he cannot take the offer. Sir Robert reveals to Lord Caversham that he plans to retire from public life and therefore must decline the offer. Lord Caversham is shocked and urges Lady Chiltern to convince her husband otherwise. She tells him she agrees with his decision and admires him for it. The two leave together, with Sir Robert looking rather bitter on his way to write his regrets to the Prime Minister. Lord Caversham calls their behavior idiocy, while his son believes is an example of \"high moral tone\". Ironically, Caversham claims he does not understand such a \"newfangled phrase\". Lord Goring persuades his father to go to the conservatory where Mabel is waiting. Lord Caversham exits, and Lady Chiltern enters the room. Lord Goring asks her why she is following Mrs. Cheveley's example in trying to ruin her husband's career potential. At first she does not understand, but Goring explains that Gertrude is driving her husband out of public life by urging him to decline the vacant cabinet seat. He tells her that women are meant to forgive men, not judge them, and that by robbing him of his ambition she will eventually kill his love for her. She responds that Sir Robert wishes to retire from public life, but Lord Goring points out that Sir Robert will do anything to keep Lady Chiltern's love. However, the sacrifice he is about to make is one she should not ask of him. She ponders all that has been said, and finally agrees she has placed him on too high of an altar. Sir Robert enters and hands Lady Chiltern the letter prepared for the Prime Minister, turning down the cabinet seat. She reads it and then tears it up, repeating much of Lord Goring's words regarding the appropriate roles of men and women, and her refusal to allow him to sacrifice and spoil his life. Gertrude says she can forgive Sir Robert, and that she finally sees that forgiveness is how women help the world. Sir Robert embraces his wife, and thanks Lord Goring. Lord Goring then asks for his sister Mabel's hand in marriage. Sir Robert quickly changes demeanor, based on his belief that Lord Goring is still involved with Mrs. Cheveley. Lady Chiltern finally reveals to Sir Robert that it was she who Lord Goring expected at his house that night, and that the letter Sir Robert received was originally sent to Lord Goring. Upon understanding the complicated situation, Sir Robert immediately forgives his wife, saying she is the image of all good things. He turns to Lord Goring and consents to him marrying Mabel. Mabel and Lord Caversham enter, and Lord Caversham is quite surprised at the engagement. He tells his son that he had better make an ideal husband, but Mabel counters she does not need an ideal husband. Rather, she merely wants to be a real wife to him. Lord Caversham agrees there is much common sense in that. He is very happy to hear Sir Robert has agreed to take the cabinet seat, and they all leave to have lunch. Sir Robert hangs back and asks his wife if it is merely pity, instead of love, that she feels for him. She responds that it is all love, and assures him their life together is beginning anew.", "analysis": "The complex action in this final portion of the play is quite notable. In addition to the confusion surrounding the note Lady Chiltern originally sent to Lord Goring, that Mrs. Cheveley then forwarded in malice to Sir Robert, and that finally unites Sir Robert and Gertrude, there are a variety of stolen conversations and entrances and exits that allow every aspect of the character's lives to find resolution. Clearly, the letter is a very important tool. It represents Lady Chiltern's love for her husband. Originally, she wrote that she needed and wanted Lord Goring, but only so she could speak with him about her troubled marriage, to which she held so dear. Re-sent to Sir Robert, the letter takes on new meaning, and with Lady Chiltern's revelation that she has in fact held her husband on too high of a pedestal, the statements inscribed in it apply directly to him. Thus, the letter seals their renewed love, and represents their bright future together. The political thread in the play continues in Act IV. Ironically, the newspapers praise Sir Robert for his integrity, as they know nothing of the moral failure that almost caused his downfall. Lord Caversham tells Lord Goring the papers will never say anything like that about him, although in reality, Lord Goring seems to have lived with more integrity that Sir Robert. Lord Goring does not espouse a very high view of the House of Commons, and he certainly wants to avoid any involvement with a political life, yet his somewhat out of touch father and his morally failing friend are steeped in it. Thus, Wilde reveals his cynical views on the subject through Lord Goring, the character that mirrors him most. In this same vein of public information, it is worth noting the power of the press in the play. Wilde understood the power of newspapers to make or doom a public figure. He promoted his own career through the media, and watched it ruin Parnell, a Scottish politician of the time who found great success and then was brought down through public scandals. One newspaper article brings Sir Robert public glory. Lord Goring, again a voice of Wilde himself, observes the irony, noting he certainly hopes the newspapers never discuss him in such terms. For the first three acts, the media was a threat to Sir Robert, and now it is a boost to his career. The beginning of Act IV focuses on the separation between public and private information, and again, information is all-powerful. Sir Robert escapes his past because the public has no information about his corruption. Political corruption is only a problem to Sir Robert if it might possibly become known to the world. When he discovers Lord Goring has destroyed the corrupt letter, he rejoices. His own knowledge of his mistake does not haunt him, only the public disgrace it might cause. Even Lady Chiltern softens her staunch moral views after Sir Robert's name is protected from harm. Corruption only gets punished when it becomes a public matter, making political sense not a matter of principles, but rather of gamesmanship. Wilde criticizes the hypocritical society that condones this system of belief. As Lord Goring refuses a career in politics, he refers to his youth as preventing him from taking on such serious responsibility. Goring sees youth as an art form, one with imperfections, but also breathtaking beauty. Goring wishes to live in a youthful world for as long as possible. In contrast, Sir Robert thinks of his youth as a reminder of his moral corruption and therefore tries to separate himself from it. Throughout the play, it would seem Wilde's perspective aligns more with Goring's, as he likens all the major characters to pieces of art. The small reference to art in this final act suggests that he continues to sculpt the characters throughout, and wants the reader to be aware of this process of creation. In this play, as the artist, Wilde promotes love over all other social forces, such as wealth or social status, as the key ingredient to happiness. In the end, Lord Goring, Mabel, Lady Chiltern, Sir Robert, and even Lord Caversham, are all pleased with the way things have turned out, and as with the opening scene, the tapestry of Boucher's \"Triumph of Love\" shines brightly in the final moments of the play. Love and marriage triumph, and the roles of women and men in these aspects of life are defined clearly. Lord Goring fears a sensible wife will reduce him to idiocy very rapidly, but in advocating a sensible wife, Lord Caversham implies that a woman in touch with common social values, such as proper marriage, earns a respectable place in society. Lord Goring appears to take a cynical view of these notions, but also in a serious conversation with Lady Chiltern, argues that it is a woman's place to support her husband and forgive him for his faults. In fact, Lord Goring goes so far as to state a woman's life consists of \"curves of emotion\" and a man's consists of \"lines of intellect\". Moreover, he ironically extols the notion of the \"ideal\" Victorian woman, one who pardons rather than punishes her husband, and he urges Lady Chiltern to avoid following in Mrs. Cheveley's footsteps by trying to block her husband's success. Up to this point in the play, Lord Goring is a voice of moderate reason, but he disappoints the modern reader with this support of classic Victorian womanhood. In Goring's eyes, it appears women are inferior and should play supporting roles in their marriages. Lady Chiltern originally adheres to the concept of an \"ideal,\" morally perfect husband and marriage. However, her dream is shattered and she comes to terms with the reality of human faults. Interestingly, Lord Goring and Mabel have no foolish ideas about marriage and perfection, and when Lord Caversham offers his hope that his son will be an ideal husband, Mabel counters that she would rather him be a real husband. With this quick acceptance and demonstrated love of each other's faults, the reader clearly sees the mistake in Lady Chiltern's original expectations of perfection. Throughout the play, Mabel and Lord Goring have both vocally objected to the expectations society forces upon them, and balk at the notions of duty and respectability. Thus, their natural ease in entering a happy and tension free marriage seems to connote such disregard for the affectations of proper social behavior. It seems Wilde does not believe in the possibility of perfection, moral or otherwise, and believes those who accept their imperfections and avoid false affectation lead richer and more satisfying lives."}

FOURTH ACT SCENE _Same as Act II_. [LORD GORING _is standing by the fireplace with his hands in his pockets_. _He is looking rather bored_.] LORD GORING. [_Pulls out his watch_, _inspects it_, _and rings the bell_.] It is a great nuisance. I can't find any one in this house to talk to. And I am full of interesting information. I feel like the latest edition of something or other. [_Enter servant_.] JAMES. Sir Robert is still at the Foreign Office, my lord. LORD GORING. Lady Chiltern not down yet? JAMES. Her ladyship has not yet left her room. Miss Chiltern has just come in from riding. LORD GORING. [_To himself_.] Ah! that is something. JAMES. Lord Caversham has been waiting some time in the library for Sir Robert. I told him your lordship was here. LORD GORING. Thank you! Would you kindly tell him I've gone? JAMES. [_Bowing_.] I shall do so, my lord. [_Exit servant_.] LORD GORING. Really, I don't want to meet my father three days running. It is a great deal too much excitement for any son. I hope to goodness he won't come up. Fathers should be neither seen nor heard. That is the only proper basis for family life. Mothers are different. Mothers are darlings. [_Throws himself down into a chair_, _picks up a paper and begins to read it_.] [_Enter_ LORD CAVERSHAM.] LORD CAVERSHAM. Well, sir, what are you doing here? Wasting your time as usual, I suppose? LORD GORING. [_Throws down paper and rises_.] My dear father, when one pays a visit it is for the purpose of wasting other people's time, not one's own. LORD CAVERSHAM. Have you been thinking over what I spoke to you about last night? LORD GORING. I have been thinking about nothing else. LORD CAVERSHAM. Engaged to be married yet? LORD GORING. [_Genially_.] Not yet: but I hope to be before lunch-time. LORD CAVERSHAM. [_Caustically_.] You can have till dinner-time if it would be of any convenience to you. LORD GORING. Thanks awfully, but I think I'd sooner be engaged before lunch. LORD CAVERSHAM. Humph! Never know when you are serious or not. LORD GORING. Neither do I, father. [_A pause_.] LORD CAVERSHAM. I suppose you have read _The Times_ this morning? LORD GORING. [_Airily_.] The Times? Certainly not. I only read _The Morning Post_. All that one should know about modern life is where the Duchesses are; anything else is quite demoralising. LORD CAVERSHAM. Do you mean to say you have not read _The Times_ leading article on Robert Chiltern's career? LORD GORING. Good heavens! No. What does it say? LORD CAVERSHAM. What should it say, sir? Everything complimentary, of course. Chiltern's speech last night on this Argentine Canal scheme was one of the finest pieces of oratory ever delivered in the House since Canning. LORD GORING. Ah! Never heard of Canning. Never wanted to. And did . . . did Chiltern uphold the scheme? LORD CAVERSHAM. Uphold it, sir? How little you know him! Why, he denounced it roundly, and the whole system of modern political finance. This speech is the turning-point in his career, as _The Times_ points out. You should read this article, sir. [_Opens_ The Times.] 'Sir Robert Chiltern . . . most rising of our young statesmen . . . Brilliant orator . . . Unblemished career . . . Well-known integrity of character . . . Represents what is best in English public life . . . Noble contrast to the lax morality so common among foreign politicians.' They will never say that of you, sir. LORD GORING. I sincerely hope not, father. However, I am delighted at what you tell me about Robert, thoroughly delighted. It shows he has got pluck. LORD CAVERSHAM. He has got more than pluck, sir, he has got genius. LORD GORING. Ah! I prefer pluck. It is not so common, nowadays, as genius is. LORD CAVERSHAM. I wish you would go into Parliament. LORD GORING. My dear father, only people who look dull ever get into the House of Commons, and only people who are dull ever succeed there. LORD CAVERSHAM. Why don't you try to do something useful in life? LORD GORING. I am far too young. LORD CAVERSHAM. [_Testily_.] I hate this affectation of youth, sir. It is a great deal too prevalent nowadays. LORD GORING. Youth isn't an affectation. Youth is an art. LORD CAVERSHAM. Why don't you propose to that pretty Miss Chiltern? LORD GORING. I am of a very nervous disposition, especially in the morning. LORD CAVERSHAM. I don't suppose there is the smallest chance of her accepting you. LORD GORING. I don't know how the betting stands to-day. LORD CAVERSHAM. If she did accept you she would be the prettiest fool in England. LORD GORING. That is just what I should like to marry. A thoroughly sensible wife would reduce me to a condition of absolute idiocy in less than six months. LORD CAVERSHAM. You don't deserve her, sir. LORD GORING. My dear father, if we men married the women we deserved, we should have a very bad time of it. [_Enter_ MABEL CHILTERN.] MABEL CHILTERN. Oh! . . . How do you do, Lord Caversham? I hope Lady Caversham is quite well? LORD CAVERSHAM. Lady Caversham is as usual, as usual. LORD GORING. Good morning, Miss Mabel! MABEL CHILTERN. [_Taking no notice at all of_ LORD GORING, _and addressing herself exclusively to_ LORD CAVERSHAM.] And Lady Caversham's bonnets . . . are they at all better? LORD CAVERSHAM. They have had a serious relapse, I am sorry to say. LORD GORING. Good morning, Miss Mabel! MABEL CHILTERN. [_To_ LORD CAVERSHAM.] I hope an operation will not be necessary. LORD CAVERSHAM. [_Smiling at her pertness_.] If it is, we shall have to give Lady Caversham a narcotic. Otherwise she would never consent to have a feather touched. LORD GORING. [_With increased emphasis_.] Good morning, Miss Mabel! MABEL CHILTERN. [_Turning round with feigned surprise_.] Oh, are you here? Of course you understand that after your breaking your appointment I am never going to speak to you again. LORD GORING. Oh, please don't say such a thing. You are the one person in London I really like to have to listen to me. MABEL CHILTERN. Lord Goring, I never believe a single word that either you or I say to each other. LORD CAVERSHAM. You are quite right, my dear, quite right . . . as far as he is concerned, I mean. MABEL CHILTERN. Do you think you could possibly make your son behave a little better occasionally? Just as a change. LORD CAVERSHAM. I regret to say, Miss Chiltern, that I have no influence at all over my son. I wish I had. If I had, I know what I would make him do. MABEL CHILTERN. I am afraid that he has one of those terribly weak natures that are not susceptible to influence. LORD CAVERSHAM. He is very heartless, very heartless. LORD GORING. It seems to me that I am a little in the way here. MABEL CHILTERN. It is very good for you to be in the way, and to know what people say of you behind your back. LORD GORING. I don't at all like knowing what people say of me behind my back. It makes me far too conceited. LORD CAVERSHAM. After that, my dear, I really must bid you good morning. MABEL CHILTERN. Oh! I hope you are not going to leave me all alone with Lord Goring? Especially at such an early hour in the day. LORD CAVERSHAM. I am afraid I can't take him with me to Downing Street. It is not the Prime Minster's day for seeing the unemployed. [_Shakes hands with_ MABEL CHILTERN, _takes up his hat and stick_, _and goes out_, _with a parting glare of indignation at_ LORD GORING.] MABEL CHILTERN. [_Takes up roses and begins to arrange them in a bowl on the table_.] People who don't keep their appointments in the Park are horrid. LORD GORING. Detestable. MABEL CHILTERN. I am glad you admit it. But I wish you wouldn't look so pleased about it. LORD GORING. I can't help it. I always look pleased when I am with you. MABEL CHILTERN. [_Sadly_.] Then I suppose it is my duty to remain with you? LORD GORING. Of course it is. MABEL CHILTERN. Well, my duty is a thing I never do, on principle. It always depresses me. So I am afraid I must leave you. LORD GORING. Please don't, Miss Mabel. I have something very particular to say to you. MABEL CHILTERN. [_Rapturously_.] Oh! is it a proposal? LORD GORING. [_Somewhat taken aback_.] Well, yes, it is--I am bound to say it is. MABEL CHILTERN. [_With a sigh of pleasure_.] I am so glad. That makes the second to-day. LORD GORING. [_Indignantly_.] The second to-day? What conceited ass has been impertinent enough to dare to propose to you before I had proposed to you? MABEL CHILTERN. Tommy Trafford, of course. It is one of Tommy's days for proposing. He always proposes on Tuesdays and Thursdays, during the Season. LORD GORING. You didn't accept him, I hope? MABEL CHILTERN. I make it a rule never to accept Tommy. That is why he goes on proposing. Of course, as you didn't turn up this morning, I very nearly said yes. It would have been an excellent lesson both for him and for you if I had. It would have taught you both better manners. LORD GORING. Oh! bother Tommy Trafford. Tommy is a silly little ass. I love you. MABEL CHILTERN. I know. And I think you might have mentioned it before. I am sure I have given you heaps of opportunities. LORD GORING. Mabel, do be serious. Please be serious. MABEL CHILTERN. Ah! that is the sort of thing a man always says to a girl before he has been married to her. He never says it afterwards. LORD GORING. [_Taking hold of her hand_.] Mabel, I have told you that I love you. Can't you love me a little in return? MABEL CHILTERN. You silly Arthur! If you knew anything about . . . anything, which you don't, you would know that I adore you. Every one in London knows it except you. It is a public scandal the way I adore you. I have been going about for the last six months telling the whole of society that I adore you. I wonder you consent to have anything to say to me. I have no character left at all. At least, I feel so happy that I am quite sure I have no character left at all. LORD GORING. [_Catches her in his arms and kisses her_. _Then there is a pause of bliss_.] Dear! Do you know I was awfully afraid of being refused! MABEL CHILTERN. [_Looking up at him_.] But you never have been refused yet by anybody, have you, Arthur? I can't imagine any one refusing you. LORD GORING. [_After kissing her again_.] Of course I'm not nearly good enough for you, Mabel. MABEL CHILTERN. [_Nestling close to him_.] I am so glad, darling. I was afraid you were. LORD GORING. [_After some hesitation_.] And I'm . . . I'm a little over thirty. MABEL CHILTERN. Dear, you look weeks younger than that. LORD GORING. [_Enthusiastically_.] How sweet of you to say so! . . . And it is only fair to tell you frankly that I am fearfully extravagant. MABEL CHILTERN. But so am I, Arthur. So we're sure to agree. And now I must go and see Gertrude. LORD GORING. Must you really? [_Kisses her_.] MABEL CHILTERN. Yes. LORD GORING. Then do tell her I want to talk to her particularly. I have been waiting here all the morning to see either her or Robert. MABEL CHILTERN. Do you mean to say you didn't come here expressly to propose to me? LORD GORING. [_Triumphantly_.] No; that was a flash of genius. MABEL CHILTERN. Your first. LORD GORING. [_With determination_.] My last. MABEL CHILTERN. I am delighted to hear it. Now don't stir. I'll be back in five minutes. And don't fall into any temptations while I am away. LORD GORING. Dear Mabel, while you are away, there are none. It makes me horribly dependent on you. [_Enter_ LADY CHILTERN.] LADY CHILTERN. Good morning, dear! How pretty you are looking! MABEL CHILTERN. How pale you are looking, Gertrude! It is most becoming! LADY CHILTERN. Good morning, Lord Goring! LORD GORING. [_Bowing_.] Good morning, Lady Chiltern! MABEL CHILTERN. [_Aside to_ LORD GORING.] I shall be in the conservatory under the second palm tree on the left. LORD GORING. Second on the left? MABEL CHILTERN. [_With a look of mock surprise_.] Yes; the usual palm tree. [_Blows a kiss to him_, _unobserved by_ LADY CHILTERN, _and goes out_.] LORD GORING. Lady Chiltern, I have a certain amount of very good news to tell you. Mrs. Cheveley gave me up Robert's letter last night, and I burned it. Robert is safe. LADY CHILTERN. [_Sinking on the sofa_.] Safe! Oh! I am so glad of that. What a good friend you are to him--to us! LORD GORING. There is only one person now that could be said to be in any danger. LADY CHILTERN. Who is that? LORD GORING. [_Sitting down beside her_.] Yourself. LADY CHILTERN. I? In danger? What do you mean? LORD GORING. Danger is too great a word. It is a word I should not have used. But I admit I have something to tell you that may distress you, that terribly distresses me. Yesterday evening you wrote me a very beautiful, womanly letter, asking me for my help. You wrote to me as one of your oldest friends, one of your husband's oldest friends. Mrs. Cheveley stole that letter from my rooms. LADY CHILTERN. Well, what use is it to her? Why should she not have it? LORD GORING. [_Rising_.] Lady Chiltern, I will be quite frank with you. Mrs. Cheveley puts a certain construction on that letter and proposes to send it to your husband. LADY CHILTERN. But what construction could she put on it? . . . Oh! not that! not that! If I in--in trouble, and wanting your help, trusting you, propose to come to you . . . that you may advise me . . . assist me . . . Oh! are there women so horrible as that . . .? And she proposes to send it to my husband? Tell me what happened. Tell me all that happened. LORD GORING. Mrs. Cheveley was concealed in a room adjoining my library, without my knowledge. I thought that the person who was waiting in that room to see me was yourself. Robert came in unexpectedly. A chair or something fell in the room. He forced his way in, and he discovered her. We had a terrible scene. I still thought it was you. He left me in anger. At the end of everything Mrs. Cheveley got possession of your letter--she stole it, when or how, I don't know. LADY CHILTERN. At what hour did this happen? LORD GORING. At half-past ten. And now I propose that we tell Robert the whole thing at once. LADY CHILTERN. [_Looking at him with amazement that is almost terror_.] You want me to tell Robert that the woman you expected was not Mrs. Cheveley, but myself? That it was I whom you thought was concealed in a room in your house, at half-past ten o'clock at night? You want me to tell him that? LORD GORING. I think it is better that he should know the exact truth. LADY CHILTERN. [_Rising_.] Oh, I couldn't, I couldn't! LORD GORING. May I do it? LADY CHILTERN. No. LORD GORING. [_Gravely_.] You are wrong, Lady Chiltern. LADY CHILTERN. No. The letter must be intercepted. That is all. But how can I do it? Letters arrive for him every moment of the day. His secretaries open them and hand them to him. I dare not ask the servants to bring me his letters. It would be impossible. Oh! why don't you tell me what to do? LORD GORING. Pray be calm, Lady Chiltern, and answer the questions I am going to put to you. You said his secretaries open his letters. LADY CHILTERN. Yes. LORD GORING. Who is with him to-day? Mr. Trafford, isn't it? LADY CHILTERN. No. Mr. Montford, I think. LORD GORING. You can trust him? LADY CHILTERN. [_With a gesture of despair_.] Oh! how do I know? LORD GORING. He would do what you asked him, wouldn't he? LADY CHILTERN. I think so. LORD GORING. Your letter was on pink paper. He could recognise it without reading it, couldn't he? By the colour? LADY CHILTERN. I suppose so. LORD GORING. Is he in the house now? LADY CHILTERN. Yes. LORD GORING. Then I will go and see him myself, and tell him that a certain letter, written on pink paper, is to be forwarded to Robert to-day, and that at all costs it must not reach him. [_Goes to the door_, _and opens it_.] Oh! Robert is coming upstairs with the letter in his hand. It has reached him already. LADY CHILTERN. [_With a cry of pain_.] Oh! you have saved his life; what have you done with mine? [_Enter_ SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. _He has the letter in his hand_, _and is reading it_. _He comes towards his wife_, _not noticing_ LORD GORING'S _presence_.] SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. 'I want you. I trust you. I am coming to you. Gertrude.' Oh, my love! Is this true? Do you indeed trust me, and want me? If so, it was for me to come to you, not for you to write of coming to me. This letter of yours, Gertrude, makes me feel that nothing that the world may do can hurt me now. You want me, Gertrude? [LORD GORING, _unseen by_ SIR ROBERT CHILTERN, _makes an imploring sign to_ LADY CHILTERN _to accept the situation and_ SIR ROBERT'S _error_.] LADY CHILTERN. Yes. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. You trust me, Gertrude? LADY CHILTERN. Yes. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Ah! why did you not add you loved me? LADY CHILTERN. [_Taking his hand_.] Because I loved you. [LORD GORING _passes into the conservatory_.] SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Kisses her_.] Gertrude, you don't know what I feel. When Montford passed me your letter across the table--he had opened it by mistake, I suppose, without looking at the handwriting on the envelope--and I read it--oh! I did not care what disgrace or punishment was in store for me, I only thought you loved me still. LADY CHILTERN. There is no disgrace in store for you, nor any public shame. Mrs. Cheveley has handed over to Lord Goring the document that was in her possession, and he has destroyed it. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Are you sure of this, Gertrude? LADY CHILTERN. Yes; Lord Goring has just told me. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Then I am safe! Oh! what a wonderful thing to be safe! For two days I have been in terror. I am safe now. How did Arthur destroy my letter? Tell me. LADY CHILTERN. He burned it. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I wish I had seen that one sin of my youth burning to ashes. How many men there are in modern life who would like to see their past burning to white ashes before them! Is Arthur still here? LADY CHILTERN. Yes; he is in the conservatory. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I am so glad now I made that speech last night in the House, so glad. I made it thinking that public disgrace might be the result. But it has not been so. LADY CHILTERN. Public honour has been the result. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I think so. I fear so, almost. For although I am safe from detection, although every proof against me is destroyed, I suppose, Gertrude . . . I suppose I should retire from public life? [_He looks anxiously at his wife_.] LADY CHILTERN. [_Eagerly_.] Oh yes, Robert, you should do that. It is your duty to do that. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. It is much to surrender. LADY CHILTERN. No; it will be much to gain. [SIR ROBERT CHILTERN _walks up and down the room with a troubled expression_. _Then comes over to his wife_, _and puts his hand on her shoulder_.] SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. And you would be happy living somewhere alone with me, abroad perhaps, or in the country away from London, away from public life? You would have no regrets? LADY CHILTERN. Oh! none, Robert. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Sadly_.] And your ambition for me? You used to be ambitious for me. LADY CHILTERN. Oh, my ambition! I have none now, but that we two may love each other. It was your ambition that led you astray. Let us not talk about ambition. [LORD GORING _returns from the conservatory_, _looking very pleased with himself_, _and with an entirely new buttonhole that some one has made for him_.] SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Going towards him_.] Arthur, I have to thank you for what you have done for me. I don't know how I can repay you. [_Shakes hands with him_.] LORD GORING. My dear fellow, I'll tell you at once. At the present moment, under the usual palm tree . . . I mean in the conservatory . . . [_Enter_ MASON.] MASON. Lord Caversham. LORD GORING. That admirable father of mine really makes a habit of turning up at the wrong moment. It is very heartless of him, very heartless indeed. [_Enter_ LORD CAVERSHAM. MASON _goes out_.] LORD CAVERSHAM. Good morning, Lady Chiltern! Warmest congratulations to you, Chiltern, on your brilliant speech last night. I have just left the Prime Minister, and you are to have the vacant seat in the Cabinet. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_With a look of joy and triumph_.] A seat in the Cabinet? LORD CAVERSHAM. Yes; here is the Prime Minister's letter. [_Hands letter_.] SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Takes letter and reads it_.] A seat in the Cabinet! LORD CAVERSHAM. Certainly, and you well deserve it too. You have got what we want so much in political life nowadays--high character, high moral tone, high principles. [_To_ LORD GORING.] Everything that you have not got, sir, and never will have. LORD GORING. I don't like principles, father. I prefer prejudices. [SIR ROBERT CHILTERN _is on the brink of accepting the Prime Minister's offer_, _when he sees wife looking at him with her clear_, _candid eyes_. _He then realises that it is impossible_.] SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I cannot accept this offer, Lord Caversham. I have made up my mind to decline it. LORD CAVERSHAM. Decline it, sir! SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. My intention is to retire at once from public life. LORD CAVERSHAM. [_Angrily_.] Decline a seat in the Cabinet, and retire from public life? Never heard such damned nonsense in the whole course of my existence. I beg your pardon, Lady Chiltern. Chiltern, I beg your pardon. [_To_ LORD GORING.] Don't grin like that, sir. LORD GORING. No, father. LORD CAVERSHAM. Lady Chiltern, you are a sensible woman, the most sensible woman in London, the most sensible woman I know. Will you kindly prevent your husband from making such a . . . from taking such . . . Will you kindly do that, Lady Chiltern? LADY CHILTERN. I think my husband in right in his determination, Lord Caversham. I approve of it. LORD CAVERSHAM. You approve of it? Good heavens! LADY CHILTERN. [_Taking her husband's hand_.] I admire him for it. I admire him immensely for it. I have never admired him so much before. He is finer than even I thought him. [_To_ SIR ROBERT CHILTERN.] You will go and write your letter to the Prime Minister now, won't you? Don't hesitate about it, Robert. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_With a touch of bitterness_.] I suppose I had better write it at once. Such offers are not repeated. I will ask you to excuse me for a moment, Lord Caversham. LADY CHILTERN. I may come with you, Robert, may I not? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Yes, Gertrude. [LADY CHILTERN _goes out with him_.] LORD CAVERSHAM. What is the matter with this family? Something wrong here, eh? [_Tapping his forehead_.] Idiocy? Hereditary, I suppose. Both of them, too. Wife as well as husband. Very sad. Very sad indeed! And they are not an old family. Can't understand it. LORD GORING. It is not idiocy, father, I assure you. LORD CAVERSHAM. What is it then, sir? LORD GORING. [_After some hesitation_.] Well, it is what is called nowadays a high moral tone, father. That is all. LORD CAVERSHAM. Hate these new-fangled names. Same thing as we used to call idiocy fifty years ago. Shan't stay in this house any longer. LORD GORING. [_Taking his arm_.] Oh! just go in here for a moment, father. Third palm tree to the left, the usual palm tree. LORD CAVERSHAM. What, sir? LORD GORING. I beg your pardon, father, I forgot. The conservatory, father, the conservatory--there is some one there I want you to talk to. LORD CAVERSHAM. What about, sir? LORD GORING. About me, father, LORD CAVERSHAM. [_Grimly_.] Not a subject on which much eloquence is possible. LORD GORING. No, father; but the lady is like me. She doesn't care much for eloquence in others. She thinks it a little loud. [LORD CAVERSHAM _goes out into the conservatory_. LADY CHILTERN _enters_.] LORD GORING. Lady Chiltern, why are you playing Mrs. Cheveley's cards? LADY CHILTERN. [_Startled_.] I don't understand you. LORD GORING. Mrs. Cheveley made an attempt to ruin your husband. Either to drive him from public life, or to make him adopt a dishonourable position. From the latter tragedy you saved him. The former you are now thrusting on him. Why should you do him the wrong Mrs. Cheveley tried to do and failed? LADY CHILTERN. Lord Goring? LORD GORING. [_Pulling himself together for a great effort_, _and showing the philosopher that underlies the dandy_.] Lady Chiltern, allow me. You wrote me a letter last night in which you said you trusted me and wanted my help. Now is the moment when you really want my help, now is the time when you have got to trust me, to trust in my counsel and judgment. You love Robert. Do you want to kill his love for you? What sort of existence will he have if you rob him of the fruits of his ambition, if you take him from the splendour of a great political career, if you close the doors of public life against him, if you condemn him to sterile failure, he who was made for triumph and success? Women are not meant to judge us, but to forgive us when we need forgiveness. Pardon, not punishment, is their mission. Why should you scourge him with rods for a sin done in his youth, before he knew you, before he knew himself? A man's life is of more value than a woman's. It has larger issues, wider scope, greater ambitions. A woman's life revolves in curves of emotions. It is upon lines of intellect that a man's life progresses. Don't make any terrible mistake, Lady Chiltern. A woman who can keep a man's love, and love him in return, has done all the world wants of women, or should want of them. LADY CHILTERN. [_Troubled and hesitating_.] But it is my husband himself who wishes to retire from public life. He feels it is his duty. It was he who first said so. LORD GORING. Rather than lose your love, Robert would do anything, wreck his whole career, as he is on the brink of doing now. He is making for you a terrible sacrifice. Take my advice, Lady Chiltern, and do not accept a sacrifice so great. If you do, you will live to repent it bitterly. We men and women are not made to accept such sacrifices from each other. We are not worthy of them. Besides, Robert has been punished enough. LADY CHILTERN. We have both been punished. I set him up too high. LORD GORING. [_With deep feeling in his voice_.] Do not for that reason set him down now too low. If he has fallen from his altar, do not thrust him into the mire. Failure to Robert would be the very mire of shame. Power is his passion. He would lose everything, even his power to feel love. Your husband's life is at this moment in your hands, your husband's love is in your hands. Don't mar both for him. [_Enter_ SIR ROBERT CHILTERN.] SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Gertrude, here is the draft of my letter. Shall I read it to you? LADY CHILTERN. Let me see it. [SIR ROBERT _hands her the letter_. _She reads it_, _and then_, _with a gesture of passion_, _tears it up_.] SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. What are you doing? LADY CHILTERN. A man's life is of more value than a woman's. It has larger issues, wider scope, greater ambitions. Our lives revolve in curves of emotions. It is upon lines of intellect that a man's life progresses. I have just learnt this, and much else with it, from Lord Goring. And I will not spoil your life for you, nor see you spoil it as a sacrifice to me, a useless sacrifice! SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Gertrude! Gertrude! LADY CHILTERN. You can forget. Men easily forget. And I forgive. That is how women help the world. I see that now. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Deeply overcome by emotion_, _embraces her_.] My wife! my wife! [_To_ LORD GORING.] Arthur, it seems that I am always to be in your debt. LORD GORING. Oh dear no, Robert. Your debt is to Lady Chiltern, not to me! SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I owe you much. And now tell me what you were going to ask me just now as Lord Caversham came in. LORD GORING. Robert, you are your sister's guardian, and I want your consent to my marriage with her. That is all. LADY CHILTERN. Oh, I am so glad! I am so glad! [_Shakes hands with_ LORD GORING.] LORD GORING. Thank you, Lady Chiltern. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_With a troubled look_.] My sister to be your wife? LORD GORING. Yes. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Speaking with great firmness_.] Arthur, I am very sorry, but the thing is quite out of the question. I have to think of Mabel's future happiness. And I don't think her happiness would be safe in your hands. And I cannot have her sacrificed! LORD GORING. Sacrificed! SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Yes, utterly sacrificed. Loveless marriages are horrible. But there is one thing worse than an absolutely loveless marriage. A marriage in which there is love, but on one side only; faith, but on one side only; devotion, but on one side only, and in which of the two hearts one is sure to be broken. LORD GORING. But I love Mabel. No other woman has any place in my life. LADY CHILTERN. Robert, if they love each other, why should they not be married? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Arthur cannot bring Mabel the love that she deserves. LORD GORING. What reason have you for saying that? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_After a pause_.] Do you really require me to tell you? LORD GORING. Certainly I do. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. As you choose. When I called on you yesterday evening I found Mrs. Cheveley concealed in your rooms. It was between ten and eleven o'clock at night. I do not wish to say anything more. Your relations with Mrs. Cheveley have, as I said to you last night, nothing whatsoever to do with me. I know you were engaged to be married to her once. The fascination she exercised over you then seems to have returned. You spoke to me last night of her as of a woman pure and stainless, a woman whom you respected and honoured. That may be so. But I cannot give my sister's life into your hands. It would be wrong of me. It would be unjust, infamously unjust to her. LORD GORING. I have nothing more to say. LADY CHILTERN. Robert, it was not Mrs. Cheveley whom Lord Goring expected last night. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Not Mrs. Cheveley! Who was it then? LORD GORING. Lady Chiltern! LADY CHILTERN. It was your own wife. Robert, yesterday afternoon Lord Goring told me that if ever I was in trouble I could come to him for help, as he was our oldest and best friend. Later on, after that terrible scene in this room, I wrote to him telling him that I trusted him, that I had need of him, that I was coming to him for help and advice. [SIR ROBERT CHILTERN _takes the letter out of his pocket_.] Yes, that letter. I didn't go to Lord Goring's, after all. I felt that it is from ourselves alone that help can come. Pride made me think that. Mrs. Cheveley went. She stole my letter and sent it anonymously to you this morning, that you should think . . . Oh! Robert, I cannot tell you what she wished you to think. . . . SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. What! Had I fallen so low in your eyes that you thought that even for a moment I could have doubted your goodness? Gertrude, Gertrude, you are to me the white image of all good things, and sin can never touch you. Arthur, you can go to Mabel, and you have my best wishes! Oh! stop a moment. There is no name at the beginning of this letter. The brilliant Mrs. Cheveley does not seem to have noticed that. There should be a name. LADY CHILTERN. Let me write yours. It is you I trust and need. You and none else. LORD GORING. Well, really, Lady Chiltern, I think I should have back my own letter. LADY CHILTERN. [_Smiling_.] No; you shall have Mabel. [_Takes the letter and writes her husband's name on it_.] LORD GORING. Well, I hope she hasn't changed her mind. It's nearly twenty minutes since I saw her last. [_Enter_ MABEL CHILTERN _and_ LORD CAVERSHAM.] MABEL CHILTERN. Lord Goring, I think your father's conversation much more improving than yours. I am only going to talk to Lord Caversham in the future, and always under the usual palm tree. LORD GORING. Darling! [_Kisses her_.] LORD CAVERSHAM. [_Considerably taken aback_.] What does this mean, sir? You don't mean to say that this charming, clever young lady has been so foolish as to accept you? LORD GORING. Certainly, father! And Chiltern's been wise enough to accept the seat in the Cabinet. LORD CAVERSHAM. I am very glad to hear that, Chiltern . . . I congratulate you, sir. If the country doesn't go to the dogs or the Radicals, we shall have you Prime Minister, some day. [_Enter_ MASON.] MASON. Luncheon is on the table, my Lady! [MASON _goes out_.] MABEL CHILTERN. You'll stop to luncheon, Lord Caversham, won't you? LORD CAVERSHAM. With pleasure, and I'll drive you down to Downing Street afterwards, Chiltern. You have a great future before you, a great future. Wish I could say the same for you, sir. [_To_ LORD GORING.] But your career will have to be entirely domestic. LORD GORING. Yes, father, I prefer it domestic. LORD CAVERSHAM. And if you don't make this young lady an ideal husband, I'll cut you off with a shilling. MABEL CHILTERN. An ideal husband! Oh, I don't think I should like that. It sounds like something in the next world. LORD CAVERSHAM. What do you want him to be then, dear? MABEL CHILTERN. He can be what he chooses. All I want is to be . . . to be . . . oh! a real wife to him. LORD CAVERSHAM. Upon my word, there is a good deal of common sense in that, Lady Chiltern. [_They all go out except_ SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. _He sinks in a chair_, _wrapt in thought_. _After a little time_ LADY CHILTERN _returns to look for him_.] LADY CHILTERN. [_Leaning over the back of the chair_.] Aren't you coming in, Robert? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Taking her hand_.] Gertrude, is it love you feel for me, or is it pity merely? LADY CHILTERN. [_Kisses him_.] It is love, Robert. Love, and only love. For both of us a new life is beginning. CURTAIN * * * * *

Act IV

https://web.archive.org/web/20180409031947/http://www.gradesaver.com/an-ideal-husband/study-guide/summary-act-iv

The scene is the same as the opening of Act II. Lord Goring stands in front of the fireplace in Sir Robert's morning room. Summoned by a bell, the footman enters and tells Lord Goring Mabel has just returned from riding, Lady Chiltern is elsewhere in the house, and Lord Caversham is waiting for him in the library. Lord Caversham enters and asks his son if he has thought about their discussion of marriage. Lord Goring assures his father he has thought of nothing else, but Caversham, sensing his son's sarcasm, says he can never tell when he is being serious. Lord Goring states he can't tell either. Caversham encourages Goring to propose to Mabel, even though he doubts she would ever accept him. Lord Caversham then tells his son about Sir Robert's rousing speech to Parliament denouncing the Argentine Canal scheme, which the newspapers are praising as a turning point in his already excellent career. Mabel enters and chats with Lord Caversham, ignoring Lord Goring as punishment for standing her up for their riding appointment. Finally, Mabel acknowledges Lord Goring, only to say she will never speak with him again. Pointedly, Mabel asks Lord Caversham if he can make his son behave more appropriately, but he responds by saying he has no influence over his son. Lord Caversham exists, leaving Mabel and Lord Goring to themselves. Mabel says people who fail to keep appointments in the park are horrid, and Lord Goring agrees. However, he tells her she must remain with him, because in her presence he cannot help but feel pleased. He then tells her has something to say and asks her to be serious for once. He declares his love and asks if she can love him in return, thus proposing marriage. Mabel quickly replies that she thinks it silly that he does not know how much she loves him, especially since the rest of London knows it. They kiss, and he tells her he was afraid of being refused. Lady Chiltern enters and greets the couple before Mabel exits to wait for Lord Goring in the conservatory. Lord Goring tells Lady Chiltern he has obtained the letter from Mrs. Cheveley and burned it, and thus Robert is safe. With great relief, Lady Chiltern tells him how good a friend he has been to them. Lord Goring reveals that Mrs. Cheveley stole the letter Lady Chiltern had sent him and plans to send it to Sir Robert to "reveal" a non-existent affair. Lord Goring wants to tell Sir Robert the entire story to clear everything up, but Lady Chiltern forbids him to. They devise a plan to have Tommy Trafford intercept the letter before it reaches Sir Robert, but as Lord Goring moves to go speak to the secretary, he sees Sir Robert coming up the stairs with the letter in his hand. Sir Robert enters and makes it clear he believes his wife wrote the letter to him. He shows pure joy that she needs him and wants him. He asks her to verify the truth of the letter, and with the urging of a pointed look from Goring, Lady Chiltern says she does indeed trust him. Lord Goring exits to the conservatory. Lady Chiltern then tells Sir Robert he is safe from the threat of Mrs. Cheveley, and relates how Lord Goring burned the letter. He proclaims how wonderful it is to see this one sin of his youth disappear and asks her if he should retire from public life. She suggests he should, but he fears he will surrender much by retiring. Lady Chiltern argues that rather than losing, he will gain much from this noble decision. Sir Robert approaches Lord Goring and thanks him profusely for his help. Lord Caversham enters, congratulates Sir Robert on his brilliant speech and "high moral tone", and tells him the Prime Minister is hoping Sir Robert will fill his vacant seat in the cabinet. Sir Robert looks proud and triumphant, but after meeting eyes with his wife, he realizes he cannot take the offer. Sir Robert reveals to Lord Caversham that he plans to retire from public life and therefore must decline the offer. Lord Caversham is shocked and urges Lady Chiltern to convince her husband otherwise. She tells him she agrees with his decision and admires him for it. The two leave together, with Sir Robert looking rather bitter on his way to write his regrets to the Prime Minister. Lord Caversham calls their behavior idiocy, while his son believes is an example of "high moral tone". Ironically, Caversham claims he does not understand such a "newfangled phrase". Lord Goring persuades his father to go to the conservatory where Mabel is waiting. Lord Caversham exits, and Lady Chiltern enters the room. Lord Goring asks her why she is following Mrs. Cheveley's example in trying to ruin her husband's career potential. At first she does not understand, but Goring explains that Gertrude is driving her husband out of public life by urging him to decline the vacant cabinet seat. He tells her that women are meant to forgive men, not judge them, and that by robbing him of his ambition she will eventually kill his love for her. She responds that Sir Robert wishes to retire from public life, but Lord Goring points out that Sir Robert will do anything to keep Lady Chiltern's love. However, the sacrifice he is about to make is one she should not ask of him. She ponders all that has been said, and finally agrees she has placed him on too high of an altar. Sir Robert enters and hands Lady Chiltern the letter prepared for the Prime Minister, turning down the cabinet seat. She reads it and then tears it up, repeating much of Lord Goring's words regarding the appropriate roles of men and women, and her refusal to allow him to sacrifice and spoil his life. Gertrude says she can forgive Sir Robert, and that she finally sees that forgiveness is how women help the world. Sir Robert embraces his wife, and thanks Lord Goring. Lord Goring then asks for his sister Mabel's hand in marriage. Sir Robert quickly changes demeanor, based on his belief that Lord Goring is still involved with Mrs. Cheveley. Lady Chiltern finally reveals to Sir Robert that it was she who Lord Goring expected at his house that night, and that the letter Sir Robert received was originally sent to Lord Goring. Upon understanding the complicated situation, Sir Robert immediately forgives his wife, saying she is the image of all good things. He turns to Lord Goring and consents to him marrying Mabel. Mabel and Lord Caversham enter, and Lord Caversham is quite surprised at the engagement. He tells his son that he had better make an ideal husband, but Mabel counters she does not need an ideal husband. Rather, she merely wants to be a real wife to him. Lord Caversham agrees there is much common sense in that. He is very happy to hear Sir Robert has agreed to take the cabinet seat, and they all leave to have lunch. Sir Robert hangs back and asks his wife if it is merely pity, instead of love, that she feels for him. She responds that it is all love, and assures him their life together is beginning anew.

The complex action in this final portion of the play is quite notable. In addition to the confusion surrounding the note Lady Chiltern originally sent to Lord Goring, that Mrs. Cheveley then forwarded in malice to Sir Robert, and that finally unites Sir Robert and Gertrude, there are a variety of stolen conversations and entrances and exits that allow every aspect of the character's lives to find resolution. Clearly, the letter is a very important tool. It represents Lady Chiltern's love for her husband. Originally, she wrote that she needed and wanted Lord Goring, but only so she could speak with him about her troubled marriage, to which she held so dear. Re-sent to Sir Robert, the letter takes on new meaning, and with Lady Chiltern's revelation that she has in fact held her husband on too high of a pedestal, the statements inscribed in it apply directly to him. Thus, the letter seals their renewed love, and represents their bright future together. The political thread in the play continues in Act IV. Ironically, the newspapers praise Sir Robert for his integrity, as they know nothing of the moral failure that almost caused his downfall. Lord Caversham tells Lord Goring the papers will never say anything like that about him, although in reality, Lord Goring seems to have lived with more integrity that Sir Robert. Lord Goring does not espouse a very high view of the House of Commons, and he certainly wants to avoid any involvement with a political life, yet his somewhat out of touch father and his morally failing friend are steeped in it. Thus, Wilde reveals his cynical views on the subject through Lord Goring, the character that mirrors him most. In this same vein of public information, it is worth noting the power of the press in the play. Wilde understood the power of newspapers to make or doom a public figure. He promoted his own career through the media, and watched it ruin Parnell, a Scottish politician of the time who found great success and then was brought down through public scandals. One newspaper article brings Sir Robert public glory. Lord Goring, again a voice of Wilde himself, observes the irony, noting he certainly hopes the newspapers never discuss him in such terms. For the first three acts, the media was a threat to Sir Robert, and now it is a boost to his career. The beginning of Act IV focuses on the separation between public and private information, and again, information is all-powerful. Sir Robert escapes his past because the public has no information about his corruption. Political corruption is only a problem to Sir Robert if it might possibly become known to the world. When he discovers Lord Goring has destroyed the corrupt letter, he rejoices. His own knowledge of his mistake does not haunt him, only the public disgrace it might cause. Even Lady Chiltern softens her staunch moral views after Sir Robert's name is protected from harm. Corruption only gets punished when it becomes a public matter, making political sense not a matter of principles, but rather of gamesmanship. Wilde criticizes the hypocritical society that condones this system of belief. As Lord Goring refuses a career in politics, he refers to his youth as preventing him from taking on such serious responsibility. Goring sees youth as an art form, one with imperfections, but also breathtaking beauty. Goring wishes to live in a youthful world for as long as possible. In contrast, Sir Robert thinks of his youth as a reminder of his moral corruption and therefore tries to separate himself from it. Throughout the play, it would seem Wilde's perspective aligns more with Goring's, as he likens all the major characters to pieces of art. The small reference to art in this final act suggests that he continues to sculpt the characters throughout, and wants the reader to be aware of this process of creation. In this play, as the artist, Wilde promotes love over all other social forces, such as wealth or social status, as the key ingredient to happiness. In the end, Lord Goring, Mabel, Lady Chiltern, Sir Robert, and even Lord Caversham, are all pleased with the way things have turned out, and as with the opening scene, the tapestry of Boucher's "Triumph of Love" shines brightly in the final moments of the play. Love and marriage triumph, and the roles of women and men in these aspects of life are defined clearly. Lord Goring fears a sensible wife will reduce him to idiocy very rapidly, but in advocating a sensible wife, Lord Caversham implies that a woman in touch with common social values, such as proper marriage, earns a respectable place in society. Lord Goring appears to take a cynical view of these notions, but also in a serious conversation with Lady Chiltern, argues that it is a woman's place to support her husband and forgive him for his faults. In fact, Lord Goring goes so far as to state a woman's life consists of "curves of emotion" and a man's consists of "lines of intellect". Moreover, he ironically extols the notion of the "ideal" Victorian woman, one who pardons rather than punishes her husband, and he urges Lady Chiltern to avoid following in Mrs. Cheveley's footsteps by trying to block her husband's success. Up to this point in the play, Lord Goring is a voice of moderate reason, but he disappoints the modern reader with this support of classic Victorian womanhood. In Goring's eyes, it appears women are inferior and should play supporting roles in their marriages. Lady Chiltern originally adheres to the concept of an "ideal," morally perfect husband and marriage. However, her dream is shattered and she comes to terms with the reality of human faults. Interestingly, Lord Goring and Mabel have no foolish ideas about marriage and perfection, and when Lord Caversham offers his hope that his son will be an ideal husband, Mabel counters that she would rather him be a real husband. With this quick acceptance and demonstrated love of each other's faults, the reader clearly sees the mistake in Lady Chiltern's original expectations of perfection. Throughout the play, Mabel and Lord Goring have both vocally objected to the expectations society forces upon them, and balk at the notions of duty and respectability. Thus, their natural ease in entering a happy and tension free marriage seems to connote such disregard for the affectations of proper social behavior. It seems Wilde does not believe in the possibility of perfection, moral or otherwise, and believes those who accept their imperfections and avoid false affectation lead richer and more satisfying lives.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/885-chapters/act_1.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/An Ideal Husband/section_0_part_0.txt

An Ideal Husband.act 1

act 1

{"name": "Act 1", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201030224859/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/an-ideal-husband/summary/act-1", "summary": "The stage directions tell us we're in a large, brilliantly lit room in posh Grosvenor Square. It's a party. It's Lady Chiltern's house, so she greets the guests. She's 27, beautiful, and deathly serious. The Chilterns are clearly very well off: there's a big chandelier, an antique French tapestry depicting \"The Triumph of Love,\" and a string quartet in the next room. Not bad. Mrs. Marchmont and Lady Basildon are chatting on a sofa about boring parties. Then go into the music-room, joined by the Vicomte de Nanjac. He's wearing a fancy tie. Mason, Robert Chiltern's butler, is announcing guests. Lord Caversham arrives. He's an old aristocrat and politician. Lord Caversham asks if his troublemaker son, Lord Goring, is here yet. Lady Chiltern says no. Mabel Chiltern joins the conversation. She's probably in her late teens or early twenties, and a natural beauty complete with apple cheeks and rosebud lips, that sort of thing. Lord Caversham thinks his son's a slacker, but Mabel begs to differ . Lord Goring rides horses, goes to the opera, eats out a lot, and is really into what he wears. He's actually very busy with all that stuff. Two new ladies arrive on the scene: Lady Markby and Mrs. Cheveley. Lady Markby is a nice middle-aged woman with good lace, say the stage directions. But the real dish is Mrs. Cheveley. She is Done Up. Tall and thin, with bright red hair, bright red lips, and dressed in heliotrope with diamonds. Heliotrope? Think bright purple. Lady Markby introduces this fascinating lady to our hostess, Lady Chiltern. Uh-oh, we smell a fight. Turns out they went to school together and were totally not BFFs. Mrs. Cheveley drops a hint...she's looking forward to meeting Lady Chiltern's husband, whom she's heard a lot about in Vienna. Lady Chiltern is none too cool with that and says they couldn't possibly have anything in common. She leaves the conversation. The Vicomte de Nanjac approaches Mrs. Cheveley, whom he knew in Berlin. They have a little flirt. Sir Robert Chiltern enters and the stage directions give a lot of time to his looks. Your mom would dig this guy - he's 40 but looks younger; he's confident and successful and respected in the House of Commons. His face doesn't quite agree with itself, though; it has a poet's eyes but a businessman's jaw. We sense some inner conflict coming... This dreamboat greets Lady Markby and requests an introduction to Mrs. Cheveley, whose reputation has preceded her. Sir Robert and Mrs. Cheveley proceed to have a banter-fest that covers women, philosophy, modern literature, science, and women again. Mrs. Cheveley confesses that she's in London to ask a favor of him. When she mentions a common acquaintance - Baron Arnheim - Sir Robert reacts with a start. It's not a name he wants to hear. Lord Goring enters, announced by the butler, Mason. The stage directions tell us he is thirty-four but says he's younger. He is a dandy, meaning he pretends that the most important things in life are dressing well, socializing, and being witty. Sir Robert introduces Lord Goring to Mrs. Cheveley. Sure enough, they already know each other. Mrs. Cheveley teases Lord Goring about his perpetual bachelorhood. He kind of hopes she won't be staying long. Mrs. Cheveley exits with Sir Robert, and Lord Goring is freed to talk to Mabel. They flirt. Mabel likes his bad boy image. Lord Goring inquires who on earth invited this Mrs.-Cheveley-in-heliotrope. It was Lady Markby, says Mabel, why? Because he hasn't seen her in years. Mabel gets jealous. The Vicomte de Nanjac interrupts with some nonsense about English ladies and good taste. Apparently on the prowl, he asks to escort Mabel in to the music room. She doesn't want to leave Lord Goring, but she does. Lord Caversham swoops in on his son, Lord Goring, and lays into him. Lord Caversham says his good-for-nothing son dances all night, talks about nothing, and lives only for pleasure. Lord Goring cheerfully agrees with this assessment. Leaving Dad for pretty Lady Basildon and Mrs. Marchmont, Lord Goring exchanges pleasantries about politics and marriage. The ladies complain about their husbands, who are so good they are boring. The wayward Lord Goring feigns shock. The conversation turns to Mrs. Cheveley. She's insulted London society and offended the ladies. Mabel joins in the trash talk. Lord Goring and Mabel go in to dinner. She fusses at him for ignoring her all evening. He tries to smooth her feathers. Lady Basildon and Mrs. Marchmont complain about how hungry they are. In this play, women clearly can't eat without a man. Luckily the Vicomte de Nanjac comes to Lady Basildon's rescue, and a Mr. Montford saves Mrs. Marchmont. With the octagon room cleared out, Mrs. Cheveley and Sir Robert come in for a chat. The siren makes her move. She wants to talk about a venture of the Argentine Canal Company. He doesn't. This Argentine thing is a moneymaking scam. He's looked into it. There's been no progress on the canal, nobody knows what's happened to the money raised so far, and the whole thing's going to fail. But Mrs. Cheveley has invested in it. Big time. Sir Robert asks why the heck Mrs. Cheveley would you do that. Mrs. Cheveley responds that it's because her dear friend Baron Arnheim has advised her to do so. Sir Robert doesn't like the second mention of this name. He tries to distract Mrs. Cheveley with some paintings. She's having none of it. Sir Robert advises her to get out of this Argentine Canal deal, because the House of Commons will shut the whole thing down once he delivers his report tomorrow. But Mrs. Cheveley says that Sir Robert shouldn't do it, for his own good. She lays it out: withdraw this negative report and promote the Argentine Canal. Or else. Sir Robert can't believe she's serious. There's no way he'll do this. But she'll pay him. Sir Robert tells her to leave immediately. Mrs. Cheveley traps him with her fan and drops the bomb. She knows that as a young man, Sir Robert made his fortune by selling a state secret to a Stock Exchange speculator. She has a letter proving it. A letter addressed to Baron Arnheim. Uh-oh. This is bad for Sir Robert. Mrs. Cheveley generously offers to barter this letter for Sir Robert's public support of the Argentine scheme. She points out that the moral climate in England is such that politicians like him have to be perfect. Scandals used to be fun but now they are deadly. If the public finds out Sir Robert built his fortune and career on an unethical act - selling state secrets - he is done. She wants an answer now, or she's going straight to the newspapers. Those vultures will looooove this. At this point Sir Robert is pretty much ready to be sick. Could he give her money instead? No way, she says. Make a speech supporting the Argentine Canal, and she will give him the letter. She makes to leave. No time to think about it. He agrees. The crowd comes in from dinner and Lady Markby asks Mrs. Cheveley if she has enjoyed herself. Oh yes, she has. Sir Robert Chiltern is very interesting. And Lady Chiltern, says Mrs. Markby, has the highest principles. Which make for boring dinner parties. Lady Markby leaves on Lord Caversham's arm. Approaching Lady Chiltern, Mrs. Cheveley complements her house, party, and husband. Then she shares the news: Sir Robert will make a speech supporting the Argentine Canal. Lady Chiltern can't believe that this is true. But it's all settled, counters Mrs. Cheveley. She explains that it's a secret until tomorrow, though...so Lady Chiltern can't tell. Sir Robert comes in to get rid of her. Mrs. Cheveley says goodbye to Lord Goring and goes out with Sir Robert. Lady Chiltern looks on with worry. Mabel and Lord Goring tease each other and sit down on the sofa, where Mabel finds a diamond brooch. Lord Goring seems to recognize it - he knows it can be worn as a bracelet. He asks her not to mention that he's keeping it but to let him know if someone asks for it. Mabel leaves and Lady Chiltern enters. The topic of Mrs. Cheveley naturally comes up. Lady Chiltern tells Lord Goring that Mrs. Cheveley wants Sir Robert to support to Argentine Canal. They both agree it is impossible for someone as morally sound as Sir Robert to do such a thing. Sir Robert comes in and wants Lord Goring to stay. He can't - more parties await. The husband and wife are left alone. He flatters her, saying she's beautiful. She's not biting, and asks him what's going on with the Argentine thing. Lady Chiltern says that Sir Robert shouldn't trust this Mrs. Cheveley. As a young girl she was manipulative, dishonest, and a thief. And people don't change. Sir Robert begs his wife not to judge others entirely on their past. Lady Chiltern takes a hard line, claiming that the past makes the man. Sir Robert is naturally a little uncomfortable with this statement. Lady Chiltern can't believe he's going to support something she just heard him describe as a total fraud. Sir Robert prevaricates . He was wrong, the report was biased. And besides, private and public life are two different things. No, she says. A man should be perfect in both. Sir Robert draws a line. He's made his decision and he doesn't want to talk about it. Lady Chiltern senses something, and asks if he's telling her the whole truth. Again, he evades, and gives her some platitudes about the complexity of truth and the necessity of compromise in politics. She can't believe what she's hearing. Her principled husband talking compromise? What happened? In her opinion, Sir Robert always stood apart from others, above others, above reproach. That's why she loves him. She worships him. And that love is threatened by what he's about to do. Is there some dark secret he's not telling her? Because if there is, she's out of the relationship. He lies: nope, nothing she doesn't already know. Lady Chiltern, relieved, asks him to write Mrs. Cheveley and take it all back. In fact, she's pretty pushy about it. Sir Robert sends off the letter, and Lady Chiltern gets all lovey-dovey. She's saved him from shame and horror and she'll love him forever because he'll always deserve it. She kisses him and exits. Sir Robert sits alone with his head in his hands. He asks Mason to put out the lights. The only thing illuminated is the tapestry of the Triumph of Love. End of Act 1.", "analysis": ""}

FIRST ACT SCENE _The octagon room at Sir Robert Chiltern's house in Grosvenor Square_. [_The room is brilliantly lighted and full of guests_. _At the top of the staircase stands_ LADY CHILTERN, _a woman of grave Greek beauty_, _about twenty-seven years of age_. _She receives the guests as they come up_. _Over the well of the staircase hangs a great chandelier with wax lights_, _which illumine a large eighteenth-century French tapestry--representing the Triumph of Love_, _from a design by Boucher--that is stretched on the staircase wall_. _On the right is the entrance to the music-room_. _The sound of a string quartette is faintly heard_. _The entrance on the left leads to other reception-rooms_. MRS. MARCHMONT _and_ LADY BASILDON, _two very pretty women_, _are seated together on a Louis Seize sofa_. _They are types of exquisite fragility_. _Their affectation of manner has a delicate charm_. _Watteau would have loved to paint them_.] MRS. MARCHMONT. Going on to the Hartlocks' to-night, Margaret? LADY BASILDON. I suppose so. Are you? MRS. MARCHMONT. Yes. Horribly tedious parties they give, don't they? LADY BASILDON. Horribly tedious! Never know why I go. Never know why I go anywhere. MRS. MARCHMONT. I come here to be educated. LADY BASILDON. Ah! I hate being educated! MRS. MARCHMONT. So do I. It puts one almost on a level with the commercial classes, doesn't it? But dear Gertrude Chiltern is always telling me that I should have some serious purpose in life. So I come here to try to find one. LADY BASILDON. [_Looking round through her lorgnette_.] I don't see anybody here to-night whom one could possibly call a serious purpose. The man who took me in to dinner talked to me about his wife the whole time. MRS. MARCHMONT. How very trivial of him! LADY BASILDON. Terribly trivial! What did your man talk about? MRS. MARCHMONT. About myself. LADY BASILDON. [_Languidly_.] And were you interested? MRS. MARCHMONT. [_Shaking her head_.] Not in the smallest degree. LADY BASILDON. What martyrs we are, dear Margaret! MRS. MARCHMONT. [_Rising_.] And how well it becomes us, Olivia! [_They rise and go towards the music-room_. _The_ VICOMTE DE NANJAC, _a young attache known for his neckties and his Anglomania_, _approaches with a low bow_, _and enters into conversation_.] MASON. [_Announcing guests from the top of the staircase_.] Mr. and Lady Jane Barford. Lord Caversham. [_Enter_ LORD CAVERSHAM, _an old gentleman of seventy_, _wearing the riband and star of the Garter_. _A fine Whig type_. _Rather like a portrait by Lawrence_.] LORD CAVERSHAM. Good evening, Lady Chiltern! Has my good-for-nothing young son been here? LADY CHILTERN. [_Smiling_.] I don't think Lord Goring has arrived yet. MABEL CHILTERN. [_Coming up to_ LORD CAVERSHAM.] Why do you call Lord Goring good-for-nothing? [MABEL CHILTERN _is a perfect example of the English type of prettiness_, _the apple-blossom type_. _She has all the fragrance and freedom of a flower_. _There is ripple after ripple of sunlight in her hair_, _and the little mouth_, _with its parted lips_, _is expectant_, _like the mouth of a child_. _She has the fascinating tyranny of youth_, _and the astonishing courage of innocence_. _To sane people she is not reminiscent of any work of art_. _But she is really like a Tanagra statuette_, _and would be rather annoyed if she were told so_.] LORD CAVERSHAM. Because he leads such an idle life. MABEL CHILTERN. How can you say such a thing? Why, he rides in the Row at ten o'clock in the morning, goes to the Opera three times a week, changes his clothes at least five times a day, and dines out every night of the season. You don't call that leading an idle life, do you? LORD CAVERSHAM. [_Looking at her with a kindly twinkle in his eyes_.] You are a very charming young lady! MABEL CHILTERN. How sweet of you to say that, Lord Caversham! Do come to us more often. You know we are always at home on Wednesdays, and you look so well with your star! LORD CAVERSHAM. Never go anywhere now. Sick of London Society. Shouldn't mind being introduced to my own tailor; he always votes on the right side. But object strongly to being sent down to dinner with my wife's milliner. Never could stand Lady Caversham's bonnets. MABEL CHILTERN. Oh, I love London Society! I think it has immensely improved. It is entirely composed now of beautiful idiots and brilliant lunatics. Just what Society should be. LORD CAVERSHAM. Hum! Which is Goring? Beautiful idiot, or the other thing? MABEL CHILTERN. [_Gravely_.] I have been obliged for the present to put Lord Goring into a class quite by himself. But he is developing charmingly! LORD CAVERSHAM. Into what? MABEL CHILTERN. [_With a little curtsey_.] I hope to let you know very soon, Lord Caversham! MASON. [_Announcing guests_.] Lady Markby. Mrs. Cheveley. [_Enter_ LADY MARKBY _and_ MRS. CHEVELEY. LADY MARKBY _is a pleasant_, _kindly_, _popular woman_, _with gray hair a la marquise and good lace_. MRS. CHEVELEY, _who accompanies her_, _is tall and rather slight_. _Lips very thin and highly-coloured_, _a line of scarlet on a pallid face_. _Venetian red hair_, _aquiline nose_, _and long throat_. _Rouge accentuates the natural paleness of her complexion_. _Gray-green eyes that move restlessly_. _She is in heliotrope_, _with diamonds_. _She looks rather like an orchid_, _and makes great demands on one's curiosity_. _In all her movements she is extremely graceful_. _A work of art_, _on the whole_, _but showing the influence of too many schools_.] LADY MARKBY. Good evening, dear Gertrude! So kind of you to let me bring my friend, Mrs. Cheveley. Two such charming women should know each other! LADY CHILTERN. [_Advances towards_ MRS. CHEVELEY _with a sweet smile_. _Then suddenly stops_, _and bows rather distantly_.] I think Mrs. Cheveley and I have met before. I did not know she had married a second time. LADY MARKBY. [_Genially_.] Ah, nowadays people marry as often as they can, don't they? It is most fashionable. [_To_ DUCHESS OF MARYBOROUGH.] Dear Duchess, and how is the Duke? Brain still weak, I suppose? Well, that is only to be expected, is it not? His good father was just the same. There is nothing like race, is there? MRS. CHEVELEY. [_Playing with her fan_.] But have we really met before, Lady Chiltern? I can't remember where. I have been out of England for so long. LADY CHILTERN. We were at school together, Mrs. Cheveley. MRS. CHEVELEY [_Superciliously_.] Indeed? I have forgotten all about my schooldays. I have a vague impression that they were detestable. LADY CHILTERN. [_Coldly_.] I am not surprised! MRS. CHEVELEY. [_In her sweetest manner_.] Do you know, I am quite looking forward to meeting your clever husband, Lady Chiltern. Since he has been at the Foreign Office, he has been so much talked of in Vienna. They actually succeed in spelling his name right in the newspapers. That in itself is fame, on the continent. LADY CHILTERN. I hardly think there will be much in common between you and my husband, Mrs. Cheveley! [_Moves away_.] VICOMTE DE NANJAC. Ah! chere Madame, queue surprise! I have not seen you since Berlin! MRS. CHEVELEY. Not since Berlin, Vicomte. Five years ago! VICOMTE DE NANJAC. And you are younger and more beautiful than ever. How do you manage it? MRS. CHEVELEY. By making it a rule only to talk to perfectly charming people like yourself. VICOMTE DE NANJAC. Ah! you flatter me. You butter me, as they say here. MRS. CHEVELEY. Do they say that here? How dreadful of them! VICOMTE DE NANJAC. Yes, they have a wonderful language. It should be more widely known. [SIR ROBERT CHILTERN _enters_. _A man of forty_, _but looking somewhat younger_. _Clean-shaven_, _with finely-cut features_, _dark-haired and dark-eyed_. _A personality of mark_. _Not popular--few personalities are_. _But intensely admired by the few_, _and deeply respected by the many_. _The note of his manner is that of perfect distinction_, _with a slight touch of pride_. _One feels that he is conscious of the success he has made in life_. _A nervous temperament_, _with a tired look_. _The firmly-chiselled mouth and chin contrast strikingly with the romantic expression in the deep-set eyes_. _The variance is suggestive of an almost complete separation of passion and intellect_, _as though thought and emotion were each isolated in its own sphere through some violence of will-power_. _There is nervousness in the nostrils_, _and in the pale_, _thin_, _pointed hands_. _It would be inaccurate to call him picturesque_. _Picturesqueness cannot survive the House of Commons_. _But Vandyck would have liked to have painted his head_.] SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Good evening, Lady Markby! I hope you have brought Sir John with you? LADY MARKBY. Oh! I have brought a much more charming person than Sir John. Sir John's temper since he has taken seriously to politics has become quite unbearable. Really, now that the House of Commons is trying to become useful, it does a great deal of harm. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I hope not, Lady Markby. At any rate we do our best to waste the public time, don't we? But who is this charming person you have been kind enough to bring to us? LADY MARKBY. Her name is Mrs. Cheveley! One of the Dorsetshire Cheveleys, I suppose. But I really don't know. Families are so mixed nowadays. Indeed, as a rule, everybody turns out to be somebody else. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Mrs. Cheveley? I seem to know the name. LADY MARKBY. She has just arrived from Vienna. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Ah! yes. I think I know whom you mean. LADY MARKBY. Oh! she goes everywhere there, and has such pleasant scandals about all her friends. I really must go to Vienna next winter. I hope there is a good chef at the Embassy. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. If there is not, the Ambassador will certainly have to be recalled. Pray point out Mrs. Cheveley to me. I should like to see her. LADY MARKBY. Let me introduce you. [_To_ MRS. CHEVELEY.] My dear, Sir Robert Chiltern is dying to know you! SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Bowing_.] Every one is dying to know the brilliant Mrs. Cheveley. Our attaches at Vienna write to us about nothing else. MRS. CHEVELEY. Thank you, Sir Robert. An acquaintance that begins with a compliment is sure to develop into a real friendship. It starts in the right manner. And I find that I know Lady Chiltern already. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Really? MRS. CHEVELEY. Yes. She has just reminded me that we were at school together. I remember it perfectly now. She always got the good conduct prize. I have a distinct recollection of Lady Chiltern always getting the good conduct prize! SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Smiling_.] And what prizes did you get, Mrs. Cheveley? MRS. CHEVELEY. My prizes came a little later on in life. I don't think any of them were for good conduct. I forget! SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I am sure they were for something charming! MRS. CHEVELEY. I don't know that women are always rewarded for being charming. I think they are usually punished for it! Certainly, more women grow old nowadays through the faithfulness of their admirers than through anything else! At least that is the only way I can account for the terribly haggard look of most of your pretty women in London! SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. What an appalling philosophy that sounds! To attempt to classify you, Mrs. Cheveley, would be an impertinence. But may I ask, at heart, are you an optimist or a pessimist? Those seem to be the only two fashionable religions left to us nowadays. MRS. CHEVELEY. Oh, I'm neither. Optimism begins in a broad grin, and Pessimism ends with blue spectacles. Besides, they are both of them merely poses. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. You prefer to be natural? MRS. CHEVELEY. Sometimes. But it is such a very difficult pose to keep up. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. What would those modern psychological novelists, of whom we hear so much, say to such a theory as that? MRS. CHEVELEY. Ah! the strength of women comes from the fact that psychology cannot explain us. Men can be analysed, women . . . merely adored. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. You think science cannot grapple with the problem of women? MRS. CHEVELEY. Science can never grapple with the irrational. That is why it has no future before it, in this world. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. And women represent the irrational. MRS. CHEVELEY. Well-dressed women do. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_With a polite bow_.] I fear I could hardly agree with you there. But do sit down. And now tell me, what makes you leave your brilliant Vienna for our gloomy London--or perhaps the question is indiscreet? MRS. CHEVELEY. Questions are never indiscreet. Answers sometimes are. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Well, at any rate, may I know if it is politics or pleasure? MRS. CHEVELEY. Politics are my only pleasure. You see nowadays it is not fashionable to flirt till one is forty, or to be romantic till one is forty-five, so we poor women who are under thirty, or say we are, have nothing open to us but politics or philanthropy. And philanthropy seems to me to have become simply the refuge of people who wish to annoy their fellow-creatures. I prefer politics. I think they are more . . . becoming! SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. A political life is a noble career! MRS. CHEVELEY. Sometimes. And sometimes it is a clever game, Sir Robert. And sometimes it is a great nuisance. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Which do you find it? MRS. CHEVELEY. I? A combination of all three. [_Drops her fan_.] SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Picks up fan_.] Allow me! MRS. CHEVELEY. Thanks. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. But you have not told me yet what makes you honour London so suddenly. Our season is almost over. MRS. CHEVELEY. Oh! I don't care about the London season! It is too matrimonial. People are either hunting for husbands, or hiding from them. I wanted to meet you. It is quite true. You know what a woman's curiosity is. Almost as great as a man's! I wanted immensely to meet you, and . . . to ask you to do something for me. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I hope it is not a little thing, Mrs. Cheveley. I find that little things are so very difficult to do. MRS. CHEVELEY. [_After a moment's reflection_.] No, I don't think it is quite a little thing. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I am so glad. Do tell me what it is. MRS. CHEVELEY. Later on. [_Rises_.] And now may I walk through your beautiful house? I hear your pictures are charming. Poor Baron Arnheim--you remember the Baron?--used to tell me you had some wonderful Corots. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_With an almost imperceptible start_.] Did you know Baron Arnheim well? MRS. CHEVELEY. [_Smiling_.] Intimately. Did you? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. At one time. MRS. CHEVELEY. Wonderful man, wasn't he? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_After a pause_.] He was very remarkable, in many ways. MRS. CHEVELEY. I often think it such a pity he never wrote his memoirs. They would have been most interesting. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Yes: he knew men and cities well, like the old Greek. MRS. CHEVELEY. Without the dreadful disadvantage of having a Penelope waiting at home for him. MASON. Lord Goring. [_Enter_ LORD GORING. _Thirty-four_, _but always says he is younger_. _A well-bred_, _expressionless face_. _He is clever_, _but would not like to be thought so_. _A flawless dandy_, _he would be annoyed if he were considered romantic_. _He plays with life_, _and is on perfectly good terms with the world_. _He is fond of being misunderstood_. _It gives him a post of vantage_.] SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Good evening, my dear Arthur! Mrs. Cheveley, allow me to introduce to you Lord Goring, the idlest man in London. MRS. CHEVELEY. I have met Lord Goring before. LORD GORING. [_Bowing_.] I did not think you would remember me, Mrs. Cheveley. MRS. CHEVELEY. My memory is under admirable control. And are you still a bachelor? LORD GORING. I . . . believe so. MRS. CHEVELEY. How very romantic! LORD GORING. Oh! I am not at all romantic. I am not old enough. I leave romance to my seniors. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Lord Goring is the result of Boodle's Club, Mrs. Cheveley. MRS. CHEVELEY. He reflects every credit on the institution. LORD GORING. May I ask are you staying in London long? MRS. CHEVELEY. That depends partly on the weather, partly on the cooking, and partly on Sir Robert. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. You are not going to plunge us into a European war, I hope? MRS. CHEVELEY. There is no danger, at present! [_She nods to_ LORD GORING, _with a look of amusement in her eyes_, _and goes out with_ SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. LORD GORING _saunters over to_ MABEL CHILTERN.] MABEL CHILTERN. You are very late! LORD GORING. Have you missed me? MABEL CHILTERN. Awfully! LORD GORING. Then I am sorry I did not stay away longer. I like being missed. MABEL CHILTERN. How very selfish of you! LORD GORING. I am very selfish. MABEL CHILTERN. You are always telling me of your bad qualities, Lord Goring. LORD GORING. I have only told you half of them as yet, Miss Mabel! MABEL CHILTERN. Are the others very bad? LORD GORING. Quite dreadful! When I think of them at night I go to sleep at once. MABEL CHILTERN. Well, I delight in your bad qualities. I wouldn't have you part with one of them. LORD GORING. How very nice of you! But then you are always nice. By the way, I want to ask you a question, Miss Mabel. Who brought Mrs. Cheveley here? That woman in heliotrope, who has just gone out of the room with your brother? MABEL CHILTERN. Oh, I think Lady Markby brought her. Why do you ask? LORD GORING. I haven't seen her for years, that is all. MABEL CHILTERN. What an absurd reason! LORD GORING. All reasons are absurd. MABEL CHILTERN. What sort of a woman is she? LORD GORING. Oh! a genius in the daytime and a beauty at night! MABEL CHILTERN. I dislike her already. LORD GORING. That shows your admirable good taste. VICOMTE DE NANJAC. [_Approaching_.] Ah, the English young lady is the dragon of good taste, is she not? Quite the dragon of good taste. LORD GORING. So the newspapers are always telling us. VICOMTE DE NANJAC. I read all your English newspapers. I find them so amusing. LORD GORING. Then, my dear Nanjac, you must certainly read between the lines. VICOMTE DE NANJAC. I should like to, but my professor objects. [_To_ MABEL CHILTERN.] May I have the pleasure of escorting you to the music-room, Mademoiselle? MABEL CHILTERN. [_Looking very disappointed_.] Delighted, Vicomte, quite delighted! [_Turning to_ LORD GORING.] Aren't you coming to the music-room? LORD GORING. Not if there is any music going on, Miss Mabel. MABEL CHILTERN. [_Severely_.] The music is in German. You would not understand it. [_Goes out with the_ VICOMTE DE NANJAC. LORD CAVERSHAM _comes up to his son_.] LORD CAVERSHAM. Well, sir! what are you doing here? Wasting your life as usual! You should be in bed, sir. You keep too late hours! I heard of you the other night at Lady Rufford's dancing till four o'clock in the morning! LORD GORING. Only a quarter to four, father. LORD CAVERSHAM. Can't make out how you stand London Society. The thing has gone to the dogs, a lot of damned nobodies talking about nothing. LORD GORING. I love talking about nothing, father. It is the only thing I know anything about. LORD CAVERSHAM. You seem to me to be living entirely for pleasure. LORD GORING. What else is there to live for, father? Nothing ages like happiness. LORD CAVERSHAM. You are heartless, sir, very heartless! LORD GORING. I hope not, father. Good evening, Lady Basildon! LADY BASILDON. [_Arching two pretty eyebrows_.] Are you here? I had no idea you ever came to political parties! LORD GORING. I adore political parties. They are the only place left to us where people don't talk politics. LADY BASILDON. I delight in talking politics. I talk them all day long. But I can't bear listening to them. I don't know how the unfortunate men in the House stand these long debates. LORD GORING. By never listening. LADY BASILDON. Really? LORD GORING. [_In his most serious manner_.] Of course. You see, it is a very dangerous thing to listen. If one listens one may be convinced; and a man who allows himself to be convinced by an argument is a thoroughly unreasonable person. LADY BASILDON. Ah! that accounts for so much in men that I have never understood, and so much in women that their husbands never appreciate in them! MRS. MARCHMONT. [_With a sigh_.] Our husbands never appreciate anything in us. We have to go to others for that! LADY BASILDON. [_Emphatically_.] Yes, always to others, have we not? LORD GORING. [_Smiling_.] And those are the views of the two ladies who are known to have the most admirable husbands in London. MRS. MARCHMONT. That is exactly what we can't stand. My Reginald is quite hopelessly faultless. He is really unendurably so, at times! There is not the smallest element of excitement in knowing him. LORD GORING. How terrible! Really, the thing should be more widely known! LADY BASILDON. Basildon is quite as bad; he is as domestic as if he was a bachelor. MRS. MARCHMONT. [_Pressing_ LADY BASILDON'S _hand_.] My poor Olivia! We have married perfect husbands, and we are well punished for it. LORD GORING. I should have thought it was the husbands who were punished. MRS. MARCHMONT. [_Drawing herself up_.] Oh, dear no! They are as happy as possible! And as for trusting us, it is tragic how much they trust us. LADY BASILDON. Perfectly tragic! LORD GORING. Or comic, Lady Basildon? LADY BASILDON. Certainly not comic, Lord Goring. How unkind of you to suggest such a thing! MRS. MARCHMONT. I am afraid Lord Goring is in the camp of the enemy, as usual. I saw him talking to that Mrs. Cheveley when he came in. LORD GORING. Handsome woman, Mrs. Cheveley! LADY BASILDON. [_Stiffly_.] Please don't praise other women in our presence. You might wait for us to do that! LORD GORING. I did wait. MRS. MARCHMONT. Well, we are not going to praise her. I hear she went to the Opera on Monday night, and told Tommy Rufford at supper that, as far as she could see, London Society was entirely made up of dowdies and dandies. LORD GORING. She is quite right, too. The men are all dowdies and the women are all dandies, aren't they? MRS. MARCHMONT. [_After a pause_.] Oh! do you really think that is what Mrs. Cheveley meant? LORD GORING. Of course. And a very sensible remark for Mrs. Cheveley to make, too. [_Enter_ MABEL CHILTERN. _She joins the group_.] MABEL CHILTERN. Why are you talking about Mrs. Cheveley? Everybody is talking about Mrs. Cheveley! Lord Goring says--what did you say, Lord Goring, about Mrs. Cheveley? Oh! I remember, that she was a genius in the daytime and a beauty at night. LADY BASILDON. What a horrid combination! So very unnatural! MRS. MARCHMONT. [_In her most dreamy manner_.] I like looking at geniuses, and listening to beautiful people. LORD GORING. Ah! that is morbid of you, Mrs. Marchmont! MRS. MARCHMONT. [_Brightening to a look of real pleasure_.] I am so glad to hear you say that. Marchmont and I have been married for seven years, and he has never once told me that I was morbid. Men are so painfully unobservant! LADY BASILDON. [_Turning to her_.] I have always said, dear Margaret, that you were the most morbid person in London. MRS. MARCHMONT. Ah! but you are always sympathetic, Olivia! MABEL CHILTERN. Is it morbid to have a desire for food? I have a great desire for food. Lord Goring, will you give me some supper? LORD GORING. With pleasure, Miss Mabel. [_Moves away with her_.] MABEL CHILTERN. How horrid you have been! You have never talked to me the whole evening! LORD GORING. How could I? You went away with the child-diplomatist. MABEL CHILTERN. You might have followed us. Pursuit would have been only polite. I don't think I like you at all this evening! LORD GORING. I like you immensely. MABEL CHILTERN. Well, I wish you'd show it in a more marked way! [_They go downstairs_.] MRS. MARCHMONT. Olivia, I have a curious feeling of absolute faintness. I think I should like some supper very much. I know I should like some supper. LADY BASILDON. I am positively dying for supper, Margaret! MRS. MARCHMONT. Men are so horribly selfish, they never think of these things. LADY BASILDON. Men are grossly material, grossly material! [_The_ VICOMTE DE NANJAC _enters from the music-room with some other guests_. _After having carefully examined all the people present_, _he approaches_ LADY BASILDON.] VICOMTE DE NANJAC. May I have the honour of taking you down to supper, Comtesse? LADY BASILDON. [_Coldly_.] I never take supper, thank you, Vicomte. [_The_ VICOMTE _is about to retire_. LADY BASILDON, _seeing this_, _rises at once and takes his arm_.] But I will come down with you with pleasure. VICOMTE DE NANJAC. I am so fond of eating! I am very English in all my tastes. LADY BASILDON. You look quite English, Vicomte, quite English. [_They pass out_. MR. MONTFORD, _a perfectly groomed young dandy_, _approaches_ MRS. MARCHMONT.] MR. MONTFORD. Like some supper, Mrs. Marchmont? MRS. MARCHMONT. [_Languidly_.] Thank you, Mr. Montford, I never touch supper. [_Rises hastily and takes his arm_.] But I will sit beside you, and watch you. MR. MONTFORD. I don't know that I like being watched when I am eating! MRS. MARCHMONT. Then I will watch some one else. MR. MONTFORD. I don't know that I should like that either. MRS. MARCHMONT. [_Severely_.] Pray, Mr. Montford, do not make these painful scenes of jealousy in public! [_They go downstairs with the other guests_, _passing_ SIR ROBERT CHILTERN _and_ MRS. CHEVELEY, _who now enter_.] SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. And are you going to any of our country houses before you leave England, Mrs. Cheveley? MRS. CHEVELEY. Oh, no! I can't stand your English house-parties. In England people actually try to be brilliant at breakfast. That is so dreadful of them! Only dull people are brilliant at breakfast. And then the family skeleton is always reading family prayers. My stay in England really depends on you, Sir Robert. [_Sits down on the sofa_.] SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Taking a seat beside her_.] Seriously? MRS. CHEVELEY. Quite seriously. I want to talk to you about a great political and financial scheme, about this Argentine Canal Company, in fact. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. What a tedious, practical subject for you to talk about, Mrs. Cheveley! MRS. CHEVELEY. Oh, I like tedious, practical subjects. What I don't like are tedious, practical people. There is a wide difference. Besides, you are interested, I know, in International Canal schemes. You were Lord Radley's secretary, weren't you, when the Government bought the Suez Canal shares? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Yes. But the Suez Canal was a very great and splendid undertaking. It gave us our direct route to India. It had imperial value. It was necessary that we should have control. This Argentine scheme is a commonplace Stock Exchange swindle. MRS. CHEVELEY. A speculation, Sir Robert! A brilliant, daring speculation. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Believe me, Mrs. Cheveley, it is a swindle. Let us call things by their proper names. It makes matters simpler. We have all the information about it at the Foreign Office. In fact, I sent out a special Commission to inquire into the matter privately, and they report that the works are hardly begun, and as for the money already subscribed, no one seems to know what has become of it. The whole thing is a second Panama, and with not a quarter of the chance of success that miserable affair ever had. I hope you have not invested in it. I am sure you are far too clever to have done that. MRS. CHEVELEY. I have invested very largely in it. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Who could have advised you to do such a foolish thing? MRS. CHEVELEY. Your old friend--and mine. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Who? MRS. CHEVELEY. Baron Arnheim. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Frowning_.] Ah! yes. I remember hearing, at the time of his death, that he had been mixed up in the whole affair. MRS. CHEVELEY. It was his last romance. His last but one, to do him justice. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Rising_.] But you have not seen my Corots yet. They are in the music-room. Corots seem to go with music, don't they? May I show them to you? MRS. CHEVELEY. [_Shaking her head_.] I am not in a mood to-night for silver twilights, or rose-pink dawns. I want to talk business. [_Motions to him with her fan to sit down again beside her_.] SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I fear I have no advice to give you, Mrs. Cheveley, except to interest yourself in something less dangerous. The success of the Canal depends, of course, on the attitude of England, and I am going to lay the report of the Commissioners before the House to-morrow night. MRS. CHEVELEY. That you must not do. In your own interests, Sir Robert, to say nothing of mine, you must not do that. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Looking at her in wonder_.] In my own interests? My dear Mrs. Cheveley, what do you mean? [_Sits down beside her_.] MRS. CHEVELEY. Sir Robert, I will be quite frank with you. I want you to withdraw the report that you had intended to lay before the House, on the ground that you have reasons to believe that the Commissioners have been prejudiced or misinformed, or something. Then I want you to say a few words to the effect that the Government is going to reconsider the question, and that you have reason to believe that the Canal, if completed, will be of great international value. You know the sort of things ministers say in cases of this kind. A few ordinary platitudes will do. In modern life nothing produces such an effect as a good platitude. It makes the whole world kin. Will you do that for me? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Mrs. Cheveley, you cannot be serious in making me such a proposition! MRS. CHEVELEY. I am quite serious. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Coldly_.] Pray allow me to believe that you are not. MRS. CHEVELEY. [_Speaking with great deliberation and emphasis_.] Ah! but I am. And if you do what I ask you, I . . . will pay you very handsomely! SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Pay me! MRS. CHEVELEY. Yes. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I am afraid I don't quite understand what you mean. MRS. CHEVELEY. [_Leaning back on the sofa and looking at him_.] How very disappointing! And I have come all the way from Vienna in order that you should thoroughly understand me. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I fear I don't. MRS. CHEVELEY. [_In her most nonchalant manner_.] My dear Sir Robert, you are a man of the world, and you have your price, I suppose. Everybody has nowadays. The drawback is that most people are so dreadfully expensive. I know I am. I hope you will be more reasonable in your terms. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Rises indignantly_.] If you will allow me, I will call your carriage for you. You have lived so long abroad, Mrs. Cheveley, that you seem to be unable to realise that you are talking to an English gentleman. MRS. CHEVELEY. [_Detains him by touching his arm with her fan_, _and keeping it there while she is talking_.] I realise that I am talking to a man who laid the foundation of his fortune by selling to a Stock Exchange speculator a Cabinet secret. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Biting his lip_.] What do you mean? MRS. CHEVELEY. [_Rising and facing him_.] I mean that I know the real origin of your wealth and your career, and I have got your letter, too. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. What letter? MRS. CHEVELEY. [_Contemptuously_.] The letter you wrote to Baron Arnheim, when you were Lord Radley's secretary, telling the Baron to buy Suez Canal shares--a letter written three days before the Government announced its own purchase. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Hoarsely_.] It is not true. MRS. CHEVELEY. You thought that letter had been destroyed. How foolish of you! It is in my possession. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. The affair to which you allude was no more than a speculation. The House of Commons had not yet passed the bill; it might have been rejected. MRS. CHEVELEY. It was a swindle, Sir Robert. Let us call things by their proper names. It makes everything simpler. And now I am going to sell you that letter, and the price I ask for it is your public support of the Argentine scheme. You made your own fortune out of one canal. You must help me and my friends to make our fortunes out of another! SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. It is infamous, what you propose--infamous! MRS. CHEVELEY. Oh, no! This is the game of life as we all have to play it, Sir Robert, sooner or later! SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I cannot do what you ask me. MRS. CHEVELEY. You mean you cannot help doing it. You know you are standing on the edge of a precipice. And it is not for you to make terms. It is for you to accept them. Supposing you refuse-- SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. What then? MRS. CHEVELEY. My dear Sir Robert, what then? You are ruined, that is all! Remember to what a point your Puritanism in England has brought you. In old days nobody pretended to be a bit better than his neighbours. In fact, to be a bit better than one's neighbour was considered excessively vulgar and middle-class. Nowadays, with our modern mania for morality, every one has to pose as a paragon of purity, incorruptibility, and all the other seven deadly virtues--and what is the result? You all go over like ninepins--one after the other. Not a year passes in England without somebody disappearing. Scandals used to lend charm, or at least interest, to a man--now they crush him. And yours is a very nasty scandal. You couldn't survive it. If it were known that as a young man, secretary to a great and important minister, you sold a Cabinet secret for a large sum of money, and that that was the origin of your wealth and career, you would be hounded out of public life, you would disappear completely. And after all, Sir Robert, why should you sacrifice your entire future rather than deal diplomatically with your enemy? For the moment I am your enemy. I admit it! And I am much stronger than you are. The big battalions are on my side. You have a splendid position, but it is your splendid position that makes you so vulnerable. You can't defend it! And I am in attack. Of course I have not talked morality to you. You must admit in fairness that I have spared you that. Years ago you did a clever, unscrupulous thing; it turned out a great success. You owe to it your fortune and position. And now you have got to pay for it. Sooner or later we have all to pay for what we do. You have to pay now. Before I leave you to-night, you have got to promise me to suppress your report, and to speak in the House in favour of this scheme. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. What you ask is impossible. MRS. CHEVELEY. You must make it possible. You are going to make it possible. Sir Robert, you know what your English newspapers are like. Suppose that when I leave this house I drive down to some newspaper office, and give them this scandal and the proofs of it! Think of their loathsome joy, of the delight they would have in dragging you down, of the mud and mire they would plunge you in. Think of the hypocrite with his greasy smile penning his leading article, and arranging the foulness of the public placard. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Stop! You want me to withdraw the report and to make a short speech stating that I believe there are possibilities in the scheme? MRS. CHEVELEY. [_Sitting down on the sofa_.] Those are my terms. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_In a low voice_.] I will give you any sum of money you want. MRS. CHEVELEY. Even you are not rich enough, Sir Robert, to buy back your past. No man is. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I will not do what you ask me. I will not. MRS. CHEVELEY. You have to. If you don't . . . [_Rises from the sofa_.] SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Bewildered and unnerved_.] Wait a moment! What did you propose? You said that you would give me back my letter, didn't you? MRS. CHEVELEY. Yes. That is agreed. I will be in the Ladies' Gallery to-morrow night at half-past eleven. If by that time--and you will have had heaps of opportunity--you have made an announcement to the House in the terms I wish, I shall hand you back your letter with the prettiest thanks, and the best, or at any rate the most suitable, compliment I can think of. I intend to play quite fairly with you. One should always play fairly . . . when one has the winning cards. The Baron taught me that . . . amongst other things. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. You must let me have time to consider your proposal. MRS. CHEVELEY. No; you must settle now! SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Give me a week--three days! MRS. CHEVELEY. Impossible! I have got to telegraph to Vienna to-night. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. My God! what brought you into my life? MRS. CHEVELEY. Circumstances. [_Moves towards the door_.] SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Don't go. I consent. The report shall be withdrawn. I will arrange for a question to be put to me on the subject. MRS. CHEVELEY. Thank you. I knew we should come to an amicable agreement. I understood your nature from the first. I analysed you, though you did not adore me. And now you can get my carriage for me, Sir Robert. I see the people coming up from supper, and Englishmen always get romantic after a meal, and that bores me dreadfully. [_Exit_ SIR ROBERT CHILTERN.] [_Enter Guests_, LADY CHILTERN, LADY MARKBY, LORD CAVERSHAM, LADY BASILDON, MRS. MARCHMONT, VICOMTE DE NANJAC, MR. MONTFORD.] LADY MARKBY. Well, dear Mrs. Cheveley, I hope you have enjoyed yourself. Sir Robert is very entertaining, is he not? MRS. CHEVELEY. Most entertaining! I have enjoyed my talk with him immensely. LADY MARKBY. He has had a very interesting and brilliant career. And he has married a most admirable wife. Lady Chiltern is a woman of the very highest principles, I am glad to say. I am a little too old now, myself, to trouble about setting a good example, but I always admire people who do. And Lady Chiltern has a very ennobling effect on life, though her dinner-parties are rather dull sometimes. But one can't have everything, can one? And now I must go, dear. Shall I call for you to-morrow? MRS. CHEVELEY. Thanks. LADY MARKBY. We might drive in the Park at five. Everything looks so fresh in the Park now! MRS. CHEVELEY. Except the people! LADY MARKBY. Perhaps the people are a little jaded. I have often observed that the Season as it goes on produces a kind of softening of the brain. However, I think anything is better than high intellectual pressure. That is the most unbecoming thing there is. It makes the noses of the young girls so particularly large. And there is nothing so difficult to marry as a large nose; men don't like them. Good-night, dear! [_To_ LADY CHILTERN.] Good-night, Gertrude! [_Goes out on_ LORD CAVERSHAM'S _arm_.] MRS. CHEVELEY. What a charming house you have, Lady Chiltern! I have spent a delightful evening. It has been so interesting getting to know your husband. LADY CHILTERN. Why did you wish to meet my husband, Mrs. Cheveley? MRS. CHEVELEY. Oh, I will tell you. I wanted to interest him in this Argentine Canal scheme, of which I dare say you have heard. And I found him most susceptible,--susceptible to reason, I mean. A rare thing in a man. I converted him in ten minutes. He is going to make a speech in the House to-morrow night in favour of the idea. We must go to the Ladies' Gallery and hear him! It will be a great occasion! LADY CHILTERN. There must be some mistake. That scheme could never have my husband's support. MRS. CHEVELEY. Oh, I assure you it's all settled. I don't regret my tedious journey from Vienna now. It has been a great success. But, of course, for the next twenty-four hours the whole thing is a dead secret. LADY CHILTERN. [_Gently_.] A secret? Between whom? MRS. CHEVELEY. [_With a flash of amusement in her eyes_.] Between your husband and myself. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Entering_.] Your carriage is here, Mrs. Cheveley! MRS. CHEVELEY. Thanks! Good evening, Lady Chiltern! Good-night, Lord Goring! I am at Claridge's. Don't you think you might leave a card? LORD GORING. If you wish it, Mrs. Cheveley! MRS. CHEVELEY. Oh, don't be so solemn about it, or I shall be obliged to leave a card on you. In England I suppose that would hardly be considered en regle. Abroad, we are more civilised. Will you see me down, Sir Robert? Now that we have both the same interests at heart we shall be great friends, I hope! [_Sails out on_ SIR ROBERT CHILTERN'S _arm_. LADY CHILTERN _goes to the top of the staircase and looks down at them as they descend_. _Her expression is troubled_. _After a little time she is joined by some of the guests_, _and passes with them into another reception-room_.] MABEL CHILTERN. What a horrid woman! LORD GORING. You should go to bed, Miss Mabel. MABEL CHILTERN. Lord Goring! LORD GORING. My father told me to go to bed an hour ago. I don't see why I shouldn't give you the same advice. I always pass on good advice. It is the only thing to do with it. It is never of any use to oneself. MABEL CHILTERN. Lord Goring, you are always ordering me out of the room. I think it most courageous of you. Especially as I am not going to bed for hours. [_Goes over to the sofa_.] You can come and sit down if you like, and talk about anything in the world, except the Royal Academy, Mrs. Cheveley, or novels in Scotch dialect. They are not improving subjects. [_Catches sight of something that is lying on the sofa half hidden by the cushion_.] What is this? Some one has dropped a diamond brooch! Quite beautiful, isn't it? [_Shows it to him_.] I wish it was mine, but Gertrude won't let me wear anything but pearls, and I am thoroughly sick of pearls. They make one look so plain, so good and so intellectual. I wonder whom the brooch belongs to. LORD GORING. I wonder who dropped it. MABEL CHILTERN. It is a beautiful brooch. LORD GORING. It is a handsome bracelet. MABEL CHILTERN. It isn't a bracelet. It's a brooch. LORD GORING. It can be used as a bracelet. [_Takes it from her_, _and_, _pulling out a green letter-case_, _puts the ornament carefully in it_, _and replaces the whole thing in his breast-pocket with the most perfect sang froid_.] MABEL CHILTERN. What are you doing? LORD GORING. Miss Mabel, I am going to make a rather strange request to you. MABEL CHILTERN. [_Eagerly_.] Oh, pray do! I have been waiting for it all the evening. LORD GORING. [_Is a little taken aback_, _but recovers himself_.] Don't mention to anybody that I have taken charge of this brooch. Should any one write and claim it, let me know at once. MABEL CHILTERN. That is a strange request. LORD GORING. Well, you see I gave this brooch to somebody once, years ago. MABEL CHILTERN. You did? LORD GORING. Yes. [LADY CHILTERN _enters alone_. _The other guests have gone_.] MABEL CHILTERN. Then I shall certainly bid you good-night. Good-night, Gertrude! [_Exit_.] LADY CHILTERN. Good-night, dear! [_To_ LORD GORING.] You saw whom Lady Markby brought here to-night? LORD GORING. Yes. It was an unpleasant surprise. What did she come here for? LADY CHILTERN. Apparently to try and lure Robert to uphold some fraudulent scheme in which she is interested. The Argentine Canal, in fact. LORD GORING. She has mistaken her man, hasn't she? LADY CHILTERN. She is incapable of understanding an upright nature like my husband's! LORD GORING. Yes. I should fancy she came to grief if she tried to get Robert into her toils. It is extraordinary what astounding mistakes clever women make. LADY CHILTERN. I don't call women of that kind clever. I call them stupid! LORD GORING. Same thing often. Good-night, Lady Chiltern! LADY CHILTERN. Good-night! [_Enter_ SIR ROBERT CHILTERN.] SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. My dear Arthur, you are not going? Do stop a little! LORD GORING. Afraid I can't, thanks. I have promised to look in at the Hartlocks'. I believe they have got a mauve Hungarian band that plays mauve Hungarian music. See you soon. Good-bye! [_Exit_] SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. How beautiful you look to-night, Gertrude! LADY CHILTERN. Robert, it is not true, is it? You are not going to lend your support to this Argentine speculation? You couldn't! SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Starting_.] Who told you I intended to do so? LADY CHILTERN. That woman who has just gone out, Mrs. Cheveley, as she calls herself now. She seemed to taunt me with it. Robert, I know this woman. You don't. We were at school together. She was untruthful, dishonest, an evil influence on every one whose trust or friendship she could win. I hated, I despised her. She stole things, she was a thief. She was sent away for being a thief. Why do you let her influence you? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Gertrude, what you tell me may be true, but it happened many years ago. It is best forgotten! Mrs. Cheveley may have changed since then. No one should be entirely judged by their past. LADY CHILTERN. [_Sadly_.] One's past is what one is. It is the only way by which people should be judged. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. That is a hard saying, Gertrude! LADY CHILTERN. It is a true saying, Robert. And what did she mean by boasting that she had got you to lend your support, your name, to a thing I have heard you describe as the most dishonest and fraudulent scheme there has ever been in political life? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Biting his lip_.] I was mistaken in the view I took. We all may make mistakes. LADY CHILTERN. But you told me yesterday that you had received the report from the Commission, and that it entirely condemned the whole thing. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Walking up and down_.] I have reasons now to believe that the Commission was prejudiced, or, at any rate, misinformed. Besides, Gertrude, public and private life are different things. They have different laws, and move on different lines. LADY CHILTERN. They should both represent man at his highest. I see no difference between them. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Stopping_.] In the present case, on a matter of practical politics, I have changed my mind. That is all. LADY CHILTERN. All! SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Sternly_.] Yes! LADY CHILTERN. Robert! Oh! it is horrible that I should have to ask you such a question--Robert, are you telling me the whole truth? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Why do you ask me such a question? LADY CHILTERN. [_After a pause_.] Why do you not answer it? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Sitting down_.] Gertrude, truth is a very complex thing, and politics is a very complex business. There are wheels within wheels. One may be under certain obligations to people that one must pay. Sooner or later in political life one has to compromise. Every one does. LADY CHILTERN. Compromise? Robert, why do you talk so differently to-night from the way I have always heard you talk? Why are you changed? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I am not changed. But circumstances alter things. LADY CHILTERN. Circumstances should never alter principles! SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. But if I told you-- LADY CHILTERN. What? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. That it was necessary, vitally necessary? LADY CHILTERN. It can never be necessary to do what is not honourable. Or if it be necessary, then what is it that I have loved! But it is not, Robert; tell me it is not. Why should it be? What gain would you get? Money? We have no need of that! And money that comes from a tainted source is a degradation. Power? But power is nothing in itself. It is power to do good that is fine--that, and that only. What is it, then? Robert, tell me why you are going to do this dishonourable thing! SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Gertrude, you have no right to use that word. I told you it was a question of rational compromise. It is no more than that. LADY CHILTERN. Robert, that is all very well for other men, for men who treat life simply as a sordid speculation; but not for you, Robert, not for you. You are different. All your life you have stood apart from others. You have never let the world soil you. To the world, as to myself, you have been an ideal always. Oh! be that ideal still. That great inheritance throw not away--that tower of ivory do not destroy. Robert, men can love what is beneath them--things unworthy, stained, dishonoured. We women worship when we love; and when we lose our worship, we lose everything. Oh! don't kill my love for you, don't kill that! SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Gertrude! LADY CHILTERN. I know that there are men with horrible secrets in their lives--men who have done some shameful thing, and who in some critical moment have to pay for it, by doing some other act of shame--oh! don't tell me you are such as they are! Robert, is there in your life any secret dishonour or disgrace? Tell me, tell me at once, that-- SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. That what? LADY CHILTERN. [_Speaking very slowly_.] That our lives may drift apart. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Drift apart? LADY CHILTERN. That they may be entirely separate. It would be better for us both. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Gertrude, there is nothing in my past life that you might not know. LADY CHILTERN. I was sure of it, Robert, I was sure of it. But why did you say those dreadful things, things so unlike your real self? Don't let us ever talk about the subject again. You will write, won't you, to Mrs. Cheveley, and tell her that you cannot support this scandalous scheme of hers? If you have given her any promise you must take it back, that is all! SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Must I write and tell her that? LADY CHILTERN. Surely, Robert! What else is there to do? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I might see her personally. It would be better. LADY CHILTERN. You must never see her again, Robert. She is not a woman you should ever speak to. She is not worthy to talk to a man like you. No; you must write to her at once, now, this moment, and let your letter show her that your decision is quite irrevocable! SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Write this moment! LADY CHILTERN. Yes. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. But it is so late. It is close on twelve. LADY CHILTERN. That makes no matter. She must know at once that she has been mistaken in you--and that you are not a man to do anything base or underhand or dishonourable. Write here, Robert. Write that you decline to support this scheme of hers, as you hold it to be a dishonest scheme. Yes--write the word dishonest. She knows what that word means. [SIR ROBERT CHILTERN _sits down and writes a letter_. _His wife takes it up and reads it_.] Yes; that will do. [_Rings bell_.] And now the envelope. [_He writes the envelope slowly_. _Enter_ MASON.] Have this letter sent at once to Claridge's Hotel. There is no answer. [_Exit_ MASON. LADY CHILTERN _kneels down beside her husband_, _and puts her arms around him_.] Robert, love gives one an instinct to things. I feel to-night that I have saved you from something that might have been a danger to you, from something that might have made men honour you less than they do. I don't think you realise sufficiently, Robert, that you have brought into the political life of our time a nobler atmosphere, a finer attitude towards life, a freer air of purer aims and higher ideals--I know it, and for that I love you, Robert. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Oh, love me always, Gertrude, love me always! LADY CHILTERN. I will love you always, because you will always be worthy of love. We needs must love the highest when we see it! [_Kisses him and rises and goes out_.] [SIR ROBERT CHILTERN _walks up and down for a moment_; _then sits down and buries his face in his hands_. _The Servant enters and begins pulling out the lights_. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN _looks up_.] SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Put out the lights, Mason, put out the lights! [_The Servant puts out the lights_. _The room becomes almost dark_. _The only light there is comes from the great chandelier that hangs over the staircase and illumines the tapestry of the Triumph of Love_.] ACT DROP

Act 1

https://web.archive.org/web/20201030224859/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/an-ideal-husband/summary/act-1

The stage directions tell us we're in a large, brilliantly lit room in posh Grosvenor Square. It's a party. It's Lady Chiltern's house, so she greets the guests. She's 27, beautiful, and deathly serious. The Chilterns are clearly very well off: there's a big chandelier, an antique French tapestry depicting "The Triumph of Love," and a string quartet in the next room. Not bad. Mrs. Marchmont and Lady Basildon are chatting on a sofa about boring parties. Then go into the music-room, joined by the Vicomte de Nanjac. He's wearing a fancy tie. Mason, Robert Chiltern's butler, is announcing guests. Lord Caversham arrives. He's an old aristocrat and politician. Lord Caversham asks if his troublemaker son, Lord Goring, is here yet. Lady Chiltern says no. Mabel Chiltern joins the conversation. She's probably in her late teens or early twenties, and a natural beauty complete with apple cheeks and rosebud lips, that sort of thing. Lord Caversham thinks his son's a slacker, but Mabel begs to differ . Lord Goring rides horses, goes to the opera, eats out a lot, and is really into what he wears. He's actually very busy with all that stuff. Two new ladies arrive on the scene: Lady Markby and Mrs. Cheveley. Lady Markby is a nice middle-aged woman with good lace, say the stage directions. But the real dish is Mrs. Cheveley. She is Done Up. Tall and thin, with bright red hair, bright red lips, and dressed in heliotrope with diamonds. Heliotrope? Think bright purple. Lady Markby introduces this fascinating lady to our hostess, Lady Chiltern. Uh-oh, we smell a fight. Turns out they went to school together and were totally not BFFs. Mrs. Cheveley drops a hint...she's looking forward to meeting Lady Chiltern's husband, whom she's heard a lot about in Vienna. Lady Chiltern is none too cool with that and says they couldn't possibly have anything in common. She leaves the conversation. The Vicomte de Nanjac approaches Mrs. Cheveley, whom he knew in Berlin. They have a little flirt. Sir Robert Chiltern enters and the stage directions give a lot of time to his looks. Your mom would dig this guy - he's 40 but looks younger; he's confident and successful and respected in the House of Commons. His face doesn't quite agree with itself, though; it has a poet's eyes but a businessman's jaw. We sense some inner conflict coming... This dreamboat greets Lady Markby and requests an introduction to Mrs. Cheveley, whose reputation has preceded her. Sir Robert and Mrs. Cheveley proceed to have a banter-fest that covers women, philosophy, modern literature, science, and women again. Mrs. Cheveley confesses that she's in London to ask a favor of him. When she mentions a common acquaintance - Baron Arnheim - Sir Robert reacts with a start. It's not a name he wants to hear. Lord Goring enters, announced by the butler, Mason. The stage directions tell us he is thirty-four but says he's younger. He is a dandy, meaning he pretends that the most important things in life are dressing well, socializing, and being witty. Sir Robert introduces Lord Goring to Mrs. Cheveley. Sure enough, they already know each other. Mrs. Cheveley teases Lord Goring about his perpetual bachelorhood. He kind of hopes she won't be staying long. Mrs. Cheveley exits with Sir Robert, and Lord Goring is freed to talk to Mabel. They flirt. Mabel likes his bad boy image. Lord Goring inquires who on earth invited this Mrs.-Cheveley-in-heliotrope. It was Lady Markby, says Mabel, why? Because he hasn't seen her in years. Mabel gets jealous. The Vicomte de Nanjac interrupts with some nonsense about English ladies and good taste. Apparently on the prowl, he asks to escort Mabel in to the music room. She doesn't want to leave Lord Goring, but she does. Lord Caversham swoops in on his son, Lord Goring, and lays into him. Lord Caversham says his good-for-nothing son dances all night, talks about nothing, and lives only for pleasure. Lord Goring cheerfully agrees with this assessment. Leaving Dad for pretty Lady Basildon and Mrs. Marchmont, Lord Goring exchanges pleasantries about politics and marriage. The ladies complain about their husbands, who are so good they are boring. The wayward Lord Goring feigns shock. The conversation turns to Mrs. Cheveley. She's insulted London society and offended the ladies. Mabel joins in the trash talk. Lord Goring and Mabel go in to dinner. She fusses at him for ignoring her all evening. He tries to smooth her feathers. Lady Basildon and Mrs. Marchmont complain about how hungry they are. In this play, women clearly can't eat without a man. Luckily the Vicomte de Nanjac comes to Lady Basildon's rescue, and a Mr. Montford saves Mrs. Marchmont. With the octagon room cleared out, Mrs. Cheveley and Sir Robert come in for a chat. The siren makes her move. She wants to talk about a venture of the Argentine Canal Company. He doesn't. This Argentine thing is a moneymaking scam. He's looked into it. There's been no progress on the canal, nobody knows what's happened to the money raised so far, and the whole thing's going to fail. But Mrs. Cheveley has invested in it. Big time. Sir Robert asks why the heck Mrs. Cheveley would you do that. Mrs. Cheveley responds that it's because her dear friend Baron Arnheim has advised her to do so. Sir Robert doesn't like the second mention of this name. He tries to distract Mrs. Cheveley with some paintings. She's having none of it. Sir Robert advises her to get out of this Argentine Canal deal, because the House of Commons will shut the whole thing down once he delivers his report tomorrow. But Mrs. Cheveley says that Sir Robert shouldn't do it, for his own good. She lays it out: withdraw this negative report and promote the Argentine Canal. Or else. Sir Robert can't believe she's serious. There's no way he'll do this. But she'll pay him. Sir Robert tells her to leave immediately. Mrs. Cheveley traps him with her fan and drops the bomb. She knows that as a young man, Sir Robert made his fortune by selling a state secret to a Stock Exchange speculator. She has a letter proving it. A letter addressed to Baron Arnheim. Uh-oh. This is bad for Sir Robert. Mrs. Cheveley generously offers to barter this letter for Sir Robert's public support of the Argentine scheme. She points out that the moral climate in England is such that politicians like him have to be perfect. Scandals used to be fun but now they are deadly. If the public finds out Sir Robert built his fortune and career on an unethical act - selling state secrets - he is done. She wants an answer now, or she's going straight to the newspapers. Those vultures will looooove this. At this point Sir Robert is pretty much ready to be sick. Could he give her money instead? No way, she says. Make a speech supporting the Argentine Canal, and she will give him the letter. She makes to leave. No time to think about it. He agrees. The crowd comes in from dinner and Lady Markby asks Mrs. Cheveley if she has enjoyed herself. Oh yes, she has. Sir Robert Chiltern is very interesting. And Lady Chiltern, says Mrs. Markby, has the highest principles. Which make for boring dinner parties. Lady Markby leaves on Lord Caversham's arm. Approaching Lady Chiltern, Mrs. Cheveley complements her house, party, and husband. Then she shares the news: Sir Robert will make a speech supporting the Argentine Canal. Lady Chiltern can't believe that this is true. But it's all settled, counters Mrs. Cheveley. She explains that it's a secret until tomorrow, though...so Lady Chiltern can't tell. Sir Robert comes in to get rid of her. Mrs. Cheveley says goodbye to Lord Goring and goes out with Sir Robert. Lady Chiltern looks on with worry. Mabel and Lord Goring tease each other and sit down on the sofa, where Mabel finds a diamond brooch. Lord Goring seems to recognize it - he knows it can be worn as a bracelet. He asks her not to mention that he's keeping it but to let him know if someone asks for it. Mabel leaves and Lady Chiltern enters. The topic of Mrs. Cheveley naturally comes up. Lady Chiltern tells Lord Goring that Mrs. Cheveley wants Sir Robert to support to Argentine Canal. They both agree it is impossible for someone as morally sound as Sir Robert to do such a thing. Sir Robert comes in and wants Lord Goring to stay. He can't - more parties await. The husband and wife are left alone. He flatters her, saying she's beautiful. She's not biting, and asks him what's going on with the Argentine thing. Lady Chiltern says that Sir Robert shouldn't trust this Mrs. Cheveley. As a young girl she was manipulative, dishonest, and a thief. And people don't change. Sir Robert begs his wife not to judge others entirely on their past. Lady Chiltern takes a hard line, claiming that the past makes the man. Sir Robert is naturally a little uncomfortable with this statement. Lady Chiltern can't believe he's going to support something she just heard him describe as a total fraud. Sir Robert prevaricates . He was wrong, the report was biased. And besides, private and public life are two different things. No, she says. A man should be perfect in both. Sir Robert draws a line. He's made his decision and he doesn't want to talk about it. Lady Chiltern senses something, and asks if he's telling her the whole truth. Again, he evades, and gives her some platitudes about the complexity of truth and the necessity of compromise in politics. She can't believe what she's hearing. Her principled husband talking compromise? What happened? In her opinion, Sir Robert always stood apart from others, above others, above reproach. That's why she loves him. She worships him. And that love is threatened by what he's about to do. Is there some dark secret he's not telling her? Because if there is, she's out of the relationship. He lies: nope, nothing she doesn't already know. Lady Chiltern, relieved, asks him to write Mrs. Cheveley and take it all back. In fact, she's pretty pushy about it. Sir Robert sends off the letter, and Lady Chiltern gets all lovey-dovey. She's saved him from shame and horror and she'll love him forever because he'll always deserve it. She kisses him and exits. Sir Robert sits alone with his head in his hands. He asks Mason to put out the lights. The only thing illuminated is the tapestry of the Triumph of Love. End of Act 1.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/885-chapters/act_2.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/An Ideal Husband/section_1_part_0.txt

An Ideal Husband.act 2

act 2

{"name": "Act 2", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201030224859/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/an-ideal-husband/summary/act-2", "summary": "Lord Goring and Sir Robert are in Sir Robert's morning room. Lord Goring, dressed to the nines, is chilling in an armchair; Sir Robert is pacing up and down nervously. Sir Robert has just confessed his conundrum to Lord Goring. Lord Goring thinks he should have told Lady Chiltern the truth right away. You can't hide things from your own wife, he says, because they'll always sniff it out. Impossible, says Sir Robert. She would have left him. Lord Goring can't believe Lady Chiltern's so perfect herself, and proposes to have a get-real talk with her. Sir Robert's pretty sure it won't make a dent. Lord Goring thinks Sir Robert should have come clean years ago. Easy for someone else to say, says Sir Robert. Confessing fraud doesn't exactly reel in a girl like Lady Chiltern. Okay, says Lord Goring, he has a point. But most people would judge his action - selling state secrets - pretty harshly. While they were doing the same thing themselves, explodes Sir Robert. He was young; he was poor; he was ambitious. He made a mistake. Should it ruin him forever? Is that fair? Besides, wealth is the only god this century worships, and the only way to get power. Lord Goring still can't wrap his head around it. Why did Sir Robert do it? He was coached by Baron Arnheim, who preached the philosophy of power and gospel of gold. The Baron invited the young Sir Robert to his home, showed off his bling, and said only wealth could bring power. Lord Goring, surprisingly serious in the scene, calls this philosophy shallow. Sir Robert defends it. After all, wealth is what gave him the power - the freedom - that has made his life so meaningful. The Baron gave him the chance of a lifetime. When state documents passed through his hands that could make the Baron some money, Sir Robert informed him. The Baron made three-quarters of a million pounds on the deal; he gave Sir Robert 110,000. Sir Robert went into the House immediately and continued to grow his fortune. He's always had luck with money. And no regrets? asks Lord Goring. Sir Robert says no. He simply fought with the weapons of the times. And won. After a long pause, Sir Robert confesses he's paid a lot of guilt money over the years. He's donated twice the bribe amount to public charities over the years. In the first joke of the scene, Lord Goring feigns shock. To public charities! Then he's done a lot of damage after all. Lightening up a little, Lord Goring promises to help Sir Robert however he can. He doesn't think a public confession would help things. Nowadays a politician needs morality on his side. Nope, what he has to do is tell Lady Chiltern. Oh god, says Sir Robert, not that. Can't he get something on Mrs. Cheveley? Lord Goring knew her before. It turns out that Lord Goring was engaged to Mrs. Cheveley. For three days. It didn't work out. By the way, has Sir Robert tried to bribe her? Money used to work wonders on her. Alas, not this time. She wouldn't bite. Sir Robert fears that public humiliation is in his future. Lord Goring melodramatically strikes the table and the scene goes a little Batman and Robin. There's got to be a way to stop her! We've just got to find her weak spot! Sir Robert decides to write to Vienna to get dirt on her. He wonders why Baron Arnheim was in her power. Smirking, Lord Goring has an idea. Sir Robert seems to cheer up, but Lord Goring is less optimistic. He knows the woman and she is T-U-F-F. Lady Chiltern enters. She's just come from the Women's Liberal Association, where she enjoyed the part when they clapped for her husband. Lord Goring thinks they should have clapped for her super-cute hat. Au contrair, Lord Goring, says Lady Chiltern. We liberal ladies are serious; we debate Factor Acts, Female Inspectors, the Eight Hour's Bill, the Parliamentary Franchise. Another hat joke from Lord Goring, and Lady Chiltern exits. Sir Robert thanks Lord Goring for listening and letting him unload the truth. Lord Goring quips that he always gets rid of the truth as soon as possible. Lady Chiltern comes in as Sir Robert is going out. She cautions him not to work too hard. He exits and she sits down with Lord Goring for a little chat. It's about Mrs. Cheveley. Lady Chiltern made Sir Robert take back his terrible promise about the Argentine scheme. It would have been a black spot on his record. And Sir Robert should be above other men. Right? Listen, says Lord Goring, success requires compromise. Ambition demands flexibility. Lady Chiltern's hackles start to rise. She wonders what he means. Well, frankly, she's a little judgmental. She's not forgiving. What if, he proposes - and this is totally, totally hypothetical - what if some public man like Lord Caversham, or Sir Robert, say, had written a compromising letter... There's no way Sir Robert could do something that wrong, says Lady Chiltern. Lord Goring believes anyone can do wrong. And he believes that we should all be able to forgive, and love. He makes an earnest offer to Lady Chiltern to come to him any time she is in trouble. This kind of freaks her out. He's being so serious. Thank goodness Mabel Chiltern arrives for some comic relief. She doesn't like this seriousness at all and asks Lord Goring to cut it out. Mabel invites Lord Goring to ride horses with her tomorrow at 10 am. And doesn't he want to hear more about her adventures? On that note, Lord Goring leaves. Mabel and Lady Chiltern have some girl talk time. Tommy Trafford has proposed to Mabel again - three times in 48 hours. The annoying thing is that it's never with a splash. Lady Chiltern thinks Tommy would make a good match. He's a great secretary with a lot of promise. Mabel is so not interested. That's OK for someone with character, but geniuses bore her to death. Mabel goes out, and comes right back in. Guess who's come for a visit? Lady Chiltern's favorite people: Mrs. Markby and Mrs. Cheveley are led in by Mason. Mrs. Cheveley is introduced to Mabel, who has to leave for rehearsal. It's a play benefiting the \"Undeserving.\" Lord Goring is president. How apt, says Mrs. Cheveley. Mabel exits. Lady Markby asks whether the Chilterns have found a diamond brooch Mrs. Cheveley lost. Lady Chiltern hasn't seen it, but offers to call the butler. No matter, says Mrs. Cheveley. She must have dropped it at the opera. Lady Markby isn't surprised. There's so much jostle at all society events that she's surprised they don't end up naked every night. Mason comes in. Mrs. Cheveley describes the brooch: snake-shaped, made of diamonds, with a large ruby on its head. Mason hasn't seen it. Lady Markby hates losing things. She also hates her husband. She thinks the House of Commons is the worst thing for marriages since the education of women. She has a million other opinions that she squeezes in to this little scene before she leaves the two foes alone. Then it's face-off time. Lady Chiltern tells Mrs. Cheveley frankly that, if she'd known who she was, she wouldn't have invited her last night. When someone's done something terrible in the past, they'll probably do it again. And they don't deserve invitations to nice dinner parties. Mrs. Cheveley is clearly getting a kick out the irony here. Lady Chiltern reveals that she encouraged Sir Robert to write the letter rejecting Mrs. Cheveley's proposal. You're going to regret that, says Mrs. Cheveley. She adds that Sir Robert is just as low as she is. Now Lady Chiltern's getting angry. She can't believe Mrs. Cheveley puts Robert in her league. Speaking of the devil...Sir Robert enters. Mrs. Cheveley reveals everything: this house was bought by fraud; Sir Robert's fortune was made in a dirty deal. If Sir Robert doesn't give the speech she wants him to, he's done. Sir Robert rings the bell for Mason. Mrs. Cheveley looks both of the Chilterns in the face, then makes a proud exit. When the couple is alone, the accusations start. Lady Chiltern is shocked and hysterical as she confronts Sir Robert with his past. Sir Robert tries to calm her, wants to explain how it all happened. She doesn't want him to touch her. She basically calls him a liar, prostitute, thief and slave, all in one breath. Her ideal image of him has been totally shattered. That's the problem, says Sir Robert. She put him up on a pedestal. Men accept and love their wives, faults and all, but women need a man to be perfect. Sir Robert continues that love means forgiveness. But apparently, Lady Chiltern is not big enough for that. She ruined his life last night when she made him retract his promise. Because she can't accept him, she has buried him. Sir Robert leaves the room and Lady Chiltern is left alone in anguish. She cries alone.", "analysis": ""}

SECOND ACT SCENE _Morning-room at Sir Robert Chiltern's house_. [LORD GORING, _dressed in the height of fashion_, _is lounging in an armchair_. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN _is standing in front of the fireplace_. _He is evidently in a state of great mental excitement and distress_. _As the scene progresses he paces nervously up and down the room_.] LORD GORING. My dear Robert, it's a very awkward business, very awkward indeed. You should have told your wife the whole thing. Secrets from other people's wives are a necessary luxury in modern life. So, at least, I am always told at the club by people who are bald enough to know better. But no man should have a secret from his own wife. She invariably finds it out. Women have a wonderful instinct about things. They can discover everything except the obvious. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Arthur, I couldn't tell my wife. When could I have told her? Not last night. It would have made a life-long separation between us, and I would have lost the love of the one woman in the world I worship, of the only woman who has ever stirred love within me. Last night it would have been quite impossible. She would have turned from me in horror . . . in horror and in contempt. LORD GORING. Is Lady Chiltern as perfect as all that? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Yes; my wife is as perfect as all that. LORD GORING. [_Taking off his left-hand glove_.] What a pity! I beg your pardon, my dear fellow, I didn't quite mean that. But if what you tell me is true, I should like to have a serious talk about life with Lady Chiltern. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. It would be quite useless. LORD GORING. May I try? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Yes; but nothing could make her alter her views. LORD GORING. Well, at the worst it would simply be a psychological experiment. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. All such experiments are terribly dangerous. LORD GORING. Everything is dangerous, my dear fellow. If it wasn't so, life wouldn't be worth living. . . . Well, I am bound to say that I think you should have told her years ago. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. When? When we were engaged? Do you think she would have married me if she had known that the origin of my fortune is such as it is, the basis of my career such as it is, and that I had done a thing that I suppose most men would call shameful and dishonourable? LORD GORING. [_Slowly_.] Yes; most men would call it ugly names. There is no doubt of that. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Bitterly_.] Men who every day do something of the same kind themselves. Men who, each one of them, have worse secrets in their own lives. LORD GORING. That is the reason they are so pleased to find out other people's secrets. It distracts public attention from their own. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. And, after all, whom did I wrong by what I did? No one. LORD GORING. [_Looking at him steadily_.] Except yourself, Robert. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_After a pause_.] Of course I had private information about a certain transaction contemplated by the Government of the day, and I acted on it. Private information is practically the source of every large modern fortune. LORD GORING. [_Tapping his boot with his cane_.] And public scandal invariably the result. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Pacing up and down the room_.] Arthur, do you think that what I did nearly eighteen years ago should be brought up against me now? Do you think it fair that a man's whole career should be ruined for a fault done in one's boyhood almost? I was twenty-two at the time, and I had the double misfortune of being well-born and poor, two unforgiveable things nowadays. Is it fair that the folly, the sin of one's youth, if men choose to call it a sin, should wreck a life like mine, should place me in the pillory, should shatter all that I have worked for, all that I have built up. Is it fair, Arthur? LORD GORING. Life is never fair, Robert. And perhaps it is a good thing for most of us that it is not. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Every man of ambition has to fight his century with its own weapons. What this century worships is wealth. The God of this century is wealth. To succeed one must have wealth. At all costs one must have wealth. LORD GORING. You underrate yourself, Robert. Believe me, without wealth you could have succeeded just as well. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. When I was old, perhaps. When I had lost my passion for power, or could not use it. When I was tired, worn out, disappointed. I wanted my success when I was young. Youth is the time for success. I couldn't wait. LORD GORING. Well, you certainly have had your success while you are still young. No one in our day has had such a brilliant success. Under-Secretary for Foreign Affairs at the age of forty--that's good enough for any one, I should think. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. And if it is all taken away from me now? If I lose everything over a horrible scandal? If I am hounded from public life? LORD GORING. Robert, how could you have sold yourself for money? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Excitedly_.] I did not sell myself for money. I bought success at a great price. That is all. LORD GORING. [_Gravely_.] Yes; you certainly paid a great price for it. But what first made you think of doing such a thing? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Baron Arnheim. LORD GORING. Damned scoundrel! SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. No; he was a man of a most subtle and refined intellect. A man of culture, charm, and distinction. One of the most intellectual men I ever met. LORD GORING. Ah! I prefer a gentlemanly fool any day. There is more to be said for stupidity than people imagine. Personally I have a great admiration for stupidity. It is a sort of fellow-feeling, I suppose. But how did he do it? Tell me the whole thing. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Throws himself into an armchair by the writing-table_.] One night after dinner at Lord Radley's the Baron began talking about success in modern life as something that one could reduce to an absolutely definite science. With that wonderfully fascinating quiet voice of his he expounded to us the most terrible of all philosophies, the philosophy of power, preached to us the most marvellous of all gospels, the gospel of gold. I think he saw the effect he had produced on me, for some days afterwards he wrote and asked me to come and see him. He was living then in Park Lane, in the house Lord Woolcomb has now. I remember so well how, with a strange smile on his pale, curved lips, he led me through his wonderful picture gallery, showed me his tapestries, his enamels, his jewels, his carved ivories, made me wonder at the strange loveliness of the luxury in which he lived; and then told me that luxury was nothing but a background, a painted scene in a play, and that power, power over other men, power over the world, was the one thing worth having, the one supreme pleasure worth knowing, the one joy one never tired of, and that in our century only the rich possessed it. LORD GORING. [_With great deliberation_.] A thoroughly shallow creed. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Rising_.] I didn't think so then. I don't think so now. Wealth has given me enormous power. It gave me at the very outset of my life freedom, and freedom is everything. You have never been poor, and never known what ambition is. You cannot understand what a wonderful chance the Baron gave me. Such a chance as few men get. LORD GORING. Fortunately for them, if one is to judge by results. But tell me definitely, how did the Baron finally persuade you to--well, to do what you did? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. When I was going away he said to me that if I ever could give him any private information of real value he would make me a very rich man. I was dazed at the prospect he held out to me, and my ambition and my desire for power were at that time boundless. Six weeks later certain private documents passed through my hands. LORD GORING. [_Keeping his eyes steadily fixed on the carpet_.] State documents? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Yes. [LORD GORING _sighs_, _then passes his hand across his forehead and looks up_.] LORD GORING. I had no idea that you, of all men in the world, could have been so weak, Robert, as to yield to such a temptation as Baron Arnheim held out to you. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Weak? Oh, I am sick of hearing that phrase. Sick of using it about others. Weak? Do you really think, Arthur, that it is weakness that yields to temptation? I tell you that there are terrible temptations that it requires strength, strength and courage, to yield to. To stake all one's life on a single moment, to risk everything on one throw, whether the stake be power or pleasure, I care not--there is no weakness in that. There is a horrible, a terrible courage. I had that courage. I sat down the same afternoon and wrote Baron Arnheim the letter this woman now holds. He made three-quarters of a million over the transaction. LORD GORING. And you? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I received from the Baron 110,000 pounds. LORD GORING. You were worth more, Robert. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. No; that money gave me exactly what I wanted, power over others. I went into the House immediately. The Baron advised me in finance from time to time. Before five years I had almost trebled my fortune. Since then everything that I have touched has turned out a success. In all things connected with money I have had a luck so extraordinary that sometimes it has made me almost afraid. I remember having read somewhere, in some strange book, that when the gods wish to punish us they answer our prayers. LORD GORING. But tell me, Robert, did you never suffer any regret for what you had done? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. No. I felt that I had fought the century with its own weapons, and won. LORD GORING. [_Sadly_.] You thought you had won. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I thought so. [_After a long pause_.] Arthur, do you despise me for what I have told you? LORD GORING. [_With deep feeling in his voice_.] I am very sorry for you, Robert, very sorry indeed. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I don't say that I suffered any remorse. I didn't. Not remorse in the ordinary, rather silly sense of the word. But I have paid conscience money many times. I had a wild hope that I might disarm destiny. The sum Baron Arnheim gave me I have distributed twice over in public charities since then. LORD GORING. [_Looking up_.] In public charities? Dear me! what a lot of harm you must have done, Robert! SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Oh, don't say that, Arthur; don't talk like that! LORD GORING. Never mind what I say, Robert! I am always saying what I shouldn't say. In fact, I usually say what I really think. A great mistake nowadays. It makes one so liable to be misunderstood. As regards this dreadful business, I will help you in whatever way I can. Of course you know that. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Thank you, Arthur, thank you. But what is to be done? What can be done? LORD GORING. [_Leaning back with his hands in his pockets_.] Well, the English can't stand a man who is always saying he is in the right, but they are very fond of a man who admits that he has been in the wrong. It is one of the best things in them. However, in your case, Robert, a confession would not do. The money, if you will allow me to say so, is . . . awkward. Besides, if you did make a clean breast of the whole affair, you would never be able to talk morality again. And in England a man who can't talk morality twice a week to a large, popular, immoral audience is quite over as a serious politician. There would be nothing left for him as a profession except Botany or the Church. A confession would be of no use. It would ruin you. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. It would ruin me. Arthur, the only thing for me to do now is to fight the thing out. LORD GORING. [_Rising from his chair_.] I was waiting for you to say that, Robert. It is the only thing to do now. And you must begin by telling your wife the whole story. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. That I will not do. LORD GORING. Robert, believe me, you are wrong. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I couldn't do it. It would kill her love for me. And now about this woman, this Mrs. Cheveley. How can I defend myself against her? You knew her before, Arthur, apparently. LORD GORING. Yes. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Did you know her well? LORD GORING. [_Arranging his necktie_.] So little that I got engaged to be married to her once, when I was staying at the Tenbys'. The affair lasted for three days . . . nearly. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Why was it broken off? LORD GORING. [_Airily_.] Oh, I forget. At least, it makes no matter. By the way, have you tried her with money? She used to be confoundedly fond of money. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I offered her any sum she wanted. She refused. LORD GORING. Then the marvellous gospel of gold breaks down sometimes. The rich can't do everything, after all. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Not everything. I suppose you are right. Arthur, I feel that public disgrace is in store for me. I feel certain of it. I never knew what terror was before. I know it now. It is as if a hand of ice were laid upon one's heart. It is as if one's heart were beating itself to death in some empty hollow. LORD GORING. [_Striking the table_.] Robert, you must fight her. You must fight her. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. But how? LORD GORING. I can't tell you how at present. I have not the smallest idea. But every one has some weak point. There is some flaw in each one of us. [_Strolls to the fireplace and looks at himself in the glass_.] My father tells me that even I have faults. Perhaps I have. I don't know. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. In defending myself against Mrs. Cheveley, I have a right to use any weapon I can find, have I not? LORD GORING. [_Still looking in the glass_.] In your place I don't think I should have the smallest scruple in doing so. She is thoroughly well able to take care of herself. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Sits down at the table and takes a pen in his hand_.] Well, I shall send a cipher telegram to the Embassy at Vienna, to inquire if there is anything known against her. There may be some secret scandal she might be afraid of. LORD GORING. [_Settling his buttonhole_.] Oh, I should fancy Mrs. Cheveley is one of those very modern women of our time who find a new scandal as becoming as a new bonnet, and air them both in the Park every afternoon at five-thirty. I am sure she adores scandals, and that the sorrow of her life at present is that she can't manage to have enough of them. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Writing_.] Why do you say that? LORD GORING. [_Turning round_.] Well, she wore far too much rouge last night, and not quite enough clothes. That is always a sign of despair in a woman. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Striking a bell_.] But it is worth while my wiring to Vienna, is it not? LORD GORING. It is always worth while asking a question, though it is not always worth while answering one. [_Enter_ MASON.] SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Is Mr. Trafford in his room? MASON. Yes, Sir Robert. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Puts what he has written into an envelope_, _which he then carefully closes_.] Tell him to have this sent off in cipher at once. There must not be a moment's delay. MASON. Yes, Sir Robert. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Oh! just give that back to me again. [_Writes something on the envelope_. MASON _then goes out with the letter_.] SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. She must have had some curious hold over Baron Arnheim. I wonder what it was. LORD GORING. [_Smiling_.] I wonder. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I will fight her to the death, as long as my wife knows nothing. LORD GORING. [_Strongly_.] Oh, fight in any case--in any case. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_With a gesture of despair_.] If my wife found out, there would be little left to fight for. Well, as soon as I hear from Vienna, I shall let you know the result. It is a chance, just a chance, but I believe in it. And as I fought the age with its own weapons, I will fight her with her weapons. It is only fair, and she looks like a woman with a past, doesn't she? LORD GORING. Most pretty women do. But there is a fashion in pasts just as there is a fashion in frocks. Perhaps Mrs. Cheveley's past is merely a slightly decollete one, and they are excessively popular nowadays. Besides, my dear Robert, I should not build too high hopes on frightening Mrs. Cheveley. I should not fancy Mrs. Cheveley is a woman who would be easily frightened. She has survived all her creditors, and she shows wonderful presence of mind. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Oh! I live on hopes now. I clutch at every chance. I feel like a man on a ship that is sinking. The water is round my feet, and the very air is bitter with storm. Hush! I hear my wife's voice. [_Enter_ LADY CHILTERN _in walking dress_.] LADY CHILTERN. Good afternoon, Lord Goring! LORD GORING. Good afternoon, Lady Chiltern! Have you been in the Park? LADY CHILTERN. No; I have just come from the Woman's Liberal Association, where, by the way, Robert, your name was received with loud applause, and now I have come in to have my tea. [_To_ LORD GORING.] You will wait and have some tea, won't you? LORD GORING. I'll wait for a short time, thanks. LADY CHILTERN. I will be back in a moment. I am only going to take my hat off. LORD GORING. [_In his most earnest manner_.] Oh! please don't. It is so pretty. One of the prettiest hats I ever saw. I hope the Woman's Liberal Association received it with loud applause. LADY CHILTERN. [_With a smile_.] We have much more important work to do than look at each other's bonnets, Lord Goring. LORD GORING. Really? What sort of work? LADY CHILTERN. Oh! dull, useful, delightful things, Factory Acts, Female Inspectors, the Eight Hours' Bill, the Parliamentary Franchise. . . . Everything, in fact, that you would find thoroughly uninteresting. LORD GORING. And never bonnets? LADY CHILTERN. [_With mock indignation_.] Never bonnets, never! [LADY CHILTERN _goes out through the door leading to her boudoir_.] SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Takes_ LORD GORING'S _hand_.] You have been a good friend to me, Arthur, a thoroughly good friend. LORD GORING. I don't know that I have been able to do much for you, Robert, as yet. In fact, I have not been able to do anything for you, as far as I can see. I am thoroughly disappointed with myself. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. You have enabled me to tell you the truth. That is something. The truth has always stifled me. LORD GORING. Ah! the truth is a thing I get rid of as soon as possible! Bad habit, by the way. Makes one very unpopular at the club . . . with the older members. They call it being conceited. Perhaps it is. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I would to God that I had been able to tell the truth . . . to live the truth. Ah! that is the great thing in life, to live the truth. [_Sighs_, _and goes towards the door_.] I'll see you soon again, Arthur, shan't I? LORD GORING. Certainly. Whenever you like. I'm going to look in at the Bachelors' Ball to-night, unless I find something better to do. But I'll come round to-morrow morning. If you should want me to-night by any chance, send round a note to Curzon Street. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Thank you. [_As he reaches the door_, LADY CHILTERN _enters from her boudoir_.] LADY CHILTERN. You are not going, Robert? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I have some letters to write, dear. LADY CHILTERN. [_Going to him_.] You work too hard, Robert. You seem never to think of yourself, and you are looking so tired. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. It is nothing, dear, nothing. [_He kisses her and goes out_.] LADY CHILTERN. [_To_ LORD GORING.] Do sit down. I am so glad you have called. I want to talk to you about . . . well, not about bonnets, or the Woman's Liberal Association. You take far too much interest in the first subject, and not nearly enough in the second. LORD GORING. You want to talk to me about Mrs. Cheveley? LADY CHILTERN. Yes. You have guessed it. After you left last night I found out that what she had said was really true. Of course I made Robert write her a letter at once, withdrawing his promise. LORD GORING. So he gave me to understand. LADY CHILTERN. To have kept it would have been the first stain on a career that has been stainless always. Robert must be above reproach. He is not like other men. He cannot afford to do what other men do. [_She looks at_ LORD GORING, _who remains silent_.] Don't you agree with me? You are Robert's greatest friend. You are our greatest friend, Lord Goring. No one, except myself, knows Robert better than you do. He has no secrets from me, and I don't think he has any from you. LORD GORING. He certainly has no secrets from me. At least I don't think so. LADY CHILTERN. Then am I not right in my estimate of him? I know I am right. But speak to me frankly. LORD GORING. [_Looking straight at her_.] Quite frankly? LADY CHILTERN. Surely. You have nothing to conceal, have you? LORD GORING. Nothing. But, my dear Lady Chiltern, I think, if you will allow me to say so, that in practical life-- LADY CHILTERN. [_Smiling_.] Of which you know so little, Lord Goring-- LORD GORING. Of which I know nothing by experience, though I know something by observation. I think that in practical life there is something about success, actual success, that is a little unscrupulous, something about ambition that is unscrupulous always. Once a man has set his heart and soul on getting to a certain point, if he has to climb the crag, he climbs the crag; if he has to walk in the mire-- LADY CHILTERN. Well? LORD GORING. He walks in the mire. Of course I am only talking generally about life. LADY CHILTERN. [_Gravely_.] I hope so. Why do you look at me so strangely, Lord Goring? LORD GORING. Lady Chiltern, I have sometimes thought that . . . perhaps you are a little hard in some of your views on life. I think that . . . often you don't make sufficient allowances. In every nature there are elements of weakness, or worse than weakness. Supposing, for instance, that--that any public man, my father, or Lord Merton, or Robert, say, had, years ago, written some foolish letter to some one . . . LADY CHILTERN. What do you mean by a foolish letter? LORD GORING. A letter gravely compromising one's position. I am only putting an imaginary case. LADY CHILTERN. Robert is as incapable of doing a foolish thing as he is of doing a wrong thing. LORD GORING. [_After a long pause_.] Nobody is incapable of doing a foolish thing. Nobody is incapable of doing a wrong thing. LADY CHILTERN. Are you a Pessimist? What will the other dandies say? They will all have to go into mourning. LORD GORING. [_Rising_.] No, Lady Chiltern, I am not a Pessimist. Indeed I am not sure that I quite know what Pessimism really means. All I do know is that life cannot be understood without much charity, cannot be lived without much charity. It is love, and not German philosophy, that is the true explanation of this world, whatever may be the explanation of the next. And if you are ever in trouble, Lady Chiltern, trust me absolutely, and I will help you in every way I can. If you ever want me, come to me for my assistance, and you shall have it. Come at once to me. LADY CHILTERN. [_Looking at him in surprise_.] Lord Goring, you are talking quite seriously. I don't think I ever heard you talk seriously before. LORD GORING. [_Laughing_.] You must excuse me, Lady Chiltern. It won't occur again, if I can help it. LADY CHILTERN. But I like you to be serious. [_Enter_ MABEL CHILTERN, _in the most ravishing frock_.] MABEL CHILTERN. Dear Gertrude, don't say such a dreadful thing to Lord Goring. Seriousness would be very unbecoming to him. Good afternoon Lord Goring! Pray be as trivial as you can. LORD GORING. I should like to, Miss Mabel, but I am afraid I am . . . a little out of practice this morning; and besides, I have to be going now. MABEL CHILTERN. Just when I have come in! What dreadful manners you have! I am sure you were very badly brought up. LORD GORING. I was. MABEL CHILTERN. I wish I had brought you up! LORD GORING. I am so sorry you didn't. MABEL CHILTERN. It is too late now, I suppose? LORD GORING. [_Smiling_.] I am not so sure. MABEL CHILTERN. Will you ride to-morrow morning? LORD GORING. Yes, at ten. MABEL CHILTERN. Don't forget. LORD GORING. Of course I shan't. By the way, Lady Chiltern, there is no list of your guests in _The Morning Post_ of to-day. It has apparently been crowded out by the County Council, or the Lambeth Conference, or something equally boring. Could you let me have a list? I have a particular reason for asking you. LADY CHILTERN. I am sure Mr. Trafford will be able to give you one. LORD GORING. Thanks, so much. MABEL CHILTERN. Tommy is the most useful person in London. LORD GORING [_Turning to her_.] And who is the most ornamental? MABEL CHILTERN [_Triumphantly_.] I am. LORD GORING. How clever of you to guess it! [_Takes up his hat and cane_.] Good-bye, Lady Chiltern! You will remember what I said to you, won't you? LADY CHILTERN. Yes; but I don't know why you said it to me. LORD GORING. I hardly know myself. Good-bye, Miss Mabel! MABEL CHILTERN [_With a little moue of disappointment_.] I wish you were not going. I have had four wonderful adventures this morning; four and a half, in fact. You might stop and listen to some of them. LORD GORING. How very selfish of you to have four and a half! There won't be any left for me. MABEL CHILTERN. I don't want you to have any. They would not be good for you. LORD GORING. That is the first unkind thing you have ever said to me. How charmingly you said it! Ten to-morrow. MABEL CHILTERN. Sharp. LORD GORING. Quite sharp. But don't bring Mr. Trafford. MABEL CHILTERN. [_With a little toss of the head_.] Of course I shan't bring Tommy Trafford. Tommy Trafford is in great disgrace. LORD GORING. I am delighted to hear it. [_Bows and goes out_.] MABEL CHILTERN. Gertrude, I wish you would speak to Tommy Trafford. LADY CHILTERN. What has poor Mr. Trafford done this time? Robert says he is the best secretary he has ever had. MABEL CHILTERN. Well, Tommy has proposed to me again. Tommy really does nothing but propose to me. He proposed to me last night in the music-room, when I was quite unprotected, as there was an elaborate trio going on. I didn't dare to make the smallest repartee, I need hardly tell you. If I had, it would have stopped the music at once. Musical people are so absurdly unreasonable. They always want one to be perfectly dumb at the very moment when one is longing to be absolutely deaf. Then he proposed to me in broad daylight this morning, in front of that dreadful statue of Achilles. Really, the things that go on in front of that work of art are quite appalling. The police should interfere. At luncheon I saw by the glare in his eye that he was going to propose again, and I just managed to check him in time by assuring him that I was a bimetallist. Fortunately I don't know what bimetallism means. And I don't believe anybody else does either. But the observation crushed Tommy for ten minutes. He looked quite shocked. And then Tommy is so annoying in the way he proposes. If he proposed at the top of his voice, I should not mind so much. That might produce some effect on the public. But he does it in a horrid confidential way. When Tommy wants to be romantic he talks to one just like a doctor. I am very fond of Tommy, but his methods of proposing are quite out of date. I wish, Gertrude, you would speak to him, and tell him that once a week is quite often enough to propose to any one, and that it should always be done in a manner that attracts some attention. LADY CHILTERN. Dear Mabel, don't talk like that. Besides, Robert thinks very highly of Mr. Trafford. He believes he has a brilliant future before him. MABEL CHILTERN. Oh! I wouldn't marry a man with a future before him for anything under the sun. LADY CHILTERN. Mabel! MABEL CHILTERN. I know, dear. You married a man with a future, didn't you? But then Robert was a genius, and you have a noble, self-sacrificing character. You can stand geniuses. I have no character at all, and Robert is the only genius I could ever bear. As a rule, I think they are quite impossible. Geniuses talk so much, don't they? Such a bad habit! And they are always thinking about themselves, when I want them to be thinking about me. I must go round now and rehearse at Lady Basildon's. You remember, we are having tableaux, don't you? The Triumph of something, I don't know what! I hope it will be triumph of me. Only triumph I am really interested in at present. [_Kisses_ LADY CHILTERN _and goes out_; _then comes running back_.] Oh, Gertrude, do you know who is coming to see you? That dreadful Mrs. Cheveley, in a most lovely gown. Did you ask her? LADY CHILTERN. [_Rising_.] Mrs. Cheveley! Coming to see me? Impossible! MABEL CHILTERN. I assure you she is coming upstairs, as large as life and not nearly so natural. LADY CHILTERN. You need not wait, Mabel. Remember, Lady Basildon is expecting you. MABEL CHILTERN. Oh! I must shake hands with Lady Markby. She is delightful. I love being scolded by her. [_Enter_ MASON.] MASON. Lady Markby. Mrs. Cheveley. [_Enter_ LADY MARKBY _and_ MRS. CHEVELEY.] LADY CHILTERN. [_Advancing to meet them_.] Dear Lady Markby, how nice of you to come and see me! [_Shakes hands with her_, _and bows somewhat distantly to_ MRS. CHEVELEY.] Won't you sit down, Mrs. Cheveley? MRS. CHEVELEY. Thanks. Isn't that Miss Chiltern? I should like so much to know her. LADY CHILTERN. Mabel, Mrs. Cheveley wishes to know you. [MABEL CHILTERN _gives a little nod_.] MRS. CHEVELEY [_Sitting down_.] I thought your frock so charming last night, Miss Chiltern. So simple and . . . suitable. MABEL CHILTERN. Really? I must tell my dressmaker. It will be such a surprise to her. Good-bye, Lady Markby! LADY MARKBY. Going already? MABEL CHILTERN. I am so sorry but I am obliged to. I am just off to rehearsal. I have got to stand on my head in some tableaux. LADY MARKBY. On your head, child? Oh! I hope not. I believe it is most unhealthy. [_Takes a seat on the sofa next_ LADY CHILTERN.] MABEL CHILTERN. But it is for an excellent charity: in aid of the Undeserving, the only people I am really interested in. I am the secretary, and Tommy Trafford is treasurer. MRS. CHEVELEY. And what is Lord Goring? MABEL CHILTERN. Oh! Lord Goring is president. MRS. CHEVELEY. The post should suit him admirably, unless he has deteriorated since I knew him first. LADY MARKBY. [_Reflecting_.] You are remarkably modern, Mabel. A little too modern, perhaps. Nothing is so dangerous as being too modern. One is apt to grow old-fashioned quite suddenly. I have known many instances of it. MABEL CHILTERN. What a dreadful prospect! LADY MARKBY. Ah! my dear, you need not be nervous. You will always be as pretty as possible. That is the best fashion there is, and the only fashion that England succeeds in setting. MABEL CHILTERN. [_With a curtsey_.] Thank you so much, Lady Markby, for England . . . and myself. [_Goes out_.] LADY MARKBY. [_Turning to_ LADY CHILTERN.] Dear Gertrude, we just called to know if Mrs. Cheveley's diamond brooch has been found. LADY CHILTERN. Here? MRS. CHEVELEY. Yes. I missed it when I got back to Claridge's, and I thought I might possibly have dropped it here. LADY CHILTERN. I have heard nothing about it. But I will send for the butler and ask. [_Touches the bell_.] MRS. CHEVELEY. Oh, pray don't trouble, Lady Chiltern. I dare say I lost it at the Opera, before we came on here. LADY MARKBY. Ah yes, I suppose it must have been at the Opera. The fact is, we all scramble and jostle so much nowadays that I wonder we have anything at all left on us at the end of an evening. I know myself that, when I am coming back from the Drawing Room, I always feel as if I hadn't a shred on me, except a small shred of decent reputation, just enough to prevent the lower classes making painful observations through the windows of the carriage. The fact is that our Society is terribly over-populated. Really, some one should arrange a proper scheme of assisted emigration. It would do a great deal of good. MRS. CHEVELEY. I quite agree with you, Lady Markby. It is nearly six years since I have been in London for the Season, and I must say Society has become dreadfully mixed. One sees the oddest people everywhere. LADY MARKBY. That is quite true, dear. But one needn't know them. I'm sure I don't know half the people who come to my house. Indeed, from all I hear, I shouldn't like to. [_Enter_ MASON.] LADY CHILTERN. What sort of a brooch was it that you lost, Mrs. Cheveley? MRS. CHEVELEY. A diamond snake-brooch with a ruby, a rather large ruby. LADY MARKBY. I thought you said there was a sapphire on the head, dear? MRS. CHEVELEY [_Smiling_.] No, lady Markby--a ruby. LADY MARKBY. [_Nodding her head_.] And very becoming, I am quite sure. LADY CHILTERN. Has a ruby and diamond brooch been found in any of the rooms this morning, Mason? MASON. No, my lady. MRS. CHEVELEY. It really is of no consequence, Lady Chiltern. I am so sorry to have put you to any inconvenience. LADY CHILTERN. [_Coldly_.] Oh, it has been no inconvenience. That will do, Mason. You can bring tea. [_Exit_ MASON.] LADY MARKBY. Well, I must say it is most annoying to lose anything. I remember once at Bath, years ago, losing in the Pump Room an exceedingly handsome cameo bracelet that Sir John had given me. I don't think he has ever given me anything since, I am sorry to say. He has sadly degenerated. Really, this horrid House of Commons quite ruins our husbands for us. I think the Lower House by far the greatest blow to a happy married life that there has been since that terrible thing called the Higher Education of Women was invented. LADY CHILTERN. Ah! it is heresy to say that in this house, Lady Markby. Robert is a great champion of the Higher Education of Women, and so, I am afraid, am I. MRS. CHEVELEY. The higher education of men is what I should like to see. Men need it so sadly. LADY MARKBY. They do, dear. But I am afraid such a scheme would be quite unpractical. I don't think man has much capacity for development. He has got as far as he can, and that is not far, is it? With regard to women, well, dear Gertrude, you belong to the younger generation, and I am sure it is all right if you approve of it. In my time, of course, we were taught not to understand anything. That was the old system, and wonderfully interesting it was. I assure you that the amount of things I and my poor dear sister were taught not to understand was quite extraordinary. But modern women understand everything, I am told. MRS. CHEVELEY. Except their husbands. That is the one thing the modern woman never understands. LADY MARKBY. And a very good thing too, dear, I dare say. It might break up many a happy home if they did. Not yours, I need hardly say, Gertrude. You have married a pattern husband. I wish I could say as much for myself. But since Sir John has taken to attending the debates regularly, which he never used to do in the good old days, his language has become quite impossible. He always seems to think that he is addressing the House, and consequently whenever he discusses the state of the agricultural labourer, or the Welsh Church, or something quite improper of that kind, I am obliged to send all the servants out of the room. It is not pleasant to see one's own butler, who has been with one for twenty-three years, actually blushing at the side-board, and the footmen making contortions in corners like persons in circuses. I assure you my life will be quite ruined unless they send John at once to the Upper House. He won't take any interest in politics then, will he? The House of Lords is so sensible. An assembly of gentlemen. But in his present state, Sir John is really a great trial. Why, this morning before breakfast was half over, he stood up on the hearthrug, put his hands in his pockets, and appealed to the country at the top of his voice. I left the table as soon as I had my second cup of tea, I need hardly say. But his violent language could be heard all over the house! I trust, Gertrude, that Sir Robert is not like that? LADY CHILTERN. But I am very much interested in politics, Lady Markby. I love to hear Robert talk about them. LADY MARKBY. Well, I hope he is not as devoted to Blue Books as Sir John is. I don't think they can be quite improving reading for any one. MRS. CHEVELEY [_Languidly_.] I have never read a Blue Book. I prefer books . . . in yellow covers. LADY MARKBY. [_Genially unconscious_.] Yellow is a gayer colour, is it not? I used to wear yellow a good deal in my early days, and would do so now if Sir John was not so painfully personal in his observations, and a man on the question of dress is always ridiculous, is he not? MRS. CHEVELEY. Oh, no! I think men are the only authorities on dress. LADY MARKBY. Really? One wouldn't say so from the sort of hats they wear? would one? [_The butler enters_, _followed by the footman_. _Tea is set on a small table close to_ LADY CHILTERN.] LADY CHILTERN. May I give you some tea, Mrs. Cheveley? MRS. CHEVELEY. Thanks. [_The butler hands_ MRS. CHEVELEY _a cup of tea on a salver_.] LADY CHILTERN. Some tea, Lady Markby? LADY MARKBY. No thanks, dear. [_The servants go out_.] The fact is, I have promised to go round for ten minutes to see poor Lady Brancaster, who is in very great trouble. Her daughter, quite a well-brought-up girl, too, has actually become engaged to be married to a curate in Shropshire. It is very sad, very sad indeed. I can't understand this modern mania for curates. In my time we girls saw them, of course, running about the place like rabbits. But we never took any notice of them, I need hardly say. But I am told that nowadays country society is quite honeycombed with them. I think it most irreligious. And then the eldest son has quarrelled with his father, and it is said that when they meet at the club Lord Brancaster always hides himself behind the money article in _The Times_. However, I believe that is quite a common occurrence nowadays and that they have to take in extra copies of _The Times_ at all the clubs in St. James's Street; there are so many sons who won't have anything to do with their fathers, and so many fathers who won't speak to their sons. I think myself, it is very much to be regretted. MRS. CHEVELEY. So do I. Fathers have so much to learn from their sons nowadays. LADY MARKBY. Really, dear? What? MRS. CHEVELEY. The art of living. The only really Fine Art we have produced in modern times. LADY MARKBY. [_Shaking her head_.] Ah! I am afraid Lord Brancaster knew a good deal about that. More than his poor wife ever did. [_Turning to_ LADY CHILTERN.] You know Lady Brancaster, don't you, dear? LADY CHILTERN. Just slightly. She was staying at Langton last autumn, when we were there. LADY MARKBY. Well, like all stout women, she looks the very picture of happiness, as no doubt you noticed. But there are many tragedies in her family, besides this affair of the curate. Her own sister, Mrs. Jekyll, had a most unhappy life; through no fault of her own, I am sorry to say. She ultimately was so broken-hearted that she went into a convent, or on to the operatic stage, I forget which. No; I think it was decorative art-needlework she took up. I know she had lost all sense of pleasure in life. [_Rising_.] And now, Gertrude, if you will allow me, I shall leave Mrs. Cheveley in your charge and call back for her in a quarter of an hour. Or perhaps, dear Mrs. Cheveley, you wouldn't mind waiting in the carriage while I am with Lady Brancaster. As I intend it to be a visit of condolence, I shan't stay long. MRS. CHEVELEY [_Rising_.] I don't mind waiting in the carriage at all, provided there is somebody to look at one. LADY MARKBY. Well, I hear the curate is always prowling about the house. MRS. CHEVELEY. I am afraid I am not fond of girl friends. LADY CHILTERN [_Rising_.] Oh, I hope Mrs. Cheveley will stay here a little. I should like to have a few minutes' conversation with her. MRS. CHEVELEY. How very kind of you, Lady Chiltern! Believe me, nothing would give me greater pleasure. LADY MARKBY. Ah! no doubt you both have many pleasant reminiscences of your schooldays to talk over together. Good-bye, dear Gertrude! Shall I see you at Lady Bonar's to-night? She has discovered a wonderful new genius. He does . . . nothing at all, I believe. That is a great comfort, is it not? LADY CHILTERN. Robert and I are dining at home by ourselves to-night, and I don't think I shall go anywhere afterwards. Robert, of course, will have to be in the House. But there is nothing interesting on. LADY MARKBY. Dining at home by yourselves? Is that quite prudent? Ah, I forgot, your husband is an exception. Mine is the general rule, and nothing ages a woman so rapidly as having married the general rule. [_Exit_ LADY MARKBY.] MRS. CHEVELEY. Wonderful woman, Lady Markby, isn't she? Talks more and says less than anybody I ever met. She is made to be a public speaker. Much more so than her husband, though he is a typical Englishman, always dull and usually violent. LADY CHILTERN. [_Makes no answer_, _but remains standing_. _There is a pause_. _Then the eyes of the two women meet_. LADY CHILTERN _looks stern and pale_. MRS. CHEVELEY _seem rather amused_.] Mrs. Cheveley, I think it is right to tell you quite frankly that, had I known who you really were, I should not have invited you to my house last night. MRS. CHEVELEY [_With an impertinent smile_.] Really? LADY CHILTERN. I could not have done so. MRS. CHEVELEY. I see that after all these years you have not changed a bit, Gertrude. LADY CHILTERN. I never change. MRS. CHEVELEY [_Elevating her eyebrows_.] Then life has taught you nothing? LADY CHILTERN. It has taught me that a person who has once been guilty of a dishonest and dishonourable action may be guilty of it a second time, and should be shunned. MRS. CHEVELEY. Would you apply that rule to every one? LADY CHILTERN. Yes, to every one, without exception. MRS. CHEVELEY. Then I am sorry for you, Gertrude, very sorry for you. LADY CHILTERN. You see now, I was sure, that for many reasons any further acquaintance between us during your stay in London is quite impossible? MRS. CHEVELEY [_Leaning back in her chair_.] Do you know, Gertrude, I don't mind your talking morality a bit. Morality is simply the attitude we adopt towards people whom we personally dislike. You dislike me. I am quite aware of that. And I have always detested you. And yet I have come here to do you a service. LADY CHILTERN. [_Contemptuously_.] Like the service you wished to render my husband last night, I suppose. Thank heaven, I saved him from that. MRS. CHEVELEY. [_Starting to her feet_.] It was you who made him write that insolent letter to me? It was you who made him break his promise? LADY CHILTERN. Yes. MRS. CHEVELEY. Then you must make him keep it. I give you till to-morrow morning--no more. If by that time your husband does not solemnly bind himself to help me in this great scheme in which I am interested-- LADY CHILTERN. This fraudulent speculation-- MRS. CHEVELEY. Call it what you choose. I hold your husband in the hollow of my hand, and if you are wise you will make him do what I tell him. LADY CHILTERN. [_Rising and going towards her_.] You are impertinent. What has my husband to do with you? With a woman like you? MRS. CHEVELEY [_With a bitter laugh_.] In this world like meets with like. It is because your husband is himself fraudulent and dishonest that we pair so well together. Between you and him there are chasms. He and I are closer than friends. We are enemies linked together. The same sin binds us. LADY CHILTERN. How dare you class my husband with yourself? How dare you threaten him or me? Leave my house. You are unfit to enter it. [SIR ROBERT CHILTERN _enters from behind_. _He hears his wife's last words_, _and sees to whom they are addressed_. _He grows deadly pale_.] MRS. CHEVELEY. Your house! A house bought with the price of dishonour. A house, everything in which has been paid for by fraud. [_Turns round and sees_ SIR ROBERT CHILTERN.] Ask him what the origin of his fortune is! Get him to tell you how he sold to a stockbroker a Cabinet secret. Learn from him to what you owe your position. LADY CHILTERN. It is not true! Robert! It is not true! MRS. CHEVELEY. [_Pointing at him with outstretched finger_.] Look at him! Can he deny it? Does he dare to? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Go! Go at once. You have done your worst now. MRS. CHEVELEY. My worst? I have not yet finished with you, with either of you. I give you both till to-morrow at noon. If by then you don't do what I bid you to do, the whole world shall know the origin of Robert Chiltern. [SIR ROBERT CHILTERN _strikes the bell_. _Enter_ MASON.] SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Show Mrs. Cheveley out. [MRS. CHEVELEY _starts_; _then bows with somewhat exaggerated politeness to_ LADY CHILTERN, _who makes no sign of response_. _As she passes by_ SIR ROBERT CHILTERN, _who is standing close to the door_, _she pauses for a moment and looks him straight in the face_. _She then goes out_, _followed by the servant_, _who closes the door after him_. _The husband and wife are left alone_. LADY CHILTERN _stands like some one in a dreadful dream_. _Then she turns round and looks at her husband_. _She looks at him with strange eyes_, _as though she were seeing him for the first time_.] LADY CHILTERN. You sold a Cabinet secret for money! You began your life with fraud! You built up your career on dishonour! Oh, tell me it is not true! Lie to me! Lie to me! Tell me it is not true! SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. What this woman said is quite true. But, Gertrude, listen to me. You don't realise how I was tempted. Let me tell you the whole thing. [_Goes towards her_.] LADY CHILTERN. Don't come near me. Don't touch me. I feel as if you had soiled me for ever. Oh! what a mask you have been wearing all these years! A horrible painted mask! You sold yourself for money. Oh! a common thief were better. You put yourself up to sale to the highest bidder! You were bought in the market. You lied to the whole world. And yet you will not lie to me. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Rushing towards her_.] Gertrude! Gertrude! LADY CHILTERN. [_Thrusting him back with outstretched hands_.] No, don't speak! Say nothing! Your voice wakes terrible memories--memories of things that made me love you--memories of words that made me love you--memories that now are horrible to me. And how I worshipped you! You were to me something apart from common life, a thing pure, noble, honest, without stain. The world seemed to me finer because you were in it, and goodness more real because you lived. And now--oh, when I think that I made of a man like you my ideal! the ideal of my life! SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. There was your mistake. There was your error. The error all women commit. Why can't you women love us, faults and all? Why do you place us on monstrous pedestals? We have all feet of clay, women as well as men; but when we men love women, we love them knowing their weaknesses, their follies, their imperfections, love them all the more, it may be, for that reason. It is not the perfect, but the imperfect, who have need of love. It is when we are wounded by our own hands, or by the hands of others, that love should come to cure us--else what use is love at all? All sins, except a sin against itself, Love should forgive. All lives, save loveless lives, true Love should pardon. A man's love is like that. It is wider, larger, more human than a woman's. Women think that they are making ideals of men. What they are making of us are false idols merely. You made your false idol of me, and I had not the courage to come down, show you my wounds, tell you my weaknesses. I was afraid that I might lose your love, as I have lost it now. And so, last night you ruined my life for me--yes, ruined it! What this woman asked of me was nothing compared to what she offered to me. She offered security, peace, stability. The sin of my youth, that I had thought was buried, rose up in front of me, hideous, horrible, with its hands at my throat. I could have killed it for ever, sent it back into its tomb, destroyed its record, burned the one witness against me. You prevented me. No one but you, you know it. And now what is there before me but public disgrace, ruin, terrible shame, the mockery of the world, a lonely dishonoured life, a lonely dishonoured death, it may be, some day? Let women make no more ideals of men! let them not put them on alters and bow before them, or they may ruin other lives as completely as you--you whom I have so wildly loved--have ruined mine! [_He passes from the room_. LADY CHILTERN _rushes towards him_, _but the door is closed when she reaches it_. _Pale with anguish_, _bewildered_, _helpless_, _she sways like a plant in the water_. _Her hands_, _outstretched_, _seem to tremble in the air like blossoms in the mind_. _Then she flings herself down beside a sofa and buries her face_. _Her sobs are like the sobs of a child_.] ACT DROP

Act 2

https://web.archive.org/web/20201030224859/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/an-ideal-husband/summary/act-2

Lord Goring and Sir Robert are in Sir Robert's morning room. Lord Goring, dressed to the nines, is chilling in an armchair; Sir Robert is pacing up and down nervously. Sir Robert has just confessed his conundrum to Lord Goring. Lord Goring thinks he should have told Lady Chiltern the truth right away. You can't hide things from your own wife, he says, because they'll always sniff it out. Impossible, says Sir Robert. She would have left him. Lord Goring can't believe Lady Chiltern's so perfect herself, and proposes to have a get-real talk with her. Sir Robert's pretty sure it won't make a dent. Lord Goring thinks Sir Robert should have come clean years ago. Easy for someone else to say, says Sir Robert. Confessing fraud doesn't exactly reel in a girl like Lady Chiltern. Okay, says Lord Goring, he has a point. But most people would judge his action - selling state secrets - pretty harshly. While they were doing the same thing themselves, explodes Sir Robert. He was young; he was poor; he was ambitious. He made a mistake. Should it ruin him forever? Is that fair? Besides, wealth is the only god this century worships, and the only way to get power. Lord Goring still can't wrap his head around it. Why did Sir Robert do it? He was coached by Baron Arnheim, who preached the philosophy of power and gospel of gold. The Baron invited the young Sir Robert to his home, showed off his bling, and said only wealth could bring power. Lord Goring, surprisingly serious in the scene, calls this philosophy shallow. Sir Robert defends it. After all, wealth is what gave him the power - the freedom - that has made his life so meaningful. The Baron gave him the chance of a lifetime. When state documents passed through his hands that could make the Baron some money, Sir Robert informed him. The Baron made three-quarters of a million pounds on the deal; he gave Sir Robert 110,000. Sir Robert went into the House immediately and continued to grow his fortune. He's always had luck with money. And no regrets? asks Lord Goring. Sir Robert says no. He simply fought with the weapons of the times. And won. After a long pause, Sir Robert confesses he's paid a lot of guilt money over the years. He's donated twice the bribe amount to public charities over the years. In the first joke of the scene, Lord Goring feigns shock. To public charities! Then he's done a lot of damage after all. Lightening up a little, Lord Goring promises to help Sir Robert however he can. He doesn't think a public confession would help things. Nowadays a politician needs morality on his side. Nope, what he has to do is tell Lady Chiltern. Oh god, says Sir Robert, not that. Can't he get something on Mrs. Cheveley? Lord Goring knew her before. It turns out that Lord Goring was engaged to Mrs. Cheveley. For three days. It didn't work out. By the way, has Sir Robert tried to bribe her? Money used to work wonders on her. Alas, not this time. She wouldn't bite. Sir Robert fears that public humiliation is in his future. Lord Goring melodramatically strikes the table and the scene goes a little Batman and Robin. There's got to be a way to stop her! We've just got to find her weak spot! Sir Robert decides to write to Vienna to get dirt on her. He wonders why Baron Arnheim was in her power. Smirking, Lord Goring has an idea. Sir Robert seems to cheer up, but Lord Goring is less optimistic. He knows the woman and she is T-U-F-F. Lady Chiltern enters. She's just come from the Women's Liberal Association, where she enjoyed the part when they clapped for her husband. Lord Goring thinks they should have clapped for her super-cute hat. Au contrair, Lord Goring, says Lady Chiltern. We liberal ladies are serious; we debate Factor Acts, Female Inspectors, the Eight Hour's Bill, the Parliamentary Franchise. Another hat joke from Lord Goring, and Lady Chiltern exits. Sir Robert thanks Lord Goring for listening and letting him unload the truth. Lord Goring quips that he always gets rid of the truth as soon as possible. Lady Chiltern comes in as Sir Robert is going out. She cautions him not to work too hard. He exits and she sits down with Lord Goring for a little chat. It's about Mrs. Cheveley. Lady Chiltern made Sir Robert take back his terrible promise about the Argentine scheme. It would have been a black spot on his record. And Sir Robert should be above other men. Right? Listen, says Lord Goring, success requires compromise. Ambition demands flexibility. Lady Chiltern's hackles start to rise. She wonders what he means. Well, frankly, she's a little judgmental. She's not forgiving. What if, he proposes - and this is totally, totally hypothetical - what if some public man like Lord Caversham, or Sir Robert, say, had written a compromising letter... There's no way Sir Robert could do something that wrong, says Lady Chiltern. Lord Goring believes anyone can do wrong. And he believes that we should all be able to forgive, and love. He makes an earnest offer to Lady Chiltern to come to him any time she is in trouble. This kind of freaks her out. He's being so serious. Thank goodness Mabel Chiltern arrives for some comic relief. She doesn't like this seriousness at all and asks Lord Goring to cut it out. Mabel invites Lord Goring to ride horses with her tomorrow at 10 am. And doesn't he want to hear more about her adventures? On that note, Lord Goring leaves. Mabel and Lady Chiltern have some girl talk time. Tommy Trafford has proposed to Mabel again - three times in 48 hours. The annoying thing is that it's never with a splash. Lady Chiltern thinks Tommy would make a good match. He's a great secretary with a lot of promise. Mabel is so not interested. That's OK for someone with character, but geniuses bore her to death. Mabel goes out, and comes right back in. Guess who's come for a visit? Lady Chiltern's favorite people: Mrs. Markby and Mrs. Cheveley are led in by Mason. Mrs. Cheveley is introduced to Mabel, who has to leave for rehearsal. It's a play benefiting the "Undeserving." Lord Goring is president. How apt, says Mrs. Cheveley. Mabel exits. Lady Markby asks whether the Chilterns have found a diamond brooch Mrs. Cheveley lost. Lady Chiltern hasn't seen it, but offers to call the butler. No matter, says Mrs. Cheveley. She must have dropped it at the opera. Lady Markby isn't surprised. There's so much jostle at all society events that she's surprised they don't end up naked every night. Mason comes in. Mrs. Cheveley describes the brooch: snake-shaped, made of diamonds, with a large ruby on its head. Mason hasn't seen it. Lady Markby hates losing things. She also hates her husband. She thinks the House of Commons is the worst thing for marriages since the education of women. She has a million other opinions that she squeezes in to this little scene before she leaves the two foes alone. Then it's face-off time. Lady Chiltern tells Mrs. Cheveley frankly that, if she'd known who she was, she wouldn't have invited her last night. When someone's done something terrible in the past, they'll probably do it again. And they don't deserve invitations to nice dinner parties. Mrs. Cheveley is clearly getting a kick out the irony here. Lady Chiltern reveals that she encouraged Sir Robert to write the letter rejecting Mrs. Cheveley's proposal. You're going to regret that, says Mrs. Cheveley. She adds that Sir Robert is just as low as she is. Now Lady Chiltern's getting angry. She can't believe Mrs. Cheveley puts Robert in her league. Speaking of the devil...Sir Robert enters. Mrs. Cheveley reveals everything: this house was bought by fraud; Sir Robert's fortune was made in a dirty deal. If Sir Robert doesn't give the speech she wants him to, he's done. Sir Robert rings the bell for Mason. Mrs. Cheveley looks both of the Chilterns in the face, then makes a proud exit. When the couple is alone, the accusations start. Lady Chiltern is shocked and hysterical as she confronts Sir Robert with his past. Sir Robert tries to calm her, wants to explain how it all happened. She doesn't want him to touch her. She basically calls him a liar, prostitute, thief and slave, all in one breath. Her ideal image of him has been totally shattered. That's the problem, says Sir Robert. She put him up on a pedestal. Men accept and love their wives, faults and all, but women need a man to be perfect. Sir Robert continues that love means forgiveness. But apparently, Lady Chiltern is not big enough for that. She ruined his life last night when she made him retract his promise. Because she can't accept him, she has buried him. Sir Robert leaves the room and Lady Chiltern is left alone in anguish. She cries alone.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/885-chapters/act_3.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/An Ideal Husband/section_2_part_0.txt

An Ideal Husband.act 3

act 3

{"name": "Act 3", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201030224859/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/an-ideal-husband/summary/act-3", "summary": "We're in the library of Lord Goring's house; it's a neoclassical room with a roaring fireplace. There are lots of doors: one on the right leading into the hall; one on the left leading into the smoking-room; and a pair of folding doors at the back of the library that lead into the drawing-room. Phipps, Lord Goring's butler, is arranging newspapers on the writing-table. He is an ideal Butler because no one ever knows what he is thinking. Lord Goring comes enters. He's dressed to go out for the evening. He's wearing a silk hat, an Inverness cape, and white gloves. He's also carrying a Louis XIV cane . The stage directions call him the first well-dressed philosopher in the history of thought. Lord Goring asks Phipps for the second flower to put in his buttonhole. But adds that it makes him look too old, and too serious. Phipps responds dryly that the florist has had a death in her family, perhaps influencing the seriousness of this buttonhole. Lord Goring observes that the lower classes continually have deaths in the family. Yep, says Phipps, they're pretty lucky that way. The joke surprises Lord Goring. Phipps is totally cool. Three letters have come for Lord Goring, one of which is on pink paper. Phipps goes out, and Lord Goring has a monologue revealing its content. The letter is from Lady Chiltern and it says: \"I want you. I trust you. I am coming to you.\" It's almost ten o'clock, so now Lord Goring can't go out. He strategizes about what he'll tell her. To stand by her husband. Phipps enters, announcing Lord Goring's father, Lord Caversham. Doh! His dad has such terrible timing. Lord Caversham comes in riled up. He takes off his cloak, takes the best chair, and complains about drafts in the room. Lord Goring protests that it's a little late in the evening to have a serious conversation. Cut out the funny business, says Dad. Then he lays out everything: Lord Goring needs to get married. The boy is thirty-four and is wasting his life. And there is a draft in here. Lord Goring agrees - his father is likely to catch his death with this kind of cold. He tells daddy dearest to leave; they can get in touch tomorrow. Lord Caversham's not falling for it. He's on a mission. But Lord Goring successfully ushers his cantankerous old dad into the smoking room so he can talk to Phipps. There's a lady coming to see him and Phipps should put her in the drawing room. And he shouldn't let in anyone else. Got it, sir, says Phipps. The doorbell rings. Lord Goring, chillest guy ever, is starting to sweat. He goes into the smoking room to talk to his impatient Dad. Harold the footman shows in Mrs. Cheveley. The stage directions describe her as Lamia-like - a snakelike demon in green and silver. She avoids giving her name. Under Phipps direction she goes into the drawing room. She's surprised that Lord Goring seems to expect her. Looking into the drawing room, Mrs. Cheveley calls it drab. She wants to flip it. Mrs. Cheveley is in the mood for candles. While Phipps goes in the drawing room to light them, she has a little snoop in the library. She finds the pink letter from Lady Chiltern. Oh heck yes, a love note! But Phipps comes in before she can steal it. Mrs. Cheveley goes into the drawing room, then peeps back out. She wants to steal that letter. Lord Goring and Lord Caversham are emerging from the smoking room, so she has to retreat. Lord Caversham wants Lord Goring married. Now. And to a woman chosen by himself. Lord Goring protests. Then goes outside. He comes back in, flabbergasted, with Sir Robert. Sir Robert's surprised to find Lord Goring at home, since his servants just said he was out. But he's glad. Lady Chiltern knows everything. He wishes he were dead. What should he do? The inquiries in Vienna didn't turn up any good dirt. Sir Robert is desperate. For Lord Goring's friendship, and for a drink. Lord Goring rings for Phipps and gives him instructions. Don't let the lady in after all. Too late, says Phipps, she's already in the drawing room. OK, OK, Lord Goring can deal with his. First he talks to Sir Robert. Hasn't Lady Chiltern ever done something she's regretted? Something that had to be pardoned? Never, replies Sir Robert. She's totally faultless. And they don't have children so if she leaves him, he has no one. But there's something more he has to share. Enter Phipps with the drink. Lord Goring uses the interruption to try to get rid of Sir Robert. No dice. Sir Robert has something to say - but is distracted by a chair falling in the next room. Who is in there, eavesdropping this whole time? Um, nobody. Sir Robert pushes his way through and looks in the drawing room. He starts trashing the lady. Lord Goring's a little shocked. Talking that way to his own wife, when she loves him so much. What? Sir Robert thinks Lord Goring is crazy, and that he is sleeping with Mrs. Cheveley. Lord Goring protests. He'll explain everything - but - Sir Robert rushes out. And here comes Mrs. Cheveley, sauntering to the door. She's loving it. Lord Goring can't believe it. What is she doing there? She's listening through the keyhole, of course. Lord Goring guesses that she's come to sell him Sir Robert's incriminating letter. Well, what does she want for it? But Mrs. Cheveley takes her time. She asks him to sit. They take a stroll down memory lane. Lord Goring proposed to her, but broke it off when he saw her messing around with some Lord Mortlake. Lord Goring's lawyer paid her off. Mrs. Cheveley claims she loved him back in the day. Lord Goring can't believe it - she's too smart for love. She comes clean. What she really wants is to come back to England and be rich. Have a house, have lots of intellectual parties, that sort of thing. If Lord Goring promises to marry her, the letter is his. Lord Goring insults her and then complements her. Neither tactic seems to work. Mrs. Cheveley thinks that Lord Goring should sacrifice to save Sir Robert. Lord Goring won't do it. Facing his rejection, she gets a little nasty: Sir Robert is a dead duck. Won't you please shake hands, Lord Goring? No way, he says. Goring refuses to shake hands with the woman who is ruining Lady Chiltern's life . He adds that Mrs. Cheveley is killing love out of spite. Mrs. Cheveley protests that it wasn't out of spite. She went to the Chiltern's to ask about a brooch she dropped. Lady Chiltern was so uppity that she had to taunt her a little. The brooch, eh? Lord Goring gets it out and puts it on her - as a bracelet. Lord Goring then gets into the history of the brooch. He gave this brooch to his cousin for her wedding. It was stolen years ago, and a servant was fired for it. When he found the brooch at the Chiltern's last night, he decided to wait and find out the thief. Lo and behold it is Mrs. Cheveley. She denies the theft and tries to take it off her wrist. She's trapped, though. There's a secret clasp she can't find. Lord Goring's going to call the police. Mrs. Cheveley totally flips out. Usually she is the most controlled character in the play, but now she is starting to lose it. She's scary. She'll do anything to avoid this. Lord Goring demands the incriminating letter about Sir Robert's earlier mis-deeds. She gives it to him. With a sigh Lord Goring burns it with the lamp. Mrs. Cheveley, always thinking, asks for a glass of water. When Lord Goring turns his back, she steals Lady Chiltern's pink letter. She puts on her cloak and gets ready to leave. But not before she tells him that she has the pink letter. She'll make Sir Robert think his wife is sleeping with Lord Goring. Phipps enters and shows her out. As she leaves, the stage directions describe her face: lit up, joyful, young. Lord Goring bites his lip and lights a cigarette.", "analysis": ""}

THIRD ACT SCENE _The Library in Lord Goring's house_. _An Adam room_. _On the right is the door leading into the hall_. _On the left_, _the door of the smoking-room_. _A pair of folding doors at the back open into the drawing-room_. _The fire is lit_. _Phipps_, _the butler_, _is arranging some newspapers on the writing-table_. _The distinction of Phipps is his impassivity_. _He has been termed by enthusiasts the Ideal Butler_. _The Sphinx is not so incommunicable_. _He is a mask with a manner_. _Of his intellectual or emotional life_, _history knows nothing_. _He represents the dominance of form_. [_Enter_ LORD GORING _in evening dress with a buttonhole_. _He is wearing a silk hat and Inverness cape_. _White-gloved_, _he carries a Louis Seize cane_. _His are all the delicate fopperies of Fashion_. _One sees that he stands in immediate relation to modern life_, _makes it indeed_, _and so masters it_. _He is the first well-dressed philosopher in the history of thought_.] LORD GORING. Got my second buttonhole for me, Phipps? PHIPPS. Yes, my lord. [_Takes his hat_, _cane_, _and cape_, _and presents new buttonhole on salver_.] LORD GORING. Rather distinguished thing, Phipps. I am the only person of the smallest importance in London at present who wears a buttonhole. PHIPPS. Yes, my lord. I have observed that, LORD GORING. [_Taking out old buttonhole_.] You see, Phipps, Fashion is what one wears oneself. What is unfashionable is what other people wear. PHIPPS. Yes, my lord. LORD GORING. Just as vulgarity is simply the conduct of other people. PHIPPS. Yes, my lord. LORD GORING. [_Putting in a new buttonhole_.] And falsehoods the truths of other people. PHIPPS. Yes, my lord. LORD GORING. Other people are quite dreadful. The only possible society is oneself. PHIPPS. Yes, my lord. LORD GORING. To love oneself is the beginning of a lifelong romance, Phipps. PHIPPS. Yes, my lord. LORD GORING. [_Looking at himself in the glass_.] Don't think I quite like this buttonhole, Phipps. Makes me look a little too old. Makes me almost in the prime of life, eh, Phipps? PHIPPS. I don't observe any alteration in your lordship's appearance. LORD GORING. You don't, Phipps? PHIPPS. No, my lord. LORD GORING. I am not quite sure. For the future a more trivial buttonhole, Phipps, on Thursday evenings. PHIPPS. I will speak to the florist, my lord. She has had a loss in her family lately, which perhaps accounts for the lack of triviality your lordship complains of in the buttonhole. LORD GORING. Extraordinary thing about the lower classes in England--they are always losing their relations. PHIPPS. Yes, my lord! They are extremely fortunate in that respect. LORD GORING. [_Turns round and looks at him_. PHIPPS _remains impassive_.] Hum! Any letters, Phipps? PHIPPS. Three, my lord. [_Hands letters on a salver_.] LORD GORING. [_Takes letters_.] Want my cab round in twenty minutes. PHIPPS. Yes, my lord. [_Goes towards door_.] LORD GORING. [_Holds up letter in pink envelope_.] Ahem! Phipps, when did this letter arrive? PHIPPS. It was brought by hand just after your lordship went to the club. LORD GORING. That will do. [_Exit_ PHIPPS.] Lady Chiltern's handwriting on Lady Chiltern's pink notepaper. That is rather curious. I thought Robert was to write. Wonder what Lady Chiltern has got to say to me? [_Sits at bureau and opens letter_, _and reads it_.] 'I want you. I trust you. I am coming to you. Gertrude.' [_Puts down the letter with a puzzled look_. _Then takes it up_, _and reads it again slowly_.] 'I want you. I trust you. I am coming to you.' So she has found out everything! Poor woman! Poor woman! [ _Pulls out watch and looks at it_.] But what an hour to call! Ten o'clock! I shall have to give up going to the Berkshires. However, it is always nice to be expected, and not to arrive. I am not expected at the Bachelors', so I shall certainly go there. Well, I will make her stand by her husband. That is the only thing for her to do. That is the only thing for any woman to do. It is the growth of the moral sense in women that makes marriage such a hopeless, one-sided institution. Ten o'clock. She should be here soon. I must tell Phipps I am not in to any one else. [_Goes towards bell_] [_Enter_ PHIPPS.] PHIPPS. Lord Caversham. LORD GORING. Oh, why will parents always appear at the wrong time? Some extraordinary mistake in nature, I suppose. [_Enter_ LORD CAVERSHAM.] Delighted to see you, my dear father. [_Goes to meet him_.] LORD CAVERSHAM. Take my cloak off. LORD GORING. Is it worth while, father? LORD CAVERSHAM. Of course it is worth while, sir. Which is the most comfortable chair? LORD GORING. This one, father. It is the chair I use myself, when I have visitors. LORD CAVERSHAM. Thank ye. No draught, I hope, in this room? LORD GORING. No, father. LORD CAVERSHAM. [_Sitting down_.] Glad to hear it. Can't stand draughts. No draughts at home. LORD GORING. Good many breezes, father. LORD CAVERSHAM. Eh? Eh? Don't understand what you mean. Want to have a serious conversation with you, sir. LORD GORING. My dear father! At this hour? LORD CAVERSHAM. Well, sir, it is only ten o'clock. What is your objection to the hour? I think the hour is an admirable hour! LORD GORING. Well, the fact is, father, this is not my day for talking seriously. I am very sorry, but it is not my day. LORD CAVERSHAM. What do you mean, sir? LORD GORING. During the Season, father, I only talk seriously on the first Tuesday in every month, from four to seven. LORD CAVERSHAM. Well, make it Tuesday, sir, make it Tuesday. LORD GORING. But it is after seven, father, and my doctor says I must not have any serious conversation after seven. It makes me talk in my sleep. LORD CAVERSHAM. Talk in your sleep, sir? What does that matter? You are not married. LORD GORING. No, father, I am not married. LORD CAVERSHAM. Hum! That is what I have come to talk to you about, sir. You have got to get married, and at once. Why, when I was your age, sir, I had been an inconsolable widower for three months, and was already paying my addresses to your admirable mother. Damme, sir, it is your duty to get married. You can't be always living for pleasure. Every man of position is married nowadays. Bachelors are not fashionable any more. They are a damaged lot. Too much is known about them. You must get a wife, sir. Look where your friend Robert Chiltern has got to by probity, hard work, and a sensible marriage with a good woman. Why don't you imitate him, sir? Why don't you take him for your model? LORD GORING. I think I shall, father. LORD CAVERSHAM. I wish you would, sir. Then I should be happy. At present I make your mother's life miserable on your account. You are heartless, sir, quite heartless. LORD GORING. I hope not, father. LORD CAVERSHAM. And it is high time for you to get married. You are thirty-four years of age, sir. LORD GORING. Yes, father, but I only admit to thirty-two--thirty-one and a half when I have a really good buttonhole. This buttonhole is not . . . trivial enough. LORD CAVERSHAM. I tell you you are thirty-four, sir. And there is a draught in your room, besides, which makes your conduct worse. Why did you tell me there was no draught, sir? I feel a draught, sir, I feel it distinctly. LORD GORING. So do I, father. It is a dreadful draught. I will come and see you to-morrow, father. We can talk over anything you like. Let me help you on with your cloak, father. LORD CAVERSHAM. No, sir; I have called this evening for a definite purpose, and I am going to see it through at all costs to my health or yours. Put down my cloak, sir. LORD GORING. Certainly, father. But let us go into another room. [_Rings bell_.] There is a dreadful draught here. [_Enter_ PHIPPS.] Phipps, is there a good fire in the smoking-room? PHIPPS. Yes, my lord. LORD GORING. Come in there, father. Your sneezes are quite heartrending. LORD CAVERSHAM. Well, sir, I suppose I have a right to sneeze when I choose? LORD GORING. [_Apologetically_.] Quite so, father. I was merely expressing sympathy. LORD CAVERSHAM. Oh, damn sympathy. There is a great deal too much of that sort of thing going on nowadays. LORD GORING. I quite agree with you, father. If there was less sympathy in the world there would be less trouble in the world. LORD CAVERSHAM. [_Going towards the smoking-room_.] That is a paradox, sir. I hate paradoxes. LORD GORING. So do I, father. Everybody one meets is a paradox nowadays. It is a great bore. It makes society so obvious. LORD CAVERSHAM. [_Turning round_, _and looking at his son beneath his bushy eyebrows_.] Do you always really understand what you say, sir? LORD GORING. [_After some hesitation_.] Yes, father, if I listen attentively. LORD CAVERSHAM. [_Indignantly_.] If you listen attentively! . . . Conceited young puppy! [_Goes off grumbling into the smoking-room_. PHIPPS _enters_.] LORD GORING. Phipps, there is a lady coming to see me this evening on particular business. Show her into the drawing-room when she arrives. You understand? PHIPPS. Yes, my lord. LORD GORING. It is a matter of the gravest importance, Phipps. PHIPPS. I understand, my lord. LORD GORING. No one else is to be admitted, under any circumstances. PHIPPS. I understand, my lord. [_Bell rings_.] LORD GORING. Ah! that is probably the lady. I shall see her myself. [_Just as he is going towards the door_ LORD CAVERSHAM _enters from the smoking-room_.] LORD CAVERSHAM. Well, sir? am I to wait attendance on you? LORD GORING. [_Considerably perplexed_.] In a moment, father. Do excuse me. [LORD CAVERSHAM _goes back_.] Well, remember my instructions, Phipps--into that room. PHIPPS. Yes, my lord. [LORD GORING _goes into the smoking-room_. HAROLD, _the footman shows_ MRS. CHEVELEY _in_. _Lamia-like_, _she is in green and silver_. _She has a cloak of black satin_, _lined with dead rose-leaf silk_.] HAROLD. What name, madam? MRS. CHEVELEY. [_To_ PHIPPS, _who advances towards her_.] Is Lord Goring not here? I was told he was at home? PHIPPS. His lordship is engaged at present with Lord Caversham, madam. [_Turns a cold_, _glassy eye on_ HAROLD, _who at once retires_.] MRS. CHEVELEY. [_To herself_.] How very filial! PHIPPS. His lordship told me to ask you, madam, to be kind enough to wait in the drawing-room for him. His lordship will come to you there. MRS. CHEVELEY. [_With a look of surprise_.] Lord Goring expects me? PHIPPS. Yes, madam. MRS. CHEVELEY. Are you quite sure? PHIPPS. His lordship told me that if a lady called I was to ask her to wait in the drawing-room. [_Goes to the door of the drawing-room and opens it_.] His lordship's directions on the subject were very precise. MRS. CHEVELEY. [_To herself_] How thoughtful of him! To expect the unexpected shows a thoroughly modern intellect. [_Goes towards the drawing-room and looks in_.] Ugh! How dreary a bachelor's drawing-room always looks. I shall have to alter all this. [PHIPPS _brings the lamp from the writing-table_.] No, I don't care for that lamp. It is far too glaring. Light some candles. PHIPPS. [_Replaces lamp_.] Certainly, madam. MRS. CHEVELEY. I hope the candles have very becoming shades. PHIPPS. We have had no complaints about them, madam, as yet. [_Passes into the drawing-room and begins to light the candles_.] MRS. CHEVELEY. [_To herself_.] I wonder what woman he is waiting for to-night. It will be delightful to catch him. Men always look so silly when they are caught. And they are always being caught. [_Looks about room and approaches the writing-table_.] What a very interesting room! What a very interesting picture! Wonder what his correspondence is like. [_Takes up letters_.] Oh, what a very uninteresting correspondence! Bills and cards, debts and dowagers! Who on earth writes to him on pink paper? How silly to write on pink paper! It looks like the beginning of a middle-class romance. Romance should never begin with sentiment. It should begin with science and end with a settlement. [_Puts letter down_, _then takes it up again_.] I know that handwriting. That is Gertrude Chiltern's. I remember it perfectly. The ten commandments in every stroke of the pen, and the moral law all over the page. Wonder what Gertrude is writing to him about? Something horrid about me, I suppose. How I detest that woman! [_Reads it_.] 'I trust you. I want you. I am coming to you. Gertrude.' 'I trust you. I want you. I am coming to you.' [_A look of triumph comes over her face_. _She is just about to steal the letter_, _when_ PHIPPS _comes in_.] PHIPPS. The candles in the drawing-room are lit, madam, as you directed. MRS. CHEVELEY. Thank you. [_Rises hastily and slips the letter under a large silver-cased blotting-book that is lying on the table_.] PHIPPS. I trust the shades will be to your liking, madam. They are the most becoming we have. They are the same as his lordship uses himself when he is dressing for dinner. MRS. CHEVELEY. [_With a smile_.] Then I am sure they will be perfectly right. PHIPPS. [_Gravely_.] Thank you, madam. [MRS. CHEVELEY _goes into the drawing-room_. PHIPPS _closes the door and retires_. _The door is then slowly opened_, _and_ MRS. CHEVELEY _comes out and creeps stealthily towards the writing-table_. _Suddenly voices are heard from the smoking-room_. MRS. CHEVELEY _grows pale_, _and stops_. _The voices grow louder_, _and she goes back into the drawing-room_, _biting her lip_.] [_Enter_ LORD GORING _and_ LORD CAVERSHAM.] LORD GORING. [_Expostulating_.] My dear father, if I am to get married, surely you will allow me to choose the time, place, and person? Particularly the person. LORD CAVERSHAM. [_Testily_.] That is a matter for me, sir. You would probably make a very poor choice. It is I who should be consulted, not you. There is property at stake. It is not a matter for affection. Affection comes later on in married life. LORD GORING. Yes. In married life affection comes when people thoroughly dislike each other, father, doesn't it? [_Puts on_ LORD CAVERSHAM'S _cloak for him_.] LORD CAVERSHAM. Certainly, sir. I mean certainly not, air. You are talking very foolishly to-night. What I say is that marriage is a matter for common sense. LORD GORING. But women who have common sense are so curiously plain, father, aren't they? Of course I only speak from hearsay. LORD CAVERSHAM. No woman, plain or pretty, has any common sense at all, sir. Common sense is the privilege of our sex. LORD GORING. Quite so. And we men are so self-sacrificing that we never use it, do we, father? LORD CAVERSHAM. I use it, sir. I use nothing else. LORD GORING. So my mother tells me. LORD CAVERSHAM. It is the secret of your mother's happiness. You are very heartless, sir, very heartless. LORD GORING. I hope not, father. [_Goes out for a moment_. _Then returns_, _looking rather put out_, _with_ SIR ROBERT CHILTERN.] SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. My dear Arthur, what a piece of good luck meeting you on the doorstep! Your servant had just told me you were not at home. How extraordinary! LORD GORING. The fact is, I am horribly busy to-night, Robert, and I gave orders I was not at home to any one. Even my father had a comparatively cold reception. He complained of a draught the whole time. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Ah! you must be at home to me, Arthur. You are my best friend. Perhaps by to-morrow you will be my only friend. My wife has discovered everything. LORD GORING. Ah! I guessed as much! SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Looking at him_.] Really! How? LORD GORING. [_After some hesitation_.] Oh, merely by something in the expression of your face as you came in. Who told her? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Mrs. Cheveley herself. And the woman I love knows that I began my career with an act of low dishonesty, that I built up my life upon sands of shame--that I sold, like a common huckster, the secret that had been intrusted to me as a man of honour. I thank heaven poor Lord Radley died without knowing that I betrayed him. I would to God I had died before I had been so horribly tempted, or had fallen so low. [_Burying his face in his hands_.] LORD GORING. [_After a pause_.] You have heard nothing from Vienna yet, in answer to your wire? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Looking up_.] Yes; I got a telegram from the first secretary at eight o'clock to-night. LORD GORING. Well? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Nothing is absolutely known against her. On the contrary, she occupies a rather high position in society. It is a sort of open secret that Baron Arnheim left her the greater portion of his immense fortune. Beyond that I can learn nothing. LORD GORING. She doesn't turn out to be a spy, then? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Oh! spies are of no use nowadays. Their profession is over. The newspapers do their work instead. LORD GORING. And thunderingly well they do it. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Arthur, I am parched with thirst. May I ring for something? Some hock and seltzer? LORD GORING. Certainly. Let me. [_Rings the bell_.] SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Thanks! I don't know what to do, Arthur, I don't know what to do, and you are my only friend. But what a friend you are--the one friend I can trust. I can trust you absolutely, can't I? [_Enter_ PHIPPS.] LORD GORING. My dear Robert, of course. Oh! [_To_ PHIPPS.] Bring some hock and seltzer. PHIPPS. Yes, my lord. LORD GORING. And Phipps! PHIPPS. Yes, my lord. LORD GORING. Will you excuse me for a moment, Robert? I want to give some directions to my servant. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Certainly. LORD GORING. When that lady calls, tell her that I am not expected home this evening. Tell her that I have been suddenly called out of town. You understand? PHIPPS. The lady is in that room, my lord. You told me to show her into that room, my lord. LORD GORING. You did perfectly right. [_Exit_ PHIPPS.] What a mess I am in. No; I think I shall get through it. I'll give her a lecture through the door. Awkward thing to manage, though. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Arthur, tell me what I should do. My life seems to have crumbled about me. I am a ship without a rudder in a night without a star. LORD GORING. Robert, you love your wife, don't you? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I love her more than anything in the world. I used to think ambition the great thing. It is not. Love is the great thing in the world. There is nothing but love, and I love her. But I am defamed in her eyes. I am ignoble in her eyes. There is a wide gulf between us now. She has found me out, Arthur, she has found me out. LORD GORING. Has she never in her life done some folly--some indiscretion--that she should not forgive your sin? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. My wife! Never! She does not know what weakness or temptation is. I am of clay like other men. She stands apart as good women do--pitiless in her perfection--cold and stern and without mercy. But I love her, Arthur. We are childless, and I have no one else to love, no one else to love me. Perhaps if God had sent us children she might have been kinder to me. But God has given us a lonely house. And she has cut my heart in two. Don't let us talk of it. I was brutal to her this evening. But I suppose when sinners talk to saints they are brutal always. I said to her things that were hideously true, on my side, from my stand-point, from the standpoint of men. But don't let us talk of that. LORD GORING. Your wife will forgive you. Perhaps at this moment she is forgiving you. She loves you, Robert. Why should she not forgive? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. God grant it! God grant it! [_Buries his face in his hands_.] But there is something more I have to tell you, Arthur. [_Enter_ PHIPPS _with drinks_.] PHIPPS. [_Hands hock and seltzer to_ SIR ROBERT CHILTERN.] Hock and seltzer, sir. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Thank you. LORD GORING. Is your carriage here, Robert? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. No; I walked from the club. LORD GORING. Sir Robert will take my cab, Phipps. PHIPPS. Yes, my lord. [_Exit_.] LORD GORING. Robert, you don't mind my sending you away? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Arthur, you must let me stay for five minutes. I have made up my mind what I am going to do to-night in the House. The debate on the Argentine Canal is to begin at eleven. [_A chair falls in the drawing-room_.] What is that? LORD GORING. Nothing. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I heard a chair fall in the next room. Some one has been listening. LORD GORING. No, no; there is no one there. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. There is some one. There are lights in the room, and the door is ajar. Some one has been listening to every secret of my life. Arthur, what does this mean? LORD GORING. Robert, you are excited, unnerved. I tell you there is no one in that room. Sit down, Robert. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Do you give me your word that there is no one there? LORD GORING. Yes. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Your word of honour? [_Sits down_.] LORD GORING. Yes. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Rises_.] Arthur, let me see for myself. LORD GORING. No, no. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. If there is no one there why should I not look in that room? Arthur, you must let me go into that room and satisfy myself. Let me know that no eavesdropper has heard my life's secret. Arthur, you don't realise what I am going through. LORD GORING. Robert, this must stop. I have told you that there is no one in that room--that is enough. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Rushes to the door of the room_.] It is not enough. I insist on going into this room. You have told me there is no one there, so what reason can you have for refusing me? LORD GORING. For God's sake, don't! There is some one there. Some one whom you must not see. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Ah, I thought so! LORD GORING. I forbid you to enter that room. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Stand back. My life is at stake. And I don't care who is there. I will know who it is to whom I have told my secret and my shame. [_Enters room_.] LORD GORING. Great heavens! his own wife! [SIR ROBERT CHILTERN _comes back_, _with a look of scorn and anger on his face_.] SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. What explanation have you to give me for the presence of that woman here? LORD GORING. Robert, I swear to you on my honour that that lady is stainless and guiltless of all offence towards you. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. She is a vile, an infamous thing! LORD GORING. Don't say that, Robert! It was for your sake she came here. It was to try and save you she came here. She loves you and no one else. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. You are mad. What have I to do with her intrigues with you? Let her remain your mistress! You are well suited to each other. She, corrupt and shameful--you, false as a friend, treacherous as an enemy even-- LORD GORING. It is not true, Robert. Before heaven, it is not true. In her presence and in yours I will explain all. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Let me pass, sir. You have lied enough upon your word of honour. [SIR ROBERT CHILTERN _goes out_. LORD GORING _rushes to the door of the drawing-room_, _when_ MRS. CHEVELEY _comes out_, _looking radiant and much amused_.] MRS. CHEVELEY. [_With a mock curtsey_] Good evening, Lord Goring! LORD GORING. Mrs. Cheveley! Great heavens! . . . May I ask what you were doing in my drawing-room? MRS. CHEVELEY. Merely listening. I have a perfect passion for listening through keyholes. One always hears such wonderful things through them. LORD GORING. Doesn't that sound rather like tempting Providence? MRS. CHEVELEY. Oh! surely Providence can resist temptation by this time. [_Makes a sign to him to take her cloak off_, _which he does_.] LORD GORING. I am glad you have called. I am going to give you some good advice. MRS. CHEVELEY. Oh! pray don't. One should never give a woman anything that she can't wear in the evening. LORD GORING. I see you are quite as wilful as you used to be. MRS. CHEVELEY. Far more! I have greatly improved. I have had more experience. LORD GORING. Too much experience is a dangerous thing. Pray have a cigarette. Half the pretty women in London smoke cigarettes. Personally I prefer the other half. MRS. CHEVELEY. Thanks. I never smoke. My dressmaker wouldn't like it, and a woman's first duty in life is to her dressmaker, isn't it? What the second duty is, no one has as yet discovered. LORD GORING. You have come here to sell me Robert Chiltern's letter, haven't you? MRS. CHEVELEY. To offer it to you on conditions. How did you guess that? LORD GORING. Because you haven't mentioned the subject. Have you got it with you? MRS. CHEVELEY. [_Sitting down_.] Oh, no! A well-made dress has no pockets. LORD GORING. What is your price for it? MRS. CHEVELEY. How absurdly English you are! The English think that a cheque-book can solve every problem in life. Why, my dear Arthur, I have very much more money than you have, and quite as much as Robert Chiltern has got hold of. Money is not what I want. LORD GORING. What do you want then, Mrs. Cheveley? MRS. CHEVELEY. Why don't you call me Laura? LORD GORING. I don't like the name. MRS. CHEVELEY. You used to adore it. LORD GORING. Yes: that's why. [MRS. CHEVELEY _motions to him to sit down beside her_. _He smiles_, _and does so_.] MRS. CHEVELEY. Arthur, you loved me once. LORD GORING. Yes. MRS. CHEVELEY. And you asked me to be your wife. LORD GORING. That was the natural result of my loving you. MRS. CHEVELEY. And you threw me over because you saw, or said you saw, poor old Lord Mortlake trying to have a violent flirtation with me in the conservatory at Tenby. LORD GORING. I am under the impression that my lawyer settled that matter with you on certain terms . . . dictated by yourself. MRS. CHEVELEY. At that time I was poor; you were rich. LORD GORING. Quite so. That is why you pretended to love me. MRS. CHEVELEY. [_Shrugging her shoulders_.] Poor old Lord Mortlake, who had only two topics of conversation, his gout and his wife! I never could quite make out which of the two he was talking about. He used the most horrible language about them both. Well, you were silly, Arthur. Why, Lord Mortlake was never anything more to me than an amusement. One of those utterly tedious amusements one only finds at an English country house on an English country Sunday. I don't think any one at all morally responsible for what he or she does at an English country house. LORD GORING. Yes. I know lots of people think that. MRS. CHEVELEY. I loved you, Arthur. LORD GORING. My dear Mrs. Cheveley, you have always been far too clever to know anything about love. MRS. CHEVELEY. I did love you. And you loved me. You know you loved me; and love is a very wonderful thing. I suppose that when a man has once loved a woman, he will do anything for her, except continue to love her? [_Puts her hand on his_.] LORD GORING. [_Taking his hand away quietly_.] Yes: except that. MRS. CHEVELEY. [_After a pause_.] I am tired of living abroad. I want to come back to London. I want to have a charming house here. I want to have a salon. If one could only teach the English how to talk, and the Irish how to listen, society here would be quite civilised. Besides, I have arrived at the romantic stage. When I saw you last night at the Chilterns', I knew you were the only person I had ever cared for, if I ever have cared for anybody, Arthur. And so, on the morning of the day you marry me, I will give you Robert Chiltern's letter. That is my offer. I will give it to you now, if you promise to marry me. LORD GORING. Now? MRS. CHEVELEY. [_Smiling_.] To-morrow. LORD GORING. Are you really serious? MRS. CHEVELEY. Yes, quite serious. LORD GORING. I should make you a very bad husband. MRS. CHEVELEY. I don't mind bad husbands. I have had two. They amused me immensely. LORD GORING. You mean that you amused yourself immensely, don't you? MRS. CHEVELEY. What do you know about my married life? LORD GORING. Nothing: but I can read it like a book. MRS. CHEVELEY. What book? LORD GORING. [_Rising_.] The Book of Numbers. MRS. CHEVELEY. Do you think it is quite charming of you to be so rude to a woman in your own house? LORD GORING. In the case of very fascinating women, sex is a challenge, not a defence. MRS. CHEVELEY. I suppose that is meant for a compliment. My dear Arthur, women are never disarmed by compliments. Men always are. That is the difference between the two sexes. LORD GORING. Women are never disarmed by anything, as far as I know them. MRS. CHEVELEY. [_After a pause_.] Then you are going to allow your greatest friend, Robert Chiltern, to be ruined, rather than marry some one who really has considerable attractions left. I thought you would have risen to some great height of self-sacrifice, Arthur. I think you should. And the rest of your life you could spend in contemplating your own perfections. LORD GORING. Oh! I do that as it is. And self-sacrifice is a thing that should be put down by law. It is so demoralising to the people for whom one sacrifices oneself. They always go to the bad. MRS. CHEVELEY. As if anything could demoralise Robert Chiltern! You seem to forget that I know his real character. LORD GORING. What you know about him is not his real character. It was an act of folly done in his youth, dishonourable, I admit, shameful, I admit, unworthy of him, I admit, and therefore . . . not his true character. MRS. CHEVELEY. How you men stand up for each other! LORD GORING. How you women war against each other! MRS. CHEVELEY. [_Bitterly_.] I only war against one woman, against Gertrude Chiltern. I hate her. I hate her now more than ever. LORD GORING. Because you have brought a real tragedy into her life, I suppose. MRS. CHEVELEY. [_With a sneer_.] Oh, there is only one real tragedy in a woman's life. The fact that her past is always her lover, and her future invariably her husband. LORD GORING. Lady Chiltern knows nothing of the kind of life to which you are alluding. MRS. CHEVELEY. A woman whose size in gloves is seven and three-quarters never knows much about anything. You know Gertrude has always worn seven and three-quarters? That is one of the reasons why there was never any moral sympathy between us. . . . Well, Arthur, I suppose this romantic interview may be regarded as at an end. You admit it was romantic, don't you? For the privilege of being your wife I was ready to surrender a great prize, the climax of my diplomatic career. You decline. Very well. If Sir Robert doesn't uphold my Argentine scheme, I expose him. Voila tout. LORD GORING. You mustn't do that. It would be vile, horrible, infamous. MRS. CHEVELEY. [_Shrugging her shoulders_.] Oh! don't use big words. They mean so little. It is a commercial transaction. That is all. There is no good mixing up sentimentality in it. I offered to sell Robert Chiltern a certain thing. If he won't pay me my price, he will have to pay the world a greater price. There is no more to be said. I must go. Good-bye. Won't you shake hands? LORD GORING. With you? No. Your transaction with Robert Chiltern may pass as a loathsome commercial transaction of a loathsome commercial age; but you seem to have forgotten that you came here to-night to talk of love, you whose lips desecrated the word love, you to whom the thing is a book closely sealed, went this afternoon to the house of one of the most noble and gentle women in the world to degrade her husband in her eyes, to try and kill her love for him, to put poison in her heart, and bitterness in her life, to break her idol, and, it may be, spoil her soul. That I cannot forgive you. That was horrible. For that there can be no forgiveness. MRS. CHEVELEY. Arthur, you are unjust to me. Believe me, you are quite unjust to me. I didn't go to taunt Gertrude at all. I had no idea of doing anything of the kind when I entered. I called with Lady Markby simply to ask whether an ornament, a jewel, that I lost somewhere last night, had been found at the Chilterns'. If you don't believe me, you can ask Lady Markby. She will tell you it is true. The scene that occurred happened after Lady Markby had left, and was really forced on me by Gertrude's rudeness and sneers. I called, oh!--a little out of malice if you like--but really to ask if a diamond brooch of mine had been found. That was the origin of the whole thing. LORD GORING. A diamond snake-brooch with a ruby? MRS. CHEVELEY. Yes. How do you know? LORD GORING. Because it is found. In point of fact, I found it myself, and stupidly forgot to tell the butler anything about it as I was leaving. [_Goes over to the writing-table and pulls out the drawers_.] It is in this drawer. No, that one. This is the brooch, isn't it? [_Holds up the brooch_.] MRS. CHEVELEY. Yes. I am so glad to get it back. It was . . a present. LORD GORING. Won't you wear it? MRS. CHEVELEY. Certainly, if you pin it in. [LORD GORING _suddenly clasps it on her arm_.] Why do you put it on as a bracelet? I never knew it could he worn as a bracelet. LORD GORING. Really? MRS. CHEVELEY. [_Holding out her handsome arm_.] No; but it looks very well on me as a bracelet, doesn't it? LORD GORING. Yes; much better than when I saw it last. MRS. CHEVELEY. When did you see it last? LORD GORING. [_Calmly_.] Oh, ten years ago, on Lady Berkshire, from whom you stole it. MRS. CHEVELEY. [_Starting_.] What do you mean? LORD GORING. I mean that you stole that ornament from my cousin, Mary Berkshire, to whom I gave it when she was married. Suspicion fell on a wretched servant, who was sent away in disgrace. I recognised it last night. I determined to say nothing about it till I had found the thief. I have found the thief now, and I have heard her own confession. MRS. CHEVELEY. [_Tossing her head_.] It is not true. LORD GORING. You know it is true. Why, thief is written across your face at this moment. MRS. CHEVELEY. I will deny the whole affair from beginning to end. I will say that I have never seen this wretched thing, that it was never in my possession. [MRS. CHEVELEY _tries to get the bracelet off her arm_, _but fails_. LORD GORING _looks on amused_. _Her thin fingers tear at the jewel to no purpose_. _A curse breaks from her_.] LORD GORING. The drawback of stealing a thing, Mrs. Cheveley, is that one never knows how wonderful the thing that one steals is. You can't get that bracelet off, unless you know where the spring is. And I see you don't know where the spring is. It is rather difficult to find. MRS. CHEVELEY. You brute! You coward! [_She tries again to unclasp the bracelet_, _but fails_.] LORD GORING. Oh! don't use big words. They mean so little. MRS. CHEVELEY. [_Again tears at the bracelet in a paroxysm of rage_, _with inarticulate sounds_. _Then stops_, _and looks at_ LORD GORING.] What are you going to do? LORD GORING. I am going to ring for my servant. He is an admirable servant. Always comes in the moment one rings for him. When he comes I will tell him to fetch the police. MRS. CHEVELEY. [_Trembling_.] The police? What for? LORD GORING. To-morrow the Berkshires will prosecute you. That is what the police are for. MRS. CHEVELEY. [_Is now in an agony of physical terror_. _Her face is distorted_. _Her mouth awry_. _A mask has fallen from her_. _She it_, _for the moment_, _dreadful to look at_.] Don't do that. I will do anything you want. Anything in the world you want. LORD GORING. Give me Robert Chiltern's letter. MRS. CHEVELEY. Stop! Stop! Let me have time to think. LORD GORING. Give me Robert Chiltern's letter. MRS. CHEVELEY. I have not got it with me. I will give it to you to-morrow. LORD GORING. You know you are lying. Give it to me at once. [MRS. CHEVELEY _pulls the letter out_, _and hands it to him_. _She is horribly pale_.] This is it? MRS. CHEVELEY. [_In a hoarse voice_.] Yes. LORD GORING. [_Takes the letter_, _examines it_, _sighs_, _and burns it with the lamp_.] For so well-dressed a woman, Mrs. Cheveley, you have moments of admirable common sense. I congratulate you. MRS. CHEVELEY. [_Catches sight of_ LADY CHILTERN'S _letter_, _the cover of which is just showing from under the blotting-book_.] Please get me a glass of water. LORD GORING. Certainly. [_Goes to the corner of the room and pours out a glass of water_. _While his back is turned_ MRS. CHEVELEY _steals_ LADY CHILTERN'S _letter_. _When_ LORD GORING _returns the glass she refuses it with a gesture_.] MRS. CHEVELEY. Thank you. Will you help me on with my cloak? LORD GORING. With pleasure. [_Puts her cloak on_.] MRS. CHEVELEY. Thanks. I am never going to try to harm Robert Chiltern again. LORD GORING. Fortunately you have not the chance, Mrs. Cheveley. MRS. CHEVELEY. Well, if even I had the chance, I wouldn't. On the contrary, I am going to render him a great service. LORD GORING. I am charmed to hear it. It is a reformation. MRS. CHEVELEY. Yes. I can't bear so upright a gentleman, so honourable an English gentleman, being so shamefully deceived, and so-- LORD GORING. Well? MRS. CHEVELEY. I find that somehow Gertrude Chiltern's dying speech and confession has strayed into my pocket. LORD GORING. What do you mean? MRS. CHEVELEY. [_With a bitter note of triumph in her voice_.] I mean that I am going to send Robert Chiltern the love-letter his wife wrote to you to-night. LORD GORING. Love-letter? MRS. CHEVELEY. [_Laughing_.] 'I want you. I trust you. I am coming to you. Gertrude.' [LORD GORING _rushes to the bureau and takes up the envelope_, _finds is empty_, _and turns round_.] LORD GORING. You wretched woman, must you always be thieving? Give me back that letter. I'll take it from you by force. You shall not leave my room till I have got it. [_He rushes towards her_, _but_ MRS. CHEVELEY _at once puts her hand on the electric bell that is on the table_. _The bell sounds with shrill reverberations_, _and_ PHIPPS _enters_.] MRS. CHEVELEY. [_After a pause_.] Lord Goring merely rang that you should show me out. Good-night, Lord Goring! [_Goes out followed by_ PHIPPS. _Her face is illumined with evil triumph_. _There is joy in her eyes_. _Youth seems to have come back to her_. _Her last glance is like a swift arrow_. LORD GORING _bites his lip_, _and lights his a cigarette_.] ACT DROPS

Act 3

https://web.archive.org/web/20201030224859/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/an-ideal-husband/summary/act-3

We're in the library of Lord Goring's house; it's a neoclassical room with a roaring fireplace. There are lots of doors: one on the right leading into the hall; one on the left leading into the smoking-room; and a pair of folding doors at the back of the library that lead into the drawing-room. Phipps, Lord Goring's butler, is arranging newspapers on the writing-table. He is an ideal Butler because no one ever knows what he is thinking. Lord Goring comes enters. He's dressed to go out for the evening. He's wearing a silk hat, an Inverness cape, and white gloves. He's also carrying a Louis XIV cane . The stage directions call him the first well-dressed philosopher in the history of thought. Lord Goring asks Phipps for the second flower to put in his buttonhole. But adds that it makes him look too old, and too serious. Phipps responds dryly that the florist has had a death in her family, perhaps influencing the seriousness of this buttonhole. Lord Goring observes that the lower classes continually have deaths in the family. Yep, says Phipps, they're pretty lucky that way. The joke surprises Lord Goring. Phipps is totally cool. Three letters have come for Lord Goring, one of which is on pink paper. Phipps goes out, and Lord Goring has a monologue revealing its content. The letter is from Lady Chiltern and it says: "I want you. I trust you. I am coming to you." It's almost ten o'clock, so now Lord Goring can't go out. He strategizes about what he'll tell her. To stand by her husband. Phipps enters, announcing Lord Goring's father, Lord Caversham. Doh! His dad has such terrible timing. Lord Caversham comes in riled up. He takes off his cloak, takes the best chair, and complains about drafts in the room. Lord Goring protests that it's a little late in the evening to have a serious conversation. Cut out the funny business, says Dad. Then he lays out everything: Lord Goring needs to get married. The boy is thirty-four and is wasting his life. And there is a draft in here. Lord Goring agrees - his father is likely to catch his death with this kind of cold. He tells daddy dearest to leave; they can get in touch tomorrow. Lord Caversham's not falling for it. He's on a mission. But Lord Goring successfully ushers his cantankerous old dad into the smoking room so he can talk to Phipps. There's a lady coming to see him and Phipps should put her in the drawing room. And he shouldn't let in anyone else. Got it, sir, says Phipps. The doorbell rings. Lord Goring, chillest guy ever, is starting to sweat. He goes into the smoking room to talk to his impatient Dad. Harold the footman shows in Mrs. Cheveley. The stage directions describe her as Lamia-like - a snakelike demon in green and silver. She avoids giving her name. Under Phipps direction she goes into the drawing room. She's surprised that Lord Goring seems to expect her. Looking into the drawing room, Mrs. Cheveley calls it drab. She wants to flip it. Mrs. Cheveley is in the mood for candles. While Phipps goes in the drawing room to light them, she has a little snoop in the library. She finds the pink letter from Lady Chiltern. Oh heck yes, a love note! But Phipps comes in before she can steal it. Mrs. Cheveley goes into the drawing room, then peeps back out. She wants to steal that letter. Lord Goring and Lord Caversham are emerging from the smoking room, so she has to retreat. Lord Caversham wants Lord Goring married. Now. And to a woman chosen by himself. Lord Goring protests. Then goes outside. He comes back in, flabbergasted, with Sir Robert. Sir Robert's surprised to find Lord Goring at home, since his servants just said he was out. But he's glad. Lady Chiltern knows everything. He wishes he were dead. What should he do? The inquiries in Vienna didn't turn up any good dirt. Sir Robert is desperate. For Lord Goring's friendship, and for a drink. Lord Goring rings for Phipps and gives him instructions. Don't let the lady in after all. Too late, says Phipps, she's already in the drawing room. OK, OK, Lord Goring can deal with his. First he talks to Sir Robert. Hasn't Lady Chiltern ever done something she's regretted? Something that had to be pardoned? Never, replies Sir Robert. She's totally faultless. And they don't have children so if she leaves him, he has no one. But there's something more he has to share. Enter Phipps with the drink. Lord Goring uses the interruption to try to get rid of Sir Robert. No dice. Sir Robert has something to say - but is distracted by a chair falling in the next room. Who is in there, eavesdropping this whole time? Um, nobody. Sir Robert pushes his way through and looks in the drawing room. He starts trashing the lady. Lord Goring's a little shocked. Talking that way to his own wife, when she loves him so much. What? Sir Robert thinks Lord Goring is crazy, and that he is sleeping with Mrs. Cheveley. Lord Goring protests. He'll explain everything - but - Sir Robert rushes out. And here comes Mrs. Cheveley, sauntering to the door. She's loving it. Lord Goring can't believe it. What is she doing there? She's listening through the keyhole, of course. Lord Goring guesses that she's come to sell him Sir Robert's incriminating letter. Well, what does she want for it? But Mrs. Cheveley takes her time. She asks him to sit. They take a stroll down memory lane. Lord Goring proposed to her, but broke it off when he saw her messing around with some Lord Mortlake. Lord Goring's lawyer paid her off. Mrs. Cheveley claims she loved him back in the day. Lord Goring can't believe it - she's too smart for love. She comes clean. What she really wants is to come back to England and be rich. Have a house, have lots of intellectual parties, that sort of thing. If Lord Goring promises to marry her, the letter is his. Lord Goring insults her and then complements her. Neither tactic seems to work. Mrs. Cheveley thinks that Lord Goring should sacrifice to save Sir Robert. Lord Goring won't do it. Facing his rejection, she gets a little nasty: Sir Robert is a dead duck. Won't you please shake hands, Lord Goring? No way, he says. Goring refuses to shake hands with the woman who is ruining Lady Chiltern's life . He adds that Mrs. Cheveley is killing love out of spite. Mrs. Cheveley protests that it wasn't out of spite. She went to the Chiltern's to ask about a brooch she dropped. Lady Chiltern was so uppity that she had to taunt her a little. The brooch, eh? Lord Goring gets it out and puts it on her - as a bracelet. Lord Goring then gets into the history of the brooch. He gave this brooch to his cousin for her wedding. It was stolen years ago, and a servant was fired for it. When he found the brooch at the Chiltern's last night, he decided to wait and find out the thief. Lo and behold it is Mrs. Cheveley. She denies the theft and tries to take it off her wrist. She's trapped, though. There's a secret clasp she can't find. Lord Goring's going to call the police. Mrs. Cheveley totally flips out. Usually she is the most controlled character in the play, but now she is starting to lose it. She's scary. She'll do anything to avoid this. Lord Goring demands the incriminating letter about Sir Robert's earlier mis-deeds. She gives it to him. With a sigh Lord Goring burns it with the lamp. Mrs. Cheveley, always thinking, asks for a glass of water. When Lord Goring turns his back, she steals Lady Chiltern's pink letter. She puts on her cloak and gets ready to leave. But not before she tells him that she has the pink letter. She'll make Sir Robert think his wife is sleeping with Lord Goring. Phipps enters and shows her out. As she leaves, the stage directions describe her face: lit up, joyful, young. Lord Goring bites his lip and lights a cigarette.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/885-chapters/act_4.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/An Ideal Husband/section_3_part_0.txt

An Ideal Husband.act 4

act 4

{"name": "Act 4", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201030224859/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/an-ideal-husband/summary/act-4", "summary": "The setting is the same as Act 2: Sir Robert's morning room. Lord Goring is by the fireplace, bored. He can't find anyone to talk to, even though he has all this new information. Where is everyone? Thankfully the servant James has some answers. Sir Robert's still at the office; Lady Chiltern hasn't left her room; but Mabel is around. Oh, and Lord Goring's father, Lord Caversham, is here, too. Lord Goring doesn't want to deal with his father. Too bad, here comes Lord Caversham. He's on this marriage thing again. And he has news. There's an article in the Times about Robert Chiltern. Lord Goring has to know - what does it say? Everything positive, of course. He made a brilliant speech denouncing the Argentine scheme. It's being called the turning point of his career. Whew. Lord Caversham takes up the parental advice thing again. Why doesn't Lord Goring go into Parliament? Why doesn't he get married? How about that Mabel Chiltern? And here she is. Mabel ignores Lord Goring, as he stood her up for riding this morning. She wonders why Lord Caversham can't have a positive influence on his son. Lord Caversham replies that he has no influence on his son at all. Lord Goring asks if he should leave so they can talk. Stick around, says Mabel. You might learn something. But Lord Caversham has to go. He has an appointment with the Prime Minister. He can't take Lord Goring with him, as it's not the Prime Minister's day to see the unemployed. Mabel plays hard to get until Lord Goring proposes. He soon pops the question. It's her second proposal of the day. But this one she accepts. They kiss. Lord Goring confesses he's a little over thirty. And very extravagant. Mabel wants to tell Lady Chiltern. So Lady Chiltern naturally materializes. Looking pale. Mabel skitters out; she'll be in the conservatory under the second palm tree on the left. The usual palm tree. Lord Goring gets straight to it. The letter's been burned, and Sir Robert is safe. But she's in danger now. Because Mrs. Cheveley has her letter and plans to paint it as a love letter. She's got to come clean, tell Sir Robert she was planning to go to Lord Goring late last night. Lady Chiltern can't see how this will help the situation. Let's intercept the letter, she says. But it's too late. Sir Robert comes in with the letter in his hand. He's reading it: \"I want you. I trust you. I am coming to you. Gertrude.\" Apparently, Sir Robert thinks it's addressed to him. What should she do? What should she do? She looks at Lord Goring. He seems to indicate that she should just go with it. She does. They make up. Lord Goring tactfully retreats into the conservatory. Lady Chiltern takes this opportunity to fills in her husband: Lord Goring has destroyed the letter, so there is nothing to worry about. Sir Robert is relieved. Instead of public humiliation, he's been lifted even higher. He proposes retreating from public life. Lady Chiltern thinks that's a great idea. Lord Goring reenters with a new buttonhole flower made by Mabel. Sir Robert thanks Lord Goring effusively for saving his life. How can he ever repay him? Lord Goring has an idea. It involves someone who is standing under the usual palm tree... But they are interrupted. Lord Caversham, shown in by Mason, is full of congratulations. The Prime Minister wants to offer Sir Robert a seat in the Cabinet. Sir Robert is so proud and flattered that he almost accepts...until he sees Lady Chiltern's eyes. He declines. Lord Caversham is incensed. He appeals to Lady Chiltern. She approves of her husband's decision. And she wants him to write the letter declining the post right now. They exit. Lord Caversham can't believe it. Go talk to Mabel, says Lord Goring. She'll cheer you up. Mrs. Chiltern reenters and Lord Goring has at her. Why is she driving him from public life? Excuuuse me?, she says. It's speech time. Lord Goring has some advice for her, since she asked for it on that pink paper. Taking away Sir Robert's political career will emasculate him. She needs to forgive him, stop judging. She needs to accept him for who he is. And then he adds some comments that we would find offensive today, but that were not back in the Victorian period. Lord Goring says that a man's life means more than a woman's. The realm of influence is larger. Her job is to love him and to support him in everything he does. Lady Chiltern objects. Sir Robert is the one that proposed to leave office. Sir Robert only suggested leaving office because he's willing to make the sacrifice for his wife, says Lord Goring. But Lady Chiltern shouldn't demand it; the man has been punished enough. When Sir Robert comes in with the letter he didn't really want to write, Lady Chiltern tears it up. And then - this is weird - she quotes the part of Lord Goring's speech in which he talks about men's lives being of more value than women's. Anyway, she doesn't want him to give up public life. Sir Robert is overcome. He hugs her, and thanks Lord Goring. Lord Goring takes this opportunity to ask for Mabel's hand. Sir Robert says no. He doesn't think Lord Goring loves her. Or rather, he thinks Lord Goring loves someone else. He tells the story of encountering Mrs. Cheveley at Lord Goring's house. He can't let Lord Goring marry Mabel if he's involved with that she-snake. Now it's Lady Chiltern's turn to do some good. She confesses that Lord Goring had been expecting her. The letter Sir Robert read was meant for Lord Goring. They were just lucky Sir Robert didn't fall into Mrs. Cheveley's trap. Apparently, all the confusion have been cleared up. Mabel enters with Lord Caversham. They bring him up to speed. Lord Goring and Mabel are engaged, and Sir Robert will accept the seat in the Cabinet. Lunch is served, says Mason. Lord Caversham hopes Lord Goring will make an ideal husband, but Mabel doesn't like the sound of that. She would rather him be a real person. Everyone exits except for Sir Robert. After a minute, Lady Chiltern comes in. Sir Robert asks if she feels love for him, or only pity. It's love, she replies, and only love.", "analysis": ""}

FOURTH ACT SCENE _Same as Act II_. [LORD GORING _is standing by the fireplace with his hands in his pockets_. _He is looking rather bored_.] LORD GORING. [_Pulls out his watch_, _inspects it_, _and rings the bell_.] It is a great nuisance. I can't find any one in this house to talk to. And I am full of interesting information. I feel like the latest edition of something or other. [_Enter servant_.] JAMES. Sir Robert is still at the Foreign Office, my lord. LORD GORING. Lady Chiltern not down yet? JAMES. Her ladyship has not yet left her room. Miss Chiltern has just come in from riding. LORD GORING. [_To himself_.] Ah! that is something. JAMES. Lord Caversham has been waiting some time in the library for Sir Robert. I told him your lordship was here. LORD GORING. Thank you! Would you kindly tell him I've gone? JAMES. [_Bowing_.] I shall do so, my lord. [_Exit servant_.] LORD GORING. Really, I don't want to meet my father three days running. It is a great deal too much excitement for any son. I hope to goodness he won't come up. Fathers should be neither seen nor heard. That is the only proper basis for family life. Mothers are different. Mothers are darlings. [_Throws himself down into a chair_, _picks up a paper and begins to read it_.] [_Enter_ LORD CAVERSHAM.] LORD CAVERSHAM. Well, sir, what are you doing here? Wasting your time as usual, I suppose? LORD GORING. [_Throws down paper and rises_.] My dear father, when one pays a visit it is for the purpose of wasting other people's time, not one's own. LORD CAVERSHAM. Have you been thinking over what I spoke to you about last night? LORD GORING. I have been thinking about nothing else. LORD CAVERSHAM. Engaged to be married yet? LORD GORING. [_Genially_.] Not yet: but I hope to be before lunch-time. LORD CAVERSHAM. [_Caustically_.] You can have till dinner-time if it would be of any convenience to you. LORD GORING. Thanks awfully, but I think I'd sooner be engaged before lunch. LORD CAVERSHAM. Humph! Never know when you are serious or not. LORD GORING. Neither do I, father. [_A pause_.] LORD CAVERSHAM. I suppose you have read _The Times_ this morning? LORD GORING. [_Airily_.] The Times? Certainly not. I only read _The Morning Post_. All that one should know about modern life is where the Duchesses are; anything else is quite demoralising. LORD CAVERSHAM. Do you mean to say you have not read _The Times_ leading article on Robert Chiltern's career? LORD GORING. Good heavens! No. What does it say? LORD CAVERSHAM. What should it say, sir? Everything complimentary, of course. Chiltern's speech last night on this Argentine Canal scheme was one of the finest pieces of oratory ever delivered in the House since Canning. LORD GORING. Ah! Never heard of Canning. Never wanted to. And did . . . did Chiltern uphold the scheme? LORD CAVERSHAM. Uphold it, sir? How little you know him! Why, he denounced it roundly, and the whole system of modern political finance. This speech is the turning-point in his career, as _The Times_ points out. You should read this article, sir. [_Opens_ The Times.] 'Sir Robert Chiltern . . . most rising of our young statesmen . . . Brilliant orator . . . Unblemished career . . . Well-known integrity of character . . . Represents what is best in English public life . . . Noble contrast to the lax morality so common among foreign politicians.' They will never say that of you, sir. LORD GORING. I sincerely hope not, father. However, I am delighted at what you tell me about Robert, thoroughly delighted. It shows he has got pluck. LORD CAVERSHAM. He has got more than pluck, sir, he has got genius. LORD GORING. Ah! I prefer pluck. It is not so common, nowadays, as genius is. LORD CAVERSHAM. I wish you would go into Parliament. LORD GORING. My dear father, only people who look dull ever get into the House of Commons, and only people who are dull ever succeed there. LORD CAVERSHAM. Why don't you try to do something useful in life? LORD GORING. I am far too young. LORD CAVERSHAM. [_Testily_.] I hate this affectation of youth, sir. It is a great deal too prevalent nowadays. LORD GORING. Youth isn't an affectation. Youth is an art. LORD CAVERSHAM. Why don't you propose to that pretty Miss Chiltern? LORD GORING. I am of a very nervous disposition, especially in the morning. LORD CAVERSHAM. I don't suppose there is the smallest chance of her accepting you. LORD GORING. I don't know how the betting stands to-day. LORD CAVERSHAM. If she did accept you she would be the prettiest fool in England. LORD GORING. That is just what I should like to marry. A thoroughly sensible wife would reduce me to a condition of absolute idiocy in less than six months. LORD CAVERSHAM. You don't deserve her, sir. LORD GORING. My dear father, if we men married the women we deserved, we should have a very bad time of it. [_Enter_ MABEL CHILTERN.] MABEL CHILTERN. Oh! . . . How do you do, Lord Caversham? I hope Lady Caversham is quite well? LORD CAVERSHAM. Lady Caversham is as usual, as usual. LORD GORING. Good morning, Miss Mabel! MABEL CHILTERN. [_Taking no notice at all of_ LORD GORING, _and addressing herself exclusively to_ LORD CAVERSHAM.] And Lady Caversham's bonnets . . . are they at all better? LORD CAVERSHAM. They have had a serious relapse, I am sorry to say. LORD GORING. Good morning, Miss Mabel! MABEL CHILTERN. [_To_ LORD CAVERSHAM.] I hope an operation will not be necessary. LORD CAVERSHAM. [_Smiling at her pertness_.] If it is, we shall have to give Lady Caversham a narcotic. Otherwise she would never consent to have a feather touched. LORD GORING. [_With increased emphasis_.] Good morning, Miss Mabel! MABEL CHILTERN. [_Turning round with feigned surprise_.] Oh, are you here? Of course you understand that after your breaking your appointment I am never going to speak to you again. LORD GORING. Oh, please don't say such a thing. You are the one person in London I really like to have to listen to me. MABEL CHILTERN. Lord Goring, I never believe a single word that either you or I say to each other. LORD CAVERSHAM. You are quite right, my dear, quite right . . . as far as he is concerned, I mean. MABEL CHILTERN. Do you think you could possibly make your son behave a little better occasionally? Just as a change. LORD CAVERSHAM. I regret to say, Miss Chiltern, that I have no influence at all over my son. I wish I had. If I had, I know what I would make him do. MABEL CHILTERN. I am afraid that he has one of those terribly weak natures that are not susceptible to influence. LORD CAVERSHAM. He is very heartless, very heartless. LORD GORING. It seems to me that I am a little in the way here. MABEL CHILTERN. It is very good for you to be in the way, and to know what people say of you behind your back. LORD GORING. I don't at all like knowing what people say of me behind my back. It makes me far too conceited. LORD CAVERSHAM. After that, my dear, I really must bid you good morning. MABEL CHILTERN. Oh! I hope you are not going to leave me all alone with Lord Goring? Especially at such an early hour in the day. LORD CAVERSHAM. I am afraid I can't take him with me to Downing Street. It is not the Prime Minster's day for seeing the unemployed. [_Shakes hands with_ MABEL CHILTERN, _takes up his hat and stick_, _and goes out_, _with a parting glare of indignation at_ LORD GORING.] MABEL CHILTERN. [_Takes up roses and begins to arrange them in a bowl on the table_.] People who don't keep their appointments in the Park are horrid. LORD GORING. Detestable. MABEL CHILTERN. I am glad you admit it. But I wish you wouldn't look so pleased about it. LORD GORING. I can't help it. I always look pleased when I am with you. MABEL CHILTERN. [_Sadly_.] Then I suppose it is my duty to remain with you? LORD GORING. Of course it is. MABEL CHILTERN. Well, my duty is a thing I never do, on principle. It always depresses me. So I am afraid I must leave you. LORD GORING. Please don't, Miss Mabel. I have something very particular to say to you. MABEL CHILTERN. [_Rapturously_.] Oh! is it a proposal? LORD GORING. [_Somewhat taken aback_.] Well, yes, it is--I am bound to say it is. MABEL CHILTERN. [_With a sigh of pleasure_.] I am so glad. That makes the second to-day. LORD GORING. [_Indignantly_.] The second to-day? What conceited ass has been impertinent enough to dare to propose to you before I had proposed to you? MABEL CHILTERN. Tommy Trafford, of course. It is one of Tommy's days for proposing. He always proposes on Tuesdays and Thursdays, during the Season. LORD GORING. You didn't accept him, I hope? MABEL CHILTERN. I make it a rule never to accept Tommy. That is why he goes on proposing. Of course, as you didn't turn up this morning, I very nearly said yes. It would have been an excellent lesson both for him and for you if I had. It would have taught you both better manners. LORD GORING. Oh! bother Tommy Trafford. Tommy is a silly little ass. I love you. MABEL CHILTERN. I know. And I think you might have mentioned it before. I am sure I have given you heaps of opportunities. LORD GORING. Mabel, do be serious. Please be serious. MABEL CHILTERN. Ah! that is the sort of thing a man always says to a girl before he has been married to her. He never says it afterwards. LORD GORING. [_Taking hold of her hand_.] Mabel, I have told you that I love you. Can't you love me a little in return? MABEL CHILTERN. You silly Arthur! If you knew anything about . . . anything, which you don't, you would know that I adore you. Every one in London knows it except you. It is a public scandal the way I adore you. I have been going about for the last six months telling the whole of society that I adore you. I wonder you consent to have anything to say to me. I have no character left at all. At least, I feel so happy that I am quite sure I have no character left at all. LORD GORING. [_Catches her in his arms and kisses her_. _Then there is a pause of bliss_.] Dear! Do you know I was awfully afraid of being refused! MABEL CHILTERN. [_Looking up at him_.] But you never have been refused yet by anybody, have you, Arthur? I can't imagine any one refusing you. LORD GORING. [_After kissing her again_.] Of course I'm not nearly good enough for you, Mabel. MABEL CHILTERN. [_Nestling close to him_.] I am so glad, darling. I was afraid you were. LORD GORING. [_After some hesitation_.] And I'm . . . I'm a little over thirty. MABEL CHILTERN. Dear, you look weeks younger than that. LORD GORING. [_Enthusiastically_.] How sweet of you to say so! . . . And it is only fair to tell you frankly that I am fearfully extravagant. MABEL CHILTERN. But so am I, Arthur. So we're sure to agree. And now I must go and see Gertrude. LORD GORING. Must you really? [_Kisses her_.] MABEL CHILTERN. Yes. LORD GORING. Then do tell her I want to talk to her particularly. I have been waiting here all the morning to see either her or Robert. MABEL CHILTERN. Do you mean to say you didn't come here expressly to propose to me? LORD GORING. [_Triumphantly_.] No; that was a flash of genius. MABEL CHILTERN. Your first. LORD GORING. [_With determination_.] My last. MABEL CHILTERN. I am delighted to hear it. Now don't stir. I'll be back in five minutes. And don't fall into any temptations while I am away. LORD GORING. Dear Mabel, while you are away, there are none. It makes me horribly dependent on you. [_Enter_ LADY CHILTERN.] LADY CHILTERN. Good morning, dear! How pretty you are looking! MABEL CHILTERN. How pale you are looking, Gertrude! It is most becoming! LADY CHILTERN. Good morning, Lord Goring! LORD GORING. [_Bowing_.] Good morning, Lady Chiltern! MABEL CHILTERN. [_Aside to_ LORD GORING.] I shall be in the conservatory under the second palm tree on the left. LORD GORING. Second on the left? MABEL CHILTERN. [_With a look of mock surprise_.] Yes; the usual palm tree. [_Blows a kiss to him_, _unobserved by_ LADY CHILTERN, _and goes out_.] LORD GORING. Lady Chiltern, I have a certain amount of very good news to tell you. Mrs. Cheveley gave me up Robert's letter last night, and I burned it. Robert is safe. LADY CHILTERN. [_Sinking on the sofa_.] Safe! Oh! I am so glad of that. What a good friend you are to him--to us! LORD GORING. There is only one person now that could be said to be in any danger. LADY CHILTERN. Who is that? LORD GORING. [_Sitting down beside her_.] Yourself. LADY CHILTERN. I? In danger? What do you mean? LORD GORING. Danger is too great a word. It is a word I should not have used. But I admit I have something to tell you that may distress you, that terribly distresses me. Yesterday evening you wrote me a very beautiful, womanly letter, asking me for my help. You wrote to me as one of your oldest friends, one of your husband's oldest friends. Mrs. Cheveley stole that letter from my rooms. LADY CHILTERN. Well, what use is it to her? Why should she not have it? LORD GORING. [_Rising_.] Lady Chiltern, I will be quite frank with you. Mrs. Cheveley puts a certain construction on that letter and proposes to send it to your husband. LADY CHILTERN. But what construction could she put on it? . . . Oh! not that! not that! If I in--in trouble, and wanting your help, trusting you, propose to come to you . . . that you may advise me . . . assist me . . . Oh! are there women so horrible as that . . .? And she proposes to send it to my husband? Tell me what happened. Tell me all that happened. LORD GORING. Mrs. Cheveley was concealed in a room adjoining my library, without my knowledge. I thought that the person who was waiting in that room to see me was yourself. Robert came in unexpectedly. A chair or something fell in the room. He forced his way in, and he discovered her. We had a terrible scene. I still thought it was you. He left me in anger. At the end of everything Mrs. Cheveley got possession of your letter--she stole it, when or how, I don't know. LADY CHILTERN. At what hour did this happen? LORD GORING. At half-past ten. And now I propose that we tell Robert the whole thing at once. LADY CHILTERN. [_Looking at him with amazement that is almost terror_.] You want me to tell Robert that the woman you expected was not Mrs. Cheveley, but myself? That it was I whom you thought was concealed in a room in your house, at half-past ten o'clock at night? You want me to tell him that? LORD GORING. I think it is better that he should know the exact truth. LADY CHILTERN. [_Rising_.] Oh, I couldn't, I couldn't! LORD GORING. May I do it? LADY CHILTERN. No. LORD GORING. [_Gravely_.] You are wrong, Lady Chiltern. LADY CHILTERN. No. The letter must be intercepted. That is all. But how can I do it? Letters arrive for him every moment of the day. His secretaries open them and hand them to him. I dare not ask the servants to bring me his letters. It would be impossible. Oh! why don't you tell me what to do? LORD GORING. Pray be calm, Lady Chiltern, and answer the questions I am going to put to you. You said his secretaries open his letters. LADY CHILTERN. Yes. LORD GORING. Who is with him to-day? Mr. Trafford, isn't it? LADY CHILTERN. No. Mr. Montford, I think. LORD GORING. You can trust him? LADY CHILTERN. [_With a gesture of despair_.] Oh! how do I know? LORD GORING. He would do what you asked him, wouldn't he? LADY CHILTERN. I think so. LORD GORING. Your letter was on pink paper. He could recognise it without reading it, couldn't he? By the colour? LADY CHILTERN. I suppose so. LORD GORING. Is he in the house now? LADY CHILTERN. Yes. LORD GORING. Then I will go and see him myself, and tell him that a certain letter, written on pink paper, is to be forwarded to Robert to-day, and that at all costs it must not reach him. [_Goes to the door_, _and opens it_.] Oh! Robert is coming upstairs with the letter in his hand. It has reached him already. LADY CHILTERN. [_With a cry of pain_.] Oh! you have saved his life; what have you done with mine? [_Enter_ SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. _He has the letter in his hand_, _and is reading it_. _He comes towards his wife_, _not noticing_ LORD GORING'S _presence_.] SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. 'I want you. I trust you. I am coming to you. Gertrude.' Oh, my love! Is this true? Do you indeed trust me, and want me? If so, it was for me to come to you, not for you to write of coming to me. This letter of yours, Gertrude, makes me feel that nothing that the world may do can hurt me now. You want me, Gertrude? [LORD GORING, _unseen by_ SIR ROBERT CHILTERN, _makes an imploring sign to_ LADY CHILTERN _to accept the situation and_ SIR ROBERT'S _error_.] LADY CHILTERN. Yes. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. You trust me, Gertrude? LADY CHILTERN. Yes. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Ah! why did you not add you loved me? LADY CHILTERN. [_Taking his hand_.] Because I loved you. [LORD GORING _passes into the conservatory_.] SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Kisses her_.] Gertrude, you don't know what I feel. When Montford passed me your letter across the table--he had opened it by mistake, I suppose, without looking at the handwriting on the envelope--and I read it--oh! I did not care what disgrace or punishment was in store for me, I only thought you loved me still. LADY CHILTERN. There is no disgrace in store for you, nor any public shame. Mrs. Cheveley has handed over to Lord Goring the document that was in her possession, and he has destroyed it. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Are you sure of this, Gertrude? LADY CHILTERN. Yes; Lord Goring has just told me. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Then I am safe! Oh! what a wonderful thing to be safe! For two days I have been in terror. I am safe now. How did Arthur destroy my letter? Tell me. LADY CHILTERN. He burned it. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I wish I had seen that one sin of my youth burning to ashes. How many men there are in modern life who would like to see their past burning to white ashes before them! Is Arthur still here? LADY CHILTERN. Yes; he is in the conservatory. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I am so glad now I made that speech last night in the House, so glad. I made it thinking that public disgrace might be the result. But it has not been so. LADY CHILTERN. Public honour has been the result. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I think so. I fear so, almost. For although I am safe from detection, although every proof against me is destroyed, I suppose, Gertrude . . . I suppose I should retire from public life? [_He looks anxiously at his wife_.] LADY CHILTERN. [_Eagerly_.] Oh yes, Robert, you should do that. It is your duty to do that. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. It is much to surrender. LADY CHILTERN. No; it will be much to gain. [SIR ROBERT CHILTERN _walks up and down the room with a troubled expression_. _Then comes over to his wife_, _and puts his hand on her shoulder_.] SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. And you would be happy living somewhere alone with me, abroad perhaps, or in the country away from London, away from public life? You would have no regrets? LADY CHILTERN. Oh! none, Robert. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Sadly_.] And your ambition for me? You used to be ambitious for me. LADY CHILTERN. Oh, my ambition! I have none now, but that we two may love each other. It was your ambition that led you astray. Let us not talk about ambition. [LORD GORING _returns from the conservatory_, _looking very pleased with himself_, _and with an entirely new buttonhole that some one has made for him_.] SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Going towards him_.] Arthur, I have to thank you for what you have done for me. I don't know how I can repay you. [_Shakes hands with him_.] LORD GORING. My dear fellow, I'll tell you at once. At the present moment, under the usual palm tree . . . I mean in the conservatory . . . [_Enter_ MASON.] MASON. Lord Caversham. LORD GORING. That admirable father of mine really makes a habit of turning up at the wrong moment. It is very heartless of him, very heartless indeed. [_Enter_ LORD CAVERSHAM. MASON _goes out_.] LORD CAVERSHAM. Good morning, Lady Chiltern! Warmest congratulations to you, Chiltern, on your brilliant speech last night. I have just left the Prime Minister, and you are to have the vacant seat in the Cabinet. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_With a look of joy and triumph_.] A seat in the Cabinet? LORD CAVERSHAM. Yes; here is the Prime Minister's letter. [_Hands letter_.] SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Takes letter and reads it_.] A seat in the Cabinet! LORD CAVERSHAM. Certainly, and you well deserve it too. You have got what we want so much in political life nowadays--high character, high moral tone, high principles. [_To_ LORD GORING.] Everything that you have not got, sir, and never will have. LORD GORING. I don't like principles, father. I prefer prejudices. [SIR ROBERT CHILTERN _is on the brink of accepting the Prime Minister's offer_, _when he sees wife looking at him with her clear_, _candid eyes_. _He then realises that it is impossible_.] SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I cannot accept this offer, Lord Caversham. I have made up my mind to decline it. LORD CAVERSHAM. Decline it, sir! SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. My intention is to retire at once from public life. LORD CAVERSHAM. [_Angrily_.] Decline a seat in the Cabinet, and retire from public life? Never heard such damned nonsense in the whole course of my existence. I beg your pardon, Lady Chiltern. Chiltern, I beg your pardon. [_To_ LORD GORING.] Don't grin like that, sir. LORD GORING. No, father. LORD CAVERSHAM. Lady Chiltern, you are a sensible woman, the most sensible woman in London, the most sensible woman I know. Will you kindly prevent your husband from making such a . . . from taking such . . . Will you kindly do that, Lady Chiltern? LADY CHILTERN. I think my husband in right in his determination, Lord Caversham. I approve of it. LORD CAVERSHAM. You approve of it? Good heavens! LADY CHILTERN. [_Taking her husband's hand_.] I admire him for it. I admire him immensely for it. I have never admired him so much before. He is finer than even I thought him. [_To_ SIR ROBERT CHILTERN.] You will go and write your letter to the Prime Minister now, won't you? Don't hesitate about it, Robert. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_With a touch of bitterness_.] I suppose I had better write it at once. Such offers are not repeated. I will ask you to excuse me for a moment, Lord Caversham. LADY CHILTERN. I may come with you, Robert, may I not? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Yes, Gertrude. [LADY CHILTERN _goes out with him_.] LORD CAVERSHAM. What is the matter with this family? Something wrong here, eh? [_Tapping his forehead_.] Idiocy? Hereditary, I suppose. Both of them, too. Wife as well as husband. Very sad. Very sad indeed! And they are not an old family. Can't understand it. LORD GORING. It is not idiocy, father, I assure you. LORD CAVERSHAM. What is it then, sir? LORD GORING. [_After some hesitation_.] Well, it is what is called nowadays a high moral tone, father. That is all. LORD CAVERSHAM. Hate these new-fangled names. Same thing as we used to call idiocy fifty years ago. Shan't stay in this house any longer. LORD GORING. [_Taking his arm_.] Oh! just go in here for a moment, father. Third palm tree to the left, the usual palm tree. LORD CAVERSHAM. What, sir? LORD GORING. I beg your pardon, father, I forgot. The conservatory, father, the conservatory--there is some one there I want you to talk to. LORD CAVERSHAM. What about, sir? LORD GORING. About me, father, LORD CAVERSHAM. [_Grimly_.] Not a subject on which much eloquence is possible. LORD GORING. No, father; but the lady is like me. She doesn't care much for eloquence in others. She thinks it a little loud. [LORD CAVERSHAM _goes out into the conservatory_. LADY CHILTERN _enters_.] LORD GORING. Lady Chiltern, why are you playing Mrs. Cheveley's cards? LADY CHILTERN. [_Startled_.] I don't understand you. LORD GORING. Mrs. Cheveley made an attempt to ruin your husband. Either to drive him from public life, or to make him adopt a dishonourable position. From the latter tragedy you saved him. The former you are now thrusting on him. Why should you do him the wrong Mrs. Cheveley tried to do and failed? LADY CHILTERN. Lord Goring? LORD GORING. [_Pulling himself together for a great effort_, _and showing the philosopher that underlies the dandy_.] Lady Chiltern, allow me. You wrote me a letter last night in which you said you trusted me and wanted my help. Now is the moment when you really want my help, now is the time when you have got to trust me, to trust in my counsel and judgment. You love Robert. Do you want to kill his love for you? What sort of existence will he have if you rob him of the fruits of his ambition, if you take him from the splendour of a great political career, if you close the doors of public life against him, if you condemn him to sterile failure, he who was made for triumph and success? Women are not meant to judge us, but to forgive us when we need forgiveness. Pardon, not punishment, is their mission. Why should you scourge him with rods for a sin done in his youth, before he knew you, before he knew himself? A man's life is of more value than a woman's. It has larger issues, wider scope, greater ambitions. A woman's life revolves in curves of emotions. It is upon lines of intellect that a man's life progresses. Don't make any terrible mistake, Lady Chiltern. A woman who can keep a man's love, and love him in return, has done all the world wants of women, or should want of them. LADY CHILTERN. [_Troubled and hesitating_.] But it is my husband himself who wishes to retire from public life. He feels it is his duty. It was he who first said so. LORD GORING. Rather than lose your love, Robert would do anything, wreck his whole career, as he is on the brink of doing now. He is making for you a terrible sacrifice. Take my advice, Lady Chiltern, and do not accept a sacrifice so great. If you do, you will live to repent it bitterly. We men and women are not made to accept such sacrifices from each other. We are not worthy of them. Besides, Robert has been punished enough. LADY CHILTERN. We have both been punished. I set him up too high. LORD GORING. [_With deep feeling in his voice_.] Do not for that reason set him down now too low. If he has fallen from his altar, do not thrust him into the mire. Failure to Robert would be the very mire of shame. Power is his passion. He would lose everything, even his power to feel love. Your husband's life is at this moment in your hands, your husband's love is in your hands. Don't mar both for him. [_Enter_ SIR ROBERT CHILTERN.] SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Gertrude, here is the draft of my letter. Shall I read it to you? LADY CHILTERN. Let me see it. [SIR ROBERT _hands her the letter_. _She reads it_, _and then_, _with a gesture of passion_, _tears it up_.] SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. What are you doing? LADY CHILTERN. A man's life is of more value than a woman's. It has larger issues, wider scope, greater ambitions. Our lives revolve in curves of emotions. It is upon lines of intellect that a man's life progresses. I have just learnt this, and much else with it, from Lord Goring. And I will not spoil your life for you, nor see you spoil it as a sacrifice to me, a useless sacrifice! SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Gertrude! Gertrude! LADY CHILTERN. You can forget. Men easily forget. And I forgive. That is how women help the world. I see that now. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Deeply overcome by emotion_, _embraces her_.] My wife! my wife! [_To_ LORD GORING.] Arthur, it seems that I am always to be in your debt. LORD GORING. Oh dear no, Robert. Your debt is to Lady Chiltern, not to me! SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I owe you much. And now tell me what you were going to ask me just now as Lord Caversham came in. LORD GORING. Robert, you are your sister's guardian, and I want your consent to my marriage with her. That is all. LADY CHILTERN. Oh, I am so glad! I am so glad! [_Shakes hands with_ LORD GORING.] LORD GORING. Thank you, Lady Chiltern. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_With a troubled look_.] My sister to be your wife? LORD GORING. Yes. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Speaking with great firmness_.] Arthur, I am very sorry, but the thing is quite out of the question. I have to think of Mabel's future happiness. And I don't think her happiness would be safe in your hands. And I cannot have her sacrificed! LORD GORING. Sacrificed! SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Yes, utterly sacrificed. Loveless marriages are horrible. But there is one thing worse than an absolutely loveless marriage. A marriage in which there is love, but on one side only; faith, but on one side only; devotion, but on one side only, and in which of the two hearts one is sure to be broken. LORD GORING. But I love Mabel. No other woman has any place in my life. LADY CHILTERN. Robert, if they love each other, why should they not be married? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Arthur cannot bring Mabel the love that she deserves. LORD GORING. What reason have you for saying that? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_After a pause_.] Do you really require me to tell you? LORD GORING. Certainly I do. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. As you choose. When I called on you yesterday evening I found Mrs. Cheveley concealed in your rooms. It was between ten and eleven o'clock at night. I do not wish to say anything more. Your relations with Mrs. Cheveley have, as I said to you last night, nothing whatsoever to do with me. I know you were engaged to be married to her once. The fascination she exercised over you then seems to have returned. You spoke to me last night of her as of a woman pure and stainless, a woman whom you respected and honoured. That may be so. But I cannot give my sister's life into your hands. It would be wrong of me. It would be unjust, infamously unjust to her. LORD GORING. I have nothing more to say. LADY CHILTERN. Robert, it was not Mrs. Cheveley whom Lord Goring expected last night. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Not Mrs. Cheveley! Who was it then? LORD GORING. Lady Chiltern! LADY CHILTERN. It was your own wife. Robert, yesterday afternoon Lord Goring told me that if ever I was in trouble I could come to him for help, as he was our oldest and best friend. Later on, after that terrible scene in this room, I wrote to him telling him that I trusted him, that I had need of him, that I was coming to him for help and advice. [SIR ROBERT CHILTERN _takes the letter out of his pocket_.] Yes, that letter. I didn't go to Lord Goring's, after all. I felt that it is from ourselves alone that help can come. Pride made me think that. Mrs. Cheveley went. She stole my letter and sent it anonymously to you this morning, that you should think . . . Oh! Robert, I cannot tell you what she wished you to think. . . . SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. What! Had I fallen so low in your eyes that you thought that even for a moment I could have doubted your goodness? Gertrude, Gertrude, you are to me the white image of all good things, and sin can never touch you. Arthur, you can go to Mabel, and you have my best wishes! Oh! stop a moment. There is no name at the beginning of this letter. The brilliant Mrs. Cheveley does not seem to have noticed that. There should be a name. LADY CHILTERN. Let me write yours. It is you I trust and need. You and none else. LORD GORING. Well, really, Lady Chiltern, I think I should have back my own letter. LADY CHILTERN. [_Smiling_.] No; you shall have Mabel. [_Takes the letter and writes her husband's name on it_.] LORD GORING. Well, I hope she hasn't changed her mind. It's nearly twenty minutes since I saw her last. [_Enter_ MABEL CHILTERN _and_ LORD CAVERSHAM.] MABEL CHILTERN. Lord Goring, I think your father's conversation much more improving than yours. I am only going to talk to Lord Caversham in the future, and always under the usual palm tree. LORD GORING. Darling! [_Kisses her_.] LORD CAVERSHAM. [_Considerably taken aback_.] What does this mean, sir? You don't mean to say that this charming, clever young lady has been so foolish as to accept you? LORD GORING. Certainly, father! And Chiltern's been wise enough to accept the seat in the Cabinet. LORD CAVERSHAM. I am very glad to hear that, Chiltern . . . I congratulate you, sir. If the country doesn't go to the dogs or the Radicals, we shall have you Prime Minister, some day. [_Enter_ MASON.] MASON. Luncheon is on the table, my Lady! [MASON _goes out_.] MABEL CHILTERN. You'll stop to luncheon, Lord Caversham, won't you? LORD CAVERSHAM. With pleasure, and I'll drive you down to Downing Street afterwards, Chiltern. You have a great future before you, a great future. Wish I could say the same for you, sir. [_To_ LORD GORING.] But your career will have to be entirely domestic. LORD GORING. Yes, father, I prefer it domestic. LORD CAVERSHAM. And if you don't make this young lady an ideal husband, I'll cut you off with a shilling. MABEL CHILTERN. An ideal husband! Oh, I don't think I should like that. It sounds like something in the next world. LORD CAVERSHAM. What do you want him to be then, dear? MABEL CHILTERN. He can be what he chooses. All I want is to be . . . to be . . . oh! a real wife to him. LORD CAVERSHAM. Upon my word, there is a good deal of common sense in that, Lady Chiltern. [_They all go out except_ SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. _He sinks in a chair_, _wrapt in thought_. _After a little time_ LADY CHILTERN _returns to look for him_.] LADY CHILTERN. [_Leaning over the back of the chair_.] Aren't you coming in, Robert? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Taking her hand_.] Gertrude, is it love you feel for me, or is it pity merely? LADY CHILTERN. [_Kisses him_.] It is love, Robert. Love, and only love. For both of us a new life is beginning. CURTAIN * * * * *

Act 4

https://web.archive.org/web/20201030224859/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/an-ideal-husband/summary/act-4

The setting is the same as Act 2: Sir Robert's morning room. Lord Goring is by the fireplace, bored. He can't find anyone to talk to, even though he has all this new information. Where is everyone? Thankfully the servant James has some answers. Sir Robert's still at the office; Lady Chiltern hasn't left her room; but Mabel is around. Oh, and Lord Goring's father, Lord Caversham, is here, too. Lord Goring doesn't want to deal with his father. Too bad, here comes Lord Caversham. He's on this marriage thing again. And he has news. There's an article in the Times about Robert Chiltern. Lord Goring has to know - what does it say? Everything positive, of course. He made a brilliant speech denouncing the Argentine scheme. It's being called the turning point of his career. Whew. Lord Caversham takes up the parental advice thing again. Why doesn't Lord Goring go into Parliament? Why doesn't he get married? How about that Mabel Chiltern? And here she is. Mabel ignores Lord Goring, as he stood her up for riding this morning. She wonders why Lord Caversham can't have a positive influence on his son. Lord Caversham replies that he has no influence on his son at all. Lord Goring asks if he should leave so they can talk. Stick around, says Mabel. You might learn something. But Lord Caversham has to go. He has an appointment with the Prime Minister. He can't take Lord Goring with him, as it's not the Prime Minister's day to see the unemployed. Mabel plays hard to get until Lord Goring proposes. He soon pops the question. It's her second proposal of the day. But this one she accepts. They kiss. Lord Goring confesses he's a little over thirty. And very extravagant. Mabel wants to tell Lady Chiltern. So Lady Chiltern naturally materializes. Looking pale. Mabel skitters out; she'll be in the conservatory under the second palm tree on the left. The usual palm tree. Lord Goring gets straight to it. The letter's been burned, and Sir Robert is safe. But she's in danger now. Because Mrs. Cheveley has her letter and plans to paint it as a love letter. She's got to come clean, tell Sir Robert she was planning to go to Lord Goring late last night. Lady Chiltern can't see how this will help the situation. Let's intercept the letter, she says. But it's too late. Sir Robert comes in with the letter in his hand. He's reading it: "I want you. I trust you. I am coming to you. Gertrude." Apparently, Sir Robert thinks it's addressed to him. What should she do? What should she do? She looks at Lord Goring. He seems to indicate that she should just go with it. She does. They make up. Lord Goring tactfully retreats into the conservatory. Lady Chiltern takes this opportunity to fills in her husband: Lord Goring has destroyed the letter, so there is nothing to worry about. Sir Robert is relieved. Instead of public humiliation, he's been lifted even higher. He proposes retreating from public life. Lady Chiltern thinks that's a great idea. Lord Goring reenters with a new buttonhole flower made by Mabel. Sir Robert thanks Lord Goring effusively for saving his life. How can he ever repay him? Lord Goring has an idea. It involves someone who is standing under the usual palm tree... But they are interrupted. Lord Caversham, shown in by Mason, is full of congratulations. The Prime Minister wants to offer Sir Robert a seat in the Cabinet. Sir Robert is so proud and flattered that he almost accepts...until he sees Lady Chiltern's eyes. He declines. Lord Caversham is incensed. He appeals to Lady Chiltern. She approves of her husband's decision. And she wants him to write the letter declining the post right now. They exit. Lord Caversham can't believe it. Go talk to Mabel, says Lord Goring. She'll cheer you up. Mrs. Chiltern reenters and Lord Goring has at her. Why is she driving him from public life? Excuuuse me?, she says. It's speech time. Lord Goring has some advice for her, since she asked for it on that pink paper. Taking away Sir Robert's political career will emasculate him. She needs to forgive him, stop judging. She needs to accept him for who he is. And then he adds some comments that we would find offensive today, but that were not back in the Victorian period. Lord Goring says that a man's life means more than a woman's. The realm of influence is larger. Her job is to love him and to support him in everything he does. Lady Chiltern objects. Sir Robert is the one that proposed to leave office. Sir Robert only suggested leaving office because he's willing to make the sacrifice for his wife, says Lord Goring. But Lady Chiltern shouldn't demand it; the man has been punished enough. When Sir Robert comes in with the letter he didn't really want to write, Lady Chiltern tears it up. And then - this is weird - she quotes the part of Lord Goring's speech in which he talks about men's lives being of more value than women's. Anyway, she doesn't want him to give up public life. Sir Robert is overcome. He hugs her, and thanks Lord Goring. Lord Goring takes this opportunity to ask for Mabel's hand. Sir Robert says no. He doesn't think Lord Goring loves her. Or rather, he thinks Lord Goring loves someone else. He tells the story of encountering Mrs. Cheveley at Lord Goring's house. He can't let Lord Goring marry Mabel if he's involved with that she-snake. Now it's Lady Chiltern's turn to do some good. She confesses that Lord Goring had been expecting her. The letter Sir Robert read was meant for Lord Goring. They were just lucky Sir Robert didn't fall into Mrs. Cheveley's trap. Apparently, all the confusion have been cleared up. Mabel enters with Lord Caversham. They bring him up to speed. Lord Goring and Mabel are engaged, and Sir Robert will accept the seat in the Cabinet. Lunch is served, says Mason. Lord Caversham hopes Lord Goring will make an ideal husband, but Mabel doesn't like the sound of that. She would rather him be a real person. Everyone exits except for Sir Robert. After a minute, Lady Chiltern comes in. Sir Robert asks if she feels love for him, or only pity. It's love, she replies, and only love.

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/885-chapters/act_i.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/An Ideal Husband/section_0_part_0.txt

An Ideal Husband.act i

act i

{"name": "Act I - Part One", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210118103913/https://www.sparknotes.com/drama/idealhusband/section1/", "summary": "An Ideal Husband is at times a difficult play to summarize as much of its \"plot\" happens through rapid-fire, epigrammatic dialogue. Indeed, the pace and subtlety of these turns-of-phrase are what make plot so easy to miss. When summarizing the story, one finds oneself paraphrasing the repartee . To do so, of course, is to kill its wit and humor. The following summary divides Act I into two parts, the first extending from the beginning to the fatal conversation between Sir Robert Chiltern and Mrs. Cheveley, the second starting from that conversation to the end. Act I opens with a dinner party given by Sir Robert in his fashionable Grosvenor Square home; thus it begins with a series of lighthearted conversations between the bantering guests. The entire act takes place in the brilliantly lit Octagon Room. The first scene shows Lady Chiltern posed at the top of a large staircase greeting the guests. A tapestry representing Boucher's \"Triumph of Love\" hangs on the back wall. Sitting on a Louis Seize sofa, Mrs. Marchmont and Lady Basildon share the first conversation. Mrs. Marchmont declares that she has come to the soiree to be educated, and Lady Basildon replies that she abhors education. Mrs. Marchmont concurs but jestingly protests that their hostess--Lady Chiltern--is always urging her to find one \"serious purpose\" in life. Looking around the room--that is, both at the cast and audience--through her opera glasses, Lady Basildon notes that she hardly sees anyone whom one could call a serious purpose around here. Act I similarly introduces its other players through such instances of banter, each new guest being announced by the butler Mason from the top of the stairs. Throughout this first scene, dialogue is occasionally punctuated by the malapropisms of the Vicomte de Nanjac, a young anglophile whose awkward English serves as a comically distorted reflection of the group's polished repartee. The following conversation involves Mabel Chiltern, Sir Robert's sister, and the elderly Lord Caversham, father of Lord Goring. Caversham bemoans the idleness of his son and the excesses of London Society. Along with introducing the old-fashioned Caversham, this conversation offers a glimpse at Mabel's affection for the dandified lord. Suddenly Lady Markby and Mrs. Cheveley--sporting scarlet lips, a heliotrope gown, Venetian red hair, and rather assertive fan--enter the room. Upon their introduction, Lady Chiltern reveals coldly that she knows Mrs. Cheveley from their school days, and Mrs. Cheveley, having spent many years in Vienna, all too sweetly expresses her eagerness to meet Sir Robert. Lady Chiltern assures her she has little in common with her husband and moves away. After a comic interlude with de Nanjac , Sir Robert enters and meets Mrs. Chelevey. Mrs. Cheveley slyly reveals that she knows a man--Baron Arnheim--from Sir Robert's past. She also poses herself against the dreary demands of marriage . Mason then announces Lord Goring, a witty and ironical dandy who, as the stage notes indicate, would be annoyed if considered romantic. Mrs. Cheveley precisely describes him as such upon discovering he is still a bachelor; apparently the two have met before. Mrs. Cheveley and Sir Robert exit, and Goring saunters over to Mabel Chiltern. The two exchange in flirtatious repartee; De Nanjac then kidnaps Mabel to the music room. After a brief exchange with his father, Goring turns to Lady Basildon and Mrs. Marchmont for a discussion of married life. Bemoaning the unendurable faultlessness of their husbands, Mrs. Marchmont comes to exclaim: \"We have married perfect husbands, and we are well punished for it. \" They then go on to gossip about the scandalous Mrs. Cheveley.", "analysis": "As discussed in the Context, Wilde's later plays both mirror the conventional themes of the Victorian popular stage--such as loyalty, devotion, undying love, duty, respectability, and so on--and undermine them through their brilliantly choreographed banter. The first half of Act I consists almost entirely of this deceptively frivolous party talk. Wilde's banter is written in witty, epigrammatic repartee. \"Wit\" is defined here as the quality of speech that consists in apt associations that surprise and delight; the epigram is a brief, pointed, and often antithetical saying that contains an unexpected change of thought or biting comment. The tone of the epigram is often \"half-serious,\" playing on the potential for misunderstanding. Notably, Act I begins by declaring the absence of any serious purpose in the room; one could say that epigrammatic repartee is speech that refuses to speak seriously. Moreover, as this \"half-serious\" tone is often ironic, such repartee is often speech that the speaker does not speak in earnest either. Rhetorically, the epigram is usually dependent on a combination of devices: the play between conventionally paired terms, irony, sarcasm, hyperbole, and paradox. Take then, for example, Lord Goring's rejoinder to his father, Lord Caversham, when the latter accuses him of talking about nothing: \"I love talking about nothing, father. It is the only thing I know anything about.\" At one level, Goring's epigram is sarcastic; at another, it is paradoxical, as one cannot know anything about nothing. The epigram also shifts between conventionally valorized terms: whereas most people would hope to have something substantive to talk about, Goring loves to talk about nothing. As one might imagine, the \"subversive\" potential in these conversational games is the concomitant shift in the social values up for discussion. Thus Goring assures Mabel that his bad qualities are quite dreadful: \"When I think of them at night, I go to sleep at once.\" In this example, Goring revises the meaning of \"bad,\" moving from \"bad\" as in flawed or even reprehensible to \"bad\" as in boring. In doing so, the question at hand is no longer one of good and bad character traits, but whether a given trait is--to invoke a famous Wildean phrase--charming or tedious. Wilde's excessively playful repartee is scandalous as it continually undermines the attempt to have a \"serious conversation.\" Moreover, such speech is also scandalous in that it stands to expose the absurdity of a socially conventional statement, flout convention entirely, or reveal a conventional opinion's true meaning. One might translate the case of Goring's retort to Mabel, for example, with the following: why do good and bad character traits matter when what's truly important is whether these traits are entertaining? Or: perhaps when people describe an individual's good or bad traits, they really mean to say whether they find him amusing or dull. As we proceed to the development of the play's \"serious\" themes regarding conjugal life, duty, respectability, and so on, we must thus always keep the banter that undermines the ideas presented in mind. Act I opens at a dinner party, and so we might note that repartee is only possible in social intercourse--what one might describe as the social theater. As members of London Society, Wilde's characters are extremely concerned with their \"performances\" at various gatherings and how they \"look\" in various social circles. As a result, their speech is very much part of their social personas--what we might call their \"masks\" or \"poses.\" We will discuss masks in more detail as we go on. Mrs. Cheveley introduces the motif of social theatricality here when she declares that what Sir Robert describes as the \"fashionable religions\" of optimism and pessimism to be \"merely poses\"; of course, for Mrs. Cheveley, being natural is a pose as well. Act I involves a number of conversations on gender as well. These conversations are crucial as one of the play's primary themes consists of varying conceptions of womanliness. Of particular note is a conversation between Sir Robert and Mrs. Cheveley that relates aestheticism and a certain vision of femininity. As discussed in the Context, aestheticism, a doctrine often abbreviated as a philosophy of \"art for art's sake,\" insists on art being judged by the beauty of artifice rather than that of morality or reason. Beauty is irrational, artificial, amoral, terms conventionally associated with the feminine. Here Mrs. Cheveley poses woman as a sort aestheticist art object. She tells Sir Robert that while men can be analyzed, women are to be merely adored: herein lies their strength. Like art, they resist judgment according to rational or moral categories. They embody the irrational , and are thus powerful, perhaps even dangerous. Mrs. Cheveley herself is one of these dangerously well-dressed and irrational women."}

FIRST ACT SCENE _The octagon room at Sir Robert Chiltern's house in Grosvenor Square_. [_The room is brilliantly lighted and full of guests_. _At the top of the staircase stands_ LADY CHILTERN, _a woman of grave Greek beauty_, _about twenty-seven years of age_. _She receives the guests as they come up_. _Over the well of the staircase hangs a great chandelier with wax lights_, _which illumine a large eighteenth-century French tapestry--representing the Triumph of Love_, _from a design by Boucher--that is stretched on the staircase wall_. _On the right is the entrance to the music-room_. _The sound of a string quartette is faintly heard_. _The entrance on the left leads to other reception-rooms_. MRS. MARCHMONT _and_ LADY BASILDON, _two very pretty women_, _are seated together on a Louis Seize sofa_. _They are types of exquisite fragility_. _Their affectation of manner has a delicate charm_. _Watteau would have loved to paint them_.] MRS. MARCHMONT. Going on to the Hartlocks' to-night, Margaret? LADY BASILDON. I suppose so. Are you? MRS. MARCHMONT. Yes. Horribly tedious parties they give, don't they? LADY BASILDON. Horribly tedious! Never know why I go. Never know why I go anywhere. MRS. MARCHMONT. I come here to be educated. LADY BASILDON. Ah! I hate being educated! MRS. MARCHMONT. So do I. It puts one almost on a level with the commercial classes, doesn't it? But dear Gertrude Chiltern is always telling me that I should have some serious purpose in life. So I come here to try to find one. LADY BASILDON. [_Looking round through her lorgnette_.] I don't see anybody here to-night whom one could possibly call a serious purpose. The man who took me in to dinner talked to me about his wife the whole time. MRS. MARCHMONT. How very trivial of him! LADY BASILDON. Terribly trivial! What did your man talk about? MRS. MARCHMONT. About myself. LADY BASILDON. [_Languidly_.] And were you interested? MRS. MARCHMONT. [_Shaking her head_.] Not in the smallest degree. LADY BASILDON. What martyrs we are, dear Margaret! MRS. MARCHMONT. [_Rising_.] And how well it becomes us, Olivia! [_They rise and go towards the music-room_. _The_ VICOMTE DE NANJAC, _a young attache known for his neckties and his Anglomania_, _approaches with a low bow_, _and enters into conversation_.] MASON. [_Announcing guests from the top of the staircase_.] Mr. and Lady Jane Barford. Lord Caversham. [_Enter_ LORD CAVERSHAM, _an old gentleman of seventy_, _wearing the riband and star of the Garter_. _A fine Whig type_. _Rather like a portrait by Lawrence_.] LORD CAVERSHAM. Good evening, Lady Chiltern! Has my good-for-nothing young son been here? LADY CHILTERN. [_Smiling_.] I don't think Lord Goring has arrived yet. MABEL CHILTERN. [_Coming up to_ LORD CAVERSHAM.] Why do you call Lord Goring good-for-nothing? [MABEL CHILTERN _is a perfect example of the English type of prettiness_, _the apple-blossom type_. _She has all the fragrance and freedom of a flower_. _There is ripple after ripple of sunlight in her hair_, _and the little mouth_, _with its parted lips_, _is expectant_, _like the mouth of a child_. _She has the fascinating tyranny of youth_, _and the astonishing courage of innocence_. _To sane people she is not reminiscent of any work of art_. _But she is really like a Tanagra statuette_, _and would be rather annoyed if she were told so_.] LORD CAVERSHAM. Because he leads such an idle life. MABEL CHILTERN. How can you say such a thing? Why, he rides in the Row at ten o'clock in the morning, goes to the Opera three times a week, changes his clothes at least five times a day, and dines out every night of the season. You don't call that leading an idle life, do you? LORD CAVERSHAM. [_Looking at her with a kindly twinkle in his eyes_.] You are a very charming young lady! MABEL CHILTERN. How sweet of you to say that, Lord Caversham! Do come to us more often. You know we are always at home on Wednesdays, and you look so well with your star! LORD CAVERSHAM. Never go anywhere now. Sick of London Society. Shouldn't mind being introduced to my own tailor; he always votes on the right side. But object strongly to being sent down to dinner with my wife's milliner. Never could stand Lady Caversham's bonnets. MABEL CHILTERN. Oh, I love London Society! I think it has immensely improved. It is entirely composed now of beautiful idiots and brilliant lunatics. Just what Society should be. LORD CAVERSHAM. Hum! Which is Goring? Beautiful idiot, or the other thing? MABEL CHILTERN. [_Gravely_.] I have been obliged for the present to put Lord Goring into a class quite by himself. But he is developing charmingly! LORD CAVERSHAM. Into what? MABEL CHILTERN. [_With a little curtsey_.] I hope to let you know very soon, Lord Caversham! MASON. [_Announcing guests_.] Lady Markby. Mrs. Cheveley. [_Enter_ LADY MARKBY _and_ MRS. CHEVELEY. LADY MARKBY _is a pleasant_, _kindly_, _popular woman_, _with gray hair a la marquise and good lace_. MRS. CHEVELEY, _who accompanies her_, _is tall and rather slight_. _Lips very thin and highly-coloured_, _a line of scarlet on a pallid face_. _Venetian red hair_, _aquiline nose_, _and long throat_. _Rouge accentuates the natural paleness of her complexion_. _Gray-green eyes that move restlessly_. _She is in heliotrope_, _with diamonds_. _She looks rather like an orchid_, _and makes great demands on one's curiosity_. _In all her movements she is extremely graceful_. _A work of art_, _on the whole_, _but showing the influence of too many schools_.] LADY MARKBY. Good evening, dear Gertrude! So kind of you to let me bring my friend, Mrs. Cheveley. Two such charming women should know each other! LADY CHILTERN. [_Advances towards_ MRS. CHEVELEY _with a sweet smile_. _Then suddenly stops_, _and bows rather distantly_.] I think Mrs. Cheveley and I have met before. I did not know she had married a second time. LADY MARKBY. [_Genially_.] Ah, nowadays people marry as often as they can, don't they? It is most fashionable. [_To_ DUCHESS OF MARYBOROUGH.] Dear Duchess, and how is the Duke? Brain still weak, I suppose? Well, that is only to be expected, is it not? His good father was just the same. There is nothing like race, is there? MRS. CHEVELEY. [_Playing with her fan_.] But have we really met before, Lady Chiltern? I can't remember where. I have been out of England for so long. LADY CHILTERN. We were at school together, Mrs. Cheveley. MRS. CHEVELEY [_Superciliously_.] Indeed? I have forgotten all about my schooldays. I have a vague impression that they were detestable. LADY CHILTERN. [_Coldly_.] I am not surprised! MRS. CHEVELEY. [_In her sweetest manner_.] Do you know, I am quite looking forward to meeting your clever husband, Lady Chiltern. Since he has been at the Foreign Office, he has been so much talked of in Vienna. They actually succeed in spelling his name right in the newspapers. That in itself is fame, on the continent. LADY CHILTERN. I hardly think there will be much in common between you and my husband, Mrs. Cheveley! [_Moves away_.] VICOMTE DE NANJAC. Ah! chere Madame, queue surprise! I have not seen you since Berlin! MRS. CHEVELEY. Not since Berlin, Vicomte. Five years ago! VICOMTE DE NANJAC. And you are younger and more beautiful than ever. How do you manage it? MRS. CHEVELEY. By making it a rule only to talk to perfectly charming people like yourself. VICOMTE DE NANJAC. Ah! you flatter me. You butter me, as they say here. MRS. CHEVELEY. Do they say that here? How dreadful of them! VICOMTE DE NANJAC. Yes, they have a wonderful language. It should be more widely known. [SIR ROBERT CHILTERN _enters_. _A man of forty_, _but looking somewhat younger_. _Clean-shaven_, _with finely-cut features_, _dark-haired and dark-eyed_. _A personality of mark_. _Not popular--few personalities are_. _But intensely admired by the few_, _and deeply respected by the many_. _The note of his manner is that of perfect distinction_, _with a slight touch of pride_. _One feels that he is conscious of the success he has made in life_. _A nervous temperament_, _with a tired look_. _The firmly-chiselled mouth and chin contrast strikingly with the romantic expression in the deep-set eyes_. _The variance is suggestive of an almost complete separation of passion and intellect_, _as though thought and emotion were each isolated in its own sphere through some violence of will-power_. _There is nervousness in the nostrils_, _and in the pale_, _thin_, _pointed hands_. _It would be inaccurate to call him picturesque_. _Picturesqueness cannot survive the House of Commons_. _But Vandyck would have liked to have painted his head_.] SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Good evening, Lady Markby! I hope you have brought Sir John with you? LADY MARKBY. Oh! I have brought a much more charming person than Sir John. Sir John's temper since he has taken seriously to politics has become quite unbearable. Really, now that the House of Commons is trying to become useful, it does a great deal of harm. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I hope not, Lady Markby. At any rate we do our best to waste the public time, don't we? But who is this charming person you have been kind enough to bring to us? LADY MARKBY. Her name is Mrs. Cheveley! One of the Dorsetshire Cheveleys, I suppose. But I really don't know. Families are so mixed nowadays. Indeed, as a rule, everybody turns out to be somebody else. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Mrs. Cheveley? I seem to know the name. LADY MARKBY. She has just arrived from Vienna. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Ah! yes. I think I know whom you mean. LADY MARKBY. Oh! she goes everywhere there, and has such pleasant scandals about all her friends. I really must go to Vienna next winter. I hope there is a good chef at the Embassy. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. If there is not, the Ambassador will certainly have to be recalled. Pray point out Mrs. Cheveley to me. I should like to see her. LADY MARKBY. Let me introduce you. [_To_ MRS. CHEVELEY.] My dear, Sir Robert Chiltern is dying to know you! SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Bowing_.] Every one is dying to know the brilliant Mrs. Cheveley. Our attaches at Vienna write to us about nothing else. MRS. CHEVELEY. Thank you, Sir Robert. An acquaintance that begins with a compliment is sure to develop into a real friendship. It starts in the right manner. And I find that I know Lady Chiltern already. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Really? MRS. CHEVELEY. Yes. She has just reminded me that we were at school together. I remember it perfectly now. She always got the good conduct prize. I have a distinct recollection of Lady Chiltern always getting the good conduct prize! SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Smiling_.] And what prizes did you get, Mrs. Cheveley? MRS. CHEVELEY. My prizes came a little later on in life. I don't think any of them were for good conduct. I forget! SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I am sure they were for something charming! MRS. CHEVELEY. I don't know that women are always rewarded for being charming. I think they are usually punished for it! Certainly, more women grow old nowadays through the faithfulness of their admirers than through anything else! At least that is the only way I can account for the terribly haggard look of most of your pretty women in London! SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. What an appalling philosophy that sounds! To attempt to classify you, Mrs. Cheveley, would be an impertinence. But may I ask, at heart, are you an optimist or a pessimist? Those seem to be the only two fashionable religions left to us nowadays. MRS. CHEVELEY. Oh, I'm neither. Optimism begins in a broad grin, and Pessimism ends with blue spectacles. Besides, they are both of them merely poses. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. You prefer to be natural? MRS. CHEVELEY. Sometimes. But it is such a very difficult pose to keep up. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. What would those modern psychological novelists, of whom we hear so much, say to such a theory as that? MRS. CHEVELEY. Ah! the strength of women comes from the fact that psychology cannot explain us. Men can be analysed, women . . . merely adored. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. You think science cannot grapple with the problem of women? MRS. CHEVELEY. Science can never grapple with the irrational. That is why it has no future before it, in this world. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. And women represent the irrational. MRS. CHEVELEY. Well-dressed women do. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_With a polite bow_.] I fear I could hardly agree with you there. But do sit down. And now tell me, what makes you leave your brilliant Vienna for our gloomy London--or perhaps the question is indiscreet? MRS. CHEVELEY. Questions are never indiscreet. Answers sometimes are. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Well, at any rate, may I know if it is politics or pleasure? MRS. CHEVELEY. Politics are my only pleasure. You see nowadays it is not fashionable to flirt till one is forty, or to be romantic till one is forty-five, so we poor women who are under thirty, or say we are, have nothing open to us but politics or philanthropy. And philanthropy seems to me to have become simply the refuge of people who wish to annoy their fellow-creatures. I prefer politics. I think they are more . . . becoming! SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. A political life is a noble career! MRS. CHEVELEY. Sometimes. And sometimes it is a clever game, Sir Robert. And sometimes it is a great nuisance. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Which do you find it? MRS. CHEVELEY. I? A combination of all three. [_Drops her fan_.] SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Picks up fan_.] Allow me! MRS. CHEVELEY. Thanks. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. But you have not told me yet what makes you honour London so suddenly. Our season is almost over. MRS. CHEVELEY. Oh! I don't care about the London season! It is too matrimonial. People are either hunting for husbands, or hiding from them. I wanted to meet you. It is quite true. You know what a woman's curiosity is. Almost as great as a man's! I wanted immensely to meet you, and . . . to ask you to do something for me. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I hope it is not a little thing, Mrs. Cheveley. I find that little things are so very difficult to do. MRS. CHEVELEY. [_After a moment's reflection_.] No, I don't think it is quite a little thing. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I am so glad. Do tell me what it is. MRS. CHEVELEY. Later on. [_Rises_.] And now may I walk through your beautiful house? I hear your pictures are charming. Poor Baron Arnheim--you remember the Baron?--used to tell me you had some wonderful Corots. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_With an almost imperceptible start_.] Did you know Baron Arnheim well? MRS. CHEVELEY. [_Smiling_.] Intimately. Did you? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. At one time. MRS. CHEVELEY. Wonderful man, wasn't he? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_After a pause_.] He was very remarkable, in many ways. MRS. CHEVELEY. I often think it such a pity he never wrote his memoirs. They would have been most interesting. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Yes: he knew men and cities well, like the old Greek. MRS. CHEVELEY. Without the dreadful disadvantage of having a Penelope waiting at home for him. MASON. Lord Goring. [_Enter_ LORD GORING. _Thirty-four_, _but always says he is younger_. _A well-bred_, _expressionless face_. _He is clever_, _but would not like to be thought so_. _A flawless dandy_, _he would be annoyed if he were considered romantic_. _He plays with life_, _and is on perfectly good terms with the world_. _He is fond of being misunderstood_. _It gives him a post of vantage_.] SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Good evening, my dear Arthur! Mrs. Cheveley, allow me to introduce to you Lord Goring, the idlest man in London. MRS. CHEVELEY. I have met Lord Goring before. LORD GORING. [_Bowing_.] I did not think you would remember me, Mrs. Cheveley. MRS. CHEVELEY. My memory is under admirable control. And are you still a bachelor? LORD GORING. I . . . believe so. MRS. CHEVELEY. How very romantic! LORD GORING. Oh! I am not at all romantic. I am not old enough. I leave romance to my seniors. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Lord Goring is the result of Boodle's Club, Mrs. Cheveley. MRS. CHEVELEY. He reflects every credit on the institution. LORD GORING. May I ask are you staying in London long? MRS. CHEVELEY. That depends partly on the weather, partly on the cooking, and partly on Sir Robert. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. You are not going to plunge us into a European war, I hope? MRS. CHEVELEY. There is no danger, at present! [_She nods to_ LORD GORING, _with a look of amusement in her eyes_, _and goes out with_ SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. LORD GORING _saunters over to_ MABEL CHILTERN.] MABEL CHILTERN. You are very late! LORD GORING. Have you missed me? MABEL CHILTERN. Awfully! LORD GORING. Then I am sorry I did not stay away longer. I like being missed. MABEL CHILTERN. How very selfish of you! LORD GORING. I am very selfish. MABEL CHILTERN. You are always telling me of your bad qualities, Lord Goring. LORD GORING. I have only told you half of them as yet, Miss Mabel! MABEL CHILTERN. Are the others very bad? LORD GORING. Quite dreadful! When I think of them at night I go to sleep at once. MABEL CHILTERN. Well, I delight in your bad qualities. I wouldn't have you part with one of them. LORD GORING. How very nice of you! But then you are always nice. By the way, I want to ask you a question, Miss Mabel. Who brought Mrs. Cheveley here? That woman in heliotrope, who has just gone out of the room with your brother? MABEL CHILTERN. Oh, I think Lady Markby brought her. Why do you ask? LORD GORING. I haven't seen her for years, that is all. MABEL CHILTERN. What an absurd reason! LORD GORING. All reasons are absurd. MABEL CHILTERN. What sort of a woman is she? LORD GORING. Oh! a genius in the daytime and a beauty at night! MABEL CHILTERN. I dislike her already. LORD GORING. That shows your admirable good taste. VICOMTE DE NANJAC. [_Approaching_.] Ah, the English young lady is the dragon of good taste, is she not? Quite the dragon of good taste. LORD GORING. So the newspapers are always telling us. VICOMTE DE NANJAC. I read all your English newspapers. I find them so amusing. LORD GORING. Then, my dear Nanjac, you must certainly read between the lines. VICOMTE DE NANJAC. I should like to, but my professor objects. [_To_ MABEL CHILTERN.] May I have the pleasure of escorting you to the music-room, Mademoiselle? MABEL CHILTERN. [_Looking very disappointed_.] Delighted, Vicomte, quite delighted! [_Turning to_ LORD GORING.] Aren't you coming to the music-room? LORD GORING. Not if there is any music going on, Miss Mabel. MABEL CHILTERN. [_Severely_.] The music is in German. You would not understand it. [_Goes out with the_ VICOMTE DE NANJAC. LORD CAVERSHAM _comes up to his son_.] LORD CAVERSHAM. Well, sir! what are you doing here? Wasting your life as usual! You should be in bed, sir. You keep too late hours! I heard of you the other night at Lady Rufford's dancing till four o'clock in the morning! LORD GORING. Only a quarter to four, father. LORD CAVERSHAM. Can't make out how you stand London Society. The thing has gone to the dogs, a lot of damned nobodies talking about nothing. LORD GORING. I love talking about nothing, father. It is the only thing I know anything about. LORD CAVERSHAM. You seem to me to be living entirely for pleasure. LORD GORING. What else is there to live for, father? Nothing ages like happiness. LORD CAVERSHAM. You are heartless, sir, very heartless! LORD GORING. I hope not, father. Good evening, Lady Basildon! LADY BASILDON. [_Arching two pretty eyebrows_.] Are you here? I had no idea you ever came to political parties! LORD GORING. I adore political parties. They are the only place left to us where people don't talk politics. LADY BASILDON. I delight in talking politics. I talk them all day long. But I can't bear listening to them. I don't know how the unfortunate men in the House stand these long debates. LORD GORING. By never listening. LADY BASILDON. Really? LORD GORING. [_In his most serious manner_.] Of course. You see, it is a very dangerous thing to listen. If one listens one may be convinced; and a man who allows himself to be convinced by an argument is a thoroughly unreasonable person. LADY BASILDON. Ah! that accounts for so much in men that I have never understood, and so much in women that their husbands never appreciate in them! MRS. MARCHMONT. [_With a sigh_.] Our husbands never appreciate anything in us. We have to go to others for that! LADY BASILDON. [_Emphatically_.] Yes, always to others, have we not? LORD GORING. [_Smiling_.] And those are the views of the two ladies who are known to have the most admirable husbands in London. MRS. MARCHMONT. That is exactly what we can't stand. My Reginald is quite hopelessly faultless. He is really unendurably so, at times! There is not the smallest element of excitement in knowing him. LORD GORING. How terrible! Really, the thing should be more widely known! LADY BASILDON. Basildon is quite as bad; he is as domestic as if he was a bachelor. MRS. MARCHMONT. [_Pressing_ LADY BASILDON'S _hand_.] My poor Olivia! We have married perfect husbands, and we are well punished for it. LORD GORING. I should have thought it was the husbands who were punished. MRS. MARCHMONT. [_Drawing herself up_.] Oh, dear no! They are as happy as possible! And as for trusting us, it is tragic how much they trust us. LADY BASILDON. Perfectly tragic! LORD GORING. Or comic, Lady Basildon? LADY BASILDON. Certainly not comic, Lord Goring. How unkind of you to suggest such a thing! MRS. MARCHMONT. I am afraid Lord Goring is in the camp of the enemy, as usual. I saw him talking to that Mrs. Cheveley when he came in. LORD GORING. Handsome woman, Mrs. Cheveley! LADY BASILDON. [_Stiffly_.] Please don't praise other women in our presence. You might wait for us to do that! LORD GORING. I did wait. MRS. MARCHMONT. Well, we are not going to praise her. I hear she went to the Opera on Monday night, and told Tommy Rufford at supper that, as far as she could see, London Society was entirely made up of dowdies and dandies. LORD GORING. She is quite right, too. The men are all dowdies and the women are all dandies, aren't they? MRS. MARCHMONT. [_After a pause_.] Oh! do you really think that is what Mrs. Cheveley meant? LORD GORING. Of course. And a very sensible remark for Mrs. Cheveley to make, too. [_Enter_ MABEL CHILTERN. _She joins the group_.] MABEL CHILTERN. Why are you talking about Mrs. Cheveley? Everybody is talking about Mrs. Cheveley! Lord Goring says--what did you say, Lord Goring, about Mrs. Cheveley? Oh! I remember, that she was a genius in the daytime and a beauty at night. LADY BASILDON. What a horrid combination! So very unnatural! MRS. MARCHMONT. [_In her most dreamy manner_.] I like looking at geniuses, and listening to beautiful people. LORD GORING. Ah! that is morbid of you, Mrs. Marchmont! MRS. MARCHMONT. [_Brightening to a look of real pleasure_.] I am so glad to hear you say that. Marchmont and I have been married for seven years, and he has never once told me that I was morbid. Men are so painfully unobservant! LADY BASILDON. [_Turning to her_.] I have always said, dear Margaret, that you were the most morbid person in London. MRS. MARCHMONT. Ah! but you are always sympathetic, Olivia! MABEL CHILTERN. Is it morbid to have a desire for food? I have a great desire for food. Lord Goring, will you give me some supper? LORD GORING. With pleasure, Miss Mabel. [_Moves away with her_.] MABEL CHILTERN. How horrid you have been! You have never talked to me the whole evening! LORD GORING. How could I? You went away with the child-diplomatist. MABEL CHILTERN. You might have followed us. Pursuit would have been only polite. I don't think I like you at all this evening! LORD GORING. I like you immensely. MABEL CHILTERN. Well, I wish you'd show it in a more marked way! [_They go downstairs_.] MRS. MARCHMONT. Olivia, I have a curious feeling of absolute faintness. I think I should like some supper very much. I know I should like some supper. LADY BASILDON. I am positively dying for supper, Margaret! MRS. MARCHMONT. Men are so horribly selfish, they never think of these things. LADY BASILDON. Men are grossly material, grossly material! [_The_ VICOMTE DE NANJAC _enters from the music-room with some other guests_. _After having carefully examined all the people present_, _he approaches_ LADY BASILDON.] VICOMTE DE NANJAC. May I have the honour of taking you down to supper, Comtesse? LADY BASILDON. [_Coldly_.] I never take supper, thank you, Vicomte. [_The_ VICOMTE _is about to retire_. LADY BASILDON, _seeing this_, _rises at once and takes his arm_.] But I will come down with you with pleasure. VICOMTE DE NANJAC. I am so fond of eating! I am very English in all my tastes. LADY BASILDON. You look quite English, Vicomte, quite English. [_They pass out_. MR. MONTFORD, _a perfectly groomed young dandy_, _approaches_ MRS. MARCHMONT.] MR. MONTFORD. Like some supper, Mrs. Marchmont? MRS. MARCHMONT. [_Languidly_.] Thank you, Mr. Montford, I never touch supper. [_Rises hastily and takes his arm_.] But I will sit beside you, and watch you. MR. MONTFORD. I don't know that I like being watched when I am eating! MRS. MARCHMONT. Then I will watch some one else. MR. MONTFORD. I don't know that I should like that either. MRS. MARCHMONT. [_Severely_.] Pray, Mr. Montford, do not make these painful scenes of jealousy in public! [_They go downstairs with the other guests_, _passing_ SIR ROBERT CHILTERN _and_ MRS. CHEVELEY, _who now enter_.] SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. And are you going to any of our country houses before you leave England, Mrs. Cheveley? MRS. CHEVELEY. Oh, no! I can't stand your English house-parties. In England people actually try to be brilliant at breakfast. That is so dreadful of them! Only dull people are brilliant at breakfast. And then the family skeleton is always reading family prayers. My stay in England really depends on you, Sir Robert. [_Sits down on the sofa_.] SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Taking a seat beside her_.] Seriously? MRS. CHEVELEY. Quite seriously. I want to talk to you about a great political and financial scheme, about this Argentine Canal Company, in fact. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. What a tedious, practical subject for you to talk about, Mrs. Cheveley! MRS. CHEVELEY. Oh, I like tedious, practical subjects. What I don't like are tedious, practical people. There is a wide difference. Besides, you are interested, I know, in International Canal schemes. You were Lord Radley's secretary, weren't you, when the Government bought the Suez Canal shares? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Yes. But the Suez Canal was a very great and splendid undertaking. It gave us our direct route to India. It had imperial value. It was necessary that we should have control. This Argentine scheme is a commonplace Stock Exchange swindle. MRS. CHEVELEY. A speculation, Sir Robert! A brilliant, daring speculation. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Believe me, Mrs. Cheveley, it is a swindle. Let us call things by their proper names. It makes matters simpler. We have all the information about it at the Foreign Office. In fact, I sent out a special Commission to inquire into the matter privately, and they report that the works are hardly begun, and as for the money already subscribed, no one seems to know what has become of it. The whole thing is a second Panama, and with not a quarter of the chance of success that miserable affair ever had. I hope you have not invested in it. I am sure you are far too clever to have done that. MRS. CHEVELEY. I have invested very largely in it. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Who could have advised you to do such a foolish thing? MRS. CHEVELEY. Your old friend--and mine. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Who? MRS. CHEVELEY. Baron Arnheim. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Frowning_.] Ah! yes. I remember hearing, at the time of his death, that he had been mixed up in the whole affair. MRS. CHEVELEY. It was his last romance. His last but one, to do him justice. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Rising_.] But you have not seen my Corots yet. They are in the music-room. Corots seem to go with music, don't they? May I show them to you? MRS. CHEVELEY. [_Shaking her head_.] I am not in a mood to-night for silver twilights, or rose-pink dawns. I want to talk business. [_Motions to him with her fan to sit down again beside her_.] SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I fear I have no advice to give you, Mrs. Cheveley, except to interest yourself in something less dangerous. The success of the Canal depends, of course, on the attitude of England, and I am going to lay the report of the Commissioners before the House to-morrow night. MRS. CHEVELEY. That you must not do. In your own interests, Sir Robert, to say nothing of mine, you must not do that. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Looking at her in wonder_.] In my own interests? My dear Mrs. Cheveley, what do you mean? [_Sits down beside her_.] MRS. CHEVELEY. Sir Robert, I will be quite frank with you. I want you to withdraw the report that you had intended to lay before the House, on the ground that you have reasons to believe that the Commissioners have been prejudiced or misinformed, or something. Then I want you to say a few words to the effect that the Government is going to reconsider the question, and that you have reason to believe that the Canal, if completed, will be of great international value. You know the sort of things ministers say in cases of this kind. A few ordinary platitudes will do. In modern life nothing produces such an effect as a good platitude. It makes the whole world kin. Will you do that for me? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Mrs. Cheveley, you cannot be serious in making me such a proposition! MRS. CHEVELEY. I am quite serious. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Coldly_.] Pray allow me to believe that you are not. MRS. CHEVELEY. [_Speaking with great deliberation and emphasis_.] Ah! but I am. And if you do what I ask you, I . . . will pay you very handsomely! SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Pay me! MRS. CHEVELEY. Yes. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I am afraid I don't quite understand what you mean. MRS. CHEVELEY. [_Leaning back on the sofa and looking at him_.] How very disappointing! And I have come all the way from Vienna in order that you should thoroughly understand me. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I fear I don't. MRS. CHEVELEY. [_In her most nonchalant manner_.] My dear Sir Robert, you are a man of the world, and you have your price, I suppose. Everybody has nowadays. The drawback is that most people are so dreadfully expensive. I know I am. I hope you will be more reasonable in your terms. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Rises indignantly_.] If you will allow me, I will call your carriage for you. You have lived so long abroad, Mrs. Cheveley, that you seem to be unable to realise that you are talking to an English gentleman. MRS. CHEVELEY. [_Detains him by touching his arm with her fan_, _and keeping it there while she is talking_.] I realise that I am talking to a man who laid the foundation of his fortune by selling to a Stock Exchange speculator a Cabinet secret. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Biting his lip_.] What do you mean? MRS. CHEVELEY. [_Rising and facing him_.] I mean that I know the real origin of your wealth and your career, and I have got your letter, too. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. What letter? MRS. CHEVELEY. [_Contemptuously_.] The letter you wrote to Baron Arnheim, when you were Lord Radley's secretary, telling the Baron to buy Suez Canal shares--a letter written three days before the Government announced its own purchase. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Hoarsely_.] It is not true. MRS. CHEVELEY. You thought that letter had been destroyed. How foolish of you! It is in my possession. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. The affair to which you allude was no more than a speculation. The House of Commons had not yet passed the bill; it might have been rejected. MRS. CHEVELEY. It was a swindle, Sir Robert. Let us call things by their proper names. It makes everything simpler. And now I am going to sell you that letter, and the price I ask for it is your public support of the Argentine scheme. You made your own fortune out of one canal. You must help me and my friends to make our fortunes out of another! SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. It is infamous, what you propose--infamous! MRS. CHEVELEY. Oh, no! This is the game of life as we all have to play it, Sir Robert, sooner or later! SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I cannot do what you ask me. MRS. CHEVELEY. You mean you cannot help doing it. You know you are standing on the edge of a precipice. And it is not for you to make terms. It is for you to accept them. Supposing you refuse-- SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. What then? MRS. CHEVELEY. My dear Sir Robert, what then? You are ruined, that is all! Remember to what a point your Puritanism in England has brought you. In old days nobody pretended to be a bit better than his neighbours. In fact, to be a bit better than one's neighbour was considered excessively vulgar and middle-class. Nowadays, with our modern mania for morality, every one has to pose as a paragon of purity, incorruptibility, and all the other seven deadly virtues--and what is the result? You all go over like ninepins--one after the other. Not a year passes in England without somebody disappearing. Scandals used to lend charm, or at least interest, to a man--now they crush him. And yours is a very nasty scandal. You couldn't survive it. If it were known that as a young man, secretary to a great and important minister, you sold a Cabinet secret for a large sum of money, and that that was the origin of your wealth and career, you would be hounded out of public life, you would disappear completely. And after all, Sir Robert, why should you sacrifice your entire future rather than deal diplomatically with your enemy? For the moment I am your enemy. I admit it! And I am much stronger than you are. The big battalions are on my side. You have a splendid position, but it is your splendid position that makes you so vulnerable. You can't defend it! And I am in attack. Of course I have not talked morality to you. You must admit in fairness that I have spared you that. Years ago you did a clever, unscrupulous thing; it turned out a great success. You owe to it your fortune and position. And now you have got to pay for it. Sooner or later we have all to pay for what we do. You have to pay now. Before I leave you to-night, you have got to promise me to suppress your report, and to speak in the House in favour of this scheme. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. What you ask is impossible. MRS. CHEVELEY. You must make it possible. You are going to make it possible. Sir Robert, you know what your English newspapers are like. Suppose that when I leave this house I drive down to some newspaper office, and give them this scandal and the proofs of it! Think of their loathsome joy, of the delight they would have in dragging you down, of the mud and mire they would plunge you in. Think of the hypocrite with his greasy smile penning his leading article, and arranging the foulness of the public placard. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Stop! You want me to withdraw the report and to make a short speech stating that I believe there are possibilities in the scheme? MRS. CHEVELEY. [_Sitting down on the sofa_.] Those are my terms. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_In a low voice_.] I will give you any sum of money you want. MRS. CHEVELEY. Even you are not rich enough, Sir Robert, to buy back your past. No man is. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I will not do what you ask me. I will not. MRS. CHEVELEY. You have to. If you don't . . . [_Rises from the sofa_.] SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Bewildered and unnerved_.] Wait a moment! What did you propose? You said that you would give me back my letter, didn't you? MRS. CHEVELEY. Yes. That is agreed. I will be in the Ladies' Gallery to-morrow night at half-past eleven. If by that time--and you will have had heaps of opportunity--you have made an announcement to the House in the terms I wish, I shall hand you back your letter with the prettiest thanks, and the best, or at any rate the most suitable, compliment I can think of. I intend to play quite fairly with you. One should always play fairly . . . when one has the winning cards. The Baron taught me that . . . amongst other things. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. You must let me have time to consider your proposal. MRS. CHEVELEY. No; you must settle now! SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Give me a week--three days! MRS. CHEVELEY. Impossible! I have got to telegraph to Vienna to-night. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. My God! what brought you into my life? MRS. CHEVELEY. Circumstances. [_Moves towards the door_.] SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Don't go. I consent. The report shall be withdrawn. I will arrange for a question to be put to me on the subject. MRS. CHEVELEY. Thank you. I knew we should come to an amicable agreement. I understood your nature from the first. I analysed you, though you did not adore me. And now you can get my carriage for me, Sir Robert. I see the people coming up from supper, and Englishmen always get romantic after a meal, and that bores me dreadfully. [_Exit_ SIR ROBERT CHILTERN.] [_Enter Guests_, LADY CHILTERN, LADY MARKBY, LORD CAVERSHAM, LADY BASILDON, MRS. MARCHMONT, VICOMTE DE NANJAC, MR. MONTFORD.] LADY MARKBY. Well, dear Mrs. Cheveley, I hope you have enjoyed yourself. Sir Robert is very entertaining, is he not? MRS. CHEVELEY. Most entertaining! I have enjoyed my talk with him immensely. LADY MARKBY. He has had a very interesting and brilliant career. And he has married a most admirable wife. Lady Chiltern is a woman of the very highest principles, I am glad to say. I am a little too old now, myself, to trouble about setting a good example, but I always admire people who do. And Lady Chiltern has a very ennobling effect on life, though her dinner-parties are rather dull sometimes. But one can't have everything, can one? And now I must go, dear. Shall I call for you to-morrow? MRS. CHEVELEY. Thanks. LADY MARKBY. We might drive in the Park at five. Everything looks so fresh in the Park now! MRS. CHEVELEY. Except the people! LADY MARKBY. Perhaps the people are a little jaded. I have often observed that the Season as it goes on produces a kind of softening of the brain. However, I think anything is better than high intellectual pressure. That is the most unbecoming thing there is. It makes the noses of the young girls so particularly large. And there is nothing so difficult to marry as a large nose; men don't like them. Good-night, dear! [_To_ LADY CHILTERN.] Good-night, Gertrude! [_Goes out on_ LORD CAVERSHAM'S _arm_.] MRS. CHEVELEY. What a charming house you have, Lady Chiltern! I have spent a delightful evening. It has been so interesting getting to know your husband. LADY CHILTERN. Why did you wish to meet my husband, Mrs. Cheveley? MRS. CHEVELEY. Oh, I will tell you. I wanted to interest him in this Argentine Canal scheme, of which I dare say you have heard. And I found him most susceptible,--susceptible to reason, I mean. A rare thing in a man. I converted him in ten minutes. He is going to make a speech in the House to-morrow night in favour of the idea. We must go to the Ladies' Gallery and hear him! It will be a great occasion! LADY CHILTERN. There must be some mistake. That scheme could never have my husband's support. MRS. CHEVELEY. Oh, I assure you it's all settled. I don't regret my tedious journey from Vienna now. It has been a great success. But, of course, for the next twenty-four hours the whole thing is a dead secret. LADY CHILTERN. [_Gently_.] A secret? Between whom? MRS. CHEVELEY. [_With a flash of amusement in her eyes_.] Between your husband and myself. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Entering_.] Your carriage is here, Mrs. Cheveley! MRS. CHEVELEY. Thanks! Good evening, Lady Chiltern! Good-night, Lord Goring! I am at Claridge's. Don't you think you might leave a card? LORD GORING. If you wish it, Mrs. Cheveley! MRS. CHEVELEY. Oh, don't be so solemn about it, or I shall be obliged to leave a card on you. In England I suppose that would hardly be considered en regle. Abroad, we are more civilised. Will you see me down, Sir Robert? Now that we have both the same interests at heart we shall be great friends, I hope! [_Sails out on_ SIR ROBERT CHILTERN'S _arm_. LADY CHILTERN _goes to the top of the staircase and looks down at them as they descend_. _Her expression is troubled_. _After a little time she is joined by some of the guests_, _and passes with them into another reception-room_.] MABEL CHILTERN. What a horrid woman! LORD GORING. You should go to bed, Miss Mabel. MABEL CHILTERN. Lord Goring! LORD GORING. My father told me to go to bed an hour ago. I don't see why I shouldn't give you the same advice. I always pass on good advice. It is the only thing to do with it. It is never of any use to oneself. MABEL CHILTERN. Lord Goring, you are always ordering me out of the room. I think it most courageous of you. Especially as I am not going to bed for hours. [_Goes over to the sofa_.] You can come and sit down if you like, and talk about anything in the world, except the Royal Academy, Mrs. Cheveley, or novels in Scotch dialect. They are not improving subjects. [_Catches sight of something that is lying on the sofa half hidden by the cushion_.] What is this? Some one has dropped a diamond brooch! Quite beautiful, isn't it? [_Shows it to him_.] I wish it was mine, but Gertrude won't let me wear anything but pearls, and I am thoroughly sick of pearls. They make one look so plain, so good and so intellectual. I wonder whom the brooch belongs to. LORD GORING. I wonder who dropped it. MABEL CHILTERN. It is a beautiful brooch. LORD GORING. It is a handsome bracelet. MABEL CHILTERN. It isn't a bracelet. It's a brooch. LORD GORING. It can be used as a bracelet. [_Takes it from her_, _and_, _pulling out a green letter-case_, _puts the ornament carefully in it_, _and replaces the whole thing in his breast-pocket with the most perfect sang froid_.] MABEL CHILTERN. What are you doing? LORD GORING. Miss Mabel, I am going to make a rather strange request to you. MABEL CHILTERN. [_Eagerly_.] Oh, pray do! I have been waiting for it all the evening. LORD GORING. [_Is a little taken aback_, _but recovers himself_.] Don't mention to anybody that I have taken charge of this brooch. Should any one write and claim it, let me know at once. MABEL CHILTERN. That is a strange request. LORD GORING. Well, you see I gave this brooch to somebody once, years ago. MABEL CHILTERN. You did? LORD GORING. Yes. [LADY CHILTERN _enters alone_. _The other guests have gone_.] MABEL CHILTERN. Then I shall certainly bid you good-night. Good-night, Gertrude! [_Exit_.] LADY CHILTERN. Good-night, dear! [_To_ LORD GORING.] You saw whom Lady Markby brought here to-night? LORD GORING. Yes. It was an unpleasant surprise. What did she come here for? LADY CHILTERN. Apparently to try and lure Robert to uphold some fraudulent scheme in which she is interested. The Argentine Canal, in fact. LORD GORING. She has mistaken her man, hasn't she? LADY CHILTERN. She is incapable of understanding an upright nature like my husband's! LORD GORING. Yes. I should fancy she came to grief if she tried to get Robert into her toils. It is extraordinary what astounding mistakes clever women make. LADY CHILTERN. I don't call women of that kind clever. I call them stupid! LORD GORING. Same thing often. Good-night, Lady Chiltern! LADY CHILTERN. Good-night! [_Enter_ SIR ROBERT CHILTERN.] SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. My dear Arthur, you are not going? Do stop a little! LORD GORING. Afraid I can't, thanks. I have promised to look in at the Hartlocks'. I believe they have got a mauve Hungarian band that plays mauve Hungarian music. See you soon. Good-bye! [_Exit_] SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. How beautiful you look to-night, Gertrude! LADY CHILTERN. Robert, it is not true, is it? You are not going to lend your support to this Argentine speculation? You couldn't! SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Starting_.] Who told you I intended to do so? LADY CHILTERN. That woman who has just gone out, Mrs. Cheveley, as she calls herself now. She seemed to taunt me with it. Robert, I know this woman. You don't. We were at school together. She was untruthful, dishonest, an evil influence on every one whose trust or friendship she could win. I hated, I despised her. She stole things, she was a thief. She was sent away for being a thief. Why do you let her influence you? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Gertrude, what you tell me may be true, but it happened many years ago. It is best forgotten! Mrs. Cheveley may have changed since then. No one should be entirely judged by their past. LADY CHILTERN. [_Sadly_.] One's past is what one is. It is the only way by which people should be judged. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. That is a hard saying, Gertrude! LADY CHILTERN. It is a true saying, Robert. And what did she mean by boasting that she had got you to lend your support, your name, to a thing I have heard you describe as the most dishonest and fraudulent scheme there has ever been in political life? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Biting his lip_.] I was mistaken in the view I took. We all may make mistakes. LADY CHILTERN. But you told me yesterday that you had received the report from the Commission, and that it entirely condemned the whole thing. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Walking up and down_.] I have reasons now to believe that the Commission was prejudiced, or, at any rate, misinformed. Besides, Gertrude, public and private life are different things. They have different laws, and move on different lines. LADY CHILTERN. They should both represent man at his highest. I see no difference between them. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Stopping_.] In the present case, on a matter of practical politics, I have changed my mind. That is all. LADY CHILTERN. All! SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Sternly_.] Yes! LADY CHILTERN. Robert! Oh! it is horrible that I should have to ask you such a question--Robert, are you telling me the whole truth? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Why do you ask me such a question? LADY CHILTERN. [_After a pause_.] Why do you not answer it? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Sitting down_.] Gertrude, truth is a very complex thing, and politics is a very complex business. There are wheels within wheels. One may be under certain obligations to people that one must pay. Sooner or later in political life one has to compromise. Every one does. LADY CHILTERN. Compromise? Robert, why do you talk so differently to-night from the way I have always heard you talk? Why are you changed? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I am not changed. But circumstances alter things. LADY CHILTERN. Circumstances should never alter principles! SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. But if I told you-- LADY CHILTERN. What? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. That it was necessary, vitally necessary? LADY CHILTERN. It can never be necessary to do what is not honourable. Or if it be necessary, then what is it that I have loved! But it is not, Robert; tell me it is not. Why should it be? What gain would you get? Money? We have no need of that! And money that comes from a tainted source is a degradation. Power? But power is nothing in itself. It is power to do good that is fine--that, and that only. What is it, then? Robert, tell me why you are going to do this dishonourable thing! SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Gertrude, you have no right to use that word. I told you it was a question of rational compromise. It is no more than that. LADY CHILTERN. Robert, that is all very well for other men, for men who treat life simply as a sordid speculation; but not for you, Robert, not for you. You are different. All your life you have stood apart from others. You have never let the world soil you. To the world, as to myself, you have been an ideal always. Oh! be that ideal still. That great inheritance throw not away--that tower of ivory do not destroy. Robert, men can love what is beneath them--things unworthy, stained, dishonoured. We women worship when we love; and when we lose our worship, we lose everything. Oh! don't kill my love for you, don't kill that! SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Gertrude! LADY CHILTERN. I know that there are men with horrible secrets in their lives--men who have done some shameful thing, and who in some critical moment have to pay for it, by doing some other act of shame--oh! don't tell me you are such as they are! Robert, is there in your life any secret dishonour or disgrace? Tell me, tell me at once, that-- SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. That what? LADY CHILTERN. [_Speaking very slowly_.] That our lives may drift apart. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Drift apart? LADY CHILTERN. That they may be entirely separate. It would be better for us both. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Gertrude, there is nothing in my past life that you might not know. LADY CHILTERN. I was sure of it, Robert, I was sure of it. But why did you say those dreadful things, things so unlike your real self? Don't let us ever talk about the subject again. You will write, won't you, to Mrs. Cheveley, and tell her that you cannot support this scandalous scheme of hers? If you have given her any promise you must take it back, that is all! SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Must I write and tell her that? LADY CHILTERN. Surely, Robert! What else is there to do? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I might see her personally. It would be better. LADY CHILTERN. You must never see her again, Robert. She is not a woman you should ever speak to. She is not worthy to talk to a man like you. No; you must write to her at once, now, this moment, and let your letter show her that your decision is quite irrevocable! SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Write this moment! LADY CHILTERN. Yes. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. But it is so late. It is close on twelve. LADY CHILTERN. That makes no matter. She must know at once that she has been mistaken in you--and that you are not a man to do anything base or underhand or dishonourable. Write here, Robert. Write that you decline to support this scheme of hers, as you hold it to be a dishonest scheme. Yes--write the word dishonest. She knows what that word means. [SIR ROBERT CHILTERN _sits down and writes a letter_. _His wife takes it up and reads it_.] Yes; that will do. [_Rings bell_.] And now the envelope. [_He writes the envelope slowly_. _Enter_ MASON.] Have this letter sent at once to Claridge's Hotel. There is no answer. [_Exit_ MASON. LADY CHILTERN _kneels down beside her husband_, _and puts her arms around him_.] Robert, love gives one an instinct to things. I feel to-night that I have saved you from something that might have been a danger to you, from something that might have made men honour you less than they do. I don't think you realise sufficiently, Robert, that you have brought into the political life of our time a nobler atmosphere, a finer attitude towards life, a freer air of purer aims and higher ideals--I know it, and for that I love you, Robert. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Oh, love me always, Gertrude, love me always! LADY CHILTERN. I will love you always, because you will always be worthy of love. We needs must love the highest when we see it! [_Kisses him and rises and goes out_.] [SIR ROBERT CHILTERN _walks up and down for a moment_; _then sits down and buries his face in his hands_. _The Servant enters and begins pulling out the lights_. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN _looks up_.] SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Put out the lights, Mason, put out the lights! [_The Servant puts out the lights_. _The room becomes almost dark_. _The only light there is comes from the great chandelier that hangs over the staircase and illumines the tapestry of the Triumph of Love_.] ACT DROP

Act I - Part One

https://web.archive.org/web/20210118103913/https://www.sparknotes.com/drama/idealhusband/section1/

An Ideal Husband is at times a difficult play to summarize as much of its "plot" happens through rapid-fire, epigrammatic dialogue. Indeed, the pace and subtlety of these turns-of-phrase are what make plot so easy to miss. When summarizing the story, one finds oneself paraphrasing the repartee . To do so, of course, is to kill its wit and humor. The following summary divides Act I into two parts, the first extending from the beginning to the fatal conversation between Sir Robert Chiltern and Mrs. Cheveley, the second starting from that conversation to the end. Act I opens with a dinner party given by Sir Robert in his fashionable Grosvenor Square home; thus it begins with a series of lighthearted conversations between the bantering guests. The entire act takes place in the brilliantly lit Octagon Room. The first scene shows Lady Chiltern posed at the top of a large staircase greeting the guests. A tapestry representing Boucher's "Triumph of Love" hangs on the back wall. Sitting on a Louis Seize sofa, Mrs. Marchmont and Lady Basildon share the first conversation. Mrs. Marchmont declares that she has come to the soiree to be educated, and Lady Basildon replies that she abhors education. Mrs. Marchmont concurs but jestingly protests that their hostess--Lady Chiltern--is always urging her to find one "serious purpose" in life. Looking around the room--that is, both at the cast and audience--through her opera glasses, Lady Basildon notes that she hardly sees anyone whom one could call a serious purpose around here. Act I similarly introduces its other players through such instances of banter, each new guest being announced by the butler Mason from the top of the stairs. Throughout this first scene, dialogue is occasionally punctuated by the malapropisms of the Vicomte de Nanjac, a young anglophile whose awkward English serves as a comically distorted reflection of the group's polished repartee. The following conversation involves Mabel Chiltern, Sir Robert's sister, and the elderly Lord Caversham, father of Lord Goring. Caversham bemoans the idleness of his son and the excesses of London Society. Along with introducing the old-fashioned Caversham, this conversation offers a glimpse at Mabel's affection for the dandified lord. Suddenly Lady Markby and Mrs. Cheveley--sporting scarlet lips, a heliotrope gown, Venetian red hair, and rather assertive fan--enter the room. Upon their introduction, Lady Chiltern reveals coldly that she knows Mrs. Cheveley from their school days, and Mrs. Cheveley, having spent many years in Vienna, all too sweetly expresses her eagerness to meet Sir Robert. Lady Chiltern assures her she has little in common with her husband and moves away. After a comic interlude with de Nanjac , Sir Robert enters and meets Mrs. Chelevey. Mrs. Cheveley slyly reveals that she knows a man--Baron Arnheim--from Sir Robert's past. She also poses herself against the dreary demands of marriage . Mason then announces Lord Goring, a witty and ironical dandy who, as the stage notes indicate, would be annoyed if considered romantic. Mrs. Cheveley precisely describes him as such upon discovering he is still a bachelor; apparently the two have met before. Mrs. Cheveley and Sir Robert exit, and Goring saunters over to Mabel Chiltern. The two exchange in flirtatious repartee; De Nanjac then kidnaps Mabel to the music room. After a brief exchange with his father, Goring turns to Lady Basildon and Mrs. Marchmont for a discussion of married life. Bemoaning the unendurable faultlessness of their husbands, Mrs. Marchmont comes to exclaim: "We have married perfect husbands, and we are well punished for it. " They then go on to gossip about the scandalous Mrs. Cheveley.

As discussed in the Context, Wilde's later plays both mirror the conventional themes of the Victorian popular stage--such as loyalty, devotion, undying love, duty, respectability, and so on--and undermine them through their brilliantly choreographed banter. The first half of Act I consists almost entirely of this deceptively frivolous party talk. Wilde's banter is written in witty, epigrammatic repartee. "Wit" is defined here as the quality of speech that consists in apt associations that surprise and delight; the epigram is a brief, pointed, and often antithetical saying that contains an unexpected change of thought or biting comment. The tone of the epigram is often "half-serious," playing on the potential for misunderstanding. Notably, Act I begins by declaring the absence of any serious purpose in the room; one could say that epigrammatic repartee is speech that refuses to speak seriously. Moreover, as this "half-serious" tone is often ironic, such repartee is often speech that the speaker does not speak in earnest either. Rhetorically, the epigram is usually dependent on a combination of devices: the play between conventionally paired terms, irony, sarcasm, hyperbole, and paradox. Take then, for example, Lord Goring's rejoinder to his father, Lord Caversham, when the latter accuses him of talking about nothing: "I love talking about nothing, father. It is the only thing I know anything about." At one level, Goring's epigram is sarcastic; at another, it is paradoxical, as one cannot know anything about nothing. The epigram also shifts between conventionally valorized terms: whereas most people would hope to have something substantive to talk about, Goring loves to talk about nothing. As one might imagine, the "subversive" potential in these conversational games is the concomitant shift in the social values up for discussion. Thus Goring assures Mabel that his bad qualities are quite dreadful: "When I think of them at night, I go to sleep at once." In this example, Goring revises the meaning of "bad," moving from "bad" as in flawed or even reprehensible to "bad" as in boring. In doing so, the question at hand is no longer one of good and bad character traits, but whether a given trait is--to invoke a famous Wildean phrase--charming or tedious. Wilde's excessively playful repartee is scandalous as it continually undermines the attempt to have a "serious conversation." Moreover, such speech is also scandalous in that it stands to expose the absurdity of a socially conventional statement, flout convention entirely, or reveal a conventional opinion's true meaning. One might translate the case of Goring's retort to Mabel, for example, with the following: why do good and bad character traits matter when what's truly important is whether these traits are entertaining? Or: perhaps when people describe an individual's good or bad traits, they really mean to say whether they find him amusing or dull. As we proceed to the development of the play's "serious" themes regarding conjugal life, duty, respectability, and so on, we must thus always keep the banter that undermines the ideas presented in mind. Act I opens at a dinner party, and so we might note that repartee is only possible in social intercourse--what one might describe as the social theater. As members of London Society, Wilde's characters are extremely concerned with their "performances" at various gatherings and how they "look" in various social circles. As a result, their speech is very much part of their social personas--what we might call their "masks" or "poses." We will discuss masks in more detail as we go on. Mrs. Cheveley introduces the motif of social theatricality here when she declares that what Sir Robert describes as the "fashionable religions" of optimism and pessimism to be "merely poses"; of course, for Mrs. Cheveley, being natural is a pose as well. Act I involves a number of conversations on gender as well. These conversations are crucial as one of the play's primary themes consists of varying conceptions of womanliness. Of particular note is a conversation between Sir Robert and Mrs. Cheveley that relates aestheticism and a certain vision of femininity. As discussed in the Context, aestheticism, a doctrine often abbreviated as a philosophy of "art for art's sake," insists on art being judged by the beauty of artifice rather than that of morality or reason. Beauty is irrational, artificial, amoral, terms conventionally associated with the feminine. Here Mrs. Cheveley poses woman as a sort aestheticist art object. She tells Sir Robert that while men can be analyzed, women are to be merely adored: herein lies their strength. Like art, they resist judgment according to rational or moral categories. They embody the irrational , and are thus powerful, perhaps even dangerous. Mrs. Cheveley herself is one of these dangerously well-dressed and irrational women.

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/885-chapters/act_ii.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/An Ideal Husband/section_2_part_0.txt

An Ideal Husband.act ii

act ii

{"name": "Act II - Part One", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210118103913/https://www.sparknotes.com/drama/idealhusband/section3/", "summary": "Act II begins in Sir Robert's morning room with Lord Goring in the midst of advising him on a plan of action. He insists that Sir Robert should have confessed to his wife long ago and promises to talk to her about her unyielding morals. Throughout the scene, Goring will--in a marked shift in his apparently flippant tone and amoral pose--also point out the gravity of Sir Robert having sold himself for his fortune. Sir Robert recounts his mentorship by Baron Arnheim when he was a young and poor cabinet minister, well born but penniless. He succumbed to Arnheim's gospels of wealth and power, coming to see wealth being the most important weapon of the modern age and power over others as life's utmost pleasure. At some level, Sir Robert still subscribes to these doctrines. Goring takes stock of the situation: a public confession remains impossible as it would ruin Sir Robert's career, and the two agree that Sir Robert should fight it out, though--in another suspense-building device--the latter still refuses to tell his wife. Also, Lord Goring delicately reveals that he and Mrs. Cheveley were once engaged. As their first plan of attack, Sir Robert decides to write the Vienna embassy to investigate Cheveley's life; Lord Goring is nonplussed by the proposal as he suspects Mrs. Cheveley is a woman who finds scandals as becoming as a new bonnet. Lady Chiltern then enters the room, having come from a meeting of the Woman's Liberal Association. After some banter about bonnets and a farewell between Goring and Sir Robert, the latter leaves the room, and Lady Chiltern takes Goring aside to discuss the recent conflict. When she asks Goring if she is right in her opinion of her ideal husband, Goring, gesturing toward Sir Robert's past, warns that all men must at some point compromise themselves in public life and that life can neither be lived nor understood without charity. The lord then pledges his assistance to a Lady Chiltern shocked by his sudden seriousness and perplexed by his apparently unwarranted advice.", "analysis": "The first half of Act II is something of an interlude after the climatic conclusion of Act I, providing the background of Sir Robert's secret scandal and introducing Lord Goring into the play's intrigue. Beginning with the story of Sir Robert's \"tragic\" fall, it presents Sir Robert's views of modern life and poses Lord Goring as a sort of helpmate to the Chilterns: counselor to Sir Robert and teacher to the virtuous Lady Chiltern. Sir Robert developed his views on modernity while under the tutelage of Baron Arnheim, a mysterious foreign aristocrat perhaps analogous to Lord Henry from The Picture of Dorian Gray. Notably Sir Robert's corrupter--one he shares with Mrs. Cheveley--is shrouded in erotic connotations . Indeed, in remembering how the Baron--with a \"strange smile on his pale, curved lips\"--lead him through his gallery of treasures, Sir Robert describes an enchantment with his old mentor that could be read as an erotically-charged seduction. One wonders what exactly the Baron taught his student. It is not for nothing then that Sir Robert's relations with Arnheim predate his respectable marriage and must remain secret. Arnheim expounds a \"philosophy of power\" and \"gospel of gold.\" Though ostentatious with his fortune, the Baron dismisses luxury as mere backdrop: power over others remains the only pleasure worth knowing. Toward these ends, wealth is the weapon of the age and the prime mover of modernity. For Lord Goring, Arnheim's is a \"thoroughly shallow creed\"--a somewhat paradoxical critique since the dandy would revel in the shallowness of appearances, luxury, and artifice. Perhaps what the dandified Goring criticizes is Arnheim's subordination of luxury and its pleasures to those of domination. To recall our discussion of dandyism from the Context, Arnheim's doctrines are clearly anathema to the dandy's idle and lighthearted lifestyle. If Arnheim would conquer the world, Goring would--as the stage notes from Act I indicate--play with it. Though ever playful, Goring nevertheless remains passionately loyal to rather sentimental notions like love, pledging to do all he can to assist his friend and sway the morally inflexible Lady Chiltern. As Goring tells Lady Chiltern, love, that \"explains\" and determines the human world, should trump her obsession with having an ideal husband. More specifically, the love Goring praises to Lady Chiltern emphasizes charity and the forgiveness of faults and errors. Thus in their exchange we see a number of poles emerging around the theme of love and conjugal life, Lady Chiltern's adoration for her ideal mate being posed against the ideas offered by her counselor. As we will see in Act IV, the woman's proper role in love will ultimately become what Goring describes, that of the forgiving caretaker. Finally, we should note that Goring remains mischievous even in his quite moving gravity, interrupting the dialogue with an occasional joke or repartee. At one point, for example, he declares that truth is a bad habit; after advising Lady Chiltern, perplexed by his sudden seriousness, he denies that he precisely understands what he is talking about. Thus Goring himself would warn his listeners against taking his advice in earnest. His banter continually defuses attempts to engage him in \"serious\" conversation and provides mild comic relief."}

SECOND ACT SCENE _Morning-room at Sir Robert Chiltern's house_. [LORD GORING, _dressed in the height of fashion_, _is lounging in an armchair_. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN _is standing in front of the fireplace_. _He is evidently in a state of great mental excitement and distress_. _As the scene progresses he paces nervously up and down the room_.] LORD GORING. My dear Robert, it's a very awkward business, very awkward indeed. You should have told your wife the whole thing. Secrets from other people's wives are a necessary luxury in modern life. So, at least, I am always told at the club by people who are bald enough to know better. But no man should have a secret from his own wife. She invariably finds it out. Women have a wonderful instinct about things. They can discover everything except the obvious. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Arthur, I couldn't tell my wife. When could I have told her? Not last night. It would have made a life-long separation between us, and I would have lost the love of the one woman in the world I worship, of the only woman who has ever stirred love within me. Last night it would have been quite impossible. She would have turned from me in horror . . . in horror and in contempt. LORD GORING. Is Lady Chiltern as perfect as all that? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Yes; my wife is as perfect as all that. LORD GORING. [_Taking off his left-hand glove_.] What a pity! I beg your pardon, my dear fellow, I didn't quite mean that. But if what you tell me is true, I should like to have a serious talk about life with Lady Chiltern. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. It would be quite useless. LORD GORING. May I try? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Yes; but nothing could make her alter her views. LORD GORING. Well, at the worst it would simply be a psychological experiment. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. All such experiments are terribly dangerous. LORD GORING. Everything is dangerous, my dear fellow. If it wasn't so, life wouldn't be worth living. . . . Well, I am bound to say that I think you should have told her years ago. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. When? When we were engaged? Do you think she would have married me if she had known that the origin of my fortune is such as it is, the basis of my career such as it is, and that I had done a thing that I suppose most men would call shameful and dishonourable? LORD GORING. [_Slowly_.] Yes; most men would call it ugly names. There is no doubt of that. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Bitterly_.] Men who every day do something of the same kind themselves. Men who, each one of them, have worse secrets in their own lives. LORD GORING. That is the reason they are so pleased to find out other people's secrets. It distracts public attention from their own. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. And, after all, whom did I wrong by what I did? No one. LORD GORING. [_Looking at him steadily_.] Except yourself, Robert. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_After a pause_.] Of course I had private information about a certain transaction contemplated by the Government of the day, and I acted on it. Private information is practically the source of every large modern fortune. LORD GORING. [_Tapping his boot with his cane_.] And public scandal invariably the result. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Pacing up and down the room_.] Arthur, do you think that what I did nearly eighteen years ago should be brought up against me now? Do you think it fair that a man's whole career should be ruined for a fault done in one's boyhood almost? I was twenty-two at the time, and I had the double misfortune of being well-born and poor, two unforgiveable things nowadays. Is it fair that the folly, the sin of one's youth, if men choose to call it a sin, should wreck a life like mine, should place me in the pillory, should shatter all that I have worked for, all that I have built up. Is it fair, Arthur? LORD GORING. Life is never fair, Robert. And perhaps it is a good thing for most of us that it is not. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Every man of ambition has to fight his century with its own weapons. What this century worships is wealth. The God of this century is wealth. To succeed one must have wealth. At all costs one must have wealth. LORD GORING. You underrate yourself, Robert. Believe me, without wealth you could have succeeded just as well. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. When I was old, perhaps. When I had lost my passion for power, or could not use it. When I was tired, worn out, disappointed. I wanted my success when I was young. Youth is the time for success. I couldn't wait. LORD GORING. Well, you certainly have had your success while you are still young. No one in our day has had such a brilliant success. Under-Secretary for Foreign Affairs at the age of forty--that's good enough for any one, I should think. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. And if it is all taken away from me now? If I lose everything over a horrible scandal? If I am hounded from public life? LORD GORING. Robert, how could you have sold yourself for money? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Excitedly_.] I did not sell myself for money. I bought success at a great price. That is all. LORD GORING. [_Gravely_.] Yes; you certainly paid a great price for it. But what first made you think of doing such a thing? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Baron Arnheim. LORD GORING. Damned scoundrel! SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. No; he was a man of a most subtle and refined intellect. A man of culture, charm, and distinction. One of the most intellectual men I ever met. LORD GORING. Ah! I prefer a gentlemanly fool any day. There is more to be said for stupidity than people imagine. Personally I have a great admiration for stupidity. It is a sort of fellow-feeling, I suppose. But how did he do it? Tell me the whole thing. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Throws himself into an armchair by the writing-table_.] One night after dinner at Lord Radley's the Baron began talking about success in modern life as something that one could reduce to an absolutely definite science. With that wonderfully fascinating quiet voice of his he expounded to us the most terrible of all philosophies, the philosophy of power, preached to us the most marvellous of all gospels, the gospel of gold. I think he saw the effect he had produced on me, for some days afterwards he wrote and asked me to come and see him. He was living then in Park Lane, in the house Lord Woolcomb has now. I remember so well how, with a strange smile on his pale, curved lips, he led me through his wonderful picture gallery, showed me his tapestries, his enamels, his jewels, his carved ivories, made me wonder at the strange loveliness of the luxury in which he lived; and then told me that luxury was nothing but a background, a painted scene in a play, and that power, power over other men, power over the world, was the one thing worth having, the one supreme pleasure worth knowing, the one joy one never tired of, and that in our century only the rich possessed it. LORD GORING. [_With great deliberation_.] A thoroughly shallow creed. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Rising_.] I didn't think so then. I don't think so now. Wealth has given me enormous power. It gave me at the very outset of my life freedom, and freedom is everything. You have never been poor, and never known what ambition is. You cannot understand what a wonderful chance the Baron gave me. Such a chance as few men get. LORD GORING. Fortunately for them, if one is to judge by results. But tell me definitely, how did the Baron finally persuade you to--well, to do what you did? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. When I was going away he said to me that if I ever could give him any private information of real value he would make me a very rich man. I was dazed at the prospect he held out to me, and my ambition and my desire for power were at that time boundless. Six weeks later certain private documents passed through my hands. LORD GORING. [_Keeping his eyes steadily fixed on the carpet_.] State documents? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Yes. [LORD GORING _sighs_, _then passes his hand across his forehead and looks up_.] LORD GORING. I had no idea that you, of all men in the world, could have been so weak, Robert, as to yield to such a temptation as Baron Arnheim held out to you. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Weak? Oh, I am sick of hearing that phrase. Sick of using it about others. Weak? Do you really think, Arthur, that it is weakness that yields to temptation? I tell you that there are terrible temptations that it requires strength, strength and courage, to yield to. To stake all one's life on a single moment, to risk everything on one throw, whether the stake be power or pleasure, I care not--there is no weakness in that. There is a horrible, a terrible courage. I had that courage. I sat down the same afternoon and wrote Baron Arnheim the letter this woman now holds. He made three-quarters of a million over the transaction. LORD GORING. And you? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I received from the Baron 110,000 pounds. LORD GORING. You were worth more, Robert. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. No; that money gave me exactly what I wanted, power over others. I went into the House immediately. The Baron advised me in finance from time to time. Before five years I had almost trebled my fortune. Since then everything that I have touched has turned out a success. In all things connected with money I have had a luck so extraordinary that sometimes it has made me almost afraid. I remember having read somewhere, in some strange book, that when the gods wish to punish us they answer our prayers. LORD GORING. But tell me, Robert, did you never suffer any regret for what you had done? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. No. I felt that I had fought the century with its own weapons, and won. LORD GORING. [_Sadly_.] You thought you had won. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I thought so. [_After a long pause_.] Arthur, do you despise me for what I have told you? LORD GORING. [_With deep feeling in his voice_.] I am very sorry for you, Robert, very sorry indeed. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I don't say that I suffered any remorse. I didn't. Not remorse in the ordinary, rather silly sense of the word. But I have paid conscience money many times. I had a wild hope that I might disarm destiny. The sum Baron Arnheim gave me I have distributed twice over in public charities since then. LORD GORING. [_Looking up_.] In public charities? Dear me! what a lot of harm you must have done, Robert! SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Oh, don't say that, Arthur; don't talk like that! LORD GORING. Never mind what I say, Robert! I am always saying what I shouldn't say. In fact, I usually say what I really think. A great mistake nowadays. It makes one so liable to be misunderstood. As regards this dreadful business, I will help you in whatever way I can. Of course you know that. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Thank you, Arthur, thank you. But what is to be done? What can be done? LORD GORING. [_Leaning back with his hands in his pockets_.] Well, the English can't stand a man who is always saying he is in the right, but they are very fond of a man who admits that he has been in the wrong. It is one of the best things in them. However, in your case, Robert, a confession would not do. The money, if you will allow me to say so, is . . . awkward. Besides, if you did make a clean breast of the whole affair, you would never be able to talk morality again. And in England a man who can't talk morality twice a week to a large, popular, immoral audience is quite over as a serious politician. There would be nothing left for him as a profession except Botany or the Church. A confession would be of no use. It would ruin you. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. It would ruin me. Arthur, the only thing for me to do now is to fight the thing out. LORD GORING. [_Rising from his chair_.] I was waiting for you to say that, Robert. It is the only thing to do now. And you must begin by telling your wife the whole story. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. That I will not do. LORD GORING. Robert, believe me, you are wrong. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I couldn't do it. It would kill her love for me. And now about this woman, this Mrs. Cheveley. How can I defend myself against her? You knew her before, Arthur, apparently. LORD GORING. Yes. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Did you know her well? LORD GORING. [_Arranging his necktie_.] So little that I got engaged to be married to her once, when I was staying at the Tenbys'. The affair lasted for three days . . . nearly. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Why was it broken off? LORD GORING. [_Airily_.] Oh, I forget. At least, it makes no matter. By the way, have you tried her with money? She used to be confoundedly fond of money. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I offered her any sum she wanted. She refused. LORD GORING. Then the marvellous gospel of gold breaks down sometimes. The rich can't do everything, after all. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Not everything. I suppose you are right. Arthur, I feel that public disgrace is in store for me. I feel certain of it. I never knew what terror was before. I know it now. It is as if a hand of ice were laid upon one's heart. It is as if one's heart were beating itself to death in some empty hollow. LORD GORING. [_Striking the table_.] Robert, you must fight her. You must fight her. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. But how? LORD GORING. I can't tell you how at present. I have not the smallest idea. But every one has some weak point. There is some flaw in each one of us. [_Strolls to the fireplace and looks at himself in the glass_.] My father tells me that even I have faults. Perhaps I have. I don't know. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. In defending myself against Mrs. Cheveley, I have a right to use any weapon I can find, have I not? LORD GORING. [_Still looking in the glass_.] In your place I don't think I should have the smallest scruple in doing so. She is thoroughly well able to take care of herself. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Sits down at the table and takes a pen in his hand_.] Well, I shall send a cipher telegram to the Embassy at Vienna, to inquire if there is anything known against her. There may be some secret scandal she might be afraid of. LORD GORING. [_Settling his buttonhole_.] Oh, I should fancy Mrs. Cheveley is one of those very modern women of our time who find a new scandal as becoming as a new bonnet, and air them both in the Park every afternoon at five-thirty. I am sure she adores scandals, and that the sorrow of her life at present is that she can't manage to have enough of them. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Writing_.] Why do you say that? LORD GORING. [_Turning round_.] Well, she wore far too much rouge last night, and not quite enough clothes. That is always a sign of despair in a woman. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Striking a bell_.] But it is worth while my wiring to Vienna, is it not? LORD GORING. It is always worth while asking a question, though it is not always worth while answering one. [_Enter_ MASON.] SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Is Mr. Trafford in his room? MASON. Yes, Sir Robert. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Puts what he has written into an envelope_, _which he then carefully closes_.] Tell him to have this sent off in cipher at once. There must not be a moment's delay. MASON. Yes, Sir Robert. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Oh! just give that back to me again. [_Writes something on the envelope_. MASON _then goes out with the letter_.] SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. She must have had some curious hold over Baron Arnheim. I wonder what it was. LORD GORING. [_Smiling_.] I wonder. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I will fight her to the death, as long as my wife knows nothing. LORD GORING. [_Strongly_.] Oh, fight in any case--in any case. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_With a gesture of despair_.] If my wife found out, there would be little left to fight for. Well, as soon as I hear from Vienna, I shall let you know the result. It is a chance, just a chance, but I believe in it. And as I fought the age with its own weapons, I will fight her with her weapons. It is only fair, and she looks like a woman with a past, doesn't she? LORD GORING. Most pretty women do. But there is a fashion in pasts just as there is a fashion in frocks. Perhaps Mrs. Cheveley's past is merely a slightly decollete one, and they are excessively popular nowadays. Besides, my dear Robert, I should not build too high hopes on frightening Mrs. Cheveley. I should not fancy Mrs. Cheveley is a woman who would be easily frightened. She has survived all her creditors, and she shows wonderful presence of mind. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Oh! I live on hopes now. I clutch at every chance. I feel like a man on a ship that is sinking. The water is round my feet, and the very air is bitter with storm. Hush! I hear my wife's voice. [_Enter_ LADY CHILTERN _in walking dress_.] LADY CHILTERN. Good afternoon, Lord Goring! LORD GORING. Good afternoon, Lady Chiltern! Have you been in the Park? LADY CHILTERN. No; I have just come from the Woman's Liberal Association, where, by the way, Robert, your name was received with loud applause, and now I have come in to have my tea. [_To_ LORD GORING.] You will wait and have some tea, won't you? LORD GORING. I'll wait for a short time, thanks. LADY CHILTERN. I will be back in a moment. I am only going to take my hat off. LORD GORING. [_In his most earnest manner_.] Oh! please don't. It is so pretty. One of the prettiest hats I ever saw. I hope the Woman's Liberal Association received it with loud applause. LADY CHILTERN. [_With a smile_.] We have much more important work to do than look at each other's bonnets, Lord Goring. LORD GORING. Really? What sort of work? LADY CHILTERN. Oh! dull, useful, delightful things, Factory Acts, Female Inspectors, the Eight Hours' Bill, the Parliamentary Franchise. . . . Everything, in fact, that you would find thoroughly uninteresting. LORD GORING. And never bonnets? LADY CHILTERN. [_With mock indignation_.] Never bonnets, never! [LADY CHILTERN _goes out through the door leading to her boudoir_.] SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Takes_ LORD GORING'S _hand_.] You have been a good friend to me, Arthur, a thoroughly good friend. LORD GORING. I don't know that I have been able to do much for you, Robert, as yet. In fact, I have not been able to do anything for you, as far as I can see. I am thoroughly disappointed with myself. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. You have enabled me to tell you the truth. That is something. The truth has always stifled me. LORD GORING. Ah! the truth is a thing I get rid of as soon as possible! Bad habit, by the way. Makes one very unpopular at the club . . . with the older members. They call it being conceited. Perhaps it is. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I would to God that I had been able to tell the truth . . . to live the truth. Ah! that is the great thing in life, to live the truth. [_Sighs_, _and goes towards the door_.] I'll see you soon again, Arthur, shan't I? LORD GORING. Certainly. Whenever you like. I'm going to look in at the Bachelors' Ball to-night, unless I find something better to do. But I'll come round to-morrow morning. If you should want me to-night by any chance, send round a note to Curzon Street. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Thank you. [_As he reaches the door_, LADY CHILTERN _enters from her boudoir_.] LADY CHILTERN. You are not going, Robert? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I have some letters to write, dear. LADY CHILTERN. [_Going to him_.] You work too hard, Robert. You seem never to think of yourself, and you are looking so tired. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. It is nothing, dear, nothing. [_He kisses her and goes out_.] LADY CHILTERN. [_To_ LORD GORING.] Do sit down. I am so glad you have called. I want to talk to you about . . . well, not about bonnets, or the Woman's Liberal Association. You take far too much interest in the first subject, and not nearly enough in the second. LORD GORING. You want to talk to me about Mrs. Cheveley? LADY CHILTERN. Yes. You have guessed it. After you left last night I found out that what she had said was really true. Of course I made Robert write her a letter at once, withdrawing his promise. LORD GORING. So he gave me to understand. LADY CHILTERN. To have kept it would have been the first stain on a career that has been stainless always. Robert must be above reproach. He is not like other men. He cannot afford to do what other men do. [_She looks at_ LORD GORING, _who remains silent_.] Don't you agree with me? You are Robert's greatest friend. You are our greatest friend, Lord Goring. No one, except myself, knows Robert better than you do. He has no secrets from me, and I don't think he has any from you. LORD GORING. He certainly has no secrets from me. At least I don't think so. LADY CHILTERN. Then am I not right in my estimate of him? I know I am right. But speak to me frankly. LORD GORING. [_Looking straight at her_.] Quite frankly? LADY CHILTERN. Surely. You have nothing to conceal, have you? LORD GORING. Nothing. But, my dear Lady Chiltern, I think, if you will allow me to say so, that in practical life-- LADY CHILTERN. [_Smiling_.] Of which you know so little, Lord Goring-- LORD GORING. Of which I know nothing by experience, though I know something by observation. I think that in practical life there is something about success, actual success, that is a little unscrupulous, something about ambition that is unscrupulous always. Once a man has set his heart and soul on getting to a certain point, if he has to climb the crag, he climbs the crag; if he has to walk in the mire-- LADY CHILTERN. Well? LORD GORING. He walks in the mire. Of course I am only talking generally about life. LADY CHILTERN. [_Gravely_.] I hope so. Why do you look at me so strangely, Lord Goring? LORD GORING. Lady Chiltern, I have sometimes thought that . . . perhaps you are a little hard in some of your views on life. I think that . . . often you don't make sufficient allowances. In every nature there are elements of weakness, or worse than weakness. Supposing, for instance, that--that any public man, my father, or Lord Merton, or Robert, say, had, years ago, written some foolish letter to some one . . . LADY CHILTERN. What do you mean by a foolish letter? LORD GORING. A letter gravely compromising one's position. I am only putting an imaginary case. LADY CHILTERN. Robert is as incapable of doing a foolish thing as he is of doing a wrong thing. LORD GORING. [_After a long pause_.] Nobody is incapable of doing a foolish thing. Nobody is incapable of doing a wrong thing. LADY CHILTERN. Are you a Pessimist? What will the other dandies say? They will all have to go into mourning. LORD GORING. [_Rising_.] No, Lady Chiltern, I am not a Pessimist. Indeed I am not sure that I quite know what Pessimism really means. All I do know is that life cannot be understood without much charity, cannot be lived without much charity. It is love, and not German philosophy, that is the true explanation of this world, whatever may be the explanation of the next. And if you are ever in trouble, Lady Chiltern, trust me absolutely, and I will help you in every way I can. If you ever want me, come to me for my assistance, and you shall have it. Come at once to me. LADY CHILTERN. [_Looking at him in surprise_.] Lord Goring, you are talking quite seriously. I don't think I ever heard you talk seriously before. LORD GORING. [_Laughing_.] You must excuse me, Lady Chiltern. It won't occur again, if I can help it. LADY CHILTERN. But I like you to be serious. [_Enter_ MABEL CHILTERN, _in the most ravishing frock_.] MABEL CHILTERN. Dear Gertrude, don't say such a dreadful thing to Lord Goring. Seriousness would be very unbecoming to him. Good afternoon Lord Goring! Pray be as trivial as you can. LORD GORING. I should like to, Miss Mabel, but I am afraid I am . . . a little out of practice this morning; and besides, I have to be going now. MABEL CHILTERN. Just when I have come in! What dreadful manners you have! I am sure you were very badly brought up. LORD GORING. I was. MABEL CHILTERN. I wish I had brought you up! LORD GORING. I am so sorry you didn't. MABEL CHILTERN. It is too late now, I suppose? LORD GORING. [_Smiling_.] I am not so sure. MABEL CHILTERN. Will you ride to-morrow morning? LORD GORING. Yes, at ten. MABEL CHILTERN. Don't forget. LORD GORING. Of course I shan't. By the way, Lady Chiltern, there is no list of your guests in _The Morning Post_ of to-day. It has apparently been crowded out by the County Council, or the Lambeth Conference, or something equally boring. Could you let me have a list? I have a particular reason for asking you. LADY CHILTERN. I am sure Mr. Trafford will be able to give you one. LORD GORING. Thanks, so much. MABEL CHILTERN. Tommy is the most useful person in London. LORD GORING [_Turning to her_.] And who is the most ornamental? MABEL CHILTERN [_Triumphantly_.] I am. LORD GORING. How clever of you to guess it! [_Takes up his hat and cane_.] Good-bye, Lady Chiltern! You will remember what I said to you, won't you? LADY CHILTERN. Yes; but I don't know why you said it to me. LORD GORING. I hardly know myself. Good-bye, Miss Mabel! MABEL CHILTERN [_With a little moue of disappointment_.] I wish you were not going. I have had four wonderful adventures this morning; four and a half, in fact. You might stop and listen to some of them. LORD GORING. How very selfish of you to have four and a half! There won't be any left for me. MABEL CHILTERN. I don't want you to have any. They would not be good for you. LORD GORING. That is the first unkind thing you have ever said to me. How charmingly you said it! Ten to-morrow. MABEL CHILTERN. Sharp. LORD GORING. Quite sharp. But don't bring Mr. Trafford. MABEL CHILTERN. [_With a little toss of the head_.] Of course I shan't bring Tommy Trafford. Tommy Trafford is in great disgrace. LORD GORING. I am delighted to hear it. [_Bows and goes out_.] MABEL CHILTERN. Gertrude, I wish you would speak to Tommy Trafford. LADY CHILTERN. What has poor Mr. Trafford done this time? Robert says he is the best secretary he has ever had. MABEL CHILTERN. Well, Tommy has proposed to me again. Tommy really does nothing but propose to me. He proposed to me last night in the music-room, when I was quite unprotected, as there was an elaborate trio going on. I didn't dare to make the smallest repartee, I need hardly tell you. If I had, it would have stopped the music at once. Musical people are so absurdly unreasonable. They always want one to be perfectly dumb at the very moment when one is longing to be absolutely deaf. Then he proposed to me in broad daylight this morning, in front of that dreadful statue of Achilles. Really, the things that go on in front of that work of art are quite appalling. The police should interfere. At luncheon I saw by the glare in his eye that he was going to propose again, and I just managed to check him in time by assuring him that I was a bimetallist. Fortunately I don't know what bimetallism means. And I don't believe anybody else does either. But the observation crushed Tommy for ten minutes. He looked quite shocked. And then Tommy is so annoying in the way he proposes. If he proposed at the top of his voice, I should not mind so much. That might produce some effect on the public. But he does it in a horrid confidential way. When Tommy wants to be romantic he talks to one just like a doctor. I am very fond of Tommy, but his methods of proposing are quite out of date. I wish, Gertrude, you would speak to him, and tell him that once a week is quite often enough to propose to any one, and that it should always be done in a manner that attracts some attention. LADY CHILTERN. Dear Mabel, don't talk like that. Besides, Robert thinks very highly of Mr. Trafford. He believes he has a brilliant future before him. MABEL CHILTERN. Oh! I wouldn't marry a man with a future before him for anything under the sun. LADY CHILTERN. Mabel! MABEL CHILTERN. I know, dear. You married a man with a future, didn't you? But then Robert was a genius, and you have a noble, self-sacrificing character. You can stand geniuses. I have no character at all, and Robert is the only genius I could ever bear. As a rule, I think they are quite impossible. Geniuses talk so much, don't they? Such a bad habit! And they are always thinking about themselves, when I want them to be thinking about me. I must go round now and rehearse at Lady Basildon's. You remember, we are having tableaux, don't you? The Triumph of something, I don't know what! I hope it will be triumph of me. Only triumph I am really interested in at present. [_Kisses_ LADY CHILTERN _and goes out_; _then comes running back_.] Oh, Gertrude, do you know who is coming to see you? That dreadful Mrs. Cheveley, in a most lovely gown. Did you ask her? LADY CHILTERN. [_Rising_.] Mrs. Cheveley! Coming to see me? Impossible! MABEL CHILTERN. I assure you she is coming upstairs, as large as life and not nearly so natural. LADY CHILTERN. You need not wait, Mabel. Remember, Lady Basildon is expecting you. MABEL CHILTERN. Oh! I must shake hands with Lady Markby. She is delightful. I love being scolded by her. [_Enter_ MASON.] MASON. Lady Markby. Mrs. Cheveley. [_Enter_ LADY MARKBY _and_ MRS. CHEVELEY.] LADY CHILTERN. [_Advancing to meet them_.] Dear Lady Markby, how nice of you to come and see me! [_Shakes hands with her_, _and bows somewhat distantly to_ MRS. CHEVELEY.] Won't you sit down, Mrs. Cheveley? MRS. CHEVELEY. Thanks. Isn't that Miss Chiltern? I should like so much to know her. LADY CHILTERN. Mabel, Mrs. Cheveley wishes to know you. [MABEL CHILTERN _gives a little nod_.] MRS. CHEVELEY [_Sitting down_.] I thought your frock so charming last night, Miss Chiltern. So simple and . . . suitable. MABEL CHILTERN. Really? I must tell my dressmaker. It will be such a surprise to her. Good-bye, Lady Markby! LADY MARKBY. Going already? MABEL CHILTERN. I am so sorry but I am obliged to. I am just off to rehearsal. I have got to stand on my head in some tableaux. LADY MARKBY. On your head, child? Oh! I hope not. I believe it is most unhealthy. [_Takes a seat on the sofa next_ LADY CHILTERN.] MABEL CHILTERN. But it is for an excellent charity: in aid of the Undeserving, the only people I am really interested in. I am the secretary, and Tommy Trafford is treasurer. MRS. CHEVELEY. And what is Lord Goring? MABEL CHILTERN. Oh! Lord Goring is president. MRS. CHEVELEY. The post should suit him admirably, unless he has deteriorated since I knew him first. LADY MARKBY. [_Reflecting_.] You are remarkably modern, Mabel. A little too modern, perhaps. Nothing is so dangerous as being too modern. One is apt to grow old-fashioned quite suddenly. I have known many instances of it. MABEL CHILTERN. What a dreadful prospect! LADY MARKBY. Ah! my dear, you need not be nervous. You will always be as pretty as possible. That is the best fashion there is, and the only fashion that England succeeds in setting. MABEL CHILTERN. [_With a curtsey_.] Thank you so much, Lady Markby, for England . . . and myself. [_Goes out_.] LADY MARKBY. [_Turning to_ LADY CHILTERN.] Dear Gertrude, we just called to know if Mrs. Cheveley's diamond brooch has been found. LADY CHILTERN. Here? MRS. CHEVELEY. Yes. I missed it when I got back to Claridge's, and I thought I might possibly have dropped it here. LADY CHILTERN. I have heard nothing about it. But I will send for the butler and ask. [_Touches the bell_.] MRS. CHEVELEY. Oh, pray don't trouble, Lady Chiltern. I dare say I lost it at the Opera, before we came on here. LADY MARKBY. Ah yes, I suppose it must have been at the Opera. The fact is, we all scramble and jostle so much nowadays that I wonder we have anything at all left on us at the end of an evening. I know myself that, when I am coming back from the Drawing Room, I always feel as if I hadn't a shred on me, except a small shred of decent reputation, just enough to prevent the lower classes making painful observations through the windows of the carriage. The fact is that our Society is terribly over-populated. Really, some one should arrange a proper scheme of assisted emigration. It would do a great deal of good. MRS. CHEVELEY. I quite agree with you, Lady Markby. It is nearly six years since I have been in London for the Season, and I must say Society has become dreadfully mixed. One sees the oddest people everywhere. LADY MARKBY. That is quite true, dear. But one needn't know them. I'm sure I don't know half the people who come to my house. Indeed, from all I hear, I shouldn't like to. [_Enter_ MASON.] LADY CHILTERN. What sort of a brooch was it that you lost, Mrs. Cheveley? MRS. CHEVELEY. A diamond snake-brooch with a ruby, a rather large ruby. LADY MARKBY. I thought you said there was a sapphire on the head, dear? MRS. CHEVELEY [_Smiling_.] No, lady Markby--a ruby. LADY MARKBY. [_Nodding her head_.] And very becoming, I am quite sure. LADY CHILTERN. Has a ruby and diamond brooch been found in any of the rooms this morning, Mason? MASON. No, my lady. MRS. CHEVELEY. It really is of no consequence, Lady Chiltern. I am so sorry to have put you to any inconvenience. LADY CHILTERN. [_Coldly_.] Oh, it has been no inconvenience. That will do, Mason. You can bring tea. [_Exit_ MASON.] LADY MARKBY. Well, I must say it is most annoying to lose anything. I remember once at Bath, years ago, losing in the Pump Room an exceedingly handsome cameo bracelet that Sir John had given me. I don't think he has ever given me anything since, I am sorry to say. He has sadly degenerated. Really, this horrid House of Commons quite ruins our husbands for us. I think the Lower House by far the greatest blow to a happy married life that there has been since that terrible thing called the Higher Education of Women was invented. LADY CHILTERN. Ah! it is heresy to say that in this house, Lady Markby. Robert is a great champion of the Higher Education of Women, and so, I am afraid, am I. MRS. CHEVELEY. The higher education of men is what I should like to see. Men need it so sadly. LADY MARKBY. They do, dear. But I am afraid such a scheme would be quite unpractical. I don't think man has much capacity for development. He has got as far as he can, and that is not far, is it? With regard to women, well, dear Gertrude, you belong to the younger generation, and I am sure it is all right if you approve of it. In my time, of course, we were taught not to understand anything. That was the old system, and wonderfully interesting it was. I assure you that the amount of things I and my poor dear sister were taught not to understand was quite extraordinary. But modern women understand everything, I am told. MRS. CHEVELEY. Except their husbands. That is the one thing the modern woman never understands. LADY MARKBY. And a very good thing too, dear, I dare say. It might break up many a happy home if they did. Not yours, I need hardly say, Gertrude. You have married a pattern husband. I wish I could say as much for myself. But since Sir John has taken to attending the debates regularly, which he never used to do in the good old days, his language has become quite impossible. He always seems to think that he is addressing the House, and consequently whenever he discusses the state of the agricultural labourer, or the Welsh Church, or something quite improper of that kind, I am obliged to send all the servants out of the room. It is not pleasant to see one's own butler, who has been with one for twenty-three years, actually blushing at the side-board, and the footmen making contortions in corners like persons in circuses. I assure you my life will be quite ruined unless they send John at once to the Upper House. He won't take any interest in politics then, will he? The House of Lords is so sensible. An assembly of gentlemen. But in his present state, Sir John is really a great trial. Why, this morning before breakfast was half over, he stood up on the hearthrug, put his hands in his pockets, and appealed to the country at the top of his voice. I left the table as soon as I had my second cup of tea, I need hardly say. But his violent language could be heard all over the house! I trust, Gertrude, that Sir Robert is not like that? LADY CHILTERN. But I am very much interested in politics, Lady Markby. I love to hear Robert talk about them. LADY MARKBY. Well, I hope he is not as devoted to Blue Books as Sir John is. I don't think they can be quite improving reading for any one. MRS. CHEVELEY [_Languidly_.] I have never read a Blue Book. I prefer books . . . in yellow covers. LADY MARKBY. [_Genially unconscious_.] Yellow is a gayer colour, is it not? I used to wear yellow a good deal in my early days, and would do so now if Sir John was not so painfully personal in his observations, and a man on the question of dress is always ridiculous, is he not? MRS. CHEVELEY. Oh, no! I think men are the only authorities on dress. LADY MARKBY. Really? One wouldn't say so from the sort of hats they wear? would one? [_The butler enters_, _followed by the footman_. _Tea is set on a small table close to_ LADY CHILTERN.] LADY CHILTERN. May I give you some tea, Mrs. Cheveley? MRS. CHEVELEY. Thanks. [_The butler hands_ MRS. CHEVELEY _a cup of tea on a salver_.] LADY CHILTERN. Some tea, Lady Markby? LADY MARKBY. No thanks, dear. [_The servants go out_.] The fact is, I have promised to go round for ten minutes to see poor Lady Brancaster, who is in very great trouble. Her daughter, quite a well-brought-up girl, too, has actually become engaged to be married to a curate in Shropshire. It is very sad, very sad indeed. I can't understand this modern mania for curates. In my time we girls saw them, of course, running about the place like rabbits. But we never took any notice of them, I need hardly say. But I am told that nowadays country society is quite honeycombed with them. I think it most irreligious. And then the eldest son has quarrelled with his father, and it is said that when they meet at the club Lord Brancaster always hides himself behind the money article in _The Times_. However, I believe that is quite a common occurrence nowadays and that they have to take in extra copies of _The Times_ at all the clubs in St. James's Street; there are so many sons who won't have anything to do with their fathers, and so many fathers who won't speak to their sons. I think myself, it is very much to be regretted. MRS. CHEVELEY. So do I. Fathers have so much to learn from their sons nowadays. LADY MARKBY. Really, dear? What? MRS. CHEVELEY. The art of living. The only really Fine Art we have produced in modern times. LADY MARKBY. [_Shaking her head_.] Ah! I am afraid Lord Brancaster knew a good deal about that. More than his poor wife ever did. [_Turning to_ LADY CHILTERN.] You know Lady Brancaster, don't you, dear? LADY CHILTERN. Just slightly. She was staying at Langton last autumn, when we were there. LADY MARKBY. Well, like all stout women, she looks the very picture of happiness, as no doubt you noticed. But there are many tragedies in her family, besides this affair of the curate. Her own sister, Mrs. Jekyll, had a most unhappy life; through no fault of her own, I am sorry to say. She ultimately was so broken-hearted that she went into a convent, or on to the operatic stage, I forget which. No; I think it was decorative art-needlework she took up. I know she had lost all sense of pleasure in life. [_Rising_.] And now, Gertrude, if you will allow me, I shall leave Mrs. Cheveley in your charge and call back for her in a quarter of an hour. Or perhaps, dear Mrs. Cheveley, you wouldn't mind waiting in the carriage while I am with Lady Brancaster. As I intend it to be a visit of condolence, I shan't stay long. MRS. CHEVELEY [_Rising_.] I don't mind waiting in the carriage at all, provided there is somebody to look at one. LADY MARKBY. Well, I hear the curate is always prowling about the house. MRS. CHEVELEY. I am afraid I am not fond of girl friends. LADY CHILTERN [_Rising_.] Oh, I hope Mrs. Cheveley will stay here a little. I should like to have a few minutes' conversation with her. MRS. CHEVELEY. How very kind of you, Lady Chiltern! Believe me, nothing would give me greater pleasure. LADY MARKBY. Ah! no doubt you both have many pleasant reminiscences of your schooldays to talk over together. Good-bye, dear Gertrude! Shall I see you at Lady Bonar's to-night? She has discovered a wonderful new genius. He does . . . nothing at all, I believe. That is a great comfort, is it not? LADY CHILTERN. Robert and I are dining at home by ourselves to-night, and I don't think I shall go anywhere afterwards. Robert, of course, will have to be in the House. But there is nothing interesting on. LADY MARKBY. Dining at home by yourselves? Is that quite prudent? Ah, I forgot, your husband is an exception. Mine is the general rule, and nothing ages a woman so rapidly as having married the general rule. [_Exit_ LADY MARKBY.] MRS. CHEVELEY. Wonderful woman, Lady Markby, isn't she? Talks more and says less than anybody I ever met. She is made to be a public speaker. Much more so than her husband, though he is a typical Englishman, always dull and usually violent. LADY CHILTERN. [_Makes no answer_, _but remains standing_. _There is a pause_. _Then the eyes of the two women meet_. LADY CHILTERN _looks stern and pale_. MRS. CHEVELEY _seem rather amused_.] Mrs. Cheveley, I think it is right to tell you quite frankly that, had I known who you really were, I should not have invited you to my house last night. MRS. CHEVELEY [_With an impertinent smile_.] Really? LADY CHILTERN. I could not have done so. MRS. CHEVELEY. I see that after all these years you have not changed a bit, Gertrude. LADY CHILTERN. I never change. MRS. CHEVELEY [_Elevating her eyebrows_.] Then life has taught you nothing? LADY CHILTERN. It has taught me that a person who has once been guilty of a dishonest and dishonourable action may be guilty of it a second time, and should be shunned. MRS. CHEVELEY. Would you apply that rule to every one? LADY CHILTERN. Yes, to every one, without exception. MRS. CHEVELEY. Then I am sorry for you, Gertrude, very sorry for you. LADY CHILTERN. You see now, I was sure, that for many reasons any further acquaintance between us during your stay in London is quite impossible? MRS. CHEVELEY [_Leaning back in her chair_.] Do you know, Gertrude, I don't mind your talking morality a bit. Morality is simply the attitude we adopt towards people whom we personally dislike. You dislike me. I am quite aware of that. And I have always detested you. And yet I have come here to do you a service. LADY CHILTERN. [_Contemptuously_.] Like the service you wished to render my husband last night, I suppose. Thank heaven, I saved him from that. MRS. CHEVELEY. [_Starting to her feet_.] It was you who made him write that insolent letter to me? It was you who made him break his promise? LADY CHILTERN. Yes. MRS. CHEVELEY. Then you must make him keep it. I give you till to-morrow morning--no more. If by that time your husband does not solemnly bind himself to help me in this great scheme in which I am interested-- LADY CHILTERN. This fraudulent speculation-- MRS. CHEVELEY. Call it what you choose. I hold your husband in the hollow of my hand, and if you are wise you will make him do what I tell him. LADY CHILTERN. [_Rising and going towards her_.] You are impertinent. What has my husband to do with you? With a woman like you? MRS. CHEVELEY [_With a bitter laugh_.] In this world like meets with like. It is because your husband is himself fraudulent and dishonest that we pair so well together. Between you and him there are chasms. He and I are closer than friends. We are enemies linked together. The same sin binds us. LADY CHILTERN. How dare you class my husband with yourself? How dare you threaten him or me? Leave my house. You are unfit to enter it. [SIR ROBERT CHILTERN _enters from behind_. _He hears his wife's last words_, _and sees to whom they are addressed_. _He grows deadly pale_.] MRS. CHEVELEY. Your house! A house bought with the price of dishonour. A house, everything in which has been paid for by fraud. [_Turns round and sees_ SIR ROBERT CHILTERN.] Ask him what the origin of his fortune is! Get him to tell you how he sold to a stockbroker a Cabinet secret. Learn from him to what you owe your position. LADY CHILTERN. It is not true! Robert! It is not true! MRS. CHEVELEY. [_Pointing at him with outstretched finger_.] Look at him! Can he deny it? Does he dare to? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Go! Go at once. You have done your worst now. MRS. CHEVELEY. My worst? I have not yet finished with you, with either of you. I give you both till to-morrow at noon. If by then you don't do what I bid you to do, the whole world shall know the origin of Robert Chiltern. [SIR ROBERT CHILTERN _strikes the bell_. _Enter_ MASON.] SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Show Mrs. Cheveley out. [MRS. CHEVELEY _starts_; _then bows with somewhat exaggerated politeness to_ LADY CHILTERN, _who makes no sign of response_. _As she passes by_ SIR ROBERT CHILTERN, _who is standing close to the door_, _she pauses for a moment and looks him straight in the face_. _She then goes out_, _followed by the servant_, _who closes the door after him_. _The husband and wife are left alone_. LADY CHILTERN _stands like some one in a dreadful dream_. _Then she turns round and looks at her husband_. _She looks at him with strange eyes_, _as though she were seeing him for the first time_.] LADY CHILTERN. You sold a Cabinet secret for money! You began your life with fraud! You built up your career on dishonour! Oh, tell me it is not true! Lie to me! Lie to me! Tell me it is not true! SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. What this woman said is quite true. But, Gertrude, listen to me. You don't realise how I was tempted. Let me tell you the whole thing. [_Goes towards her_.] LADY CHILTERN. Don't come near me. Don't touch me. I feel as if you had soiled me for ever. Oh! what a mask you have been wearing all these years! A horrible painted mask! You sold yourself for money. Oh! a common thief were better. You put yourself up to sale to the highest bidder! You were bought in the market. You lied to the whole world. And yet you will not lie to me. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Rushing towards her_.] Gertrude! Gertrude! LADY CHILTERN. [_Thrusting him back with outstretched hands_.] No, don't speak! Say nothing! Your voice wakes terrible memories--memories of things that made me love you--memories of words that made me love you--memories that now are horrible to me. And how I worshipped you! You were to me something apart from common life, a thing pure, noble, honest, without stain. The world seemed to me finer because you were in it, and goodness more real because you lived. And now--oh, when I think that I made of a man like you my ideal! the ideal of my life! SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. There was your mistake. There was your error. The error all women commit. Why can't you women love us, faults and all? Why do you place us on monstrous pedestals? We have all feet of clay, women as well as men; but when we men love women, we love them knowing their weaknesses, their follies, their imperfections, love them all the more, it may be, for that reason. It is not the perfect, but the imperfect, who have need of love. It is when we are wounded by our own hands, or by the hands of others, that love should come to cure us--else what use is love at all? All sins, except a sin against itself, Love should forgive. All lives, save loveless lives, true Love should pardon. A man's love is like that. It is wider, larger, more human than a woman's. Women think that they are making ideals of men. What they are making of us are false idols merely. You made your false idol of me, and I had not the courage to come down, show you my wounds, tell you my weaknesses. I was afraid that I might lose your love, as I have lost it now. And so, last night you ruined my life for me--yes, ruined it! What this woman asked of me was nothing compared to what she offered to me. She offered security, peace, stability. The sin of my youth, that I had thought was buried, rose up in front of me, hideous, horrible, with its hands at my throat. I could have killed it for ever, sent it back into its tomb, destroyed its record, burned the one witness against me. You prevented me. No one but you, you know it. And now what is there before me but public disgrace, ruin, terrible shame, the mockery of the world, a lonely dishonoured life, a lonely dishonoured death, it may be, some day? Let women make no more ideals of men! let them not put them on alters and bow before them, or they may ruin other lives as completely as you--you whom I have so wildly loved--have ruined mine! [_He passes from the room_. LADY CHILTERN _rushes towards him_, _but the door is closed when she reaches it_. _Pale with anguish_, _bewildered_, _helpless_, _she sways like a plant in the water_. _Her hands_, _outstretched_, _seem to tremble in the air like blossoms in the mind_. _Then she flings herself down beside a sofa and buries her face_. _Her sobs are like the sobs of a child_.] ACT DROP

Act II - Part One

https://web.archive.org/web/20210118103913/https://www.sparknotes.com/drama/idealhusband/section3/

Act II begins in Sir Robert's morning room with Lord Goring in the midst of advising him on a plan of action. He insists that Sir Robert should have confessed to his wife long ago and promises to talk to her about her unyielding morals. Throughout the scene, Goring will--in a marked shift in his apparently flippant tone and amoral pose--also point out the gravity of Sir Robert having sold himself for his fortune. Sir Robert recounts his mentorship by Baron Arnheim when he was a young and poor cabinet minister, well born but penniless. He succumbed to Arnheim's gospels of wealth and power, coming to see wealth being the most important weapon of the modern age and power over others as life's utmost pleasure. At some level, Sir Robert still subscribes to these doctrines. Goring takes stock of the situation: a public confession remains impossible as it would ruin Sir Robert's career, and the two agree that Sir Robert should fight it out, though--in another suspense-building device--the latter still refuses to tell his wife. Also, Lord Goring delicately reveals that he and Mrs. Cheveley were once engaged. As their first plan of attack, Sir Robert decides to write the Vienna embassy to investigate Cheveley's life; Lord Goring is nonplussed by the proposal as he suspects Mrs. Cheveley is a woman who finds scandals as becoming as a new bonnet. Lady Chiltern then enters the room, having come from a meeting of the Woman's Liberal Association. After some banter about bonnets and a farewell between Goring and Sir Robert, the latter leaves the room, and Lady Chiltern takes Goring aside to discuss the recent conflict. When she asks Goring if she is right in her opinion of her ideal husband, Goring, gesturing toward Sir Robert's past, warns that all men must at some point compromise themselves in public life and that life can neither be lived nor understood without charity. The lord then pledges his assistance to a Lady Chiltern shocked by his sudden seriousness and perplexed by his apparently unwarranted advice.

The first half of Act II is something of an interlude after the climatic conclusion of Act I, providing the background of Sir Robert's secret scandal and introducing Lord Goring into the play's intrigue. Beginning with the story of Sir Robert's "tragic" fall, it presents Sir Robert's views of modern life and poses Lord Goring as a sort of helpmate to the Chilterns: counselor to Sir Robert and teacher to the virtuous Lady Chiltern. Sir Robert developed his views on modernity while under the tutelage of Baron Arnheim, a mysterious foreign aristocrat perhaps analogous to Lord Henry from The Picture of Dorian Gray. Notably Sir Robert's corrupter--one he shares with Mrs. Cheveley--is shrouded in erotic connotations . Indeed, in remembering how the Baron--with a "strange smile on his pale, curved lips"--lead him through his gallery of treasures, Sir Robert describes an enchantment with his old mentor that could be read as an erotically-charged seduction. One wonders what exactly the Baron taught his student. It is not for nothing then that Sir Robert's relations with Arnheim predate his respectable marriage and must remain secret. Arnheim expounds a "philosophy of power" and "gospel of gold." Though ostentatious with his fortune, the Baron dismisses luxury as mere backdrop: power over others remains the only pleasure worth knowing. Toward these ends, wealth is the weapon of the age and the prime mover of modernity. For Lord Goring, Arnheim's is a "thoroughly shallow creed"--a somewhat paradoxical critique since the dandy would revel in the shallowness of appearances, luxury, and artifice. Perhaps what the dandified Goring criticizes is Arnheim's subordination of luxury and its pleasures to those of domination. To recall our discussion of dandyism from the Context, Arnheim's doctrines are clearly anathema to the dandy's idle and lighthearted lifestyle. If Arnheim would conquer the world, Goring would--as the stage notes from Act I indicate--play with it. Though ever playful, Goring nevertheless remains passionately loyal to rather sentimental notions like love, pledging to do all he can to assist his friend and sway the morally inflexible Lady Chiltern. As Goring tells Lady Chiltern, love, that "explains" and determines the human world, should trump her obsession with having an ideal husband. More specifically, the love Goring praises to Lady Chiltern emphasizes charity and the forgiveness of faults and errors. Thus in their exchange we see a number of poles emerging around the theme of love and conjugal life, Lady Chiltern's adoration for her ideal mate being posed against the ideas offered by her counselor. As we will see in Act IV, the woman's proper role in love will ultimately become what Goring describes, that of the forgiving caretaker. Finally, we should note that Goring remains mischievous even in his quite moving gravity, interrupting the dialogue with an occasional joke or repartee. At one point, for example, he declares that truth is a bad habit; after advising Lady Chiltern, perplexed by his sudden seriousness, he denies that he precisely understands what he is talking about. Thus Goring himself would warn his listeners against taking his advice in earnest. His banter continually defuses attempts to engage him in "serious" conversation and provides mild comic relief.

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/885-chapters/act_iii.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/An Ideal Husband/section_4_part_0.txt

An Ideal Husband.act iii

act iii

{"name": "Act III - Part One", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210118103913/https://www.sparknotes.com/drama/idealhusband/section5/", "summary": "Act III opens in Lord Goring's library with an impeccably dressed Goring and his impassive servant Phipps, named in the stage notes as the ideal butler. A short exchange ensues, in which Goring, trying on a new buttonhole, delivers a series of epigrams regarding fashion, vulgarity, falsehood, and self-love to the yes-saying Phipps. Phipps then brings Goring his letters, and the Lord discovers that Lady Chiltern has sent him a note on pink paper imploring him for help: \"I want you. I trust you. I am coming to you.\" Though it is signed Gertrude, it is addressed to no one. Though it is late, Goring prepares for her arrival. Phipps, however, abruptly announces the arrival of his father, Lord Caversham. Goring receives him and the two discuss the prospect of Goring's marriage and his adopting a serious career, Caversham posing Sir Robert as an ideal model. Sending Caversham to the smoking room, Goring quickly tells Phipps that he expects a female visitor and instructs him to show her into the drawing room. Suddenly a bell rings, and Goring moves to answer but is intercepted by Caversham and must accompany him to the smoking room. Mrs. Cheveley then appears on the scene; Phipps informs her of Goring's instructions and shows her into the drawing room. Pleased at the prospect of catching him out, Cheveley rifles through his papers and discovers Lady Chiltern's letter. Just as she moves to steal it, Phipps enters and shows her into the drawing room. Upon his departure, she re-emerges and creeps toward the writing table anew, but must retire upon hearing the voices of Goring and Caversham. After a brief exchange on marriage and common sense, Goring leads Caversham to the door, only to return, somewhat haplessly, with the unexpected Sir Robert. Sir Robert reports that Lady Chiltern knows all; moreover, the Vienna embassy has failed to excavate any secret scandal from Mrs. Cheveley's past. Goring keeps Lady Chiltern's request for assistance secret. Phipps then enters, and Goring, taking him aside for further instruction, learns that the lady he expects waits in the drawing room. He decides to give the would-be Lady Chiltern a lecture through the door, prompting Sir Robert to declare his love for his wife and suggesting that she has already forgiven him. Just as Sir Robert is about to reveal what he plans to tell the House regarding the canal scheme, he hears a chair fall in the next room. Though Goring hopelessly tells his friend no one is in the next room--this deferral of the inevitable raising the scene's tension--Sir Robert bursts through and of course discovers Mrs. Cheveley. He curses the unsuspecting Goring for his treachery and storms out; Mrs. Cheveley emerges, beaming with bemusement.", "analysis": "One can divide this part of Act III according to its two major exchanges: one between Lord Goring and his butler Phipps and another with between Goring and his father, Lord Caversham. Both comment on the dandy lifestyle. The opening exchange Goring and Phipps is a comic interlude, coming on the heels of the wrenching confrontation between the Chilterns. Phipps is described in the stage notes as a \"mask with a manner,\" a man less communicative than the Sphinx. Representing the \"dominance of form,\" such a figure is a familiar comic device, producing a certain \"dead-pan\" humor that requires such an impenetrable, impassive facade. The scene is structured by an exchange between Goring's pronouncements and Phipps' repeated response in the affirmative. Goring's epigrams concern the \"lifelong romance\" of narcissism, reducing a number of oppositions to one between \"other people\" and \"oneself.\" Thus the vulgar is what others do, the unfashionable what others wear, and the false what others hold true. This exchange artfully reinforces Goring's narcissism with an interlocutor who responds with an indifferent \"yes.\" Thus the butler serves as a sort of mirror to Goring's narcissism; as it is certain that his interlocutor will agree with him, Goring is even more \"talking to himself\" than if in soliloquy. Goring's narcissism is significant in terms of the mores of his age. As discussed in the Context, the dandy stands in rebellion to the values of the Victorian era, an era defined by a devotion to family life, public and private responsibility, and obedience to law. Dandyism dispensed with these duties in the name of individual freedom and a self-centered concern with the frivolous . At the same time, Phipps reflects his master imperfectly. Not only does he fail to notice his lord's dress, he also gets the last laugh of the scene at Goring's expense, remarking stoically that the lower classes are \"extremely fortunate\" in losing their familial relations. Phipps's joke introduces the second exchange of this scene: a confrontation between father and son over the latter's bachelorhood and irresponsible way of life. The exchange between Goring and Caversham reveals the dandy in vexed relationship with the figure of paternal authority, particularly when the latter would correct the dandy's behavior. As Goring remarks in the following act, fathers should be neither seen nor heard in family life . As Goring is a figure of the new--presented in the stage notes as a man in \"immediate relation\" to modernity, making and mastering it--and Caversham the emblem of a generation past, their meeting represents a clash between modern and past lifestyles. Mrs. Cheveley's remarks from Act II have prefigured this showdown long before--namely, that nowadays fathers have much to learn from their sons with regards to the art of living, the only fine art modern times have produced. For Wilde, the modern lifestyle is precisely that of the dandy, eschewing duty and respectability for the pursuit of pleasure, beauty, pretence, wit, idleness, irrationality, and affectation: in short, everything Caversham abhors. In the encounter dramatized here, Caversham assaults Goring with fatherly advice, arguing that he cannot continue living for pleasure and that he should imitate Sir Robert's success: in light of Sir Robert's scandal, the irony of his counsel is not lost on us. In particular, Caversham insists that Goring find a proper marriage--that is, one that considers position and property before sentiment. As with all things for Caversham, it is a matter of \"common sense.\" Obviously Goring cannot comply with his father's wishes. Underlying this generational clash is also dandyism's veneration of youthfulness as part of modern life. As Goring tells his father when the latter denounces his affectation of youth: \"Youth isn't an affectation. Youth is an art.\" At the same time, the dandy is also often middle-aged: though he never admits it, Goring himself is in his mid-thirties. To some extent then, Goring appears as the overgrown child in his conversation with his father, refusing to take up the responsibilities of adulthood and living past his time as a young man. One wonders, moreover, if the dandy must always fear the threat of becoming outmoded: as Lady Markby notes earlier, the danger of being too modern lies in growing old-fashioned quite quickly. Along with these differences in values, what sets father and son apart is a marked difference in their speech, Goring running circles around his father with his wit. Caversham will continually request serious conversation, fall into senile--rather than affected--self-contradictions, and find himself unable to follow Goring's repartee. For example, at one point Caversham condemns one of Goring's expressions of sympathy, saying there is too much sympathy going on these days. Goring concurs, replying: \"If there was less sympathy in the world, there would be less trouble in the world.\" Thus Goring willfully misapprehends his father's rebuke--that the modern world is overly sentimental--and plays on its literal meaning, taking the vague phrase to one of its ostensibly logical conclusions. The effect is to reveal the absurdity in Caversham's pronouncement. Caversham, of course does not know how to take his son's reply. Having not gotten the joke but noting the sophistry in his son's logic, Caversham responds: \"That is a paradox sir. I hate paradoxes.\" Of course, Goring's repartee is less an example of paradox than the playful logic of the dandy. Thus son replies with a further set of twists: \"So do I, father. Everybody one meets is a paradox nowadays. It is a great bore. It makes society so obvious.\" The term \"paradox\" as a structure of rhetoric now refers to paradox as a description of character. Moreover, being paradoxical--usually connoting obscurity and so on--becomes dull and obvious as an affectation \"everyone\" has come to adopt. To translate: it is quite boring that everyone you meet has become a paradox. If everyone is a paradox, then everyone is obvious. As with Goring's joke on sympathy, his dizzying repartee is not only surprising and delightful, but perhaps an occasion for insight--in this case on London Society--as well. Speaking ironically, sarcastically, hyperbolically, or paradoxically, Goring is--as he himself notes in Act II--quintessentially \"liable to be misunderstood.\" Indeed, the capacity to cause and manipulate such moments of confusion is one of Goring's greatest powers. As the stage notes from Act I indicate, Goring is fond of this liability as it gains him \"post of vantage\" in the social arena; again, through his speech, he \"makes and masters\" modern social life."}

THIRD ACT SCENE _The Library in Lord Goring's house_. _An Adam room_. _On the right is the door leading into the hall_. _On the left_, _the door of the smoking-room_. _A pair of folding doors at the back open into the drawing-room_. _The fire is lit_. _Phipps_, _the butler_, _is arranging some newspapers on the writing-table_. _The distinction of Phipps is his impassivity_. _He has been termed by enthusiasts the Ideal Butler_. _The Sphinx is not so incommunicable_. _He is a mask with a manner_. _Of his intellectual or emotional life_, _history knows nothing_. _He represents the dominance of form_. [_Enter_ LORD GORING _in evening dress with a buttonhole_. _He is wearing a silk hat and Inverness cape_. _White-gloved_, _he carries a Louis Seize cane_. _His are all the delicate fopperies of Fashion_. _One sees that he stands in immediate relation to modern life_, _makes it indeed_, _and so masters it_. _He is the first well-dressed philosopher in the history of thought_.] LORD GORING. Got my second buttonhole for me, Phipps? PHIPPS. Yes, my lord. [_Takes his hat_, _cane_, _and cape_, _and presents new buttonhole on salver_.] LORD GORING. Rather distinguished thing, Phipps. I am the only person of the smallest importance in London at present who wears a buttonhole. PHIPPS. Yes, my lord. I have observed that, LORD GORING. [_Taking out old buttonhole_.] You see, Phipps, Fashion is what one wears oneself. What is unfashionable is what other people wear. PHIPPS. Yes, my lord. LORD GORING. Just as vulgarity is simply the conduct of other people. PHIPPS. Yes, my lord. LORD GORING. [_Putting in a new buttonhole_.] And falsehoods the truths of other people. PHIPPS. Yes, my lord. LORD GORING. Other people are quite dreadful. The only possible society is oneself. PHIPPS. Yes, my lord. LORD GORING. To love oneself is the beginning of a lifelong romance, Phipps. PHIPPS. Yes, my lord. LORD GORING. [_Looking at himself in the glass_.] Don't think I quite like this buttonhole, Phipps. Makes me look a little too old. Makes me almost in the prime of life, eh, Phipps? PHIPPS. I don't observe any alteration in your lordship's appearance. LORD GORING. You don't, Phipps? PHIPPS. No, my lord. LORD GORING. I am not quite sure. For the future a more trivial buttonhole, Phipps, on Thursday evenings. PHIPPS. I will speak to the florist, my lord. She has had a loss in her family lately, which perhaps accounts for the lack of triviality your lordship complains of in the buttonhole. LORD GORING. Extraordinary thing about the lower classes in England--they are always losing their relations. PHIPPS. Yes, my lord! They are extremely fortunate in that respect. LORD GORING. [_Turns round and looks at him_. PHIPPS _remains impassive_.] Hum! Any letters, Phipps? PHIPPS. Three, my lord. [_Hands letters on a salver_.] LORD GORING. [_Takes letters_.] Want my cab round in twenty minutes. PHIPPS. Yes, my lord. [_Goes towards door_.] LORD GORING. [_Holds up letter in pink envelope_.] Ahem! Phipps, when did this letter arrive? PHIPPS. It was brought by hand just after your lordship went to the club. LORD GORING. That will do. [_Exit_ PHIPPS.] Lady Chiltern's handwriting on Lady Chiltern's pink notepaper. That is rather curious. I thought Robert was to write. Wonder what Lady Chiltern has got to say to me? [_Sits at bureau and opens letter_, _and reads it_.] 'I want you. I trust you. I am coming to you. Gertrude.' [_Puts down the letter with a puzzled look_. _Then takes it up_, _and reads it again slowly_.] 'I want you. I trust you. I am coming to you.' So she has found out everything! Poor woman! Poor woman! [ _Pulls out watch and looks at it_.] But what an hour to call! Ten o'clock! I shall have to give up going to the Berkshires. However, it is always nice to be expected, and not to arrive. I am not expected at the Bachelors', so I shall certainly go there. Well, I will make her stand by her husband. That is the only thing for her to do. That is the only thing for any woman to do. It is the growth of the moral sense in women that makes marriage such a hopeless, one-sided institution. Ten o'clock. She should be here soon. I must tell Phipps I am not in to any one else. [_Goes towards bell_] [_Enter_ PHIPPS.] PHIPPS. Lord Caversham. LORD GORING. Oh, why will parents always appear at the wrong time? Some extraordinary mistake in nature, I suppose. [_Enter_ LORD CAVERSHAM.] Delighted to see you, my dear father. [_Goes to meet him_.] LORD CAVERSHAM. Take my cloak off. LORD GORING. Is it worth while, father? LORD CAVERSHAM. Of course it is worth while, sir. Which is the most comfortable chair? LORD GORING. This one, father. It is the chair I use myself, when I have visitors. LORD CAVERSHAM. Thank ye. No draught, I hope, in this room? LORD GORING. No, father. LORD CAVERSHAM. [_Sitting down_.] Glad to hear it. Can't stand draughts. No draughts at home. LORD GORING. Good many breezes, father. LORD CAVERSHAM. Eh? Eh? Don't understand what you mean. Want to have a serious conversation with you, sir. LORD GORING. My dear father! At this hour? LORD CAVERSHAM. Well, sir, it is only ten o'clock. What is your objection to the hour? I think the hour is an admirable hour! LORD GORING. Well, the fact is, father, this is not my day for talking seriously. I am very sorry, but it is not my day. LORD CAVERSHAM. What do you mean, sir? LORD GORING. During the Season, father, I only talk seriously on the first Tuesday in every month, from four to seven. LORD CAVERSHAM. Well, make it Tuesday, sir, make it Tuesday. LORD GORING. But it is after seven, father, and my doctor says I must not have any serious conversation after seven. It makes me talk in my sleep. LORD CAVERSHAM. Talk in your sleep, sir? What does that matter? You are not married. LORD GORING. No, father, I am not married. LORD CAVERSHAM. Hum! That is what I have come to talk to you about, sir. You have got to get married, and at once. Why, when I was your age, sir, I had been an inconsolable widower for three months, and was already paying my addresses to your admirable mother. Damme, sir, it is your duty to get married. You can't be always living for pleasure. Every man of position is married nowadays. Bachelors are not fashionable any more. They are a damaged lot. Too much is known about them. You must get a wife, sir. Look where your friend Robert Chiltern has got to by probity, hard work, and a sensible marriage with a good woman. Why don't you imitate him, sir? Why don't you take him for your model? LORD GORING. I think I shall, father. LORD CAVERSHAM. I wish you would, sir. Then I should be happy. At present I make your mother's life miserable on your account. You are heartless, sir, quite heartless. LORD GORING. I hope not, father. LORD CAVERSHAM. And it is high time for you to get married. You are thirty-four years of age, sir. LORD GORING. Yes, father, but I only admit to thirty-two--thirty-one and a half when I have a really good buttonhole. This buttonhole is not . . . trivial enough. LORD CAVERSHAM. I tell you you are thirty-four, sir. And there is a draught in your room, besides, which makes your conduct worse. Why did you tell me there was no draught, sir? I feel a draught, sir, I feel it distinctly. LORD GORING. So do I, father. It is a dreadful draught. I will come and see you to-morrow, father. We can talk over anything you like. Let me help you on with your cloak, father. LORD CAVERSHAM. No, sir; I have called this evening for a definite purpose, and I am going to see it through at all costs to my health or yours. Put down my cloak, sir. LORD GORING. Certainly, father. But let us go into another room. [_Rings bell_.] There is a dreadful draught here. [_Enter_ PHIPPS.] Phipps, is there a good fire in the smoking-room? PHIPPS. Yes, my lord. LORD GORING. Come in there, father. Your sneezes are quite heartrending. LORD CAVERSHAM. Well, sir, I suppose I have a right to sneeze when I choose? LORD GORING. [_Apologetically_.] Quite so, father. I was merely expressing sympathy. LORD CAVERSHAM. Oh, damn sympathy. There is a great deal too much of that sort of thing going on nowadays. LORD GORING. I quite agree with you, father. If there was less sympathy in the world there would be less trouble in the world. LORD CAVERSHAM. [_Going towards the smoking-room_.] That is a paradox, sir. I hate paradoxes. LORD GORING. So do I, father. Everybody one meets is a paradox nowadays. It is a great bore. It makes society so obvious. LORD CAVERSHAM. [_Turning round_, _and looking at his son beneath his bushy eyebrows_.] Do you always really understand what you say, sir? LORD GORING. [_After some hesitation_.] Yes, father, if I listen attentively. LORD CAVERSHAM. [_Indignantly_.] If you listen attentively! . . . Conceited young puppy! [_Goes off grumbling into the smoking-room_. PHIPPS _enters_.] LORD GORING. Phipps, there is a lady coming to see me this evening on particular business. Show her into the drawing-room when she arrives. You understand? PHIPPS. Yes, my lord. LORD GORING. It is a matter of the gravest importance, Phipps. PHIPPS. I understand, my lord. LORD GORING. No one else is to be admitted, under any circumstances. PHIPPS. I understand, my lord. [_Bell rings_.] LORD GORING. Ah! that is probably the lady. I shall see her myself. [_Just as he is going towards the door_ LORD CAVERSHAM _enters from the smoking-room_.] LORD CAVERSHAM. Well, sir? am I to wait attendance on you? LORD GORING. [_Considerably perplexed_.] In a moment, father. Do excuse me. [LORD CAVERSHAM _goes back_.] Well, remember my instructions, Phipps--into that room. PHIPPS. Yes, my lord. [LORD GORING _goes into the smoking-room_. HAROLD, _the footman shows_ MRS. CHEVELEY _in_. _Lamia-like_, _she is in green and silver_. _She has a cloak of black satin_, _lined with dead rose-leaf silk_.] HAROLD. What name, madam? MRS. CHEVELEY. [_To_ PHIPPS, _who advances towards her_.] Is Lord Goring not here? I was told he was at home? PHIPPS. His lordship is engaged at present with Lord Caversham, madam. [_Turns a cold_, _glassy eye on_ HAROLD, _who at once retires_.] MRS. CHEVELEY. [_To herself_.] How very filial! PHIPPS. His lordship told me to ask you, madam, to be kind enough to wait in the drawing-room for him. His lordship will come to you there. MRS. CHEVELEY. [_With a look of surprise_.] Lord Goring expects me? PHIPPS. Yes, madam. MRS. CHEVELEY. Are you quite sure? PHIPPS. His lordship told me that if a lady called I was to ask her to wait in the drawing-room. [_Goes to the door of the drawing-room and opens it_.] His lordship's directions on the subject were very precise. MRS. CHEVELEY. [_To herself_] How thoughtful of him! To expect the unexpected shows a thoroughly modern intellect. [_Goes towards the drawing-room and looks in_.] Ugh! How dreary a bachelor's drawing-room always looks. I shall have to alter all this. [PHIPPS _brings the lamp from the writing-table_.] No, I don't care for that lamp. It is far too glaring. Light some candles. PHIPPS. [_Replaces lamp_.] Certainly, madam. MRS. CHEVELEY. I hope the candles have very becoming shades. PHIPPS. We have had no complaints about them, madam, as yet. [_Passes into the drawing-room and begins to light the candles_.] MRS. CHEVELEY. [_To herself_.] I wonder what woman he is waiting for to-night. It will be delightful to catch him. Men always look so silly when they are caught. And they are always being caught. [_Looks about room and approaches the writing-table_.] What a very interesting room! What a very interesting picture! Wonder what his correspondence is like. [_Takes up letters_.] Oh, what a very uninteresting correspondence! Bills and cards, debts and dowagers! Who on earth writes to him on pink paper? How silly to write on pink paper! It looks like the beginning of a middle-class romance. Romance should never begin with sentiment. It should begin with science and end with a settlement. [_Puts letter down_, _then takes it up again_.] I know that handwriting. That is Gertrude Chiltern's. I remember it perfectly. The ten commandments in every stroke of the pen, and the moral law all over the page. Wonder what Gertrude is writing to him about? Something horrid about me, I suppose. How I detest that woman! [_Reads it_.] 'I trust you. I want you. I am coming to you. Gertrude.' 'I trust you. I want you. I am coming to you.' [_A look of triumph comes over her face_. _She is just about to steal the letter_, _when_ PHIPPS _comes in_.] PHIPPS. The candles in the drawing-room are lit, madam, as you directed. MRS. CHEVELEY. Thank you. [_Rises hastily and slips the letter under a large silver-cased blotting-book that is lying on the table_.] PHIPPS. I trust the shades will be to your liking, madam. They are the most becoming we have. They are the same as his lordship uses himself when he is dressing for dinner. MRS. CHEVELEY. [_With a smile_.] Then I am sure they will be perfectly right. PHIPPS. [_Gravely_.] Thank you, madam. [MRS. CHEVELEY _goes into the drawing-room_. PHIPPS _closes the door and retires_. _The door is then slowly opened_, _and_ MRS. CHEVELEY _comes out and creeps stealthily towards the writing-table_. _Suddenly voices are heard from the smoking-room_. MRS. CHEVELEY _grows pale_, _and stops_. _The voices grow louder_, _and she goes back into the drawing-room_, _biting her lip_.] [_Enter_ LORD GORING _and_ LORD CAVERSHAM.] LORD GORING. [_Expostulating_.] My dear father, if I am to get married, surely you will allow me to choose the time, place, and person? Particularly the person. LORD CAVERSHAM. [_Testily_.] That is a matter for me, sir. You would probably make a very poor choice. It is I who should be consulted, not you. There is property at stake. It is not a matter for affection. Affection comes later on in married life. LORD GORING. Yes. In married life affection comes when people thoroughly dislike each other, father, doesn't it? [_Puts on_ LORD CAVERSHAM'S _cloak for him_.] LORD CAVERSHAM. Certainly, sir. I mean certainly not, air. You are talking very foolishly to-night. What I say is that marriage is a matter for common sense. LORD GORING. But women who have common sense are so curiously plain, father, aren't they? Of course I only speak from hearsay. LORD CAVERSHAM. No woman, plain or pretty, has any common sense at all, sir. Common sense is the privilege of our sex. LORD GORING. Quite so. And we men are so self-sacrificing that we never use it, do we, father? LORD CAVERSHAM. I use it, sir. I use nothing else. LORD GORING. So my mother tells me. LORD CAVERSHAM. It is the secret of your mother's happiness. You are very heartless, sir, very heartless. LORD GORING. I hope not, father. [_Goes out for a moment_. _Then returns_, _looking rather put out_, _with_ SIR ROBERT CHILTERN.] SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. My dear Arthur, what a piece of good luck meeting you on the doorstep! Your servant had just told me you were not at home. How extraordinary! LORD GORING. The fact is, I am horribly busy to-night, Robert, and I gave orders I was not at home to any one. Even my father had a comparatively cold reception. He complained of a draught the whole time. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Ah! you must be at home to me, Arthur. You are my best friend. Perhaps by to-morrow you will be my only friend. My wife has discovered everything. LORD GORING. Ah! I guessed as much! SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Looking at him_.] Really! How? LORD GORING. [_After some hesitation_.] Oh, merely by something in the expression of your face as you came in. Who told her? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Mrs. Cheveley herself. And the woman I love knows that I began my career with an act of low dishonesty, that I built up my life upon sands of shame--that I sold, like a common huckster, the secret that had been intrusted to me as a man of honour. I thank heaven poor Lord Radley died without knowing that I betrayed him. I would to God I had died before I had been so horribly tempted, or had fallen so low. [_Burying his face in his hands_.] LORD GORING. [_After a pause_.] You have heard nothing from Vienna yet, in answer to your wire? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Looking up_.] Yes; I got a telegram from the first secretary at eight o'clock to-night. LORD GORING. Well? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Nothing is absolutely known against her. On the contrary, she occupies a rather high position in society. It is a sort of open secret that Baron Arnheim left her the greater portion of his immense fortune. Beyond that I can learn nothing. LORD GORING. She doesn't turn out to be a spy, then? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Oh! spies are of no use nowadays. Their profession is over. The newspapers do their work instead. LORD GORING. And thunderingly well they do it. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Arthur, I am parched with thirst. May I ring for something? Some hock and seltzer? LORD GORING. Certainly. Let me. [_Rings the bell_.] SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Thanks! I don't know what to do, Arthur, I don't know what to do, and you are my only friend. But what a friend you are--the one friend I can trust. I can trust you absolutely, can't I? [_Enter_ PHIPPS.] LORD GORING. My dear Robert, of course. Oh! [_To_ PHIPPS.] Bring some hock and seltzer. PHIPPS. Yes, my lord. LORD GORING. And Phipps! PHIPPS. Yes, my lord. LORD GORING. Will you excuse me for a moment, Robert? I want to give some directions to my servant. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Certainly. LORD GORING. When that lady calls, tell her that I am not expected home this evening. Tell her that I have been suddenly called out of town. You understand? PHIPPS. The lady is in that room, my lord. You told me to show her into that room, my lord. LORD GORING. You did perfectly right. [_Exit_ PHIPPS.] What a mess I am in. No; I think I shall get through it. I'll give her a lecture through the door. Awkward thing to manage, though. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Arthur, tell me what I should do. My life seems to have crumbled about me. I am a ship without a rudder in a night without a star. LORD GORING. Robert, you love your wife, don't you? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I love her more than anything in the world. I used to think ambition the great thing. It is not. Love is the great thing in the world. There is nothing but love, and I love her. But I am defamed in her eyes. I am ignoble in her eyes. There is a wide gulf between us now. She has found me out, Arthur, she has found me out. LORD GORING. Has she never in her life done some folly--some indiscretion--that she should not forgive your sin? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. My wife! Never! She does not know what weakness or temptation is. I am of clay like other men. She stands apart as good women do--pitiless in her perfection--cold and stern and without mercy. But I love her, Arthur. We are childless, and I have no one else to love, no one else to love me. Perhaps if God had sent us children she might have been kinder to me. But God has given us a lonely house. And she has cut my heart in two. Don't let us talk of it. I was brutal to her this evening. But I suppose when sinners talk to saints they are brutal always. I said to her things that were hideously true, on my side, from my stand-point, from the standpoint of men. But don't let us talk of that. LORD GORING. Your wife will forgive you. Perhaps at this moment she is forgiving you. She loves you, Robert. Why should she not forgive? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. God grant it! God grant it! [_Buries his face in his hands_.] But there is something more I have to tell you, Arthur. [_Enter_ PHIPPS _with drinks_.] PHIPPS. [_Hands hock and seltzer to_ SIR ROBERT CHILTERN.] Hock and seltzer, sir. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Thank you. LORD GORING. Is your carriage here, Robert? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. No; I walked from the club. LORD GORING. Sir Robert will take my cab, Phipps. PHIPPS. Yes, my lord. [_Exit_.] LORD GORING. Robert, you don't mind my sending you away? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Arthur, you must let me stay for five minutes. I have made up my mind what I am going to do to-night in the House. The debate on the Argentine Canal is to begin at eleven. [_A chair falls in the drawing-room_.] What is that? LORD GORING. Nothing. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I heard a chair fall in the next room. Some one has been listening. LORD GORING. No, no; there is no one there. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. There is some one. There are lights in the room, and the door is ajar. Some one has been listening to every secret of my life. Arthur, what does this mean? LORD GORING. Robert, you are excited, unnerved. I tell you there is no one in that room. Sit down, Robert. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Do you give me your word that there is no one there? LORD GORING. Yes. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Your word of honour? [_Sits down_.] LORD GORING. Yes. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Rises_.] Arthur, let me see for myself. LORD GORING. No, no. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. If there is no one there why should I not look in that room? Arthur, you must let me go into that room and satisfy myself. Let me know that no eavesdropper has heard my life's secret. Arthur, you don't realise what I am going through. LORD GORING. Robert, this must stop. I have told you that there is no one in that room--that is enough. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Rushes to the door of the room_.] It is not enough. I insist on going into this room. You have told me there is no one there, so what reason can you have for refusing me? LORD GORING. For God's sake, don't! There is some one there. Some one whom you must not see. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Ah, I thought so! LORD GORING. I forbid you to enter that room. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Stand back. My life is at stake. And I don't care who is there. I will know who it is to whom I have told my secret and my shame. [_Enters room_.] LORD GORING. Great heavens! his own wife! [SIR ROBERT CHILTERN _comes back_, _with a look of scorn and anger on his face_.] SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. What explanation have you to give me for the presence of that woman here? LORD GORING. Robert, I swear to you on my honour that that lady is stainless and guiltless of all offence towards you. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. She is a vile, an infamous thing! LORD GORING. Don't say that, Robert! It was for your sake she came here. It was to try and save you she came here. She loves you and no one else. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. You are mad. What have I to do with her intrigues with you? Let her remain your mistress! You are well suited to each other. She, corrupt and shameful--you, false as a friend, treacherous as an enemy even-- LORD GORING. It is not true, Robert. Before heaven, it is not true. In her presence and in yours I will explain all. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Let me pass, sir. You have lied enough upon your word of honour. [SIR ROBERT CHILTERN _goes out_. LORD GORING _rushes to the door of the drawing-room_, _when_ MRS. CHEVELEY _comes out_, _looking radiant and much amused_.] MRS. CHEVELEY. [_With a mock curtsey_] Good evening, Lord Goring! LORD GORING. Mrs. Cheveley! Great heavens! . . . May I ask what you were doing in my drawing-room? MRS. CHEVELEY. Merely listening. I have a perfect passion for listening through keyholes. One always hears such wonderful things through them. LORD GORING. Doesn't that sound rather like tempting Providence? MRS. CHEVELEY. Oh! surely Providence can resist temptation by this time. [_Makes a sign to him to take her cloak off_, _which he does_.] LORD GORING. I am glad you have called. I am going to give you some good advice. MRS. CHEVELEY. Oh! pray don't. One should never give a woman anything that she can't wear in the evening. LORD GORING. I see you are quite as wilful as you used to be. MRS. CHEVELEY. Far more! I have greatly improved. I have had more experience. LORD GORING. Too much experience is a dangerous thing. Pray have a cigarette. Half the pretty women in London smoke cigarettes. Personally I prefer the other half. MRS. CHEVELEY. Thanks. I never smoke. My dressmaker wouldn't like it, and a woman's first duty in life is to her dressmaker, isn't it? What the second duty is, no one has as yet discovered. LORD GORING. You have come here to sell me Robert Chiltern's letter, haven't you? MRS. CHEVELEY. To offer it to you on conditions. How did you guess that? LORD GORING. Because you haven't mentioned the subject. Have you got it with you? MRS. CHEVELEY. [_Sitting down_.] Oh, no! A well-made dress has no pockets. LORD GORING. What is your price for it? MRS. CHEVELEY. How absurdly English you are! The English think that a cheque-book can solve every problem in life. Why, my dear Arthur, I have very much more money than you have, and quite as much as Robert Chiltern has got hold of. Money is not what I want. LORD GORING. What do you want then, Mrs. Cheveley? MRS. CHEVELEY. Why don't you call me Laura? LORD GORING. I don't like the name. MRS. CHEVELEY. You used to adore it. LORD GORING. Yes: that's why. [MRS. CHEVELEY _motions to him to sit down beside her_. _He smiles_, _and does so_.] MRS. CHEVELEY. Arthur, you loved me once. LORD GORING. Yes. MRS. CHEVELEY. And you asked me to be your wife. LORD GORING. That was the natural result of my loving you. MRS. CHEVELEY. And you threw me over because you saw, or said you saw, poor old Lord Mortlake trying to have a violent flirtation with me in the conservatory at Tenby. LORD GORING. I am under the impression that my lawyer settled that matter with you on certain terms . . . dictated by yourself. MRS. CHEVELEY. At that time I was poor; you were rich. LORD GORING. Quite so. That is why you pretended to love me. MRS. CHEVELEY. [_Shrugging her shoulders_.] Poor old Lord Mortlake, who had only two topics of conversation, his gout and his wife! I never could quite make out which of the two he was talking about. He used the most horrible language about them both. Well, you were silly, Arthur. Why, Lord Mortlake was never anything more to me than an amusement. One of those utterly tedious amusements one only finds at an English country house on an English country Sunday. I don't think any one at all morally responsible for what he or she does at an English country house. LORD GORING. Yes. I know lots of people think that. MRS. CHEVELEY. I loved you, Arthur. LORD GORING. My dear Mrs. Cheveley, you have always been far too clever to know anything about love. MRS. CHEVELEY. I did love you. And you loved me. You know you loved me; and love is a very wonderful thing. I suppose that when a man has once loved a woman, he will do anything for her, except continue to love her? [_Puts her hand on his_.] LORD GORING. [_Taking his hand away quietly_.] Yes: except that. MRS. CHEVELEY. [_After a pause_.] I am tired of living abroad. I want to come back to London. I want to have a charming house here. I want to have a salon. If one could only teach the English how to talk, and the Irish how to listen, society here would be quite civilised. Besides, I have arrived at the romantic stage. When I saw you last night at the Chilterns', I knew you were the only person I had ever cared for, if I ever have cared for anybody, Arthur. And so, on the morning of the day you marry me, I will give you Robert Chiltern's letter. That is my offer. I will give it to you now, if you promise to marry me. LORD GORING. Now? MRS. CHEVELEY. [_Smiling_.] To-morrow. LORD GORING. Are you really serious? MRS. CHEVELEY. Yes, quite serious. LORD GORING. I should make you a very bad husband. MRS. CHEVELEY. I don't mind bad husbands. I have had two. They amused me immensely. LORD GORING. You mean that you amused yourself immensely, don't you? MRS. CHEVELEY. What do you know about my married life? LORD GORING. Nothing: but I can read it like a book. MRS. CHEVELEY. What book? LORD GORING. [_Rising_.] The Book of Numbers. MRS. CHEVELEY. Do you think it is quite charming of you to be so rude to a woman in your own house? LORD GORING. In the case of very fascinating women, sex is a challenge, not a defence. MRS. CHEVELEY. I suppose that is meant for a compliment. My dear Arthur, women are never disarmed by compliments. Men always are. That is the difference between the two sexes. LORD GORING. Women are never disarmed by anything, as far as I know them. MRS. CHEVELEY. [_After a pause_.] Then you are going to allow your greatest friend, Robert Chiltern, to be ruined, rather than marry some one who really has considerable attractions left. I thought you would have risen to some great height of self-sacrifice, Arthur. I think you should. And the rest of your life you could spend in contemplating your own perfections. LORD GORING. Oh! I do that as it is. And self-sacrifice is a thing that should be put down by law. It is so demoralising to the people for whom one sacrifices oneself. They always go to the bad. MRS. CHEVELEY. As if anything could demoralise Robert Chiltern! You seem to forget that I know his real character. LORD GORING. What you know about him is not his real character. It was an act of folly done in his youth, dishonourable, I admit, shameful, I admit, unworthy of him, I admit, and therefore . . . not his true character. MRS. CHEVELEY. How you men stand up for each other! LORD GORING. How you women war against each other! MRS. CHEVELEY. [_Bitterly_.] I only war against one woman, against Gertrude Chiltern. I hate her. I hate her now more than ever. LORD GORING. Because you have brought a real tragedy into her life, I suppose. MRS. CHEVELEY. [_With a sneer_.] Oh, there is only one real tragedy in a woman's life. The fact that her past is always her lover, and her future invariably her husband. LORD GORING. Lady Chiltern knows nothing of the kind of life to which you are alluding. MRS. CHEVELEY. A woman whose size in gloves is seven and three-quarters never knows much about anything. You know Gertrude has always worn seven and three-quarters? That is one of the reasons why there was never any moral sympathy between us. . . . Well, Arthur, I suppose this romantic interview may be regarded as at an end. You admit it was romantic, don't you? For the privilege of being your wife I was ready to surrender a great prize, the climax of my diplomatic career. You decline. Very well. If Sir Robert doesn't uphold my Argentine scheme, I expose him. Voila tout. LORD GORING. You mustn't do that. It would be vile, horrible, infamous. MRS. CHEVELEY. [_Shrugging her shoulders_.] Oh! don't use big words. They mean so little. It is a commercial transaction. That is all. There is no good mixing up sentimentality in it. I offered to sell Robert Chiltern a certain thing. If he won't pay me my price, he will have to pay the world a greater price. There is no more to be said. I must go. Good-bye. Won't you shake hands? LORD GORING. With you? No. Your transaction with Robert Chiltern may pass as a loathsome commercial transaction of a loathsome commercial age; but you seem to have forgotten that you came here to-night to talk of love, you whose lips desecrated the word love, you to whom the thing is a book closely sealed, went this afternoon to the house of one of the most noble and gentle women in the world to degrade her husband in her eyes, to try and kill her love for him, to put poison in her heart, and bitterness in her life, to break her idol, and, it may be, spoil her soul. That I cannot forgive you. That was horrible. For that there can be no forgiveness. MRS. CHEVELEY. Arthur, you are unjust to me. Believe me, you are quite unjust to me. I didn't go to taunt Gertrude at all. I had no idea of doing anything of the kind when I entered. I called with Lady Markby simply to ask whether an ornament, a jewel, that I lost somewhere last night, had been found at the Chilterns'. If you don't believe me, you can ask Lady Markby. She will tell you it is true. The scene that occurred happened after Lady Markby had left, and was really forced on me by Gertrude's rudeness and sneers. I called, oh!--a little out of malice if you like--but really to ask if a diamond brooch of mine had been found. That was the origin of the whole thing. LORD GORING. A diamond snake-brooch with a ruby? MRS. CHEVELEY. Yes. How do you know? LORD GORING. Because it is found. In point of fact, I found it myself, and stupidly forgot to tell the butler anything about it as I was leaving. [_Goes over to the writing-table and pulls out the drawers_.] It is in this drawer. No, that one. This is the brooch, isn't it? [_Holds up the brooch_.] MRS. CHEVELEY. Yes. I am so glad to get it back. It was . . a present. LORD GORING. Won't you wear it? MRS. CHEVELEY. Certainly, if you pin it in. [LORD GORING _suddenly clasps it on her arm_.] Why do you put it on as a bracelet? I never knew it could he worn as a bracelet. LORD GORING. Really? MRS. CHEVELEY. [_Holding out her handsome arm_.] No; but it looks very well on me as a bracelet, doesn't it? LORD GORING. Yes; much better than when I saw it last. MRS. CHEVELEY. When did you see it last? LORD GORING. [_Calmly_.] Oh, ten years ago, on Lady Berkshire, from whom you stole it. MRS. CHEVELEY. [_Starting_.] What do you mean? LORD GORING. I mean that you stole that ornament from my cousin, Mary Berkshire, to whom I gave it when she was married. Suspicion fell on a wretched servant, who was sent away in disgrace. I recognised it last night. I determined to say nothing about it till I had found the thief. I have found the thief now, and I have heard her own confession. MRS. CHEVELEY. [_Tossing her head_.] It is not true. LORD GORING. You know it is true. Why, thief is written across your face at this moment. MRS. CHEVELEY. I will deny the whole affair from beginning to end. I will say that I have never seen this wretched thing, that it was never in my possession. [MRS. CHEVELEY _tries to get the bracelet off her arm_, _but fails_. LORD GORING _looks on amused_. _Her thin fingers tear at the jewel to no purpose_. _A curse breaks from her_.] LORD GORING. The drawback of stealing a thing, Mrs. Cheveley, is that one never knows how wonderful the thing that one steals is. You can't get that bracelet off, unless you know where the spring is. And I see you don't know where the spring is. It is rather difficult to find. MRS. CHEVELEY. You brute! You coward! [_She tries again to unclasp the bracelet_, _but fails_.] LORD GORING. Oh! don't use big words. They mean so little. MRS. CHEVELEY. [_Again tears at the bracelet in a paroxysm of rage_, _with inarticulate sounds_. _Then stops_, _and looks at_ LORD GORING.] What are you going to do? LORD GORING. I am going to ring for my servant. He is an admirable servant. Always comes in the moment one rings for him. When he comes I will tell him to fetch the police. MRS. CHEVELEY. [_Trembling_.] The police? What for? LORD GORING. To-morrow the Berkshires will prosecute you. That is what the police are for. MRS. CHEVELEY. [_Is now in an agony of physical terror_. _Her face is distorted_. _Her mouth awry_. _A mask has fallen from her_. _She it_, _for the moment_, _dreadful to look at_.] Don't do that. I will do anything you want. Anything in the world you want. LORD GORING. Give me Robert Chiltern's letter. MRS. CHEVELEY. Stop! Stop! Let me have time to think. LORD GORING. Give me Robert Chiltern's letter. MRS. CHEVELEY. I have not got it with me. I will give it to you to-morrow. LORD GORING. You know you are lying. Give it to me at once. [MRS. CHEVELEY _pulls the letter out_, _and hands it to him_. _She is horribly pale_.] This is it? MRS. CHEVELEY. [_In a hoarse voice_.] Yes. LORD GORING. [_Takes the letter_, _examines it_, _sighs_, _and burns it with the lamp_.] For so well-dressed a woman, Mrs. Cheveley, you have moments of admirable common sense. I congratulate you. MRS. CHEVELEY. [_Catches sight of_ LADY CHILTERN'S _letter_, _the cover of which is just showing from under the blotting-book_.] Please get me a glass of water. LORD GORING. Certainly. [_Goes to the corner of the room and pours out a glass of water_. _While his back is turned_ MRS. CHEVELEY _steals_ LADY CHILTERN'S _letter_. _When_ LORD GORING _returns the glass she refuses it with a gesture_.] MRS. CHEVELEY. Thank you. Will you help me on with my cloak? LORD GORING. With pleasure. [_Puts her cloak on_.] MRS. CHEVELEY. Thanks. I am never going to try to harm Robert Chiltern again. LORD GORING. Fortunately you have not the chance, Mrs. Cheveley. MRS. CHEVELEY. Well, if even I had the chance, I wouldn't. On the contrary, I am going to render him a great service. LORD GORING. I am charmed to hear it. It is a reformation. MRS. CHEVELEY. Yes. I can't bear so upright a gentleman, so honourable an English gentleman, being so shamefully deceived, and so-- LORD GORING. Well? MRS. CHEVELEY. I find that somehow Gertrude Chiltern's dying speech and confession has strayed into my pocket. LORD GORING. What do you mean? MRS. CHEVELEY. [_With a bitter note of triumph in her voice_.] I mean that I am going to send Robert Chiltern the love-letter his wife wrote to you to-night. LORD GORING. Love-letter? MRS. CHEVELEY. [_Laughing_.] 'I want you. I trust you. I am coming to you. Gertrude.' [LORD GORING _rushes to the bureau and takes up the envelope_, _finds is empty_, _and turns round_.] LORD GORING. You wretched woman, must you always be thieving? Give me back that letter. I'll take it from you by force. You shall not leave my room till I have got it. [_He rushes towards her_, _but_ MRS. CHEVELEY _at once puts her hand on the electric bell that is on the table_. _The bell sounds with shrill reverberations_, _and_ PHIPPS _enters_.] MRS. CHEVELEY. [_After a pause_.] Lord Goring merely rang that you should show me out. Good-night, Lord Goring! [_Goes out followed by_ PHIPPS. _Her face is illumined with evil triumph_. _There is joy in her eyes_. _Youth seems to have come back to her_. _Her last glance is like a swift arrow_. LORD GORING _bites his lip_, _and lights his a cigarette_.] ACT DROPS

Act III - Part One

https://web.archive.org/web/20210118103913/https://www.sparknotes.com/drama/idealhusband/section5/

Act III opens in Lord Goring's library with an impeccably dressed Goring and his impassive servant Phipps, named in the stage notes as the ideal butler. A short exchange ensues, in which Goring, trying on a new buttonhole, delivers a series of epigrams regarding fashion, vulgarity, falsehood, and self-love to the yes-saying Phipps. Phipps then brings Goring his letters, and the Lord discovers that Lady Chiltern has sent him a note on pink paper imploring him for help: "I want you. I trust you. I am coming to you." Though it is signed Gertrude, it is addressed to no one. Though it is late, Goring prepares for her arrival. Phipps, however, abruptly announces the arrival of his father, Lord Caversham. Goring receives him and the two discuss the prospect of Goring's marriage and his adopting a serious career, Caversham posing Sir Robert as an ideal model. Sending Caversham to the smoking room, Goring quickly tells Phipps that he expects a female visitor and instructs him to show her into the drawing room. Suddenly a bell rings, and Goring moves to answer but is intercepted by Caversham and must accompany him to the smoking room. Mrs. Cheveley then appears on the scene; Phipps informs her of Goring's instructions and shows her into the drawing room. Pleased at the prospect of catching him out, Cheveley rifles through his papers and discovers Lady Chiltern's letter. Just as she moves to steal it, Phipps enters and shows her into the drawing room. Upon his departure, she re-emerges and creeps toward the writing table anew, but must retire upon hearing the voices of Goring and Caversham. After a brief exchange on marriage and common sense, Goring leads Caversham to the door, only to return, somewhat haplessly, with the unexpected Sir Robert. Sir Robert reports that Lady Chiltern knows all; moreover, the Vienna embassy has failed to excavate any secret scandal from Mrs. Cheveley's past. Goring keeps Lady Chiltern's request for assistance secret. Phipps then enters, and Goring, taking him aside for further instruction, learns that the lady he expects waits in the drawing room. He decides to give the would-be Lady Chiltern a lecture through the door, prompting Sir Robert to declare his love for his wife and suggesting that she has already forgiven him. Just as Sir Robert is about to reveal what he plans to tell the House regarding the canal scheme, he hears a chair fall in the next room. Though Goring hopelessly tells his friend no one is in the next room--this deferral of the inevitable raising the scene's tension--Sir Robert bursts through and of course discovers Mrs. Cheveley. He curses the unsuspecting Goring for his treachery and storms out; Mrs. Cheveley emerges, beaming with bemusement.

One can divide this part of Act III according to its two major exchanges: one between Lord Goring and his butler Phipps and another with between Goring and his father, Lord Caversham. Both comment on the dandy lifestyle. The opening exchange Goring and Phipps is a comic interlude, coming on the heels of the wrenching confrontation between the Chilterns. Phipps is described in the stage notes as a "mask with a manner," a man less communicative than the Sphinx. Representing the "dominance of form," such a figure is a familiar comic device, producing a certain "dead-pan" humor that requires such an impenetrable, impassive facade. The scene is structured by an exchange between Goring's pronouncements and Phipps' repeated response in the affirmative. Goring's epigrams concern the "lifelong romance" of narcissism, reducing a number of oppositions to one between "other people" and "oneself." Thus the vulgar is what others do, the unfashionable what others wear, and the false what others hold true. This exchange artfully reinforces Goring's narcissism with an interlocutor who responds with an indifferent "yes." Thus the butler serves as a sort of mirror to Goring's narcissism; as it is certain that his interlocutor will agree with him, Goring is even more "talking to himself" than if in soliloquy. Goring's narcissism is significant in terms of the mores of his age. As discussed in the Context, the dandy stands in rebellion to the values of the Victorian era, an era defined by a devotion to family life, public and private responsibility, and obedience to law. Dandyism dispensed with these duties in the name of individual freedom and a self-centered concern with the frivolous . At the same time, Phipps reflects his master imperfectly. Not only does he fail to notice his lord's dress, he also gets the last laugh of the scene at Goring's expense, remarking stoically that the lower classes are "extremely fortunate" in losing their familial relations. Phipps's joke introduces the second exchange of this scene: a confrontation between father and son over the latter's bachelorhood and irresponsible way of life. The exchange between Goring and Caversham reveals the dandy in vexed relationship with the figure of paternal authority, particularly when the latter would correct the dandy's behavior. As Goring remarks in the following act, fathers should be neither seen nor heard in family life . As Goring is a figure of the new--presented in the stage notes as a man in "immediate relation" to modernity, making and mastering it--and Caversham the emblem of a generation past, their meeting represents a clash between modern and past lifestyles. Mrs. Cheveley's remarks from Act II have prefigured this showdown long before--namely, that nowadays fathers have much to learn from their sons with regards to the art of living, the only fine art modern times have produced. For Wilde, the modern lifestyle is precisely that of the dandy, eschewing duty and respectability for the pursuit of pleasure, beauty, pretence, wit, idleness, irrationality, and affectation: in short, everything Caversham abhors. In the encounter dramatized here, Caversham assaults Goring with fatherly advice, arguing that he cannot continue living for pleasure and that he should imitate Sir Robert's success: in light of Sir Robert's scandal, the irony of his counsel is not lost on us. In particular, Caversham insists that Goring find a proper marriage--that is, one that considers position and property before sentiment. As with all things for Caversham, it is a matter of "common sense." Obviously Goring cannot comply with his father's wishes. Underlying this generational clash is also dandyism's veneration of youthfulness as part of modern life. As Goring tells his father when the latter denounces his affectation of youth: "Youth isn't an affectation. Youth is an art." At the same time, the dandy is also often middle-aged: though he never admits it, Goring himself is in his mid-thirties. To some extent then, Goring appears as the overgrown child in his conversation with his father, refusing to take up the responsibilities of adulthood and living past his time as a young man. One wonders, moreover, if the dandy must always fear the threat of becoming outmoded: as Lady Markby notes earlier, the danger of being too modern lies in growing old-fashioned quite quickly. Along with these differences in values, what sets father and son apart is a marked difference in their speech, Goring running circles around his father with his wit. Caversham will continually request serious conversation, fall into senile--rather than affected--self-contradictions, and find himself unable to follow Goring's repartee. For example, at one point Caversham condemns one of Goring's expressions of sympathy, saying there is too much sympathy going on these days. Goring concurs, replying: "If there was less sympathy in the world, there would be less trouble in the world." Thus Goring willfully misapprehends his father's rebuke--that the modern world is overly sentimental--and plays on its literal meaning, taking the vague phrase to one of its ostensibly logical conclusions. The effect is to reveal the absurdity in Caversham's pronouncement. Caversham, of course does not know how to take his son's reply. Having not gotten the joke but noting the sophistry in his son's logic, Caversham responds: "That is a paradox sir. I hate paradoxes." Of course, Goring's repartee is less an example of paradox than the playful logic of the dandy. Thus son replies with a further set of twists: "So do I, father. Everybody one meets is a paradox nowadays. It is a great bore. It makes society so obvious." The term "paradox" as a structure of rhetoric now refers to paradox as a description of character. Moreover, being paradoxical--usually connoting obscurity and so on--becomes dull and obvious as an affectation "everyone" has come to adopt. To translate: it is quite boring that everyone you meet has become a paradox. If everyone is a paradox, then everyone is obvious. As with Goring's joke on sympathy, his dizzying repartee is not only surprising and delightful, but perhaps an occasion for insight--in this case on London Society--as well. Speaking ironically, sarcastically, hyperbolically, or paradoxically, Goring is--as he himself notes in Act II--quintessentially "liable to be misunderstood." Indeed, the capacity to cause and manipulate such moments of confusion is one of Goring's greatest powers. As the stage notes from Act I indicate, Goring is fond of this liability as it gains him "post of vantage" in the social arena; again, through his speech, he "makes and masters" modern social life.

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/885-chapters/act_iv.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/An Ideal Husband/section_6_part_0.txt

An Ideal Husband.act iv

act iv

{"name": "Act IV", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210118103913/https://www.sparknotes.com/drama/idealhusband/section7/", "summary": "Act IV returns us to Sir Robert's morning room with Lord Goring standing alone and looking bored. He rings the bell, and the footman informs him of his friends' whereabouts: Lady Chiltern has yet to leave the room, Mabel has returned from riding, and Lord Caversham has been waiting for Sir Robert in the library. Caversham emerges and raises the question of marriage anew, encouraging him to propose to Mabel even as he remains certain she will refuse. He also reveals that Sir Robert has roundly denounced the Argentine Canal scheme in the House of Commons, the press marking it as a turning point in his career. Mabel then appears and, ignoring Lord Goring for his failure to make their riding appointment, banters with Caversham at his expense. Upon Caversham's departure, Goring asks her hand in marriage. Notably, Goring's proposal shows him overwhelmed, imploring Mabel to be serious and revealing his fear of her refusal. Having made Goring beg, Mabel exclaims that all of London knows of her adoration for him and accepts; the two embrace and share a moment of bliss. Lady Chiltern then enters, and Mabel flees to the conservatory. Alone with Gertrude, Goring informs her of last night's events and warns her of Mrs. Cheveley's scheme regarding her pink letter. Once again Goring urges his listener to tell their spouse the truth; Lady Chiltern refuses and demands that the letter be intercepted. Just as they devise a scheme to waylay the letter, Sir Robert climbs up the stairs, note in hand. He misreads it entirely, believing it addressed to him. At Lord Goring's silent plea, Lady Chiltern accepts her husband's error; Goring passes into the conservatory. She then informs Sir Robert that the infamous letter has been destroyed, safeguarding his reputation forever. With great anxiety, Sir Robert haltingly proposes that he now retire from public life, and, to his dismay, Lady Chiltern eagerly lends her support to this moral sacrifice. Goring returns from the conservatory, reconciles with Sir Robert, and is about to ask for Mabel's hand when Lord Caversham comes on the scene. Caversham thoroughly congratulates Sir Robert on his recent speech against the canal scheme and informs him that the Prime Minister has offered him the Cabinet seat Caversham has just vacated. In other words, Sir Robert, with what Caversham describes as his \"high moral tone,\" is the successor Goring could never be. Having just promised an early retirement to his wife, however, Sir Robert sadly declines, and Lady Chiltern glowingly urges him to write the Prime Minister immediately with his regrets. The two leave the room together. Goring sends his disapprovingly bewildered father into the conservatory, explaining that Sir Robert's decision exemplifies his \"high moral tone.\" Comically, Caversham balks at this \"newfangled\" phrase, noting that in his day it was simply called \"idiocy.\" Lady Chiltern returns to the morning room. Goring then accuses her of \"playing Mrs. Cheveley's cards,\" thrusting her husband from public life just when they have saved him from public dishonor. He goes on to deliver an extended speech on the appropriate roles of man and wife to dissuade her. Sir Robert then emerges from off-stage and presents his letter; Lady Chiltern takes it and tears it up, repeating Goring's words. She has learned her lesson. The Chilterns share their own moment of bliss, and Lord Goring finally asks for Mabel's hand in marriage. On account of his discovery of Mrs. Cheveley at Goring's last night, however, Sir Robert cannot consent; Goring is left silent. Dramatically, Lady Chiltern thus reveals that Lord Goring expected her in his drawing room last night and that she authored the pink note as a request for his assistance. All reconcile, and Lady Chiltern writes Sir Robert's name at the top of her \"love letter.\" Mabel and Caversham then enter and, much to the latter's surprise, she announces her engagement with Goring. Caversham commands his son to be for Mabel an ideal husband at the risk of disinheritance; jokingly, Mabel recoils. \"An ideal husband!\" she exclaims. \"Oh, I don't think I should like that. It sounds like something in the next world.\" Goring can be what he likes; Mabel, overcome, only wants to be a \"real wife\" to him. All exit except for Sir Robert, who sits alone pensively as at the end of Act I. Lady Chiltern returns, and he asks if she loves or merely pities him. Lady Chiltern pledges her love and the beginning of a new life for them both.", "analysis": "As with the popular domestic comedies upon which An Ideal Husband is based, Act IV brings us to a culminating restoration of married life. All is set right: Sir Robert preserves his public image and indeed even advances in his career; the Chilterns' reunite; the young lovers, Goring and Mabel, come together as well. Rather than adhere strictly to a model of rising, climatic, and falling action, the act concludes the play with a series of dizzying complications--a misread note, a complex choreography of entrances, exits, and private conversations, confessions--that only resolve themselves at the very end. As we recall from Act III, Lady Chiltern naively writes her note to Goring as a plea for help: \"I want you. I trust you. I am coming to you.\" Notably, Mrs. Cheveley mocks this pink note as resembling the start of some \"middle class romance,\" suggesting Wilde's self-irony regarding his use of this stock device. Ultimately it comes to serve as a sort of second marriage certificate, symbolizing, with the inscription of Sir Robert's name, a restoration of the Chilterns' married life. Though Goring jokingly moves to reclaim the letter, it is clearly no longer meant for him. This restoration of the conjugal household occurs on rather conventional moral terms. Once again, the language of melodrama intervenes: there is a profusion of exclamations, sighs, and somewhat trite appeals to faith, love, charity, devotion, and onward as characters succumb to emotion. Lord Goring especially delivers these pronouncements on conjugal bliss. In particular, he makes a rousing speech to Lady Chiltern upon Sir Robert's decision to withdraw from public life that establishes the proper roles of man and woman in married life. We will sketch it briefly here. First, Goring argues that men and women alike are not worthy of sacrifices as terrible as the one Sir Robert faces. Lady Chiltern cannot allow Sir Robert to resign from public life especially, however, because Sir Robert is a man. Man's life remains of wider scope, deeper issues, and greater ambitions than woman's. Whereas a woman's life revolves in \"curves of emotions,\" man's progresses in \"lines of intellect.\" Consequently, women are not meant to judge men but to forgive them . Thus Lady Chiltern must assume the role that defines Victorian womanhood in its most conventional form: that of a forgiving and anodyne caregiver. Moreover, by demanding that Sir Robert exit public life, Lady Chiltern, according to Lord Goring, \" Mrs. Cheveley's cards\"--that is, she plays the part of the villainess rather than that of the heroine. What Goring means precisely by this accusation is somewhat unclear. Is the supposed fault she shares with Mrs. Cheveley is her use of love to bend her husband's will? In any case, Goring's speech leaves the audience with firmly established gender roles in the marital household that, to a contemporary reader especially, are quite disappointing. As noted above, Lady Chiltern will repeat his speech to Sir Robert verbatim, indicating that she has learned her lesson well. At the same time, as with the entire play, Act IV offers a critique of marriage that undermines this sentimental resolution. More precisely, Goring and Mabel's marriage serves as a sort of foil to the Chilterns'. As Mabel declares in one of the penultimate moments of the play, the \"ideal husband\" belongs to the next world; in their marriage, Goring can be whatever he wants. She, on the other hand, promises to be a \"real wife.\" Thus Mabel and Goring negotiate a union that dispenses with question regarding the ideal behavior of the married couple. Indeed, throughout the play they have assumed an amoral pose, disparaging the demands of duty and respectability. Earlier in the act, for example, Mabel remarks to Goring how \"on principle,\" she never does her duty; it always depresses her. She thus teases the lord with what one might describe as a \"false paradox\"--that is, a statement that is taken or misunderstood as amusingly paradoxical even as the terms involved are not necessarily contradictory. Read literally, Mabel's witticism suggests that the principles of these lovers demand precisely that they resist the notion of duty. Clearly then does Mabel end up on different footing than her sister-in-law, who has finally come to learn her duties to her husband."}

FOURTH ACT SCENE _Same as Act II_. [LORD GORING _is standing by the fireplace with his hands in his pockets_. _He is looking rather bored_.] LORD GORING. [_Pulls out his watch_, _inspects it_, _and rings the bell_.] It is a great nuisance. I can't find any one in this house to talk to. And I am full of interesting information. I feel like the latest edition of something or other. [_Enter servant_.] JAMES. Sir Robert is still at the Foreign Office, my lord. LORD GORING. Lady Chiltern not down yet? JAMES. Her ladyship has not yet left her room. Miss Chiltern has just come in from riding. LORD GORING. [_To himself_.] Ah! that is something. JAMES. Lord Caversham has been waiting some time in the library for Sir Robert. I told him your lordship was here. LORD GORING. Thank you! Would you kindly tell him I've gone? JAMES. [_Bowing_.] I shall do so, my lord. [_Exit servant_.] LORD GORING. Really, I don't want to meet my father three days running. It is a great deal too much excitement for any son. I hope to goodness he won't come up. Fathers should be neither seen nor heard. That is the only proper basis for family life. Mothers are different. Mothers are darlings. [_Throws himself down into a chair_, _picks up a paper and begins to read it_.] [_Enter_ LORD CAVERSHAM.] LORD CAVERSHAM. Well, sir, what are you doing here? Wasting your time as usual, I suppose? LORD GORING. [_Throws down paper and rises_.] My dear father, when one pays a visit it is for the purpose of wasting other people's time, not one's own. LORD CAVERSHAM. Have you been thinking over what I spoke to you about last night? LORD GORING. I have been thinking about nothing else. LORD CAVERSHAM. Engaged to be married yet? LORD GORING. [_Genially_.] Not yet: but I hope to be before lunch-time. LORD CAVERSHAM. [_Caustically_.] You can have till dinner-time if it would be of any convenience to you. LORD GORING. Thanks awfully, but I think I'd sooner be engaged before lunch. LORD CAVERSHAM. Humph! Never know when you are serious or not. LORD GORING. Neither do I, father. [_A pause_.] LORD CAVERSHAM. I suppose you have read _The Times_ this morning? LORD GORING. [_Airily_.] The Times? Certainly not. I only read _The Morning Post_. All that one should know about modern life is where the Duchesses are; anything else is quite demoralising. LORD CAVERSHAM. Do you mean to say you have not read _The Times_ leading article on Robert Chiltern's career? LORD GORING. Good heavens! No. What does it say? LORD CAVERSHAM. What should it say, sir? Everything complimentary, of course. Chiltern's speech last night on this Argentine Canal scheme was one of the finest pieces of oratory ever delivered in the House since Canning. LORD GORING. Ah! Never heard of Canning. Never wanted to. And did . . . did Chiltern uphold the scheme? LORD CAVERSHAM. Uphold it, sir? How little you know him! Why, he denounced it roundly, and the whole system of modern political finance. This speech is the turning-point in his career, as _The Times_ points out. You should read this article, sir. [_Opens_ The Times.] 'Sir Robert Chiltern . . . most rising of our young statesmen . . . Brilliant orator . . . Unblemished career . . . Well-known integrity of character . . . Represents what is best in English public life . . . Noble contrast to the lax morality so common among foreign politicians.' They will never say that of you, sir. LORD GORING. I sincerely hope not, father. However, I am delighted at what you tell me about Robert, thoroughly delighted. It shows he has got pluck. LORD CAVERSHAM. He has got more than pluck, sir, he has got genius. LORD GORING. Ah! I prefer pluck. It is not so common, nowadays, as genius is. LORD CAVERSHAM. I wish you would go into Parliament. LORD GORING. My dear father, only people who look dull ever get into the House of Commons, and only people who are dull ever succeed there. LORD CAVERSHAM. Why don't you try to do something useful in life? LORD GORING. I am far too young. LORD CAVERSHAM. [_Testily_.] I hate this affectation of youth, sir. It is a great deal too prevalent nowadays. LORD GORING. Youth isn't an affectation. Youth is an art. LORD CAVERSHAM. Why don't you propose to that pretty Miss Chiltern? LORD GORING. I am of a very nervous disposition, especially in the morning. LORD CAVERSHAM. I don't suppose there is the smallest chance of her accepting you. LORD GORING. I don't know how the betting stands to-day. LORD CAVERSHAM. If she did accept you she would be the prettiest fool in England. LORD GORING. That is just what I should like to marry. A thoroughly sensible wife would reduce me to a condition of absolute idiocy in less than six months. LORD CAVERSHAM. You don't deserve her, sir. LORD GORING. My dear father, if we men married the women we deserved, we should have a very bad time of it. [_Enter_ MABEL CHILTERN.] MABEL CHILTERN. Oh! . . . How do you do, Lord Caversham? I hope Lady Caversham is quite well? LORD CAVERSHAM. Lady Caversham is as usual, as usual. LORD GORING. Good morning, Miss Mabel! MABEL CHILTERN. [_Taking no notice at all of_ LORD GORING, _and addressing herself exclusively to_ LORD CAVERSHAM.] And Lady Caversham's bonnets . . . are they at all better? LORD CAVERSHAM. They have had a serious relapse, I am sorry to say. LORD GORING. Good morning, Miss Mabel! MABEL CHILTERN. [_To_ LORD CAVERSHAM.] I hope an operation will not be necessary. LORD CAVERSHAM. [_Smiling at her pertness_.] If it is, we shall have to give Lady Caversham a narcotic. Otherwise she would never consent to have a feather touched. LORD GORING. [_With increased emphasis_.] Good morning, Miss Mabel! MABEL CHILTERN. [_Turning round with feigned surprise_.] Oh, are you here? Of course you understand that after your breaking your appointment I am never going to speak to you again. LORD GORING. Oh, please don't say such a thing. You are the one person in London I really like to have to listen to me. MABEL CHILTERN. Lord Goring, I never believe a single word that either you or I say to each other. LORD CAVERSHAM. You are quite right, my dear, quite right . . . as far as he is concerned, I mean. MABEL CHILTERN. Do you think you could possibly make your son behave a little better occasionally? Just as a change. LORD CAVERSHAM. I regret to say, Miss Chiltern, that I have no influence at all over my son. I wish I had. If I had, I know what I would make him do. MABEL CHILTERN. I am afraid that he has one of those terribly weak natures that are not susceptible to influence. LORD CAVERSHAM. He is very heartless, very heartless. LORD GORING. It seems to me that I am a little in the way here. MABEL CHILTERN. It is very good for you to be in the way, and to know what people say of you behind your back. LORD GORING. I don't at all like knowing what people say of me behind my back. It makes me far too conceited. LORD CAVERSHAM. After that, my dear, I really must bid you good morning. MABEL CHILTERN. Oh! I hope you are not going to leave me all alone with Lord Goring? Especially at such an early hour in the day. LORD CAVERSHAM. I am afraid I can't take him with me to Downing Street. It is not the Prime Minster's day for seeing the unemployed. [_Shakes hands with_ MABEL CHILTERN, _takes up his hat and stick_, _and goes out_, _with a parting glare of indignation at_ LORD GORING.] MABEL CHILTERN. [_Takes up roses and begins to arrange them in a bowl on the table_.] People who don't keep their appointments in the Park are horrid. LORD GORING. Detestable. MABEL CHILTERN. I am glad you admit it. But I wish you wouldn't look so pleased about it. LORD GORING. I can't help it. I always look pleased when I am with you. MABEL CHILTERN. [_Sadly_.] Then I suppose it is my duty to remain with you? LORD GORING. Of course it is. MABEL CHILTERN. Well, my duty is a thing I never do, on principle. It always depresses me. So I am afraid I must leave you. LORD GORING. Please don't, Miss Mabel. I have something very particular to say to you. MABEL CHILTERN. [_Rapturously_.] Oh! is it a proposal? LORD GORING. [_Somewhat taken aback_.] Well, yes, it is--I am bound to say it is. MABEL CHILTERN. [_With a sigh of pleasure_.] I am so glad. That makes the second to-day. LORD GORING. [_Indignantly_.] The second to-day? What conceited ass has been impertinent enough to dare to propose to you before I had proposed to you? MABEL CHILTERN. Tommy Trafford, of course. It is one of Tommy's days for proposing. He always proposes on Tuesdays and Thursdays, during the Season. LORD GORING. You didn't accept him, I hope? MABEL CHILTERN. I make it a rule never to accept Tommy. That is why he goes on proposing. Of course, as you didn't turn up this morning, I very nearly said yes. It would have been an excellent lesson both for him and for you if I had. It would have taught you both better manners. LORD GORING. Oh! bother Tommy Trafford. Tommy is a silly little ass. I love you. MABEL CHILTERN. I know. And I think you might have mentioned it before. I am sure I have given you heaps of opportunities. LORD GORING. Mabel, do be serious. Please be serious. MABEL CHILTERN. Ah! that is the sort of thing a man always says to a girl before he has been married to her. He never says it afterwards. LORD GORING. [_Taking hold of her hand_.] Mabel, I have told you that I love you. Can't you love me a little in return? MABEL CHILTERN. You silly Arthur! If you knew anything about . . . anything, which you don't, you would know that I adore you. Every one in London knows it except you. It is a public scandal the way I adore you. I have been going about for the last six months telling the whole of society that I adore you. I wonder you consent to have anything to say to me. I have no character left at all. At least, I feel so happy that I am quite sure I have no character left at all. LORD GORING. [_Catches her in his arms and kisses her_. _Then there is a pause of bliss_.] Dear! Do you know I was awfully afraid of being refused! MABEL CHILTERN. [_Looking up at him_.] But you never have been refused yet by anybody, have you, Arthur? I can't imagine any one refusing you. LORD GORING. [_After kissing her again_.] Of course I'm not nearly good enough for you, Mabel. MABEL CHILTERN. [_Nestling close to him_.] I am so glad, darling. I was afraid you were. LORD GORING. [_After some hesitation_.] And I'm . . . I'm a little over thirty. MABEL CHILTERN. Dear, you look weeks younger than that. LORD GORING. [_Enthusiastically_.] How sweet of you to say so! . . . And it is only fair to tell you frankly that I am fearfully extravagant. MABEL CHILTERN. But so am I, Arthur. So we're sure to agree. And now I must go and see Gertrude. LORD GORING. Must you really? [_Kisses her_.] MABEL CHILTERN. Yes. LORD GORING. Then do tell her I want to talk to her particularly. I have been waiting here all the morning to see either her or Robert. MABEL CHILTERN. Do you mean to say you didn't come here expressly to propose to me? LORD GORING. [_Triumphantly_.] No; that was a flash of genius. MABEL CHILTERN. Your first. LORD GORING. [_With determination_.] My last. MABEL CHILTERN. I am delighted to hear it. Now don't stir. I'll be back in five minutes. And don't fall into any temptations while I am away. LORD GORING. Dear Mabel, while you are away, there are none. It makes me horribly dependent on you. [_Enter_ LADY CHILTERN.] LADY CHILTERN. Good morning, dear! How pretty you are looking! MABEL CHILTERN. How pale you are looking, Gertrude! It is most becoming! LADY CHILTERN. Good morning, Lord Goring! LORD GORING. [_Bowing_.] Good morning, Lady Chiltern! MABEL CHILTERN. [_Aside to_ LORD GORING.] I shall be in the conservatory under the second palm tree on the left. LORD GORING. Second on the left? MABEL CHILTERN. [_With a look of mock surprise_.] Yes; the usual palm tree. [_Blows a kiss to him_, _unobserved by_ LADY CHILTERN, _and goes out_.] LORD GORING. Lady Chiltern, I have a certain amount of very good news to tell you. Mrs. Cheveley gave me up Robert's letter last night, and I burned it. Robert is safe. LADY CHILTERN. [_Sinking on the sofa_.] Safe! Oh! I am so glad of that. What a good friend you are to him--to us! LORD GORING. There is only one person now that could be said to be in any danger. LADY CHILTERN. Who is that? LORD GORING. [_Sitting down beside her_.] Yourself. LADY CHILTERN. I? In danger? What do you mean? LORD GORING. Danger is too great a word. It is a word I should not have used. But I admit I have something to tell you that may distress you, that terribly distresses me. Yesterday evening you wrote me a very beautiful, womanly letter, asking me for my help. You wrote to me as one of your oldest friends, one of your husband's oldest friends. Mrs. Cheveley stole that letter from my rooms. LADY CHILTERN. Well, what use is it to her? Why should she not have it? LORD GORING. [_Rising_.] Lady Chiltern, I will be quite frank with you. Mrs. Cheveley puts a certain construction on that letter and proposes to send it to your husband. LADY CHILTERN. But what construction could she put on it? . . . Oh! not that! not that! If I in--in trouble, and wanting your help, trusting you, propose to come to you . . . that you may advise me . . . assist me . . . Oh! are there women so horrible as that . . .? And she proposes to send it to my husband? Tell me what happened. Tell me all that happened. LORD GORING. Mrs. Cheveley was concealed in a room adjoining my library, without my knowledge. I thought that the person who was waiting in that room to see me was yourself. Robert came in unexpectedly. A chair or something fell in the room. He forced his way in, and he discovered her. We had a terrible scene. I still thought it was you. He left me in anger. At the end of everything Mrs. Cheveley got possession of your letter--she stole it, when or how, I don't know. LADY CHILTERN. At what hour did this happen? LORD GORING. At half-past ten. And now I propose that we tell Robert the whole thing at once. LADY CHILTERN. [_Looking at him with amazement that is almost terror_.] You want me to tell Robert that the woman you expected was not Mrs. Cheveley, but myself? That it was I whom you thought was concealed in a room in your house, at half-past ten o'clock at night? You want me to tell him that? LORD GORING. I think it is better that he should know the exact truth. LADY CHILTERN. [_Rising_.] Oh, I couldn't, I couldn't! LORD GORING. May I do it? LADY CHILTERN. No. LORD GORING. [_Gravely_.] You are wrong, Lady Chiltern. LADY CHILTERN. No. The letter must be intercepted. That is all. But how can I do it? Letters arrive for him every moment of the day. His secretaries open them and hand them to him. I dare not ask the servants to bring me his letters. It would be impossible. Oh! why don't you tell me what to do? LORD GORING. Pray be calm, Lady Chiltern, and answer the questions I am going to put to you. You said his secretaries open his letters. LADY CHILTERN. Yes. LORD GORING. Who is with him to-day? Mr. Trafford, isn't it? LADY CHILTERN. No. Mr. Montford, I think. LORD GORING. You can trust him? LADY CHILTERN. [_With a gesture of despair_.] Oh! how do I know? LORD GORING. He would do what you asked him, wouldn't he? LADY CHILTERN. I think so. LORD GORING. Your letter was on pink paper. He could recognise it without reading it, couldn't he? By the colour? LADY CHILTERN. I suppose so. LORD GORING. Is he in the house now? LADY CHILTERN. Yes. LORD GORING. Then I will go and see him myself, and tell him that a certain letter, written on pink paper, is to be forwarded to Robert to-day, and that at all costs it must not reach him. [_Goes to the door_, _and opens it_.] Oh! Robert is coming upstairs with the letter in his hand. It has reached him already. LADY CHILTERN. [_With a cry of pain_.] Oh! you have saved his life; what have you done with mine? [_Enter_ SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. _He has the letter in his hand_, _and is reading it_. _He comes towards his wife_, _not noticing_ LORD GORING'S _presence_.] SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. 'I want you. I trust you. I am coming to you. Gertrude.' Oh, my love! Is this true? Do you indeed trust me, and want me? If so, it was for me to come to you, not for you to write of coming to me. This letter of yours, Gertrude, makes me feel that nothing that the world may do can hurt me now. You want me, Gertrude? [LORD GORING, _unseen by_ SIR ROBERT CHILTERN, _makes an imploring sign to_ LADY CHILTERN _to accept the situation and_ SIR ROBERT'S _error_.] LADY CHILTERN. Yes. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. You trust me, Gertrude? LADY CHILTERN. Yes. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Ah! why did you not add you loved me? LADY CHILTERN. [_Taking his hand_.] Because I loved you. [LORD GORING _passes into the conservatory_.] SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Kisses her_.] Gertrude, you don't know what I feel. When Montford passed me your letter across the table--he had opened it by mistake, I suppose, without looking at the handwriting on the envelope--and I read it--oh! I did not care what disgrace or punishment was in store for me, I only thought you loved me still. LADY CHILTERN. There is no disgrace in store for you, nor any public shame. Mrs. Cheveley has handed over to Lord Goring the document that was in her possession, and he has destroyed it. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Are you sure of this, Gertrude? LADY CHILTERN. Yes; Lord Goring has just told me. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Then I am safe! Oh! what a wonderful thing to be safe! For two days I have been in terror. I am safe now. How did Arthur destroy my letter? Tell me. LADY CHILTERN. He burned it. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I wish I had seen that one sin of my youth burning to ashes. How many men there are in modern life who would like to see their past burning to white ashes before them! Is Arthur still here? LADY CHILTERN. Yes; he is in the conservatory. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I am so glad now I made that speech last night in the House, so glad. I made it thinking that public disgrace might be the result. But it has not been so. LADY CHILTERN. Public honour has been the result. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I think so. I fear so, almost. For although I am safe from detection, although every proof against me is destroyed, I suppose, Gertrude . . . I suppose I should retire from public life? [_He looks anxiously at his wife_.] LADY CHILTERN. [_Eagerly_.] Oh yes, Robert, you should do that. It is your duty to do that. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. It is much to surrender. LADY CHILTERN. No; it will be much to gain. [SIR ROBERT CHILTERN _walks up and down the room with a troubled expression_. _Then comes over to his wife_, _and puts his hand on her shoulder_.] SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. And you would be happy living somewhere alone with me, abroad perhaps, or in the country away from London, away from public life? You would have no regrets? LADY CHILTERN. Oh! none, Robert. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Sadly_.] And your ambition for me? You used to be ambitious for me. LADY CHILTERN. Oh, my ambition! I have none now, but that we two may love each other. It was your ambition that led you astray. Let us not talk about ambition. [LORD GORING _returns from the conservatory_, _looking very pleased with himself_, _and with an entirely new buttonhole that some one has made for him_.] SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Going towards him_.] Arthur, I have to thank you for what you have done for me. I don't know how I can repay you. [_Shakes hands with him_.] LORD GORING. My dear fellow, I'll tell you at once. At the present moment, under the usual palm tree . . . I mean in the conservatory . . . [_Enter_ MASON.] MASON. Lord Caversham. LORD GORING. That admirable father of mine really makes a habit of turning up at the wrong moment. It is very heartless of him, very heartless indeed. [_Enter_ LORD CAVERSHAM. MASON _goes out_.] LORD CAVERSHAM. Good morning, Lady Chiltern! Warmest congratulations to you, Chiltern, on your brilliant speech last night. I have just left the Prime Minister, and you are to have the vacant seat in the Cabinet. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_With a look of joy and triumph_.] A seat in the Cabinet? LORD CAVERSHAM. Yes; here is the Prime Minister's letter. [_Hands letter_.] SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Takes letter and reads it_.] A seat in the Cabinet! LORD CAVERSHAM. Certainly, and you well deserve it too. You have got what we want so much in political life nowadays--high character, high moral tone, high principles. [_To_ LORD GORING.] Everything that you have not got, sir, and never will have. LORD GORING. I don't like principles, father. I prefer prejudices. [SIR ROBERT CHILTERN _is on the brink of accepting the Prime Minister's offer_, _when he sees wife looking at him with her clear_, _candid eyes_. _He then realises that it is impossible_.] SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I cannot accept this offer, Lord Caversham. I have made up my mind to decline it. LORD CAVERSHAM. Decline it, sir! SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. My intention is to retire at once from public life. LORD CAVERSHAM. [_Angrily_.] Decline a seat in the Cabinet, and retire from public life? Never heard such damned nonsense in the whole course of my existence. I beg your pardon, Lady Chiltern. Chiltern, I beg your pardon. [_To_ LORD GORING.] Don't grin like that, sir. LORD GORING. No, father. LORD CAVERSHAM. Lady Chiltern, you are a sensible woman, the most sensible woman in London, the most sensible woman I know. Will you kindly prevent your husband from making such a . . . from taking such . . . Will you kindly do that, Lady Chiltern? LADY CHILTERN. I think my husband in right in his determination, Lord Caversham. I approve of it. LORD CAVERSHAM. You approve of it? Good heavens! LADY CHILTERN. [_Taking her husband's hand_.] I admire him for it. I admire him immensely for it. I have never admired him so much before. He is finer than even I thought him. [_To_ SIR ROBERT CHILTERN.] You will go and write your letter to the Prime Minister now, won't you? Don't hesitate about it, Robert. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_With a touch of bitterness_.] I suppose I had better write it at once. Such offers are not repeated. I will ask you to excuse me for a moment, Lord Caversham. LADY CHILTERN. I may come with you, Robert, may I not? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Yes, Gertrude. [LADY CHILTERN _goes out with him_.] LORD CAVERSHAM. What is the matter with this family? Something wrong here, eh? [_Tapping his forehead_.] Idiocy? Hereditary, I suppose. Both of them, too. Wife as well as husband. Very sad. Very sad indeed! And they are not an old family. Can't understand it. LORD GORING. It is not idiocy, father, I assure you. LORD CAVERSHAM. What is it then, sir? LORD GORING. [_After some hesitation_.] Well, it is what is called nowadays a high moral tone, father. That is all. LORD CAVERSHAM. Hate these new-fangled names. Same thing as we used to call idiocy fifty years ago. Shan't stay in this house any longer. LORD GORING. [_Taking his arm_.] Oh! just go in here for a moment, father. Third palm tree to the left, the usual palm tree. LORD CAVERSHAM. What, sir? LORD GORING. I beg your pardon, father, I forgot. The conservatory, father, the conservatory--there is some one there I want you to talk to. LORD CAVERSHAM. What about, sir? LORD GORING. About me, father, LORD CAVERSHAM. [_Grimly_.] Not a subject on which much eloquence is possible. LORD GORING. No, father; but the lady is like me. She doesn't care much for eloquence in others. She thinks it a little loud. [LORD CAVERSHAM _goes out into the conservatory_. LADY CHILTERN _enters_.] LORD GORING. Lady Chiltern, why are you playing Mrs. Cheveley's cards? LADY CHILTERN. [_Startled_.] I don't understand you. LORD GORING. Mrs. Cheveley made an attempt to ruin your husband. Either to drive him from public life, or to make him adopt a dishonourable position. From the latter tragedy you saved him. The former you are now thrusting on him. Why should you do him the wrong Mrs. Cheveley tried to do and failed? LADY CHILTERN. Lord Goring? LORD GORING. [_Pulling himself together for a great effort_, _and showing the philosopher that underlies the dandy_.] Lady Chiltern, allow me. You wrote me a letter last night in which you said you trusted me and wanted my help. Now is the moment when you really want my help, now is the time when you have got to trust me, to trust in my counsel and judgment. You love Robert. Do you want to kill his love for you? What sort of existence will he have if you rob him of the fruits of his ambition, if you take him from the splendour of a great political career, if you close the doors of public life against him, if you condemn him to sterile failure, he who was made for triumph and success? Women are not meant to judge us, but to forgive us when we need forgiveness. Pardon, not punishment, is their mission. Why should you scourge him with rods for a sin done in his youth, before he knew you, before he knew himself? A man's life is of more value than a woman's. It has larger issues, wider scope, greater ambitions. A woman's life revolves in curves of emotions. It is upon lines of intellect that a man's life progresses. Don't make any terrible mistake, Lady Chiltern. A woman who can keep a man's love, and love him in return, has done all the world wants of women, or should want of them. LADY CHILTERN. [_Troubled and hesitating_.] But it is my husband himself who wishes to retire from public life. He feels it is his duty. It was he who first said so. LORD GORING. Rather than lose your love, Robert would do anything, wreck his whole career, as he is on the brink of doing now. He is making for you a terrible sacrifice. Take my advice, Lady Chiltern, and do not accept a sacrifice so great. If you do, you will live to repent it bitterly. We men and women are not made to accept such sacrifices from each other. We are not worthy of them. Besides, Robert has been punished enough. LADY CHILTERN. We have both been punished. I set him up too high. LORD GORING. [_With deep feeling in his voice_.] Do not for that reason set him down now too low. If he has fallen from his altar, do not thrust him into the mire. Failure to Robert would be the very mire of shame. Power is his passion. He would lose everything, even his power to feel love. Your husband's life is at this moment in your hands, your husband's love is in your hands. Don't mar both for him. [_Enter_ SIR ROBERT CHILTERN.] SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Gertrude, here is the draft of my letter. Shall I read it to you? LADY CHILTERN. Let me see it. [SIR ROBERT _hands her the letter_. _She reads it_, _and then_, _with a gesture of passion_, _tears it up_.] SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. What are you doing? LADY CHILTERN. A man's life is of more value than a woman's. It has larger issues, wider scope, greater ambitions. Our lives revolve in curves of emotions. It is upon lines of intellect that a man's life progresses. I have just learnt this, and much else with it, from Lord Goring. And I will not spoil your life for you, nor see you spoil it as a sacrifice to me, a useless sacrifice! SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Gertrude! Gertrude! LADY CHILTERN. You can forget. Men easily forget. And I forgive. That is how women help the world. I see that now. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Deeply overcome by emotion_, _embraces her_.] My wife! my wife! [_To_ LORD GORING.] Arthur, it seems that I am always to be in your debt. LORD GORING. Oh dear no, Robert. Your debt is to Lady Chiltern, not to me! SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I owe you much. And now tell me what you were going to ask me just now as Lord Caversham came in. LORD GORING. Robert, you are your sister's guardian, and I want your consent to my marriage with her. That is all. LADY CHILTERN. Oh, I am so glad! I am so glad! [_Shakes hands with_ LORD GORING.] LORD GORING. Thank you, Lady Chiltern. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_With a troubled look_.] My sister to be your wife? LORD GORING. Yes. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Speaking with great firmness_.] Arthur, I am very sorry, but the thing is quite out of the question. I have to think of Mabel's future happiness. And I don't think her happiness would be safe in your hands. And I cannot have her sacrificed! LORD GORING. Sacrificed! SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Yes, utterly sacrificed. Loveless marriages are horrible. But there is one thing worse than an absolutely loveless marriage. A marriage in which there is love, but on one side only; faith, but on one side only; devotion, but on one side only, and in which of the two hearts one is sure to be broken. LORD GORING. But I love Mabel. No other woman has any place in my life. LADY CHILTERN. Robert, if they love each other, why should they not be married? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Arthur cannot bring Mabel the love that she deserves. LORD GORING. What reason have you for saying that? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_After a pause_.] Do you really require me to tell you? LORD GORING. Certainly I do. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. As you choose. When I called on you yesterday evening I found Mrs. Cheveley concealed in your rooms. It was between ten and eleven o'clock at night. I do not wish to say anything more. Your relations with Mrs. Cheveley have, as I said to you last night, nothing whatsoever to do with me. I know you were engaged to be married to her once. The fascination she exercised over you then seems to have returned. You spoke to me last night of her as of a woman pure and stainless, a woman whom you respected and honoured. That may be so. But I cannot give my sister's life into your hands. It would be wrong of me. It would be unjust, infamously unjust to her. LORD GORING. I have nothing more to say. LADY CHILTERN. Robert, it was not Mrs. Cheveley whom Lord Goring expected last night. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Not Mrs. Cheveley! Who was it then? LORD GORING. Lady Chiltern! LADY CHILTERN. It was your own wife. Robert, yesterday afternoon Lord Goring told me that if ever I was in trouble I could come to him for help, as he was our oldest and best friend. Later on, after that terrible scene in this room, I wrote to him telling him that I trusted him, that I had need of him, that I was coming to him for help and advice. [SIR ROBERT CHILTERN _takes the letter out of his pocket_.] Yes, that letter. I didn't go to Lord Goring's, after all. I felt that it is from ourselves alone that help can come. Pride made me think that. Mrs. Cheveley went. She stole my letter and sent it anonymously to you this morning, that you should think . . . Oh! Robert, I cannot tell you what she wished you to think. . . . SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. What! Had I fallen so low in your eyes that you thought that even for a moment I could have doubted your goodness? Gertrude, Gertrude, you are to me the white image of all good things, and sin can never touch you. Arthur, you can go to Mabel, and you have my best wishes! Oh! stop a moment. There is no name at the beginning of this letter. The brilliant Mrs. Cheveley does not seem to have noticed that. There should be a name. LADY CHILTERN. Let me write yours. It is you I trust and need. You and none else. LORD GORING. Well, really, Lady Chiltern, I think I should have back my own letter. LADY CHILTERN. [_Smiling_.] No; you shall have Mabel. [_Takes the letter and writes her husband's name on it_.] LORD GORING. Well, I hope she hasn't changed her mind. It's nearly twenty minutes since I saw her last. [_Enter_ MABEL CHILTERN _and_ LORD CAVERSHAM.] MABEL CHILTERN. Lord Goring, I think your father's conversation much more improving than yours. I am only going to talk to Lord Caversham in the future, and always under the usual palm tree. LORD GORING. Darling! [_Kisses her_.] LORD CAVERSHAM. [_Considerably taken aback_.] What does this mean, sir? You don't mean to say that this charming, clever young lady has been so foolish as to accept you? LORD GORING. Certainly, father! And Chiltern's been wise enough to accept the seat in the Cabinet. LORD CAVERSHAM. I am very glad to hear that, Chiltern . . . I congratulate you, sir. If the country doesn't go to the dogs or the Radicals, we shall have you Prime Minister, some day. [_Enter_ MASON.] MASON. Luncheon is on the table, my Lady! [MASON _goes out_.] MABEL CHILTERN. You'll stop to luncheon, Lord Caversham, won't you? LORD CAVERSHAM. With pleasure, and I'll drive you down to Downing Street afterwards, Chiltern. You have a great future before you, a great future. Wish I could say the same for you, sir. [_To_ LORD GORING.] But your career will have to be entirely domestic. LORD GORING. Yes, father, I prefer it domestic. LORD CAVERSHAM. And if you don't make this young lady an ideal husband, I'll cut you off with a shilling. MABEL CHILTERN. An ideal husband! Oh, I don't think I should like that. It sounds like something in the next world. LORD CAVERSHAM. What do you want him to be then, dear? MABEL CHILTERN. He can be what he chooses. All I want is to be . . . to be . . . oh! a real wife to him. LORD CAVERSHAM. Upon my word, there is a good deal of common sense in that, Lady Chiltern. [_They all go out except_ SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. _He sinks in a chair_, _wrapt in thought_. _After a little time_ LADY CHILTERN _returns to look for him_.] LADY CHILTERN. [_Leaning over the back of the chair_.] Aren't you coming in, Robert? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Taking her hand_.] Gertrude, is it love you feel for me, or is it pity merely? LADY CHILTERN. [_Kisses him_.] It is love, Robert. Love, and only love. For both of us a new life is beginning. CURTAIN * * * * *

Act IV

https://web.archive.org/web/20210118103913/https://www.sparknotes.com/drama/idealhusband/section7/

Act IV returns us to Sir Robert's morning room with Lord Goring standing alone and looking bored. He rings the bell, and the footman informs him of his friends' whereabouts: Lady Chiltern has yet to leave the room, Mabel has returned from riding, and Lord Caversham has been waiting for Sir Robert in the library. Caversham emerges and raises the question of marriage anew, encouraging him to propose to Mabel even as he remains certain she will refuse. He also reveals that Sir Robert has roundly denounced the Argentine Canal scheme in the House of Commons, the press marking it as a turning point in his career. Mabel then appears and, ignoring Lord Goring for his failure to make their riding appointment, banters with Caversham at his expense. Upon Caversham's departure, Goring asks her hand in marriage. Notably, Goring's proposal shows him overwhelmed, imploring Mabel to be serious and revealing his fear of her refusal. Having made Goring beg, Mabel exclaims that all of London knows of her adoration for him and accepts; the two embrace and share a moment of bliss. Lady Chiltern then enters, and Mabel flees to the conservatory. Alone with Gertrude, Goring informs her of last night's events and warns her of Mrs. Cheveley's scheme regarding her pink letter. Once again Goring urges his listener to tell their spouse the truth; Lady Chiltern refuses and demands that the letter be intercepted. Just as they devise a scheme to waylay the letter, Sir Robert climbs up the stairs, note in hand. He misreads it entirely, believing it addressed to him. At Lord Goring's silent plea, Lady Chiltern accepts her husband's error; Goring passes into the conservatory. She then informs Sir Robert that the infamous letter has been destroyed, safeguarding his reputation forever. With great anxiety, Sir Robert haltingly proposes that he now retire from public life, and, to his dismay, Lady Chiltern eagerly lends her support to this moral sacrifice. Goring returns from the conservatory, reconciles with Sir Robert, and is about to ask for Mabel's hand when Lord Caversham comes on the scene. Caversham thoroughly congratulates Sir Robert on his recent speech against the canal scheme and informs him that the Prime Minister has offered him the Cabinet seat Caversham has just vacated. In other words, Sir Robert, with what Caversham describes as his "high moral tone," is the successor Goring could never be. Having just promised an early retirement to his wife, however, Sir Robert sadly declines, and Lady Chiltern glowingly urges him to write the Prime Minister immediately with his regrets. The two leave the room together. Goring sends his disapprovingly bewildered father into the conservatory, explaining that Sir Robert's decision exemplifies his "high moral tone." Comically, Caversham balks at this "newfangled" phrase, noting that in his day it was simply called "idiocy." Lady Chiltern returns to the morning room. Goring then accuses her of "playing Mrs. Cheveley's cards," thrusting her husband from public life just when they have saved him from public dishonor. He goes on to deliver an extended speech on the appropriate roles of man and wife to dissuade her. Sir Robert then emerges from off-stage and presents his letter; Lady Chiltern takes it and tears it up, repeating Goring's words. She has learned her lesson. The Chilterns share their own moment of bliss, and Lord Goring finally asks for Mabel's hand in marriage. On account of his discovery of Mrs. Cheveley at Goring's last night, however, Sir Robert cannot consent; Goring is left silent. Dramatically, Lady Chiltern thus reveals that Lord Goring expected her in his drawing room last night and that she authored the pink note as a request for his assistance. All reconcile, and Lady Chiltern writes Sir Robert's name at the top of her "love letter." Mabel and Caversham then enter and, much to the latter's surprise, she announces her engagement with Goring. Caversham commands his son to be for Mabel an ideal husband at the risk of disinheritance; jokingly, Mabel recoils. "An ideal husband!" she exclaims. "Oh, I don't think I should like that. It sounds like something in the next world." Goring can be what he likes; Mabel, overcome, only wants to be a "real wife" to him. All exit except for Sir Robert, who sits alone pensively as at the end of Act I. Lady Chiltern returns, and he asks if she loves or merely pities him. Lady Chiltern pledges her love and the beginning of a new life for them both.

As with the popular domestic comedies upon which An Ideal Husband is based, Act IV brings us to a culminating restoration of married life. All is set right: Sir Robert preserves his public image and indeed even advances in his career; the Chilterns' reunite; the young lovers, Goring and Mabel, come together as well. Rather than adhere strictly to a model of rising, climatic, and falling action, the act concludes the play with a series of dizzying complications--a misread note, a complex choreography of entrances, exits, and private conversations, confessions--that only resolve themselves at the very end. As we recall from Act III, Lady Chiltern naively writes her note to Goring as a plea for help: "I want you. I trust you. I am coming to you." Notably, Mrs. Cheveley mocks this pink note as resembling the start of some "middle class romance," suggesting Wilde's self-irony regarding his use of this stock device. Ultimately it comes to serve as a sort of second marriage certificate, symbolizing, with the inscription of Sir Robert's name, a restoration of the Chilterns' married life. Though Goring jokingly moves to reclaim the letter, it is clearly no longer meant for him. This restoration of the conjugal household occurs on rather conventional moral terms. Once again, the language of melodrama intervenes: there is a profusion of exclamations, sighs, and somewhat trite appeals to faith, love, charity, devotion, and onward as characters succumb to emotion. Lord Goring especially delivers these pronouncements on conjugal bliss. In particular, he makes a rousing speech to Lady Chiltern upon Sir Robert's decision to withdraw from public life that establishes the proper roles of man and woman in married life. We will sketch it briefly here. First, Goring argues that men and women alike are not worthy of sacrifices as terrible as the one Sir Robert faces. Lady Chiltern cannot allow Sir Robert to resign from public life especially, however, because Sir Robert is a man. Man's life remains of wider scope, deeper issues, and greater ambitions than woman's. Whereas a woman's life revolves in "curves of emotions," man's progresses in "lines of intellect." Consequently, women are not meant to judge men but to forgive them . Thus Lady Chiltern must assume the role that defines Victorian womanhood in its most conventional form: that of a forgiving and anodyne caregiver. Moreover, by demanding that Sir Robert exit public life, Lady Chiltern, according to Lord Goring, " Mrs. Cheveley's cards"--that is, she plays the part of the villainess rather than that of the heroine. What Goring means precisely by this accusation is somewhat unclear. Is the supposed fault she shares with Mrs. Cheveley is her use of love to bend her husband's will? In any case, Goring's speech leaves the audience with firmly established gender roles in the marital household that, to a contemporary reader especially, are quite disappointing. As noted above, Lady Chiltern will repeat his speech to Sir Robert verbatim, indicating that she has learned her lesson well. At the same time, as with the entire play, Act IV offers a critique of marriage that undermines this sentimental resolution. More precisely, Goring and Mabel's marriage serves as a sort of foil to the Chilterns'. As Mabel declares in one of the penultimate moments of the play, the "ideal husband" belongs to the next world; in their marriage, Goring can be whatever he wants. She, on the other hand, promises to be a "real wife." Thus Mabel and Goring negotiate a union that dispenses with question regarding the ideal behavior of the married couple. Indeed, throughout the play they have assumed an amoral pose, disparaging the demands of duty and respectability. Earlier in the act, for example, Mabel remarks to Goring how "on principle," she never does her duty; it always depresses her. She thus teases the lord with what one might describe as a "false paradox"--that is, a statement that is taken or misunderstood as amusingly paradoxical even as the terms involved are not necessarily contradictory. Read literally, Mabel's witticism suggests that the principles of these lovers demand precisely that they resist the notion of duty. Clearly then does Mabel end up on different footing than her sister-in-law, who has finally come to learn her duties to her husband.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/1257-chapters/1.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Three Musketeers/section_1_part_0.txt

The Three Musketeers.chapter 1

chapter 1: the three presents of d'artagnan the elder

{"name": "Chapter One: The Three Presents of D'Artagnan the Elder", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210127112556/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/three-musketeers/summary/chapter-one-the-three-presents-of-dartagnan-the-elder", "summary": "We start our tale with a historical info-dump. It's the first Monday of April, 1625, and we're in a small town experiencing a lot of pandemonium. This kind of activity is apparently quite usual, and we get a quick overview of the types of conflict common at this point in history: nobles vs. nobles, King vs. Cardinal, Spain vs. King, lots of bad people vs. citizens. This story is also taking place in France. The cause of all the chaos is a young man the narrator describes as a \"Don Quixote of eighteen.\" If you're not up on your Spanish literature, Don Quixote is this ordinary guy who starts believing he's a gallant knight, so in other words, the young man in our story looks like an idealistic fool. It's also clear, from his massive jawbone that he's from Gascony. According to our annotated edition, that means he's likely to have a quick temper and lots of courage. The narrator tells us that the young man would likely be taken for a farmer's son if it wasn't for the sword he carries. The young man rides an old yellow horse with no hair in its tail; the old horse also walks funny. In short, the young man is riding the 17th century equivalent of a Ford Edsel. It turns out the horse is a gift from his father . We get a flashback to the day dad gave away the horse. He tells D'Artagnan the younger to never sell the horse and to take care of it like an old servant. He then launches into a long lecture which can be summed up like this: honor; courage; obey the Cardinal and the King; go out and have lots of adventures and pick a lot of fights even though they're illegal; here are fifteen crowns, a horse, and my advice; your mother is including some balsam which will take care of all the injuries you're going to have. D'Artagnan the elder adds that he's buddy-buddy with a really important guy at court named Monsieur de Treville, , whom he's recommending as the role model for his son. He gives his D'Artagnan the younger a letter of introduction, which reads something like: hello old friend, the guy who just handed you this letter is my son, please treat him well. D'Artagnan the elder outfits his son with a sword and wishes him luck. Then D'Artagnan goes to say good-bye to his mom. They both cry. This doesn't indicate that D'Artagnan is weak, just that he really loves his mom. Aww. And then our hero's off! He has fifteen crowns, a horse, and a letter of introduction . During his journey, D'Artagnan is always raring for a fight , but he manages to make it to Meung in one piece. He gets to an inn called the Jolly Miller, and as he's getting down from the horse he spies an authoritative man telling jokes to two other men. D'Artagnan's horse is the joke. Uh-oh. D'Artagnan stares at the guy in charge for a good long while memorizing the his looks: he's about forty, with black eyes and fair skin. D'Artagnan walks over to the man with his hand on his sword. He's ready for a big, eloquent speech but instead blurts out: \"What you laughing at?\" Or something like that. The stranger replies, \"Did I look like I was talking to you?\" D'Artagnan comes back with, \"But I'm talking to you!\" The stranger ignores him. D'Artagnan pulls out his sword. The stranger continues making fun of D'Artagnan's horse. D'Artagnan continues to threaten him, and the stranger continues to be polite and scornful at the same time. D'Artagnan continues to demand a fight. The stranger sighs and says D'Artagnan should really be a Musketeer if he wants to be so brave. D'Artagnan nearly skewers the stranger. Finally, the stranger draws his sword. Before we get to see a swordfight, the innkeeper and the two men start beating on D'Artagnan with \"sticks, shovels, and tongs.\" The stranger says that they should just shove D'Artagnan back on the funny horse and send him on his way. As three men beat him with sticks, shovels, and tongs, D'Artagnan says to the stranger, \"I'm not leaving until you're dead.\" The stranger tells the three men to continue beating D'Artagnan, figuring that the fight will end soon enough. D'Artagnan continues to stand there and take the beating. His sword breaks in two. Finally, someone cracks him on the head and he falls over. The innkeeper takes him to the kitchen for some first aid. The innkeeper goes back to ask the stranger if he's okay. Because the stranger was totally involved in the \"fighting.\" The stranger says that he's fine, and asks how D'Artagnan is doing. The innkeeper says that the young man has fainted again, but not before swearing to kill the stranger. Again. The stranger exclaims that D'Artagnan must be the devil. No, says the innkeeper, we went through his stuff and found a shirt and some money. The innkeeper tells the stranger that D'Artagnan stuck his hand into his pocket and mentioned the name of M. de Treville. The innkeeper saw that D'Artagnan has a letter addressed to Treville. The stranger gets all excited, then goes to the window and mutters under his breath, \"Could M. de Treville have sent this crazy young man here to kill me?\" He stares out the window contemplating the possibilities before finally turning back to the innkeeper and asking him to get rid of D'Artagnan. The stranger orders his horses ready for his departure. We learn that D'Artagnan has been taken to another room to have his wounds treated. The stranger continues to mutter to himself, so we get to hear his dastardly plans: he doesn't want Milady to be seen by D'Artagnan, and he is interested in seeing this letter addressed to Treville. The innkeeper blames D'Artagnan for the departure of the noble stranger; he goes straight to D'Artagnan and insists that he leave the inn immediately. D'Artagnan, still wounded, struggles to his feet and steps out of the room. The first thing he sees is the stranger talking to someone sitting in a carriage. This someone happens to be a beautiful young woman: blonde haired, blue-eyed, and with skin like alabaster. The stranger is relaying a set of orders to her. When she asks him if he's going to punish the \"insolent boy\" , D'Artagnan has to pipe up, \"Are you talking about me?\" D'Artagnan is convinced that the stranger would not dare to flee from a fight in front of a lady. The stranger does just that--he gallops away on his horse as the innkeeper screams out, \"What about your bill?!?!\" The stranger yells for one of his servants to pay the innkeeper. D'Artagnan chases after the stranger yelling \"Base Coward! False Gentleman!\" Then his head injuries get the best of him and he collapses. The innkeeper tries to make nice with D'Artagnan since the other guy turned out to be a jerk. D'Artagnan regains consciousness long enough to talk about the beautiful woman, then faints again. The innkeeper feels better when he anticipates that D'Artagnan must stay at the inn and recuperate for quite some time. Wrong! D'Artagnan gets together the ingredients for his mother's balsam, and is essentially cured within two days. When he goes to pay for his lodging and meals, D'Artagnan discovers that his letter of introduction to M. de Treville is missing. He flies into a rage and demands that it be found. He does this over and over again until everyone grabs the sticks, shovels, and tongs they used earlier. They don't beat him quite yet, but they're close. D'Artagnan pulls out his sword, forgetting that two inches of metal does not constitute a sword. The narrator points out that this would probably not prevent D'Artagnan from continuing to threaten the inn employees. Luckily, something penetrates the innkeeper's brain. He lowers his stick and asks rhetorically, \"But where is your letter?\" After putting their heads together, the innkeeper finally has an \"Aha!\" moment and tells D'Artagnan that the stranger from earlier must have taken it. D'Artagnan pays the innkeeper and sets off for Paris so he can complain to M. de Treville. Once in Paris, D'Artagnan sells off his horse , rents a tiny garret, and falls asleep perfectly happy with his previous conduct. The next day he plans to see M. de Treville.", "analysis": ""}

1 THE THREE PRESENTS OF D'ARTAGNAN THE ELDER On the first Monday of the month of April, 1625, the market town of Meung, in which the author of ROMANCE OF THE ROSE was born, appeared to be in as perfect a state of revolution as if the Huguenots had just made a second La Rochelle of it. Many citizens, seeing the women flying toward the High Street, leaving their children crying at the open doors, hastened to don the cuirass, and supporting their somewhat uncertain courage with a musket or a partisan, directed their steps toward the hostelry of the Jolly Miller, before which was gathered, increasing every minute, a compact group, vociferous and full of curiosity. In those times panics were common, and few days passed without some city or other registering in its archives an event of this kind. There were nobles, who made war against each other; there was the king, who made war against the cardinal; there was Spain, which made war against the king. Then, in addition to these concealed or public, secret or open wars, there were robbers, mendicants, Huguenots, wolves, and scoundrels, who made war upon everybody. The citizens always took up arms readily against thieves, wolves or scoundrels, often against nobles or Huguenots, sometimes against the king, but never against the cardinal or Spain. It resulted, then, from this habit that on the said first Monday of April, 1625, the citizens, on hearing the clamor, and seeing neither the red-and-yellow standard nor the livery of the Duc de Richelieu, rushed toward the hostel of the Jolly Miller. When arrived there, the cause of the hubbub was apparent to all. A young man--we can sketch his portrait at a dash. Imagine to yourself a Don Quixote of eighteen; a Don Quixote without his corselet, without his coat of mail, without his cuisses; a Don Quixote clothed in a woolen doublet, the blue color of which had faded into a nameless shade between lees of wine and a heavenly azure; face long and brown; high cheek bones, a sign of sagacity; the maxillary muscles enormously developed, an infallible sign by which a Gascon may always be detected, even without his cap--and our young man wore a cap set off with a sort of feather; the eye open and intelligent; the nose hooked, but finely chiseled. Too big for a youth, too small for a grown man, an experienced eye might have taken him for a farmer's son upon a journey had it not been for the long sword which, dangling from a leather baldric, hit against the calves of its owner as he walked, and against the rough side of his steed when he was on horseback. For our young man had a steed which was the observed of all observers. It was a Bearn pony, from twelve to fourteen years old, yellow in his hide, without a hair in his tail, but not without windgalls on his legs, which, though going with his head lower than his knees, rendering a martingale quite unnecessary, contrived nevertheless to perform his eight leagues a day. Unfortunately, the qualities of this horse were so well concealed under his strange-colored hide and his unaccountable gait, that at a time when everybody was a connoisseur in horseflesh, the appearance of the aforesaid pony at Meung--which place he had entered about a quarter of an hour before, by the gate of Beaugency--produced an unfavorable feeling, which extended to his rider. And this feeling had been more painfully perceived by young d'Artagnan--for so was the Don Quixote of this second Rosinante named--from his not being able to conceal from himself the ridiculous appearance that such a steed gave him, good horseman as he was. He had sighed deeply, therefore, when accepting the gift of the pony from M. d'Artagnan the elder. He was not ignorant that such a beast was worth at least twenty livres; and the words which had accompanied the present were above all price. "My son," said the old Gascon gentleman, in that pure Bearn PATOIS of which Henry IV could never rid himself, "this horse was born in the house of your father about thirteen years ago, and has remained in it ever since, which ought to make you love it. Never sell it; allow it to die tranquilly and honorably of old age, and if you make a campaign with it, take as much care of it as you would of an old servant. At court, provided you have ever the honor to go there," continued M. d'Artagnan the elder, "--an honor to which, remember, your ancient nobility gives you the right--sustain worthily your name of gentleman, which has been worthily borne by your ancestors for five hundred years, both for your own sake and the sake of those who belong to you. By the latter I mean your relatives and friends. Endure nothing from anyone except Monsieur the Cardinal and the king. It is by his courage, please observe, by his courage alone, that a gentleman can make his way nowadays. Whoever hesitates for a second perhaps allows the bait to escape which during that exact second fortune held out to him. You are young. You ought to be brave for two reasons: the first is that you are a Gascon, and the second is that you are my son. Never fear quarrels, but seek adventures. I have taught you how to handle a sword; you have thews of iron, a wrist of steel. Fight on all occasions. Fight the more for duels being forbidden, since consequently there is twice as much courage in fighting. I have nothing to give you, my son, but fifteen crowns, my horse, and the counsels you have just heard. Your mother will add to them a recipe for a certain balsam, which she had from a Bohemian and which has the miraculous virtue of curing all wounds that do not reach the heart. Take advantage of all, and live happily and long. I have but one word to add, and that is to propose an example to you--not mine, for I myself have never appeared at court, and have only taken part in religious wars as a volunteer; I speak of Monsieur de Treville, who was formerly my neighbor, and who had the honor to be, as a child, the play-fellow of our king, Louis XIII, whom God preserve! Sometimes their play degenerated into battles, and in these battles the king was not always the stronger. The blows which he received increased greatly his esteem and friendship for Monsieur de Treville. Afterward, Monsieur de Treville fought with others: in his first journey to Paris, five times; from the death of the late king till the young one came of age, without reckoning wars and sieges, seven times; and from that date up to the present day, a hundred times, perhaps! So that in spite of edicts, ordinances, and decrees, there he is, captain of the Musketeers; that is to say, chief of a legion of Caesars, whom the king holds in great esteem and whom the cardinal dreads--he who dreads nothing, as it is said. Still further, Monsieur de Treville gains ten thousand crowns a year; he is therefore a great noble. He began as you begin. Go to him with this letter, and make him your model in order that you may do as he has done." Upon which M. d'Artagnan the elder girded his own sword round his son, kissed him tenderly on both cheeks, and gave him his benediction. On leaving the paternal chamber, the young man found his mother, who was waiting for him with the famous recipe of which the counsels we have just repeated would necessitate frequent employment. The adieux were on this side longer and more tender than they had been on the other--not that M. d'Artagnan did not love his son, who was his only offspring, but M. d'Artagnan was a man, and he would have considered it unworthy of a man to give way to his feelings; whereas Mme. d'Artagnan was a woman, and still more, a mother. She wept abundantly; and--let us speak it to the praise of M. d'Artagnan the younger--notwithstanding the efforts he made to remain firm, as a future Musketeer ought, nature prevailed, and he shed many tears, of which he succeeded with great difficulty in concealing the half. The same day the young man set forward on his journey, furnished with the three paternal gifts, which consisted, as we have said, of fifteen crowns, the horse, and the letter for M. de Treville--the counsels being thrown into the bargain. With such a VADE MECUM d'Artagnan was morally and physically an exact copy of the hero of Cervantes, to whom we so happily compared him when our duty of an historian placed us under the necessity of sketching his portrait. Don Quixote took windmills for giants, and sheep for armies; d'Artagnan took every smile for an insult, and every look as a provocation--whence it resulted that from Tarbes to Meung his fist was constantly doubled, or his hand on the hilt of his sword; and yet the fist did not descend upon any jaw, nor did the sword issue from its scabbard. It was not that the sight of the wretched pony did not excite numerous smiles on the countenances of passers-by; but as against the side of this pony rattled a sword of respectable length, and as over this sword gleamed an eye rather ferocious than haughty, these passers-by repressed their hilarity, or if hilarity prevailed over prudence, they endeavored to laugh only on one side, like the masks of the ancients. D'Artagnan, then, remained majestic and intact in his susceptibility, till he came to this unlucky city of Meung. But there, as he was alighting from his horse at the gate of the Jolly Miller, without anyone--host, waiter, or hostler--coming to hold his stirrup or take his horse, d'Artagnan spied, though an open window on the ground floor, a gentleman, well-made and of good carriage, although of rather a stern countenance, talking with two persons who appeared to listen to him with respect. D'Artagnan fancied quite naturally, according to his custom, that he must be the object of their conversation, and listened. This time d'Artagnan was only in part mistaken; he himself was not in question, but his horse was. The gentleman appeared to be enumerating all his qualities to his auditors; and, as I have said, the auditors seeming to have great deference for the narrator, they every moment burst into fits of laughter. Now, as a half-smile was sufficient to awaken the irascibility of the young man, the effect produced upon him by this vociferous mirth may be easily imagined. Nevertheless, d'Artagnan was desirous of examining the appearance of this impertinent personage who ridiculed him. He fixed his haughty eye upon the stranger, and perceived a man of from forty to forty-five years of age, with black and piercing eyes, pale complexion, a strongly marked nose, and a black and well-shaped mustache. He was dressed in a doublet and hose of a violet color, with aiguillettes of the same color, without any other ornaments than the customary slashes, through which the shirt appeared. This doublet and hose, though new, were creased, like traveling clothes for a long time packed in a portmanteau. D'Artagnan made all these remarks with the rapidity of a most minute observer, and doubtless from an instinctive feeling that this stranger was destined to have a great influence over his future life. Now, as at the moment in which d'Artagnan fixed his eyes upon the gentleman in the violet doublet, the gentleman made one of his most knowing and profound remarks respecting the Bearnese pony, his two auditors laughed even louder than before, and he himself, though contrary to his custom, allowed a pale smile (if I may be allowed to use such an expression) to stray over his countenance. This time there could be no doubt; d'Artagnan was really insulted. Full, then, of this conviction, he pulled his cap down over his eyes, and endeavoring to copy some of the court airs he had picked up in Gascony among young traveling nobles, he advanced with one hand on the hilt of his sword and the other resting on his hip. Unfortunately, as he advanced, his anger increased at every step; and instead of the proper and lofty speech he had prepared as a prelude to his challenge, he found nothing at the tip of his tongue but a gross personality, which he accompanied with a furious gesture. "I say, sir, you sir, who are hiding yourself behind that shutter--yes, you, sir, tell me what you are laughing at, and we will laugh together!" The gentleman raised his eyes slowly from the nag to his cavalier, as if he required some time to ascertain whether it could be to him that such strange reproaches were addressed; then, when he could not possibly entertain any doubt of the matter, his eyebrows slightly bent, and with an accent of irony and insolence impossible to be described, he replied to d'Artagnan, "I was not speaking to you, sir." "But I am speaking to you!" replied the young man, additionally exasperated with this mixture of insolence and good manners, of politeness and scorn. The stranger looked at him again with a slight smile, and retiring from the window, came out of the hostelry with a slow step, and placed himself before the horse, within two paces of d'Artagnan. His quiet manner and the ironical expression of his countenance redoubled the mirth of the persons with whom he had been talking, and who still remained at the window. D'Artagnan, seeing him approach, drew his sword a foot out of the scabbard. "This horse is decidedly, or rather has been in his youth, a buttercup," resumed the stranger, continuing the remarks he had begun, and addressing himself to his auditors at the window, without paying the least attention to the exasperation of d'Artagnan, who, however, placed himself between him and them. "It is a color very well known in botany, but till the present time very rare among horses." "There are people who laugh at the horse that would not dare to laugh at the master," cried the young emulator of the furious Treville. "I do not often laugh, sir," replied the stranger, "as you may perceive by the expression of my countenance; but nevertheless I retain the privilege of laughing when I please." "And I," cried d'Artagnan, "will allow no man to laugh when it displeases me!" "Indeed, sir," continued the stranger, more calm than ever; "well, that is perfectly right!" and turning on his heel, was about to re-enter the hostelry by the front gate, beneath which d'Artagnan on arriving had observed a saddled horse. But, d'Artagnan was not of a character to allow a man to escape him thus who had the insolence to ridicule him. He drew his sword entirely from the scabbard, and followed him, crying, "Turn, turn, Master Joker, lest I strike you behind!" "Strike me!" said the other, turning on his heels, and surveying the young man with as much astonishment as contempt. "Why, my good fellow, you must be mad!" Then, in a suppressed tone, as if speaking to himself, "This is annoying," continued he. "What a godsend this would be for his Majesty, who is seeking everywhere for brave fellows to recruit for his Musketeers!" He had scarcely finished, when d'Artagnan made such a furious lunge at him that if he had not sprung nimbly backward, it is probable he would have jested for the last time. The stranger, then perceiving that the matter went beyond raillery, drew his sword, saluted his adversary, and seriously placed himself on guard. But at the same moment, his two auditors, accompanied by the host, fell upon d'Artagnan with sticks, shovels and tongs. This caused so rapid and complete a diversion from the attack that d'Artagnan's adversary, while the latter turned round to face this shower of blows, sheathed his sword with the same precision, and instead of an actor, which he had nearly been, became a spectator of the fight--a part in which he acquitted himself with his usual impassiveness, muttering, nevertheless, "A plague upon these Gascons! Replace him on his orange horse, and let him begone!" "Not before I have killed you, poltroon!" cried d'Artagnan, making the best face possible, and never retreating one step before his three assailants, who continued to shower blows upon him. "Another gasconade!" murmured the gentleman. "By my honor, these Gascons are incorrigible! Keep up the dance, then, since he will have it so. When he is tired, he will perhaps tell us that he has had enough of it." But the stranger knew not the headstrong personage he had to do with; d'Artagnan was not the man ever to cry for quarter. The fight was therefore prolonged for some seconds; but at length d'Artagnan dropped his sword, which was broken in two pieces by the blow of a stick. Another blow full upon his forehead at the same moment brought him to the ground, covered with blood and almost fainting. It was at this moment that people came flocking to the scene of action from all sides. The host, fearful of consequences, with the help of his servants carried the wounded man into the kitchen, where some trifling attentions were bestowed upon him. As to the gentleman, he resumed his place at the window, and surveyed the crowd with a certain impatience, evidently annoyed by their remaining undispersed. "Well, how is it with this madman?" exclaimed he, turning round as the noise of the door announced the entrance of the host, who came in to inquire if he was unhurt. "Your excellency is safe and sound?" asked the host. "Oh, yes! Perfectly safe and sound, my good host; and I wish to know what has become of our young man." "He is better," said the host, "he fainted quite away." "Indeed!" said the gentleman. "But before he fainted, he collected all his strength to challenge you, and to defy you while challenging you." "Why, this fellow must be the devil in person!" cried the stranger. "Oh, no, your Excellency, he is not the devil," replied the host, with a grin of contempt; "for during his fainting we rummaged his valise and found nothing but a clean shirt and eleven crowns--which however, did not prevent his saying, as he was fainting, that if such a thing had happened in Paris, you should have cause to repent of it at a later period." "Then," said the stranger coolly, "he must be some prince in disguise." "I have told you this, good sir," resumed the host, "in order that you may be on your guard." "Did he name no one in his passion?" "Yes; he struck his pocket and said, 'We shall see what Monsieur de Treville will think of this insult offered to his protege.'" "Monsieur de Treville?" said the stranger, becoming attentive, "he put his hand upon his pocket while pronouncing the name of Monsieur de Treville? Now, my dear host, while your young man was insensible, you did not fail, I am quite sure, to ascertain what that pocket contained. What was there in it?" "A letter addressed to Monsieur de Treville, captain of the Musketeers." "Indeed!" "Exactly as I have the honor to tell your Excellency." The host, who was not endowed with great perspicacity, did not observe the expression which his words had given to the physiognomy of the stranger. The latter rose from the front of the window, upon the sill of which he had leaned with his elbow, and knitted his brow like a man disquieted. "The devil!" murmured he, between his teeth. "Can Treville have set this Gascon upon me? He is very young; but a sword thrust is a sword thrust, whatever be the age of him who gives it, and a youth is less to be suspected than an older man," and the stranger fell into a reverie which lasted some minutes. "A weak obstacle is sometimes sufficient to overthrow a great design. "Host," said he, "could you not contrive to get rid of this frantic boy for me? In conscience, I cannot kill him; and yet," added he, with a coldly menacing expression, "he annoys me. Where is he?" "In my wife's chamber, on the first flight, where they are dressing his wounds." "His things and his bag are with him? Has he taken off his doublet?" "On the contrary, everything is in the kitchen. But if he annoys you, this young fool--" "To be sure he does. He causes a disturbance in your hostelry, which respectable people cannot put up with. Go; make out my bill and notify my servant." "What, monsieur, will you leave us so soon?" "You know that very well, as I gave my order to saddle my horse. Have they not obeyed me?" "It is done; as your Excellency may have observed, your horse is in the great gateway, ready saddled for your departure." "That is well; do as I have directed you, then." "What the devil!" said the host to himself. "Can he be afraid of this boy?" But an imperious glance from the stranger stopped him short; he bowed humbly and retired. "It is not necessary for Milady* to be seen by this fellow," continued the stranger. "She will soon pass; she is already late. I had better get on horseback, and go and meet her. I should like, however, to know what this letter addressed to Treville contains." _*We are well aware that this term, milady, is only properly used when followed by a family name. But we find it thus in the manuscript, and we do not choose to take upon ourselves to alter it._ And the stranger, muttering to himself, directed his steps toward the kitchen. In the meantime, the host, who entertained no doubt that it was the presence of the young man that drove the stranger from his hostelry, re-ascended to his wife's chamber, and found d'Artagnan just recovering his senses. Giving him to understand that the police would deal with him pretty severely for having sought a quarrel with a great lord--for in the opinion of the host the stranger could be nothing less than a great lord--he insisted that notwithstanding his weakness d'Artagnan should get up and depart as quickly as possible. D'Artagnan, half stupefied, without his doublet, and with his head bound up in a linen cloth, arose then, and urged by the host, began to descend the stairs; but on arriving at the kitchen, the first thing he saw was his antagonist talking calmly at the step of a heavy carriage, drawn by two large Norman horses. His interlocutor, whose head appeared through the carriage window, was a woman of from twenty to two-and-twenty years. We have already observed with what rapidity d'Artagnan seized the expression of a countenance. He perceived then, at a glance, that this woman was young and beautiful; and her style of beauty struck him more forcibly from its being totally different from that of the southern countries in which d'Artagnan had hitherto resided. She was pale and fair, with long curls falling in profusion over her shoulders, had large, blue, languishing eyes, rosy lips, and hands of alabaster. She was talking with great animation with the stranger. "His Eminence, then, orders me--" said the lady. "To return instantly to England, and to inform him as soon as the duke leaves London." "And as to my other instructions?" asked the fair traveler. "They are contained in this box, which you will not open until you are on the other side of the Channel." "Very well; and you--what will you do?" "I--I return to Paris." "What, without chastising this insolent boy?" asked the lady. The stranger was about to reply; but at the moment he opened his mouth, d'Artagnan, who had heard all, precipitated himself over the threshold of the door. "This insolent boy chastises others," cried he; "and I hope that this time he whom he ought to chastise will not escape him as before." "Will not escape him?" replied the stranger, knitting his brow. "No; before a woman you would dare not fly, I presume?" "Remember," said Milady, seeing the stranger lay his hand on his sword, "the least delay may ruin everything." "You are right," cried the gentleman; "begone then, on your part, and I will depart as quickly on mine." And bowing to the lady, he sprang into his saddle, while her coachman applied his whip vigorously to his horses. The two interlocutors thus separated, taking opposite directions, at full gallop. "Pay him, booby!" cried the stranger to his servant, without checking the speed of his horse; and the man, after throwing two or three silver pieces at the foot of mine host, galloped after his master. "Base coward! false gentleman!" cried d'Artagnan, springing forward, in his turn, after the servant. But his wound had rendered him too weak to support such an exertion. Scarcely had he gone ten steps when his ears began to tingle, a faintness seized him, a cloud of blood passed over his eyes, and he fell in the middle of the street, crying still, "Coward! coward! coward!" "He is a coward, indeed," grumbled the host, drawing near to d'Artagnan, and endeavoring by this little flattery to make up matters with the young man, as the heron of the fable did with the snail he had despised the evening before. "Yes, a base coward," murmured d'Artagnan; "but she--she was very beautiful." "What she?" demanded the host. "Milady," faltered d'Artagnan, and fainted a second time. "Ah, it's all one," said the host; "I have lost two customers, but this one remains, of whom I am pretty certain for some days to come. There will be eleven crowns gained." It is to be remembered that eleven crowns was just the sum that remained in d'Artagnan's purse. The host had reckoned upon eleven days of confinement at a crown a day, but he had reckoned without his guest. On the following morning at five o'clock d'Artagnan arose, and descending to the kitchen without help, asked, among other ingredients the list of which has not come down to us, for some oil, some wine, and some rosemary, and with his mother's recipe in his hand composed a balsam, with which he anointed his numerous wounds, replacing his bandages himself, and positively refusing the assistance of any doctor, d'Artagnan walked about that same evening, and was almost cured by the morrow. But when the time came to pay for his rosemary, this oil, and the wine, the only expense the master had incurred, as he had preserved a strict abstinence--while on the contrary, the yellow horse, by the account of the hostler at least, had eaten three times as much as a horse of his size could reasonably be supposed to have done--d'Artagnan found nothing in his pocket but his little old velvet purse with the eleven crowns it contained; for as to the letter addressed to M. de Treville, it had disappeared. The young man commenced his search for the letter with the greatest patience, turning out his pockets of all kinds over and over again, rummaging and rerummaging in his valise, and opening and reopening his purse; but when he found that he had come to the conviction that the letter was not to be found, he flew, for the third time, into such a rage as was near costing him a fresh consumption of wine, oil, and rosemary--for upon seeing this hot-headed youth become exasperated and threaten to destroy everything in the establishment if his letter were not found, the host seized a spit, his wife a broom handle, and the servants the same sticks they had used the day before. "My letter of recommendation!" cried d'Artagnan, "my letter of recommendation! or, the holy blood, I will spit you all like ortolans!" Unfortunately, there was one circumstance which created a powerful obstacle to the accomplishment of this threat; which was, as we have related, that his sword had been in his first conflict broken in two, and which he had entirely forgotten. Hence, it resulted when d'Artagnan proceeded to draw his sword in earnest, he found himself purely and simply armed with a stump of a sword about eight or ten inches in length, which the host had carefully placed in the scabbard. As to the rest of the blade, the master had slyly put that on one side to make himself a larding pin. But this deception would probably not have stopped our fiery young man if the host had not reflected that the reclamation which his guest made was perfectly just. "But, after all," said he, lowering the point of his spit, "where is this letter?" "Yes, where is this letter?" cried d'Artagnan. "In the first place, I warn you that that letter is for Monsieur de Treville, and it must be found, or if it is not found, he will know how to find it." His threat completed the intimidation of the host. After the king and the cardinal, M. de Treville was the man whose name was perhaps most frequently repeated by the military, and even by citizens. There was, to be sure, Father Joseph, but his name was never pronounced but with a subdued voice, such was the terror inspired by his Gray Eminence, as the cardinal's familiar was called. Throwing down his spit, and ordering his wife to do the same with her broom handle, and the servants with their sticks, he set the first example of commencing an earnest search for the lost letter. "Does the letter contain anything valuable?" demanded the host, after a few minutes of useless investigation. "Zounds! I think it does indeed!" cried the Gascon, who reckoned upon this letter for making his way at court. "It contained my fortune!" "Bills upon Spain?" asked the disturbed host. "Bills upon his Majesty's private treasury," answered d'Artagnan, who, reckoning upon entering into the king's service in consequence of this recommendation, believed he could make this somewhat hazardous reply without telling of a falsehood. "The devil!" cried the host, at his wit's end. "But it's of no importance," continued d'Artagnan, with natural assurance; "it's of no importance. The money is nothing; that letter was everything. I would rather have lost a thousand pistoles than have lost it." He would not have risked more if he had said twenty thousand; but a certain juvenile modesty restrained him. A ray of light all at once broke upon the mind of the host as he was giving himself to the devil upon finding nothing. "That letter is not lost!" cried he. "What!" cried d'Artagnan. "No, it has been stolen from you." "Stolen? By whom?" "By the gentleman who was here yesterday. He came down into the kitchen, where your doublet was. He remained there some time alone. I would lay a wager he has stolen it." "Do you think so?" answered d'Artagnan, but little convinced, as he knew better than anyone else how entirely personal the value of this letter was, and saw nothing in it likely to tempt cupidity. The fact was that none of his servants, none of the travelers present, could have gained anything by being possessed of this paper. "Do you say," resumed d'Artagnan, "that you suspect that impertinent gentleman?" "I tell you I am sure of it," continued the host. "When I informed him that your lordship was the protege of Monsieur de Treville, and that you even had a letter for that illustrious gentleman, he appeared to be very much disturbed, and asked me where that letter was, and immediately came down into the kitchen, where he knew your doublet was." "Then that's my thief," replied d'Artagnan. "I will complain to Monsieur de Treville, and Monsieur de Treville will complain to the king." He then drew two crowns majestically from his purse and gave them to the host, who accompanied him, cap in hand, to the gate, and remounted his yellow horse, which bore him without any further accident to the gate of St. Antoine at Paris, where his owner sold him for three crowns, which was a very good price, considering that d'Artagnan had ridden him hard during the last stage. Thus the dealer to whom d'Artagnan sold him for the nine livres did not conceal from the young man that he only gave that enormous sum for him on the account of the originality of his color. Thus d'Artagnan entered Paris on foot, carrying his little packet under his arm, and walked about till he found an apartment to be let on terms suited to the scantiness of his means. This chamber was a sort of garret, situated in the Rue des Fossoyeurs, near the Luxembourg. As soon as the earnest money was paid, d'Artagnan took possession of his lodging, and passed the remainder of the day in sewing onto his doublet and hose some ornamental braiding which his mother had taken off an almost-new doublet of the elder M. d'Artagnan, and which she had given her son secretly. Next he went to the Quai de Feraille to have a new blade put to his sword, and then returned toward the Louvre, inquiring of the first Musketeer he met for the situation of the hotel of M. de Treville, which proved to be in the Rue du Vieux-Colombier; that is to say, in the immediate vicinity of the chamber hired by d'Artagnan--a circumstance which appeared to furnish a happy augury for the success of his journey. After this, satisfied with the way in which he had conducted himself at Meung, without remorse for the past, confident in the present, and full of hope for the future, he retired to bed and slept the sleep of the brave. This sleep, provincial as it was, brought him to nine o'clock in the morning; at which hour he rose, in order to repair to the residence of M. de Treville, the third personage in the kingdom, in the paternal estimation.

Chapter One: The Three Presents of D'Artagnan the Elder

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We start our tale with a historical info-dump. It's the first Monday of April, 1625, and we're in a small town experiencing a lot of pandemonium. This kind of activity is apparently quite usual, and we get a quick overview of the types of conflict common at this point in history: nobles vs. nobles, King vs. Cardinal, Spain vs. King, lots of bad people vs. citizens. This story is also taking place in France. The cause of all the chaos is a young man the narrator describes as a "Don Quixote of eighteen." If you're not up on your Spanish literature, Don Quixote is this ordinary guy who starts believing he's a gallant knight, so in other words, the young man in our story looks like an idealistic fool. It's also clear, from his massive jawbone that he's from Gascony. According to our annotated edition, that means he's likely to have a quick temper and lots of courage. The narrator tells us that the young man would likely be taken for a farmer's son if it wasn't for the sword he carries. The young man rides an old yellow horse with no hair in its tail; the old horse also walks funny. In short, the young man is riding the 17th century equivalent of a Ford Edsel. It turns out the horse is a gift from his father . We get a flashback to the day dad gave away the horse. He tells D'Artagnan the younger to never sell the horse and to take care of it like an old servant. He then launches into a long lecture which can be summed up like this: honor; courage; obey the Cardinal and the King; go out and have lots of adventures and pick a lot of fights even though they're illegal; here are fifteen crowns, a horse, and my advice; your mother is including some balsam which will take care of all the injuries you're going to have. D'Artagnan the elder adds that he's buddy-buddy with a really important guy at court named Monsieur de Treville, , whom he's recommending as the role model for his son. He gives his D'Artagnan the younger a letter of introduction, which reads something like: hello old friend, the guy who just handed you this letter is my son, please treat him well. D'Artagnan the elder outfits his son with a sword and wishes him luck. Then D'Artagnan goes to say good-bye to his mom. They both cry. This doesn't indicate that D'Artagnan is weak, just that he really loves his mom. Aww. And then our hero's off! He has fifteen crowns, a horse, and a letter of introduction . During his journey, D'Artagnan is always raring for a fight , but he manages to make it to Meung in one piece. He gets to an inn called the Jolly Miller, and as he's getting down from the horse he spies an authoritative man telling jokes to two other men. D'Artagnan's horse is the joke. Uh-oh. D'Artagnan stares at the guy in charge for a good long while memorizing the his looks: he's about forty, with black eyes and fair skin. D'Artagnan walks over to the man with his hand on his sword. He's ready for a big, eloquent speech but instead blurts out: "What you laughing at?" Or something like that. The stranger replies, "Did I look like I was talking to you?" D'Artagnan comes back with, "But I'm talking to you!" The stranger ignores him. D'Artagnan pulls out his sword. The stranger continues making fun of D'Artagnan's horse. D'Artagnan continues to threaten him, and the stranger continues to be polite and scornful at the same time. D'Artagnan continues to demand a fight. The stranger sighs and says D'Artagnan should really be a Musketeer if he wants to be so brave. D'Artagnan nearly skewers the stranger. Finally, the stranger draws his sword. Before we get to see a swordfight, the innkeeper and the two men start beating on D'Artagnan with "sticks, shovels, and tongs." The stranger says that they should just shove D'Artagnan back on the funny horse and send him on his way. As three men beat him with sticks, shovels, and tongs, D'Artagnan says to the stranger, "I'm not leaving until you're dead." The stranger tells the three men to continue beating D'Artagnan, figuring that the fight will end soon enough. D'Artagnan continues to stand there and take the beating. His sword breaks in two. Finally, someone cracks him on the head and he falls over. The innkeeper takes him to the kitchen for some first aid. The innkeeper goes back to ask the stranger if he's okay. Because the stranger was totally involved in the "fighting." The stranger says that he's fine, and asks how D'Artagnan is doing. The innkeeper says that the young man has fainted again, but not before swearing to kill the stranger. Again. The stranger exclaims that D'Artagnan must be the devil. No, says the innkeeper, we went through his stuff and found a shirt and some money. The innkeeper tells the stranger that D'Artagnan stuck his hand into his pocket and mentioned the name of M. de Treville. The innkeeper saw that D'Artagnan has a letter addressed to Treville. The stranger gets all excited, then goes to the window and mutters under his breath, "Could M. de Treville have sent this crazy young man here to kill me?" He stares out the window contemplating the possibilities before finally turning back to the innkeeper and asking him to get rid of D'Artagnan. The stranger orders his horses ready for his departure. We learn that D'Artagnan has been taken to another room to have his wounds treated. The stranger continues to mutter to himself, so we get to hear his dastardly plans: he doesn't want Milady to be seen by D'Artagnan, and he is interested in seeing this letter addressed to Treville. The innkeeper blames D'Artagnan for the departure of the noble stranger; he goes straight to D'Artagnan and insists that he leave the inn immediately. D'Artagnan, still wounded, struggles to his feet and steps out of the room. The first thing he sees is the stranger talking to someone sitting in a carriage. This someone happens to be a beautiful young woman: blonde haired, blue-eyed, and with skin like alabaster. The stranger is relaying a set of orders to her. When she asks him if he's going to punish the "insolent boy" , D'Artagnan has to pipe up, "Are you talking about me?" D'Artagnan is convinced that the stranger would not dare to flee from a fight in front of a lady. The stranger does just that--he gallops away on his horse as the innkeeper screams out, "What about your bill?!?!" The stranger yells for one of his servants to pay the innkeeper. D'Artagnan chases after the stranger yelling "Base Coward! False Gentleman!" Then his head injuries get the best of him and he collapses. The innkeeper tries to make nice with D'Artagnan since the other guy turned out to be a jerk. D'Artagnan regains consciousness long enough to talk about the beautiful woman, then faints again. The innkeeper feels better when he anticipates that D'Artagnan must stay at the inn and recuperate for quite some time. Wrong! D'Artagnan gets together the ingredients for his mother's balsam, and is essentially cured within two days. When he goes to pay for his lodging and meals, D'Artagnan discovers that his letter of introduction to M. de Treville is missing. He flies into a rage and demands that it be found. He does this over and over again until everyone grabs the sticks, shovels, and tongs they used earlier. They don't beat him quite yet, but they're close. D'Artagnan pulls out his sword, forgetting that two inches of metal does not constitute a sword. The narrator points out that this would probably not prevent D'Artagnan from continuing to threaten the inn employees. Luckily, something penetrates the innkeeper's brain. He lowers his stick and asks rhetorically, "But where is your letter?" After putting their heads together, the innkeeper finally has an "Aha!" moment and tells D'Artagnan that the stranger from earlier must have taken it. D'Artagnan pays the innkeeper and sets off for Paris so he can complain to M. de Treville. Once in Paris, D'Artagnan sells off his horse , rents a tiny garret, and falls asleep perfectly happy with his previous conduct. The next day he plans to see M. de Treville.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/1257-chapters/2.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Three Musketeers/section_2_part_0.txt

The Three Musketeers.chapter 2

chapter 2: the antechamber of m. de treville

{"name": "Chapter Two: The Antechamber of M. de Treville", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210127112556/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/three-musketeers/summary/chapter-two-the-antechamber-of-m-de-trville", "summary": "We start this chapter with some background on M. de Treville. He embodies the classic story of a self-made man: he was once a small town boy with big dreams who showed up in the big city with barely a nickel in his pocket... and worked his way up to being one of the country's head honchos. Not only is Treville good with a sword, he is also capable of immense loyalty. Both qualities endear him to the King . When the King sets up his own private army of Musketeers, he picks Treville as the commander. As soon as the Cardinal sees that the King has got an army of soldiers carrying fancy swords, he gets jealous and wants one too. The King and the Cardinal settle down to a competition to determine France's best swordsmen. Not being able to actually fight each other, the Cardinal and the King also have polite conversations meant for the sole purpose of bragging about their fighting men. The King's Musketeers are a loud, rowdy, and drunken bunch; they listen only to Treville, whom they adore. Basically, Treville is the man. If you were a man in 17th century France, you'd want to meet either the Cardinal or the King. If that fails, however, you would want to meet Treville. His hotel is crammed non-stop with men trying to meet him, and fifty to sixty Musketeers that do nothing but hang out and look imposing. Into this melee, D'Artagnan shows up. He's a small-town boy, remember, so he's intimidated , and ends up just feeling ridiculous. Making his way through Treville's hotel the way a new kid makes his way through a cafeteria at lunchtime, D'Artagnan finally makes it to a stairwell. He stops. A man on the top step is dueling three men on a lower step. D'Artagnan believes for a moment that the swords are blunt, but then realizes that the Musketeers are using real equipment. Inside one of the rooms , men are gossiping about all the latest happenings at court. Finally a servant notices D'Artagnan and asks him what's up. D'Artagnan tells him that he would like to speak with M. de Treville. The servant goes off and D'Artagnan finally takes his time to actually look around. He spies a group of Musketeers with a really tall, arrogant guy at the center. He's dressed uncommonly well in a blue shirt, a gold baldric , and a red velvet cloak. The man looks good, but he's complaining about having a cold, . Then the man talks about how his cloak is ridiculous, but a) it's fashionable and b) he needs some way of spending his inheritance. One of the other Musketeers says: \"No way, Porthos--you got that from your sugar mama.\" Porthos defends himself as the other Musketeers start questioning him. Finally, Porthos turns to some other guy, calls him \"Aramis,\" and asks him to back him up. Aramis is short and stout , with an honest face and slow manner of speaking. He backs Porthos up, which dispels all the naysayers. Conversation turns to the latest court scandal. Basically, the Cardinal is a terrible man who kills people on trumped-up charges. In the course of the conversation, Porthos tells Aramis that it's a pity he never followed his first calling to become a priest. Aramis replies that he will become a priest someday; he is continuing his theological studies. He also tells Porthos that he is vain. The two of them start fighting, but are interrupted when a servant flings open a door and tells D'Artagnan that Treville is ready to see him. Everyone shuts up as D'Artagnan walks over, pleased to have avoided seeing the fight.", "analysis": ""}

2 THE ANTECHAMBER OF M. DE TREVILLE M de Troisville, as his family was still called in Gascony, or M. de Treville, as he has ended by styling himself in Paris, had really commenced life as d'Artagnan now did; that is to say, without a sou in his pocket, but with a fund of audacity, shrewdness, and intelligence which makes the poorest Gascon gentleman often derive more in his hope from the paternal inheritance than the richest Perigordian or Berrichan gentleman derives in reality from his. His insolent bravery, his still more insolent success at a time when blows poured down like hail, had borne him to the top of that difficult ladder called Court Favor, which he had climbed four steps at a time. He was the friend of the king, who honored highly, as everyone knows, the memory of his father, Henry IV. The father of M. de Treville had served him so faithfully in his wars against the league that in default of money--a thing to which the Bearnais was accustomed all his life, and who constantly paid his debts with that of which he never stood in need of borrowing, that is to say, with ready wit--in default of money, we repeat, he authorized him, after the reduction of Paris, to assume for his arms a golden lion passant upon gules, with the motto FIDELIS ET FORTIS. This was a great matter in the way of honor, but very little in the way of wealth; so that when the illustrious companion of the great Henry died, the only inheritance he was able to leave his son was his sword and his motto. Thanks to this double gift and the spotless name that accompanied it, M. de Treville was admitted into the household of the young prince where he made such good use of his sword, and was so faithful to his motto, that Louis XIII, one of the good blades of his kingdom, was accustomed to say that if he had a friend who was about to fight, he would advise him to choose as a second, himself first, and Treville next--or even, perhaps, before himself. Thus Louis XIII had a real liking for Treville--a royal liking, a self-interested liking, it is true, but still a liking. At that unhappy period it was an important consideration to be surrounded by such men as Treville. Many might take for their device the epithet STRONG, which formed the second part of his motto, but very few gentlemen could lay claim to the FAITHFUL, which constituted the first. Treville was one of these latter. His was one of those rare organizations, endowed with an obedient intelligence like that of the dog; with a blind valor, a quick eye, and a prompt hand; to whom sight appeared only to be given to see if the king were dissatisfied with anyone, and the hand to strike this displeasing personage, whether a Besme, a Maurevers, a Poltiot de Mere, or a Vitry. In short, up to this period nothing had been wanting to Treville but opportunity; but he was ever on the watch for it, and he faithfully promised himself that he would not fail to seize it by its three hairs whenever it came within reach of his hand. At last Louis XIII made Treville the captain of his Musketeers, who were to Louis XIII in devotedness, or rather in fanaticism, what his Ordinaries had been to Henry III, and his Scotch Guard to Louis XI. On his part, the cardinal was not behind the king in this respect. When he saw the formidable and chosen body with which Louis XIII had surrounded himself, this second, or rather this first king of France, became desirous that he, too, should have his guard. He had his Musketeers therefore, as Louis XIII had his, and these two powerful rivals vied with each other in procuring, not only from all the provinces of France, but even from all foreign states, the most celebrated swordsmen. It was not uncommon for Richelieu and Louis XIII to dispute over their evening game of chess upon the merits of their servants. Each boasted the bearing and the courage of his own people. While exclaiming loudly against duels and brawls, they excited them secretly to quarrel, deriving an immoderate satisfaction or genuine regret from the success or defeat of their own combatants. We learn this from the memoirs of a man who was concerned in some few of these defeats and in many of these victories. Treville had grasped the weak side of his master; and it was to this address that he owed the long and constant favor of a king who has not left the reputation behind him of being very faithful in his friendships. He paraded his Musketeers before the Cardinal Armand Duplessis with an insolent air which made the gray moustache of his Eminence curl with ire. Treville understood admirably the war method of that period, in which he who could not live at the expense of the enemy must live at the expense of his compatriots. His soldiers formed a legion of devil-may-care fellows, perfectly undisciplined toward all but himself. Loose, half-drunk, imposing, the king's Musketeers, or rather M. de Treville's, spread themselves about in the cabarets, in the public walks, and the public sports, shouting, twisting their mustaches, clanking their swords, and taking great pleasure in annoying the Guards of the cardinal whenever they could fall in with them; then drawing in the open streets, as if it were the best of all possible sports; sometimes killed, but sure in that case to be both wept and avenged; often killing others, but then certain of not rotting in prison, M. de Treville being there to claim them. Thus M. de Treville was praised to the highest note by these men, who adored him, and who, ruffians as they were, trembled before him like scholars before their master, obedient to his least word, and ready to sacrifice themselves to wash out the smallest insult. M de Treville employed this powerful weapon for the king, in the first place, and the friends of the king--and then for himself and his own friends. For the rest, in the memoirs of this period, which has left so many memoirs, one does not find this worthy gentleman blamed even by his enemies; and he had many such among men of the pen as well as among men of the sword. In no instance, let us say, was this worthy gentleman accused of deriving personal advantage from the cooperation of his minions. Endowed with a rare genius for intrigue which rendered him the equal of the ablest intriguers, he remained an honest man. Still further, in spite of sword thrusts which weaken, and painful exercises which fatigue, he had become one of the most gallant frequenters of revels, one of the most insinuating lady's men, one of the softest whisperers of interesting nothings of his day; the BONNES FORTUNES of de Treville were talked of as those of M. de Bassompierre had been talked of twenty years before, and that was not saying a little. The captain of the Musketeers was therefore admired, feared, and loved; and this constitutes the zenith of human fortune. Louis XIV absorbed all the smaller stars of his court in his own vast radiance; but his father, a sun PLURIBUS IMPAR, left his personal splendor to each of his favorites, his individual value to each of his courtiers. In addition to the leeves of the king and the cardinal, there might be reckoned in Paris at that time more than two hundred smaller but still noteworthy leeves. Among these two hundred leeves, that of Treville was one of the most sought. The court of his hotel, situated in the Rue du Vieux-Colombier, resembled a camp from by six o'clock in the morning in summer and eight o'clock in winter. From fifty to sixty Musketeers, who appeared to replace one another in order always to present an imposing number, paraded constantly, armed to the teeth and ready for anything. On one of those immense staircases, upon whose space modern civilization would build a whole house, ascended and descended the office seekers of Paris, who ran after any sort of favor--gentlemen from the provinces anxious to be enrolled, and servants in all sorts of liveries, bringing and carrying messages between their masters and M. de Treville. In the antechamber, upon long circular benches, reposed the elect; that is to say, those who were called. In this apartment a continued buzzing prevailed from morning till night, while M. de Treville, in his office contiguous to this antechamber, received visits, listened to complaints, gave his orders, and like the king in his balcony at the Louvre, had only to place himself at the window to review both his men and arms. The day on which d'Artagnan presented himself the assemblage was imposing, particularly for a provincial just arriving from his province. It is true that this provincial was a Gascon; and that, particularly at this period, the compatriots of d'Artagnan had the reputation of not being easily intimidated. When he had once passed the massive door covered with long square-headed nails, he fell into the midst of a troop of swordsmen, who crossed one another in their passage, calling out, quarreling, and playing tricks one with another. In order to make one's way amid these turbulent and conflicting waves, it was necessary to be an officer, a great noble, or a pretty woman. It was, then, into the midst of this tumult and disorder that our young man advanced with a beating heart, ranging his long rapier up his lanky leg, and keeping one hand on the edge of his cap, with that half-smile of the embarrassed provincial who wishes to put on a good face. When he had passed one group he began to breathe more freely; but he could not help observing that they turned round to look at him, and for the first time in his life d'Artagnan, who had till that day entertained a very good opinion of himself, felt ridiculous. Arrived at the staircase, it was still worse. There were four Musketeers on the bottom steps, amusing themselves with the following exercise, while ten or twelve of their comrades waited upon the landing place to take their turn in the sport. One of them, stationed upon the top stair, naked sword in hand, prevented, or at least endeavored to prevent, the three others from ascending. These three others fenced against him with their agile swords. D'Artagnan at first took these weapons for foils, and believed them to be buttoned; but he soon perceived by certain scratches that every weapon was pointed and sharpened, and that at each of these scratches not only the spectators, but even the actors themselves, laughed like so many madmen. He who at the moment occupied the upper step kept his adversaries marvelously in check. A circle was formed around them. The conditions required that at every hit the man touched should quit the game, yielding his turn for the benefit of the adversary who had hit him. In five minutes three were slightly wounded, one on the hand, another on the ear, by the defender of the stair, who himself remained intact--a piece of skill which was worth to him, according to the rules agreed upon, three turns of favor. However difficult it might be, or rather as he pretended it was, to astonish our young traveler, this pastime really astonished him. He had seen in his province--that land in which heads become so easily heated--a few of the preliminaries of duels; but the daring of these four fencers appeared to him the strongest he had ever heard of even in Gascony. He believed himself transported into that famous country of giants into which Gulliver afterward went and was so frightened; and yet he had not gained the goal, for there were still the landing place and the antechamber. On the landing they were no longer fighting, but amused themselves with stories about women, and in the antechamber, with stories about the court. On the landing d'Artagnan blushed; in the antechamber he trembled. His warm and fickle imagination, which in Gascony had rendered him formidable to young chambermaids, and even sometimes their mistresses, had never dreamed, even in moments of delirium, of half the amorous wonders or a quarter of the feats of gallantry which were here set forth in connection with names the best known and with details the least concealed. But if his morals were shocked on the landing, his respect for the cardinal was scandalized in the antechamber. There, to his great astonishment, d'Artagnan heard the policy which made all Europe tremble criticized aloud and openly, as well as the private life of the cardinal, which so many great nobles had been punished for trying to pry into. That great man who was so revered by d'Artagnan the elder served as an object of ridicule to the Musketeers of Treville, who cracked their jokes upon his bandy legs and his crooked back. Some sang ballads about Mme. d'Aguillon, his mistress, and Mme. Cambalet, his niece; while others formed parties and plans to annoy the pages and guards of the cardinal duke--all things which appeared to d'Artagnan monstrous impossibilities. Nevertheless, when the name of the king was now and then uttered unthinkingly amid all these cardinal jests, a sort of gag seemed to close for a moment on all these jeering mouths. They looked hesitatingly around them, and appeared to doubt the thickness of the partition between them and the office of M. de Treville; but a fresh allusion soon brought back the conversation to his Eminence, and then the laughter recovered its loudness and the light was not withheld from any of his actions. "Certes, these fellows will all either be imprisoned or hanged," thought the terrified d'Artagnan, "and I, no doubt, with them; for from the moment I have either listened to or heard them, I shall be held as an accomplice. What would my good father say, who so strongly pointed out to me the respect due to the cardinal, if he knew I was in the society of such pagans?" We have no need, therefore, to say that d'Artagnan dared not join in the conversation, only he looked with all his eyes and listened with all his ears, stretching his five senses so as to lose nothing; and despite his confidence on the paternal admonitions, he felt himself carried by his tastes and led by his instincts to praise rather than to blame the unheard-of things which were taking place. Although he was a perfect stranger in the court of M. de Treville's courtiers, and this his first appearance in that place, he was at length noticed, and somebody came and asked him what he wanted. At this demand d'Artagnan gave his name very modestly, emphasized the title of compatriot, and begged the servant who had put the question to him to request a moment's audience of M. de Treville--a request which the other, with an air of protection, promised to transmit in due season. D'Artagnan, a little recovered from his first surprise, had now leisure to study costumes and physiognomy. The center of the most animated group was a Musketeer of great height and haughty countenance, dressed in a costume so peculiar as to attract general attention. He did not wear the uniform cloak--which was not obligatory at that epoch of less liberty but more independence--but a cerulean-blue doublet, a little faded and worn, and over this a magnificent baldric, worked in gold, which shone like water ripples in the sun. A long cloak of crimson velvet fell in graceful folds from his shoulders, disclosing in front the splendid baldric, from which was suspended a gigantic rapier. This Musketeer had just come off guard, complained of having a cold, and coughed from time to time affectedly. It was for this reason, as he said to those around him, that he had put on his cloak; and while he spoke with a lofty air and twisted his mustache disdainfully, all admired his embroidered baldric, and d'Artagnan more than anyone. "What would you have?" said the Musketeer. "This fashion is coming in. It is a folly, I admit, but still it is the fashion. Besides, one must lay out one's inheritance somehow." "Ah, Porthos!" cried one of his companions, "don't try to make us believe you obtained that baldric by paternal generosity. It was given to you by that veiled lady I met you with the other Sunday, near the gate St. Honor." "No, upon honor and by the faith of a gentleman, I bought it with the contents of my own purse," answered he whom they designated by the name Porthos. "Yes; about in the same manner," said another Musketeer, "that I bought this new purse with what my mistress put into the old one." "It's true, though," said Porthos; "and the proof is that I paid twelve pistoles for it." The wonder was increased, though the doubt continued to exist. "Is it not true, Aramis?" said Porthos, turning toward another Musketeer. This other Musketeer formed a perfect contrast to his interrogator, who had just designated him by the name of Aramis. He was a stout man, of about two- or three-and-twenty, with an open, ingenuous countenance, a black, mild eye, and cheeks rosy and downy as an autumn peach. His delicate mustache marked a perfectly straight line upon his upper lip; he appeared to dread to lower his hands lest their veins should swell, and he pinched the tips of his ears from time to time to preserve their delicate pink transparency. Habitually he spoke little and slowly, bowed frequently, laughed without noise, showing his teeth, which were fine and of which, as the rest of his person, he appeared to take great care. He answered the appeal of his friend by an affirmative nod of the head. This affirmation appeared to dispel all doubts with regard to the baldric. They continued to admire it, but said no more about it; and with a rapid change of thought, the conversation passed suddenly to another subject. "What do you think of the story Chalais's esquire relates?" asked another Musketeer, without addressing anyone in particular, but on the contrary speaking to everybody. "And what does he say?" asked Porthos, in a self-sufficient tone. "He relates that he met at Brussels Rochefort, the AME DAMNEE of the cardinal disguised as a Capuchin, and that this cursed Rochefort, thanks to his disguise, had tricked Monsieur de Laigues, like a ninny as he is." "A ninny, indeed!" said Porthos; "but is the matter certain?" "I had it from Aramis," replied the Musketeer. "Indeed?" "Why, you knew it, Porthos," said Aramis. "I told you of it yesterday. Let us say no more about it." "Say no more about it? That's YOUR opinion!" replied Porthos. "Say no more about it! PESTE! You come to your conclusions quickly. What! The cardinal sets a spy upon a gentleman, has his letters stolen from him by means of a traitor, a brigand, a rascal--has, with the help of this spy and thanks to this correspondence, Chalais's throat cut, under the stupid pretext that he wanted to kill the king and marry Monsieur to the queen! Nobody knew a word of this enigma. You unraveled it yesterday to the great satisfaction of all; and while we are still gaping with wonder at the news, you come and tell us today, 'Let us say no more about it.'" "Well, then, let us talk about it, since you desire it," replied Aramis, patiently. "This Rochefort," cried Porthos, "if I were the esquire of poor Chalais, should pass a minute or two very uncomfortably with me." "And you--you would pass rather a sad quarter-hour with the Red Duke," replied Aramis. "Oh, the Red Duke! Bravo! Bravo! The Red Duke!" cried Porthos, clapping his hands and nodding his head. "The Red Duke is capital. I'll circulate that saying, be assured, my dear fellow. Who says this Aramis is not a wit? What a misfortune it is you did not follow your first vocation; what a delicious abbe you would have made!" "Oh, it's only a temporary postponement," replied Aramis; "I shall be one someday. You very well know, Porthos, that I continue to study theology for that purpose." "He will be one, as he says," cried Porthos; "he will be one, sooner or later." "Sooner," said Aramis. "He only waits for one thing to determine him to resume his cassock, which hangs behind his uniform," said another Musketeer. "What is he waiting for?" asked another. "Only till the queen has given an heir to the crown of France." "No jesting upon that subject, gentlemen," said Porthos; "thank God the queen is still of an age to give one!" "They say that Monsieur de Buckingham is in France," replied Aramis, with a significant smile which gave to this sentence, apparently so simple, a tolerably scandalous meaning. "Aramis, my good friend, this time you are wrong," interrupted Porthos. "Your wit is always leading you beyond bounds; if Monsieur de Treville heard you, you would repent of speaking thus." "Are you going to give me a lesson, Porthos?" cried Aramis, from whose usually mild eye a flash passed like lightning. "My dear fellow, be a Musketeer or an abbe. Be one or the other, but not both," replied Porthos. "You know what Athos told you the other day; you eat at everybody's mess. Ah, don't be angry, I beg of you, that would be useless; you know what is agreed upon between you, Athos and me. You go to Madame d'Aguillon's, and you pay your court to her; you go to Madame de Bois-Tracy's, the cousin of Madame de Chevreuse, and you pass for being far advanced in the good graces of that lady. Oh, good Lord! Don't trouble yourself to reveal your good luck; no one asks for your secret-all the world knows your discretion. But since you possess that virtue, why the devil don't you make use of it with respect to her Majesty? Let whoever likes talk of the king and the cardinal, and how he likes; but the queen is sacred, and if anyone speaks of her, let it be respectfully." "Porthos, you are as vain as Narcissus; I plainly tell you so," replied Aramis. "You know I hate moralizing, except when it is done by Athos. As to you, good sir, you wear too magnificent a baldric to be strong on that head. I will be an abbe if it suits me. In the meanwhile I am a Musketeer; in that quality I say what I please, and at this moment it pleases me to say that you weary me." "Aramis!" "Porthos!" "Gentlemen! Gentlemen!" cried the surrounding group. "Monsieur de Treville awaits Monsieur d'Artagnan," cried a servant, throwing open the door of the cabinet. At this announcement, during which the door remained open, everyone became mute, and amid the general silence the young man crossed part of the length of the antechamber, and entered the apartment of the captain of the Musketeers, congratulating himself with all his heart at having so narrowly escaped the end of this strange quarrel.

Chapter Two: The Antechamber of M. de Treville

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We start this chapter with some background on M. de Treville. He embodies the classic story of a self-made man: he was once a small town boy with big dreams who showed up in the big city with barely a nickel in his pocket... and worked his way up to being one of the country's head honchos. Not only is Treville good with a sword, he is also capable of immense loyalty. Both qualities endear him to the King . When the King sets up his own private army of Musketeers, he picks Treville as the commander. As soon as the Cardinal sees that the King has got an army of soldiers carrying fancy swords, he gets jealous and wants one too. The King and the Cardinal settle down to a competition to determine France's best swordsmen. Not being able to actually fight each other, the Cardinal and the King also have polite conversations meant for the sole purpose of bragging about their fighting men. The King's Musketeers are a loud, rowdy, and drunken bunch; they listen only to Treville, whom they adore. Basically, Treville is the man. If you were a man in 17th century France, you'd want to meet either the Cardinal or the King. If that fails, however, you would want to meet Treville. His hotel is crammed non-stop with men trying to meet him, and fifty to sixty Musketeers that do nothing but hang out and look imposing. Into this melee, D'Artagnan shows up. He's a small-town boy, remember, so he's intimidated , and ends up just feeling ridiculous. Making his way through Treville's hotel the way a new kid makes his way through a cafeteria at lunchtime, D'Artagnan finally makes it to a stairwell. He stops. A man on the top step is dueling three men on a lower step. D'Artagnan believes for a moment that the swords are blunt, but then realizes that the Musketeers are using real equipment. Inside one of the rooms , men are gossiping about all the latest happenings at court. Finally a servant notices D'Artagnan and asks him what's up. D'Artagnan tells him that he would like to speak with M. de Treville. The servant goes off and D'Artagnan finally takes his time to actually look around. He spies a group of Musketeers with a really tall, arrogant guy at the center. He's dressed uncommonly well in a blue shirt, a gold baldric , and a red velvet cloak. The man looks good, but he's complaining about having a cold, . Then the man talks about how his cloak is ridiculous, but a) it's fashionable and b) he needs some way of spending his inheritance. One of the other Musketeers says: "No way, Porthos--you got that from your sugar mama." Porthos defends himself as the other Musketeers start questioning him. Finally, Porthos turns to some other guy, calls him "Aramis," and asks him to back him up. Aramis is short and stout , with an honest face and slow manner of speaking. He backs Porthos up, which dispels all the naysayers. Conversation turns to the latest court scandal. Basically, the Cardinal is a terrible man who kills people on trumped-up charges. In the course of the conversation, Porthos tells Aramis that it's a pity he never followed his first calling to become a priest. Aramis replies that he will become a priest someday; he is continuing his theological studies. He also tells Porthos that he is vain. The two of them start fighting, but are interrupted when a servant flings open a door and tells D'Artagnan that Treville is ready to see him. Everyone shuts up as D'Artagnan walks over, pleased to have avoided seeing the fight.

shmoop

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The Three Musketeers.chapter 3

chapter 3: the audience

{"name": "Chapter Three: The Audience", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210127112556/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/three-musketeers/summary/chapter-three-the-audience", "summary": "D'Artagnan shows up to talk to M. de Treville, who smiles upon seeing the young Gascon. Before they start talking, however, Treville calls for Athos, Porthos, and Aramis. Porthos and Aramis immediately hustle over and everyone outside the room starts gossiping about the summons. Treville chews them out. It turns out that on the day before yesterday, the Musketeers were rioting in the streets and had to be arrested by the Cardinal's Guards. Said Musketeers included--you guessed it--Aramis, Porthos, and Athos. Treville starts swearing at his men, cursing himself for picking them, and then realizes that Athos isn't present. Aramis and Porthos tell Treville that Athos is sick with smallpox. Treville points out that Athos is too old to have smallpox, and speculates that Athos is likely wounded. Treville tells them that all the misbehaving needs to stop, ASAP. It is horribly embarrassing to have the Cardinal's men arrest the Musketeers for indecent behavior. Porthos and Aramis shuffle uncomfortably. Outside the door, all the rest of the Musketeers listen intently. Soon the entire hotel knows what's going on. Treville continues to rant, threatening to resign. It took only six of the Cardinal's guards to arrest six Musketeers. Everyone outside the room starts yelling and cursing. D'Artagnan feels awkward. Porthos is angry; he confesses that two Musketeers were killed before anyone could draw their swords, and Athos was badly wounded. All the Musketeers continued to fight, but the Cardinal's guards dragged them away. Porthos and Aramis managed to escape, and Athos was left for dead. Not to be outdone, Aramis tells his boss that he killed one of the guards with the guard's own sword. Treville is happy to hear that. Obviously the Cardinal kept that on the down-low. Aramis then asks Treville not to tell anyone that Athos is wounded. Right on time, Athos shows up. He's pale and obviously in a great deal of pain. He's hiding it well though. Treville is excited to see him. He tells Athos that the Musketeers shouldn't risk their lives needlessly. He then grips Athos's hand. Athos cringes in pain and grows even paler. Everyone listening outside the door gets excited and a few people poke their heads in. Treville is about to yell at them when Athos faints. Treville immediately starts freaking out and calling for the doctor in charge of the King. Luckily, the King's doctor happens to be in the building. He rushes over to Athos and demands that the Musketeer be carried into another room. Porthos and Aramis carry their friend into another room and the surgeon follows. Meanwhile, all the men left in Treville's room start yelling and cursing the Cardinal and his guards. Porthos and Aramis return, along with Treville. The surgeon declares that Athos fainted due to loss of blood but that he's okay now. Treville orders everyone out so only D'Artagnan is left. For a moment, Treville has to be reminded of why D'Artagnan is there. Based on his respect for D'Artagnan's father, he asks what he can do for D'Artagnan. D'Artagnan says his dearest wish is to become a Musketeer, but that he realizes the enormity of the request. Treville says yes, it's hard. You need the King's approval and you need to be an awesome fighter. The easy way in is to serve with a lesser regiment for two years. Treville offers to get D'Artagnan into the Royal Academy, where he can learn to be a proper gentleman: horsemanship, swordsmanship, dancing. He then tells D'Artagnan to drop by sometime and say hi. D'Artagnan realizes that Treville is being a bit cold, and laments the loss of his letter out loud. Treville expresses his surprise that D'Artagnan has no such letter. D'Artagnan says: well, I lost it. He proceeds to tell Treville all about what happened at Meung. Treville recognizes the description of the man who got D'Artagnan beaten up. Treville asks about the stranger's interaction with the beautiful woman. It's clear that Treville knows the man's identity. D'Artagnan begs to be told the man's identity so he can go avenge himself. Treville warns him away from this course of action, and then starts getting suspicious of D'Artagnan's true intentions. Maybe D'Artagnan is really the Cardinal's spy! Who knows in these uncertain times?! He resolves to test D'Artagnan's loyalties. Treville assures D'Artagnan that despite all their quarreling, the King and the Cardinal are actually BFFs, and that he is perfectly devoted to both. If D'Artagnan is going to do anything against the Cardinal, Treville wants nothing to do with him. Treville assumes that if D'Artagnan is truly a spy from the Cardinal, he will overcompensate and start ranting about the Cardinal's flaws. To Treville's surprise, D'Artagnan agrees. He says that his father told him to respect only the Cardinal, the King, and Treville. Treville says that he'll wait and see how D'Artagnan conducts himself. D'Artagnan tells the elder man that he will not have to wait long. Treville goes to write the letter of recommendation to the director of the Royal Academy. D'Artagnan paces around the room and gazes out the window. Right before he's about to receive the letter of recommendation, he spots the Man from Meung and runs away. Treville suspects this may be another ploy.", "analysis": ""}

3 THE AUDIENCE M de Treville was at the moment in rather ill-humor, nevertheless he saluted the young man politely, who bowed to the very ground; and he smiled on receiving d'Artagnan's response, the Bearnese accent of which recalled to him at the same time his youth and his country--a double remembrance which makes a man smile at all ages; but stepping toward the antechamber and making a sign to d'Artagnan with his hand, as if to ask his permission to finish with others before he began with him, he called three times, with a louder voice at each time, so that he ran through the intervening tones between the imperative accent and the angry accent. "Athos! Porthos! Aramis!" The two Musketeers with whom we have already made acquaintance, and who answered to the last of these three names, immediately quitted the group of which they had formed a part, and advanced toward the cabinet, the door of which closed after them as soon as they had entered. Their appearance, although it was not quite at ease, excited by its carelessness, at once full of dignity and submission, the admiration of d'Artagnan, who beheld in these two men demigods, and in their leader an Olympian Jupiter, armed with all his thunders. When the two Musketeers had entered; when the door was closed behind them; when the buzzing murmur of the antechamber, to which the summons which had been made had doubtless furnished fresh food, had recommenced; when M. de Treville had three or four times paced in silence, and with a frowning brow, the whole length of his cabinet, passing each time before Porthos and Aramis, who were as upright and silent as if on parade--he stopped all at once full in front of them, and covering them from head to foot with an angry look, "Do you know what the king said to me," cried he, "and that no longer ago than yesterday evening--do you know, gentlemen?" "No," replied the two Musketeers, after a moment's silence, "no, sir, we do not." "But I hope that you will do us the honor to tell us," added Aramis, in his politest tone and with his most graceful bow. "He told me that he should henceforth recruit his Musketeers from among the Guards of Monsieur the Cardinal." "The Guards of the cardinal! And why so?" asked Porthos, warmly. "Because he plainly perceives that his piquette* stands in need of being enlivened by a mixture of good wine." _*A watered liquor, made from the second pressing of the grape._ The two Musketeers reddened to the whites of their eyes. D'Artagnan did not know where he was, and wished himself a hundred feet underground. "Yes, yes," continued M. de Treville, growing warmer as he spoke, "and his majesty was right; for, upon my honor, it is true that the Musketeers make but a miserable figure at court. The cardinal related yesterday while playing with the king, with an air of condolence very displeasing to me, that the day before yesterday those DAMNED MUSKETEERS, those DAREDEVILS--he dwelt upon those words with an ironical tone still more displeasing to me--those BRAGGARTS, added he, glancing at me with his tiger-cat's eye, had made a riot in the Rue Ferou in a cabaret, and that a party of his Guards (I thought he was going to laugh in my face) had been forced to arrest the rioters! MORBLEU! You must know something about it. Arrest Musketeers! You were among them--you were! Don't deny it; you were recognized, and the cardinal named you. But it's all my fault; yes, it's all my fault, because it is myself who selects my men. You, Aramis, why the devil did you ask me for a uniform when you would have been so much better in a cassock? And you, Porthos, do you only wear such a fine golden baldric to suspend a sword of straw from it? And Athos--I don't see Athos. Where is he?" "Ill--" "Very ill, say you? And of what malady?" "It is feared that it may be the smallpox, sir," replied Porthos, desirous of taking his turn in the conversation; "and what is serious is that it will certainly spoil his face." "The smallpox! That's a great story to tell me, Porthos! Sick of the smallpox at his age! No, no; but wounded without doubt, killed, perhaps. Ah, if I knew! S'blood! Messieurs Musketeers, I will not have this haunting of bad places, this quarreling in the streets, this swordplay at the crossways; and above all, I will not have occasion given for the cardinal's Guards, who are brave, quiet, skillful men who never put themselves in a position to be arrested, and who, besides, never allow themselves to be arrested, to laugh at you! I am sure of it--they would prefer dying on the spot to being arrested or taking back a step. To save yourselves, to scamper away, to flee--that is good for the king's Musketeers!" Porthos and Aramis trembled with rage. They could willingly have strangled M. de Treville, if, at the bottom of all this, they had not felt it was the great love he bore them which made him speak thus. They stamped upon the carpet with their feet; they bit their lips till the blood came, and grasped the hilts of their swords with all their might. All without had heard, as we have said, Athos, Porthos, and Aramis called, and had guessed, from M. de Treville's tone of voice, that he was very angry about something. Ten curious heads were glued to the tapestry and became pale with fury; for their ears, closely applied to the door, did not lose a syllable of what he said, while their mouths repeated as he went on, the insulting expressions of the captain to all the people in the antechamber. In an instant, from the door of the cabinet to the street gate, the whole hotel was boiling. "Ah! The king's Musketeers are arrested by the Guards of the cardinal, are they?" continued M. de Treville, as furious at heart as his soldiers, but emphasizing his words and plunging them, one by one, so to say, like so many blows of a stiletto, into the bosoms of his auditors. "What! Six of his Eminence's Guards arrest six of his Majesty's Musketeers! MORBLEU! My part is taken! I will go straight to the louvre; I will give in my resignation as captain of the king's Musketeers to take a lieutenancy in the cardinal's Guards, and if he refuses me, MORBLEU! I will turn abbe." At these words, the murmur without became an explosion; nothing was to be heard but oaths and blasphemies. The MORBLEUS, the SANG DIEUS, the MORTS TOUTS LES DIABLES, crossed one another in the air. D'Artagnan looked for some tapestry behind which he might hide himself, and felt an immense inclination to crawl under the table. "Well, my Captain," said Porthos, quite beside himself, "the truth is that we were six against six. But we were not captured by fair means; and before we had time to draw our swords, two of our party were dead, and Athos, grievously wounded, was very little better. For you know Athos. Well, Captain, he endeavored twice to get up, and fell again twice. And we did not surrender--no! They dragged us away by force. On the way we escaped. As for Athos, they believed him to be dead, and left him very quiet on the field of battle, not thinking it worth the trouble to carry him away. That's the whole story. What the devil, Captain, one cannot win all one's battles! The great Pompey lost that of Pharsalia; and Francis the First, who was, as I have heard say, as good as other folks, nevertheless lost the Battle of Pavia." "And I have the honor of assuring you that I killed one of them with his own sword," said Aramis; "for mine was broken at the first parry. Killed him, or poniarded him, sir, as is most agreeable to you." "I did not know that," replied M. de Treville, in a somewhat softened tone. "The cardinal exaggerated, as I perceive." "But pray, sir," continued Aramis, who, seeing his captain become appeased, ventured to risk a prayer, "do not say that Athos is wounded. He would be in despair if that should come to the ears of the king; and as the wound is very serious, seeing that after crossing the shoulder it penetrates into the chest, it is to be feared--" At this instant the tapestry was raised and a noble and handsome head, but frightfully pale, appeared under the fringe. "Athos!" cried the two Musketeers. "Athos!" repeated M. de Treville himself. "You have sent for me, sir," said Athos to M. de Treville, in a feeble yet perfectly calm voice, "you have sent for me, as my comrades inform me, and I have hastened to receive your orders. I am here; what do you want with me?" And at these words, the Musketeer, in irreproachable costume, belted as usual, with a tolerably firm step, entered the cabinet. M. de Treville, moved to the bottom of his heart by this proof of courage, sprang toward him. "I was about to say to these gentlemen," added he, "that I forbid my Musketeers to expose their lives needlessly; for brave men are very dear to the king, and the king knows that his Musketeers are the bravest on the earth. Your hand, Athos!" And without waiting for the answer of the newcomer to this proof of affection, M. de Treville seized his right hand and pressed it with all his might, without perceiving that Athos, whatever might be his self-command, allowed a slight murmur of pain to escape him, and if possible, grew paler than he was before. The door had remained open, so strong was the excitement produced by the arrival of Athos, whose wound, though kept as a secret, was known to all. A burst of satisfaction hailed the last words of the captain; and two or three heads, carried away by the enthusiasm of the moment, appeared through the openings of the tapestry. M. de Treville was about to reprehend this breach of the rules of etiquette, when he felt the hand of Athos, who had rallied all his energies to contend against pain, at length overcome by it, fell upon the floor as if he were dead. "A surgeon!" cried M. de Treville, "mine! The king's! The best! A surgeon! Or, s'blood, my brave Athos will die!" At the cries of M. de Treville, the whole assemblage rushed into the cabinet, he not thinking to shut the door against anyone, and all crowded round the wounded man. But all this eager attention might have been useless if the doctor so loudly called for had not chanced to be in the hotel. He pushed through the crowd, approached Athos, still insensible, and as all this noise and commotion inconvenienced him greatly, he required, as the first and most urgent thing, that the Musketeer should be carried into an adjoining chamber. Immediately M. de Treville opened and pointed the way to Porthos and Aramis, who bore their comrade in their arms. Behind this group walked the surgeon; and behind the surgeon the door closed. The cabinet of M. de Treville, generally held so sacred, became in an instant the annex of the antechamber. Everyone spoke, harangued, and vociferated, swearing, cursing, and consigning the cardinal and his Guards to all the devils. An instant after, Porthos and Aramis re-entered, the surgeon and M. de Treville alone remaining with the wounded. At length, M. de Treville himself returned. The injured man had recovered his senses. The surgeon declared that the situation of the Musketeer had nothing in it to render his friends uneasy, his weakness having been purely and simply caused by loss of blood. Then M. de Treville made a sign with his hand, and all retired except d'Artagnan, who did not forget that he had an audience, and with the tenacity of a Gascon remained in his place. When all had gone out and the door was closed, M. de Treville, on turning round, found himself alone with the young man. The event which had occurred had in some degree broken the thread of his ideas. He inquired what was the will of his persevering visitor. D'Artagnan then repeated his name, and in an instant recovering all his remembrances of the present and the past, M. de Treville grasped the situation. "Pardon me," said he, smiling, "pardon me my dear compatriot, but I had wholly forgotten you. But what help is there for it! A captain is nothing but a father of a family, charged with even a greater responsibility than the father of an ordinary family. Soldiers are big children; but as I maintain that the orders of the king, and more particularly the orders of the cardinal, should be executed--" D'Artagnan could not restrain a smile. By this smile M. de Treville judged that he had not to deal with a fool, and changing the conversation, came straight to the point. "I respected your father very much," said he. "What can I do for the son? Tell me quickly; my time is not my own." "Monsieur," said d'Artagnan, "on quitting Tarbes and coming hither, it was my intention to request of you, in remembrance of the friendship which you have not forgotten, the uniform of a Musketeer; but after all that I have seen during the last two hours, I comprehend that such a favor is enormous, and tremble lest I should not merit it." "It is indeed a favor, young man," replied M. de Treville, "but it may not be so far beyond your hopes as you believe, or rather as you appear to believe. But his majesty's decision is always necessary; and I inform you with regret that no one becomes a Musketeer without the preliminary ordeal of several campaigns, certain brilliant actions, or a service of two years in some other regiment less favored than ours." D'Artagnan bowed without replying, feeling his desire to don the Musketeer's uniform vastly increased by the great difficulties which preceded the attainment of it. "But," continued M. de Treville, fixing upon his compatriot a look so piercing that it might be said he wished to read the thoughts of his heart, "on account of my old companion, your father, as I have said, I will do something for you, young man. Our recruits from Bearn are not generally very rich, and I have no reason to think matters have much changed in this respect since I left the province. I dare say you have not brought too large a stock of money with you?" D'Artagnan drew himself up with a proud air which plainly said, "I ask alms of no man." "Oh, that's very well, young man," continued M. de Treville, "that's all very well. I know these airs; I myself came to Paris with four crowns in my purse, and would have fought with anyone who dared to tell me I was not in a condition to purchase the Louvre." D'Artagnan's bearing became still more imposing. Thanks to the sale of his horse, he commenced his career with four more crowns than M. de Treville possessed at the commencement of his. "You ought, I say, then, to husband the means you have, however large the sum may be; but you ought also to endeavor to perfect yourself in the exercises becoming a gentleman. I will write a letter today to the Director of the Royal Academy, and tomorrow he will admit you without any expense to yourself. Do not refuse this little service. Our best-born and richest gentlemen sometimes solicit it without being able to obtain it. You will learn horsemanship, swordsmanship in all its branches, and dancing. You will make some desirable acquaintances; and from time to time you can call upon me, just to tell me how you are getting on, and to say whether I can be of further service to you." D'Artagnan, stranger as he was to all the manners of a court, could not but perceive a little coldness in this reception. "Alas, sir," said he, "I cannot but perceive how sadly I miss the letter of introduction which my father gave me to present to you." "I certainly am surprised," replied M. de Treville, "that you should undertake so long a journey without that necessary passport, the sole resource of us poor Bearnese." "I had one, sir, and, thank God, such as I could wish," cried d'Artagnan; "but it was perfidiously stolen from me." He then related the adventure of Meung, described the unknown gentleman with the greatest minuteness, and all with a warmth and truthfulness that delighted M. de Treville. "This is all very strange," said M. de Treville, after meditating a minute; "you mentioned my name, then, aloud?" "Yes, sir, I certainly committed that imprudence; but why should I have done otherwise? A name like yours must be as a buckler to me on my way. Judge if I should not put myself under its protection." Flattery was at that period very current, and M. de Treville loved incense as well as a king, or even a cardinal. He could not refrain from a smile of visible satisfaction; but this smile soon disappeared, and returning to the adventure of Meung, "Tell me," continued he, "had not this gentlemen a slight scar on his cheek?" "Yes, such a one as would be made by the grazing of a ball." "Was he not a fine-looking man?" "Yes." "Of lofty stature." "Yes." "Of pale complexion and brown hair?" "Yes, yes, that is he; how is it, sir, that you are acquainted with this man? If I ever find him again--and I will find him, I swear, were it in hell!" "He was waiting for a woman," continued Treville. "He departed immediately after having conversed for a minute with her whom he awaited." "You know not the subject of their conversation?" "He gave her a box, told her not to open it except in London." "Was this woman English?" "He called her Milady." "It is he; it must be he!" murmured Treville. "I believed him still at Brussels." "Oh, sir, if you know who this man is," cried d'Artagnan, "tell me who he is, and whence he is. I will then release you from all your promises--even that of procuring my admission into the Musketeers; for before everything, I wish to avenge myself." "Beware, young man!" cried Treville. "If you see him coming on one side of the street, pass by on the other. Do not cast yourself against such a rock; he would break you like glass." "That will not prevent me," replied d'Artagnan, "if ever I find him." "In the meantime," said Treville, "seek him not--if I have a right to advise you." All at once the captain stopped, as if struck by a sudden suspicion. This great hatred which the young traveler manifested so loudly for this man, who--a rather improbable thing--had stolen his father's letter from him--was there not some perfidy concealed under this hatred? Might not this young man be sent by his Eminence? Might he not have come for the purpose of laying a snare for him? This pretended d'Artagnan--was he not an emissary of the cardinal, whom the cardinal sought to introduce into Treville's house, to place near him, to win his confidence, and afterward to ruin him as had been done in a thousand other instances? He fixed his eyes upon d'Artagnan even more earnestly than before. He was moderately reassured, however, by the aspect of that countenance, full of astute intelligence and affected humility. "I know he is a Gascon," reflected he, "but he may be one for the cardinal as well as for me. Let us try him." "My friend," said he, slowly, "I wish, as the son of an ancient friend--for I consider this story of the lost letter perfectly true--I wish, I say, in order to repair the coldness you may have remarked in my reception of you, to discover to you the secrets of our policy. The king and the cardinal are the best of friends; their apparent bickerings are only feints to deceive fools. I am not willing that a compatriot, a handsome cavalier, a brave youth, quite fit to make his way, should become the dupe of all these artifices and fall into the snare after the example of so many others who have been ruined by it. Be assured that I am devoted to both these all-powerful masters, and that my earnest endeavors have no other aim than the service of the king, and also the cardinal--one of the most illustrious geniuses that France has ever produced. "Now, young man, regulate your conduct accordingly; and if you entertain, whether from your family, your relations, or even from your instincts, any of these enmities which we see constantly breaking out against the cardinal, bid me adieu and let us separate. I will aid you in many ways, but without attaching you to my person. I hope that my frankness at least will make you my friend; for you are the only young man to whom I have hitherto spoken as I have done to you." Treville said to himself: "If the cardinal has set this young fox upon me, he will certainly not have failed--he, who knows how bitterly I execrate him--to tell his spy that the best means of making his court to me is to rail at him. Therefore, in spite of all my protestations, if it be as I suspect, my cunning gossip will assure me that he holds his Eminence in horror." It, however, proved otherwise. D'Artagnan answered, with the greatest simplicity: "I came to Paris with exactly such intentions. My father advised me to stoop to nobody but the king, the cardinal, and yourself--whom he considered the first three personages in France." D'Artagnan added M. de Treville to the others, as may be perceived; but he thought this addition would do no harm. "I have the greatest veneration for the cardinal," continued he, "and the most profound respect for his actions. So much the better for me, sir, if you speak to me, as you say, with frankness--for then you will do me the honor to esteem the resemblance of our opinions; but if you have entertained any doubt, as naturally you may, I feel that I am ruining myself by speaking the truth. But I still trust you will not esteem me the less for it, and that is my object beyond all others." M de Treville was surprised to the greatest degree. So much penetration, so much frankness, created admiration, but did not entirely remove his suspicions. The more this young man was superior to others, the more he was to be dreaded if he meant to deceive him. Nevertheless, he pressed d'Artagnan's hand, and said to him: "You are an honest youth; but at the present moment I can only do for you that which I just now offered. My hotel will be always open to you. Hereafter, being able to ask for me at all hours, and consequently to take advantage of all opportunities, you will probably obtain that which you desire." "That is to say," replied d'Artagnan, "that you will wait until I have proved myself worthy of it. Well, be assured," added he, with the familiarity of a Gascon, "you shall not wait long." And he bowed in order to retire, and as if he considered the future in his own hands. "But wait a minute," said M. de Treville, stopping him. "I promised you a letter for the director of the Academy. Are you too proud to accept it, young gentleman?" "No, sir," said d'Artagnan; "and I will guard it so carefully that I will be sworn it shall arrive at its address, and woe be to him who shall attempt to take it from me!" M de Treville smiled at this flourish; and leaving his young man compatriot in the embrasure of the window, where they had talked together, he seated himself at a table in order to write the promised letter of recommendation. While he was doing this, d'Artagnan, having no better employment, amused himself with beating a march upon the window and with looking at the Musketeers, who went away, one after another, following them with his eyes until they disappeared. M de Treville, after having written the letter, sealed it, and rising, approached the young man in order to give it to him. But at the very moment when d'Artagnan stretched out his hand to receive it, M. de Treville was highly astonished to see his protege make a sudden spring, become crimson with passion, and rush from the cabinet crying, "S'blood, he shall not escape me this time!" "And who?" asked M. de Treville. "He, my thief!" replied d'Artagnan. "Ah, the traitor!" and he disappeared. "The devil take the madman!" murmured M. de Treville, "unless," added he, "this is a cunning mode of escaping, seeing that he had failed in his purpose!"

Chapter Three: The Audience

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D'Artagnan shows up to talk to M. de Treville, who smiles upon seeing the young Gascon. Before they start talking, however, Treville calls for Athos, Porthos, and Aramis. Porthos and Aramis immediately hustle over and everyone outside the room starts gossiping about the summons. Treville chews them out. It turns out that on the day before yesterday, the Musketeers were rioting in the streets and had to be arrested by the Cardinal's Guards. Said Musketeers included--you guessed it--Aramis, Porthos, and Athos. Treville starts swearing at his men, cursing himself for picking them, and then realizes that Athos isn't present. Aramis and Porthos tell Treville that Athos is sick with smallpox. Treville points out that Athos is too old to have smallpox, and speculates that Athos is likely wounded. Treville tells them that all the misbehaving needs to stop, ASAP. It is horribly embarrassing to have the Cardinal's men arrest the Musketeers for indecent behavior. Porthos and Aramis shuffle uncomfortably. Outside the door, all the rest of the Musketeers listen intently. Soon the entire hotel knows what's going on. Treville continues to rant, threatening to resign. It took only six of the Cardinal's guards to arrest six Musketeers. Everyone outside the room starts yelling and cursing. D'Artagnan feels awkward. Porthos is angry; he confesses that two Musketeers were killed before anyone could draw their swords, and Athos was badly wounded. All the Musketeers continued to fight, but the Cardinal's guards dragged them away. Porthos and Aramis managed to escape, and Athos was left for dead. Not to be outdone, Aramis tells his boss that he killed one of the guards with the guard's own sword. Treville is happy to hear that. Obviously the Cardinal kept that on the down-low. Aramis then asks Treville not to tell anyone that Athos is wounded. Right on time, Athos shows up. He's pale and obviously in a great deal of pain. He's hiding it well though. Treville is excited to see him. He tells Athos that the Musketeers shouldn't risk their lives needlessly. He then grips Athos's hand. Athos cringes in pain and grows even paler. Everyone listening outside the door gets excited and a few people poke their heads in. Treville is about to yell at them when Athos faints. Treville immediately starts freaking out and calling for the doctor in charge of the King. Luckily, the King's doctor happens to be in the building. He rushes over to Athos and demands that the Musketeer be carried into another room. Porthos and Aramis carry their friend into another room and the surgeon follows. Meanwhile, all the men left in Treville's room start yelling and cursing the Cardinal and his guards. Porthos and Aramis return, along with Treville. The surgeon declares that Athos fainted due to loss of blood but that he's okay now. Treville orders everyone out so only D'Artagnan is left. For a moment, Treville has to be reminded of why D'Artagnan is there. Based on his respect for D'Artagnan's father, he asks what he can do for D'Artagnan. D'Artagnan says his dearest wish is to become a Musketeer, but that he realizes the enormity of the request. Treville says yes, it's hard. You need the King's approval and you need to be an awesome fighter. The easy way in is to serve with a lesser regiment for two years. Treville offers to get D'Artagnan into the Royal Academy, where he can learn to be a proper gentleman: horsemanship, swordsmanship, dancing. He then tells D'Artagnan to drop by sometime and say hi. D'Artagnan realizes that Treville is being a bit cold, and laments the loss of his letter out loud. Treville expresses his surprise that D'Artagnan has no such letter. D'Artagnan says: well, I lost it. He proceeds to tell Treville all about what happened at Meung. Treville recognizes the description of the man who got D'Artagnan beaten up. Treville asks about the stranger's interaction with the beautiful woman. It's clear that Treville knows the man's identity. D'Artagnan begs to be told the man's identity so he can go avenge himself. Treville warns him away from this course of action, and then starts getting suspicious of D'Artagnan's true intentions. Maybe D'Artagnan is really the Cardinal's spy! Who knows in these uncertain times?! He resolves to test D'Artagnan's loyalties. Treville assures D'Artagnan that despite all their quarreling, the King and the Cardinal are actually BFFs, and that he is perfectly devoted to both. If D'Artagnan is going to do anything against the Cardinal, Treville wants nothing to do with him. Treville assumes that if D'Artagnan is truly a spy from the Cardinal, he will overcompensate and start ranting about the Cardinal's flaws. To Treville's surprise, D'Artagnan agrees. He says that his father told him to respect only the Cardinal, the King, and Treville. Treville says that he'll wait and see how D'Artagnan conducts himself. D'Artagnan tells the elder man that he will not have to wait long. Treville goes to write the letter of recommendation to the director of the Royal Academy. D'Artagnan paces around the room and gazes out the window. Right before he's about to receive the letter of recommendation, he spots the Man from Meung and runs away. Treville suspects this may be another ploy.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/1257-chapters/4.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Three Musketeers/section_4_part_0.txt

The Three Musketeers.chapter 4

chapter 4: the shoulder of athos, the baldric of porthos, and the handkerchief of aramis

{"name": "Chapter Four: The Shoulder of Athos, the Baldric of Porthos, and the Handkerchief of Aramis", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210127112556/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/three-musketeers/summary/chapter-four-the-shoulder-of-athos-the-baldric-of-porthos-and-the-handkerchief-of-aramis", "summary": "D'Artagnan speeds out of Treville's room and heads for the staircase. In his hurry, he shoves past a Musketeer, apologizes quickly, and continues running. The Musketeer gets all huffy and says that the apology is insufficient. D'Artagnan takes a good look at the man and recognizes Athos. The two argue a bit. Both being hot-blooded young men, they arrange to settle it the only way that matters--with a fight. They decide on noon. D'Artagnan continues running after his quarry. Unfortunately, Porthos is at the street gate talking with a soldier. D'Artagnan tries to squeeze past, and in the process, gets swept into Porthos's cloak. When he opens his eyes, he's behind Porthos. Under the cloak, he can see that the magnificent gold of the baldric does not extend to the back. D'Artagnan attempts to make his apologies; Porthos demands to know if D'Artagnan always forgets his eyes when in a hurry. The young Gascon quips that he has eyes to see what others can't. Porthos gets mad. He obviously wants to protect the secret of his one-sided baldric. They decide to fight at one o'clock. D'Artagnan continues running around but can't find his man. He slows to a walk and his head begins to cool. It's only eleven o'clock and he's already looked like a mess in front of Treville, and arranged to fight two different Musketeers. Excellent start. He reflects dismally on his prospects of surviving a duel with Athos, then starts laughing about Porthos's deception. He resolves to start modeling his conduct on that of Aramis, who is always mild-mannered. Then he spots Aramis. Aramis is talking with three Guards outside the hotel d'Arguillon. Aramis ignores D'Artagnan. Why should he acknowledge the guy who saw him get chewed out by Treville earlier that morning? D'Artagnan, all happy to see his new role model, bows and smiles to Aramis. The group stops talking and just stares at D'Artagnan. Awkward. D'Artagnan desperately tries to think of a way to get out of the situation when he spies a handkerchief under Aramis's foot. He picks it up and offers it to the Musketeer. Aramis blushes. One of the Guards points out that the monogram marks the handkerchief as belonging to a certain Madame de Bois-Tracy. We smell an affair! Aramis shoots D'Artagnan a look that would freeze ice and then tells the Guards that he has absolutely no idea where the handkerchief came from. Right. The Guards are unconvinced. One of them offers to return the handkerchief to the lady in question, since he's on great terms with the lady's husband. D'Artagnan interrupts the conversation to say that the handkerchief may not belong to Aramis after all. Aramis proposes splitting the handkerchief in two. The Guardsmen part with Aramis on good terms. D'Artagnan apologizes for his behavior once the Guardsmen are safely out of earshot. Aramis chews D'Artagnan out for being an idiot. Aramis tries to avoid fighting, but he points out to D'Artagnan that his actions compromised a lady. The two quarrel. It goes along these lines: \"Why did you give me that handkerchief?\" \"Why did you let it fall from your pocket?\" \"I didn't!\" \"Dude, I saw it fall.\" The two decide to settle the issue at two o'clock. Having successfully made three dueling dates, D'Artagnan goes off to keep the first one. He reflects that at least he'll be killed by a Musketeer.", "analysis": ""}

4 THE SHOULDER OF ATHOS, THE BALDRIC OF PORTHOS AND THE HANDKERCHIEF OF ARAMIS D'Artagnan, in a state of fury, crossed the antechamber at three bounds, and was darting toward the stairs, which he reckoned upon descending four at a time, when, in his heedless course, he ran head foremost against a Musketeer who was coming out of one of M. de Treville's private rooms, and striking his shoulder violently, made him utter a cry, or rather a howl. "Excuse me," said d'Artagnan, endeavoring to resume his course, "excuse me, but I am in a hurry." Scarcely had he descended the first stair, when a hand of iron seized him by the belt and stopped him. "You are in a hurry?" said the Musketeer, as pale as a sheet. "Under that pretense you run against me! You say, 'Excuse me,' and you believe that is sufficient? Not at all, my young man. Do you fancy because you have heard Monsieur de Treville speak to us a little cavalierly today that other people are to treat us as he speaks to us? Undeceive yourself, comrade, you are not Monsieur de Treville." "My faith!" replied d'Artagnan, recognizing Athos, who, after the dressing performed by the doctor, was returning to his own apartment. "I did not do it intentionally, and not doing it intentionally, I said 'Excuse me.' It appears to me that this is quite enough. I repeat to you, however, and this time on my word of honor--I think perhaps too often--that I am in haste, great haste. Leave your hold, then, I beg of you, and let me go where my business calls me." "Monsieur," said Athos, letting him go, "you are not polite; it is easy to perceive that you come from a distance." D'Artagnan had already strode down three or four stairs, but at Athos's last remark he stopped short. "MORBLEU, monsieur!" said he, "however far I may come, it is not you who can give me a lesson in good manners, I warn you." "Perhaps," said Athos. "Ah! If I were not in such haste, and if I were not running after someone," said d'Artagnan. "Monsieur Man-in-a-hurry, you can find me without running--ME, you understand?" "And where, I pray you?" "Near the Carmes-Deschaux." "At what hour?" "About noon." "About noon? That will do; I will be there." "Endeavor not to make me wait; for at quarter past twelve I will cut off your ears as you run." "Good!" cried d'Artagnan, "I will be there ten minutes before twelve." And he set off running as if the devil possessed him, hoping that he might yet find the stranger, whose slow pace could not have carried him far. But at the street gate, Porthos was talking with the soldier on guard. Between the two talkers there was just enough room for a man to pass. D'Artagnan thought it would suffice for him, and he sprang forward like a dart between them. But d'Artagnan had reckoned without the wind. As he was about to pass, the wind blew out Porthos's long cloak, and d'Artagnan rushed straight into the middle of it. Without doubt, Porthos had reasons for not abandoning this part of his vestments, for instead of quitting his hold on the flap in his hand, he pulled it toward him, so that d'Artagnan rolled himself up in the velvet by a movement of rotation explained by the persistency of Porthos. D'Artagnan, hearing the Musketeer swear, wished to escape from the cloak, which blinded him, and sought to find his way from under the folds of it. He was particularly anxious to avoid marring the freshness of the magnificent baldric we are acquainted with; but on timidly opening his eyes, he found himself with his nose fixed between the two shoulders of Porthos--that is to say, exactly upon the baldric. Alas, like most things in this world which have nothing in their favor but appearances, the baldric was glittering with gold in the front, but was nothing but simple buff behind. Vainglorious as he was, Porthos could not afford to have a baldric wholly of gold, but had at least half. One could comprehend the necessity of the cold and the urgency of the cloak. "Bless me!" cried Porthos, making strong efforts to disembarrass himself of d'Artagnan, who was wriggling about his back; "you must be mad to run against people in this manner." "Excuse me," said d'Artagnan, reappearing under the shoulder of the giant, "but I am in such haste--I was running after someone and--" "And do you always forget your eyes when you run?" asked Porthos. "No," replied d'Artagnan, piqued, "and thanks to my eyes, I can see what other people cannot see." Whether Porthos understood him or did not understand him, giving way to his anger, "Monsieur," said he, "you stand a chance of getting chastised if you rub Musketeers in this fashion." "Chastised, Monsieur!" said d'Artagnan, "the expression is strong." "It is one that becomes a man accustomed to look his enemies in the face." "Ah, PARDIEU! I know full well that you don't turn your back to yours." And the young man, delighted with his joke, went away laughing loudly. Porthos foamed with rage, and made a movement to rush after d'Artagnan. "Presently, presently," cried the latter, "when you haven't your cloak on." "At one o'clock, then, behind the Luxembourg." "Very well, at one o'clock, then," replied d'Artagnan, turning the angle of the street. But neither in the street he had passed through, nor in the one which his eager glance pervaded, could he see anyone; however slowly the stranger had walked, he was gone on his way, or perhaps had entered some house. D'Artagnan inquired of everyone he met with, went down to the ferry, came up again by the Rue de Seine, and the Red Cross; but nothing, absolutely nothing! This chase was, however, advantageous to him in one sense, for in proportion as the perspiration broke from his forehead, his heart began to cool. He began to reflect upon the events that had passed; they were numerous and inauspicious. It was scarcely eleven o'clock in the morning, and yet this morning had already brought him into disgrace with M. de Treville, who could not fail to think the manner in which d'Artagnan had left him a little cavalier. Besides this, he had drawn upon himself two good duels with two men, each capable of killing three d'Artagnans--with two Musketeers, in short, with two of those beings whom he esteemed so greatly that he placed them in his mind and heart above all other men. The outlook was sad. Sure of being killed by Athos, it may easily be understood that the young man was not very uneasy about Porthos. As hope, however, is the last thing extinguished in the heart of man, he finished by hoping that he might survive, even though with terrible wounds, in both these duels; and in case of surviving, he made the following reprehensions upon his own conduct: "What a madcap I was, and what a stupid fellow I am! That brave and unfortunate Athos was wounded on that very shoulder against which I must run head foremost, like a ram. The only thing that astonishes me is that he did not strike me dead at once. He had good cause to do so; the pain I gave him must have been atrocious. As to Porthos--oh, as to Porthos, faith, that's a droll affair!" And in spite of himself, the young man began to laugh aloud, looking round carefully, however, to see that his solitary laugh, without a cause in the eyes of passers-by, offended no one. "As to Porthos, that is certainly droll; but I am not the less a giddy fool. Are people to be run against without warning? No! And have I any right to go and peep under their cloaks to see what is not there? He would have pardoned me, he would certainly have pardoned me, if I had not said anything to him about that cursed baldric--in ambiguous words, it is true, but rather drolly ambiguous. Ah, cursed Gascon that I am, I get from one hobble into another. Friend d'Artagnan," continued he, speaking to himself with all the amenity that he thought due himself, "if you escape, of which there is not much chance, I would advise you to practice perfect politeness for the future. You must henceforth be admired and quoted as a model of it. To be obliging and polite does not necessarily make a man a coward. Look at Aramis, now; Aramis is mildness and grace personified. Well, did anybody ever dream of calling Aramis a coward? No, certainly not, and from this moment I will endeavor to model myself after him. Ah! That's strange! Here he is!" D'Artagnan, walking and soliloquizing, had arrived within a few steps of the hotel d'Arguillon and in front of that hotel perceived Aramis, chatting gaily with three gentlemen; but as he had not forgotten that it was in presence of this young man that M. de Treville had been so angry in the morning, and as a witness of the rebuke the Musketeers had received was not likely to be at all agreeable, he pretended not to see him. D'Artagnan, on the contrary, quite full of his plans of conciliation and courtesy, approached the young men with a profound bow, accompanied by a most gracious smile. All four, besides, immediately broke off their conversation. D'Artagnan was not so dull as not to perceive that he was one too many; but he was not sufficiently broken into the fashions of the gay world to know how to extricate himself gallantly from a false position, like that of a man who begins to mingle with people he is scarcely acquainted with and in a conversation that does not concern him. He was seeking in his mind, then, for the least awkward means of retreat, when he remarked that Aramis had let his handkerchief fall, and by mistake, no doubt, had placed his foot upon it. This appeared to be a favorable opportunity to repair his intrusion. He stooped, and with the most gracious air he could assume, drew the handkerchief from under the foot of the Musketeer in spite of the efforts the latter made to detain it, and holding it out to him, said, "I believe, monsieur, that this is a handkerchief you would be sorry to lose?" The handkerchief was indeed richly embroidered, and had a coronet and arms at one of its corners. Aramis blushed excessively, and snatched rather than took the handkerchief from the hand of the Gascon. "Ah, ah!" cried one of the Guards, "will you persist in saying, most discreet Aramis, that you are not on good terms with Madame de Bois-Tracy, when that gracious lady has the kindness to lend you one of her handkerchiefs?" Aramis darted at d'Artagnan one of those looks which inform a man that he has acquired a mortal enemy. Then, resuming his mild air, "You are deceived, gentlemen," said he, "this handkerchief is not mine, and I cannot fancy why Monsieur has taken it into his head to offer it to me rather than to one of you; and as a proof of what I say, here is mine in my pocket." So saying, he pulled out his own handkerchief, likewise a very elegant handkerchief, and of fine cambric--though cambric was dear at the period--but a handkerchief without embroidery and without arms, only ornamented with a single cipher, that of its proprietor. This time d'Artagnan was not hasty. He perceived his mistake; but the friends of Aramis were not at all convinced by his denial, and one of them addressed the young Musketeer with affected seriousness. "If it were as you pretend it is," said he, "I should be forced, my dear Aramis, to reclaim it myself; for, as you very well know, Bois-Tracy is an intimate friend of mine, and I cannot allow the property of his wife to be sported as a trophy." "You make the demand badly," replied Aramis; "and while acknowledging the justice of your reclamation, I refuse it on account of the form." "The fact is," hazarded d'Artagnan, timidly, "I did not see the handkerchief fall from the pocket of Monsieur Aramis. He had his foot upon it, that is all; and I thought from having his foot upon it the handkerchief was his." "And you were deceived, my dear sir," replied Aramis, coldly, very little sensible to the reparation. Then turning toward that one of the guards who had declared himself the friend of Bois-Tracy, "Besides," continued he, "I have reflected, my dear intimate of Bois-Tracy, that I am not less tenderly his friend than you can possibly be; so that decidedly this handkerchief is as likely to have fallen from your pocket as mine." "No, upon my honor!" cried his Majesty's Guardsman. "You are about to swear upon your honor and I upon my word, and then it will be pretty evident that one of us will have lied. Now, here, Montaran, we will do better than that--let each take a half." "Of the handkerchief?" "Yes." "Perfectly just," cried the other two Guardsmen, "the judgment of King Solomon! Aramis, you certainly are full of wisdom!" The young men burst into a laugh, and as may be supposed, the affair had no other sequel. In a moment or two the conversation ceased, and the three Guardsmen and the Musketeer, after having cordially shaken hands, separated, the Guardsmen going one way and Aramis another. "Now is my time to make peace with this gallant man," said d'Artagnan to himself, having stood on one side during the whole of the latter part of the conversation; and with this good feeling drawing near to Aramis, who was departing without paying any attention to him, "Monsieur," said he, "you will excuse me, I hope." "Ah, monsieur," interrupted Aramis, "permit me to observe to you that you have not acted in this affair as a gallant man ought." "What, monsieur!" cried d'Artagnan, "and do you suppose--" "I suppose, monsieur, that you are not a fool, and that you knew very well, although coming from Gascony, that people do not tread upon handkerchiefs without a reason. What the devil! Paris is not paved with cambric!" "Monsieur, you act wrongly in endeavoring to mortify me," said d'Artagnan, in whom the natural quarrelsome spirit began to speak more loudly than his pacific resolutions. "I am from Gascony, it is true; and since you know it, there is no occasion to tell you that Gascons are not very patient, so that when they have begged to be excused once, were it even for a folly, they are convinced that they have done already at least as much again as they ought to have done." "Monsieur, what I say to you about the matter," said Aramis, "is not for the sake of seeking a quarrel. Thank God, I am not a bravo! And being a Musketeer but for a time, I only fight when I am forced to do so, and always with great repugnance; but this time the affair is serious, for here is a lady compromised by you." "By US, you mean!" cried d'Artagnan. "Why did you so maladroitly restore me the handkerchief?" "Why did you so awkwardly let it fall?" "I have said, monsieur, and I repeat, that the handkerchief did not fall from my pocket." "And thereby you have lied twice, monsieur, for I saw it fall." "Ah, you take it with that tone, do you, Master Gascon? Well, I will teach you how to behave yourself." "And I will send you back to your Mass book, Master Abbe. Draw, if you please, and instantly--" "Not so, if you please, my good friend--not here, at least. Do you not perceive that we are opposite the Hotel d'Arguillon, which is full of the cardinal's creatures? How do I know that this is not his Eminence who has honored you with the commission to procure my head? Now, I entertain a ridiculous partiality for my head, it seems to suit my shoulders so correctly. I wish to kill you, be at rest as to that, but to kill you quietly in a snug, remote place, where you will not be able to boast of your death to anybody." "I agree, monsieur; but do not be too confident. Take your handkerchief; whether it belongs to you or another, you may perhaps stand in need of it." "Monsieur is a Gascon?" asked Aramis. "Yes. Monsieur does not postpone an interview through prudence?" "Prudence, monsieur, is a virtue sufficiently useless to Musketeers, I know, but indispensable to churchmen; and as I am only a Musketeer provisionally, I hold it good to be prudent. At two o'clock I shall have the honor of expecting you at the hotel of Monsieur de Treville. There I will indicate to you the best place and time." The two young men bowed and separated, Aramis ascending the street which led to the Luxembourg, while d'Artagnan, perceiving the appointed hour was approaching, took the road to the Carmes-Deschaux, saying to himself, "Decidedly I can't draw back; but at least, if I am killed, I shall be killed by a Musketeer."

Chapter Four: The Shoulder of Athos, the Baldric of Porthos, and the Handkerchief of Aramis

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D'Artagnan speeds out of Treville's room and heads for the staircase. In his hurry, he shoves past a Musketeer, apologizes quickly, and continues running. The Musketeer gets all huffy and says that the apology is insufficient. D'Artagnan takes a good look at the man and recognizes Athos. The two argue a bit. Both being hot-blooded young men, they arrange to settle it the only way that matters--with a fight. They decide on noon. D'Artagnan continues running after his quarry. Unfortunately, Porthos is at the street gate talking with a soldier. D'Artagnan tries to squeeze past, and in the process, gets swept into Porthos's cloak. When he opens his eyes, he's behind Porthos. Under the cloak, he can see that the magnificent gold of the baldric does not extend to the back. D'Artagnan attempts to make his apologies; Porthos demands to know if D'Artagnan always forgets his eyes when in a hurry. The young Gascon quips that he has eyes to see what others can't. Porthos gets mad. He obviously wants to protect the secret of his one-sided baldric. They decide to fight at one o'clock. D'Artagnan continues running around but can't find his man. He slows to a walk and his head begins to cool. It's only eleven o'clock and he's already looked like a mess in front of Treville, and arranged to fight two different Musketeers. Excellent start. He reflects dismally on his prospects of surviving a duel with Athos, then starts laughing about Porthos's deception. He resolves to start modeling his conduct on that of Aramis, who is always mild-mannered. Then he spots Aramis. Aramis is talking with three Guards outside the hotel d'Arguillon. Aramis ignores D'Artagnan. Why should he acknowledge the guy who saw him get chewed out by Treville earlier that morning? D'Artagnan, all happy to see his new role model, bows and smiles to Aramis. The group stops talking and just stares at D'Artagnan. Awkward. D'Artagnan desperately tries to think of a way to get out of the situation when he spies a handkerchief under Aramis's foot. He picks it up and offers it to the Musketeer. Aramis blushes. One of the Guards points out that the monogram marks the handkerchief as belonging to a certain Madame de Bois-Tracy. We smell an affair! Aramis shoots D'Artagnan a look that would freeze ice and then tells the Guards that he has absolutely no idea where the handkerchief came from. Right. The Guards are unconvinced. One of them offers to return the handkerchief to the lady in question, since he's on great terms with the lady's husband. D'Artagnan interrupts the conversation to say that the handkerchief may not belong to Aramis after all. Aramis proposes splitting the handkerchief in two. The Guardsmen part with Aramis on good terms. D'Artagnan apologizes for his behavior once the Guardsmen are safely out of earshot. Aramis chews D'Artagnan out for being an idiot. Aramis tries to avoid fighting, but he points out to D'Artagnan that his actions compromised a lady. The two quarrel. It goes along these lines: "Why did you give me that handkerchief?" "Why did you let it fall from your pocket?" "I didn't!" "Dude, I saw it fall." The two decide to settle the issue at two o'clock. Having successfully made three dueling dates, D'Artagnan goes off to keep the first one. He reflects that at least he'll be killed by a Musketeer.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/1257-chapters/5.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Three Musketeers/section_5_part_0.txt

The Three Musketeers.chapter 5

chapter 5: the king's musketeers and the cardinal's guards

{"name": "Chapter Five: The King's Musketeers and the Cardinal's Guards", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210127112556/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/three-musketeers/summary/chapter-five-the-kings-musketeers-and-the-cardinals-guards", "summary": "Historical Context Lesson: When dueling, you always bring along a \"second.\" This person is someone you trust enough to witness the fight, ensure that it's fair, and call for a doctor in case you start bleeding. Being a newbie in town, D'Artagnan has no one he can ask to serve as his second. On his way to meet Athos, he comes up with a game plan for his upcoming fights. He decides to befriend Athos, frighten Porthos, and, as for Aramis, he figures he'll probably be dead by two o'clock so he doesn't have to come up with a plan of action. But if he is alive, he decides to just slap Aramis in the face. He takes heart when he thinks of his father and runs to meet Athos. Athos is already waiting. He tells D'Artagnan that his two seconds are late. D'Artagnan confesses that he has no seconds, and that he doesn't even know anyone in Paris except for Treville. Athos, talking out loud, says that if he kills D'Artagnan, he's going to be known as a \"boy-slayer.\" That's definitely some bad press. D'Artagnan disagrees. After all, Athos is still wounded. Athos warns D'Artagnan that he can swordfight with either hand. D'Artagnan thanks Athos for the information. Athos complains about his shoulder and D'Artagnan offers his mother's remedy, convinced that it will cure Athos's wound. There's more dialogue, and it basically boils down to this: D'Artagnan impresses Athos. Finally, Porthos appears. D'Artagnan is surprised. Then Aramis appears. D'Artagnan is even more surprised. Athos asks if D'Artagnan has been living in a hole. The three are famous for being absolutely inseparable, cradle-to-grave-BFFs. Porthos comes up and asks what's going on. Athos points to D'Artagnan as his adversary. Porthos rightfully says, \"But I'm fighting him!\" D'Artagnan says, \"Not until one o'clock!\" Aramis comes up and says, \"But I'm also fighting him!\" D'Artagnan says, \"But not until two o'clock!\" Aramis asks Athos for the cause of the fight. Athos says that he can't even remember, something about his shoulder getting hurt. He then asks Porthos for his reasons for fighting D'Artagnan. Not wanting to confess the real reason, Porthos evades the question. Athos sees D'Artagnan smile as he says they disagreed about fashion. Aramis says that their disagreement was about God, and signals D'Artagnan to stay silent. Athos again observes that D'Artagnan is hiding something, even as the Gascon says he and Aramis disagreed about a passage of St. Augustine. Athos grows more impressed by the second with D'Artagnan. Now that everyone is present, D'Artagnan apologizes to all three men. They don't take it well. Rapidly, D'Artagnan tells them they're misinterpreting him. He is apologizing just in case he doesn't make it to the one o'clock and two o'clock fights. Then he draws his sword. The two barely start fighting when the Cardinal's Guards show up, commanded by a man named Jussac. Aramis and Porthos yell for the combatants to sheath their swords, but it's too late. There's clearly a duel going on, and Jussac calls them on it. Jussac attempts to arrest them. Aramis \"regretfully\" declines. Jussac threatens a fight. The Musketeers take a knee so they can map out a game plan. Athos points out that it's three against five, and that the three of them are probably going to die, since he really, really doesn't want to lose again. D'Artagnan pipes up and says, \"Heyo! What about me? There's four of us!\" Porthos points out that D'Artagnan hardly counts as a Musketeer. Or a friend. D'Artagnan offers ye olde underdog excuse: that he has heart. Even though he isn't a Musketeer, he says, he has the proper spirit. Jussac tells D'Artagnan to beat it; the Guards will let him go. Meanwhile, the three Musketeers feel kind of upset because D'Artagnan is still a boy. Athos points out that when they lose, the story will be told as if it was four of them, instead of two men, a wounded man, and a boy. D'Artagnan asks again if he can fight. Athos asks for his name. D'Artagnan gives it, and the four of them press forward to fight the Cardinal's guards. Finally, we get a swordfight! Being the hot-headed young man he is, D'Artagnan charges straight for Jussac. Aramis fights two at once, and the other two Musketeers have one adversary each. D'Artagnan fights like \"a furious tiger\" and his street-fighting style gives him an edge over Jussac, who is a great swordsman in his own right. Frustrated, Jussac finally begins making mistakes. He thrusts at D'Artagnan, who blocks the blow and then spears Jussac, who falls \"like a dead mass.\" D'Artagnan then looks around to see how the Musketeers are doing. Aramis has killed one of his opponents and is engaged with the other one. Porthos and his adversary each have minor wounds and are still going at it. Athos is wounded once more by his opponent and is now fighting with his left hand. He looks over at D'Artagnan in a clear \"I'm a man so I'm not actually asking for help but I would seriously appreciate it\" kind of way. D'Artagnan runs over to engage Cahusac. Athos sinks down to the ground for a much-needed rest, then tells D'Artagnan to only disarm Cahusac because he wants the honor of actually killing the Guard. Momentarily, D'Artagnan succeeds in disarming Cahusac. The man runs to retrieve his sword, but D'Artagnan beats him to it. Cahusac runs to the dead Guard and grabs his sword. On his way back to D'Artagnan, he runs into Athos, who is now ready to fight again. Athos and D'Artagnan together fight Cahusac, who soon dies. At the same moment, Aramis forces his opponent to yield. Porthos continues to fight his adversary . The man's name is Bicarat. Athos, Aramis, and D'Artagnan surround Bicarat and tell him to quit. Bicarat wants to keep fighting, even as Jussac yells at him to stop. Finally, Jussac commands him to stop. Magic words! Bicarat immediately stops and then breaks his sword over his knee so that he won't have to surrender it. The Musketeers and D'Artagnan salute Bicarat for his bravery, and then take the wounded to the convent. They leave the dead guy. The Musketeers and D'Artagnan then go visit Treville, but it turns into a bit of a parade as they relate the story to every Musketeer they pass. D'Artagnan is overjoyed to be hanging out with three such awesome men. He's hopeful that he can one day be a Musketeer just like them.", "analysis": ""}

5 THE KING'S MUSKETEERS AND THE CARDINAL'S GUARDS D'Artagnan was acquainted with nobody in Paris. He went therefore to his appointment with Athos without a second, determined to be satisfied with those his adversary should choose. Besides, his intention was formed to make the brave Musketeer all suitable apologies, but without meanness or weakness, fearing that might result from this duel which generally results from an affair of this kind, when a young and vigorous man fights with an adversary who is wounded and weakened--if conquered, he doubles the triumph of his antagonist; if a conqueror, he is accused of foul play and want of courage. Now, we must have badly painted the character of our adventure seeker, or our readers must have already perceived that d'Artagnan was not an ordinary man; therefore, while repeating to himself that his death was inevitable, he did not make up his mind to die quietly, as one less courageous and less restrained might have done in his place. He reflected upon the different characters of those with whom he was going to fight, and began to view his situation more clearly. He hoped, by means of loyal excuses, to make a friend of Athos, whose lordly air and austere bearing pleased him much. He flattered himself he should be able to frighten Porthos with the adventure of the baldric, which he might, if not killed upon the spot, relate to everybody a recital which, well managed, would cover Porthos with ridicule. As to the astute Aramis, he did not entertain much dread of him; and supposing he should be able to get so far, he determined to dispatch him in good style or at least, by hitting him in the face, as Caesar recommended his soldiers do to those of Pompey, to damage forever the beauty of which he was so proud. In addition to this, d'Artagnan possessed that invincible stock of resolution which the counsels of his father had implanted in his heart: "Endure nothing from anyone but the king, the cardinal, and Monsieur de Treville." He flew, then, rather than walked, toward the convent of the Carmes Dechausses, or rather Deschaux, as it was called at that period, a sort of building without a window, surrounded by barren fields--an accessory to the Preaux-Clercs, and which was generally employed as the place for the duels of men who had no time to lose. When d'Artagnan arrived in sight of the bare spot of ground which extended along the foot of the monastery, Athos had been waiting about five minutes, and twelve o'clock was striking. He was, then, as punctual as the Samaritan woman, and the most rigorous casuist with regard to duels could have nothing to say. Athos, who still suffered grievously from his wound, though it had been dressed anew by M. de Treville's surgeon, was seated on a post and waiting for his adversary with hat in hand, his feather even touching the ground. "Monsieur," said Athos, "I have engaged two of my friends as seconds; but these two friends are not yet come, at which I am astonished, as it is not at all their custom." "I have no seconds on my part, monsieur," said d'Artagnan; "for having only arrived yesterday in Paris, I as yet know no one but Monsieur de Treville, to whom I was recommended by my father, who has the honor to be, in some degree, one of his friends." Athos reflected for an instant. "You know no one but Monsieur de Treville?" he asked. "Yes, monsieur, I know only him." "Well, but then," continued Athos, speaking half to himself, "if I kill you, I shall have the air of a boy-slayer." "Not too much so," replied d'Artagnan, with a bow that was not deficient in dignity, "since you do me the honor to draw a sword with me while suffering from a wound which is very inconvenient." "Very inconvenient, upon my word; and you hurt me devilishly, I can tell you. But I will take the left hand--it is my custom in such circumstances. Do not fancy that I do you a favor; I use either hand easily. And it will be even a disadvantage to you; a left-handed man is very troublesome to people who are not prepared for it. I regret I did not inform you sooner of this circumstance." "You have truly, monsieur," said d'Artagnan, bowing again, "a courtesy, for which, I assure you, I am very grateful." "You confuse me," replied Athos, with his gentlemanly air; "let us talk of something else, if you please. Ah, s'blood, how you have hurt me! My shoulder quite burns." "If you would permit me--" said d'Artagnan, with timidity. "What, monsieur?" "I have a miraculous balsam for wounds--a balsam given to me by my mother and of which I have made a trial upon myself." "Well?" "Well, I am sure that in less than three days this balsam would cure you; and at the end of three days, when you would be cured--well, sir, it would still do me a great honor to be your man." D'Artagnan spoke these words with a simplicity that did honor to his courtesy, without throwing the least doubt upon his courage. "PARDIEU, monsieur!" said Athos, "that's a proposition that pleases me; not that I can accept it, but a league off it savors of the gentleman. Thus spoke and acted the gallant knights of the time of Charlemagne, in whom every cavalier ought to seek his model. Unfortunately, we do not live in the times of the great emperor, we live in the times of the cardinal; and three days hence, however well the secret might be guarded, it would be known, I say, that we were to fight, and our combat would be prevented. I think these fellows will never come." "If you are in haste, monsieur," said d'Artagnan, with the same simplicity with which a moment before he had proposed to him to put off the duel for three days, "and if it be your will to dispatch me at once, do not inconvenience yourself, I pray you." "There is another word which pleases me," cried Athos, with a gracious nod to d'Artagnan. "That did not come from a man without a heart. Monsieur, I love men of your kidney; and I foresee plainly that if we don't kill each other, I shall hereafter have much pleasure in your conversation. We will wait for these gentlemen, so please you; I have plenty of time, and it will be more correct. Ah, here is one of them, I believe." In fact, at the end of the Rue Vaugirard the gigantic Porthos appeared. "What!" cried d'Artagnan, "is your first witness Monsieur Porthos?" "Yes, that disturbs you?" "By no means." "And here is the second." D'Artagnan turned in the direction pointed to by Athos, and perceived Aramis. "What!" cried he, in an accent of greater astonishment than before, "your second witness is Monsieur Aramis?" "Doubtless! Are you not aware that we are never seen one without the others, and that we are called among the Musketeers and the Guards, at court and in the city, Athos, Porthos, and Aramis, or the Three Inseparables? And yet, as you come from Dax or Pau--" "From Tarbes," said d'Artagnan. "It is probable you are ignorant of this little fact," said Athos. "My faith!" replied d'Artagnan, "you are well named, gentlemen; and my adventure, if it should make any noise, will prove at least that your union is not founded upon contrasts." In the meantime, Porthos had come up, waved his hand to Athos, and then turning toward d'Artagnan, stood quite astonished. Let us say in passing that he had changed his baldric and relinquished his cloak. "Ah, ah!" said he, "what does this mean?" "This is the gentleman I am going to fight with," said Athos, pointing to d'Artagnan with his hand and saluting him with the same gesture. "Why, it is with him I am also going to fight," said Porthos. "But not before one o'clock," replied d'Artagnan. "And I also am to fight with this gentleman," said Aramis, coming in his turn onto the place. "But not until two o'clock," said d'Artagnan, with the same calmness. "But what are you going to fight about, Athos?" asked Aramis. "Faith! I don't very well know. He hurt my shoulder. And you, Porthos?" "Faith! I am going to fight--because I am going to fight," answered Porthos, reddening. Athos, whose keen eye lost nothing, perceived a faintly sly smile pass over the lips of the young Gascon as he replied, "We had a short discussion upon dress." "And you, Aramis?" asked Athos. "Oh, ours is a theological quarrel," replied Aramis, making a sign to d'Artagnan to keep secret the cause of their duel. Athos indeed saw a second smile on the lips of d'Artagnan. "Indeed?" said Athos. "Yes; a passage of St. Augustine, upon which we could not agree," said the Gascon. "Decidedly, this is a clever fellow," murmured Athos. "And now you are assembled, gentlemen," said d'Artagnan, "permit me to offer you my apologies." At this word APOLOGIES, a cloud passed over the brow of Athos, a haughty smile curled the lip of Porthos, and a negative sign was the reply of Aramis. "You do not understand me, gentlemen," said d'Artagnan, throwing up his head, the sharp and bold lines of which were at the moment gilded by a bright ray of the sun. "I asked to be excused in case I should not be able to discharge my debt to all three; for Monsieur Athos has the right to kill me first, which must much diminish the face-value of your bill, Monsieur Porthos, and render yours almost null, Monsieur Aramis. And now, gentlemen, I repeat, excuse me, but on that account only, and--on guard!" At these words, with the most gallant air possible, d'Artagnan drew his sword. The blood had mounted to the head of d'Artagnan, and at that moment he would have drawn his sword against all the Musketeers in the kingdom as willingly as he now did against Athos, Porthos, and Aramis. It was a quarter past midday. The sun was in its zenith, and the spot chosen for the scene of the duel was exposed to its full ardor. "It is very hot," said Athos, drawing his sword in its turn, "and yet I cannot take off my doublet; for I just now felt my wound begin to bleed again, and I should not like to annoy Monsieur with the sight of blood which he has not drawn from me himself." "That is true, Monsieur," replied d'Artagnan, "and whether drawn by myself or another, I assure you I shall always view with regret the blood of so brave a gentleman. I will therefore fight in my doublet, like yourself." "Come, come, enough of such compliments!" cried Porthos. "Remember, we are waiting for our turns." "Speak for yourself when you are inclined to utter such incongruities," interrupted Aramis. "For my part, I think what they say is very well said, and quite worthy of two gentlemen." "When you please, monsieur," said Athos, putting himself on guard. "I waited your orders," said d'Artagnan, crossing swords. But scarcely had the two rapiers clashed, when a company of the Guards of his Eminence, commanded by M. de Jussac, turned the corner of the convent. "The cardinal's Guards!" cried Aramis and Porthos at the same time. "Sheathe your swords, gentlemen, sheathe your swords!" But it was too late. The two combatants had been seen in a position which left no doubt of their intentions. "Halloo!" cried Jussac, advancing toward them and making a sign to his men to do so likewise, "halloo, Musketeers? Fighting here, are you? And the edicts? What is become of them?" "You are very generous, gentlemen of the Guards," said Athos, full of rancor, for Jussac was one of the aggressors of the preceding day. "If we were to see you fighting, I can assure you that we would make no effort to prevent you. Leave us alone, then, and you will enjoy a little amusement without cost to yourselves." "Gentlemen," said Jussac, "it is with great regret that I pronounce the thing impossible. Duty before everything. Sheathe, then, if you please, and follow us." "Monsieur," said Aramis, parodying Jussac, "it would afford us great pleasure to obey your polite invitation if it depended upon ourselves; but unfortunately the thing is impossible--Monsieur de Treville has forbidden it. Pass on your way, then; it is the best thing to do." This raillery exasperated Jussac. "We will charge upon you, then," said he, "if you disobey." "There are five of them," said Athos, half aloud, "and we are but three; we shall be beaten again, and must die on the spot, for, on my part, I declare I will never appear again before the captain as a conquered man." Athos, Porthos, and Aramis instantly drew near one another, while Jussac drew up his soldiers. This short interval was sufficient to determine d'Artagnan on the part he was to take. It was one of those events which decide the life of a man; it was a choice between the king and the cardinal--the choice made, it must be persisted in. To fight, that was to disobey the law, that was to risk his head, that was to make at one blow an enemy of a minister more powerful than the king himself. All this the young man perceived, and yet, to his praise we speak it, he did not hesitate a second. Turning towards Athos and his friends, "Gentlemen," said he, "allow me to correct your words, if you please. You said you were but three, but it appears to me we are four." "But you are not one of us," said Porthos. "That's true," replied d'Artagnan; "I have not the uniform, but I have the spirit. My heart is that of a Musketeer; I feel it, monsieur, and that impels me on." "Withdraw, young man," cried Jussac, who doubtless, by his gestures and the expression of his countenance, had guessed d'Artagnan's design. "You may retire; we consent to that. Save your skin; begone quickly." D'Artagnan did not budge. "Decidedly, you are a brave fellow," said Athos, pressing the young man's hand. "Come, come, choose your part," replied Jussac. "Well," said Porthos to Aramis, "we must do something." "Monsieur is full of generosity," said Athos. But all three reflected upon the youth of d'Artagnan, and dreaded his inexperience. "We should only be three, one of whom is wounded, with the addition of a boy," resumed Athos; "and yet it will not be the less said we were four men." "Yes, but to yield!" said Porthos. "That IS difficult," replied Athos. D'Artagnan comprehended their irresolution. "Try me, gentlemen," said he, "and I swear to you by my honor that I will not go hence if we are conquered." "What is your name, my brave fellow?" said Athos. "d'Artagnan, monsieur." "Well, then, Athos, Porthos, Aramis, and d'Artagnan, forward!" cried Athos. "Come, gentlemen, have you decided?" cried Jussac for the third time. "It is done, gentlemen," said Athos. "And what is your choice?" asked Jussac. "We are about to have the honor of charging you," replied Aramis, lifting his hat with one hand and drawing his sword with the other. "Ah! You resist, do you?" cried Jussac. "S'blood; does that astonish you?" And the nine combatants rushed upon each other with a fury which however did not exclude a certain degree of method. Athos fixed upon a certain Cahusac, a favorite of the cardinal's. Porthos had Bicarat, and Aramis found himself opposed to two adversaries. As to d'Artagnan, he sprang toward Jussac himself. The heart of the young Gascon beat as if it would burst through his side--not from fear, God be thanked, he had not the shade of it, but with emulation; he fought like a furious tiger, turning ten times round his adversary, and changing his ground and his guard twenty times. Jussac was, as was then said, a fine blade, and had had much practice; nevertheless it required all his skill to defend himself against an adversary who, active and energetic, departed every instant from received rules, attacking him on all sides at once, and yet parrying like a man who had the greatest respect for his own epidermis. This contest at length exhausted Jussac's patience. Furious at being held in check by one whom he had considered a boy, he became warm and began to make mistakes. D'Artagnan, who though wanting in practice had a sound theory, redoubled his agility. Jussac, anxious to put an end to this, springing forward, aimed a terrible thrust at his adversary, but the latter parried it; and while Jussac was recovering himself, glided like a serpent beneath his blade, and passed his sword through his body. Jussac fell like a dead mass. D'Artagnan then cast an anxious and rapid glance over the field of battle. Aramis had killed one of his adversaries, but the other pressed him warmly. Nevertheless, Aramis was in a good situation, and able to defend himself. Bicarat and Porthos had just made counterhits. Porthos had received a thrust through his arm, and Bicarat one through his thigh. But neither of these two wounds was serious, and they only fought more earnestly. Athos, wounded anew by Cahusac, became evidently paler, but did not give way a foot. He only changed his sword hand, and fought with his left hand. According to the laws of dueling at that period, d'Artagnan was at liberty to assist whom he pleased. While he was endeavoring to find out which of his companions stood in greatest need, he caught a glance from Athos. The glance was of sublime eloquence. Athos would have died rather than appeal for help; but he could look, and with that look ask assistance. D'Artagnan interpreted it; with a terrible bound he sprang to the side of Cahusac, crying, "To me, Monsieur Guardsman; I will slay you!" Cahusac turned. It was time; for Athos, whose great courage alone supported him, sank upon his knee. "S'blood!" cried he to d'Artagnan, "do not kill him, young man, I beg of you. I have an old affair to settle with him when I am cured and sound again. Disarm him only--make sure of his sword. That's it! Very well done!" The exclamation was drawn from Athos by seeing the sword of Cahusac fly twenty paces from him. D'Artagnan and Cahusac sprang forward at the same instant, the one to recover, the other to obtain, the sword; but d'Artagnan, being the more active, reached it first and placed his foot upon it. Cahusac immediately ran to the Guardsman whom Aramis had killed, seized his rapier, and returned toward d'Artagnan; but on his way he met Athos, who during his relief which d'Artagnan had procured him had recovered his breath, and who, for fear that d'Artagnan would kill his enemy, wished to resume the fight. D'Artagnan perceived that it would be disobliging Athos not to leave him alone; and in a few minutes Cahusac fell, with a sword thrust through his throat. At the same instant Aramis placed his sword point on the breast of his fallen enemy, and forced him to ask for mercy. There only then remained Porthos and Bicarat. Porthos made a thousand flourishes, asking Bicarat what o'clock it could be, and offering him his compliments upon his brother's having just obtained a company in the regiment of Navarre; but, jest as he might, he gained nothing. Bicarat was one of those iron men who never fell dead. Nevertheless, it was necessary to finish. The watch might come up and take all the combatants, wounded or not, royalists or cardinalists. Athos, Aramis, and d'Artagnan surrounded Bicarat, and required him to surrender. Though alone against all and with a wound in his thigh, Bicarat wished to hold out; but Jussac, who had risen upon his elbow, cried out to him to yield. Bicarat was a Gascon, as d'Artagnan was; he turned a deaf ear, and contented himself with laughing, and between two parries finding time to point to a spot of earth with his sword, "Here," cried he, parodying a verse of the Bible, "here will Bicarat die; for I only am left, and they seek my life." "But there are four against you; leave off, I command you." "Ah, if you command me, that's another thing," said Bicarat. "As you are my commander, it is my duty to obey." And springing backward, he broke his sword across his knee to avoid the necessity of surrendering it, threw the pieces over the convent wall, and crossed him arms, whistling a cardinalist air. Bravery is always respected, even in an enemy. The Musketeers saluted Bicarat with their swords, and returned them to their sheaths. D'Artagnan did the same. Then, assisted by Bicarat, the only one left standing, they bore Jussac, Cahusac, and one of Aramis's adversaries who was only wounded, under the porch of the convent. The fourth, as we have said, was dead. They then rang the bell, and carrying away four swords out of five, they took their road, intoxicated with joy, toward the hotel of M. de Treville. They walked arm in arm, occupying the whole width of the street and taking in every Musketeer they met, so that in the end it became a triumphal march. The heart of d'Artagnan swam in delirium; he marched between Athos and Porthos, pressing them tenderly. "If I am not yet a Musketeer," said he to his new friends, as he passed through the gateway of M. de Treville's hotel, "at least I have entered upon my apprenticeship, haven't I?"

Chapter Five: The King's Musketeers and the Cardinal's Guards

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Historical Context Lesson: When dueling, you always bring along a "second." This person is someone you trust enough to witness the fight, ensure that it's fair, and call for a doctor in case you start bleeding. Being a newbie in town, D'Artagnan has no one he can ask to serve as his second. On his way to meet Athos, he comes up with a game plan for his upcoming fights. He decides to befriend Athos, frighten Porthos, and, as for Aramis, he figures he'll probably be dead by two o'clock so he doesn't have to come up with a plan of action. But if he is alive, he decides to just slap Aramis in the face. He takes heart when he thinks of his father and runs to meet Athos. Athos is already waiting. He tells D'Artagnan that his two seconds are late. D'Artagnan confesses that he has no seconds, and that he doesn't even know anyone in Paris except for Treville. Athos, talking out loud, says that if he kills D'Artagnan, he's going to be known as a "boy-slayer." That's definitely some bad press. D'Artagnan disagrees. After all, Athos is still wounded. Athos warns D'Artagnan that he can swordfight with either hand. D'Artagnan thanks Athos for the information. Athos complains about his shoulder and D'Artagnan offers his mother's remedy, convinced that it will cure Athos's wound. There's more dialogue, and it basically boils down to this: D'Artagnan impresses Athos. Finally, Porthos appears. D'Artagnan is surprised. Then Aramis appears. D'Artagnan is even more surprised. Athos asks if D'Artagnan has been living in a hole. The three are famous for being absolutely inseparable, cradle-to-grave-BFFs. Porthos comes up and asks what's going on. Athos points to D'Artagnan as his adversary. Porthos rightfully says, "But I'm fighting him!" D'Artagnan says, "Not until one o'clock!" Aramis comes up and says, "But I'm also fighting him!" D'Artagnan says, "But not until two o'clock!" Aramis asks Athos for the cause of the fight. Athos says that he can't even remember, something about his shoulder getting hurt. He then asks Porthos for his reasons for fighting D'Artagnan. Not wanting to confess the real reason, Porthos evades the question. Athos sees D'Artagnan smile as he says they disagreed about fashion. Aramis says that their disagreement was about God, and signals D'Artagnan to stay silent. Athos again observes that D'Artagnan is hiding something, even as the Gascon says he and Aramis disagreed about a passage of St. Augustine. Athos grows more impressed by the second with D'Artagnan. Now that everyone is present, D'Artagnan apologizes to all three men. They don't take it well. Rapidly, D'Artagnan tells them they're misinterpreting him. He is apologizing just in case he doesn't make it to the one o'clock and two o'clock fights. Then he draws his sword. The two barely start fighting when the Cardinal's Guards show up, commanded by a man named Jussac. Aramis and Porthos yell for the combatants to sheath their swords, but it's too late. There's clearly a duel going on, and Jussac calls them on it. Jussac attempts to arrest them. Aramis "regretfully" declines. Jussac threatens a fight. The Musketeers take a knee so they can map out a game plan. Athos points out that it's three against five, and that the three of them are probably going to die, since he really, really doesn't want to lose again. D'Artagnan pipes up and says, "Heyo! What about me? There's four of us!" Porthos points out that D'Artagnan hardly counts as a Musketeer. Or a friend. D'Artagnan offers ye olde underdog excuse: that he has heart. Even though he isn't a Musketeer, he says, he has the proper spirit. Jussac tells D'Artagnan to beat it; the Guards will let him go. Meanwhile, the three Musketeers feel kind of upset because D'Artagnan is still a boy. Athos points out that when they lose, the story will be told as if it was four of them, instead of two men, a wounded man, and a boy. D'Artagnan asks again if he can fight. Athos asks for his name. D'Artagnan gives it, and the four of them press forward to fight the Cardinal's guards. Finally, we get a swordfight! Being the hot-headed young man he is, D'Artagnan charges straight for Jussac. Aramis fights two at once, and the other two Musketeers have one adversary each. D'Artagnan fights like "a furious tiger" and his street-fighting style gives him an edge over Jussac, who is a great swordsman in his own right. Frustrated, Jussac finally begins making mistakes. He thrusts at D'Artagnan, who blocks the blow and then spears Jussac, who falls "like a dead mass." D'Artagnan then looks around to see how the Musketeers are doing. Aramis has killed one of his opponents and is engaged with the other one. Porthos and his adversary each have minor wounds and are still going at it. Athos is wounded once more by his opponent and is now fighting with his left hand. He looks over at D'Artagnan in a clear "I'm a man so I'm not actually asking for help but I would seriously appreciate it" kind of way. D'Artagnan runs over to engage Cahusac. Athos sinks down to the ground for a much-needed rest, then tells D'Artagnan to only disarm Cahusac because he wants the honor of actually killing the Guard. Momentarily, D'Artagnan succeeds in disarming Cahusac. The man runs to retrieve his sword, but D'Artagnan beats him to it. Cahusac runs to the dead Guard and grabs his sword. On his way back to D'Artagnan, he runs into Athos, who is now ready to fight again. Athos and D'Artagnan together fight Cahusac, who soon dies. At the same moment, Aramis forces his opponent to yield. Porthos continues to fight his adversary . The man's name is Bicarat. Athos, Aramis, and D'Artagnan surround Bicarat and tell him to quit. Bicarat wants to keep fighting, even as Jussac yells at him to stop. Finally, Jussac commands him to stop. Magic words! Bicarat immediately stops and then breaks his sword over his knee so that he won't have to surrender it. The Musketeers and D'Artagnan salute Bicarat for his bravery, and then take the wounded to the convent. They leave the dead guy. The Musketeers and D'Artagnan then go visit Treville, but it turns into a bit of a parade as they relate the story to every Musketeer they pass. D'Artagnan is overjoyed to be hanging out with three such awesome men. He's hopeful that he can one day be a Musketeer just like them.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/1257-chapters/6.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Three Musketeers/section_6_part_0.txt

The Three Musketeers.chapter 6

chapter 6: his majesty king louis xiii

{"name": "Chapter Six: His Majesty King Louis XIII", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210127112556/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/three-musketeers/summary/chapter-six-his-majesty-king-louis-xiii", "summary": "Treville pretends to be very ashamed of his Musketeers in public, but he congratulates them in private. It's important that he tell the King his version of events, so that evening he heads to the Louvre. That evening, the King is gambling. And winning, so he's happy. He spies Treville and tells him to start controlling his crazy Musketeers. Treville pretends to be surprised, and claims that his Musketeers are gentle creatures devoted to the King. He claims that the Cardinal's guards are the ones at fault. Further conversation between the two is delayed until the King starts losing. He tells someone to sub in for him and then goes off to chat with Treville. The King asks Treville for his version of the day's events. Treville tells the King that three of his Musketeers were going to hang out with a young Gascon when they were interrupted by five Guardsmen who were clearly in the area to fight some duels. He doesn't outright accuse the guards of being there to fight duels, but the implication is clear, and the King, bright man that he is, seizes upon it. Periodically, Treville flatters the King. Since the Musketeers and D'Artagnan won, Treville is perfectly at liberty to point out that one of the men was wounded and that D'Artagnan is basically a boy. The King is pumped to have scored such a decisive victory over the Cardinal's men. Treville takes the opportunity to recommend D'Artagnan to the King. The King asks for the full story behind D'Artagnan and is impressed to learn that the Gascon was able to injure Jussac, who is considered to be one of France's finest swordsmen. The King consents to meeting D'Artagnan tomorrow at noon, and instructs Treville to bring all four together. He also tells them to come by the back stairs so the Cardinal doesn't know. That night, the Musketeers aren't too impressed about the summons because they've met the King a few times, but D'Artagnan is excited. At eight the next morning, D'Artagnan shows up at Athos's house. Athos had agreed to meet Porthos and Aramis for tennis. D'Artagnan, having nothing else to do, tags along. Athos tries to play but he's still too wounded. D'Artagnan doesn't know how to play tennis, but makes himself useful as a ball boy. When one of the balls almost smacks him in the face, D'Artagnan decides that it's too risky to involve himself in the game since he wants his to look good for the King. He extricates himself from the courts. Unfortunately, one of the Guardsmen is watching, and he makes a snarky comment to D'Artagnan along the lines of, \"You're afraid of tennis balls.\" Bad move. D'Artagnan demands a retraction, which the Guardsman does not give. They decide to fight. The man's name is Bernajoux. The two exit the court. Bernajoux wants to find a more private place in which to duel but D'Artagnan says that he's in a hurry so they need to just fight in the street. The two start fighting. D'Artagnan scores a hit on Bernajoux's shoulder and immediately gives him the chance to stop fighting. Bernajoux cries out that the wound doesn't matter and rushes forward... right onto D'Artagnan's sword. Rather than surrender, however, he rushes over to the hotel of M. de la Tremouille. D'Artagnan, unaware of the severity of his opponent's injuries, rushes after him, but is stopped by two of Bernajoux's friends, who rush out from the tennis court. Porthos, Aramis, and Athos also then show up, making the fight two against four. The Guardsmen call on the hotel de la Tremouille for help. All the servants of the hotel rush out to aid the Guardsmen. On their end, the Musketeers start shouting for help, and various soldiers of other companies run to their aid. Pandemonium and lots of great sword fights ensue. The Musketeers are in a better position, and so the Cardinal's supporters quickly withdraw into the hotel. Bernajoux is already inside receiving medical attention for his critical wounds. Everyone left outside debates setting fire to the hotel to punish the servants for daring to fight Musketeers. D'Artagnan and his buddies remember, however, that they have an important appointment. They calm everyone down and head out to Treville's hotel, where the man himself is already waiting for them. He's heard the latest news and wants to get to the King as soon as possible before the Cardinal tells his version of events. Treville plans to pass off yesterday and today's events with one simple story. When they reach the palace, a servant tells Treville that the King is out hunting. Treville finds out that the King and the Cardinal have already interacted, and then advises his men to simply go home and wait for news. After getting back to his hotel, Treville sends a servant to M. de la Tremouille with a message requesting that he kick out all the Cardinal's Guardsmen. The message also says something to the effect of, how dare your men try to mess with the King's Musketeers? Tremouille sends a message back saying that the Musketeers started the fight. He's prejudiced because one of his men is related to Bernajoux. Treville realizes that the servants are going to get very tired if they have to keep running back and forth between Treville and Tremouille, and decides to end this foolishness by confronting Tremouille face-to-face. When Treville shows up, Tremouille continues to maintain that the whole fight was the fault of the Musketeers. Treville proposes that they let Bernajoux tell the full story. He's badly wounded, but the man can still talk. Since this proposal is so fair and just, Tremouille agrees. Treville lets Tremouille do the questioning. Bernajoux tells the whole truth. Treville, happy to hear it, takes off and sends for Athos, Aramis, Porthos, and D'Artagnan to join him at lunch. D'Artagnan turns out to be the guest of honor as everyone congratulates him on his mad fighting skills. Finally, Treville announces that it's time for them to pay a visit to the King. They wait in the King's antechamber with other nobles who are eager to say hi and ask for a favor. After some time, the King finally returns from his hunting trip. He's not happy. He didn't catch anything. All the nobles still press forward and try to be seen by the King. The three Musketeers do the same, but D'Artagnan is too intimidated by his first real, actual brush with royalty. Athos has a dismal outlook on the situation. Treville tells him to be patient. If Treville doesn't come out in ten minutes, his men are to return to the hotel. The four men wait twenty minutes before leaving. When Treville enters the King's room, the King complains of boredom and disappointment with the day's hunt. The King starts chastising Treville again for the behavior of the Musketeers. His Majesty finds it hard to believe that the Musketeers weren't being reckless earlier. He tells Treville to prove that Athos, Porthos, Aramis, and D'Artagnan did not unfairly ambush Bernajoux and then try to burn Tremouille's hotel. Treville asks the King where he's getting this information. The King then talks about some guy who watches over him when he sleeps and handles all his affairs. He's clearly talking about the Cardinal, but Treville asks if the King is possibly referring to God, because He's the only guy who could possibly be higher than the King. The King gently corrects Treville and explicitly refers to the Cardinal as the source of information. Treville retorts by pointing out that Cardinals are not immune from error. The King tells Treville that the real source of information is the Duke, Monsieur de la Tremouille. Treville requests that the King question the Duke alone with no witnesses, and that he get to see the King right after the interview. Treville agrees to stand by Tremouille's testimony. The King sends a servant to find Monsieur de la Tremouille. The two men say their good-byes; Treville has a sleepless night. He meets up with the Musketeers and D'Artagnan at six-thirty in the morning and the five of them go anxiously to see the King. Soon they see Tremouille coming out of the King's room. Tremouille goes straight up to Treville and apologizes. He has told the King the truth of what happened--that it was all the fault of his men. Treville replies in a very kind, gentleman-like way. The King overhears the whole conversation and compliments the two of them. More compliments. Finally, the King asks to see the Musketeers . The King begins to scold them. They have, after all, incapacitated seven of the Cardinal's guards in two days. In the King's opinion, that's way too much fighting. The King then asks D'Artagnan to come closer, proclaiming him a mere boy and not quite a man. The King is astonished D'Artagnan was the one to have debilitated Jussac and Bernajoux. Athos notes that D'Artagnan saved his life. The King, very impressed, says that a lot of equipment must have been damaged in the course of all this sword fighting. He then asks if Gascons are always poor. Treville says no, but points out that the King owes his position to the loyalty of Gascons. The King dispatches his servant to get forty pistoles. We have no idea how much money that is, but we'll probably find out soon. While the servant goes hunting for some spare money, the King asks D'Artagnan for his life story. D'Artagnan tells everything, and it all jives with Tremouille's testimony. The King asks the men to stop with all the fighting, because they've done quite enough. Then he hands over the gold. Dumas then tells his readers that there was no shame in accepting money those days. The money is split evenly between the four adventurers. The King then dismisses the men. As everyone clears out, the King suggests to Treville that he place D'Artagnan with the Guards of Monsieur Dessessart . It would be bad form for D'Artagnan to be accepted straight away into the Musketeers. The King is really pleased that he can be fake and snarky around the Cardinal now. For example, he asks the Cardinal constantly how Jussac and Bernajoux are doing. Yes, this is kind of like two guys playing a \"mine is bigger than yours\" contest, except it's more along the lines of \"my soldiers can beat up your soldiers.\"", "analysis": ""}

6 HIS MAJESTY KING LOUIS XIII This affair made a great noise. M. de Treville scolded his Musketeers in public, and congratulated them in private; but as no time was to be lost in gaining the king, M. de Treville hastened to report himself at the Louvre. It was already too late. The king was closeted with the cardinal, and M. de Treville was informed that the king was busy and could not receive him at that moment. In the evening M. de Treville attended the king's gaming table. The king was winning; and as he was very avaricious, he was in an excellent humor. Perceiving M. de Treville at a distance-- "Come here, Monsieur Captain," said he, "come here, that I may growl at you. Do you know that his Eminence has been making fresh complaints against your Musketeers, and that with so much emotion, that this evening his Eminence is indisposed? Ah, these Musketeers of yours are very devils--fellows to be hanged." "No, sire," replied Treville, who saw at the first glance how things would go, "on the contrary, they are good creatures, as meek as lambs, and have but one desire, I'll be their warranty. And that is that their swords may never leave their scabbards but in your majesty's service. But what are they to do? The Guards of Monsieur the Cardinal are forever seeking quarrels with them, and for the honor of the corps even, the poor young men are obliged to defend themselves." "Listen to Monsieur de Treville," said the king; "listen to him! Would not one say he was speaking of a religious community? In truth, my dear Captain, I have a great mind to take away your commission and give it to Mademoiselle de Chemerault, to whom I promised an abbey. But don't fancy that I am going to take you on your bare word. I am called Louis the Just, Monsieur de Treville, and by and by, by and by we will see." "Ah, sire; it is because I confide in that justice that I shall wait patiently and quietly the good pleasure of your Majesty." "Wait, then, monsieur, wait," said the king; "I will not detain you long." In fact, fortune changed; and as the king began to lose what he had won, he was not sorry to find an excuse for playing Charlemagne--if we may use a gaming phrase of whose origin we confess our ignorance. The king therefore arose a minute after, and putting the money which lay before him into his pocket, the major part of which arose from his winnings, "La Vieuville," said he, "take my place; I must speak to Monsieur de Treville on an affair of importance. Ah, I had eighty louis before me; put down the same sum, so that they who have lost may have nothing to complain of. Justice before everything." Then turning toward M. de Treville and walking with him toward the embrasure of a window, "Well, monsieur," continued he, "you say it is his Eminence's Guards who have sought a quarrel with your Musketeers?" "Yes, sire, as they always do." "And how did the thing happen? Let us see, for you know, my dear Captain, a judge must hear both sides." "Good Lord! In the most simple and natural manner possible. Three of my best soldiers, whom your Majesty knows by name, and whose devotedness you have more than once appreciated, and who have, I dare affirm to the king, his service much at heart--three of my best soldiers, I say, Athos, Porthos, and Aramis, had made a party of pleasure with a young fellow from Gascony, whom I had introduced to them the same morning. The party was to take place at St. Germain, I believe, and they had appointed to meet at the Carmes-Deschaux, when they were disturbed by de Jussac, Cahusac, Bicarat, and two other Guardsmen, who certainly did not go there in such a numerous company without some ill intention against the edicts." "Ah, ah! You incline me to think so," said the king. "There is no doubt they went thither to fight themselves." "I do not accuse them, sire; but I leave your Majesty to judge what five armed men could possibly be going to do in such a deserted place as the neighborhood of the Convent des Carmes." "Yes, you are right, Treville, you are right!" "Then, upon seeing my Musketeers they changed their minds, and forgot their private hatred for partisan hatred; for your Majesty cannot be ignorant that the Musketeers, who belong to the king and nobody but the king, are the natural enemies of the Guardsmen, who belong to the cardinal." "Yes, Treville, yes," said the king, in a melancholy tone; "and it is very sad, believe me, to see thus two parties in France, two heads to royalty. But all this will come to an end, Treville, will come to an end. You say, then, that the Guardsmen sought a quarrel with the Musketeers?" "I say that it is probable that things have fallen out so, but I will not swear to it, sire. You know how difficult it is to discover the truth; and unless a man be endowed with that admirable instinct which causes Louis XIII to be named the Just--" "You are right, Treville; but they were not alone, your Musketeers. They had a youth with them?" "Yes, sire, and one wounded man; so that three of the king's Musketeers--one of whom was wounded--and a youth not only maintained their ground against five of the most terrible of the cardinal's Guardsmen, but absolutely brought four of them to earth." "Why, this is a victory!" cried the king, all radiant, "a complete victory!" "Yes, sire; as complete as that of the Bridge of Ce." "Four men, one of them wounded, and a youth, say you?" "One hardly a young man; but who, however, behaved himself so admirably on this occasion that I will take the liberty of recommending him to your Majesty." "How does he call himself?" "d'Artagnan, sire; he is the son of one of my oldest friends--the son of a man who served under the king your father, of glorious memory, in the civil war." "And you say this young man behaved himself well? Tell me how, Treville--you know how I delight in accounts of war and fighting." And Louis XIII twisted his mustache proudly, placing his hand upon his hip. "Sire," resumed Treville, "as I told you, Monsieur d'Artagnan is little more than a boy; and as he has not the honor of being a Musketeer, he was dressed as a citizen. The Guards of the cardinal, perceiving his youth and that he did not belong to the corps, invited him to retire before they attacked." "So you may plainly see, Treville," interrupted the king, "it was they who attacked?" "That is true, sire; there can be no more doubt on that head. They called upon him then to retire; but he answered that he was a Musketeer at heart, entirely devoted to your Majesty, and that therefore he would remain with Messieurs the Musketeers." "Brave young man!" murmured the king. "Well, he did remain with them; and your Majesty has in him so firm a champion that it was he who gave Jussac the terrible sword thrust which has made the cardinal so angry." "He who wounded Jussac!" cried the king, "he, a boy! Treville, that's impossible!" "It is as I have the honor to relate it to your Majesty." "Jussac, one of the first swordsmen in the kingdom?" "Well, sire, for once he found his master." "I will see this young man, Treville--I will see him; and if anything can be done--well, we will make it our business." "When will your Majesty deign to receive him?" "Tomorrow, at midday, Treville." "Shall I bring him alone?" "No, bring me all four together. I wish to thank them all at once. Devoted men are so rare, Treville, by the back staircase. It is useless to let the cardinal know." "Yes, sire." "You understand, Treville--an edict is still an edict, it is forbidden to fight, after all." "But this encounter, sire, is quite out of the ordinary conditions of a duel. It is a brawl; and the proof is that there were five of the cardinal's Guardsmen against my three Musketeers and Monsieur d'Artagnan." "That is true," said the king; "but never mind, Treville, come still by the back staircase." Treville smiled; but as it was indeed something to have prevailed upon this child to rebel against his master, he saluted the king respectfully, and with this agreement, took leave of him. That evening the three Musketeers were informed of the honor accorded them. As they had long been acquainted with the king, they were not much excited; but d'Artagnan, with his Gascon imagination, saw in it his future fortune, and passed the night in golden dreams. By eight o'clock in the morning he was at the apartment of Athos. D'Artagnan found the Musketeer dressed and ready to go out. As the hour to wait upon the king was not till twelve, he had made a party with Porthos and Aramis to play a game at tennis in a tennis court situated near the stables of the Luxembourg. Athos invited d'Artagnan to follow them; and although ignorant of the game, which he had never played, he accepted, not knowing what to do with his time from nine o'clock in the morning, as it then scarcely was, till twelve. The two Musketeers were already there, and were playing together. Athos, who was very expert in all bodily exercises, passed with d'Artagnan to the opposite side and challenged them; but at the first effort he made, although he played with his left hand, he found that his wound was yet too recent to allow of such exertion. D'Artagnan remained, therefore, alone; and as he declared he was too ignorant of the game to play it regularly they only continued giving balls to one another without counting. But one of these balls, launched by Porthos' herculean hand, passed so close to d'Artagnan's face that he thought that if, instead of passing near, it had hit him, his audience would have been probably lost, as it would have been impossible for him to present himself before the king. Now, as upon this audience, in his Gascon imagination, depended his future life, he saluted Aramis and Porthos politely, declaring that he would not resume the game until he should be prepared to play with them on more equal terms, and went and took his place near the cord and in the gallery. Unfortunately for d'Artagnan, among the spectators was one of his Eminence's Guardsmen, who, still irritated by the defeat of his companions, which had happened only the day before, had promised himself to seize the first opportunity of avenging it. He believed this opportunity was now come and addressed his neighbor: "It is not astonishing that that young man should be afraid of a ball, for he is doubtless a Musketeer apprentice." D'Artagnan turned round as if a serpent had stung him, and fixed his eyes intensely upon the Guardsman who had just made this insolent speech. "PARDIEU," resumed the latter, twisting his mustache, "look at me as long as you like, my little gentleman! I have said what I have said." "And as since that which you have said is too clear to require any explanation," replied d'Artagnan, in a low voice, "I beg you to follow me." "And when?" asked the Guardsman, with the same jeering air. "At once, if you please." "And you know who I am, without doubt?" "I? I am completely ignorant; nor does it much disquiet me." "You're in the wrong there; for if you knew my name, perhaps you would not be so pressing." "What is your name?" "Bernajoux, at your service." "Well, then, Monsieur Bernajoux," said d'Artagnan, tranquilly, "I will wait for you at the door." "Go, monsieur, I will follow you." "Do not hurry yourself, monsieur, lest it be observed that we go out together. You must be aware that for our undertaking, company would be in the way." "That's true," said the Guardsman, astonished that his name had not produced more effect upon the young man. Indeed, the name of Bernajoux was known to all the world, d'Artagnan alone excepted, perhaps; for it was one of those which figured most frequently in the daily brawls which all the edicts of the cardinal could not repress. Porthos and Aramis were so engaged with their game, and Athos was watching them with so much attention, that they did not even perceive their young companion go out, who, as he had told the Guardsman of his Eminence, stopped outside the door. An instant after, the Guardsman descended in his turn. As d'Artagnan had no time to lose, on account of the audience of the king, which was fixed for midday, he cast his eyes around, and seeing that the street was empty, said to his adversary, "My faith! It is fortunate for you, although your name is Bernajoux, to have only to deal with an apprentice Musketeer. Never mind; be content, I will do my best. On guard!" "But," said he whom d'Artagnan thus provoked, "it appears to me that this place is badly chosen, and that we should be better behind the Abbey St. Germain or in the Pre-aux-Clercs." "What you say is full of sense," replied d'Artagnan; "but unfortunately I have very little time to spare, having an appointment at twelve precisely. On guard, then, monsieur, on guard!" Bernajoux was not a man to have such a compliment paid to him twice. In an instant his sword glittered in his hand, and he sprang upon his adversary, whom, thanks to his great youthfulness, he hoped to intimidate. But d'Artagnan had on the preceding day served his apprenticeship. Fresh sharpened by his victory, full of hopes of future favor, he was resolved not to recoil a step. So the two swords were crossed close to the hilts, and as d'Artagnan stood firm, it was his adversary who made the retreating step; but d'Artagnan seized the moment at which, in this movement, the sword of Bernajoux deviated from the line. He freed his weapon, made a lunge, and touched his adversary on the shoulder. D'Artagnan immediately made a step backward and raised his sword; but Bernajoux cried out that it was nothing, and rushing blindly upon him, absolutely spitted himself upon d'Artagnan's sword. As, however, he did not fall, as he did not declare himself conquered, but only broke away toward the hotel of M. de la Tremouille, in whose service he had a relative, d'Artagnan was ignorant of the seriousness of the last wound his adversary had received, and pressing him warmly, without doubt would soon have completed his work with a third blow, when the noise which arose from the street being heard in the tennis court, two of the friends of the Guardsman, who had seen him go out after exchanging some words with d'Artagnan, rushed, sword in hand, from the court, and fell upon the conqueror. But Athos, Porthos, and Aramis quickly appeared in their turn, and the moment the two Guardsmen attacked their young companion, drove them back. Bernajoux now fell, and as the Guardsmen were only two against four, they began to cry, "To the rescue! The Hotel de la Tremouille!" At these cries, all who were in the hotel rushed out and fell upon the four companions, who on their side cried aloud, "To the rescue, Musketeers!" This cry was generally heeded; for the Musketeers were known to be enemies of the cardinal, and were beloved on account of the hatred they bore to his Eminence. Thus the soldiers of other companies than those which belonged to the Red Duke, as Aramis had called him, often took part with the king's Musketeers in these quarrels. Of three Guardsmen of the company of M. Dessessart who were passing, two came to the assistance of the four companions, while the other ran toward the hotel of M. de Treville, crying, "To the rescue, Musketeers! To the rescue!" As usual, this hotel was full of soldiers of this company, who hastened to the succor of their comrades. The MELEE became general, but strength was on the side of the Musketeers. The cardinal's Guards and M. de la Tremouille's people retreated into the hotel, the doors of which they closed just in time to prevent their enemies from entering with them. As to the wounded man, he had been taken in at once, and, as we have said, in a very bad state. Excitement was at its height among the Musketeers and their allies, and they even began to deliberate whether they should not set fire to the hotel to punish the insolence of M. de la Tremouille's domestics in daring to make a SORTIE upon the king's Musketeers. The proposition had been made, and received with enthusiasm, when fortunately eleven o'clock struck. D'Artagnan and his companions remembered their audience, and as they would very much have regretted that such an opportunity should be lost, they succeeded in calming their friends, who contented themselves with hurling some paving stones against the gates; but the gates were too strong. They soon tired of the sport. Besides, those who must be considered the leaders of the enterprise had quit the group and were making their way toward the hotel of M. de Treville, who was waiting for them, already informed of this fresh disturbance. "Quick to the Louvre," said he, "to the Louvre without losing an instant, and let us endeavor to see the king before he is prejudiced by the cardinal. We will describe the thing to him as a consequence of the affair of yesterday, and the two will pass off together." M de Treville, accompanied by the four young fellows, directed his course toward the Louvre; but to the great astonishment of the captain of the Musketeers, he was informed that the king had gone stag hunting in the forest of St. Germain. M. de Treville required this intelligence to be repeated to him twice, and each time his companions saw his brow become darker. "Had his Majesty," asked he, "any intention of holding this hunting party yesterday?" "No, your Excellency," replied the valet de chambre, "the Master of the Hounds came this morning to inform him that he had marked down a stag. At first the king answered that he would not go; but he could not resist his love of sport, and set out after dinner." "And the king has seen the cardinal?" asked M. de Treville. "In all probability he has," replied the valet, "for I saw the horses harnessed to his Eminence's carriage this morning, and when I asked where he was going, they told me, 'To St. Germain.'" "He is beforehand with us," said M. de Treville. "Gentlemen, I will see the king this evening; but as to you, I do not advise you to risk doing so." This advice was too reasonable, and moreover came from a man who knew the king too well, to allow the four young men to dispute it. M. de Treville recommended everyone to return home and wait for news. On entering his hotel, M. de Treville thought it best to be first in making the complaint. He sent one of his servants to M. de la Tremouille with a letter in which he begged of him to eject the cardinal's Guardsmen from his house, and to reprimand his people for their audacity in making SORTIE against the king's Musketeers. But M. de la Tremouille--already prejudiced by his esquire, whose relative, as we already know, Bernajoux was--replied that it was neither for M. de Treville nor the Musketeers to complain, but, on the contrary, for him, whose people the Musketeers had assaulted and whose hotel they had endeavored to burn. Now, as the debate between these two nobles might last a long time, each becoming, naturally, more firm in his own opinion, M. de Treville thought of an expedient which might terminate it quietly. This was to go himself to M. de la Tremouille. He repaired, therefore, immediately to his hotel, and caused himself to be announced. The two nobles saluted each other politely, for if no friendship existed between them, there was at least esteem. Both were men of courage and honor; and as M. de la Tremouille--a Protestant, and seeing the king seldom--was of no party, he did not, in general, carry any bias into his social relations. This time, however, his address, although polite, was cooler than usual. "Monsieur," said M. de Treville, "we fancy that we have each cause to complain of the other, and I am come to endeavor to clear up this affair." "I have no objection," replied M. de la Tremouille, "but I warn you that I am well informed, and all the fault is with your Musketeers." "You are too just and reasonable a man, monsieur!" said Treville, "not to accept the proposal I am about to make to you." "Make it, monsieur, I listen." "How is Monsieur Bernajoux, your esquire's relative?" "Why, monsieur, very ill indeed! In addition to the sword thrust in his arm, which is not dangerous, he has received another right through his lungs, of which the doctor says bad things." "But has the wounded man retained his senses?" "Perfectly." "Does he talk?" "With difficulty, but he can speak." "Well, monsieur, let us go to him. Let us adjure him, in the name of the God before whom he must perhaps appear, to speak the truth. I will take him for judge in his own cause, monsieur, and will believe what he will say." M de la Tremouille reflected for an instant; then as it was difficult to suggest a more reasonable proposal, he agreed to it. Both descended to the chamber in which the wounded man lay. The latter, on seeing these two noble lords who came to visit him, endeavored to raise himself up in his bed; but he was too weak, and exhausted by the effort, he fell back again almost senseless. M de la Tremouille approached him, and made him inhale some salts, which recalled him to life. Then M. de Treville, unwilling that it should be thought that he had influenced the wounded man, requested M. de la Tremouille to interrogate him himself. That happened which M. de Treville had foreseen. Placed between life and death, as Bernajoux was, he had no idea for a moment of concealing the truth; and he described to the two nobles the affair exactly as it had passed. This was all that M. de Treville wanted. He wished Bernajoux a speedy convalescence, took leave of M. de la Tremouille, returned to his hotel, and immediately sent word to the four friends that he awaited their company at dinner. M de Treville entertained good company, wholly anticardinalist, though. It may easily be understood, therefore, that the conversation during the whole of dinner turned upon the two checks that his Eminence's Guardsmen had received. Now, as d'Artagnan had been the hero of these two fights, it was upon him that all the felicitations fell, which Athos, Porthos, and Aramis abandoned to him, not only as good comrades, but as men who had so often had their turn that they could very well afford him his. Toward six o'clock M. de Treville announced that it was time to go to the Louvre; but as the hour of audience granted by his Majesty was past, instead of claiming the ENTREE by the back stairs, he placed himself with the four young men in the antechamber. The king had not yet returned from hunting. Our young men had been waiting about half an hour, amid a crowd of courtiers, when all the doors were thrown open, and his Majesty was announced. At his announcement d'Artagnan felt himself tremble to the very marrow of his bones. The coming instant would in all probability decide the rest of his life. His eyes therefore were fixed in a sort of agony upon the door through which the king must enter. Louis XIII appeared, walking fast. He was in hunting costume covered with dust, wearing large boots, and holding a whip in his hand. At the first glance, d'Artagnan judged that the mind of the king was stormy. This disposition, visible as it was in his Majesty, did not prevent the courtiers from ranging themselves along his pathway. In royal antechambers it is worth more to be viewed with an angry eye than not to be seen at all. The three Musketeers therefore did not hesitate to make a step forward. D'Artagnan on the contrary remained concealed behind them; but although the king knew Athos, Porthos, and Aramis personally, he passed before them without speaking or looking--indeed, as if he had never seen them before. As for M. de Treville, when the eyes of the king fell upon him, he sustained the look with so much firmness that it was the king who dropped his eyes; after which his Majesty, grumbling, entered his apartment. "Matters go but badly," said Athos, smiling; "and we shall not be made Chevaliers of the Order this time." "Wait here ten minutes," said M. de Treville; "and if at the expiration of ten minutes you do not see me come out, return to my hotel, for it will be useless for you to wait for me longer." The four young men waited ten minutes, a quarter of an hour, twenty minutes; and seeing that M. de Treville did not return, went away very uneasy as to what was going to happen. M de Treville entered the king's cabinet boldly, and found his Majesty in a very ill humor, seated on an armchair, beating his boot with the handle of his whip. This, however, did not prevent his asking, with the greatest coolness, after his Majesty's health. "Bad, monsieur, bad!" replied the king; "I am bored." This was, in fact, the worst complaint of Louis XIII, who would sometimes take one of his courtiers to a window and say, "Monsieur So-and-so, let us weary ourselves together." "How! Your Majesty is bored? Have you not enjoyed the pleasures of the chase today?" "A fine pleasure, indeed, monsieur! Upon my soul, everything degenerates; and I don't know whether it is the game which leaves no scent, or the dogs that have no noses. We started a stag of ten branches. We chased him for six hours, and when he was near being taken--when St.-Simon was already putting his horn to his mouth to sound the mort--crack, all the pack takes the wrong scent and sets off after a two-year-older. I shall be obliged to give up hunting, as I have given up hawking. Ah, I am an unfortunate king, Monsieur de Treville! I had but one gerfalcon, and he died day before yesterday." "Indeed, sire, I wholly comprehend your disappointment. The misfortune is great; but I think you have still a good number of falcons, sparrow hawks, and tiercels." "And not a man to instruct them. Falconers are declining. I know no one but myself who is acquainted with the noble art of venery. After me it will all be over, and people will hunt with gins, snares, and traps. If I had but the time to train pupils! But there is the cardinal always at hand, who does not leave me a moment's repose; who talks to me about Spain, who talks to me about Austria, who talks to me about England! Ah! A PROPOS of the cardinal, Monsieur de Treville, I am vexed with you!" This was the chance at which M. de Treville waited for the king. He knew the king of old, and he knew that all these complaints were but a preface--a sort of excitation to encourage himself--and that he had now come to his point at last. "And in what have I been so unfortunate as to displease your Majesty?" asked M. de Treville, feigning the most profound astonishment. "Is it thus you perform your charge, monsieur?" continued the king, without directly replying to de Treville's question. "Is it for this I name you captain of my Musketeers, that they should assassinate a man, disturb a whole quarter, and endeavor to set fire to Paris, without your saying a word? But yet," continued the king, "undoubtedly my haste accuses you wrongfully; without doubt the rioters are in prison, and you come to tell me justice is done." "Sire," replied M. de Treville, calmly, "on the contrary, I come to demand it of you." "And against whom?" cried the king. "Against calumniators," said M. de Treville. "Ah! This is something new," replied the king. "Will you tell me that your three damned Musketeers, Athos, Porthos, and Aramis, and your youngster from Bearn, have not fallen, like so many furies, upon poor Bernajoux, and have not maltreated him in such a fashion that probably by this time he is dead? Will you tell me that they did not lay siege to the hotel of the Duc de la Tremouille, and that they did not endeavor to burn it?--which would not, perhaps, have been a great misfortune in time of war, seeing that it is nothing but a nest of Huguenots, but which is, in time of peace, a frightful example. Tell me, now, can you deny all this?" "And who told you this fine story, sire?" asked Treville, quietly. "Who has told me this fine story, monsieur? Who should it be but he who watches while I sleep, who labors while I amuse myself, who conducts everything at home and abroad--in France as in Europe?" "Your Majesty probably refers to God," said M. de Treville; "for I know no one except God who can be so far above your Majesty." "No, monsieur; I speak of the prop of the state, of my only servant, of my only friend--of the cardinal." "His Eminence is not his holiness, sire." "What do you mean by that, monsieur?" "That it is only the Pope who is infallible, and that this infallibility does not extend to cardinals." "You mean to say that he deceives me; you mean to say that he betrays me? You accuse him, then? Come, speak; avow freely that you accuse him!" "No, sire, but I say that he deceives himself. I say that he is ill-informed. I say that he has hastily accused your Majesty's Musketeers, toward whom he is unjust, and that he has not obtained his information from good sources." "The accusation comes from Monsieur de la Tremouille, from the duke himself. What do you say to that?" "I might answer, sire, that he is too deeply interested in the question to be a very impartial witness; but so far from that, sire, I know the duke to be a royal gentleman, and I refer the matter to him--but upon one condition, sire." "What?" "It is that your Majesty will make him come here, will interrogate him yourself, TETE-A-TETE, without witnesses, and that I shall see your Majesty as soon as you have seen the duke." "What, then! You will bind yourself," cried the king, "by what Monsieur de la Tremouille shall say?" "Yes, sire." "You will accept his judgment?" "Undoubtedly." "And you will submit to the reparation he may require?" "Certainly." "La Chesnaye," said the king. "La Chesnaye!" Louis XIII's confidential valet, who never left the door, entered in reply to the call. "La Chesnaye," said the king, "let someone go instantly and find Monsieur de la Tremouille; I wish to speak with him this evening." "Your Majesty gives me your word that you will not see anyone between Monsieur de la Tremouille and myself?" "Nobody, by the faith of a gentleman." "Tomorrow, then, sire?" "Tomorrow, monsieur." "At what o'clock, please your Majesty?" "At any hour you will." "But in coming too early I should be afraid of awakening your Majesty." "Awaken me! Do you think I ever sleep, then? I sleep no longer, monsieur. I sometimes dream, that's all. Come, then, as early as you like--at seven o'clock; but beware, if you and your Musketeers are guilty." "If my Musketeers are guilty, sire, the guilty shall be placed in your Majesty's hands, who will dispose of them at your good pleasure. Does your Majesty require anything further? Speak, I am ready to obey." "No, monsieur, no; I am not called Louis the Just without reason. Tomorrow, then, monsieur--tomorrow." "Till then, God preserve your Majesty!" However ill the king might sleep, M. de Treville slept still worse. He had ordered his three Musketeers and their companion to be with him at half past six in the morning. He took them with him, without encouraging them or promising them anything, and without concealing from them that their luck, and even his own, depended upon the cast of the dice. Arrived at the foot of the back stairs, he desired them to wait. If the king was still irritated against them, they would depart without being seen; if the king consented to see them, they would only have to be called. On arriving at the king's private antechamber, M. de Treville found La Chesnaye, who informed him that they had not been able to find M. de la Tremouille on the preceding evening at his hotel, that he returned too late to present himself at the Louvre, that he had only that moment arrived and that he was at that very hour with the king. This circumstance pleased M. de Treville much, as he thus became certain that no foreign suggestion could insinuate itself between M. de la Tremouille's testimony and himself. In fact, ten minutes had scarcely passed away when the door of the king's closet opened, and M. de Treville saw M. de la Tremouille come out. The duke came straight up to him, and said: "Monsieur de Treville, his Majesty has just sent for me in order to inquire respecting the circumstances which took place yesterday at my hotel. I have told him the truth; that is to say, that the fault lay with my people, and that I was ready to offer you my excuses. Since I have the good fortune to meet you, I beg you to receive them, and to hold me always as one of your friends." "Monsieur the Duke," said M. de Treville, "I was so confident of your loyalty that I required no other defender before his Majesty than yourself. I find that I have not been mistaken, and I thank you that there is still one man in France of whom may be said, without disappointment, what I have said of you." "That's well said," cried the king, who had heard all these compliments through the open door; "only tell him, Treville, since he wishes to be considered your friend, that I also wish to be one of his, but he neglects me; that it is nearly three years since I have seen him, and that I never do see him unless I send for him. Tell him all this for me, for these are things which a king cannot say for himself." "Thanks, sire, thanks," said the duke; "but your Majesty may be assured that it is not those--I do not speak of Monsieur de Treville--whom your Majesty sees at all hours of the day that are most devoted to you." "Ah! You have heard what I said? So much the better, Duke, so much the better," said the king, advancing toward the door. "Ah! It is you, Treville. Where are your Musketeers? I told you the day before yesterday to bring them with you; why have you not done so?" "They are below, sire, and with your permission La Chesnaye will bid them come up." "Yes, yes, let them come up immediately. It is nearly eight o'clock, and at nine I expect a visit. Go, Monsieur Duke, and return often. Come in, Treville." The Duke saluted and retired. At the moment he opened the door, the three Musketeers and d'Artagnan, conducted by La Chesnaye, appeared at the top of the staircase. "Come in, my braves," said the king, "come in; I am going to scold you." The Musketeers advanced, bowing, d'Artagnan following closely behind them. "What the devil!" continued the king. "Seven of his Eminence's Guards placed HORS DE COMBAT by you four in two days! That's too many, gentlemen, too many! If you go on so, his Eminence will be forced to renew his company in three weeks, and I to put the edicts in force in all their rigor. One now and then I don't say much about; but seven in two days, I repeat, it is too many, it is far too many!" "Therefore, sire, your Majesty sees that they are come, quite contrite and repentant, to offer you their excuses." "Quite contrite and repentant! Hem!" said the king. "I place no confidence in their hypocritical faces. In particular, there is one yonder of a Gascon look. Come hither, monsieur." D'Artagnan, who understood that it was to him this compliment was addressed, approached, assuming a most deprecating air. "Why, you told me he was a young man? This is a boy, Treville, a mere boy! Do you mean to say that it was he who bestowed that severe thrust at Jussac?" "And those two equally fine thrusts at Bernajoux." "Truly!" "Without reckoning," said Athos, "that if he had not rescued me from the hands of Cahusac, I should not now have the honor of making my very humble reverence to your Majesty." "Why he is a very devil, this Bearnais! VENTRE-SAINT-GRIS, Monsieur de Treville, as the king my father would have said. But at this sort of work, many doublets must be slashed and many swords broken. Now, Gascons are always poor, are they not?" "Sire, I can assert that they have hitherto discovered no gold mines in their mountains; though the Lord owes them this miracle in recompense for the manner in which they supported the pretensions of the king your father." "Which is to say that the Gascons made a king of me, myself, seeing that I am my father's son, is it not, Treville? Well, happily, I don't say nay to it. La Chesnaye, go and see if by rummaging all my pockets you can find forty pistoles; and if you can find them, bring them to me. And now let us see, young man, with your hand upon your conscience, how did all this come to pass?" D'Artagnan related the adventure of the preceding day in all its details; how, not having been able to sleep for the joy he felt in the expectation of seeing his Majesty, he had gone to his three friends three hours before the hour of audience; how they had gone together to the tennis court, and how, upon the fear he had manifested lest he receive a ball in the face, he had been jeered at by Bernajoux, who had nearly paid for his jeer with his life, and M. de la Tremouille, who had nothing to do with the matter, with the loss of his hotel. "This is all very well," murmured the king, "yes, this is just the account the duke gave me of the affair. Poor cardinal! Seven men in two days, and those of his very best! But that's quite enough, gentlemen; please to understand, that's enough. You have taken your revenge for the Rue Ferou, and even exceeded it; you ought to be satisfied." "If your Majesty is so," said Treville, "we are." "Oh, yes; I am," added the king, taking a handful of gold from La Chesnaye, and putting it into the hand of d'Artagnan. "Here," said he, "is a proof of my satisfaction." At this epoch, the ideas of pride which are in fashion in our days did not prevail. A gentleman received, from hand to hand, money from the king, and was not the least in the world humiliated. D'Artagnan put his forty pistoles into his pocket without any scruple--on the contrary, thanking his Majesty greatly. "There," said the king, looking at a clock, "there, now, as it is half past eight, you may retire; for as I told you, I expect someone at nine. Thanks for your devotedness, gentlemen. I may continue to rely upon it, may I not?" "Oh, sire!" cried the four companions, with one voice, "we would allow ourselves to be cut to pieces in your Majesty's service." "Well, well, but keep whole; that will be better, and you will be more useful to me. Treville," added the king, in a low voice, as the others were retiring, "as you have no room in the Musketeers, and as we have besides decided that a novitiate is necessary before entering that corps, place this young man in the company of the Guards of Monsieur Dessessart, your brother-in-law. Ah, PARDIEU, Treville! I enjoy beforehand the face the cardinal will make. He will be furious; but I don't care. I am doing what is right." The king waved his hand to Treville, who left him and rejoined the Musketeers, whom he found sharing the forty pistoles with d'Artagnan. The cardinal, as his Majesty had said, was really furious, so furious that during eight days he absented himself from the king's gaming table. This did not prevent the king from being as complacent to him as possible whenever he met him, or from asking in the kindest tone, "Well, Monsieur Cardinal, how fares it with that poor Jussac and that poor Bernajoux of yours?"

Chapter Six: His Majesty King Louis XIII

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Treville pretends to be very ashamed of his Musketeers in public, but he congratulates them in private. It's important that he tell the King his version of events, so that evening he heads to the Louvre. That evening, the King is gambling. And winning, so he's happy. He spies Treville and tells him to start controlling his crazy Musketeers. Treville pretends to be surprised, and claims that his Musketeers are gentle creatures devoted to the King. He claims that the Cardinal's guards are the ones at fault. Further conversation between the two is delayed until the King starts losing. He tells someone to sub in for him and then goes off to chat with Treville. The King asks Treville for his version of the day's events. Treville tells the King that three of his Musketeers were going to hang out with a young Gascon when they were interrupted by five Guardsmen who were clearly in the area to fight some duels. He doesn't outright accuse the guards of being there to fight duels, but the implication is clear, and the King, bright man that he is, seizes upon it. Periodically, Treville flatters the King. Since the Musketeers and D'Artagnan won, Treville is perfectly at liberty to point out that one of the men was wounded and that D'Artagnan is basically a boy. The King is pumped to have scored such a decisive victory over the Cardinal's men. Treville takes the opportunity to recommend D'Artagnan to the King. The King asks for the full story behind D'Artagnan and is impressed to learn that the Gascon was able to injure Jussac, who is considered to be one of France's finest swordsmen. The King consents to meeting D'Artagnan tomorrow at noon, and instructs Treville to bring all four together. He also tells them to come by the back stairs so the Cardinal doesn't know. That night, the Musketeers aren't too impressed about the summons because they've met the King a few times, but D'Artagnan is excited. At eight the next morning, D'Artagnan shows up at Athos's house. Athos had agreed to meet Porthos and Aramis for tennis. D'Artagnan, having nothing else to do, tags along. Athos tries to play but he's still too wounded. D'Artagnan doesn't know how to play tennis, but makes himself useful as a ball boy. When one of the balls almost smacks him in the face, D'Artagnan decides that it's too risky to involve himself in the game since he wants his to look good for the King. He extricates himself from the courts. Unfortunately, one of the Guardsmen is watching, and he makes a snarky comment to D'Artagnan along the lines of, "You're afraid of tennis balls." Bad move. D'Artagnan demands a retraction, which the Guardsman does not give. They decide to fight. The man's name is Bernajoux. The two exit the court. Bernajoux wants to find a more private place in which to duel but D'Artagnan says that he's in a hurry so they need to just fight in the street. The two start fighting. D'Artagnan scores a hit on Bernajoux's shoulder and immediately gives him the chance to stop fighting. Bernajoux cries out that the wound doesn't matter and rushes forward... right onto D'Artagnan's sword. Rather than surrender, however, he rushes over to the hotel of M. de la Tremouille. D'Artagnan, unaware of the severity of his opponent's injuries, rushes after him, but is stopped by two of Bernajoux's friends, who rush out from the tennis court. Porthos, Aramis, and Athos also then show up, making the fight two against four. The Guardsmen call on the hotel de la Tremouille for help. All the servants of the hotel rush out to aid the Guardsmen. On their end, the Musketeers start shouting for help, and various soldiers of other companies run to their aid. Pandemonium and lots of great sword fights ensue. The Musketeers are in a better position, and so the Cardinal's supporters quickly withdraw into the hotel. Bernajoux is already inside receiving medical attention for his critical wounds. Everyone left outside debates setting fire to the hotel to punish the servants for daring to fight Musketeers. D'Artagnan and his buddies remember, however, that they have an important appointment. They calm everyone down and head out to Treville's hotel, where the man himself is already waiting for them. He's heard the latest news and wants to get to the King as soon as possible before the Cardinal tells his version of events. Treville plans to pass off yesterday and today's events with one simple story. When they reach the palace, a servant tells Treville that the King is out hunting. Treville finds out that the King and the Cardinal have already interacted, and then advises his men to simply go home and wait for news. After getting back to his hotel, Treville sends a servant to M. de la Tremouille with a message requesting that he kick out all the Cardinal's Guardsmen. The message also says something to the effect of, how dare your men try to mess with the King's Musketeers? Tremouille sends a message back saying that the Musketeers started the fight. He's prejudiced because one of his men is related to Bernajoux. Treville realizes that the servants are going to get very tired if they have to keep running back and forth between Treville and Tremouille, and decides to end this foolishness by confronting Tremouille face-to-face. When Treville shows up, Tremouille continues to maintain that the whole fight was the fault of the Musketeers. Treville proposes that they let Bernajoux tell the full story. He's badly wounded, but the man can still talk. Since this proposal is so fair and just, Tremouille agrees. Treville lets Tremouille do the questioning. Bernajoux tells the whole truth. Treville, happy to hear it, takes off and sends for Athos, Aramis, Porthos, and D'Artagnan to join him at lunch. D'Artagnan turns out to be the guest of honor as everyone congratulates him on his mad fighting skills. Finally, Treville announces that it's time for them to pay a visit to the King. They wait in the King's antechamber with other nobles who are eager to say hi and ask for a favor. After some time, the King finally returns from his hunting trip. He's not happy. He didn't catch anything. All the nobles still press forward and try to be seen by the King. The three Musketeers do the same, but D'Artagnan is too intimidated by his first real, actual brush with royalty. Athos has a dismal outlook on the situation. Treville tells him to be patient. If Treville doesn't come out in ten minutes, his men are to return to the hotel. The four men wait twenty minutes before leaving. When Treville enters the King's room, the King complains of boredom and disappointment with the day's hunt. The King starts chastising Treville again for the behavior of the Musketeers. His Majesty finds it hard to believe that the Musketeers weren't being reckless earlier. He tells Treville to prove that Athos, Porthos, Aramis, and D'Artagnan did not unfairly ambush Bernajoux and then try to burn Tremouille's hotel. Treville asks the King where he's getting this information. The King then talks about some guy who watches over him when he sleeps and handles all his affairs. He's clearly talking about the Cardinal, but Treville asks if the King is possibly referring to God, because He's the only guy who could possibly be higher than the King. The King gently corrects Treville and explicitly refers to the Cardinal as the source of information. Treville retorts by pointing out that Cardinals are not immune from error. The King tells Treville that the real source of information is the Duke, Monsieur de la Tremouille. Treville requests that the King question the Duke alone with no witnesses, and that he get to see the King right after the interview. Treville agrees to stand by Tremouille's testimony. The King sends a servant to find Monsieur de la Tremouille. The two men say their good-byes; Treville has a sleepless night. He meets up with the Musketeers and D'Artagnan at six-thirty in the morning and the five of them go anxiously to see the King. Soon they see Tremouille coming out of the King's room. Tremouille goes straight up to Treville and apologizes. He has told the King the truth of what happened--that it was all the fault of his men. Treville replies in a very kind, gentleman-like way. The King overhears the whole conversation and compliments the two of them. More compliments. Finally, the King asks to see the Musketeers . The King begins to scold them. They have, after all, incapacitated seven of the Cardinal's guards in two days. In the King's opinion, that's way too much fighting. The King then asks D'Artagnan to come closer, proclaiming him a mere boy and not quite a man. The King is astonished D'Artagnan was the one to have debilitated Jussac and Bernajoux. Athos notes that D'Artagnan saved his life. The King, very impressed, says that a lot of equipment must have been damaged in the course of all this sword fighting. He then asks if Gascons are always poor. Treville says no, but points out that the King owes his position to the loyalty of Gascons. The King dispatches his servant to get forty pistoles. We have no idea how much money that is, but we'll probably find out soon. While the servant goes hunting for some spare money, the King asks D'Artagnan for his life story. D'Artagnan tells everything, and it all jives with Tremouille's testimony. The King asks the men to stop with all the fighting, because they've done quite enough. Then he hands over the gold. Dumas then tells his readers that there was no shame in accepting money those days. The money is split evenly between the four adventurers. The King then dismisses the men. As everyone clears out, the King suggests to Treville that he place D'Artagnan with the Guards of Monsieur Dessessart . It would be bad form for D'Artagnan to be accepted straight away into the Musketeers. The King is really pleased that he can be fake and snarky around the Cardinal now. For example, he asks the Cardinal constantly how Jussac and Bernajoux are doing. Yes, this is kind of like two guys playing a "mine is bigger than yours" contest, except it's more along the lines of "my soldiers can beat up your soldiers."

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/1257-chapters/7.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Three Musketeers/section_7_part_0.txt

The Three Musketeers.chapter 7

chapter 7: the interior of "the musketeers"

{"name": "Chapter Seven: The Interior of \"The Musketeers\"", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210127112556/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/three-musketeers/summary/chapter-seven-the-interior-of-the-musketeers", "summary": "D'Artagnan asks his friends what he should do with the money. Athos suggests a good meal, Porthos suggests a good servant, and Aramis suggests getting a girlfriend. The friends have a good meal and they're waited on by a good servant named Planchet, who works for Porthos. Since Porthos already has got a lackey named Mousqueton, he tells Planchet to begin working for D'Artagnan. When Planchet sees D'Artagnan throwing around gold like water, he becomes very happy. Next we have Athos's servant Grimaud who must adjust to his master's quiet ways. The man doesn't laugh and barely talks, preferring instead to communicate via body language. Although Athos is handsome and smart, he doesn't appear to \"hang out\" with the ladies very often. Based on his comments when other men are talking about the fairer sex, it seems that Athos doesn't like women very much. Since he really hates talking, Athos has trained Grimaud to obey movements. Athos almost never actually talks to his servant. When Grimaud misinterprets the order, Athos beats him. No, do not try this at home. Porthos has the reverse personality--he loves to talk and he loves to exaggerate. It makes sense then that his servant, Mousqueton, loves to dress well. Aramis has a servant named Bazin, who likes to pretend his master is actually a churchman. Bazin is quite devout. Next, the narrator begins describing each of the Musketeers' dwellings. Athos lives in an apartment of two small rooms, sparsely furnished, where a beautiful and expensive sword, a casket, and a portrait are the only marks of incredible wealth. Porthos lives in a large, extravagant, and very fashionable apartment, which no one is allowed to see. Aramis lives in a small apartment on the ground floor with a lovely little garden. D'Artagnan tries to pierce the real identities of each of the Musketeers, but no luck. The real names of Porthos, Aramis, and Athos remain hidden. Time passes, and soon the forty pistoles run out. Planchet starts to complain that he didn't sign up for this lifestyle. Athos recommends firing Planchet; Porthos recommends beating him; Aramis recommends ignoring him. D'Artagnan is unsure how to take this--he wonders how to \"inspire either the affection, the terror, or the respect in Planchet.\" Then the three friends compare the master-servant relationship to the husband-wife relationship. D'Artagnan then beats Planchet and forbids him from quitting the job. He tells Planchet that their circumstances are sure to eventually improve. It works! Planchet stays. The four men are now BFFs and spend all their time together. This includes guard duty--D'Artagnan joins whoever of his friends is patrolling as a Musketeer, and quickly becomes accepted into the group at large. Treville remains impressed with the young man and continues praising him to the King. The four are thus known as the Inseparables. Get four for the price of one! D'Artagnan is finally admitted as a cadet into M. de Chevalier Dessessart's company of guards, which he reluctantly accepts. Even though he's serving in a different company, Porthos, Aramis, and Athos still faithfully stick by his side. M. de Chevalier Dessessart's company thus gets four for the price for one.", "analysis": ""}

7 THE INTERIOR* OF THE MUSKETEERS When d'Artagnan was out of the Louvre, and consulted his friends upon the use he had best make of his share of the forty pistoles, Athos advised him to order a good repast at the Pomme-de-Pin, Porthos to engage a lackey, and Aramis to provide himself with a suitable mistress. _*Domestic affairs, housekeeping_ The repast was carried into effect that very day, and the lackey waited at table. The repast had been ordered by Athos, and the lackey furnished by Porthos. He was a Picard, whom the glorious Musketeer had picked up on the Bridge Tournelle, making rings and plashing in the water. Porthos pretended that this occupation was proof of a reflective and contemplative organization, and he had brought him away without any other recommendation. The noble carriage of this gentleman, for whom he believed himself to be engaged, had won Planchet--that was the name of the Picard. He felt a slight disappointment, however, when he saw that this place was already taken by a compeer named Mousqueton, and when Porthos signified to him that the state of his household, though great, would not support two servants, and that he must enter into the service of d'Artagnan. Nevertheless, when he waited at the dinner given by his master, and saw him take out a handful of gold to pay for it, he believed his fortune made, and returned thanks to heaven for having thrown him into the service of such a Croesus. He preserved this opinion even after the feast, with the remnants of which he repaired his own long abstinence; but when in the evening he made his master's bed, the chimeras of Planchet faded away. The bed was the only one in the apartment, which consisted of an antechamber and a bedroom. Planchet slept in the antechamber upon a coverlet taken from the bed of d'Artagnan, and which d'Artagnan from that time made shift to do without. Athos, on his part, had a valet whom he had trained in his service in a thoroughly peculiar fashion, and who was named Grimaud. He was very taciturn, this worthy signor. Be it understood we are speaking of Athos. During the five or six years that he had lived in the strictest intimacy with his companions, Porthos and Aramis, they could remember having often seen him smile, but had never heard him laugh. His words were brief and expressive, conveying all that was meant, and no more; no embellishments, no embroidery, no arabesques. His conversation was a matter of fact, without a single romance. Although Athos was scarcely thirty years old, and was of great personal beauty and intelligence of mind, no one knew whether he had ever had a mistress. He never spoke of women. He certainly did not prevent others from speaking of them before him, although it was easy to perceive that this kind of conversation, in which he only mingled by bitter words and misanthropic remarks, was very disagreeable to him. His reserve, his roughness, and his silence made almost an old man of him. He had, then, in order not to disturb his habits, accustomed Grimaud to obey him upon a simple gesture or upon a simple movement of his lips. He never spoke to him, except under the most extraordinary occasions. Sometimes, Grimaud, who feared his master as he did fire, while entertaining a strong attachment to his person and a great veneration for his talents, believed he perfectly understood what he wanted, flew to execute the order received, and did precisely the contrary. Athos then shrugged his shoulders, and, without putting himself in a passion, thrashed Grimaud. On these days he spoke a little. Porthos, as we have seen, had a character exactly opposite to that of Athos. He not only talked much, but he talked loudly, little caring, we must render him that justice, whether anybody listened to him or not. He talked for the pleasure of talking and for the pleasure of hearing himself talk. He spoke upon all subjects except the sciences, alleging in this respect the inveterate hatred he had borne to scholars from his childhood. He had not so noble an air as Athos, and the commencement of their intimacy often rendered him unjust toward that gentleman, whom he endeavored to eclipse by his splendid dress. But with his simple Musketeer's uniform and nothing but the manner in which he threw back his head and advanced his foot, Athos instantly took the place which was his due and consigned the ostentatious Porthos to the second rank. Porthos consoled himself by filling the antechamber of M. de Treville and the guardroom of the Louvre with the accounts of his love scrapes, after having passed from professional ladies to military ladies, from the lawyer's dame to the baroness, there was question of nothing less with Porthos than a foreign princess, who was enormously fond of him. An old proverb says, "Like master, like man." Let us pass, then, from the valet of Athos to the valet of Porthos, from Grimaud to Mousqueton. Mousqueton was a Norman, whose pacific name of Boniface his master had changed into the infinitely more sonorous name of Mousqueton. He had entered the service of Porthos upon condition that he should only be clothed and lodged, though in a handsome manner; but he claimed two hours a day to himself, consecrated to an employment which would provide for his other wants. Porthos agreed to the bargain; the thing suited him wonderfully well. He had doublets cut out of his old clothes and cast-off cloaks for Mousqueton, and thanks to a very intelligent tailor, who made his clothes look as good as new by turning them, and whose wife was suspected of wishing to make Porthos descend from his aristocratic habits, Mousqueton made a very good figure when attending on his master. As for Aramis, of whom we believe we have sufficiently explained the character--a character which, like that of his companions, we shall be able to follow in its development--his lackey was called Bazin. Thanks to the hopes which his master entertained of someday entering into orders, he was always clothed in black, as became the servant of a churchman. He was a Berrichon, thirty-five or forty years old, mild, peaceable, sleek, employing the leisure his master left him in the perusal of pious works, providing rigorously for two a dinner of few dishes, but excellent. For the rest, he was dumb, blind, and deaf, and of unimpeachable fidelity. And now that we are acquainted, superficially at least, with the masters and the valets, let us pass on to the dwellings occupied by each of them. Athos dwelt in the Rue Ferou, within two steps of the Luxembourg. His apartment consisted of two small chambers, very nicely fitted up, in a furnished house, the hostess of which, still young and still really handsome, cast tender glances uselessly at him. Some fragments of past splendor appeared here and there upon the walls of this modest lodging; a sword, for example, richly embossed, which belonged by its make to the times of Francis I, the hilt of which alone, encrusted with precious stones, might be worth two hundred pistoles, and which, nevertheless, in his moments of greatest distress Athos had never pledged or offered for sale. It had long been an object of ambition for Porthos. Porthos would have given ten years of his life to possess this sword. One day, when he had an appointment with a duchess, he endeavored even to borrow it of Athos. Athos, without saying anything, emptied his pockets, got together all his jewels, purses, aiguillettes, and gold chains, and offered them all to Porthos; but as to the sword, he said it was sealed to its place and should never quit it until its master should himself quit his lodgings. In addition to the sword, there was a portrait representing a nobleman of the time of Henry III, dressed with the greatest elegance, and who wore the Order of the Holy Ghost; and this portrait had certain resemblances of lines with Athos, certain family likenesses which indicated that this great noble, a knight of the Order of the King, was his ancestor. Besides these, a casket of magnificent goldwork, with the same arms as the sword and the portrait, formed a middle ornament to the mantelpiece, and assorted badly with the rest of the furniture. Athos always carried the key of this coffer about him; but he one day opened it before Porthos, and Porthos was convinced that this coffer contained nothing but letters and papers--love letters and family papers, no doubt. Porthos lived in an apartment, large in size and of very sumptuous appearance, in the Rue du Vieux-Colombier. Every time he passed with a friend before his windows, at one of which Mousqueton was sure to be placed in full livery, Porthos raised his head and his hand, and said, "That is my abode!" But he was never to be found at home; he never invited anybody to go up with him, and no one could form an idea of what his sumptuous apartment contained in the shape of real riches. As to Aramis, he dwelt in a little lodging composed of a boudoir, an eating room, and a bedroom, which room, situated, as the others were, on the ground floor, looked out upon a little fresh green garden, shady and impenetrable to the eyes of his neighbors. With regard to d'Artagnan, we know how he was lodged, and we have already made acquaintance with his lackey, Master Planchet. D'Artagnan, who was by nature very curious--as people generally are who possess the genius of intrigue--did all he could to make out who Athos, Porthos, and Aramis really were (for under these pseudonyms each of these young men concealed his family name)--Athos in particular, who, a league away, savored of nobility. He addressed himself then to Porthos to gain information respecting Athos and Aramis, and to Aramis in order to learn something of Porthos. Unfortunately Porthos knew nothing of the life of his silent companion but what revealed itself. It was said Athos had met with great crosses in love, and that a frightful treachery had forever poisoned the life of this gallant man. What could this treachery be? All the world was ignorant of it. As to Porthos, except his real name (as was the case with those of his two comrades), his life was very easily known. Vain and indiscreet, it was as easy to see through him as through a crystal. The only thing to mislead the investigator would have been belief in all the good things he said of himself. With respect to Aramis, though having the air of having nothing secret about him, he was a young fellow made up of mysteries, answering little to questions put to him about others, and having learned from him the report which prevailed concerning the success of the Musketeer with a princess, wished to gain a little insight into the amorous adventures of his interlocutor. "And you, my dear companion," said he, "you speak of the baronesses, countesses, and princesses of others?" "PARDIEU! I spoke of them because Porthos talked of them himself, because he had paraded all these fine things before me. But be assured, my dear Monsieur d'Artagnan, that if I had obtained them from any other source, or if they had been confided to me, there exists no confessor more discreet than myself." "Oh, I don't doubt that," replied d'Artagnan; "but it seems to me that you are tolerably familiar with coats of arms--a certain embroidered handkerchief, for instance, to which I owe the honor of your acquaintance?" This time Aramis was not angry, but assumed the most modest air and replied in a friendly tone, "My dear friend, do not forget that I wish to belong to the Church, and that I avoid all mundane opportunities. The handkerchief you saw had not been given to me, but it had been forgotten and left at my house by one of my friends. I was obliged to pick it up in order not to compromise him and the lady he loves. As for myself, I neither have, nor desire to have, a mistress, following in that respect the very judicious example of Athos, who has none any more than I have." "But what the devil! You are not a priest, you are a Musketeer!" "A Musketeer for a time, my friend, as the cardinal says, a Musketeer against my will, but a churchman at heart, believe me. Athos and Porthos dragged me into this to occupy me. I had, at the moment of being ordained, a little difficulty with--But that would not interest you, and I am taking up your valuable time." "Not at all; it interests me very much," cried d'Artagnan; "and at this moment I have absolutely nothing to do." "Yes, but I have my breviary to repeat," answered Aramis; "then some verses to compose, which Madame d'Aiguillon begged of me. Then I must go to the Rue St. Honore in order to purchase some rouge for Madame de Chevreuse. So you see, my dear friend, that if you are not in a hurry, I am very much in a hurry." Aramis held out his hand in a cordial manner to his young companion, and took leave of him. Notwithstanding all the pains he took, d'Artagnan was unable to learn any more concerning his three new-made friends. He formed, therefore, the resolution of believing for the present all that was said of their past, hoping for more certain and extended revelations in the future. In the meanwhile, he looked upon Athos as an Achilles, Porthos as an Ajax, and Aramis as a Joseph. As to the rest, the life of the four young friends was joyous enough. Athos played, and that as a rule unfortunately. Nevertheless, he never borrowed a sou of his companions, although his purse was ever at their service; and when he had played upon honor, he always awakened his creditor by six o'clock the next morning to pay the debt of the preceding evening. Porthos had his fits. On the days when he won he was insolent and ostentatious; if he lost, he disappeared completely for several days, after which he reappeared with a pale face and thinner person, but with money in his purse. As to Aramis, he never played. He was the worst Musketeer and the most unconvivial companion imaginable. He had always something or other to do. Sometimes in the midst of dinner, when everyone, under the attraction of wine and in the warmth of conversation, believed they had two or three hours longer to enjoy themselves at table, Aramis looked at his watch, arose with a bland smile, and took leave of the company, to go, as he said, to consult a casuist with whom he had an appointment. At other times he would return home to write a treatise, and requested his friends not to disturb him. At this Athos would smile, with his charming, melancholy smile, which so became his noble countenance, and Porthos would drink, swearing that Aramis would never be anything but a village CURE. Planchet, d'Artagnan's valet, supported his good fortune nobly. He received thirty sous per day, and for a month he returned to his lodgings gay as a chaffinch, and affable toward his master. When the wind of adversity began to blow upon the housekeeping of the Rue des Fossoyeurs--that is to say, when the forty pistoles of King Louis XIII were consumed or nearly so--he commenced complaints which Athos thought nauseous, Porthos indecent, and Aramis ridiculous. Athos counseled d'Artagnan to dismiss the fellow; Porthos was of the opinion that he should give him a good thrashing first; and Aramis contended that a master should never attend to anything but the civilities paid to him. "This is all very easy for you to say," replied d'Artagnan, "for you, Athos, who live like a dumb man with Grimaud, who forbid him to speak, and consequently never exchange ill words with him; for you, Porthos, who carry matters in such a magnificent style, and are a god to your valet, Mousqueton; and for you, Aramis, who, always abstracted by your theological studies, inspire your servant, Bazin, a mild, religious man, with a profound respect; but for me, who am without any settled means and without resources--for me, who am neither a Musketeer nor even a Guardsman, what am I to do to inspire either the affection, the terror, or the respect in Planchet?" "This is serious," answered the three friends; "it is a family affair. It is with valets as with wives, they must be placed at once upon the footing in which you wish them to remain. Reflect upon it." D'Artagnan did reflect, and resolved to thrash Planchet provisionally; which he did with the conscientiousness that d'Artagnan carried into everything. After having well beaten him, he forbade him to leave his service without his permission. "For," added he, "the future cannot fail to mend; I inevitably look for better times. Your fortune is therefore made if you remain with me, and I am too good a master to allow you to miss such a chance by granting you the dismissal you require." This manner of acting roused much respect for d'Artagnan's policy among the Musketeers. Planchet was equally seized with admiration, and said no more about going away. The life of the four young men had become fraternal. D'Artagnan, who had no settled habits of his own, as he came from his province into the midst of a world quite new to him, fell easily into the habits of his friends. They rose about eight o'clock in the winter, about six in summer, and went to take the countersign and see how things went on at M. de Treville's. D'Artagnan, although he was not a Musketeer, performed the duty of one with remarkable punctuality. He went on guard because he always kept company with whoever of his friends was on duty. He was well known at the Hotel of the Musketeers, where everyone considered him a good comrade. M. de Treville, who had appreciated him at the first glance and who bore him a real affection, never ceased recommending him to the king. On their side, the three Musketeers were much attached to their young comrade. The friendship which united these four men, and the need they felt of seeing another three or four times a day, whether for dueling, business, or pleasure, caused them to be continually running after one another like shadows; and the Inseparables were constantly to be met with seeking one another, from the Luxembourg to the Place St. Sulpice, or from the Rue du Vieux-Colombier to the Luxembourg. In the meanwhile the promises of M. de Treville went on prosperously. One fine morning the king commanded M. de Chevalier Dessessart to admit d'Artagnan as a cadet in his company of Guards. D'Artagnan, with a sigh, donned his uniform, which he would have exchanged for that of a Musketeer at the expense of ten years of his existence. But M. de Treville promised this favor after a novitiate of two years--a novitiate which might besides be abridged if an opportunity should present itself for d'Artagnan to render the king any signal service, or to distinguish himself by some brilliant action. Upon this promise d'Artagnan withdrew, and the next day he began service. Then it became the turn of Athos, Porthos, and Aramis to mount guard with d'Artagnan when he was on duty. The company of M. le Chevalier Dessessart thus received four instead of one when it admitted d'Artagnan.

Chapter Seven: The Interior of "The Musketeers"

https://web.archive.org/web/20210127112556/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/three-musketeers/summary/chapter-seven-the-interior-of-the-musketeers

D'Artagnan asks his friends what he should do with the money. Athos suggests a good meal, Porthos suggests a good servant, and Aramis suggests getting a girlfriend. The friends have a good meal and they're waited on by a good servant named Planchet, who works for Porthos. Since Porthos already has got a lackey named Mousqueton, he tells Planchet to begin working for D'Artagnan. When Planchet sees D'Artagnan throwing around gold like water, he becomes very happy. Next we have Athos's servant Grimaud who must adjust to his master's quiet ways. The man doesn't laugh and barely talks, preferring instead to communicate via body language. Although Athos is handsome and smart, he doesn't appear to "hang out" with the ladies very often. Based on his comments when other men are talking about the fairer sex, it seems that Athos doesn't like women very much. Since he really hates talking, Athos has trained Grimaud to obey movements. Athos almost never actually talks to his servant. When Grimaud misinterprets the order, Athos beats him. No, do not try this at home. Porthos has the reverse personality--he loves to talk and he loves to exaggerate. It makes sense then that his servant, Mousqueton, loves to dress well. Aramis has a servant named Bazin, who likes to pretend his master is actually a churchman. Bazin is quite devout. Next, the narrator begins describing each of the Musketeers' dwellings. Athos lives in an apartment of two small rooms, sparsely furnished, where a beautiful and expensive sword, a casket, and a portrait are the only marks of incredible wealth. Porthos lives in a large, extravagant, and very fashionable apartment, which no one is allowed to see. Aramis lives in a small apartment on the ground floor with a lovely little garden. D'Artagnan tries to pierce the real identities of each of the Musketeers, but no luck. The real names of Porthos, Aramis, and Athos remain hidden. Time passes, and soon the forty pistoles run out. Planchet starts to complain that he didn't sign up for this lifestyle. Athos recommends firing Planchet; Porthos recommends beating him; Aramis recommends ignoring him. D'Artagnan is unsure how to take this--he wonders how to "inspire either the affection, the terror, or the respect in Planchet." Then the three friends compare the master-servant relationship to the husband-wife relationship. D'Artagnan then beats Planchet and forbids him from quitting the job. He tells Planchet that their circumstances are sure to eventually improve. It works! Planchet stays. The four men are now BFFs and spend all their time together. This includes guard duty--D'Artagnan joins whoever of his friends is patrolling as a Musketeer, and quickly becomes accepted into the group at large. Treville remains impressed with the young man and continues praising him to the King. The four are thus known as the Inseparables. Get four for the price of one! D'Artagnan is finally admitted as a cadet into M. de Chevalier Dessessart's company of guards, which he reluctantly accepts. Even though he's serving in a different company, Porthos, Aramis, and Athos still faithfully stick by his side. M. de Chevalier Dessessart's company thus gets four for the price for one.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/1257-chapters/8.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Three Musketeers/section_8_part_0.txt

The Three Musketeers.chapter 8

chapter 8: concerning a court intrigue

{"name": "Chapter Eight: Concerning a Court Intrigue", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210127112556/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/three-musketeers/summary/chapter-eight-concerning-a-court-intrigue", "summary": "The King's forty pistoles come to an end, and Athos supports everyone for a while. Then Porthos supports the four friends, then Aramis. Then Porthos, Aramis, and Athos hit up Treville for some advances on their pay. D'Artagnan, being a lowly Guard, doesn't get paid at all. When they start starving, they scrape together some money that they give to Porthos to gamble with. He loses the money. Finally, they start hitting up all their friends. Porthos, Aramis, Athos, and D'Artagnan--along with their servants--visit various friends for dinner. This mooching method can only last for so long, however. D'Artagnan is convinced that four \"young, brave, enterprising, and active men\" should be able to do better than this. D'Artagnan is concocting plans for the four of them when someone knocks at the door. D'Artagnan wakes Planchet up and tells him to answer it. The narrator tells us that it's long past morning. Planchet was sleeping because there was no food to eat. A man with the \"appearance of a tradesman\" walks in and requests a private conversation with D'Artagnan. They stare awkwardly at each other before the man asks if he can share a secret. D'Artagnan crosses his heart, hopes to die before repeating the secret. Turns out the man's wife works as the Queen's seamstress. The Queen's cloak bearer happens to be the man's wife's godfather. It's okay to be confused at this point. The main thing to get out of the conversation is that the man's wife has been kidnapped--and he has a suspect. The man is moreover convinced that the issue is politics, not sex. We learn that the delicate issue at hand is the Queen's illicit relationship with the Duke of Buckingham. The Cardinal is angry about this, not because of any real moral reasons that you might attribute to a churchman, but because he's been hot for the Queen himself. He was so hot for her, in fact, that he once dressed up as a clown and danced the saraband for her. A fast, erotic dance of the 16th century of Mexico and Spain. 2.) A stately court dance of the 17th and 18th centuries, in slow triple time. 3.) The music for either of these dances.) The book doesn't tell us which kind of saraband the Cardinal used to woo the Queen, but we're guessing neither was very effective. Although we give the Cardinal props for trying, the truth remains that he is out for some revenge. The Queen is convinced that someone has written to the Duke of Buckingham using her name. The bad guys have kidnapped the man's wife in order to use the woman against the Queen. Although the man knows who abducted his wife, he doesn't know the abductor's name. All he knows is that the man is an agent of the Cardinal. After getting a description of the abductor, D'Artagnan identifies the abductor as the Man from Meung. Finally we learn the visitor's name--Monsieur Bonacieux. But Monsieur Bonacieux strikes a deal with D'Artagnan--if D'Artagnan agrees to save Madame Bonacieux, he gets fifty pistoles and never has to pay rent again. Their conversation is cut short when they both spot the Man from Meung standing across the street. D'Artagnan immediately draws his sword and runs outside, on the way bumping into Athos and Porthos, . They stay out of D'Artagnan's way and go into his apartment to wait for his return. When they get there, Bonacieux is gone.", "analysis": ""}

8 CONCERNING A COURT INTRIGUE In the meantime, the forty pistoles of King Louis XIII, like all other things of this world, after having had a beginning had an end, and after this end our four companions began to be somewhat embarrassed. At first, Athos supported the association for a time with his own means. Porthos succeeded him; and thanks to one of those disappearances to which he was accustomed, he was able to provide for the wants of all for a fortnight. At last it became Aramis's turn, who performed it with a good grace and who succeeded--as he said, by selling some theological books--in procuring a few pistoles. Then, as they had been accustomed to do, they had recourse to M. de Treville, who made some advances on their pay; but these advances could not go far with three Musketeers who were already much in arrears and a Guardsman who as yet had no pay at all. At length when they found they were likely to be really in want, they got together, as a last effort, eight or ten pistoles, with which Porthos went to the gaming table. Unfortunately he was in a bad vein; he lost all, together with twenty-five pistoles for which he had given his word. Then the inconvenience became distress. The hungry friends, followed by their lackeys, were seen haunting the quays and Guard rooms, picking up among their friends abroad all the dinners they could meet with; for according to the advice of Aramis, it was prudent to sow repasts right and left in prosperity, in order to reap a few in time of need. Athos was invited four times, and each time took his friends and their lackeys with him. Porthos had six occasions, and contrived in the same manner that his friends should partake of them; Aramis had eight of them. He was a man, as must have been already perceived, who made but little noise, and yet was much sought after. As to d'Artagnan, who as yet knew nobody in the capital, he only found one chocolate breakfast at the house of a priest of his own province, and one dinner at the house of a cornet of the Guards. He took his army to the priest's, where they devoured as much provision as would have lasted him for two months, and to the cornet's, who performed wonders; but as Planchet said, "People do not eat at once for all time, even when they eat a good deal." D'Artagnan thus felt himself humiliated in having only procured one meal and a half for his companions--as the breakfast at the priest's could only be counted as half a repast--in return for the feasts which Athos, Porthos, and Aramis had procured him. He fancied himself a burden to the society, forgetting in his perfectly juvenile good faith that he had fed this society for a month; and he set his mind actively to work. He reflected that this coalition of four young, brave, enterprising, and active men ought to have some other object than swaggering walks, fencing lessons, and practical jokes, more or less witty. In fact, four men such as they were--four men devoted to one another, from their purses to their lives; four men always supporting one another, never yielding, executing singly or together the resolutions formed in common; four arms threatening the four cardinal points, or turning toward a single point--must inevitably, either subterraneously, in open day, by mining, in the trench, by cunning, or by force, open themselves a way toward the object they wished to attain, however well it might be defended, or however distant it may seem. The only thing that astonished d'Artagnan was that his friends had never thought of this. He was thinking by himself, and even seriously racking his brain to find a direction for this single force four times multiplied, with which he did not doubt, as with the lever for which Archimedes sought, they should succeed in moving the world, when someone tapped gently at his door. D'Artagnan awakened Planchet and ordered him to open it. From this phrase, "d'Artagnan awakened Planchet," the reader must not suppose it was night, or that day was hardly come. No, it had just struck four. Planchet, two hours before, had asked his master for some dinner, and he had answered him with the proverb, "He who sleeps, dines." And Planchet dined by sleeping. A man was introduced of simple mien, who had the appearance of a tradesman. Planchet, by way of dessert, would have liked to hear the conversation; but the citizen declared to d'Artagnan that, what he had to say being important and confidential, he desired to be left alone with him. D'Artagnan dismissed Planchet, and requested his visitor to be seated. There was a moment of silence, during which the two men looked at each other, as if to make a preliminary acquaintance, after which d'Artagnan bowed, as a sign that he listened. "I have heard Monsieur d'Artagnan spoken of as a very brave young man," said the citizen; "and this reputation which he justly enjoys had decided me to confide a secret to him." "Speak, monsieur, speak," said d'Artagnan, who instinctively scented something advantageous. The citizen made a fresh pause and continued, "I have a wife who is seamstress to the queen, monsieur, and who is not deficient in either virtue or beauty. I was induced to marry her about three years ago, although she had but very little dowry, because Monsieur Laporte, the queen's cloak bearer, is her godfather, and befriends her." "Well, monsieur?" asked d'Artagnan. "Well!" resumed the citizen, "well, monsieur, my wife was abducted yesterday morning, as she was coming out of her workroom." "And by whom was your wife abducted?" "I know nothing surely, monsieur, but I suspect someone." "And who is the person whom you suspect?" "A man who has pursued her a long time." "The devil!" "But allow me to tell you, monsieur," continued the citizen, "that I am convinced that there is less love than politics in all this." "Less love than politics," replied d'Artagnan, with a reflective air; "and what do you suspect?" "I do not know whether I ought to tell you what I suspect." "Monsieur, I beg you to observe that I ask you absolutely nothing. It is you who have come to me. It is you who have told me that you had a secret to confide in me. Act, then, as you think proper; there is still time to withdraw." "No, monsieur, no; you appear to be an honest young man, and I will have confidence in you. I believe, then, that it is not on account of any intrigues of her own that my wife has been arrested, but because of those of a lady much greater than herself." "Ah, ah! Can it be on account of the amours of Madame de Bois-Tracy?" said d'Artagnan, wishing to have the air, in the eyes of the citizen, of being posted as to court affairs. "Higher, monsieur, higher." "Of Madame d'Aiguillon?" "Still higher." "Of Madame de Chevreuse?" "Of the--" d'Artagnan checked himself. "Yes, monsieur," replied the terrified citizen, in a tone so low that he was scarcely audible. "And with whom?" "With whom can it be, if not the Duke of--" "The Duke of--" "Yes, monsieur," replied the citizen, giving a still fainter intonation to his voice. "But how do you know all this?" "How do I know it?" "Yes, how do you know it? No half-confidence, or--you understand!" "I know it from my wife, monsieur--from my wife herself." "Who learns it from whom?" "From Monsieur Laporte. Did I not tell you that she was the goddaughter of Monsieur Laporte, the confidential man of the queen? Well, Monsieur Laporte placed her near her Majesty in order that our poor queen might at least have someone in whom she could place confidence, abandoned as she is by the king, watched as she is by the cardinal, betrayed as she is by everybody." "Ah, ah! It begins to develop itself," said d'Artagnan. "Now, my wife came home four days ago, monsieur. One of her conditions was that she should come and see me twice a week; for, as I had the honor to tell you, my wife loves me dearly--my wife, then, came and confided to me that the queen at that very moment entertained great fears." "Truly!" "Yes. The cardinal, as it appears, pursues her and persecutes her more than ever. He cannot pardon her the history of the Saraband. You know the history of the Saraband?" "PARDIEU! Know it!" replied d'Artagnan, who knew nothing about it, but who wished to appear to know everything that was going on. "So that now it is no longer hatred, but vengeance." "Indeed!" "And the queen believes--" "Well, what does the queen believe?" "She believes that someone has written to the Duke of Buckingham in her name." "In the queen's name?" "Yes, to make him come to Paris; and when once come to Paris, to draw him into some snare." "The devil! But your wife, monsieur, what has she to do with all this?" "Her devotion to the queen is known; and they wish either to remove her from her mistress, or to intimidate her, in order to obtain her Majesty's secrets, or to seduce her and make use of her as a spy." "That is likely," said d'Artagnan; "but the man who has abducted her--do you know him?" "I have told you that I believe I know him." "His name?" "I do not know that; what I do know is that he is a creature of the cardinal, his evil genius." "But you have seen him?" "Yes, my wife pointed him out to me one day." "Has he anything remarkable about him by which one may recognize him?" "Oh, certainly; he is a noble of very lofty carriage, black hair, swarthy complexion, piercing eye, white teeth, and has a scar on his temple." "A scar on his temple!" cried d'Artagnan; "and with that, white teeth, a piercing eye, dark complexion, black hair, and haughty carriage--why, that's my man of Meung." "He is your man, do you say?" "Yes, yes; but that has nothing to do with it. No, I am wrong. On the contrary, that simplifies the matter greatly. If your man is mine, with one blow I shall obtain two revenges, that's all; but where to find this man?" "I know not." "Have you no information as to his abiding place?" "None. One day, as I was conveying my wife back to the Louvre, he was coming out as she was going in, and she showed him to me." "The devil! The devil!" murmured d'Artagnan; "all this is vague enough. From whom have you learned of the abduction of your wife?" "From Monsieur Laporte." "Did he give you any details?" "He knew none himself." "And you have learned nothing from any other quarter?" "Yes, I have received--" "What?" "I fear I am committing a great imprudence." "You always come back to that; but I must make you see this time that it is too late to retreat." "I do not retreat, MORDIEU!" cried the citizen, swearing in order to rouse his courage. "Besides, by the faith of Bonacieux--" "You call yourself Bonacieux?" interrupted d'Artagnan. "Yes, that is my name." "You said, then, by the word of Bonacieux. Pardon me for interrupting you, but it appears to me that that name is familiar to me." "Possibly, monsieur. I am your landlord." "Ah, ah!" said d'Artagnan, half rising and bowing; "you are my landlord?" "Yes, monsieur, yes. And as it is three months since you have been here, and though, distracted as you must be in your important occupations, you have forgotten to pay me my rent--as, I say, I have not tormented you a single instant, I thought you would appreciate my delicacy." "How can it be otherwise, my dear Bonacieux?" replied d'Artagnan; "trust me, I am fully grateful for such unparalleled conduct, and if, as I told you, I can be of any service to you--" "I believe you, monsieur, I believe you; and as I was about to say, by the word of Bonacieux, I have confidence in you." "Finish, then, what you were about to say." The citizen took a paper from his pocket, and presented it to d'Artagnan. "A letter?" said the young man. "Which I received this morning." D'Artagnan opened it, and as the day was beginning to decline, he approached the window to read it. The citizen followed him. "'Do not seek your wife,'" read d'Artagnan; "'she will be restored to you when there is no longer occasion for her. If you make a single step to find her you are lost.' "That's pretty positive," continued d'Artagnan; "but after all, it is but a menace." "Yes; but that menace terrifies me. I am not a fighting man at all, monsieur, and I am afraid of the Bastille." "Hum!" said d'Artagnan. "I have no greater regard for the Bastille than you. If it were nothing but a sword thrust, why then--" "I have counted upon you on this occasion, monsieur." "Yes?" "Seeing you constantly surrounded by Musketeers of a very superb appearance, and knowing that these Musketeers belong to Monsieur de Treville, and were consequently enemies of the cardinal, I thought that you and your friends, while rendering justice to your poor queen, would be pleased to play his Eminence an ill turn." "Without doubt." "And then I have thought that considering three months' lodging, about which I have said nothing--" "Yes, yes; you have already given me that reason, and I find it excellent." "Reckoning still further, that as long as you do me the honor to remain in my house I shall never speak to you about rent--" "Very kind!" "And adding to this, if there be need of it, meaning to offer you fifty pistoles, if, against all probability, you should be short at the present moment." "Admirable! You are rich then, my dear Monsieur Bonacieux?" "I am comfortably off, monsieur, that's all; I have scraped together some such things as an income of two or three thousand crowns in the haberdashery business, but more particularly in venturing some funds in the last voyage of the celebrated navigator Jean Moquet; so that you understand, monsieur--But!--" cried the citizen. "What!" demanded d'Artagnan. "Whom do I see yonder?" "Where?" "In the street, facing your window, in the embrasure of that door--a man wrapped in a cloak." "It is he!" cried d'Artagnan and the citizen at the same time, each having recognized his man. "Ah, this time," cried d'Artagnan, springing to his sword, "this time he will not escape me!" Drawing his sword from its scabbard, he rushed out of the apartment. On the staircase he met Athos and Porthos, who were coming to see him. They separated, and d'Artagnan rushed between them like a dart. "Pah! Where are you going?" cried the two Musketeers in a breath. "The man of Meung!" replied d'Artagnan, and disappeared. D'Artagnan had more than once related to his friends his adventure with the stranger, as well as the apparition of the beautiful foreigner, to whom this man had confided some important missive. The opinion of Athos was that d'Artagnan had lost his letter in the skirmish. A gentleman, in his opinion--and according to d'Artagnan's portrait of him, the stranger must be a gentleman--would be incapable of the baseness of stealing a letter. Porthos saw nothing in all this but a love meeting, given by a lady to a cavalier, or by a cavalier to a lady, which had been disturbed by the presence of d'Artagnan and his yellow horse. Aramis said that as these sorts of affairs were mysterious, it was better not to fathom them. They understood, then, from the few words which escaped from d'Artagnan, what affair was in hand, and as they thought that overtaking his man, or losing sight of him, d'Artagnan would return to his rooms, they kept on their way. When they entered d'Artagnan's chamber, it was empty; the landlord, dreading the consequences of the encounter which was doubtless about to take place between the young man and the stranger, had, consistent with the character he had given himself, judged it prudent to decamp.

Chapter Eight: Concerning a Court Intrigue

https://web.archive.org/web/20210127112556/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/three-musketeers/summary/chapter-eight-concerning-a-court-intrigue

The King's forty pistoles come to an end, and Athos supports everyone for a while. Then Porthos supports the four friends, then Aramis. Then Porthos, Aramis, and Athos hit up Treville for some advances on their pay. D'Artagnan, being a lowly Guard, doesn't get paid at all. When they start starving, they scrape together some money that they give to Porthos to gamble with. He loses the money. Finally, they start hitting up all their friends. Porthos, Aramis, Athos, and D'Artagnan--along with their servants--visit various friends for dinner. This mooching method can only last for so long, however. D'Artagnan is convinced that four "young, brave, enterprising, and active men" should be able to do better than this. D'Artagnan is concocting plans for the four of them when someone knocks at the door. D'Artagnan wakes Planchet up and tells him to answer it. The narrator tells us that it's long past morning. Planchet was sleeping because there was no food to eat. A man with the "appearance of a tradesman" walks in and requests a private conversation with D'Artagnan. They stare awkwardly at each other before the man asks if he can share a secret. D'Artagnan crosses his heart, hopes to die before repeating the secret. Turns out the man's wife works as the Queen's seamstress. The Queen's cloak bearer happens to be the man's wife's godfather. It's okay to be confused at this point. The main thing to get out of the conversation is that the man's wife has been kidnapped--and he has a suspect. The man is moreover convinced that the issue is politics, not sex. We learn that the delicate issue at hand is the Queen's illicit relationship with the Duke of Buckingham. The Cardinal is angry about this, not because of any real moral reasons that you might attribute to a churchman, but because he's been hot for the Queen himself. He was so hot for her, in fact, that he once dressed up as a clown and danced the saraband for her. A fast, erotic dance of the 16th century of Mexico and Spain. 2.) A stately court dance of the 17th and 18th centuries, in slow triple time. 3.) The music for either of these dances.) The book doesn't tell us which kind of saraband the Cardinal used to woo the Queen, but we're guessing neither was very effective. Although we give the Cardinal props for trying, the truth remains that he is out for some revenge. The Queen is convinced that someone has written to the Duke of Buckingham using her name. The bad guys have kidnapped the man's wife in order to use the woman against the Queen. Although the man knows who abducted his wife, he doesn't know the abductor's name. All he knows is that the man is an agent of the Cardinal. After getting a description of the abductor, D'Artagnan identifies the abductor as the Man from Meung. Finally we learn the visitor's name--Monsieur Bonacieux. But Monsieur Bonacieux strikes a deal with D'Artagnan--if D'Artagnan agrees to save Madame Bonacieux, he gets fifty pistoles and never has to pay rent again. Their conversation is cut short when they both spot the Man from Meung standing across the street. D'Artagnan immediately draws his sword and runs outside, on the way bumping into Athos and Porthos, . They stay out of D'Artagnan's way and go into his apartment to wait for his return. When they get there, Bonacieux is gone.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/1257-chapters/9.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Three Musketeers/section_9_part_0.txt

The Three Musketeers.chapter 9

chapter 9: d'artagnan shows himself

{"name": "Chapter Nine: D'Artagnan Shows Himself", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210127112556/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/three-musketeers/summary/chapter-nine-dartagnan-shows-himself", "summary": "The Man from Meung disappeared, as usual. Finally, D'Artagnan gives up the search and goes home. He finds Porthos, Aramis, and Athos waiting for him. They debate whether this mystery man from Meung is real or a ghost. Before he gives his friends the details, D'Artagnan asks Planchet to get some fine wine from Bonacieux. Then he tells them the whole story while they sip the wine. D'Artagnan is all excited that a woman is involved. The friends talk about the Queen and the Duke for a little bit, and decide that although he is English, the Duke of Buckingham is still a fine man and they too would be interested in the Queen, given the chance. Porthos in particular admires the Duke's fashion sense. The friends decide that angering the Cardinal is always the best course of action, even if it means helping the Queen cheat on the King. Aramis then has a story to tell. It starts off perfectly innocent--he was visiting a learned man. Then we learn that the man has a niece. Aramis escorted the niece to her carriage, when the man from Meung, along with a couple other men, accosted the two of them and addressed Aramis as the Duke. Clearly the man from Meung mistook Aramis for the Duke of Buckingham, and the niece for the Queen. Porthos expresses astonishment at the story, pointing out that a Musketeer's clothes are rather visible. Aramis confesses that he was wearing a giant coat. And a giant hat. Porthos teases Aramis about all these precautions. Clearly some hanky-panky was going on. At this point, Bonacieux bursts into the room asking for help. He's about to be arrested. Four Guards follow Bonacieux inside the room. D'Artagnan invites them inside, saying that everyone is a loyal servant of the King and Cardinal. The Guards look skeptical. They arrest Bonacieux. D'Artagnan lets them. Before the Guards leave, D'Artagnan engages their leader in a toast. He then toasts to the health of the King and the Cardinal. The quality of the wine convinces the Guard that D'Artagnan is sincere. Athos and Aramis congratulate D'Artagnan on appeasing the Guard. Then we get the famous \"All for one, one for all!\" line and lots of nice brotherly feelings. D'Artagnan takes command--he orders everyone home and declares that of this moment, they are enemies of the Cardinal.", "analysis": ""}

9 D'ARTAGNAN SHOWS HIMSELF As Athos and Porthos had foreseen, at the expiration of a half hour, d'Artagnan returned. He had again missed his man, who had disappeared as if by enchantment. D'Artagnan had run, sword in hand, through all the neighboring streets, but had found nobody resembling the man he sought for. Then he came back to the point where, perhaps, he ought to have begun, and that was to knock at the door against which the stranger had leaned; but this proved useless--for though he knocked ten or twelve times in succession, no one answered, and some of the neighbors, who put their noses out of their windows or were brought to their doors by the noise, had assured him that that house, all the openings of which were tightly closed, had not been inhabited for six months. While d'Artagnan was running through the streets and knocking at doors, Aramis had joined his companions; so that on returning home d'Artagnan found the reunion complete. "Well!" cried the three Musketeers all together, on seeing d'Artagnan enter with his brow covered with perspiration and his countenance upset with anger. "Well!" cried he, throwing his sword upon the bed, "this man must be the devil in person; he has disappeared like a phantom, like a shade, like a specter." "Do you believe in apparitions?" asked Athos of Porthos. "I never believe in anything I have not seen, and as I never have seen apparitions, I don't believe in them." "The Bible," said Aramis, "makes our belief in them a law; the ghost of Samuel appeared to Saul, and it is an article of faith that I should be very sorry to see any doubt thrown upon, Porthos." "At all events, man or devil, body or shadow, illusion or reality, this man is born for my damnation; for his flight has caused us to miss a glorious affair, gentlemen--an affair by which there were a hundred pistoles, and perhaps more, to be gained." "How is that?" cried Porthos and Aramis in a breath. As to Athos, faithful to his system of reticence, he contented himself with interrogating d'Artagnan by a look. "Planchet," said d'Artagnan to his domestic, who just then insinuated his head through the half-open door in order to catch some fragments of the conversation, "go down to my landlord, Monsieur Bonacieux, and ask him to send me half a dozen bottles of Beaugency wine; I prefer that." "Ah, ah! You have credit with your landlord, then?" asked Porthos. "Yes," replied d'Artagnan, "from this very day; and mind, if the wine is bad, we will send him to find better." "We must use, and not abuse," said Aramis, sententiously. "I always said that d'Artagnan had the longest head of the four," said Athos, who, having uttered his opinion, to which d'Artagnan replied with a bow, immediately resumed his accustomed silence. "But come, what is this about?" asked Porthos. "Yes," said Aramis, "impart it to us, my dear friend, unless the honor of any lady be hazarded by this confidence; in that case you would do better to keep it to yourself." "Be satisfied," replied d'Artagnan; "the honor of no one will have cause to complain of what I have to tell." He then related to his friends, word for word, all that had passed between him and his host, and how the man who had abducted the wife of his worthy landlord was the same with whom he had had the difference at the hostelry of the Jolly Miller. "Your affair is not bad," said Athos, after having tasted like a connoisseur and indicated by a nod of his head that he thought the wine good; "and one may draw fifty or sixty pistoles from this good man. Then there only remains to ascertain whether these fifty or sixty pistoles are worth the risk of four heads." "But observe," cried d'Artagnan, "that there is a woman in the affair--a woman carried off, a woman who is doubtless threatened, tortured perhaps, and all because she is faithful to her mistress." "Beware, d'Artagnan, beware," said Aramis. "You grow a little too warm, in my opinion, about the fate of Madame Bonacieux. Woman was created for our destruction, and it is from her we inherit all our miseries." At this speech of Aramis, the brow of Athos became clouded and he bit his lips. "It is not Madame Bonacieux about whom I am anxious," cried d'Artagnan, "but the queen, whom the king abandons, whom the cardinal persecutes, and who sees the heads of all her friends fall, one after the other." "Why does she love what we hate most in the world, the Spaniards and the English?" "Spain is her country," replied d'Artagnan; "and it is very natural that she should love the Spanish, who are the children of the same soil as herself. As to the second reproach, I have heard it said that she does not love the English, but an Englishman." "Well, and by my faith," said Athos, "it must be acknowledged that this Englishman is worthy of being loved. I never saw a man with a nobler air than his." "Without reckoning that he dresses as nobody else can," said Porthos. "I was at the Louvre on the day when he scattered his pearls; and, PARDIEU, I picked up two that I sold for ten pistoles each. Do you know him, Aramis?" "As well as you do, gentlemen; for I was among those who seized him in the garden at Amiens, into which Monsieur Putange, the queen's equerry, introduced me. I was at school at the time, and the adventure appeared to me to be cruel for the king." "Which would not prevent me," said d'Artagnan, "if I knew where the Duke of Buckingham was, from taking him by the hand and conducting him to the queen, were it only to enrage the cardinal, and if we could find means to play him a sharp turn, I vow that I would voluntarily risk my head in doing it." "And did the mercer*," rejoined Athos, "tell you, d'Artagnan, that the queen thought that Buckingham had been brought over by a forged letter?" _*Haberdasher_ "She is afraid so." "Wait a minute, then," said Aramis. "What for?" demanded Porthos. "Go on, while I endeavor to recall circumstances." "And now I am convinced," said d'Artagnan, "that this abduction of the queen's woman is connected with the events of which we are speaking, and perhaps with the presence of Buckingham in Paris." "The Gascon is full of ideas," said Porthos, with admiration. "I like to hear him talk," said Athos; "his dialect amuses me." "Gentlemen," cried Aramis, "listen to this." "Listen to Aramis," said his three friends. "Yesterday I was at the house of a doctor of theology, whom I sometimes consult about my studies." Athos smiled. "He resides in a quiet quarter," continued Aramis; "his tastes and his profession require it. Now, at the moment when I left his house--" Here Aramis paused. "Well," cried his auditors; "at the moment you left his house?" Aramis appeared to make a strong inward effort, like a man who, in the full relation of a falsehood, finds himself stopped by some unforeseen obstacle; but the eyes of his three companions were fixed upon him, their ears were wide open, and there were no means of retreat. "This doctor has a niece," continued Aramis. "Ah, he has a niece!" interrupted Porthos. "A very respectable lady," said Aramis. The three friends burst into laughter. "Ah, if you laugh, if you doubt me," replied Aramis, "you shall know nothing." "We believe like Mohammedans, and are as mute as tombstones," said Athos. "I will continue, then," resumed Aramis. "This niece comes sometimes to see her uncle; and by chance was there yesterday at the same time that I was, and it was my duty to offer to conduct her to her carriage." "Ah! She has a carriage, then, this niece of the doctor?" interrupted Porthos, one of whose faults was a great looseness of tongue. "A nice acquaintance, my friend!" "Porthos," replied Aramis, "I have had the occasion to observe to you more than once that you are very indiscreet; and that is injurious to you among the women." "Gentlemen, gentlemen," cried d'Artagnan, who began to get a glimpse of the result of the adventure, "the thing is serious. Let us try not to jest, if we can. Go on Aramis, go on." "All at once, a tall, dark gentleman--just like yours, d'Artagnan." "The same, perhaps," said he. "Possibly," continued Aramis, "came toward me, accompanied by five or six men who followed about ten paces behind him; and in the politest tone, 'Monsieur Duke,' said he to me, 'and you madame,' continued he, addressing the lady on my arm--" "The doctor's niece?" "Hold your tongue, Porthos," said Athos; "you are insupportable." "'--will you enter this carriage, and that without offering the least resistance, without making the least noise?'" "He took you for Buckingham!" cried d'Artagnan. "I believe so," replied Aramis. "But the lady?" asked Porthos. "He took her for the queen!" said d'Artagnan. "Just so," replied Aramis. "The Gascon is the devil!" cried Athos; "nothing escapes him." "The fact is," said Porthos, "Aramis is of the same height, and something of the shape of the duke; but it nevertheless appears to me that the dress of a Musketeer--" "I wore an enormous cloak," said Aramis. "In the month of July? The devil!" said Porthos. "Is the doctor afraid that you may be recognized?" "I can comprehend that the spy may have been deceived by the person; but the face--" "I had a large hat," said Aramis. "Oh, good lord," cried Porthos, "what precautions for the study of theology!" "Gentlemen, gentlemen," said d'Artagnan, "do not let us lose our time in jesting. Let us separate, and let us seek the mercer's wife--that is the key of the intrigue." "A woman of such inferior condition! Can you believe so?" said Porthos, protruding his lips with contempt. "She is goddaughter to Laporte, the confidential valet of the queen. Have I not told you so, gentlemen? Besides, it has perhaps been her Majesty's calculation to seek on this occasion for support so lowly. High heads expose themselves from afar, and the cardinal is longsighted." "Well," said Porthos, "in the first place make a bargain with the mercer, and a good bargain." "That's useless," said d'Artagnan; "for I believe if he does not pay us, we shall be well enough paid by another party." At this moment a sudden noise of footsteps was heard upon the stairs; the door was thrown violently open, and the unfortunate mercer rushed into the chamber in which the council was held. "Save me, gentlemen, for the love of heaven, save me!" cried he. "There are four men come to arrest me. Save me! Save me!" Porthos and Aramis arose. "A moment," cried d'Artagnan, making them a sign to replace in the scabbard their half-drawn swords. "It is not courage that is needed; it is prudence." "And yet," cried Porthos, "we will not leave--" "You will leave d'Artagnan to act as he thinks proper," said Athos. "He has, I repeat, the longest head of the four, and for my part I declare that I will obey him. Do as you think best, d'Artagnan." At this moment the four Guards appeared at the door of the antechamber, but seeing four Musketeers standing, and their swords by their sides, they hesitated about going farther. "Come in, gentlemen, come in," called d'Artagnan; "you are here in my apartment, and we are all faithful servants of the king and cardinal." "Then, gentlemen, you will not oppose our executing the orders we have received?" asked one who appeared to be the leader of the party. "On the contrary, gentlemen, we would assist you if it were necessary." "What does he say?" grumbled Porthos. "You are a simpleton," said Athos. "Silence!" "But you promised me--" whispered the poor mercer. "We can only save you by being free ourselves," replied d'Artagnan, in a rapid, low tone; "and if we appear inclined to defend you, they will arrest us with you." "It seems, nevertheless--" "Come, gentlemen, come!" said d'Artagnan, aloud; "I have no motive for defending Monsieur. I saw him today for the first time, and he can tell you on what occasion; he came to demand the rent of my lodging. Is that not true, Monsieur Bonacieux? Answer!" "That is the very truth," cried the mercer; "but Monsieur does not tell you--" "Silence, with respect to me, silence, with respect to my friends; silence about the queen, above all, or you will ruin everybody without saving yourself! Come, come, gentlemen, remove the fellow." And d'Artagnan pushed the half-stupefied mercer among the Guards, saying to him, "You are a shabby old fellow, my dear. You come to demand money of me--of a Musketeer! To prison with him! Gentlemen, once more, take him to prison, and keep him under key as long as possible; that will give me time to pay him." The officers were full of thanks, and took away their prey. As they were going down d'Artagnan laid his hand on the shoulder of their leader. "May I not drink to your health, and you to mine?" said d'Artagnan, filling two glasses with the Beaugency wine which he had obtained from the liberality of M. Bonacieux. "That will do me great honor," said the leader of the posse, "and I accept thankfully." "Then to yours, monsieur--what is your name?" "Boisrenard." "Monsieur Boisrenard." "To yours, my gentlemen! What is your name, in your turn, if you please?" "d'Artagnan." "To yours, monsieur." "And above all others," cried d'Artagnan, as if carried away by his enthusiasm, "to that of the king and the cardinal." The leader of the posse would perhaps have doubted the sincerity of d'Artagnan if the wine had been bad; but the wine was good, and he was convinced. "What diabolical villainy you have performed here," said Porthos, when the officer had rejoined his companions and the four friends found themselves alone. "Shame, shame, for four Musketeers to allow an unfortunate fellow who cried for help to be arrested in their midst! And a gentleman to hobnob with a bailiff!" "Porthos," said Aramis, "Athos has already told you that you are a simpleton, and I am quite of his opinion. D'Artagnan, you are a great man; and when you occupy Monsieur de Treville's place, I will come and ask your influence to secure me an abbey." "Well, I am in a maze," said Porthos; "do YOU approve of what d'Artagnan has done?" "PARBLEU! Indeed I do," said Athos; "I not only approve of what he has done, but I congratulate him upon it." "And now, gentlemen," said d'Artagnan, without stopping to explain his conduct to Porthos, "All for one, one for all--that is our motto, is it not?" "And yet--" said Porthos. "Hold out your hand and swear!" cried Athos and Aramis at once. Overcome by example, grumbling to himself, nevertheless, Porthos stretched out his hand, and the four friends repeated with one voice the formula dictated by d'Artagnan: "All for one, one for all." "That's well! Now let us everyone retire to his own home," said d'Artagnan, as if he had done nothing but command all his life; "and attention! For from this moment we are at feud with the cardinal."

Chapter Nine: D'Artagnan Shows Himself

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The Man from Meung disappeared, as usual. Finally, D'Artagnan gives up the search and goes home. He finds Porthos, Aramis, and Athos waiting for him. They debate whether this mystery man from Meung is real or a ghost. Before he gives his friends the details, D'Artagnan asks Planchet to get some fine wine from Bonacieux. Then he tells them the whole story while they sip the wine. D'Artagnan is all excited that a woman is involved. The friends talk about the Queen and the Duke for a little bit, and decide that although he is English, the Duke of Buckingham is still a fine man and they too would be interested in the Queen, given the chance. Porthos in particular admires the Duke's fashion sense. The friends decide that angering the Cardinal is always the best course of action, even if it means helping the Queen cheat on the King. Aramis then has a story to tell. It starts off perfectly innocent--he was visiting a learned man. Then we learn that the man has a niece. Aramis escorted the niece to her carriage, when the man from Meung, along with a couple other men, accosted the two of them and addressed Aramis as the Duke. Clearly the man from Meung mistook Aramis for the Duke of Buckingham, and the niece for the Queen. Porthos expresses astonishment at the story, pointing out that a Musketeer's clothes are rather visible. Aramis confesses that he was wearing a giant coat. And a giant hat. Porthos teases Aramis about all these precautions. Clearly some hanky-panky was going on. At this point, Bonacieux bursts into the room asking for help. He's about to be arrested. Four Guards follow Bonacieux inside the room. D'Artagnan invites them inside, saying that everyone is a loyal servant of the King and Cardinal. The Guards look skeptical. They arrest Bonacieux. D'Artagnan lets them. Before the Guards leave, D'Artagnan engages their leader in a toast. He then toasts to the health of the King and the Cardinal. The quality of the wine convinces the Guard that D'Artagnan is sincere. Athos and Aramis congratulate D'Artagnan on appeasing the Guard. Then we get the famous "All for one, one for all!" line and lots of nice brotherly feelings. D'Artagnan takes command--he orders everyone home and declares that of this moment, they are enemies of the Cardinal.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/1257-chapters/10.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Three Musketeers/section_10_part_0.txt

The Three Musketeers.chapter 10

chapter 10: a mousetrap in the seventeenth century

{"name": "Chapter Ten: A Mousetrap in the Seventeenth Century", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210127112556/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/three-musketeers/summary/chapter-ten-a-mousetrap-in-the-seventeenth-century", "summary": "The narrator gives the definition of a mousetrap. When someone is arrested, the Guards keep it a secret and lie in wait. When unsuspecting people visit the man who was arrested, they're grabbed and held for interrogation. After two or three days, the Guards have everyone who associates with the prisoner. Bonacieux's apartment becomes a mousetrap and all the visitors are held for questioning. Since D'Artagnan lives above Bonacieux's apartment and has his own entrance, his visitors avoid the trap. No one visits D'Artagnan anyway except for the three Musketeers, who are busy trying to obtain information on Madame Bonacieux's abduction. Athos even asked Treville for information, but Treville has nothing to report except that the Cardinal has been looking thoughtful, the King uncomfortable, and the Queen sad. Apparently the Queen's sadness is old news--she is unhappy in her marriage. D'Artagnan stays in his apartment all day, observing all the visitors being caught and listening to all the interrogations being held in Bonacieux's apartment. The guards always ask the same questions, trying to determine if Madame Bonacieux has asked anyone to deliver packages. D'Artagnan, being the clever hero of the story that he is, determines that the Guards currently have no information, but that they want to know if the Duke of Buckingham is in Paris and whether or not he's going to meet up with the Queen The mousetrap continues. Shortly thereafter, another person is taken into the mousetrap. D'Artagnan gets in position to listen to the subsequent conversation. There is no questioning, only a lot of struggling. D'Artagnan determines that the Guards have caught a woman and are using bodily force to restrain her. Being a gentleman, D'Artagnan can barely contain himself from flying downstairs to fight the assailants. The woman turns out to be Madame Bonacieux and the Guards prepare to drag her away. D'Artagnan grabs his sword and yells for Planchet. He instructs his servant to find Athos, Porthos, and Aramis. They are to bring their swords to D'Artagnan's apartment. Planchet asks where D'Artagnan is going, and worries that his master will be killed running after the guards. D'Artagnan sneaks down to the ground floor and knocks on Bonacieux's door. He is caught in the mousetrap. The neighbors hear variations on \"POW\" and \"CLANG\". Four men fly out of the house. D'Artagnan remains as the clear victor. Yeah, D'Artagnan! Still, the beautiful Madame Bonacieux is tres grateful. The narrator notes that Madame Bonacieux's hands and feet betray her as a member of the lower ranks, but D'Artagnan isn't up on these standards. He's rapidly falling for her. He fills her in on the latest--the Cardinal's men are after her, her husband is in the Bastille, etc. He also manages to throw in a compliment to her looks. It turns out Madame Bonacieux had escaped her captors and ran home in order to tell her husband a secret. Naturally D'Artagnan asks to be told this secret. Madame Bonacieux says, no, it's my secret. D'Artagnan then suggests that they get out of there since the Bonacieux home is quite popular with the Cardinal's guards. Madame Bonacieux agrees and the two of them flee. D'Artagnan asks Madame Bonacieux what she had planned to do. She says she wanted to contact her godfather Monsieur Laporte to find out what's been going down in the palace. D'Artagnan points out that he can go to inform Monsieur Laporte. Madame Bonacieux argues that D'Artagnan is unknown at the palace and would be unable to enter. D'Artagnan pushes the issue, arguing that Madame Bonacieux probably knows someone who knows someone. Madame Bonaceiux agrees after D'Artagnan agrees to forget the passwords that she will give him. D'Artagnan then leaves Madame Bonacieux at Athos's house for safekeeping. They arrange to signal when D'Artagnan returns. Madame Bonacieux then gives D'Artagnan instructions for his trip to the palace. Everything happens as Madame Bonacieux says. Monsieur Laporte then takes off to meet up with Madame Bonacieux. Before he leaves, however, he suggests that D'Artagnan figure out a suitable alibi. D'Artagnan heads to Treville's house. He goes straight to Treville's office, asks to see the commander. While he waits for Treville to show, D'Artagnan changes the clock back by three-quarters of an hour, and then conveniently points out the time--five minutes before 9:30. Then he babbles on to Treville about the Queen, and leaves when the clock strikes ten. Before he goes home, he runs back to the room and changes the clock back to the correct time.", "analysis": ""}

10 A MOUSETRAP IN THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY The invention of the mousetrap does not date from our days; as soon as societies, in forming, had invented any kind of police, that police invented mousetraps. As perhaps our readers are not familiar with the slang of the Rue de Jerusalem, and as it is fifteen years since we applied this word for the first time to this thing, allow us to explain to them what is a mousetrap. When in a house, of whatever kind it may be, an individual suspected of any crime is arrested, the arrest is held secret. Four or five men are placed in ambuscade in the first room. The door is opened to all who knock. It is closed after them, and they are arrested; so that at the end of two or three days they have in their power almost all the HABITUES of the establishment. And that is a mousetrap. The apartment of M. Bonacieux, then, became a mousetrap; and whoever appeared there was taken and interrogated by the cardinal's people. It must be observed that as a separate passage led to the first floor, in which d'Artagnan lodged, those who called on him were exempted from this detention. Besides, nobody came thither but the three Musketeers; they had all been engaged in earnest search and inquiries, but had discovered nothing. Athos had even gone so far as to question M. de Treville--a thing which, considering the habitual reticence of the worthy Musketeer, had very much astonished his captain. But M. de Treville knew nothing, except that the last time he had seen the cardinal, the king, and the queen, the cardinal looked very thoughtful, the king uneasy, and the redness of the queen's eyes donated that she had been sleepless or tearful. But this last circumstance was not striking, as the queen since her marriage had slept badly and wept much. M de Treville requested Athos, whatever might happen, to be observant of his duty to the king, but particularly to the queen, begging him to convey his desires to his comrades. As to d'Artagnan, he did not budge from his apartment. He converted his chamber into an observatory. From his windows he saw all the visitors who were caught. Then, having removed a plank from his floor, and nothing remaining but a simple ceiling between him and the room beneath, in which the interrogatories were made, he heard all that passed between the inquisitors and the accused. The interrogatories, preceded by a minute search operated upon the persons arrested, were almost always framed thus: "Has Madame Bonacieux sent anything to you for her husband, or any other person? Has Monsieur Bonacieux sent anything to you for his wife, or for any other person? Has either of them confided anything to you by word of mouth?" "If they knew anything, they would not question people in this manner," said d'Artagnan to himself. "Now, what is it they want to know? Why, they want to know if the Duke of Buckingham is in Paris, and if he has had, or is likely to have, an interview with the queen." D'Artagnan held onto this idea, which, from what he had heard, was not wanting in probability. In the meantime, the mousetrap continued in operation, and likewise d'Artagnan's vigilance. On the evening of the day after the arrest of poor Bonacieux, as Athos had just left d'Artagnan to report at M. de Treville's, as nine o'clock had just struck, and as Planchet, who had not yet made the bed, was beginning his task, a knocking was heard at the street door. The door was instantly opened and shut; someone was taken in the mousetrap. D'Artagnan flew to his hole, laid himself down on the floor at full length, and listened. Cries were soon heard, and then moans, which someone appeared to be endeavoring to stifle. There were no questions. "The devil!" said d'Artagnan to himself. "It seems like a woman! They search her; she resists; they use force--the scoundrels!" In spite of his prudence, d'Artagnan restrained himself with great difficulty from taking a part in the scene that was going on below. "But I tell you that I am the mistress of the house, gentlemen! I tell you I am Madame Bonacieux; I tell you I belong to the queen!" cried the unfortunate woman. "Madame Bonacieux!" murmured d'Artagnan. "Can I be so lucky as to find what everybody is seeking for?" The voice became more and more indistinct; a tumultuous movement shook the partition. The victim resisted as much as a woman could resist four men. "Pardon, gentlemen--par--" murmured the voice, which could now only be heard in inarticulate sounds. "They are binding her; they are going to drag her away," cried d'Artagnan to himself, springing up from the floor. "My sword! Good, it is by my side! Planchet!" "Monsieur." "Run and seek Athos, Porthos and Aramis. One of the three will certainly be at home, perhaps all three. Tell them to take arms, to come here, and to run! Ah, I remember, Athos is at Monsieur de Treville's." "But where are you going, monsieur, where are you going?" "I am going down by the window, in order to be there the sooner," cried d'Artagnan. "You put back the boards, sweep the floor, go out at the door, and run as I told you." "Oh, monsieur! Monsieur! You will kill yourself," cried Planchet. "Hold your tongue, stupid fellow," said d'Artagnan; and laying hold of the casement, he let himself gently down from the first story, which fortunately was not very elevated, without doing himself the slightest injury. He then went straight to the door and knocked, murmuring, "I will go myself and be caught in the mousetrap, but woe be to the cats that shall pounce upon such a mouse!" The knocker had scarcely sounded under the hand of the young man before the tumult ceased, steps approached, the door was opened, and d'Artagnan, sword in hand, rushed into the rooms of M. Bonacieux, the door of which, doubtless acted upon by a spring, closed after him. Then those who dwelt in Bonacieux's unfortunate house, together with the nearest neighbors, heard loud cries, stamping of feet, clashing of swords, and breaking of furniture. A moment after, those who, surprised by this tumult, had gone to their windows to learn the cause of it, saw the door open, and four men, clothed in black, not COME out of it, but FLY, like so many frightened crows, leaving on the ground and on the corners of the furniture, feathers from their wings; that is to say, patches of their clothes and fragments of their cloaks. D'Artagnan was conqueror--without much effort, it must be confessed, for only one of the officers was armed, and even he defended himself for form's sake. It is true that the three others had endeavored to knock the young man down with chairs, stools, and crockery; but two or three scratches made by the Gascon's blade terrified them. Ten minutes sufficed for their defeat, and d'Artagnan remained master of the field of battle. The neighbors who had opened their windows, with the coolness peculiar to the inhabitants of Paris in these times of perpetual riots and disturbances, closed them again as soon as they saw the four men in black flee--their instinct telling them that for the time all was over. Besides, it began to grow late, and then, as today, people went to bed early in the quarter of the Luxembourg. On being left alone with Mme. Bonacieux, d'Artagnan turned toward her; the poor woman reclined where she had been left, half-fainting upon an armchair. D'Artagnan examined her with a rapid glance. She was a charming woman of twenty-five or twenty-six years, with dark hair, blue eyes, and a nose slightly turned up, admirable teeth, and a complexion marbled with rose and opal. There, however, ended the signs which might have confounded her with a lady of rank. The hands were white, but without delicacy; the feet did not bespeak the woman of quality. Happily, d'Artagnan was not yet acquainted with such niceties. While d'Artagnan was examining Mme. Bonacieux, and was, as we have said, close to her, he saw on the ground a fine cambric handkerchief, which he picked up, as was his habit, and at the corner of which he recognized the same cipher he had seen on the handkerchief which had nearly caused him and Aramis to cut each other's throat. From that time, d'Artagnan had been cautious with respect to handkerchiefs with arms on them, and he therefore placed in the pocket of Mme. Bonacieux the one he had just picked up. At that moment Mme. Bonacieux recovered her senses. She opened her eyes, looked around her with terror, saw that the apartment was empty and that she was alone with her liberator. She extended her hands to him with a smile. Mme. Bonacieux had the sweetest smile in the world. "Ah, monsieur!" said she, "you have saved me; permit me to thank you." "Madame," said d'Artagnan, "I have only done what every gentleman would have done in my place; you owe me no thanks." "Oh, yes, monsieur, oh, yes; and I hope to prove to you that you have not served an ingrate. But what could these men, whom I at first took for robbers, want with me, and why is Monsieur Bonacieux not here?" "Madame, those men were more dangerous than any robbers could have been, for they are the agents of the cardinal; and as to your husband, Monsieur Bonacieux, he is not here because he was yesterday evening conducted to the Bastille." "My husband in the Bastille!" cried Mme. Bonacieux. "Oh, my God! What has he done? Poor dear man, he is innocence itself!" And something like a faint smile lighted the still-terrified features of the young woman. "What has he done, madame?" said d'Artagnan. "I believe that his only crime is to have at the same time the good fortune and the misfortune to be your husband." "But, monsieur, you know then--" "I know that you have been abducted, madame." "And by whom? Do you know him? Oh, if you know him, tell me!" "By a man of from forty to forty-five years, with black hair, a dark complexion, and a scar on his left temple." "That is he, that is he; but his name?" "Ah, his name? I do not know that." "And did my husband know I had been carried off?" "He was informed of it by a letter, written to him by the abductor himself." "And does he suspect," said Mme. Bonacieux, with some embarrassment, "the cause of this event?" "He attributed it, I believe, to a political cause." "I doubted from the first; and now I think entirely as he does. Then my dear Monsieur Bonacieux has not suspected me a single instant?" "So far from it, madame, he was too proud of your prudence, and above all, of your love." A second smile, almost imperceptible, stole over the rosy lips of the pretty young woman. "But," continued d'Artagnan, "how did you escape?" "I took advantage of a moment when they left me alone; and as I had known since morning the reason of my abduction, with the help of the sheets I let myself down from the window. Then, as I believed my husband would be at home, I hastened hither." "To place yourself under his protection?" "Oh, no, poor dear man! I knew very well that he was incapable of defending me; but as he could serve us in other ways, I wished to inform him." "Of what?" "Oh, that is not my secret; I must not, therefore, tell you." "Besides," said d'Artagnan, "pardon me, madame, if, guardsman as I am, I remind you of prudence--besides, I believe we are not here in a very proper place for imparting confidences. The men I have put to flight will return reinforced; if they find us here, we are lost. I have sent for three of my friends, but who knows whether they were at home?" "Yes, yes! You are right," cried the affrighted Mme. Bonacieux; "let us fly! Let us save ourselves." At these words she passed her arm under that of d'Artagnan, and urged him forward eagerly. "But whither shall we fly--whither escape?" "Let us first withdraw from this house; afterward we shall see." The young woman and the young man, without taking the trouble to shut the door after them, descended the Rue des Fossoyeurs rapidly, turned into the Rue des Fosses-Monsieur-le-Prince, and did not stop till they came to the Place St. Sulpice. "And now what are we to do, and where do you wish me to conduct you?" asked d'Artagnan. "I am at quite a loss how to answer you, I admit," said Mme. Bonacieux. "My intention was to inform Monsieur Laporte, through my husband, in order that Monsieur Laporte might tell us precisely what had taken place at the Louvre in the last three days, and whether there is any danger in presenting myself there." "But I," said d'Artagnan, "can go and inform Monsieur Laporte." "No doubt you could, only there is one misfortune, and that is that Monsieur Bonacieux is known at the Louvre, and would be allowed to pass; whereas you are not known there, and the gate would be closed against you." "Ah, bah!" said d'Artagnan; "you have at some wicket of the Louvre a CONCIERGE who is devoted to you, and who, thanks to a password, would--" Mme. Bonacieux looked earnestly at the young man. "And if I give you this password," said she, "would you forget it as soon as you used it?" "By my honor, by the faith of a gentleman!" said d'Artagnan, with an accent so truthful that no one could mistake it. "Then I believe you. You appear to be a brave young man; besides, your fortune may perhaps be the result of your devotedness." "I will do, without a promise and voluntarily, all that I can do to serve the king and be agreeable to the queen. Dispose of me, then, as a friend." "But I--where shall I go meanwhile?" "Is there nobody from whose house Monsieur Laporte can come and fetch you?" "No, I can trust nobody." "Stop," said d'Artagnan; "we are near Athos's door. Yes, here it is." "Who is this Athos?" "One of my friends." "But if he should be at home and see me?" "He is not at home, and I will carry away the key, after having placed you in his apartment." "But if he should return?" "Oh, he won't return; and if he should, he will be told that I have brought a woman with me, and that woman is in his apartment." "But that will compromise me sadly, you know." "Of what consequence? Nobody knows you. Besides, we are in a situation to overlook ceremony." "Come, then, let us go to your friend's house. Where does he live?" "Rue Ferou, two steps from here." "Let us go!" Both resumed their way. As d'Artagnan had foreseen, Athos was not within. He took the key, which was customarily given him as one of the family, ascended the stairs, and introduced Mme. Bonacieux into the little apartment of which we have given a description. "You are at home," said he. "Remain here, fasten the door inside, and open it to nobody unless you hear three taps like this;" and he tapped thrice--two taps close together and pretty hard, the other after an interval, and lighter. "That is well," said Mme. Bonacieux. "Now, in my turn, let me give you my instructions." "I am all attention." "Present yourself at the wicket of the Louvre, on the side of the Rue de l'Echelle, and ask for Germain." "Well, and then?" "He will ask you what you want, and you will answer by these two words, 'Tours' and 'Bruxelles.' He will at once put himself at your orders." "And what shall I command him?" "To go and fetch Monsieur Laporte, the queen's VALET DE CHAMBRE." "And when he shall have informed him, and Monsieur Laporte is come?" "You will send him to me." "That is well; but where and how shall I see you again?" "Do you wish to see me again?" "Certainly." "Well, let that care be mine, and be at ease." "I depend upon your word." "You may." D'Artagnan bowed to Mme. Bonacieux, darting at her the most loving glance that he could possibly concentrate upon her charming little person; and while he descended the stairs, he heard the door closed and double-locked. In two bounds he was at the Louvre; as he entered the wicket of L'Echelle, ten o'clock struck. All the events we have described had taken place within a half hour. Everything fell out as Mme. Bonacieux prophesied. On hearing the password, Germain bowed. In a few minutes, Laporte was at the lodge; in two words d'Artagnan informed him where Mme. Bonacieux was. Laporte assured himself, by having it twice repeated, of the accurate address, and set off at a run. Hardly, however, had he taken ten steps before he returned. "Young man," said he to d'Artagnan, "a suggestion." "What?" "You may get into trouble by what has taken place." "You believe so?" "Yes. Have you any friend whose clock is too slow?" "Well?" "Go and call upon him, in order that he may give evidence of your having been with him at half past nine. In a court of justice that is called an alibi." D'Artagnan found his advice prudent. He took to his heels, and was soon at M. de Treville's; but instead of going into the saloon with the rest of the crowd, he asked to be introduced to M. de Treville's office. As d'Artagnan so constantly frequented the hotel, no difficulty was made in complying with his request, and a servant went to inform M. de Treville that his young compatriot, having something important to communicate, solicited a private audience. Five minutes after, M. de Treville was asking d'Artagnan what he could do to serve him, and what caused his visit at so late an hour. "Pardon me, monsieur," said d'Artagnan, who had profited by the moment he had been left alone to put back M. de Treville's clock three-quarters of an hour, "but I thought, as it was yet only twenty-five minutes past nine, it was not too late to wait upon you." "Twenty-five minutes past nine!" cried M. de Treville, looking at the clock; "why, that's impossible!" "Look, rather, monsieur," said d'Artagnan, "the clock shows it." "That's true," said M. de Treville; "I believed it later. But what can I do for you?" Then d'Artagnan told M. de Treville a long history about the queen. He expressed to him the fears he entertained with respect to her Majesty; he related to him what he had heard of the projects of the cardinal with regard to Buckingham, and all with a tranquillity and candor of which M. de Treville was the more the dupe, from having himself, as we have said, observed something fresh between the cardinal, the king, and the queen. As ten o'clock was striking, d'Artagnan left M. de Treville, who thanked him for his information, recommended him to have the service of the king and queen always at heart, and returned to the saloon; but at the foot of the stairs, d'Artagnan remembered he had forgotten his cane. He consequently sprang up again, re-entered the office, with a turn of his finger set the clock right again, that it might not be perceived the next day that it had been put wrong, and certain from that time that he had a witness to prove his alibi, he ran downstairs and soon found himself in the street.

Chapter Ten: A Mousetrap in the Seventeenth Century

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The narrator gives the definition of a mousetrap. When someone is arrested, the Guards keep it a secret and lie in wait. When unsuspecting people visit the man who was arrested, they're grabbed and held for interrogation. After two or three days, the Guards have everyone who associates with the prisoner. Bonacieux's apartment becomes a mousetrap and all the visitors are held for questioning. Since D'Artagnan lives above Bonacieux's apartment and has his own entrance, his visitors avoid the trap. No one visits D'Artagnan anyway except for the three Musketeers, who are busy trying to obtain information on Madame Bonacieux's abduction. Athos even asked Treville for information, but Treville has nothing to report except that the Cardinal has been looking thoughtful, the King uncomfortable, and the Queen sad. Apparently the Queen's sadness is old news--she is unhappy in her marriage. D'Artagnan stays in his apartment all day, observing all the visitors being caught and listening to all the interrogations being held in Bonacieux's apartment. The guards always ask the same questions, trying to determine if Madame Bonacieux has asked anyone to deliver packages. D'Artagnan, being the clever hero of the story that he is, determines that the Guards currently have no information, but that they want to know if the Duke of Buckingham is in Paris and whether or not he's going to meet up with the Queen The mousetrap continues. Shortly thereafter, another person is taken into the mousetrap. D'Artagnan gets in position to listen to the subsequent conversation. There is no questioning, only a lot of struggling. D'Artagnan determines that the Guards have caught a woman and are using bodily force to restrain her. Being a gentleman, D'Artagnan can barely contain himself from flying downstairs to fight the assailants. The woman turns out to be Madame Bonacieux and the Guards prepare to drag her away. D'Artagnan grabs his sword and yells for Planchet. He instructs his servant to find Athos, Porthos, and Aramis. They are to bring their swords to D'Artagnan's apartment. Planchet asks where D'Artagnan is going, and worries that his master will be killed running after the guards. D'Artagnan sneaks down to the ground floor and knocks on Bonacieux's door. He is caught in the mousetrap. The neighbors hear variations on "POW" and "CLANG". Four men fly out of the house. D'Artagnan remains as the clear victor. Yeah, D'Artagnan! Still, the beautiful Madame Bonacieux is tres grateful. The narrator notes that Madame Bonacieux's hands and feet betray her as a member of the lower ranks, but D'Artagnan isn't up on these standards. He's rapidly falling for her. He fills her in on the latest--the Cardinal's men are after her, her husband is in the Bastille, etc. He also manages to throw in a compliment to her looks. It turns out Madame Bonacieux had escaped her captors and ran home in order to tell her husband a secret. Naturally D'Artagnan asks to be told this secret. Madame Bonacieux says, no, it's my secret. D'Artagnan then suggests that they get out of there since the Bonacieux home is quite popular with the Cardinal's guards. Madame Bonacieux agrees and the two of them flee. D'Artagnan asks Madame Bonacieux what she had planned to do. She says she wanted to contact her godfather Monsieur Laporte to find out what's been going down in the palace. D'Artagnan points out that he can go to inform Monsieur Laporte. Madame Bonacieux argues that D'Artagnan is unknown at the palace and would be unable to enter. D'Artagnan pushes the issue, arguing that Madame Bonacieux probably knows someone who knows someone. Madame Bonaceiux agrees after D'Artagnan agrees to forget the passwords that she will give him. D'Artagnan then leaves Madame Bonacieux at Athos's house for safekeeping. They arrange to signal when D'Artagnan returns. Madame Bonacieux then gives D'Artagnan instructions for his trip to the palace. Everything happens as Madame Bonacieux says. Monsieur Laporte then takes off to meet up with Madame Bonacieux. Before he leaves, however, he suggests that D'Artagnan figure out a suitable alibi. D'Artagnan heads to Treville's house. He goes straight to Treville's office, asks to see the commander. While he waits for Treville to show, D'Artagnan changes the clock back by three-quarters of an hour, and then conveniently points out the time--five minutes before 9:30. Then he babbles on to Treville about the Queen, and leaves when the clock strikes ten. Before he goes home, he runs back to the room and changes the clock back to the correct time.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/1257-chapters/11.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Three Musketeers/section_11_part_0.txt

The Three Musketeers.chapter 11

chapter 11: in which the plot thickens

{"name": "Chapter Eleven: In Which the Plot Thickens", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210127112556/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/three-musketeers/summary/chapter-eleven-in-which-the-plot-thickens", "summary": "D'Artagnan takes the scenic route home and dreams the whole time of the pretty Madame Bonacieux. He draws closer to Aramis's house when he spots the figure of a woman, heavily cloaked. The two of them are going in the same direction. The woman heads to Aramis's house, but instead of going inside, she taps on the window. The shutter opens and the woman shows someone inside the corner of a handkerchief. The two figures then exchange handkerchiefs. The woman walks past D'Artagnan briefly and, shocker!, it's Madame Bonacieux. D'Artagnan decides to follow Madame Bonacieux. She realizes that she has a follower. She runs. D'Artagnan runs after her and easily catches up. She freaks. Understandable. D'Artagnan soothes her quickly, and they have a rapid conversation. It goes like this: D'Artagnan: Why were you at my friend Aramis's house? Madame Bonacieux: I don't know anyone by that name. D'Artagnan: You're pretty. Madame Bonacieux: Do you promise not to meddle? D'Artagnan: Fine. But I love you! Madame Bonacieux returns to Aramis's house, and D'Artagnan continues on his way. When he gets home, Planchet has terrible news. Athos has been arrested. He purposely didn't tell the Guards his true identity in order to give D'Artagnan a three days head start on cracking the case of the Bonacieux abduction. As for Porthos and Aramis, Planchet was unable to find the two men, although he did leave them messages to go to D'Artagnan's house. D'Artagnan issues Planchet a new set of directions--Porthos and Aramis are now to meet him at the Pomme-de-Pin since the house may be watched. D'Artagnan then leaves to find Treville and give him the update. Treville is not at home; he is at the palace. Why? The narrator says Treville's company is on guard at the Louvre , but we suspect a neat plot device. We offer as proof the fact that D'Artagnan then bumps into none but Madame Bonacieux. With a guy who looks suspiciously like Aramis. Although the two have obviously taken pains to disguise their appearances, D'Artagnan becomes convinced that it really is Aramis and Madame Bonacieux walking arm in arm. Cue feelings of angry jealousy. The man and woman realize they are being followed, and start running. D'Artagnan stops in front of them, and then realizes that the man is, in fact, not Aramis. The man wants to continue on his way, but D'Artagnan holds his ground. He then addresses Madame Bonacieux, who chides him for breaking his promise to her. The man tries to leave with Madame Bonacieux, which only angers D'Artagnan more. He draws his sword. The man draws his sword. Madame Bonacieux throws herself between them and \"accidentally\" reveals that the man is the Duke of Buckingham. D'Artagnan apologizes, citing his love for Madame Bonacieux as influencing his actions. Then he slyly points out that the Duke knows what it's like to love. D'Artagnan offers his services to the Duke, who asks him to kill anybody who follows them. Madame Bonacieux and the Duke of Buckingham make it to the palace with no problems. He meets up with Porthos and Aramis and tells them nothing of what happened, only that all issues have been resolved. The narrator then signals that the story will shift to the adventures of Madame Bonacieux and the Duke.", "analysis": ""}

11 IN WHICH THE PLOT THICKENS His visit to M. de Treville being paid, the pensive d'Artagnan took the longest way homeward. On what was d'Artagnan thinking, that he strayed thus from his path, gazing at the stars of heaven, and sometimes sighing, sometimes smiling? He was thinking of Mme. Bonacieux. For an apprentice Musketeer the young woman was almost an ideal of love. Pretty, mysterious, initiated in almost all the secrets of the court, which reflected such a charming gravity over her pleasing features, it might be surmised that she was not wholly unmoved; and this is an irresistible charm to novices in love. Moreover, d'Artagnan had delivered her from the hands of the demons who wished to search and ill treat her; and this important service had established between them one of those sentiments of gratitude which so easily assume a more tender character. D'Artagnan already fancied himself, so rapid is the flight of our dreams upon the wings of imagination, accosted by a messenger from the young woman, who brought him some billet appointing a meeting, a gold chain, or a diamond. We have observed that young cavaliers received presents from their king without shame. Let us add that in these times of lax morality they had no more delicacy with respect to the mistresses; and that the latter almost always left them valuable and durable remembrances, as if they essayed to conquer the fragility of their sentiments by the solidity of their gifts. Without a blush, men made their way in the world by the means of women blushing. Such as were only beautiful gave their beauty, whence, without doubt, comes the proverb, "The most beautiful girl in the world can only give what she has." Such as were rich gave in addition a part of their money; and a vast number of heroes of that gallant period may be cited who would neither have won their spurs in the first place, nor their battles afterward, without the purse, more or less furnished, which their mistress fastened to the saddle bow. D'Artagnan owned nothing. Provincial diffidence, that slight varnish, the ephemeral flower, that down of the peach, had evaporated to the winds through the little orthodox counsels which the three Musketeers gave their friend. D'Artagnan, following the strange custom of the times, considered himself at Paris as on a campaign, neither more nor less than if he had been in Flanders--Spain yonder, woman here. In each there was an enemy to contend with, and contributions to be levied. But, we must say, at the present moment d'Artagnan was ruled by a feeling much more noble and disinterested. The mercer had said that he was rich; the young man might easily guess that with so weak a man as M. Bonacieux; and interest was almost foreign to this commencement of love, which had been the consequence of it. We say ALMOST, for the idea that a young, handsome, kind, and witty woman is at the same time rich takes nothing from the beginning of love, but on the contrary strengthens it. There are in affluence a crowd of aristocratic cares and caprices which are highly becoming to beauty. A fine and white stocking, a silken robe, a lace kerchief, a pretty slipper on the foot, a tasty ribbon on the head do not make an ugly woman pretty, but they make a pretty woman beautiful, without reckoning the hands, which gain by all this; the hands, among women particularly, to be beautiful must be idle. Then d'Artagnan, as the reader, from whom we have not concealed the state of his fortune, very well knows--d'Artagnan was not a millionaire; he hoped to become one someday, but the time which in his own mind he fixed upon for this happy change was still far distant. In the meanwhile, how disheartening to see the woman one loves long for those thousands of nothings which constitute a woman's happiness, and be unable to give her those thousands of nothings. At least, when the woman is rich and the lover is not, that which he cannot offer she offers to herself; and although it is generally with her husband's money that she procures herself this indulgence, the gratitude for it seldom reverts to him. Then d'Artagnan, disposed to become the most tender of lovers, was at the same time a very devoted friend. In the midst of his amorous projects for the mercer's wife, he did not forget his friends. The pretty Mme. Bonacieux was just the woman to walk with in the Plain St. Denis or in the fair of St. Germain, in company with Athos, Porthos, and Aramis, to whom d'Artagnan had often remarked this. Then one could enjoy charming little dinners, where one touches on one side the hand of a friend, and on the other the foot of a mistress. Besides, on pressing occasions, in extreme difficulties, d'Artagnan would become the preserver of his friends. And M. Bonacieux, whom d'Artagnan had pushed into the hands of the officers, denying him aloud although he had promised in a whisper to save him? We are compelled to admit to our readers that d'Artagnan thought nothing about him in any way; or that if he did think of him, it was only to say to himself that he was very well where he was, wherever it might be. Love is the most selfish of all the passions. Let our readers reassure themselves. If d'Artagnan forgets his host, or appears to forget him, under the pretense of not knowing where he has been carried, we will not forget him, and we know where he is. But for the moment, let us do as did the amorous Gascon; we will see after the worthy mercer later. D'Artagnan, reflecting on his future amours, addressing himself to the beautiful night, and smiling at the stars, ascended the Rue Cherish-Midi, or Chase-Midi, as it was then called. As he found himself in the quarter in which Aramis lived, he took it into his head to pay his friend a visit in order to explain the motives which had led him to send Planchet with a request that he would come instantly to the mousetrap. Now, if Aramis had been at home when Planchet came to his abode, he had doubtless hastened to the Rue des Fossoyeurs, and finding nobody there but his other two companions perhaps, they would not be able to conceive what all this meant. This mystery required an explanation; at least, so d'Artagnan declared to himself. He likewise thought this was an opportunity for talking about pretty little Mme. Bonacieux, of whom his head, if not his heart, was already full. We must never look for discretion in first love. First love is accompanied by such excessive joy that unless the joy be allowed to overflow, it will stifle you. Paris for two hours past had been dark, and seemed a desert. Eleven o'clock sounded from all the clocks of the Faubourg St. Germain. It was delightful weather. D'Artagnan was passing along a lane on the spot where the Rue d'Assas is now situated, breathing the balmy emanations which were borne upon the wind from the Rue de Vaugirard, and which arose from the gardens refreshed by the dews of evening and the breeze of night. From a distance resounded, deadened, however, by good shutters, the songs of the tipplers, enjoying themselves in the cabarets scattered along the plain. Arrived at the end of the lane, d'Artagnan turned to the left. The house in which Aramis dwelt was situated between the Rue Cassette and the Rue Servandoni. D'Artagnan had just passed the Rue Cassette, and already perceived the door of his friend's house, shaded by a mass of sycamores and clematis which formed a vast arch opposite the front of it, when he perceived something like a shadow issuing from the Rue Servandoni. This something was enveloped in a cloak, and d'Artagnan at first believed it was a man; but by the smallness of the form, the hesitation of the walk, and the indecision of the step, he soon discovered that it was a woman. Further, this woman, as if not certain of the house she was seeking, lifted up her eyes to look around her, stopped, went backward, and then returned again. D'Artagnan was perplexed. "Shall I go and offer her my services?" thought he. "By her step she must be young; perhaps she is pretty. Oh, yes! But a woman who wanders in the streets at this hour only ventures out to meet her lover. If I should disturb a rendezvous, that would not be the best means of commencing an acquaintance." Meantime the young woman continued to advance, counting the houses and windows. This was neither long nor difficult. There were but three hotels in this part of the street; and only two windows looking toward the road, one of which was in a pavilion parallel to that which Aramis occupied, the other belonging to Aramis himself. "PARIDIEU!" said d'Artagnan to himself, to whose mind the niece of the theologian reverted, "PARDIEU, it would be droll if this belated dove should be in search of our friend's house. But on my soul, it looks so. Ah, my dear Aramis, this time I shall find you out." And d'Artagnan, making himself as small as he could, concealed himself in the darkest side of the street near a stone bench placed at the back of a niche. The young woman continued to advance; and in addition to the lightness of her step, which had betrayed her, she emitted a little cough which denoted a sweet voice. D'Artagnan believed this cough to be a signal. Nevertheless, whether the cough had been answered by a similar signal which had fixed the irresolution of the nocturnal seeker, or whether without this aid she saw that she had arrived at the end of her journey, she resolutely drew near to Aramis's shutter, and tapped, at three equal intervals, with her bent finger. "This is all very fine, dear Aramis," murmured d'Artagnan. "Ah, Monsieur Hypocrite, I understand how you study theology." The three blows were scarcely struck, when the inside blind was opened and a light appeared through the panes of the outside shutter. "Ah, ah!" said the listener, "not through doors, but through windows! Ah, this visit was expected. We shall see the windows open, and the lady enter by escalade. Very pretty!" But to the great astonishment of d'Artagnan, the shutter remained closed. Still more, the light which had shone for an instant disappeared, and all was again in obscurity. D'Artagnan thought this could not last long, and continued to look with all his eyes and listen with all his ears. He was right; at the end of some seconds two sharp taps were heard inside. The young woman in the street replied by a single tap, and the shutter was opened a little way. It may be judged whether d'Artagnan looked or listened with avidity. Unfortunately the light had been removed into another chamber; but the eyes of the young man were accustomed to the night. Besides, the eyes of the Gascons have, as it is asserted, like those of cats, the faculty of seeing in the dark. D'Artagnan then saw that the young woman took from her pocket a white object, which she unfolded quickly, and which took the form of a handkerchief. She made her interlocutor observe the corner of this unfolded object. This immediately recalled to d'Artagnan's mind the handkerchief which he had found at the feet of Mme. Bonacieux, which had reminded him of that which he had dragged from under the feet of Aramis. "What the devil could that handkerchief signify?" Placed where he was, d'Artagnan could not perceive the face of Aramis. We say Aramis, because the young man entertained no doubt that it was his friend who held this dialogue from the interior with the lady of the exterior. Curiosity prevailed over prudence; and profiting by the preoccupation into which the sight of the handkerchief appeared to have plunged the two personages now on the scene, he stole from his hiding place, and quick as lightning, but stepping with utmost caution, he ran and placed himself close to the angle of the wall, from which his eye could pierce the interior of Aramis's room. Upon gaining this advantage d'Artagnan was near uttering a cry of surprise; it was not Aramis who was conversing with the nocturnal visitor, it was a woman! D'Artagnan, however, could only see enough to recognize the form of her vestments, not enough to distinguish her features. At the same instant the woman inside drew a second handkerchief from her pocket, and exchanged it for that which had just been shown to her. Then some words were spoken by the two women. At length the shutter closed. The woman who was outside the window turned round, and passed within four steps of d'Artagnan, pulling down the hood of her mantle; but the precaution was too late, d'Artagnan had already recognized Mme. Bonacieux. Mme. Bonacieux! The suspicion that it was she had crossed the mind of d'Artagnan when she drew the handkerchief from her pocket; but what probability was there that Mme. Bonacieux, who had sent for M. Laporte in order to be reconducted to the Louvre, should be running about the streets of Paris at half past eleven at night, at the risk of being abducted a second time? This must be, then, an affair of importance; and what is the most important affair to a woman of twenty-five! Love. But was it on her own account, or on account of another, that she exposed herself to such hazards? This was a question the young man asked himself, whom the demon of jealousy already gnawed, being in heart neither more nor less than an accepted lover. There was a very simple means of satisfying himself whither Mme. Bonacieux was going; that was to follow her. This method was so simple that d'Artagnan employed it quite naturally and instinctively. But at the sight of the young man, who detached himself from the wall like a statue walking from its niche, and at the noise of the steps which she heard resound behind her, Mme. Bonacieux uttered a little cry and fled. D'Artagnan ran after her. It was not difficult for him to overtake a woman embarrassed with her cloak. He came up with her before she had traversed a third of the street. The unfortunate woman was exhausted, not by fatigue, but by terror, and when d'Artagnan placed his hand upon her shoulder, she sank upon one knee, crying in a choking voice, "Kill me, if you please, you shall know nothing!" D'Artagnan raised her by passing his arm round her waist; but as he felt by her weight she was on the point of fainting, he made haste to reassure her by protestations of devotedness. These protestations were nothing for Mme. Bonacieux, for such protestations may be made with the worst intentions in the world; but the voice was all. Mme. Bonacieux thought she recognized the sound of that voice; she reopened her eyes, cast a quick glance upon the man who had terrified her so, and at once perceiving it was d'Artagnan, she uttered a cry of joy, "Oh, it is you, it is you! Thank God, thank God!" "Yes, it is I," said d'Artagnan, "it is I, whom God has sent to watch over you." "Was it with that intention you followed me?" asked the young woman, with a coquettish smile, whose somewhat bantering character resumed its influence, and with whom all fear had disappeared from the moment in which she recognized a friend in one she had taken for an enemy. "No," said d'Artagnan; "no, I confess it. It was chance that threw me in your way; I saw a woman knocking at the window of one of my friends." "One of your friends?" interrupted Mme. Bonacieux. "Without doubt; Aramis is one of my best friends." "Aramis! Who is he?" "Come, come, you won't tell me you don't know Aramis?" "This is the first time I ever heard his name pronounced." "It is the first time, then, that you ever went to that house?" "Undoubtedly." "And you did not know that it was inhabited by a young man?" "No." "By a Musketeer?" "No, indeed!" "It was not he, then, you came to seek?" "Not the least in the world. Besides, you must have seen that the person to whom I spoke was a woman." "That is true; but this woman is a friend of Aramis--" "I know nothing of that." "--since she lodges with him." "That does not concern me." "But who is she?" "Oh, that is not my secret." "My dear Madame Bonacieux, you are charming; but at the same time you are one of the most mysterious women." "Do I lose by that?" "No; you are, on the contrary, adorable." "Give me your arm, then." "Most willingly. And now?" "Now escort me." "Where?" "Where I am going." "But where are you going?" "You will see, because you will leave me at the door." "Shall I wait for you?" "That will be useless." "You will return alone, then?" "Perhaps yes, perhaps no." "But will the person who shall accompany you afterward be a man or a woman?" "I don't know yet." "But I will know it!" "How so?" "I will wait until you come out." "In that case, adieu." "Why so?" "I do not want you." "But you have claimed--" "The aid of a gentleman, not the watchfulness of a spy." "The word is rather hard." "How are they called who follow others in spite of them?" "They are indiscreet." "The word is too mild." "Well, madame, I perceive I must do as you wish." "Why did you deprive yourself of the merit of doing so at once?" "Is there no merit in repentance?" "And do you really repent?" "I know nothing about it myself. But what I know is that I promise to do all you wish if you allow me to accompany you where you are going." "And you will leave me then?" "Yes." "Without waiting for my coming out again?" "Yes." "Word of honor?" "By the faith of a gentleman. Take my arm, and let us go." D'Artagnan offered his arm to Mme. Bonacieux, who willingly took it, half laughing, half trembling, and both gained the top of Rue de la Harpe. Arriving there, the young woman seemed to hesitate, as she had before done in the Rue Vaugirard. She seemed, however, by certain signs, to recognize a door, and approaching that door, "And now, monsieur," said she, "it is here I have business; a thousand thanks for your honorable company, which has saved me from all the dangers to which, alone, I was exposed. But the moment is come to keep your word; I have reached my destination." "And you will have nothing to fear on your return?" "I shall have nothing to fear but robbers." "And that is nothing?" "What could they take from me? I have not a penny about me." "You forget that beautiful handkerchief with the coat of arms." "Which?" "That which I found at your feet, and replaced in your pocket." "Hold your tongue, imprudent man! Do you wish to destroy me?" "You see very plainly that there is still danger for you, since a single word makes you tremble; and you confess that if that word were heard you would be ruined. Come, come, madame!" cried d'Artagnan, seizing her hands, and surveying her with an ardent glance, "come, be more generous. Confide in me. Have you not read in my eyes that there is nothing but devotion and sympathy in my heart?" "Yes," replied Mme. Bonacieux; "therefore, ask my own secrets, and I will reveal them to you; but those of others--that is quite another thing." "Very well," said d'Artagnan, "I shall discover them; as these secrets may have an influence over your life, these secrets must become mine." "Beware of what you do!" cried the young woman, in a manner so serious as to make d'Artagnan start in spite of himself. "Oh, meddle in nothing which concerns me. Do not seek to assist me in that which I am accomplishing. This I ask of you in the name of the interest with which I inspire you, in the name of the service you have rendered me and which I never shall forget while I have life. Rather, place faith in what I tell you. Have no more concern about me; I exist no longer for you, any more than if you had never seen me." "Must Aramis do as much as I, madame?" said d'Artagnan, deeply piqued. "This is the second or third time, monsieur, that you have repeated that name, and yet I have told you that I do not know him." "You do not know the man at whose shutter you have just knocked? Indeed, madame, you believe me too credulous!" "Confess that it is for the sake of making me talk that you invent this story and create this personage." "I invent nothing, madame; I create nothing. I only speak that exact truth." "And you say that one of your friends lives in that house?" "I say so, and I repeat it for the third time; that house is one inhabited by my friend, and that friend is Aramis." "All this will be cleared up at a later period," murmured the young woman; "no, monsieur, be silent." "If you could see my heart," said d'Artagnan, "you would there read so much curiosity that you would pity me and so much love that you would instantly satisfy my curiosity. We have nothing to fear from those who love us." "You speak very suddenly of love, monsieur," said the young woman, shaking her head. "That is because love has come suddenly upon me, and for the first time; and because I am only twenty." The young woman looked at him furtively. "Listen; I am already upon the scent," resumed d'Artagnan. "About three months ago I was near having a duel with Aramis concerning a handkerchief resembling the one you showed to the woman in his house--for a handkerchief marked in the same manner, I am sure." "Monsieur," said the young woman, "you weary me very much, I assure you, with your questions." "But you, madame, prudent as you are, think, if you were to be arrested with that handkerchief, and that handkerchief were to be seized, would you not be compromised?" "In what way? The initials are only mine--C. B., Constance Bonacieux." "Or Camille de Bois-Tracy." "Silence, monsieur! Once again, silence! Ah, since the dangers I incur on my own account cannot stop you, think of those you may yourself run!" "Me?" "Yes; there is peril of imprisonment, risk of life in knowing me." "Then I will not leave you." "Monsieur!" said the young woman, supplicating him and clasping her hands together, "monsieur, in the name of heaven, by the honor of a soldier, by the courtesy of a gentleman, depart! There, there midnight sounds! That is the hour when I am expected." "Madame," said the young man, bowing; "I can refuse nothing asked of me thus. Be content; I will depart." "But you will not follow me; you will not watch me?" "I will return home instantly." "Ah, I was quite sure you were a good and brave young man," said Mme. Bonacieux, holding out her hand to him, and placing the other upon the knocker of a little door almost hidden in the wall. D'Artagnan seized the hand held out to him, and kissed it ardently. "Ah! I wish I had never seen you!" cried d'Artagnan, with that ingenuous roughness which women often prefer to the affectations of politeness, because it betrays the depths of the thought and proves that feeling prevails over reason. "Well!" resumed Mme. Bonacieux, in a voice almost caressing, and pressing the hand of d'Artagnan, who had not relinquished hers, "well: I will not say as much as you do; what is lost for today may not be lost forever. Who knows, when I shall be at liberty, that I may not satisfy your curiosity?" "And will you make the same promise to my love?" cried d'Artagnan, beside himself with joy. "Oh, as to that, I do not engage myself. That depends upon the sentiments with which you may inspire me." "Then today, madame--" "Oh, today, I am no further than gratitude." "Ah! You are too charming," said d'Artagnan, sorrowfully; "and you abuse my love." "No, I use your generosity, that's all. But be of good cheer; with certain people, everything comes round." "Oh, you render me the happiest of men! Do not forget this evening--do not forget that promise." "Be satisfied. In the proper time and place I will remember everything. Now then, go, go, in the name of heaven! I was expected at sharp midnight, and I am late." "By five minutes." "Yes; but in certain circumstances five minutes are five ages." "When one loves." "Well! And who told you I had no affair with a lover?" "It is a man, then, who expects you?" cried d'Artagnan. "A man!" "The discussion is going to begin again!" said Mme. Bonacieux, with a half-smile which was not exempt from a tinge of impatience. "No, no; I go, I depart! I believe in you, and I would have all the merit of my devotion, even if that devotion were stupidity. Adieu, madame, adieu!" And as if he only felt strength to detach himself by a violent effort from the hand he held, he sprang away, running, while Mme. Bonacieux knocked, as at the shutter, three light and regular taps. When he had gained the angle of the street, he turned. The door had been opened, and shut again; the mercer's pretty wife had disappeared. D'Artagnan pursued his way. He had given his word not to watch Mme. Bonacieux, and if his life had depended upon the spot to which she was going or upon the person who should accompany her, d'Artagnan would have returned home, since he had so promised. Five minutes later he was in the Rue des Fossoyeurs. "Poor Athos!" said he; "he will never guess what all this means. He will have fallen asleep waiting for me, or else he will have returned home, where he will have learned that a woman had been there. A woman with Athos! After all," continued d'Artagnan, "there was certainly one with Aramis. All this is very strange; and I am curious to know how it will end." "Badly, monsieur, badly!" replied a voice which the young man recognized as that of Planchet; for, soliloquizing aloud, as very preoccupied people do, he had entered the alley, at the end of which were the stairs which led to his chamber. "How, badly? What do you mean by that, you idiot?" asked d'Artagnan. "What has happened?" "All sorts of misfortunes." "What?" "In the first place, Monsieur Athos is arrested." "Arrested! Athos arrested! What for?" "He was found in your lodging; they took him for you." "And by whom was he arrested?" "By Guards brought by the men in black whom you put to flight." "Why did he not tell them his name? Why did he not tell them he knew nothing about this affair?" "He took care not to do so, monsieur; on the contrary, he came up to me and said, 'It is your master that needs his liberty at this moment and not I, since he knows everything and I know nothing. They will believe he is arrested, and that will give him time; in three days I will tell them who I am, and they cannot fail to let me go.'" "Bravo, Athos! Noble heart!" murmured d'Artagnan. "I know him well there! And what did the officers do?" "Four conveyed him away, I don't know where--to the Bastille or Fort l'Eveque. Two remained with the men in black, who rummaged every place and took all the papers. The last two mounted guard at the door during this examination; then, when all was over, they went away, leaving the house empty and exposed." "And Porthos and Aramis?" "I could not find them; they did not come." "But they may come any moment, for you left word that I awaited them?" "Yes, monsieur." "Well, don't budge, then; if they come, tell them what has happened. Let them wait for me at the Pomme-de-Pin. Here it would be dangerous; the house may be watched. I will run to Monsieur de Treville to tell them all this, and will meet them there." "Very well, monsieur," said Planchet. "But you will remain; you are not afraid?" said d'Artagnan, coming back to recommend courage to his lackey. "Be easy, monsieur," said Planchet; "you do not know me yet. I am brave when I set about it. It is all in beginning. Besides, I am a Picard." "Then it is understood," said d'Artagnan; "you would rather be killed than desert your post?" "Yes, monsieur; and there is nothing I would not do to prove to Monsieur that I am attached to him." "Good!" said d'Artagnan to himself. "It appears that the method I have adopted with this boy is decidedly the best. I shall use it again upon occasion." And with all the swiftness of his legs, already a little fatigued, however, with the perambulations of the day, d'Artagnan directed his course toward M. de Treville's. M de Treville was not at his hotel. His company was on guard at the Louvre; he was at the Louvre with his company. It was necessary to reach M. de Treville; it was important that he should be informed of what was passing. D'Artagnan resolved to try and enter the Louvre. His costume of Guardsman in the company of M. Dessessart ought to be his passport. He therefore went down the Rue des Petits Augustins, and came up to the quay, in order to take the New Bridge. He had at first an idea of crossing by the ferry; but on gaining the riverside, he had mechanically put his hand into his pocket, and perceived that he had not wherewithal to pay his passage. As he gained the top of the Rue Guenegaud, he saw two persons coming out of the Rue Dauphine whose appearance very much struck him. Of the two persons who composed this group, one was a man and the other a woman. The woman had the outline of Mme. Bonacieux; the man resembled Aramis so much as to be mistaken for him. Besides, the woman wore that black mantle which d'Artagnan could still see outlined on the shutter of the Rue de Vaugirard and on the door of the Rue de la Harpe; still further, the man wore the uniform of a Musketeer. The woman's hood was pulled down, and the man held a handkerchief to his face. Both, as this double precaution indicated, had an interest in not being recognized. They took the bridge. That was d'Artagnan's road, as he was going to the Louvre. D'Artagnan followed them. He had not gone twenty steps before he became convinced that the woman was really Mme. Bonacieux and that the man was Aramis. He felt at that instant all the suspicions of jealousy agitating his heart. He felt himself doubly betrayed, by his friend and by her whom he already loved like a mistress. Mme. Bonacieux had declared to him, by all the gods, that she did not know Aramis; and a quarter of an hour after having made this assertion, he found her hanging on the arm of Aramis. D'Artagnan did not reflect that he had only known the mercer's pretty wife for three hours; that she owed him nothing but a little gratitude for having delivered her from the men in black, who wished to carry her off, and that she had promised him nothing. He considered himself an outraged, betrayed, and ridiculed lover. Blood and anger mounted to his face; he was resolved to unravel the mystery. The young man and young woman perceived they were watched, and redoubled their speed. D'Artagnan determined upon his course. He passed them, then returned so as to meet them exactly before the Samaritaine, which was illuminated by a lamp which threw its light over all that part of the bridge. D'Artagnan stopped before them, and they stopped before him. "What do you want, monsieur?" demanded the Musketeer, recoiling a step, and with a foreign accent, which proved to d'Artagnan that he was deceived in one of his conjectures. "It is not Aramis!" cried he. "No, monsieur, it is not Aramis; and by your exclamation I perceive you have mistaken me for another, and pardon you." "You pardon me?" cried d'Artagnan. "Yes," replied the stranger. "Allow me, then, to pass on, since it is not with me you have anything to do." "You are right, monsieur, it is not with you that I have anything to do; it is with Madame." "With Madame! You do not know her," replied the stranger. "You are deceived, monsieur; I know her very well." "Ah," said Mme. Bonacieux; in a tone of reproach, "ah, monsieur, I had your promise as a soldier and your word as a gentleman. I hoped to be able to rely upon that." "And I, madame!" said d'Artagnan, embarrassed; "you promised me--" "Take my arm, madame," said the stranger, "and let us continue our way." D'Artagnan, however, stupefied, cast down, annihilated by all that happened, stood, with crossed arms, before the Musketeer and Mme. Bonacieux. The Musketeer advanced two steps, and pushed d'Artagnan aside with his hand. D'Artagnan made a spring backward and drew his sword. At the same time, and with the rapidity of lightning, the stranger drew his. "In the name of heaven, my Lord!" cried Mme. Bonacieux, throwing herself between the combatants and seizing the swords with her hands. "My Lord!" cried d'Artagnan, enlightened by a sudden idea, "my Lord! Pardon me, monsieur, but you are not--" "My Lord the Duke of Buckingham," said Mme. Bonacieux, in an undertone; "and now you may ruin us all." "My Lord, Madame, I ask a hundred pardons! But I love her, my Lord, and was jealous. You know what it is to love, my Lord. Pardon me, and then tell me how I can risk my life to serve your Grace?" "You are a brave young man," said Buckingham, holding out his hand to d'Artagnan, who pressed it respectfully. "You offer me your services; with the same frankness I accept them. Follow us at a distance of twenty paces, as far as the Louvre, and if anyone watches us, slay him!" D'Artagnan placed his naked sword under his arm, allowed the duke and Mme. Bonacieux to take twenty steps ahead, and then followed them, ready to execute the instructions of the noble and elegant minister of Charles I. Fortunately, he had no opportunity to give the duke this proof of his devotion, and the young woman and the handsome Musketeer entered the Louvre by the wicket of the Echelle without any interference. As for d'Artagnan, he immediately repaired to the cabaret of the Pomme-de-Pin, where he found Porthos and Aramis awaiting him. Without giving them any explanation of the alarm and inconvenience he had caused them, he told them that he had terminated the affair alone in which he had for a moment believed he should need their assistance. Meanwhile, carried away as we are by our narrative, we must leave our three friends to themselves, and follow the Duke of Buckingham and his guide through the labyrinths of the Louvre.

Chapter Eleven: In Which the Plot Thickens

https://web.archive.org/web/20210127112556/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/three-musketeers/summary/chapter-eleven-in-which-the-plot-thickens

D'Artagnan takes the scenic route home and dreams the whole time of the pretty Madame Bonacieux. He draws closer to Aramis's house when he spots the figure of a woman, heavily cloaked. The two of them are going in the same direction. The woman heads to Aramis's house, but instead of going inside, she taps on the window. The shutter opens and the woman shows someone inside the corner of a handkerchief. The two figures then exchange handkerchiefs. The woman walks past D'Artagnan briefly and, shocker!, it's Madame Bonacieux. D'Artagnan decides to follow Madame Bonacieux. She realizes that she has a follower. She runs. D'Artagnan runs after her and easily catches up. She freaks. Understandable. D'Artagnan soothes her quickly, and they have a rapid conversation. It goes like this: D'Artagnan: Why were you at my friend Aramis's house? Madame Bonacieux: I don't know anyone by that name. D'Artagnan: You're pretty. Madame Bonacieux: Do you promise not to meddle? D'Artagnan: Fine. But I love you! Madame Bonacieux returns to Aramis's house, and D'Artagnan continues on his way. When he gets home, Planchet has terrible news. Athos has been arrested. He purposely didn't tell the Guards his true identity in order to give D'Artagnan a three days head start on cracking the case of the Bonacieux abduction. As for Porthos and Aramis, Planchet was unable to find the two men, although he did leave them messages to go to D'Artagnan's house. D'Artagnan issues Planchet a new set of directions--Porthos and Aramis are now to meet him at the Pomme-de-Pin since the house may be watched. D'Artagnan then leaves to find Treville and give him the update. Treville is not at home; he is at the palace. Why? The narrator says Treville's company is on guard at the Louvre , but we suspect a neat plot device. We offer as proof the fact that D'Artagnan then bumps into none but Madame Bonacieux. With a guy who looks suspiciously like Aramis. Although the two have obviously taken pains to disguise their appearances, D'Artagnan becomes convinced that it really is Aramis and Madame Bonacieux walking arm in arm. Cue feelings of angry jealousy. The man and woman realize they are being followed, and start running. D'Artagnan stops in front of them, and then realizes that the man is, in fact, not Aramis. The man wants to continue on his way, but D'Artagnan holds his ground. He then addresses Madame Bonacieux, who chides him for breaking his promise to her. The man tries to leave with Madame Bonacieux, which only angers D'Artagnan more. He draws his sword. The man draws his sword. Madame Bonacieux throws herself between them and "accidentally" reveals that the man is the Duke of Buckingham. D'Artagnan apologizes, citing his love for Madame Bonacieux as influencing his actions. Then he slyly points out that the Duke knows what it's like to love. D'Artagnan offers his services to the Duke, who asks him to kill anybody who follows them. Madame Bonacieux and the Duke of Buckingham make it to the palace with no problems. He meets up with Porthos and Aramis and tells them nothing of what happened, only that all issues have been resolved. The narrator then signals that the story will shift to the adventures of Madame Bonacieux and the Duke.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/1257-chapters/12.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Three Musketeers/section_12_part_0.txt

The Three Musketeers.chapter 12

chapter 12: george villiers, duke of buckingham

{"name": "Chapter Twelve: George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210127112556/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/three-musketeers/summary/chapter-twelve-george-villiers-duke-of-buckingham", "summary": "Madame Bonacieux leads the Duke down various passages, finally ending up in a room where she leaves him, and locks the door behind her. Still, the Duke of Buckingham is fearless. He is rash and loves adventure, so even after discovering that the letter from Queen Anne was a hoax to lure him , he insists on seeing her anyway. Madame Bonacieux was to make all the arrangements, but she was briefly abducted. We get a brief description of the Duke--thirty-five, insanely good-looking, really powerful, and seducing powerful women. The man has some serious bravado to seduce the Queen of France. The married Queen of France. The Queen walks in. She looks absolutely beautiful. The Duke is dazzled. The Queen is dressed very plainly, but it only enhances her beauty. He falls to her feet and kisses the hem of her dress. Then Anne points out that the two of them don't have very much going for their relationship. First, there's the long-distance thing. He lives in England, she lives in France, and neither phones nor airplanes have been invented yet. Second, there's the whole your-country-hates-my-country issue. And lastly, there's the marriage part: Anne is a married woman. This is a bad combination, and Anne knows it. She says they can never see each other again. The Duke says he was too distracted by the beauty of her voice to pay attention to what she was saying. None of that means anything, he says, because the two of them are meant to be together forever. The Queen points out that she's never said that little phrase that begins with \"I\" and ends in \"you.\" But, replies the Duke replies, she never said that she didn't love him. He praises her beauty some more. The Duke takes a couple trips down Memory Lane, asking her if she remembers all their encounters--encounters, which quickly became the scandal of the court. We learn that the Duke wanted to be the ambassador to France, but that the King nixed that whole idea on the grounds of, well, he didn't want his wife's lover hanging around. The Duke retaliated by waging war. He tells Anne that even though they're not allowed to see each other, she will hear about him every day. And when the war finally concludes and they send in the people who figure out the terms of peace, the Duke is planning to be one of those people. Yes, thousands of men may die, says the Duke, but he'll be able to see Anne again. He is one intense lover; Anne points out that all his proofs of love are practically criminal. They continue bantering back and forth. It becomes clear that despite her protestations, Anne is really into the Duke. She tells him that she has a recurring dream in which he is lying and bleeding. The Duke asks if the wound is on the left side and caused by a knife. Anne is shocked that he knows the dream. She has told no one about it. The Duke thinks that having the same dream is further proof of that the two are meant to be. Anne tells him to get the heck out--she will be unable to forgive herself if he is killed because he wants to see her. She tells him to come back openly one day and she will be happy to see him. The Duke agrees, but asks for a token of her love. She gives him a golden casket and tells him to leave. Madame Bonacieux meets him again and escorts him out of the palace.", "analysis": ""}

12 GEORGE VILLIERS, DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM Mme. Bonacieux and the duke entered the Louvre without difficulty. Mme. Bonacieux was known to belong to the queen; the duke wore the uniform of the Musketeers of M. de Treville, who, as we have said, were that evening on guard. Besides, Germain was in the interests of the queen; and if anything should happen, Mme. Bonacieux would be accused of having introduced her lover into the Louvre, that was all. She took the risk upon herself. Her reputation would be lost, it is true; but of what value in the world was the reputation of the little wife of a mercer? Once within the interior of the court, the duke and the young woman followed the wall for the space of about twenty-five steps. This space passed, Mme. Bonacieux pushed a little servants' door, open by day but generally closed at night. The door yielded. Both entered, and found themselves in darkness; but Mme. Bonacieux was acquainted with all the turnings and windings of this part of the Louvre, appropriated for the people of the household. She closed the door after her, took the duke by the hand, and after a few experimental steps, grasped a balustrade, put her foot upon the bottom step, and began to ascend the staircase. The duke counted two stories. She then turned to the right, followed the course of a long corridor, descended a flight, went a few steps farther, introduced a key into a lock, opened a door, and pushed the duke into an apartment lighted only by a lamp, saying, "Remain here, my Lord Duke; someone will come." She then went out by the same door, which she locked, so that the duke found himself literally a prisoner. Nevertheless, isolated as he was, we must say that the Duke of Buckingham did not experience an instant of fear. One of the salient points of his character was the search for adventures and a love of romance. Brave, rash, and enterprising, this was not the first time he had risked his life in such attempts. He had learned that the pretended message from Anne of Austria, upon the faith of which he had come to Paris, was a snare; but instead of regaining England, he had, abusing the position in which he had been placed, declared to the queen that he would not depart without seeing her. The queen had at first positively refused; but at length became afraid that the duke, if exasperated, would commit some folly. She had already decided upon seeing him and urging his immediate departure, when, on the very evening of coming to this decision, Mme. Bonacieux, who was charged with going to fetch the duke and conducting him to the Louvre, was abducted. For two days no one knew what had become of her, and everything remained in suspense; but once free, and placed in communication with Laporte, matters resumed their course, and she accomplished the perilous enterprise which, but for her arrest, would have been executed three days earlier. Buckingham, left alone, walked toward a mirror. His Musketeer's uniform became him marvelously. At thirty-five, which was then his age, he passed, with just title, for the handsomest gentleman and the most elegant cavalier of France or England. The favorite of two kings, immensely rich, all-powerful in a kingdom which he disordered at his fancy and calmed again at his caprice, George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham, had lived one of those fabulous existences which survive, in the course of centuries, to astonish posterity. Sure of himself, convinced of his own power, certain that the laws which rule other men could not reach him, he went straight to the object he aimed at, even were this object were so elevated and so dazzling that it would have been madness for any other even to have contemplated it. It was thus he had succeeded in approaching several times the beautiful and proud Anne of Austria, and in making himself loved by dazzling her. George Villiers placed himself before the glass, as we have said, restored the undulations to his beautiful hair, which the weight of his hat had disordered, twisted his mustache, and, his heart swelling with joy, happy and proud at being near the moment he had so long sighed for, he smiled upon himself with pride and hope. At this moment a door concealed in the tapestry opened, and a woman appeared. Buckingham saw this apparition in the glass; he uttered a cry. It was the queen! Anne of Austria was then twenty-six or twenty-seven years of age; that is to say, she was in the full splendor of her beauty. Her carriage was that of a queen or a goddess; her eyes, which cast the brilliancy of emeralds, were perfectly beautiful, and yet were at the same time full of sweetness and majesty. Her mouth was small and rosy; and although her underlip, like that of all princes of the House of Austria, protruded slightly beyond the other, it was eminently lovely in its smile, but as profoundly disdainful in its contempt. Her skin was admired for its velvety softness; her hands and arms were of surpassing beauty, all the poets of the time singing them as incomparable. Lastly, her hair, which, from being light in her youth, had become chestnut, and which she wore curled very plainly, and with much powder, admirably set off her face, in which the most rigid critic could only have desired a little less rouge, and the most fastidious sculptor a little more fineness in the nose. Buckingham remained for a moment dazzled. Never had Anne of Austria appeared to him so beautiful, amid balls, fetes, or carousals, as she appeared to him at this moment, dressed in a simple robe of white satin, and accompanied by Donna Estafania--the only one of her Spanish women who had not been driven from her by the jealousy of the king or by the persecutions of Richelieu. Anne of Austria took two steps forward. Buckingham threw himself at her feet, and before the queen could prevent him, kissed the hem of her robe. "Duke, you already know that it is not I who caused you to be written to." "Yes, yes, madame! Yes, your Majesty!" cried the duke. "I know that I must have been mad, senseless, to believe that snow would become animated or marble warm; but what then! They who love believe easily in love. Besides, I have lost nothing by this journey because I see you." "Yes," replied Anne, "but you know why and how I see you; because, insensible to all my sufferings, you persist in remaining in a city where, by remaining, you run the risk of your life, and make me run the risk of my honor. I see you to tell you that everything separates us--the depths of the sea, the enmity of kingdoms, the sanctity of vows. It is sacrilege to struggle against so many things, my Lord. In short, I see you to tell you that we must never see each other again." "Speak on, madame, speak on, Queen," said Buckingham; "the sweetness of your voice covers the harshness of your words. You talk of sacrilege! Why, the sacrilege is the separation of two hearts formed by God for each other." "My Lord," cried the queen, "you forget that I have never said that I love you." "But you have never told me that you did not love me; and truly, to speak such words to me would be, on the part of your Majesty, too great an ingratitude. For tell me, where can you find a love like mine--a love which neither time, nor absence, nor despair can extinguish, a love which contents itself with a lost ribbon, a stray look, or a chance word? It is now three years, madame, since I saw you for the first time, and during those three years I have loved you thus. Shall I tell you each ornament of your toilet? Mark! I see you now. You were seated upon cushions in the Spanish fashion; you wore a robe of green satin embroidered with gold and silver, hanging sleeves knotted upon your beautiful arms--those lovely arms--with large diamonds. You wore a close ruff, a small cap upon your head of the same color as your robe, and in that cap a heron's feather. Hold! Hold! I shut my eyes, and I can see you as you then were; I open them again, and I see what you are now--a hundred times more beautiful!" "What folly," murmured Anne of Austria, who had not the courage to find fault with the duke for having so well preserved her portrait in his heart, "what folly to feed a useless passion with such remembrances!" "And upon what then must I live? I have nothing but memory. It is my happiness, my treasure, my hope. Every time I see you is a fresh diamond which I enclose in the casket of my heart. This is the fourth which you have let fall and I have picked up; for in three years, madame, I have only seen you four times--the first, which I have described to you; the second, at the mansion of Madame de Chevreuse; the third, in the gardens of Amiens." "Duke," said the queen, blushing, "never speak of that evening." "Oh, let us speak of it; on the contrary, let us speak of it! That is the most happy and brilliant evening of my life! You remember what a beautiful night it was? How soft and perfumed was the air; how lovely the blue heavens and star-enameled sky! Ah, then, madame, I was able for one instant to be alone with you. Then you were about to tell me all--the isolation of your life, the griefs of your heart. You leaned upon my arm--upon this, madame! I felt, in bending my head toward you, your beautiful hair touch my cheek; and every time that it touched me I trembled from head to foot. Oh, Queen! Queen! You do not know what felicity from heaven, what joys from paradise, are comprised in a moment like that. Take my wealth, my fortune, my glory, all the days I have to live, for such an instant, for a night like that. For that night, madame, that night you loved me, I will swear it." "My Lord, yes; it is possible that the influence of the place, the charm of the beautiful evening, the fascination of your look--the thousand circumstances, in short, which sometimes unite to destroy a woman--were grouped around me on that fatal evening; but, my Lord, you saw the queen come to the aid of the woman who faltered. At the first word you dared to utter, at the first freedom to which I had to reply, I called for help." "Yes, yes, that is true. And any other love but mine would have sunk beneath this ordeal; but my love came out from it more ardent and more eternal. You believed that you would fly from me by returning to Paris; you believed that I would not dare to quit the treasure over which my master had charged me to watch. What to me were all the treasures in the world, or all the kings of the earth! Eight days after, I was back again, madame. That time you had nothing to say to me; I had risked my life and favor to see you but for a second. I did not even touch your hand, and you pardoned me on seeing me so submissive and so repentant." "Yes, but calumny seized upon all those follies in which I took no part, as you well know, my Lord. The king, excited by the cardinal, made a terrible clamor. Madame de Vernet was driven from me, Putange was exiled, Madame de Chevreuse fell into disgrace, and when you wished to come back as ambassador to France, the king himself--remember, my lord--the king himself opposed it." "Yes, and France is about to pay for her king's refusal with a war. I am not allowed to see you, madame, but you shall every day hear of me. What object, think you, have this expedition to Re and this league with the Protestants of La Rochelle which I am projecting? The pleasure of seeing you. I have no hope of penetrating, sword in hand, to Paris, I know that well. But this war may bring round a peace; this peace will require a negotiator; that negotiator will be me. They will not dare to refuse me then; and I will return to Paris, and will see you again, and will be happy for an instant. Thousands of men, it is true, will have to pay for my happiness with their lives; but what is that to me, provided I see you again! All this is perhaps folly--perhaps insanity; but tell me what woman has a lover more truly in love; what queen a servant more ardent?" "My Lord, my Lord, you invoke in your defense things which accuse you more strongly. All these proofs of love which you would give me are almost crimes." "Because you do not love me, madame! If you loved me, you would view all this otherwise. If you loved me, oh, if you loved me, that would be too great happiness, and I should run mad. Ah, Madame de Chevreuse was less cruel than you. Holland loved her, and she responded to his love." "Madame de Chevreuse was not queen," murmured Anne of Austria, overcome, in spite of herself, by the expression of so profound a passion. "You would love me, then, if you were not queen! Madame, say that you would love me then! I can believe that it is the dignity of your rank alone which makes you cruel to me; I can believe that, had you been Madame de Chevreuse, poor Buckingham might have hoped. Thanks for those sweet words! Oh, my beautiful sovereign, a hundred times, thanks!" "Oh, my Lord! You have ill understood, wrongly interpreted; I did not mean to say--" "Silence, silence!" cried the duke. "If I am happy in an error, do not have the cruelty to lift me from it. You have told me yourself, madame, that I have been drawn into a snare; I, perhaps, may leave my life in it--for, although it may be strange, I have for some time had a presentiment that I should shortly die." And the duke smiled, with a smile at once sad and charming. "Oh, my God!" cried Anne of Austria, with an accent of terror which proved how much greater an interest she took in the duke than she ventured to tell. "I do not tell you this, madame, to terrify you; no, it is even ridiculous for me to name it to you, and, believe me, I take no heed of such dreams. But the words you have just spoken, the hope you have almost given me, will have richly paid all--were it my life." "Oh, but I," said Anne, "I also, duke, have had presentiments; I also have had dreams. I dreamed that I saw you lying bleeding, wounded." "In the left side, was it not, and with a knife?" interrupted Buckingham. "Yes, it was so, my Lord, it was so--in the left side, and with a knife. Who can possibly have told you I had had that dream? I have imparted it to no one but my God, and that in my prayers." "I ask for no more. You love me, madame; it is enough." "I love you, I?" "Yes, yes. Would God send the same dreams to you as to me if you did not love me? Should we have the same presentiments if our existences did not touch at the heart? You love me, my beautiful queen, and you will weep for me?" "Oh, my God, my God!" cried Anne of Austria, "this is more than I can bear. In the name of heaven, Duke, leave me, go! I do not know whether I love you or love you not; but what I know is that I will not be perjured. Take pity on me, then, and go! Oh, if you are struck in France, if you die in France, if I could imagine that your love for me was the cause of your death, I could not console myself; I should run mad. Depart then, depart, I implore you!" "Oh, how beautiful you are thus! Oh, how I love you!" said Buckingham. "Go, go, I implore you, and return hereafter! Come back as ambassador, come back as minister, come back surrounded with guards who will defend you, with servants who will watch over you, and then I shall no longer fear for your days, and I shall be happy in seeing you." "Oh, is this true what you say?" "Yes." "Oh, then, some pledge of your indulgence, some object which came from you, and may remind me that I have not been dreaming; something you have worn, and that I may wear in my turn--a ring, a necklace, a chain." "Will you depart--will you depart, if I give you that you demand?" "Yes." "This very instant?" "Yes." "You will leave France, you will return to England?" "I will, I swear to you." "Wait, then, wait." Anne of Austria re-entered her apartment, and came out again almost immediately, holding a rosewood casket in her hand, with her cipher encrusted with gold. "Here, my Lord, here," said she, "keep this in memory of me." Buckingham took the casket, and fell a second time on his knees. "You have promised me to go," said the queen. "And I keep my word. Your hand, madame, your hand, and I depart!" Anne of Austria stretched forth her hand, closing her eyes, and leaning with the other upon Estafania, for she felt that her strength was about to fail her. Buckingham pressed his lips passionately to that beautiful hand, and then rising, said, "Within six months, if I am not dead, I shall have seen you again, madame--even if I have to overturn the world." And faithful to the promise he had made, he rushed out of the apartment. In the corridor he met Mme. Bonacieux, who waited for him, and who, with the same precautions and the same good luck, conducted him out of the Louvre.

Chapter Twelve: George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham

https://web.archive.org/web/20210127112556/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/three-musketeers/summary/chapter-twelve-george-villiers-duke-of-buckingham

Madame Bonacieux leads the Duke down various passages, finally ending up in a room where she leaves him, and locks the door behind her. Still, the Duke of Buckingham is fearless. He is rash and loves adventure, so even after discovering that the letter from Queen Anne was a hoax to lure him , he insists on seeing her anyway. Madame Bonacieux was to make all the arrangements, but she was briefly abducted. We get a brief description of the Duke--thirty-five, insanely good-looking, really powerful, and seducing powerful women. The man has some serious bravado to seduce the Queen of France. The married Queen of France. The Queen walks in. She looks absolutely beautiful. The Duke is dazzled. The Queen is dressed very plainly, but it only enhances her beauty. He falls to her feet and kisses the hem of her dress. Then Anne points out that the two of them don't have very much going for their relationship. First, there's the long-distance thing. He lives in England, she lives in France, and neither phones nor airplanes have been invented yet. Second, there's the whole your-country-hates-my-country issue. And lastly, there's the marriage part: Anne is a married woman. This is a bad combination, and Anne knows it. She says they can never see each other again. The Duke says he was too distracted by the beauty of her voice to pay attention to what she was saying. None of that means anything, he says, because the two of them are meant to be together forever. The Queen points out that she's never said that little phrase that begins with "I" and ends in "you." But, replies the Duke replies, she never said that she didn't love him. He praises her beauty some more. The Duke takes a couple trips down Memory Lane, asking her if she remembers all their encounters--encounters, which quickly became the scandal of the court. We learn that the Duke wanted to be the ambassador to France, but that the King nixed that whole idea on the grounds of, well, he didn't want his wife's lover hanging around. The Duke retaliated by waging war. He tells Anne that even though they're not allowed to see each other, she will hear about him every day. And when the war finally concludes and they send in the people who figure out the terms of peace, the Duke is planning to be one of those people. Yes, thousands of men may die, says the Duke, but he'll be able to see Anne again. He is one intense lover; Anne points out that all his proofs of love are practically criminal. They continue bantering back and forth. It becomes clear that despite her protestations, Anne is really into the Duke. She tells him that she has a recurring dream in which he is lying and bleeding. The Duke asks if the wound is on the left side and caused by a knife. Anne is shocked that he knows the dream. She has told no one about it. The Duke thinks that having the same dream is further proof of that the two are meant to be. Anne tells him to get the heck out--she will be unable to forgive herself if he is killed because he wants to see her. She tells him to come back openly one day and she will be happy to see him. The Duke agrees, but asks for a token of her love. She gives him a golden casket and tells him to leave. Madame Bonacieux meets him again and escorts him out of the palace.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/1257-chapters/13.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Three Musketeers/section_13_part_0.txt

The Three Musketeers.chapter 13

chapter 13: monsieur bonacieux

{"name": "Chapter Thirteen: Monsieur Bonacieux", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210127112556/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/three-musketeers/summary/chapter-thirteen-monsieur-bonacieux", "summary": "After he is arrested, Monsieur Bonacieux is taken straight to the Bastille . He's taken into a scary interrogation room. The commissary is a highly unattractive man, but he looks intelligent. He asks for Bonacieux's information. Bonacieux is fifty-one , a retired mercer , and lived at Rue des Fossoyeurs, No. 14. The commissary launches into a speech about respecting government officials. He then instructs Bonacieux to reflect upon his behavior, and being the sniveling, selfish, cowardly guy he is, Bonacieux starts praising the Cardinal. The commissary tells Bonacieux that he is being accused of high treason. Bonacieux is terrified. The commissary begins to question Bonacieux on the abduction of his wife. Bonacieux tells him everything he knows. The commissary takes a hard, aggressive stance during the questioning and eventually has Bonacieux thrown into the dungeon. Bonacieux, being sniveling, selfish, and cowardly, gets upset and scared. The guards are not amused. They shove him into the nearest cell, where he spends the night. In the morning Bonacieux learns that his wife has escaped. The commissary blames Bonacieux, then questions him about D'Artagnan. Bonacieux tells the truth, and the commissary instructs his guards to bring D'Artagnan into the room. D'Artagnan shows up, only... it's Athos. Bonacieux claims never to have seen him before. Athos does not deny this. The commissary has a difficult time believing either of them. He remains convinced that Athos really is D'Artagnan until Bonacieux points out that Athos is wearing a Musketeer's uniform. Bonacieux renounces his wife and her actions over and over again as the commissary is given fresh information about Madame Bonacieux's whereabouts and actions. Athos goes back to his dungeon cell and Bonacieux continues complaining about his situation. Later that evening, Bonacieux is bundled into a carriage where he spends a terrified ride convinced that he's about to be executed. One by one, the carriage passes all the prime execution sites, where they kill the really famous and notorious bad guys. Finally, there's only one execution site left, for the more common and less-important bad guys. The carriage stops. Bonacieux faints.", "analysis": ""}

13 MONSIEUR BONACIEUX There was in all this, as may have been observed, one personage concerned, of whom, notwithstanding his precarious position, we have appeared to take but very little notice. This personage was M. Bonacieux, the respectable martyr of the political and amorous intrigues which entangled themselves so nicely together at this gallant and chivalric period. Fortunately, the reader may remember, or may not remember--fortunately we have promised not to lose sight of him. The officers who arrested him conducted him straight to the Bastille, where he passed trembling before a party of soldiers who were loading their muskets. Thence, introduced into a half-subterranean gallery, he became, on the part of those who had brought him, the object of the grossest insults and the harshest treatment. The officers perceived that they had not to deal with a gentleman, and they treated him like a very peasant. At the end of half an hour or thereabouts, a clerk came to put an end to his tortures, but not to his anxiety, by giving the order to conduct M. Bonacieux to the Chamber of Examination. Ordinarily, prisoners were interrogated in their cells; but they did not do so with M. Bonacieux. Two guards attended the mercer who made him traverse a court and enter a corridor in which were three sentinels, opened a door and pushed him unceremoniously into a low room, where the only furniture was a table, a chair, and a commissary. The commissary was seated in the chair, and was writing at the table. The two guards led the prisoner toward the table, and upon a sign from the commissary drew back so far as to be unable to hear anything. The commissary, who had till this time held his head down over his papers, looked up to see what sort of person he had to do with. This commissary was a man of very repulsive mien, with a pointed nose, with yellow and salient cheek bones, with eyes small but keen and penetrating, and an expression of countenance resembling at once the polecat and the fox. His head, supported by a long and flexible neck, issued from his large black robe, balancing itself with a motion very much like that of the tortoise thrusting his head out of his shell. He began by asking M. Bonacieux his name, age, condition, and abode. The accused replied that his name was Jacques Michel Bonacieux, that he was fifty-one years old, a retired mercer, and lived Rue des Fossoyeurs, No. 14. The commissary then, instead of continuing to interrogate him, made him a long speech upon the danger there is for an obscure citizen to meddle with public matters. He complicated this exordium by an exposition in which he painted the power and the deeds of the cardinal, that incomparable minister, that conqueror of past ministers, that example for ministers to come--deeds and power which none could thwart with impunity. After this second part of his discourse, fixing his hawk's eye upon poor Bonacieux, he bade him reflect upon the gravity of his situation. The reflections of the mercer were already made; he cursed the instant when M. Laporte formed the idea of marrying him to his goddaughter, and particularly the moment when that goddaughter had been received as Lady of the Linen to her Majesty. At bottom the character of M. Bonacieux was one of profound selfishness mixed with sordid avarice, the whole seasoned with extreme cowardice. The love with which his young wife had inspired him was a secondary sentiment, and was not strong enough to contend with the primitive feelings we have just enumerated. Bonacieux indeed reflected on what had just been said to him. "But, Monsieur Commissary," said he, calmly, "believe that I know and appreciate, more than anybody, the merit of the incomparable eminence by whom we have the honor to be governed." "Indeed?" asked the commissary, with an air of doubt. "If that is really so, how came you in the Bastille?" "How I came there, or rather why I am there," replied Bonacieux, "that is entirely impossible for me to tell you, because I don't know myself; but to a certainty it is not for having, knowingly at least, disobliged Monsieur the Cardinal." "You must, nevertheless, have committed a crime, since you are here and are accused of high treason." "Of high treason!" cried Bonacieux, terrified; "of high treason! How is it possible for a poor mercer, who detests Huguenots and who abhors Spaniards, to be accused of high treason? Consider, monsieur, the thing is absolutely impossible." "Monsieur Bonacieux," said the commissary, looking at the accused as if his little eyes had the faculty of reading to the very depths of hearts, "you have a wife?" "Yes, monsieur," replied the mercer, in a tremble, feeling that it was at this point affairs were likely to become perplexing; "that is to say, I HAD one." "What, you 'had one'? What have you done with her, then, if you have her no longer?" "They have abducted her, monsieur." "They have abducted her? Ah!" Bonacieux inferred from this "Ah" that the affair grew more and more intricate. "They have abducted her," added the commissary; "and do you know the man who has committed this deed?" "I think I know him." "Who is he?" "Remember that I affirm nothing, Monsieur the Commissary, and that I only suspect." "Whom do you suspect? Come, answer freely." M Bonacieux was in the greatest perplexity possible. Had he better deny everything or tell everything? By denying all, it might be suspected that he must know too much to avow; by confessing all he might prove his good will. He decided, then, to tell all. "I suspect," said he, "a tall, dark man, of lofty carriage, who has the air of a great lord. He has followed us several times, as I think, when I have waited for my wife at the wicket of the Louvre to escort her home." The commissary now appeared to experience a little uneasiness. "And his name?" said he. "Oh, as to his name, I know nothing about it; but if I were ever to meet him, I should recognize him in an instant, I will answer for it, were he among a thousand persons." The face of the commissary grew still darker. "You should recognize him among a thousand, say you?" continued he. "That is to say," cried Bonacieux, who saw he had taken a false step, "that is to say--" "You have answered that you should recognize him," said the commissary. "That is all very well, and enough for today; before we proceed further, someone must be informed that you know the ravisher of your wife." "But I have not told you that I know him!" cried Bonacieux, in despair. "I told you, on the contrary--" "Take away the prisoner," said the commissary to the two guards. "Where must we place him?" demanded the chief. "In a dungeon." "Which?" "Good Lord! In the first one handy, provided it is safe," said the commissary, with an indifference which penetrated poor Bonacieux with horror. "Alas, alas!" said he to himself, "misfortune is over my head; my wife must have committed some frightful crime. They believe me her accomplice, and will punish me with her. She must have spoken; she must have confessed everything--a woman is so weak! A dungeon! The first he comes to! That's it! A night is soon passed; and tomorrow to the wheel, to the gallows! Oh, my God, my God, have pity on me!" Without listening the least in the world to the lamentations of M. Bonacieux--lamentations to which, besides, they must have been pretty well accustomed--the two guards took the prisoner each by an arm, and led him away, while the commissary wrote a letter in haste and dispatched it by an officer in waiting. Bonacieux could not close his eyes; not because his dungeon was so very disagreeable, but because his uneasiness was so great. He sat all night on his stool, starting at the least noise; and when the first rays of the sun penetrated into his chamber, the dawn itself appeared to him to have taken funereal tints. All at once he heard his bolts drawn, and made a terrified bound. He believed they were come to conduct him to the scaffold; so that when he saw merely and simply, instead of the executioner he expected, only his commissary of the preceding evening, attended by his clerk, he was ready to embrace them both. "Your affair has become more complicated since yesterday evening, my good man, and I advise you to tell the whole truth; for your repentance alone can remove the anger of the cardinal." "Why, I am ready to tell everything," cried Bonacieux, "at least, all that I know. Interrogate me, I entreat you!" "Where is your wife, in the first place?" "Why, did not I tell you she had been stolen from me?" "Yes, but yesterday at five o'clock in the afternoon, thanks to you, she escaped." "My wife escaped!" cried Bonacieux. "Oh, unfortunate creature! Monsieur, if she has escaped, it is not my fault, I swear." "What business had you, then, to go into the chamber of Monsieur d'Artagnan, your neighbor, with whom you had a long conference during the day?" "Ah, yes, Monsieur Commissary; yes, that is true, and I confess that I was in the wrong. I did go to Monsieur d'Artagnan's." "What was the aim of that visit?" "To beg him to assist me in finding my wife. I believed I had a right to endeavor to find her. I was deceived, as it appears, and I ask your pardon." "And what did Monsieur d'Artagnan reply?" "Monsieur d'Artagnan promised me his assistance; but I soon found out that he was betraying me." "You impose upon justice. Monsieur d'Artagnan made a compact with you; and in virtue of that compact put to flight the police who had arrested your wife, and has placed her beyond reach." "M. d'Artagnan has abducted my wife! Come now, what are you telling me?" "Fortunately, Monsieur d'Artagnan is in our hands, and you shall be confronted with him." "By my faith, I ask no better," cried Bonacieux; "I shall not be sorry to see the face of an acquaintance." "Bring in the Monsieur d'Artagnan," said the commissary to the guards. The two guards led in Athos. "Monsieur d'Artagnan," said the commissary, addressing Athos, "declare all that passed yesterday between you and Monsieur." "But," cried Bonacieux, "this is not Monsieur d'Artagnan whom you show me." "What! Not Monsieur d'Artagnan?" exclaimed the commissary. "Not the least in the world," replied Bonacieux. "What is this gentleman's name?" asked the commissary. "I cannot tell you; I don't know him." "How! You don't know him?" "No." "Did you never see him?" "Yes, I have seen him, but I don't know what he calls himself." "Your name?" replied the commissary. "Athos," replied the Musketeer. "But that is not a man's name; that is the name of a mountain," cried the poor questioner, who began to lose his head. "That is my name," said Athos, quietly. "But you said that your name was d'Artagnan." "Who, I?" "Yes, you." "Somebody said to me, 'You are Monsieur d'Artagnan?' I answered, 'You think so?' My guards exclaimed that they were sure of it. I did not wish to contradict them; besides, I might be deceived." "Monsieur, you insult the majesty of justice." "Not at all," said Athos, calmly. "You are Monsieur d'Artagnan." "You see, monsieur, that you say it again." "But I tell you, Monsieur Commissary," cried Bonacieux, in his turn, "there is not the least doubt about the matter. Monsieur d'Artagnan is my tenant, although he does not pay me my rent--and even better on that account ought I to know him. Monsieur d'Artagnan is a young man, scarcely nineteen or twenty, and this gentleman must be thirty at least. Monsieur d'Artagnan is in Monsieur Dessessart's Guards, and this gentleman is in the company of Monsieur de Treville's Musketeers. Look at his uniform, Monsieur Commissary, look at his uniform!" "That's true," murmured the commissary; "PARDIEU, that's true." At this moment the door was opened quickly, and a messenger, introduced by one of the gatekeepers of the Bastille, gave a letter to the commissary. "Oh, unhappy woman!" cried the commissary. "How? What do you say? Of whom do you speak? It is not of my wife, I hope!" "On the contrary, it is of her. Yours is a pretty business." "But," said the agitated mercer, "do me the pleasure, monsieur, to tell me how my own proper affair can become worse by anything my wife does while I am in prison?" "Because that which she does is part of a plan concerted between you--of an infernal plan." "I swear to you, Monsieur Commissary, that you are in the profoundest error, that I know nothing in the world about what my wife had to do, that I am entirely a stranger to what she has done; and that if she has committed any follies, I renounce her, I abjure her, I curse her!" "Bah!" said Athos to the commissary, "if you have no more need of me, send me somewhere. Your Monsieur Bonacieux is very tiresome." The commissary designated by the same gesture Athos and Bonacieux, "Let them be guarded more closely than ever." "And yet," said Athos, with his habitual calmness, "if it be Monsieur d'Artagnan who is concerned in this matter, I do not perceive how I can take his place." "Do as I bade you," cried the commissary, "and preserve absolute secrecy. You understand!" Athos shrugged his shoulders, and followed his guards silently, while M. Bonacieux uttered lamentations enough to break the heart of a tiger. They locked the mercer in the same dungeon where he had passed the night, and left him to himself during the day. Bonacieux wept all day, like a true mercer, not being at all a military man, as he himself informed us. In the evening, about nine o'clock, at the moment he had made up his mind to go to bed, he heard steps in his corridor. These steps drew near to his dungeon, the door was thrown open, and the guards appeared. "Follow me," said an officer, who came up behind the guards. "Follow you!" cried Bonacieux, "follow you at this hour! Where, my God?" "Where we have orders to lead you." "But that is not an answer." "It is, nevertheless, the only one we can give." "Ah, my God, my God!" murmured the poor mercer, "now, indeed, I am lost!" And he followed the guards who came for him, mechanically and without resistance. He passed along the same corridor as before, crossed one court, then a second side of a building; at length, at the gate of the entrance court he found a carriage surrounded by four guards on horseback. They made him enter this carriage, the officer placed himself by his side, the door was locked, and they were left in a rolling prison. The carriage was put in motion as slowly as a funeral car. Through the closely fastened windows the prisoner could perceive the houses and the pavement, that was all; but, true Parisian as he was, Bonacieux could recognize every street by the milestones, the signs, and the lamps. At the moment of arriving at St. Paul--the spot where such as were condemned at the Bastille were executed--he was near fainting and crossed himself twice. He thought the carriage was about to stop there. The carriage, however, passed on. Farther on, a still greater terror seized him on passing by the cemetery of St. Jean, where state criminals were buried. One thing, however, reassured him; he remembered that before they were buried their heads were generally cut off, and he felt that his head was still on his shoulders. But when he saw the carriage take the way to La Greve, when he perceived the pointed roof of the Hotel de Ville, and the carriage passed under the arcade, he believed it was over with him. He wished to confess to the officer, and upon his refusal, uttered such pitiable cries that the officer told him that if he continued to deafen him thus, he should put a gag in his mouth. This measure somewhat reassured Bonacieux. If they meant to execute him at La Greve, it could scarcely be worth while to gag him, as they had nearly reached the place of execution. Indeed, the carriage crossed the fatal spot without stopping. There remained, then, no other place to fear but the Traitor's Cross; the carriage was taking the direct road to it. This time there was no longer any doubt; it was at the Traitor's Cross that lesser criminals were executed. Bonacieux had flattered himself in believing himself worthy of St. Paul or of the Place de Greve; it was at the Traitor's Cross that his journey and his destiny were about to end! He could not yet see that dreadful cross, but he felt somehow as if it were coming to meet him. When he was within twenty paces of it, he heard a noise of people and the carriage stopped. This was more than poor Bonacieux could endure, depressed as he was by the successive emotions which he had experienced; he uttered a feeble groan which night have been taken for the last sigh of a dying man, and fainted.

Chapter Thirteen: Monsieur Bonacieux

https://web.archive.org/web/20210127112556/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/three-musketeers/summary/chapter-thirteen-monsieur-bonacieux

After he is arrested, Monsieur Bonacieux is taken straight to the Bastille . He's taken into a scary interrogation room. The commissary is a highly unattractive man, but he looks intelligent. He asks for Bonacieux's information. Bonacieux is fifty-one , a retired mercer , and lived at Rue des Fossoyeurs, No. 14. The commissary launches into a speech about respecting government officials. He then instructs Bonacieux to reflect upon his behavior, and being the sniveling, selfish, cowardly guy he is, Bonacieux starts praising the Cardinal. The commissary tells Bonacieux that he is being accused of high treason. Bonacieux is terrified. The commissary begins to question Bonacieux on the abduction of his wife. Bonacieux tells him everything he knows. The commissary takes a hard, aggressive stance during the questioning and eventually has Bonacieux thrown into the dungeon. Bonacieux, being sniveling, selfish, and cowardly, gets upset and scared. The guards are not amused. They shove him into the nearest cell, where he spends the night. In the morning Bonacieux learns that his wife has escaped. The commissary blames Bonacieux, then questions him about D'Artagnan. Bonacieux tells the truth, and the commissary instructs his guards to bring D'Artagnan into the room. D'Artagnan shows up, only... it's Athos. Bonacieux claims never to have seen him before. Athos does not deny this. The commissary has a difficult time believing either of them. He remains convinced that Athos really is D'Artagnan until Bonacieux points out that Athos is wearing a Musketeer's uniform. Bonacieux renounces his wife and her actions over and over again as the commissary is given fresh information about Madame Bonacieux's whereabouts and actions. Athos goes back to his dungeon cell and Bonacieux continues complaining about his situation. Later that evening, Bonacieux is bundled into a carriage where he spends a terrified ride convinced that he's about to be executed. One by one, the carriage passes all the prime execution sites, where they kill the really famous and notorious bad guys. Finally, there's only one execution site left, for the more common and less-important bad guys. The carriage stops. Bonacieux faints.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/1257-chapters/14.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Three Musketeers/section_14_part_0.txt

The Three Musketeers.chapter 14

chapter 14: the man of meung

{"name": "Chapter Fourteen: The Man of Meung", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210127112556/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/three-musketeers/summary/chapter-fourteen-the-man-of-meung", "summary": "It turns out the carriage had stopped only because a bunch of people were rubbernecking a corpse. Monsieur Bonacieux is still alive. Two guards grab Bonacieux out of the carriage and drag him into a building and upstairs. He quiets down after a time and has a look around--since the furnishings are really quite beautiful, he starts to feel more comfortable. A nice-looking officer walks in and Bonacieux goes into another, less pleasant, room. There is a map of La Rochelle on the table and a man standing next to the table. This man is the Cardinal de Richelieu that we've been hearing so much about. The narrator notes that this is one of the most extraordinary men in Europe, renowned for his genius and moral power. The Cardinal asks for notes from the interrogations at the Bastille, and then dismisses his men. After reading the notes, he accuses Bonacieux of conspiracy. Bonacieux says his wife said that the Cardinal had lured the Duke of Buckingham to Paris in order to ruin the Queen. The Cardinal reacts violently to this bit of information and calls Bonacieux stupid. The rest of the conversation goes something like this: Cardinal: Do you know where your wife is? Bonacieux: No, but I assume she went to the palace. Cardinal: Wrong! She has disappeared. But because I am Cardinal Awesome, no one can hide from me. *cue manic laughter* The Cardinal then questions Bonacieux about his wife's activities. We learn that Madame Bonacieux frequently did business with linen drapers, . Boancieux gives the addresses of the two linen drapers his wife frequents, and the Cardinal calls for his servants to send Count Rochefort into the room. The man walks in and Bonacieux recognizes him as the man who stole his wife. This would make Count Rochefort also D'Artagnan's man from Meung. The Cardinal promptly calls for an officer to have Rochefort locked up. Immediately Bonacieux takes back what he said. The Cardinal orders the guards to get rid of Bonacieux. One of the guards stays behind and tells the Cardinal that the Queen and the Duke have met up at the palace. The source of the information is a Madame de Lannoy, an agent of the Cardinal. The Cardinal learns all the details of the encounter from the perspective of one of the Queen's ladies--the Queen ordered her women to wait for her, then returned to grab the golden casket. The new piece of information we learn is that the casket is full of diamond studs . Clearly the Queen gave the casket to the Duke. We knew that already, but the Cardinal wants to make sure, so he continues questioning the officer. Apparently Madame de Lannoy expressed fake concern that the casket was missing. When confronted, the Queen said she was having the studs repaired. The officer checked with the goldsmith, who definitely had no such casket. The Cardinal is pleased. There is still time to embarrass the Queen. He then orders his officers to check the two addresses provided by Bonacieux. After the officer leaves, the Cardinal calls for Bonacieux to enter again. He chastises Bonacieux for being so dense as to think that his wife was actually going to visit linen drapers. Bonacieux falls at the Cardinal's feet and showers compliments on him. The Cardinal smiles and enjoys the compliments. Bonacieux engages in a little more brown-nosing before the Cardinal forgives him. Then the Cardinal gives him a hundred pistoles in apology. Bonacieux leaves singing the Cardinal's praises at the top of his lungs. The Cardinal is amused, but is also pleased. Clearly Bonacieux's loyalties now belong to the Cardinal. The Cardinal examines the map of La Rochelle as Rochefort re-enters the room. Rochefort reports that a man and a woman had indeed been staying at one of the two houses, but they are no longer there. The Cardinal orders that the Queen be kept unaware that secret is out. When Rochefort asks what went down with Bonacieux, the Cardinal answers that Bonacieux is now a spy upon his wife, Madame Bonacieux. Later, the Cardinal calls for a man named Vitray to travel to London and deliver a letter to Milady, one of the Cardinal's conspirators. He also gives him two hundred pistoles and promises the same amount upon the man's return. The messenger leaves. The last paragraph of the chapter reveals the message's contents: Milady is instructed to find the Duke of Buckingham and, since he will obviously be wearing the diamond studs, to get close and cut off two of the studs. We're left with a cliffhanger!", "analysis": ""}

14 THE MAN OF MEUNG The crowd was caused, not by the expectation of a man to be hanged, but by the contemplation of a man who was hanged. The carriage, which had been stopped for a minute, resumed its way, passed through the crowd, threaded the Rue St. Honore, turned into the Rue des Bons Enfants, and stopped before a low door. The door opened; two guards received Bonacieux in their arms from the officer who supported him. They carried him through an alley, up a flight of stairs, and deposited him in an antechamber. All these movements had been effected mechanically, as far as he was concerned. He had walked as one walks in a dream; he had a glimpse of objects as through a fog. His ears had perceived sounds without comprehending them; he might have been executed at that moment without his making a single gesture in his own defense or uttering a cry to implore mercy. He remained on the bench, with his back leaning against the wall and his hands hanging down, exactly on the spot where the guards placed him. On looking around him, however, as he could perceive no threatening object, as nothing indicated that he ran any real danger, as the bench was comfortably covered with a well-stuffed cushion, as the wall was ornamented with a beautiful Cordova leather, and as large red damask curtains, fastened back by gold clasps, floated before the window, he perceived by degrees that his fear was exaggerated, and he began to turn his head to the right and the left, upward and downward. At this movement, which nobody opposed, he resumed a little courage, and ventured to draw up one leg and then the other. At length, with the help of his two hands he lifted himself from the bench, and found himself on his feet. At this moment an officer with a pleasant face opened a door, continued to exchange some words with a person in the next chamber and then came up to the prisoner. "Is your name Bonacieux?" said he. "Yes, Monsieur Officer," stammered the mercer, more dead than alive, "at your service." "Come in," said the officer. And he moved out of the way to let the mercer pass. The latter obeyed without reply, and entered the chamber, where he appeared to be expected. It was a large cabinet, close and stifling, with the walls furnished with arms offensive and defensive, and in which there was already a fire, although it was scarcely the end of the month of September. A square table, covered with books and papers, upon which was unrolled an immense plan of the city of La Rochelle, occupied the center of the room. Standing before the chimney was a man of middle height, of a haughty, proud mien; with piercing eyes, a large brow, and a thin face, which was made still longer by a ROYAL (or IMPERIAL, as it is now called), surmounted by a pair of mustaches. Although this man was scarcely thirty-six or thirty-seven years of age, hair, mustaches, and royal, all began to be gray. This man, except a sword, had all the appearance of a soldier; and his buff boots, still slightly covered with dust, indicated that he had been on horseback in the course of the day. This man was Armand Jean Duplessis, Cardinal de Richelieu; not such as he is now represented--broken down like an old man, suffering like a martyr, his body bent, his voice failing, buried in a large armchair as in an anticipated tomb; no longer living but by the strength of his genius, and no longer maintaining the struggle with Europe but by the eternal application of his thoughts--but such as he really was at this period; that is to say, an active and gallant cavalier, already weak of body, but sustained by that moral power which made of him one of the most extraordinary men that ever lived, preparing, after having supported the Duc de Nevers in his duchy of Mantua, after having taken Nimes, Castres, and Uzes, to drive the English from the Isle of Re and lay siege to La Rochelle. At first sight, nothing denoted the cardinal; and it was impossible for those who did not know his face to guess in whose presence they were. The poor mercer remained standing at the door, while the eyes of the personage we have just described were fixed upon him, and appeared to wish to penetrate even into the depths of the past. "Is this that Bonacieux?" asked he, after a moment of silence. "Yes, monseigneur," replied the officer. "That's well. Give me those papers, and leave us." The officer took from the table the papers pointed out, gave them to him who asked for them, bowed to the ground, and retired. Bonacieux recognized in these papers his interrogatories of the Bastille. From time to time the man by the chimney raised his eyes from the writings, and plunged them like poniards into the heart of the poor mercer. At the end of ten minutes of reading and ten seconds of examination, the cardinal was satisfied. "That head has never conspired," murmured he, "but it matters not; we will see." "You are accused of high treason," said the cardinal, slowly. "So I have been told already, monseigneur," cried Bonacieux, giving his interrogator the title he had heard the officer give him, "but I swear to you that I know nothing about it." The cardinal repressed a smile. "You have conspired with your wife, with Madame de Chevreuse, and with my Lord Duke of Buckingham." "Indeed, monseigneur," responded the mercer, "I have heard her pronounce all those names." "And on what occasion?" "She said that the Cardinal de Richelieu had drawn the Duke of Buckingham to Paris to ruin him and to ruin the queen." "She said that?" cried the cardinal, with violence. "Yes, monseigneur, but I told her she was wrong to talk about such things; and that his Eminence was incapable--" "Hold your tongue! You are stupid," replied the cardinal. "That's exactly what my wife said, monseigneur." "Do you know who carried off your wife?" "No, monseigneur." "You have suspicions, nevertheless?" "Yes, monseigneur; but these suspicions appeared to be disagreeable to Monsieur the Commissary, and I no longer have them." "Your wife has escaped. Did you know that?" "No, monseigneur. I learned it since I have been in prison, and that from the conversation of Monsieur the Commissary--an amiable man." The cardinal repressed another smile. "Then you are ignorant of what has become of your wife since her flight." "Absolutely, monseigneur; but she has most likely returned to the Louvre." "At one o'clock this morning she had not returned." "My God! What can have become of her, then?" "We shall know, be assured. Nothing is concealed from the cardinal; the cardinal knows everything." "In that case, monseigneur, do you believe the cardinal will be so kind as to tell me what has become of my wife?" "Perhaps he may; but you must, in the first place, reveal to the cardinal all you know of your wife's relations with Madame de Chevreuse." "But, monseigneur, I know nothing about them; I have never seen her." "When you went to fetch your wife from the Louvre, did you always return directly home?" "Scarcely ever; she had business to transact with linen drapers, to whose houses I conducted her." "And how many were there of these linen drapers?" "Two, monseigneur." "And where did they live?" "One in Rue de Vaugirard, the other Rue de la Harpe." "Did you go into these houses with her?" "Never, monseigneur; I waited at the door." "And what excuse did she give you for entering all alone?" "She gave me none; she told me to wait, and I waited." "You are a very complacent husband, my dear Monsieur Bonacieux," said the cardinal. "He calls me his dear Monsieur," said the mercer to himself. "PESTE! Matters are going all right." "Should you know those doors again?" "Yes." "Do you know the numbers?" "Yes." "What are they?" "No. 25 in the Rue de Vaugirard; 75 in the Rue de la Harpe." "That's well," said the cardinal. At these words he took up a silver bell, and rang it; the officer entered. "Go," said he, in a subdued voice, "and find Rochefort. Tell him to come to me immediately, if he has returned." "The count is here," said the officer, "and requests to speak with your Eminence instantly." "Let him come in, then!" said the cardinal, quickly. The officer sprang out of the apartment with that alacrity which all the servants of the cardinal displayed in obeying him. "To your Eminence!" murmured Bonacieux, rolling his eyes round in astonishment. Five seconds has scarcely elapsed after the disappearance of the officer, when the door opened, and a new personage entered. "It is he!" cried Bonacieux. "He! What he?" asked the cardinal. "The man who abducted my wife." The cardinal rang a second time. The officer reappeared. "Place this man in the care of his guards again, and let him wait till I send for him." "No, monseigneur, no, it is not he!" cried Bonacieux; "no, I was deceived. This is quite another man, and does not resemble him at all. Monsieur is, I am sure, an honest man." "Take away that fool!" said the cardinal. The officer took Bonacieux by the arm, and led him into the antechamber, where he found his two guards. The newly introduced personage followed Bonacieux impatiently with his eyes till he had gone out; and the moment the door closed, "They have seen each other;" said he, approaching the cardinal eagerly. "Who?" asked his Eminence. "He and she." "The queen and the duke?" cried Richelieu. "Yes." "Where?" "At the Louvre." "Are you sure of it?" "Perfectly sure." "Who told you of it?" "Madame de Lannoy, who is devoted to your Eminence, as you know." "Why did she not let me know sooner?" "Whether by chance or mistrust, the queen made Madame de Surgis sleep in her chamber, and detained her all day." "Well, we are beaten! Now let us try to take our revenge." "I will assist you with all my heart, monseigneur; be assured of that." "How did it come about?" "At half past twelve the queen was with her women--" "Where?" "In her bedchamber--" "Go on." "When someone came and brought her a handkerchief from her laundress." "And then?" "The queen immediately exhibited strong emotion; and despite the rouge with which her face was covered evidently turned pale--" "And then, and then?" "She then arose, and with altered voice, 'Ladies,' said she, 'wait for me ten minutes, I shall soon return.' She then opened the door of her alcove, and went out." "Why did not Madame de Lannoy come and inform you instantly?" "Nothing was certain; besides, her Majesty had said, 'Ladies, wait for me,' and she did not dare to disobey the queen." "How long did the queen remain out of the chamber?" "Three-quarters of an hour." "None of her women accompanied her?" "Only Donna Estafania." "Did she afterward return?" "Yes; but only to take a little rosewood casket, with her cipher upon it, and went out again immediately." "And when she finally returned, did she bring that casket with her?" "No." "Does Madame de Lannoy know what was in that casket?" "Yes; the diamond studs which his Majesty gave the queen." "And she came back without this casket?" "Yes." "Madame de Lannoy, then, is of opinion that she gave them to Buckingham?" "She is sure of it." "How can she be so?" "In the course of the day Madame de Lannoy, in her quality of tire-woman of the queen, looked for this casket, appeared uneasy at not finding it, and at length asked information of the queen." "And then the queen?" "The queen became exceedingly red, and replied that having in the evening broken one of those studs, she had sent it to her goldsmith to be repaired." "He must be called upon, and so ascertain if the thing be true or not." "I have just been with him." "And the goldsmith?" "The goldsmith has heard nothing of it." "Well, well! Rochefort, all is not lost; and perhaps--perhaps everything is for the best." "The fact is that I do not doubt your Eminence's genius--" "Will repair the blunders of his agent--is that it?" "That is exactly what I was going to say, if your Eminence had let me finish my sentence." "Meanwhile, do you know where the Duchesse de Chevreuse and the Duke of Buckingham are now concealed?" "No, monseigneur; my people could tell me nothing on that head." "But I know." "You, monseigneur?" "Yes; or at least I guess. They were, one in the Rue de Vaugirard, No. 25; the other in the Rue de la Harpe, No. 75." "Does your Eminence command that they both be instantly arrested?" "It will be too late; they will be gone." "But still, we can make sure that they are so." "Take ten men of my Guardsmen, and search the two houses thoroughly." "Instantly, monseigneur." And Rochefort went hastily out of the apartment. The cardinal, being left alone, reflected for an instant and then rang the bell a third time. The same officer appeared. "Bring the prisoner in again," said the cardinal. M Bonacieux was introduced afresh, and upon a sign from the cardinal, the officer retired. "You have deceived me!" said the cardinal, sternly. "I," cried Bonacieux, "I deceive your Eminence!" "Your wife, in going to Rue de Vaugirard and Rue de la Harpe, did not go to find linen drapers." "Then why did she go, just God?" "She went to meet the Duchesse de Chevreuse and the Duke of Buckingham." "Yes," cried Bonacieux, recalling all his remembrances of the circumstances, "yes, that's it. Your Eminence is right. I told my wife several times that it was surprising that linen drapers should live in such houses as those, in houses that had no signs; but she always laughed at me. Ah, monseigneur!" continued Bonacieux, throwing himself at his Eminence's feet, "ah, how truly you are the cardinal, the great cardinal, the man of genius whom all the world reveres!" The cardinal, however contemptible might be the triumph gained over so vulgar a being as Bonacieux, did not the less enjoy it for an instant; then, almost immediately, as if a fresh thought has occurred, a smile played upon his lips, and he said, offering his hand to the mercer, "Rise, my friend, you are a worthy man." "The cardinal has touched me with his hand! I have touched the hand of the great man!" cried Bonacieux. "The great man has called me his friend!" "Yes, my friend, yes," said the cardinal, with that paternal tone which he sometimes knew how to assume, but which deceived none who knew him; "and as you have been unjustly suspected, well, you must be indemnified. Here, take this purse of a hundred pistoles, and pardon me." "I pardon you, monseigneur!" said Bonacieux, hesitating to take the purse, fearing, doubtless, that this pretended gift was but a pleasantry. "But you are able to have me arrested, you are able to have me tortured, you are able to have me hanged; you are the master, and I could not have the least word to say. Pardon you, monseigneur! You cannot mean that!" "Ah, my dear Monsieur Bonacieux, you are generous in this matter. I see it and I thank you for it. Thus, then, you will take this bag, and you will go away without being too malcontent." "I go away enchanted." "Farewell, then, or rather, AU REVOIR!" "Whenever Monseigneur wishes, I shall be firmly at the orders of his Eminence." "That will be often, be assured, for I have found your conversation quite charming." "Oh! Monseigneur!" "AU REVOIR, Monsieur Bonacieux, AU REVOIR." And the cardinal made him a sign with his hand, to which Bonacieux replied by bowing to the ground. He then went out backward, and when he was in the antechamber the cardinal heard him, in his enthusiasm, crying aloud, "Long life to the Monseigneur! Long life to his Eminence! Long life to the great cardinal!" The cardinal listened with a smile to this vociferous manifestation of the feelings of M. Bonacieux; and then, when Bonacieux's cries were no longer audible, "Good!" said he, "that man would henceforward lay down his life for me." And the cardinal began to examine with the greatest attention the map of La Rochelle, which, as we have said, lay open on the desk, tracing with a pencil the line in which the famous dyke was to pass which, eighteen months later, shut up the port of the besieged city. As he was in the deepest of his strategic meditations, the door opened, and Rochefort returned. "Well?" said the cardinal, eagerly, rising with a promptitude which proved the degree of importance he attached to the commission with which he had charged the count. "Well," said the latter, "a young woman of about twenty-six or twenty-eight years of age, and a man of from thirty-five to forty, have indeed lodged at the two houses pointed out by your Eminence; but the woman left last night, and the man this morning." "It was they!" cried the cardinal, looking at the clock; "and now it is too late to have them pursued. The duchess is at Tours, and the duke at Boulogne. It is in London they must be found." "What are your Eminence's orders?" "Not a word of what has passed. Let the queen remain in perfect security; let her be ignorant that we know her secret. Let her believe that we are in search of some conspiracy or other. Send me the keeper of the seals, Seguier." "And that man, what has your Eminence done with him?" "What man?" asked the cardinal. "That Bonacieux." "I have done with him all that could be done. I have made him a spy upon his wife." The Comte de Rochefort bowed like a man who acknowledges the superiority of the master as great, and retired. Left alone, the cardinal seated himself again and wrote a letter, which he secured with his special seal. Then he rang. The officer entered for the fourth time. "Tell Vitray to come to me," said he, "and tell him to get ready for a journey." An instant after, the man he asked for was before him, booted and spurred. "Vitray," said he, "you will go with all speed to London. You must not stop an instant on the way. You will deliver this letter to Milady. Here is an order for two hundred pistoles; call upon my treasurer and get the money. You shall have as much again if you are back within six days, and have executed your commission well." The messenger, without replying a single word, bowed, took the letter, with the order for the two hundred pistoles, and retired. Here is what the letter contained: MILADY, Be at the first ball at which the Duke of Buckingham shall be present. He will wear on his doublet twelve diamond studs; get as near to him as you can, and cut off two. As soon as these studs shall be in your possession, inform me.

Chapter Fourteen: The Man of Meung

https://web.archive.org/web/20210127112556/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/three-musketeers/summary/chapter-fourteen-the-man-of-meung

It turns out the carriage had stopped only because a bunch of people were rubbernecking a corpse. Monsieur Bonacieux is still alive. Two guards grab Bonacieux out of the carriage and drag him into a building and upstairs. He quiets down after a time and has a look around--since the furnishings are really quite beautiful, he starts to feel more comfortable. A nice-looking officer walks in and Bonacieux goes into another, less pleasant, room. There is a map of La Rochelle on the table and a man standing next to the table. This man is the Cardinal de Richelieu that we've been hearing so much about. The narrator notes that this is one of the most extraordinary men in Europe, renowned for his genius and moral power. The Cardinal asks for notes from the interrogations at the Bastille, and then dismisses his men. After reading the notes, he accuses Bonacieux of conspiracy. Bonacieux says his wife said that the Cardinal had lured the Duke of Buckingham to Paris in order to ruin the Queen. The Cardinal reacts violently to this bit of information and calls Bonacieux stupid. The rest of the conversation goes something like this: Cardinal: Do you know where your wife is? Bonacieux: No, but I assume she went to the palace. Cardinal: Wrong! She has disappeared. But because I am Cardinal Awesome, no one can hide from me. *cue manic laughter* The Cardinal then questions Bonacieux about his wife's activities. We learn that Madame Bonacieux frequently did business with linen drapers, . Boancieux gives the addresses of the two linen drapers his wife frequents, and the Cardinal calls for his servants to send Count Rochefort into the room. The man walks in and Bonacieux recognizes him as the man who stole his wife. This would make Count Rochefort also D'Artagnan's man from Meung. The Cardinal promptly calls for an officer to have Rochefort locked up. Immediately Bonacieux takes back what he said. The Cardinal orders the guards to get rid of Bonacieux. One of the guards stays behind and tells the Cardinal that the Queen and the Duke have met up at the palace. The source of the information is a Madame de Lannoy, an agent of the Cardinal. The Cardinal learns all the details of the encounter from the perspective of one of the Queen's ladies--the Queen ordered her women to wait for her, then returned to grab the golden casket. The new piece of information we learn is that the casket is full of diamond studs . Clearly the Queen gave the casket to the Duke. We knew that already, but the Cardinal wants to make sure, so he continues questioning the officer. Apparently Madame de Lannoy expressed fake concern that the casket was missing. When confronted, the Queen said she was having the studs repaired. The officer checked with the goldsmith, who definitely had no such casket. The Cardinal is pleased. There is still time to embarrass the Queen. He then orders his officers to check the two addresses provided by Bonacieux. After the officer leaves, the Cardinal calls for Bonacieux to enter again. He chastises Bonacieux for being so dense as to think that his wife was actually going to visit linen drapers. Bonacieux falls at the Cardinal's feet and showers compliments on him. The Cardinal smiles and enjoys the compliments. Bonacieux engages in a little more brown-nosing before the Cardinal forgives him. Then the Cardinal gives him a hundred pistoles in apology. Bonacieux leaves singing the Cardinal's praises at the top of his lungs. The Cardinal is amused, but is also pleased. Clearly Bonacieux's loyalties now belong to the Cardinal. The Cardinal examines the map of La Rochelle as Rochefort re-enters the room. Rochefort reports that a man and a woman had indeed been staying at one of the two houses, but they are no longer there. The Cardinal orders that the Queen be kept unaware that secret is out. When Rochefort asks what went down with Bonacieux, the Cardinal answers that Bonacieux is now a spy upon his wife, Madame Bonacieux. Later, the Cardinal calls for a man named Vitray to travel to London and deliver a letter to Milady, one of the Cardinal's conspirators. He also gives him two hundred pistoles and promises the same amount upon the man's return. The messenger leaves. The last paragraph of the chapter reveals the message's contents: Milady is instructed to find the Duke of Buckingham and, since he will obviously be wearing the diamond studs, to get close and cut off two of the studs. We're left with a cliffhanger!

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/1257-chapters/15.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Three Musketeers/section_15_part_0.txt

The Three Musketeers.chapter 15

chapter 15: men of the robe and men of the sword

{"name": "Chapter Fifteen: Men of the Robe and Men of the Sword", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210127112556/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/three-musketeers/summary/chapter-fifteen-men-of-the-robe-and-men-of-the-sword", "summary": "Several days pass and Athos is still missing. D'Artagnan and Porthos fill Treville in on what's happened. Treville instantly tries to find out where Athos is being held. That would be the Fort l'Eveque. He's been subjected to all the same interrogations as Bonacieux. He handles himself well in these interrogations, however, and succeeds in confusing his commissary so much that he gets sent to the Louvre to be questioned by the Cardinal. The Cardinal is busy, but this is the precise moment that Treville arrives in the palace. Now we have some background. The King is very suspicious of his wife, and it doesn't help that the Cardinal fans the flames of jealousy. Anne's friendship with Madame de Chevreuse doesn't help matters either. Side bar: Although we've heard the name \"Madame de Chevreuse\" before, and even know she's a duchess, we didn't know much else. Now, however, we learn that she's the Queen's best friend. Now, even though France is at war with Spain, on the brink of war with England, and practically broke, the Cardinal's biggest worry is this friendship between the Queen and Madame de Chevreuse. The Cardinal tells the King that Madame de Chevreuse had been in Paris, that the Queen has continued some mysterious letter-writing, and that he was in the process of arresting the go-between linking the Queen to her exiled friend , when he was interrupted by a Musketeer. Whew. Once more, just for clarity's sake: the King hates his wife's friend, who is in exile. Madame Bonacieux has been the go-between linking the two friends. The Cardinal was about to arrest her when a Musketeer intervened. So at this point the King is raging mad at his Musketeers and at his wife. Treville arrives just as the King is getting angry about the actions of the Musketeers. Treville, however, is unfazed and says that he wants to talk about the behavior of the Cardinal's guard. He points out that Athos was arrested in a very unseemly fashion. He also points out that Athos has served the King multiple times. Treville and the Cardinal continue to battle for the King's good opinion, and Treville finally wins after he swears up and down that D'Artagnan was with him at 9:30pm. The Cardinal believes Treville is a man of such integrity that he wouldn't lie about this. Treville demands that Athos be released from prison or else put on trial. He also threatens to resign if his Musketeers are suspected of wrongdoing. The Cardinal insists on a trial, and Treville says he plans on pleading on Athos's behalf. The King, fed up, asks Treville to swear that Athos was with him that night. Treville does so. The Cardinal tells the King that if they release Athos, they will never know the true story. Treville points out that Athos can always be found for further questioning. The King signs an order for Athos's release, and although Treville looks happy, he's concerned that the Cardinal has more tricks up his sleeve. Still, Treville releases Athos from prison. When Athos sees D'Artagnan he warns him that the Cardinal will still try to retaliate. Back at the palace, as soon as Treville left the Cardinal turned to the King and asked if he knew that the Duke of Buckingham was recently in town. That Cardinal sure knows how to push the King's buttons!", "analysis": ""}

15 MEN OF THE ROBE AND MEN OF THE SWORD On the day after these events had taken place, Athos not having reappeared, M. de Treville was informed by d'Artagnan and Porthos of the circumstance. As to Aramis, he had asked for leave of absence for five days, and was gone, it was said, to Rouen on family business. M de Treville was the father of his soldiers. The lowest or the least known of them, as soon as he assumed the uniform of the company, was as sure of his aid and support as if he had been his own brother. He repaired, then, instantly to the office of the LIEUTENANT-CRIMINEL. The officer who commanded the post of the Red Cross was sent for, and by successive inquiries they learned that Athos was then lodged in Fort l'Eveque. Athos had passed through all the examinations we have seen Bonacieux undergo. We were present at the scene in which the two captives were confronted with each other. Athos, who had till that time said nothing for fear that d'Artagnan, interrupted in his turn, should not have the time necessary, from this moment declared that his name was Athos, and not d'Artagnan. He added that he did not know either M. or Mme. Bonacieux; that he had never spoken to the one or the other; that he had come, at about ten o'clock in the evening, to pay a visit to his friend M. d'Artagnan, but that till that hour he had been at M. de Treville's, where he had dined. "Twenty witnesses," added he, "could attest the fact"; and he named several distinguished gentlemen, and among them was M. le Duc de la Tremouille. The second commissary was as much bewildered as the first had been by the simple and firm declaration of the Musketeer, upon whom he was anxious to take the revenge which men of the robe like at all times to gain over men of the sword; but the name of M. de Treville, and that of M. de la Tremouille, commanded a little reflection. Athos was then sent to the cardinal; but unfortunately the cardinal was at the Louvre with the king. It was precisely at this moment that M. de Treville, on leaving the residence of the LIEUTENANT-CRIMINEL and the governor of Fort l'Eveque without being able to find Athos, arrived at the palace. As captain of the Musketeers, M. de Treville had the right of entry at all times. It is well known how violent the king's prejudices were against the queen, and how carefully these prejudices were kept up by the cardinal, who in affairs of intrigue mistrusted women infinitely more than men. One of the grand causes of this prejudice was the friendship of Anne of Austria for Mme. de Chevreuse. These two women gave him more uneasiness than the war with Spain, the quarrel with England, or the embarrassment of the finances. In his eyes and to his conviction, Mme. de Chevreuse not only served the queen in her political intrigues, but, what tormented him still more, in her amorous intrigues. At the first word the cardinal spoke of Mme. de Chevreuse--who, though exiled to Tours and believed to be in that city, had come to Paris, remained there five days, and outwitted the police--the king flew into a furious passion. Capricious and unfaithful, the king wished to be called Louis the Just and Louis the Chaste. Posterity will find a difficulty in understanding this character, which history explains only by facts and never by reason. But when the cardinal added that not only Mme. de Chevreuse had been in Paris, but still further, that the queen had renewed with her one of those mysterious correspondences which at that time was named a CABAL; when he affirmed that he, the cardinal, was about to unravel the most closely twisted thread of this intrigue; that at the moment of arresting in the very act, with all the proofs about her, the queen's emissary to the exiled duchess, a Musketeer had dared to interrupt the course of justice violently, by falling sword in hand upon the honest men of the law, charged with investigating impartially the whole affair in order to place it before the eyes of the king--Louis XIII could not contain himself, and he made a step toward the queen's apartment with that pale and mute indignation which, when it broke out, led this prince to the commission of the most pitiless cruelty. And yet, in all this, the cardinal had not yet said a word about the Duke of Buckingham. At this instant M. de Treville entered, cool, polite, and in irreproachable costume. Informed of what had passed by the presence of the cardinal and the alteration in the king's countenance, M. de Treville felt himself something like Samson before the Philistines. Louis XIII had already placed his hand on the knob of the door; at the noise of M. de Treville's entrance he turned round. "You arrive in good time, monsieur," said the king, who, when his passions were raised to a certain point, could not dissemble; "I have learned some fine things concerning your Musketeers." "And I," said Treville, coldly, "I have some pretty things to tell your Majesty concerning these gownsmen." "What?" said the king, with hauteur. "I have the honor to inform your Majesty," continued M. de Treville, in the same tone, "that a party of PROCUREURS, commissaries, and men of the police--very estimable people, but very inveterate, as it appears, against the uniform--have taken upon themselves to arrest in a house, to lead away through the open street, and throw into Fort l'Eveque, all upon an order which they have refused to show me, one of my, or rather your Musketeers, sire, of irreproachable conduct, of an almost illustrious reputation, and whom your Majesty knows favorably, Monsieur Athos." "Athos," said the king, mechanically; "yes, certainly I know that name." "Let your Majesty remember," said Treville, "that Monsieur Athos is the Musketeer who, in the annoying duel which you are acquainted with, had the misfortune to wound Monsieur de Cahusac so seriously. A PROPOS, monseigneur," continued Treville, addressing the cardinal, "Monsieur de Cahusac is quite recovered, is he not?" "Thank you," said the cardinal, biting his lips with anger. "Athos, then, went to pay a visit to one of his friends absent at the time," continued Treville, "to a young Bearnais, a cadet in his Majesty's Guards, the company of Monsieur Dessessart, but scarcely had he arrived at his friend's and taken up a book, while waiting his return, when a mixed crowd of bailiffs and soldiers came and laid siege to the house, broke open several doors--" The cardinal made the king a sign, which signified, "That was on account of the affair about which I spoke to you." "We all know that," interrupted the king; "for all that was done for our service." "Then," said Treville, "it was also for your Majesty's service that one of my Musketeers, who was innocent, has been seized, that he has been placed between two guards like a malefactor, and that this gallant man, who has ten times shed his blood in your Majesty's service and is ready to shed it again, has been paraded through the midst of an insolent populace?" "Bah!" said the king, who began to be shaken, "was it so managed?" "Monsieur de Treville," said the cardinal, with the greatest phlegm, "does not tell your Majesty that this innocent Musketeer, this gallant man, had only an hour before attacked, sword in hand, four commissaries of inquiry, who were delegated by myself to examine into an affair of the highest importance." "I defy your Eminence to prove it," cried Treville, with his Gascon freedom and military frankness; "for one hour before, Monsieur Athos, who, I will confide it to your Majesty, is really a man of the highest quality, did me the honor after having dined with me to be conversing in the saloon of my hotel, with the Duc de la Tremouille and the Comte de Chalus, who happened to be there." The king looked at the cardinal. "A written examination attests it," said the cardinal, replying aloud to the mute interrogation of his Majesty; "and the ill-treated people have drawn up the following, which I have the honor to present to your Majesty." "And is the written report of the gownsmen to be placed in comparison with the word of honor of a swordsman?" replied Treville haughtily. "Come, come, Treville, hold your tongue," said the king. "If his Eminence entertains any suspicion against one of my Musketeers," said Treville, "the justice of Monsieur the Cardinal is so well known that I demand an inquiry." "In the house in which the judicial inquiry was made," continued the impassive cardinal, "there lodges, I believe, a young Bearnais, a friend of the Musketeer." "Your Eminence means Monsieur d'Artagnan." "I mean a young man whom you patronize, Monsieur de Treville." "Yes, your Eminence, it is the same." "Do you not suspect this young man of having given bad counsel?" "To Athos, to a man double his age?" interrupted Treville. "No, monseigneur. Besides, d'Artagnan passed the evening with me." "Well," said the cardinal, "everybody seems to have passed the evening with you." "Does your Eminence doubt my word?" said Treville, with a brow flushed with anger. "No, God forbid," said the cardinal; "only, at what hour was he with you?" "Oh, as to that I can speak positively, your Eminence; for as he came in I remarked that it was but half past nine by the clock, although I had believed it to be later." "At what hour did he leave your hotel?" "At half past ten--an hour after the event." "Well," replied the cardinal, who could not for an instant suspect the loyalty of Treville, and who felt that the victory was escaping him, "well, but Athos WAS taken in the house in the Rue des Fossoyeurs." "Is one friend forbidden to visit another, or a Musketeer of my company to fraternize with a Guard of Dessessart's company?" "Yes, when the house where he fraternizes is suspected." "That house is suspected, Treville," said the king; "perhaps you did not know it?" "Indeed, sire, I did not. The house may be suspected; but I deny that it is so in the part of it inhabited by Monsieur d'Artagnan, for I can affirm, sire, if I can believe what he says, that there does not exist a more devoted servant of your Majesty, or a more profound admirer of Monsieur the Cardinal." "Was it not this d'Artagnan who wounded Jussac one day, in that unfortunate encounter which took place near the Convent of the Carmes-Dechausses?" asked the king, looking at the cardinal, who colored with vexation. "And the next day, Bernajoux. Yes, sire, yes, it is the same; and your Majesty has a good memory." "Come, how shall we decide?" said the king. "That concerns your Majesty more than me," said the cardinal. "I should affirm the culpability." "And I deny it," said Treville. "But his Majesty has judges, and these judges will decide." "That is best," said the king. "Send the case before the judges; it is their business to judge, and they shall judge." "Only," replied Treville, "it is a sad thing that in the unfortunate times in which we live, the purest life, the most incontestable virtue, cannot exempt a man from infamy and persecution. The army, I will answer for it, will be but little pleased at being exposed to rigorous treatment on account of police affairs." The expression was imprudent; but M. de Treville launched it with knowledge of his cause. He was desirous of an explosion, because in that case the mine throws forth fire, and fire enlightens. "Police affairs!" cried the king, taking up Treville's words, "police affairs! And what do you know about them, Monsieur? Meddle with your Musketeers, and do not annoy me in this way. It appears, according to your account, that if by mischance a Musketeer is arrested, France is in danger. What a noise about a Musketeer! I would arrest ten of them, VENTREBLEU, a hundred, even, all the company, and I would not allow a whisper." "From the moment they are suspected by your Majesty," said Treville, "the Musketeers are guilty; therefore, you see me prepared to surrender my sword--for after having accused my soldiers, there can be no doubt that Monsieur the Cardinal will end by accusing me. It is best to constitute myself at once a prisoner with Athos, who is already arrested, and with d'Artagnan, who most probably will be." "Gascon-headed man, will you have done?" said the king. "Sire," replied Treville, without lowering his voice in the least, "either order my Musketeer to be restored to me, or let him be tried." "He shall be tried," said the cardinal. "Well, so much the better; for in that case I shall demand of his Majesty permission to plead for him." The king feared an outbreak. "If his Eminence," said he, "did not have personal motives--" The cardinal saw what the king was about to say and interrupted him: "Pardon me," said he; "but the instant your Majesty considers me a prejudiced judge, I withdraw." "Come," said the king, "will you swear, by my father, that Athos was at your residence during the event and that he took no part in it?" "By your glorious father, and by yourself, whom I love and venerate above all the world, I swear it." "Be so kind as to reflect, sire," said the cardinal. "If we release the prisoner thus, we shall never know the truth." "Athos may always be found," replied Treville, "ready to answer, when it shall please the gownsmen to interrogate him. He will not desert, Monsieur the Cardinal, be assured of that; I will answer for him." "No, he will not desert," said the king; "he can always be found, as Treville says. Besides," added he, lowering his voice and looking with a suppliant air at the cardinal, "let us give them apparent security; that is policy." This policy of Louis XIII made Richelieu smile. "Order it as you please, sire; you possess the right of pardon." "The right of pardoning only applies to the guilty," said Treville, who was determined to have the last word, "and my Musketeer is innocent. It is not mercy, then, that you are about to accord, sire, it is justice." "And he is in the Fort l'Eveque?" said the king. "Yes, sire, in solitary confinement, in a dungeon, like the lowest criminal." "The devil!" murmured the king; "what must be done?" "Sign an order for his release, and all will be said," replied the cardinal. "I believe with your Majesty that Monsieur de Treville's guarantee is more than sufficient." Treville bowed very respectfully, with a joy that was not unmixed with fear; he would have preferred an obstinate resistance on the part of the cardinal to this sudden yielding. The king signed the order for release, and Treville carried it away without delay. As he was about to leave the presence, the cardinal gave him a friendly smile, and said, "A perfect harmony reigns, sire, between the leaders and the soldiers of your Musketeers, which must be profitable for the service and honorable to all." "He will play me some dog's trick or other, and that immediately," said Treville. "One has never the last word with such a man. But let us be quick--the king may change his mind in an hour; and at all events it is more difficult to replace a man in the Fort l'Eveque or the Bastille who has got out, than to keep a prisoner there who is in." M de Treville made his entrance triumphantly into the Fort l'Eveque, whence he delivered the Musketeer, whose peaceful indifference had not for a moment abandoned him. The first time he saw d'Artagnan, "You have come off well," said he to him; "there is your Jussac thrust paid for. There still remains that of Bernajoux, but you must not be too confident." As to the rest, M. de Treville had good reason to mistrust the cardinal and to think that all was not over, for scarcely had the captain of the Musketeers closed the door after him, than his Eminence said to the king, "Now that we are at length by ourselves, we will, if your Majesty pleases, converse seriously. Sire, Buckingham has been in Paris five days, and only left this morning."

Chapter Fifteen: Men of the Robe and Men of the Sword

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Several days pass and Athos is still missing. D'Artagnan and Porthos fill Treville in on what's happened. Treville instantly tries to find out where Athos is being held. That would be the Fort l'Eveque. He's been subjected to all the same interrogations as Bonacieux. He handles himself well in these interrogations, however, and succeeds in confusing his commissary so much that he gets sent to the Louvre to be questioned by the Cardinal. The Cardinal is busy, but this is the precise moment that Treville arrives in the palace. Now we have some background. The King is very suspicious of his wife, and it doesn't help that the Cardinal fans the flames of jealousy. Anne's friendship with Madame de Chevreuse doesn't help matters either. Side bar: Although we've heard the name "Madame de Chevreuse" before, and even know she's a duchess, we didn't know much else. Now, however, we learn that she's the Queen's best friend. Now, even though France is at war with Spain, on the brink of war with England, and practically broke, the Cardinal's biggest worry is this friendship between the Queen and Madame de Chevreuse. The Cardinal tells the King that Madame de Chevreuse had been in Paris, that the Queen has continued some mysterious letter-writing, and that he was in the process of arresting the go-between linking the Queen to her exiled friend , when he was interrupted by a Musketeer. Whew. Once more, just for clarity's sake: the King hates his wife's friend, who is in exile. Madame Bonacieux has been the go-between linking the two friends. The Cardinal was about to arrest her when a Musketeer intervened. So at this point the King is raging mad at his Musketeers and at his wife. Treville arrives just as the King is getting angry about the actions of the Musketeers. Treville, however, is unfazed and says that he wants to talk about the behavior of the Cardinal's guard. He points out that Athos was arrested in a very unseemly fashion. He also points out that Athos has served the King multiple times. Treville and the Cardinal continue to battle for the King's good opinion, and Treville finally wins after he swears up and down that D'Artagnan was with him at 9:30pm. The Cardinal believes Treville is a man of such integrity that he wouldn't lie about this. Treville demands that Athos be released from prison or else put on trial. He also threatens to resign if his Musketeers are suspected of wrongdoing. The Cardinal insists on a trial, and Treville says he plans on pleading on Athos's behalf. The King, fed up, asks Treville to swear that Athos was with him that night. Treville does so. The Cardinal tells the King that if they release Athos, they will never know the true story. Treville points out that Athos can always be found for further questioning. The King signs an order for Athos's release, and although Treville looks happy, he's concerned that the Cardinal has more tricks up his sleeve. Still, Treville releases Athos from prison. When Athos sees D'Artagnan he warns him that the Cardinal will still try to retaliate. Back at the palace, as soon as Treville left the Cardinal turned to the King and asked if he knew that the Duke of Buckingham was recently in town. That Cardinal sure knows how to push the King's buttons!

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/1257-chapters/16.txt

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The Three Musketeers.chapter 16

chapter 16: in which m. seguier, keeper of the seals, looks more than once for the bell, in order to ring it, as he did before

{"name": "Chapter Sixteen: In Which M. Seguier, Keeper of the Seals, Looks More Than Once For the Bell, In Order to Ring It, as He Did Before", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210127112556/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/three-musketeers/summary/chapter-sixteen-in-which-m-seguier-keeper-of-the-seals-looks-more-than-once-for-the-bell-in-order-to-ring-it-as-he-did-before", "summary": "Who is M. Seguier? Let's find out... The King reacts immediately and unfavorably to the news that Buckingham has been in town. The Cardinal lies through his teeth and tells the King that he believes a) Buckingham was probably in town for political reasons, and b) that the Queen loves the King and would never in a million years cheat on him with, say, the Duke of Buckingham. The King argues the exact opposite. The Cardinal then drops the bombshell--his agent Madame de Lannoy has informed him that the Queen has been writing a lot recently. Fire alarms go off in the King's head and he absolutely demands that he get his hands on the Queen's papers. The problem is that the King's wife happens to be a very famous and exalted queen. He can't exactly just run over and snoop through her stuff. The King insists that his wife does not love him, but that she loves Buckingham instead. He asks the Cardinal why the Duke wasn't arrested while in Paris. The King points out that arresting the prime minister of England isn't exactly a great strategy move. The King then asks if the Cardinal is certain that Buckingham did not meet up with the Queen. Being the clever fellow he is, the Cardinal says he believes the Queen is far too honorable to do such a deed. The King insists on seeing his wife's letters. The Cardinal says the only way to do it is to ask Monsieur de Seguier. The Cardinal warns the King that the Queen may refuse to obey the orders unless they are clearly from the King. The King says he will tell her himself, and is deeply impressed with the ways in which the Cardinal has strived for marital harmony between the two royals. The King visits his wife, who is with her ladies. More correctly, one of the ladies is reading out loud from a book while Anne is daydreaming. She is contemplating her life--her husband distrusts her, the Cardinal hates her, and she has no friends. Her last confidant, Monsieur Laporte , is on the verge of being arrested. As she's thinking all these cheery thoughts, the King walks in. He tells her to prepare herself for a visit from the chancellor. Since she is constantly \"threatened with divorce, exile, and trial,\" this latest command freaks her out. She asks for an explanation, but the King refuses to ease her mind. The chancellor walks in. The narrator warns us that this guy will come back in the story, so it's best if we learn a little bit about him. When the chancellor was younger, he was wild and crazy. When he got older, he went to a convent and tried to repent of all his evil sins. Temptation still bothered him all the time, however, and he confessed this vulnerability. It was recommended that the Chancellor ring a bell every time he felt tempted, and all the monks would run to the chapel and pray for his soul. Seguier was tempted an awful lot, however, so day in and day out the bell was ringing and the monks were running to chapel to pray. It is unclear whether the monks finally succeeded in curing him, or whether he was too addicted to his earthly pleasures. Still, six months later he was back in the real world with a reputation for being the most possessed guy ever . The chancellor eventually served the Cardinal, which brings us back to our story. Seguier enters into the Queen's room and demands to see all her documents. She protests, then tells one of her ladies to open all the drawers and desks. The chancellor realizes that was a little too easy, but for form's sake goes through all the drawers. He states that it's becomes necessary to frisk the Queen. Anna of Austria is angry at this point. Subject herself to a humiliating strip search? No way! The chancellor explains that the King knows his wife has been writing a letter, and he wants to see it. Anna asks if he would dare frisk her. The chancellor says he obeys the King. After a little more back and forth, she gives up the letter. It's addressed to the King of Spain. But there's no mention of her affection for the Duke of Buckingham. The King is happy to read this letter. He goes straight to the Cardinal and acknowledges that the Cardinal was correct in saying the Queen was up to politics, not sex. The King also points out that the letter makes it clear that the Queen pretty severely dislikes the Cardinal, and asks his eminence what he wants to do. The Cardinal continues playing it cool and says that he's getting old and would love to retire. The King responds by saying he will punish everyone in the letter, including the Queen. The Cardinal says, no, don't do that, why don't you throw a ball and ask her to wear those diamonds you gave her. You two should make up your differences! Anne is excited and happy when the King tells her about the ball, but she has to wait for the Cardinal to name the day of the event. The Cardinal, of course, is waiting for word from Milady that the diamonds have been stolen. Finally, he decides upon a date and again mentions to the King that the Queen should really wear those magnificent diamonds.", "analysis": ""}

16 IN WHICH M. SEGUIER, KEEPER OF THE SEALS, LOOKS MORE THAN ONCE FOR THE BELL It is impossible to form an idea of the impression these few words made upon Louis XIII. He grew pale and red alternately; and the cardinal saw at once that he had recovered by a single blow all the ground he had lost. "Buckingham in Paris!" cried he, "and why does he come?" "To conspire, no doubt, with your enemies, the Huguenots and the Spaniards." "No, PARDIEU, no! To conspire against my honor with Madame de Chevreuse, Madame de Longueville, and the Condes." "Oh, sire, what an idea! The queen is too virtuous; and besides, loves your Majesty too well." "Woman is weak, Monsieur Cardinal," said the king; "and as to loving me much, I have my own opinion as to that love." "I not the less maintain," said the cardinal, "that the Duke of Buckingham came to Paris for a project wholly political." "And I am sure that he came for quite another purpose, Monsieur Cardinal; but if the queen be guilty, let her tremble!" "Indeed," said the cardinal, "whatever repugnance I may have to directing my mind to such a treason, your Majesty compels me to think of it. Madame de Lannoy, whom, according to your Majesty's command, I have frequently interrogated, told me this morning that the night before last her Majesty sat up very late, that this morning she wept much, and that she was writing all day." "That's it!" cried the king; "to him, no doubt. Cardinal, I must have the queen's papers." "But how to take them, sire? It seems to me that it is neither your Majesty nor myself who can charge himself with such a mission." "How did they act with regard to the Marechale d'Ancre?" cried the king, in the highest state of choler; "first her closets were thoroughly searched, and then she herself." "The Marechale d'Ancre was no more than the Marechale d'Ancre. A Florentine adventurer, sire, and that was all; while the august spouse of your Majesty is Anne of Austria, Queen of France--that is to say, one of the greatest princesses in the world." "She is not the less guilty, Monsieur Duke! The more she has forgotten the high position in which she was placed, the more degrading is her fall. Besides, I long ago determined to put an end to all these petty intrigues of policy and love. She has near her a certain Laporte." "Who, I believe, is the mainspring of all this, I confess," said the cardinal. "You think then, as I do, that she deceives me?" said the king. "I believe, and I repeat it to your Majesty, that the queen conspires against the power of the king, but I have not said against his honor." "And I--I tell you against both. I tell you the queen does not love me; I tell you she loves another; I tell you she loves that infamous Buckingham! Why did you not have him arrested while in Paris?" "Arrest the Duke! Arrest the prime minister of King Charles I! Think of it, sire! What a scandal! And if the suspicions of your Majesty, which I still continue to doubt, should prove to have any foundation, what a terrible disclosure, what a fearful scandal!" "But as he exposed himself like a vagabond or a thief, he should have been--" Louis XIII stopped, terrified at what he was about to say, while Richelieu, stretching out his neck, waited uselessly for the word which had died on the lips of the king. "He should have been--?" "Nothing," said the king, "nothing. But all the time he was in Paris, you, of course, did not lose sight of him?" "No, sire." "Where did he lodge?" "Rue de la Harpe. No. 75." "Where is that?" "By the side of the Luxembourg." "And you are certain that the queen and he did not see each other?" "I believe the queen to have too high a sense of her duty, sire." "But they have corresponded; it is to him that the queen has been writing all the day. Monsieur Duke, I must have those letters!" "Sire, notwithstanding--" "Monsieur Duke, at whatever price it may be, I will have them." "I would, however, beg your Majesty to observe--" "Do you, then, also join in betraying me, Monsieur Cardinal, by thus always opposing my will? Are you also in accord with Spain and England, with Madame de Chevreuse and the queen?" "Sire," replied the cardinal, sighing, "I believed myself secure from such a suspicion." "Monsieur Cardinal, you have heard me; I will have those letters." "There is but one way." "What is that?" "That would be to charge Monsieur de Seguier, the keeper of the seals, with this mission. The matter enters completely into the duties of the post." "Let him be sent for instantly." "He is most likely at my hotel. I requested him to call, and when I came to the Louvre I left orders if he came, to desire him to wait." "Let him be sent for instantly." "Your Majesty's orders shall be executed; but--" "But what?" "But the queen will perhaps refuse to obey." "My orders?" "Yes, if she is ignorant that these orders come from the king." "Well, that she may have no doubt on that head, I will go and inform her myself." "Your Majesty will not forget that I have done everything in my power to prevent a rupture." "Yes, Duke, yes, I know you are very indulgent toward the queen, too indulgent, perhaps; we shall have occasion, I warn you, at some future period to speak of that." "Whenever it shall please your Majesty; but I shall be always happy and proud, sire, to sacrifice myself to the harmony which I desire to see reign between you and the Queen of France." "Very well, Cardinal, very well; but, meantime, send for Monsieur the Keeper of the Seals. I will go to the queen." And Louis XIII, opening the door of communication, passed into the corridor which led from his apartments to those of Anne of Austria. The queen was in the midst of her women--Mme. de Guitaut, Mme. de Sable, Mme. de Montbazon, and Mme. de Guemene. In a corner was the Spanish companion, Donna Estafania, who had followed her from Madrid. Mme. Guemene was reading aloud, and everybody was listening to her with attention with the exception of the queen, who had, on the contrary, desired this reading in order that she might be able, while feigning to listen, to pursue the thread of her own thoughts. These thoughts, gilded as they were by a last reflection of love, were not the less sad. Anne of Austria, deprived of the confidence of her husband, pursued by the hatred of the cardinal, who could not pardon her for having repulsed a more tender feeling, having before her eyes the example of the queen-mother whom that hatred had tormented all her life--though Marie de Medicis, if the memoirs of the time are to be believed, had begun by according to the cardinal that sentiment which Anne of Austria always refused him--Anne of Austria had seen her most devoted servants fall around her, her most intimate confidants, her dearest favorites. Like those unfortunate persons endowed with a fatal gift, she brought misfortune upon everything she touched. Her friendship was a fatal sign which called down persecution. Mme. de Chevreuse and Mme. de Bernet were exiled, and Laporte did not conceal from his mistress that he expected to be arrested every instant. It was at the moment when she was plunged in the deepest and darkest of these reflections that the door of the chamber opened, and the king entered. The reader hushed herself instantly. All the ladies rose, and there was a profound silence. As to the king, he made no demonstration of politeness, only stopping before the queen. "Madame," said he, "you are about to receive a visit from the chancellor, who will communicate certain matters to you with which I have charged him." The unfortunate queen, who was constantly threatened with divorce, exile, and trial even, turned pale under her rouge, and could not refrain from saying, "But why this visit, sire? What can the chancellor have to say to me that your Majesty could not say yourself?" The king turned upon his heel without reply, and almost at the same instant the captain of the Guards, M. de Guitant, announced the visit of the chancellor. When the chancellor appeared, the king had already gone out by another door. The chancellor entered, half smiling, half blushing. As we shall probably meet with him again in the course of our history, it may be well for our readers to be made at once acquainted with him. This chancellor was a pleasant man. He was Des Roches le Masle, canon of Notre Dame, who had formerly been valet of a bishop, who introduced him to his Eminence as a perfectly devout man. The cardinal trusted him, and therein found his advantage. There are many stories related of him, and among them this. After a wild youth, he had retired into a convent, there to expiate, at least for some time, the follies of adolescence. On entering this holy place, the poor penitent was unable to shut the door so close as to prevent the passions he fled from entering with him. He was incessantly attacked by them, and the superior, to whom he had confided this misfortune, wishing as much as in him lay to free him from them, had advised him, in order to conjure away the tempting demon, to have recourse to the bell rope, and ring with all his might. At the denunciating sound, the monks would be rendered aware that temptation was besieging a brother, and all the community would go to prayers. This advice appeared good to the future chancellor. He conjured the evil spirit with abundance of prayers offered up by the monks. But the devil does not suffer himself to be easily dispossessed from a place in which he has fixed his garrison. In proportion as they redoubled the exorcisms he redoubled the temptations; so that day and night the bell was ringing full swing, announcing the extreme desire for mortification which the penitent experienced. The monks had no longer an instant of repose. By day they did nothing but ascend and descend the steps which led to the chapel; at night, in addition to complines and matins, they were further obliged to leap twenty times out of their beds and prostrate themselves on the floor of their cells. It is not known whether it was the devil who gave way, or the monks who grew tired; but within three months the penitent reappeared in the world with the reputation of being the most terrible POSSESSED that ever existed. On leaving the convent he entered into the magistracy, became president on the place of his uncle, embraced the cardinal's party, which did not prove want of sagacity, became chancellor, served his Eminence with zeal in his hatred against the queen-mother and his vengeance against Anne of Austria, stimulated the judges in the affair of Calais, encouraged the attempts of M. de Laffemas, chief gamekeeper of France; then, at length, invested with the entire confidence of the cardinal--a confidence which he had so well earned--he received the singular commission for the execution of which he presented himself in the queen's apartments. The queen was still standing when he entered; but scarcely had she perceived him then she reseated herself in her armchair, and made a sign to her women to resume their cushions and stools, and with an air of supreme hauteur, said, "What do you desire, monsieur, and with what object do you present yourself here?" "To make, madame, in the name of the king, and without prejudice to the respect which I have the honor to owe to your Majesty a close examination into all your papers." "How, monsieur, an investigation of my papers--mine! Truly, this is an indignity!" "Be kind enough to pardon me, madame; but in this circumstance I am but the instrument which the king employs. Has not his Majesty just left you, and has he not himself asked you to prepare for this visit?" "Search, then, monsieur! I am a criminal, as it appears. Estafania, give up the keys of my drawers and my desks." For form's sake the chancellor paid a visit to the pieces of furniture named; but he well knew that it was not in a piece of furniture that the queen would place the important letter she had written that day. When the chancellor had opened and shut twenty times the drawers of the secretaries, it became necessary, whatever hesitation he might experience--it became necessary, I say, to come to the conclusion of the affair; that is to say, to search the queen herself. The chancellor advanced, therefore, toward Anne of Austria, and said with a very perplexed and embarrassed air, "And now it remains for me to make the principal examination." "What is that?" asked the queen, who did not understand, or rather was not willing to understand. "His majesty is certain that a letter has been written by you during the day; he knows that it has not yet been sent to its address. This letter is not in your table nor in your secretary; and yet this letter must be somewhere." "Would you dare to lift your hand to your queen?" said Anne of Austria, drawing herself up to her full height, and fixing her eyes upon the chancellor with an expression almost threatening. "I am a faithful subject of the king, madame, and all that his Majesty commands I shall do." "Well, it is true!" said Anne of Austria; "and the spies of the cardinal have served him faithfully. I have written a letter today; that letter is not yet gone. The letter is here." And the queen laid her beautiful hand on her bosom. "Then give me that letter, madame," said the chancellor. "I will give it to none but the king, monsieur," said Anne. "If the king had desired that the letter should be given to him, madame, he would have demanded it of you himself. But I repeat to you, I am charged with reclaiming it; and if you do not give it up--" "Well?" "He has, then, charged me to take it from you." "How! What do you say?" "That my orders go far, madame; and that I am authorized to seek for the suspected paper, even on the person of your Majesty." "What horror!" cried the queen. "Be kind enough, then, madame, to act more compliantly." "The conduct is infamously violent! Do you know that, monsieur?" "The king commands it, madame; excuse me." "I will not suffer it! No, no, I would rather die!" cried the queen, in whom the imperious blood of Spain and Austria began to rise. The chancellor made a profound reverence. Then, with the intention quite patent of not drawing back a foot from the accomplishment of the commission with which he was charged, and as the attendant of an executioner might have done in the chamber of torture, he approached Anne of Austria, from whose eyes at the same instant sprang tears of rage. The queen was, as we have said, of great beauty. The commission might well be called delicate; and the king had reached, in his jealousy of Buckingham, the point of not being jealous of anyone else. Without doubt the chancellor Seguier looked about at that moment for the rope of the famous bell; but not finding it he summoned his resolution, and stretched forth his hands toward the place where the queen had acknowledged the paper was to be found. Anne of Austria took one step backward, became so pale that it might be said she was dying, and leaning with her left hand upon a table behind her to keep herself from falling, she with her right hand drew the paper from her bosom and held it out to the keeper of the seals. "There, monsieur, there is that letter!" cried the queen, with a broken and trembling voice; "take it, and deliver me from your odious presence." The chancellor, who, on his part, trembled with an emotion easily to be conceived, took the letter, bowed to the ground, and retired. The door was scarcely closed upon him, when the queen sank, half fainting, into the arms of her women. The chancellor carried the letter to the king without having read a single word of it. The king took it with a trembling hand, looked for the address, which was wanting, became very pale, opened it slowly, then seeing by the first words that it was addressed to the King of Spain, he read it rapidly. It was nothing but a plan of attack against the cardinal. The queen pressed her brother and the Emperor of Austria to appear to be wounded, as they really were, by the policy of Richelieu--the eternal object of which was the abasement of the house of Austria--to declare war against France, and as a condition of peace, to insist upon the dismissal of the cardinal; but as to love, there was not a single word about it in all the letter. The king, quite delighted, inquired if the cardinal was still at the Louvre; he was told that his Eminence awaited the orders of his Majesty in the business cabinet. The king went straight to him. "There, Duke," said he, "you were right and I was wrong. The whole intrigue is political, and there is not the least question of love in this letter; but, on the other hand, there is abundant question of you." The cardinal took the letter, and read it with the greatest attention; then, when he had arrived at the end of it, he read it a second time. "Well, your Majesty," said he, "you see how far my enemies go; they menace you with two wars if you do not dismiss me. In your place, in truth, sire, I should yield to such powerful instance; and on my part, it would be a real happiness to withdraw from public affairs." "What say you, Duke?" "I say, sire, that my health is sinking under these excessive struggles and these never-ending labors. I say that according to all probability I shall not be able to undergo the fatigues of the siege of La Rochelle, and that it would be far better that you should appoint there either Monsieur de Conde, Monsieur de Bassopierre, or some valiant gentleman whose business is war, and not me, who am a churchman, and who am constantly turned aside for my real vocation to look after matters for which I have no aptitude. You would be the happier for it at home, sire, and I do not doubt you would be the greater for it abroad." "Monsieur Duke," said the king, "I understand you. Be satisfied, all who are named in that letter shall be punished as they deserve, even the queen herself." "What do you say, sire? God forbid that the queen should suffer the least inconvenience or uneasiness on my account! She has always believed me, sire, to be her enemy; although your Majesty can bear witness that I have always taken her part warmly, even against you. Oh, if she betrayed your Majesty on the side of your honor, it would be quite another thing, and I should be the first to say, 'No grace, sire--no grace for the guilty!' Happily, there is nothing of the kind, and your Majesty has just acquired a new proof of it." "That is true, Monsieur Cardinal," said the king, "and you were right, as you always are; but the queen, not the less, deserves all my anger." "It is you, sire, who have now incurred hers. And even if she were to be seriously offended, I could well understand it; your Majesty has treated her with a severity--" "It is thus I will always treat my enemies and yours, Duke, however high they may be placed, and whatever peril I may incur in acting severely toward them." "The queen is my enemy, but is not yours, sire; on the contrary, she is a devoted, submissive, and irreproachable wife. Allow me, then, sire, to intercede for her with your Majesty." "Let her humble herself, then, and come to me first." "On the contrary, sire, set the example. You have committed the first wrong, since it was you who suspected the queen." "What! I make the first advances?" said the king. "Never!" "Sire, I entreat you to do so." "Besides, in what manner can I make advances first?" "By doing a thing which you know will be agreeable to her." "What is that?" "Give a ball; you know how much the queen loves dancing. I will answer for it, her resentment will not hold out against such an attention." "Monsieur Cardinal, you know that I do not like worldly pleasures." "The queen will only be the more grateful to you, as she knows your antipathy for that amusement; besides, it will be an opportunity for her to wear those beautiful diamonds which you gave her recently on her birthday and with which she has since had no occasion to adorn herself." "We shall see, Monsieur Cardinal, we shall see," said the king, who, in his joy at finding the queen guilty of a crime which he cared little about, and innocent of a fault of which he had great dread, was ready to make up all differences with her, "we shall see, but upon my honor, you are too indulgent toward her." "Sire," said the cardinal, "leave severity to your ministers. Clemency is a royal virtue; employ it, and you will find that you derive advantage therein." Thereupon the cardinal, hearing the clock strike eleven, bowed low, asking permission of the king to retire, and supplicating him to come to a good understanding with the queen. Anne of Austria, who, in consequence of the seizure of her letter, expected reproaches, was much astonished the next day to see the king make some attempts at reconciliation with her. Her first movement was repellent. Her womanly pride and her queenly dignity had both been so cruelly offended that she could not come round at the first advance; but, overpersuaded by the advice of her women, she at last had the appearance of beginning to forget. The king took advantage of this favorable moment to tell her that he had the intention of shortly giving a fete. A fete was so rare a thing for poor Anne of Austria that at this announcement, as the cardinal had predicted, the last trace of her resentment disappeared, if not from her heart, at least from her countenance. She asked upon what day this fete would take place, but the king replied that he must consult the cardinal upon that head. Indeed, every day the king asked the cardinal when this fete should take place; and every day the cardinal, under some pretext, deferred fixing it. Ten days passed away thus. On the eighth day after the scene we have described, the cardinal received a letter with the London stamp which only contained these lines: "I have them; but I am unable to leave London for want of money. Send me five hundred pistoles, and four or five days after I have received them I shall be in Paris." On the same day the cardinal received this letter the king put his customary question to him. Richelieu counted on his fingers, and said to himself, "She will arrive, she says, four or five days after having received the money. It will require four or five days for the transmission of the money, four or five days for her to return; that makes ten days. Now, allowing for contrary winds, accidents, and a woman's weakness, there are twelve days." "Well, Monsieur Duke," said the king, "have you made your calculations?" "Yes, sire. Today is the twentieth of September. The aldermen of the city give a fete on the third of October. That will fall in wonderfully well; you will not appear to have gone out of your way to please the queen." Then the cardinal added, "A PROPOS, sire, do not forget to tell her Majesty the evening before the fete that you should like to see how her diamond studs become her."

Chapter Sixteen: In Which M. Seguier, Keeper of the Seals, Looks More Than Once For the Bell, In Order to Ring It, as He Did Before

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Who is M. Seguier? Let's find out... The King reacts immediately and unfavorably to the news that Buckingham has been in town. The Cardinal lies through his teeth and tells the King that he believes a) Buckingham was probably in town for political reasons, and b) that the Queen loves the King and would never in a million years cheat on him with, say, the Duke of Buckingham. The King argues the exact opposite. The Cardinal then drops the bombshell--his agent Madame de Lannoy has informed him that the Queen has been writing a lot recently. Fire alarms go off in the King's head and he absolutely demands that he get his hands on the Queen's papers. The problem is that the King's wife happens to be a very famous and exalted queen. He can't exactly just run over and snoop through her stuff. The King insists that his wife does not love him, but that she loves Buckingham instead. He asks the Cardinal why the Duke wasn't arrested while in Paris. The King points out that arresting the prime minister of England isn't exactly a great strategy move. The King then asks if the Cardinal is certain that Buckingham did not meet up with the Queen. Being the clever fellow he is, the Cardinal says he believes the Queen is far too honorable to do such a deed. The King insists on seeing his wife's letters. The Cardinal says the only way to do it is to ask Monsieur de Seguier. The Cardinal warns the King that the Queen may refuse to obey the orders unless they are clearly from the King. The King says he will tell her himself, and is deeply impressed with the ways in which the Cardinal has strived for marital harmony between the two royals. The King visits his wife, who is with her ladies. More correctly, one of the ladies is reading out loud from a book while Anne is daydreaming. She is contemplating her life--her husband distrusts her, the Cardinal hates her, and she has no friends. Her last confidant, Monsieur Laporte , is on the verge of being arrested. As she's thinking all these cheery thoughts, the King walks in. He tells her to prepare herself for a visit from the chancellor. Since she is constantly "threatened with divorce, exile, and trial," this latest command freaks her out. She asks for an explanation, but the King refuses to ease her mind. The chancellor walks in. The narrator warns us that this guy will come back in the story, so it's best if we learn a little bit about him. When the chancellor was younger, he was wild and crazy. When he got older, he went to a convent and tried to repent of all his evil sins. Temptation still bothered him all the time, however, and he confessed this vulnerability. It was recommended that the Chancellor ring a bell every time he felt tempted, and all the monks would run to the chapel and pray for his soul. Seguier was tempted an awful lot, however, so day in and day out the bell was ringing and the monks were running to chapel to pray. It is unclear whether the monks finally succeeded in curing him, or whether he was too addicted to his earthly pleasures. Still, six months later he was back in the real world with a reputation for being the most possessed guy ever . The chancellor eventually served the Cardinal, which brings us back to our story. Seguier enters into the Queen's room and demands to see all her documents. She protests, then tells one of her ladies to open all the drawers and desks. The chancellor realizes that was a little too easy, but for form's sake goes through all the drawers. He states that it's becomes necessary to frisk the Queen. Anna of Austria is angry at this point. Subject herself to a humiliating strip search? No way! The chancellor explains that the King knows his wife has been writing a letter, and he wants to see it. Anna asks if he would dare frisk her. The chancellor says he obeys the King. After a little more back and forth, she gives up the letter. It's addressed to the King of Spain. But there's no mention of her affection for the Duke of Buckingham. The King is happy to read this letter. He goes straight to the Cardinal and acknowledges that the Cardinal was correct in saying the Queen was up to politics, not sex. The King also points out that the letter makes it clear that the Queen pretty severely dislikes the Cardinal, and asks his eminence what he wants to do. The Cardinal continues playing it cool and says that he's getting old and would love to retire. The King responds by saying he will punish everyone in the letter, including the Queen. The Cardinal says, no, don't do that, why don't you throw a ball and ask her to wear those diamonds you gave her. You two should make up your differences! Anne is excited and happy when the King tells her about the ball, but she has to wait for the Cardinal to name the day of the event. The Cardinal, of course, is waiting for word from Milady that the diamonds have been stolen. Finally, he decides upon a date and again mentions to the King that the Queen should really wear those magnificent diamonds.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/1257-chapters/17.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Three Musketeers/section_17_part_0.txt

The Three Musketeers.chapter 17

chapter 17: bonacieux at home

{"name": "Chapter Seventeen: Bonacieux at Home", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210127112556/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/three-musketeers/summary/chapter-seventeen-bonacieux-at-home", "summary": "The King realizes that this is the second time the Cardinal has mentioned the diamonds and is intrigued by the mystery. No matter how much they pretend to be BFFs, the King and the Cardinal are also rivals. The King has been humiliated multiple times because the Cardinal has better spies than the King. He hopes to figure out the \"Mystery of the Diamond Studs\" and impress the Cardinal. He then goes to his wife and requests for her to wear the diamonds. She freaks out. The King notices and enjoys her reaction. Anne finds out that the Cardinal is behind both the date of the ball and the request for her to wear diamonds. The Queen begins to pray, believing that her reputation has been completely ruined. She has no friends and nowhere to go. Wrong! Madame Bonacieux is there, asking if there is anything she can do. Madame Bonacieux pledges her eternal loyalty to the Queen, and then proposes that a messenger be sent to the Duke. The Queen gives her a letter and seals it with her private seal. She then points out that Madame Bonacieux will likely need money. She gives the woman an expensive ring. Madame Bonacieux goes home, unaware that her husband is now loyal to the Cardinal. She thinks of D'Artagnan on her way home. At home, her husband is preoccupied with being friends with the Cardinal. Once she gets home, she embraces her husband and says she has an important mission for him. Her husband wants to talk about his day and night in the Bastille. Finally, it becomes clear to Madame Bonacieux that her husband will be of no help to her--he's too closely allied to the Cardinal. Monsieur Bonacieux shows his wife all his newfound money from the Cardinal and Monsieur de Rochefort. His wife points out that Monsieur de Rochefort was the one who abducted her. His wife promises him that if he fulfills the mission, she will forgive him everything and love him again. Her husband is conflicted. She is young and pretty. He's old and not very handsome! But he refuses. London is so far away and his memories of the Bastille are still too fresh. Madame Bonacieux realizes she may already have said too much, so she gives up. Her husband remembers that he was supposed to spy on her, but it's already too late. Madame Bonacieux has to go back to the Louvre , but her husband leaves first. Her husband's departure gives her time to bemoan her situation and for D'Artagnan to arrive and offer himself as a messenger.", "analysis": ""}

17 BONACIEUX AT HOME It was the second time the cardinal had mentioned these diamond studs to the king. Louis XIII was struck with this insistence, and began to fancy that this recommendation concealed some mystery. More than once the king had been humiliated by the cardinal, whose police, without having yet attained the perfection of the modern police, were excellent, being better informed than himself, even upon what was going on in his own household. He hoped, then, in a conversation with Anne of Austria, to obtain some information from that conversation, and afterward to come upon his Eminence with some secret which the cardinal either knew or did not know, but which, in either case, would raise him infinitely in the eyes of his minister. He went then to the queen, and according to custom accosted her with fresh menaces against those who surrounded her. Anne of Austria lowered her head, allowed the torrent to flow on without replying, hoping that it would cease of itself; but this was not what Louis XIII meant. Louis XIII wanted a discussion from which some light or other might break, convinced as he was that the cardinal had some afterthought and was preparing for him one of those terrible surprises which his Eminence was so skillful in getting up. He arrived at this end by his persistence in accusation. "But," cried Anne of Austria, tired of these vague attacks, "but, sire, you do not tell me all that you have in your heart. What have I done, then? Let me know what crime I have committed. It is impossible that your Majesty can make all this ado about a letter written to my brother." The king, attacked in a manner so direct, did not know what to answer; and he thought that this was the moment for expressing the desire which he was not going to have made until the evening before the fete. "Madame," said he, with dignity, "there will shortly be a ball at the Hotel de Ville. I wish, in order to honor our worthy aldermen, you should appear in ceremonial costume, and above all, ornamented with the diamond studs which I gave you on your birthday. That is my answer." The answer was terrible. Anne of Austria believed that Louis XIII knew all, and that the cardinal had persuaded him to employ this long dissimulation of seven or eight days, which, likewise, was characteristic. She became excessively pale, leaned her beautiful hand upon a CONSOLE, which hand appeared then like one of wax, and looking at the king with terror in her eyes, she was unable to reply by a single syllable. "You hear, madame," said the king, who enjoyed the embarrassment to its full extent, but without guessing the cause. "You hear, madame?" "Yes, sire, I hear," stammered the queen. "You will appear at this ball?" "Yes." "With those studs?" "Yes." The queen's paleness, if possible, increased; the king perceived it, and enjoyed it with that cold cruelty which was one of the worst sides of his character. "Then that is agreed," said the king, "and that is all I had to say to you." "But on what day will this ball take place?" asked Anne of Austria. Louis XIII felt instinctively that he ought not to reply to this question, the queen having put it in an almost dying voice. "Oh, very shortly, madame," said he; "but I do not precisely recollect the date of the day. I will ask the cardinal." "It was the cardinal, then, who informed you of this fete?" "Yes, madame," replied the astonished king; "but why do you ask that?" "It was he who told you to invite me to appear with these studs?" "That is to say, madame--" "It was he, sire, it was he!" "Well, and what does it signify whether it was he or I? Is there any crime in this request?" "No, sire." "Then you will appear?" "Yes, sire." "That is well," said the king, retiring, "that is well; I count upon it." The queen made a curtsy, less from etiquette than because her knees were sinking under her. The king went away enchanted. "I am lost," murmured the queen, "lost!--for the cardinal knows all, and it is he who urges on the king, who as yet knows nothing but will soon know everything. I am lost! My God, my God, my God!" She knelt upon a cushion and prayed, with her head buried between her palpitating arms. In fact, her position was terrible. Buckingham had returned to London; Mme. de Chevreuse was at Tours. More closely watched than ever, the queen felt certain, without knowing how to tell which, that one of her women had betrayed her. Laporte could not leave the Louvre; she had not a soul in the world in whom she could confide. Thus, while contemplating the misfortune which threatened her and the abandonment in which she was left, she broke out into sobs and tears. "Can I be of service to your Majesty?" said all at once a voice full of sweetness and pity. The queen turned sharply round, for there could be no deception in the expression of that voice; it was a friend who spoke thus. In fact, at one of the doors which opened into the queen's apartment appeared the pretty Mme. Bonacieux. She had been engaged in arranging the dresses and linen in a closet when the king entered; she could not get out and had heard all. The queen uttered a piercing cry at finding herself surprised--for in her trouble she did not at first recognize the young woman who had been given to her by Laporte. "Oh, fear nothing, madame!" said the young woman, clasping her hands and weeping herself at the queen's sorrows; "I am your Majesty's, body and soul, and however far I may be from you, however inferior may be my position, I believe I have discovered a means of extricating your Majesty from your trouble." "You, oh, heaven, you!" cried the queen; "but look me in the face. I am betrayed on all sides. Can I trust in you?" "Oh, madame!" cried the young woman, falling on her knees; "upon my soul, I am ready to die for your Majesty!" This expression sprang from the very bottom of the heart, and, like the first, there was no mistaking it. "Yes," continued Mme. Bonacieux, "yes, there are traitors here; but by the holy name of the Virgin, I swear that no one is more devoted to your Majesty than I am. Those studs which the king speaks of, you gave them to the Duke of Buckingham, did you not? Those studs were enclosed in a little rosewood box which he held under his arm? Am I deceived? Is it not so, madame?" "Oh, my God, my God!" murmured the queen, whose teeth chattered with fright. "Well, those studs," continued Mme. Bonacieux, "we must have them back again." "Yes, without doubt, it is necessary," cried the queen; "but how am I to act? How can it be effected?" "Someone must be sent to the duke." "But who, who? In whom can I trust?" "Place confidence in me, madame; do me that honor, my queen, and I will find a messenger." "But I must write." "Oh, yes; that is indispensable. Two words from the hand of your Majesty and your private seal." "But these two words would bring about my condemnation, divorce, exile!" "Yes, if they fell into infamous hands. But I will answer for these two words being delivered to their address." "Oh, my God! I must then place my life, my honor, my reputation, in your hands?" "Yes, yes, madame, you must; and I will save them all." "But how? Tell me at least the means." "My husband had been at liberty these two or three days. I have not yet had time to see him again. He is a worthy, honest man who entertains neither love nor hatred for anybody. He will do anything I wish. He will set out upon receiving an order from me, without knowing what he carries, and he will carry your Majesty's letter, without even knowing it is from your Majesty, to the address which is on it." The queen took the two hands of the young woman with a burst of emotion, gazed at her as if to read her very heart, and, seeing nothing but sincerity in her beautiful eyes, embraced her tenderly. "Do that," cried she, "and you will have saved my life, you will have saved my honor!" "Do not exaggerate the service I have the happiness to render your Majesty. I have nothing to save for your Majesty; you are only the victim of perfidious plots." "That is true, that is true, my child," said the queen, "you are right." "Give me then, that letter, madame; time presses." The queen ran to a little table, on which were ink, paper, and pens. She wrote two lines, sealed the letter with her private seal, and gave it to Mme. Bonacieux. "And now," said the queen, "we are forgetting one very necessary thing." "What is that, madame?" "Money." Mme. Bonacieux blushed. "Yes, that is true," said she, "and I will confess to your Majesty that my husband--" "Your husband has none. Is that what you would say?" "He has some, but he is very avaricious; that is his fault. Nevertheless, let not your Majesty be uneasy, we will find means." "And I have none, either," said the queen. Those who have read the MEMOIRS of Mme. de Motteville will not be astonished at this reply. "But wait a minute." Anne of Austria ran to her jewel case. "Here," said she, "here is a ring of great value, as I have been assured. It came from my brother, the King of Spain. It is mine, and I am at liberty to dispose of it. Take this ring; raise money with it, and let your husband set out." "In an hour you shall be obeyed." "You see the address," said the queen, speaking so low that Mme. Bonacieux could hardly hear what she said, "To my Lord Duke of Buckingham, London." "The letter shall be given to himself." "Generous girl!" cried Anne of Austria. Mme. Bonacieux kissed the hands of the queen, concealed the paper in the bosom of her dress, and disappeared with the lightness of a bird. Ten minutes afterward she was at home. As she told the queen, she had not seen her husband since his liberation; she was ignorant of the change that had taken place in him with respect to the cardinal--a change which had since been strengthened by two or three visits from the Comte de Rochefort, who had become the best friend of Bonacieux, and had persuaded him, without much trouble, that no culpable sentiments had prompted the abduction of his wife, but that it was only a political precaution. She found M. Bonacieux alone; the poor man was recovering with difficulty the order in his house, in which he had found most of the furniture broken and the closets nearly emptied--justice not being one of the three things which King Solomon names as leaving no traces of their passage. As to the servant, she had run away at the moment of her master's arrest. Terror had had such an effect upon the poor girl that she had never ceased walking from Paris till she reached Burgundy, her native place. The worthy mercer had, immediately upon re-entering his house, informed his wife of his happy return, and his wife had replied by congratulating him, and telling him that the first moment she could steal from her duties should be devoted to paying him a visit. This first moment had been delayed five days, which, under any other circumstances, might have appeared rather long to M. Bonacieux; but he had, in the visit he had made to the cardinal and in the visits Rochefort had made him, ample subjects for reflection, and as everybody knows, nothing makes time pass more quickly than reflection. This was the more so because Bonacieux's reflections were all rose-colored. Rochefort called him his friend, his dear Bonacieux, and never ceased telling him that the cardinal had a great respect for him. The mercer fancied himself already on the high road to honors and fortune. On her side Mme. Bonacieux had also reflected; but, it must be admitted, upon something widely different from ambition. In spite of herself her thoughts constantly reverted to that handsome young man who was so brave and appeared to be so much in love. Married at eighteen to M. Bonacieux, having always lived among her husband's friends--people little capable of inspiring any sentiment whatever in a young woman whose heart was above her position--Mme. Bonacieux had remained insensible to vulgar seductions; but at this period the title of gentleman had great influence with the citizen class, and d'Artagnan was a gentleman. Besides, he wore the uniform of the Guards, which, next to that of the Musketeers, was most admired by the ladies. He was, we repeat, handsome, young, and bold; he spoke of love like a man who did love and was anxious to be loved in return. There was certainly enough in all this to turn a head only twenty-three years old, and Mme. Bonacieux had just attained that happy period of life. The couple, then, although they had not seen each other for eight days, and during that time serious events had taken place in which both were concerned, accosted each other with a degree of preoccupation. Nevertheless, Bonacieux manifested real joy, and advanced toward his wife with open arms. Madame Bonacieux presented her cheek to him. "Let us talk a little," said she. "How!" said Bonacieux, astonished. "Yes, I have something of the highest importance to tell you." "True," said he, "and I have some questions sufficiently serious to put to you. Describe to me your abduction, I pray you." "Oh, that's of no consequence just now," said Mme. Bonacieux. "And what does it concern, then--my captivity?" "I heard of it the day it happened; but as you were not guilty of any crime, as you were not guilty of any intrigue, as you, in short, knew nothing that could compromise yourself or anybody else, I attached no more importance to that event than it merited." "You speak very much at your ease, madame," said Bonacieux, hurt at the little interest his wife showed in him. "Do you know that I was plunged during a day and night in a dungeon of the Bastille?" "Oh, a day and night soon pass away. Let us return to the object that brings me here." "What, that which brings you home to me? Is it not the desire of seeing a husband again from whom you have been separated for a week?" asked the mercer, piqued to the quick. "Yes, that first, and other things afterward." "Speak." "It is a thing of the highest interest, and upon which our future fortune perhaps depends." "The complexion of our fortune has changed very much since I saw you, Madame Bonacieux, and I should not be astonished if in the course of a few months it were to excite the envy of many folks." "Yes, particularly if you follow the instructions I am about to give you." "Me?" "Yes, you. There is good and holy action to be performed, monsieur, and much money to be gained at the same time." Mme. Bonacieux knew that in talking of money to her husband, she took him on his weak side. But a man, were he even a mercer, when he had talked for ten minutes with Cardinal Richelieu, is no longer the same man. "Much money to be gained?" said Bonacieux, protruding his lip. "Yes, much." "About how much?" "A thousand pistoles, perhaps." "What you demand of me is serious, then?" "It is indeed." "What must be done?" "You must go away immediately. I will give you a paper which you must not part with on any account, and which you will deliver into the proper hands." "And whither am I to go?" "To London." "I go to London? Go to! You jest! I have no business in London." "But others wish that you should go there." "But who are those others? I warn you that I will never again work in the dark, and that I will know not only to what I expose myself, but for whom I expose myself." "An illustrious person sends you; an illustrious person awaits you. The recompense will exceed your expectations; that is all I promise you." "More intrigues! Nothing but intrigues! Thank you, madame, I am aware of them now; Monsieur Cardinal has enlightened me on that head." "The cardinal?" cried Mme. Bonacieux. "Have you seen the cardinal?" "He sent for me," answered the mercer, proudly. "And you responded to his bidding, you imprudent man?" "Well, I can't say I had much choice of going or not going, for I was taken to him between two guards. It is true also, that as I did not then know his Eminence, if I had been able to dispense with the visit, I should have been enchanted." "He ill-treated you, then; he threatened you?" "He gave me his hand, and called me his friend. His friend! Do you hear that, madame? I am the friend of the great cardinal!" "Of the great cardinal!" "Perhaps you would contest his right to that title, madame?" "I would contest nothing; but I tell you that the favor of a minister is ephemeral, and that a man must be mad to attach himself to a minister. There are powers above his which do not depend upon a man or the issue of an event; it is to these powers we should rally." "I am sorry for it, madame, but I acknowledge no other power but that of the great man whom I have the honor to serve." "You serve the cardinal?" "Yes, madame; and as his servant, I will not allow you to be concerned in plots against the safety of the state, or to serve the intrigues of a woman who is not French and who has a Spanish heart. Fortunately we have the great cardinal; his vigilant eye watches over and penetrates to the bottom of the heart." Bonacieux was repeating, word for word, a sentence which he had heard from the Comte de Rochefort; but the poor wife, who had reckoned on her husband, and who, in that hope, had answered for him to the queen, did not tremble the less, both at the danger into which she had nearly cast herself and at the helpless state to which she was reduced. Nevertheless, knowing the weakness of her husband, and more particularly his cupidity, she did not despair of bringing him round to her purpose. "Ah, you are a cardinalist, then, monsieur, are you?" cried she; "and you serve the party of those who maltreat your wife and insult your queen?" "Private interests are as nothing before the interests of all. I am for those who save the state," said Bonacieux, emphatically. "And what do you know about the state you talk of?" said Mme. Bonacieux, shrugging her shoulders. "Be satisfied with being a plain, straightforward citizen, and turn to that side which offers the most advantages." "Eh, eh!" said Bonacieux, slapping a plump, round bag, which returned a sound a money; "what do you think of this, Madame Preacher?" "Whence comes that money?" "You do not guess?" "From the cardinal?" "From him, and from my friend the Comte de Rochefort." "The Comte de Rochefort! Why, it was he who carried me off!" "That may be, madame!" "And you receive silver from that man?" "Have you not said that that abduction was entirely political?" "Yes; but that abduction had for its object the betrayal of my mistress, to draw from me by torture confessions that might compromise the honor, and perhaps the life, of my august mistress." "Madame," replied Bonacieux, "your august mistress is a perfidious Spaniard, and what the cardinal does is well done." "Monsieur," said the young woman, "I know you to be cowardly, avaricious, and foolish, but I never till now believed you infamous!" "Madame," said Bonacieux, who had never seen his wife in a passion, and who recoiled before this conjugal anger, "madame, what do you say?" "I say you are a miserable creature!" continued Mme. Bonacieux, who saw she was regaining some little influence over her husband. "You meddle with politics, do you--and still more, with cardinalist politics? Why, you sell yourself, body and soul, to the demon, the devil, for money!" "No, to the cardinal." "It's the same thing," cried the young woman. "Who calls Richelieu calls Satan." "Hold your tongue, hold your tongue, madame! You may be overheard." "Yes, you are right; I should be ashamed for anyone to know your baseness." "But what do you require of me, then? Let us see." "I have told you. You must depart instantly, monsieur. You must accomplish loyally the commission with which I deign to charge you, and on that condition I pardon everything, I forget everything; and what is more," and she held out her hand to him, "I restore my love." Bonacieux was cowardly and avaricious, but he loved his wife. He was softened. A man of fifty cannot long bear malice with a wife of twenty-three. Mme. Bonacieux saw that he hesitated. "Come! Have you decided?" said she. "But, my dear love, reflect a little upon what you require of me. London is far from Paris, very far, and perhaps the commission with which you charge me is not without dangers?" "What matters it, if you avoid them?" "Hold, Madame Bonacieux," said the mercer, "hold! I positively refuse; intrigues terrify me. I have seen the Bastille. My! Whew! That's a frightful place, that Bastille! Only to think of it makes my flesh crawl. They threatened me with torture. Do you know what torture is? Wooden points that they stick in between your legs till your bones stick out! No, positively I will not go. And, MORBLEU, why do you not go yourself? For in truth, I think I have hitherto been deceived in you. I really believe you are a man, and a violent one, too." "And you, you are a woman--a miserable woman, stupid and brutal. You are afraid, are you? Well, if you do not go this very instant, I will have you arrested by the queen's orders, and I will have you placed in the Bastille which you dread so much." Bonacieux fell into a profound reflection. He weighed the two angers in his brain--that of the cardinal and that of the queen; that of the cardinal predominated enormously. "Have me arrested on the part of the queen," said he, "and I--I will appeal to his Eminence." At once Mme. Bonacieux saw that she had gone too far, and she was terrified at having communicated so much. She for a moment contemplated with fright that stupid countenance, impressed with the invincible resolution of a fool that is overcome by fear. "Well, be it so!" said she. "Perhaps, when all is considered, you are right. In the long run, a man knows more about politics than a woman, particularly such as, like you, Monsieur Bonacieux, have conversed with the cardinal. And yet it is very hard," added she, "that a man upon whose affection I thought I might depend, treats me thus unkindly and will not comply with any of my fancies." "That is because your fancies go too far," replied the triumphant Bonacieux, "and I mistrust them." "Well, I will give it up, then," said the young woman, sighing. "It is well as it is; say no more about it." "At least you should tell me what I should have to do in London," replied Bonacieux, who remembered a little too late that Rochefort had desired him to endeavor to obtain his wife's secrets. "It is of no use for you to know anything about it," said the young woman, whom an instinctive mistrust now impelled to draw back. "It was about one of those purchases that interest women--a purchase by which much might have been gained." But the more the young woman excused herself, the more important Bonacieux thought the secret which she declined to confide to him. He resolved then to hasten immediately to the residence of the Comte de Rochefort, and tell him that the queen was seeking for a messenger to send to London. "Pardon me for quitting you, my dear Madame Bonacieux," said he; "but, not knowing you would come to see me, I had made an engagement with a friend. I shall soon return; and if you will wait only a few minutes for me, as soon as I have concluded my business with that friend, as it is growing late, I will come back and reconduct you to the Louvre." "Thank you, monsieur, you are not brave enough to be of any use to me whatever," replied Mme. Bonacieux. "I shall return very safely to the Louvre all alone." "As you please, Madame Bonacieux," said the ex-mercer. "Shall I see you again soon?" "Next week I hope my duties will afford me a little liberty, and I will take advantage of it to come and put things in order here, as they must necessarily be much deranged." "Very well; I shall expect you. You are not angry with me?" "Not the least in the world." "Till then, then?" "Till then." Bonacieux kissed his wife's hand, and set off at a quick pace. "Well," said Mme. Bonacieux, when her husband had shut the street door and she found herself alone; "that imbecile lacked but one thing: to become a cardinalist. And I, who have answered for him to the queen--I, who have promised my poor mistress--ah, my God, my God! She will take me for one of those wretches with whom the palace swarms and who are placed about her as spies! Ah, Monsieur Bonacieux, I never did love you much, but now it is worse than ever. I hate you, and on my word you shall pay for this!" At the moment she spoke these words a rap on the ceiling made her raise her head, and a voice which reached her through the ceiling cried, "Dear Madame Bonacieux, open for me the little door on the alley, and I will come down to you."

Chapter Seventeen: Bonacieux at Home

https://web.archive.org/web/20210127112556/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/three-musketeers/summary/chapter-seventeen-bonacieux-at-home

The King realizes that this is the second time the Cardinal has mentioned the diamonds and is intrigued by the mystery. No matter how much they pretend to be BFFs, the King and the Cardinal are also rivals. The King has been humiliated multiple times because the Cardinal has better spies than the King. He hopes to figure out the "Mystery of the Diamond Studs" and impress the Cardinal. He then goes to his wife and requests for her to wear the diamonds. She freaks out. The King notices and enjoys her reaction. Anne finds out that the Cardinal is behind both the date of the ball and the request for her to wear diamonds. The Queen begins to pray, believing that her reputation has been completely ruined. She has no friends and nowhere to go. Wrong! Madame Bonacieux is there, asking if there is anything she can do. Madame Bonacieux pledges her eternal loyalty to the Queen, and then proposes that a messenger be sent to the Duke. The Queen gives her a letter and seals it with her private seal. She then points out that Madame Bonacieux will likely need money. She gives the woman an expensive ring. Madame Bonacieux goes home, unaware that her husband is now loyal to the Cardinal. She thinks of D'Artagnan on her way home. At home, her husband is preoccupied with being friends with the Cardinal. Once she gets home, she embraces her husband and says she has an important mission for him. Her husband wants to talk about his day and night in the Bastille. Finally, it becomes clear to Madame Bonacieux that her husband will be of no help to her--he's too closely allied to the Cardinal. Monsieur Bonacieux shows his wife all his newfound money from the Cardinal and Monsieur de Rochefort. His wife points out that Monsieur de Rochefort was the one who abducted her. His wife promises him that if he fulfills the mission, she will forgive him everything and love him again. Her husband is conflicted. She is young and pretty. He's old and not very handsome! But he refuses. London is so far away and his memories of the Bastille are still too fresh. Madame Bonacieux realizes she may already have said too much, so she gives up. Her husband remembers that he was supposed to spy on her, but it's already too late. Madame Bonacieux has to go back to the Louvre , but her husband leaves first. Her husband's departure gives her time to bemoan her situation and for D'Artagnan to arrive and offer himself as a messenger.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/1257-chapters/18.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Three Musketeers/section_18_part_0.txt

The Three Musketeers.chapter 18

chapter 18: lover and husband

{"name": "Chapter Eighteen: Lover and Husband", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210127112556/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/three-musketeers/summary/chapter-eighteen-lover-and-husband", "summary": "The first thing D'Artagnan says when he walks into Madame Bonacieux's apartment is that her husband is a bad guy. He overheard the entire conversation, and he's ready to do anything for her. Madame Bonacieux says, \"Really?\" D'Artagnan claims that he's a trustworthy guy. He ends with \"I love you. I'm an honorable man. I am gallant. I am brave.\" Madame Bonacieux looks at his eager puppy-dog face and decides to share the Queen's secret. She also, the narrator says, is kind of falling for him. She tells him the whole story--the narrator calls it \"their mutual declaration of love.\" Before he leaves, Madame Bonacieux points out that he can't just take off. He needs to ask Treville boss for a leave of absence. She also points out that he needs money. She gives him her husband's money. D'Artagnan remarks that it will be amusing to save the Queen with the Cardinal's money. There are more declarations of love. Then Madame Bonacieux notices that her husband is talking to someone in the street. The two of them need to do the sensible thing, which is to hide in D'Artagnan's apartment. Once in D'Artagnan's apartment the two lovebirds look out the window and see Monsieur Bonacieux chit-chatting with D'Artagnan's worst enemy, the Man from Meung! D'Artagnan wants to run off and slay him right then and there, but Madame Bonacieux orders him not to. Because he's madly in love with Madame Bonacieux, D'Artagnan stops puts his sword away. The two of them eavesdrop on the conversation downstairs. The stranger asks Monsieur Bonacieux if his wife suspects anything. Bonacieux says no. The stranger asks Bonacieux to make sure that D'Artagnan isn't home. Bonacieux does so as the two lovers sit quietly. The conversation continues--Bonacieux is certain that his wife is at the Louvre, and Bonacieux did not hear his wife mention any names. The stranger then scolds Bonacieux for not pretending to accept the mission so they could have the letter. Bonacieux responds, \"my wife adores me, and I'll just run over to the Louvre and tell her I changed my mind about the mission!\" Madame Bonacieux curses both her husband and the stranger under her breath. The stranger leaves and Bonacieux discovers the missing money. He runs screaming out of his house. D'Artagnan asks if he would win Madame Bonacieux's affection with a successful mission. She blushes, which means \"yes,\" and shortly thereafter, D'Artagnan departs. Madame Bonacieux prays to God for protection.", "analysis": ""}

18 LOVER AND HUSBAND Ah, Madame," said d'Artagnan, entering by the door which the young woman opened for him, "allow me to tell you that you have a bad sort of a husband." "You have, then, overheard our conversation?" asked Mme. Bonacieux, eagerly, and looking at d'Artagnan with disquiet. "The whole." "But how, my God?" "By a mode of proceeding known to myself, and by which I likewise overheard the more animated conversation which he had with the cardinal's police." "And what did you understand by what we said?" "A thousand things. In the first place, that, unfortunately, your husband is a simpleton and a fool; in the next place, you are in trouble, of which I am very glad, as it gives me an opportunity of placing myself at your service, and God knows I am ready to throw myself into the fire for you; finally, that the queen wants a brave, intelligent, devoted man to make a journey to London for her. I have at least two of the three qualities you stand in need of, and here I am." Mme. Bonacieux made no reply; but her heart beat with joy and secret hope shone in her eyes. "And what guarantee will you give me," asked she, "if I consent to confide this message to you?" "My love for you. Speak! Command! What is to be done?" "My God, my God!" murmured the young woman, "ought I to confide such a secret to you, monsieur? You are almost a boy." "I see that you require someone to answer for me?" "I admit that would reassure me greatly." "Do you know Athos?" "No." "Porthos?" "No." "Aramis?" "No. Who are these gentleman?" "Three of the king's Musketeers. Do you know Monsieur de Treville, their captain?" "Oh, yes, him! I know him; not personally, but from having heard the queen speak of him more than once as a brave and loyal gentleman." "You do not fear lest he should betray you to the cardinal?" "Oh, no, certainly not!" "Well, reveal your secret to him, and ask him whether, however important, however valuable, however terrible it may be, you may not confide it to me." "But this secret is not mine, and I cannot reveal it in this manner." "You were about to confide it to Monsieur Bonacieux," said d'Artagnan, with chagrin. "As one confides a letter to the hollow of a tree, to the wing of a pigeon, to the collar of a dog." "And yet, me--you see plainly that I love you." "You say so." "I am an honorable man." "You say so." "I am a gallant fellow." "I believe it." "I am brave." "Oh, I am sure of that!" "Then, put me to the proof." Mme. Bonacieux looked at the young man, restrained for a minute by a last hesitation; but there was such an ardor in his eyes, such persuasion in his voice, that she felt herself constrained to confide in him. Besides, she found herself in circumstances where everything must be risked for the sake of everything. The queen might be as much injured by too much reticence as by too much confidence; and--let us admit it--the involuntary sentiment which she felt for her young protector decided her to speak. "Listen," said she; "I yield to your protestations, I yield to your assurances. But I swear to you, before God who hears us, that if you betray me, and my enemies pardon me, I will kill myself, while accusing you of my death." "And I--I swear to you before God, madame," said d'Artagnan, "that if I am taken while accomplishing the orders you give me, I will die sooner than do anything that may compromise anyone." Then the young woman confided in him the terrible secret of which chance had already communicated to him a part in front of the Samaritaine. This was their mutual declaration of love. D'Artagnan was radiant with joy and pride. This secret which he possessed, this woman whom he loved! Confidence and love made him a giant. "I go," said he; "I go at once." "How, you will go!" said Mme. Bonacieux; "and your regiment, your captain?" "By my soul, you had made me forget all that, dear Constance! Yes, you are right; a furlough is needful." "Still another obstacle," murmured Mme. Bonacieux, sorrowfully. "As to that," cried d'Artagnan, after a moment of reflection, "I shall surmount it, be assured." "How so?" "I will go this very evening to Treville, whom I will request to ask this favor for me of his brother-in-law, Monsieur Dessessart." "But another thing." "What?" asked d'Artagnan, seeing that Mme. Bonacieux hesitated to continue. "You have, perhaps, no money?" "PERHAPS is too much," said d'Artagnan, smiling. "Then," replied Mme. Bonacieux, opening a cupboard and taking from it the very bag which a half hour before her husband had caressed so affectionately, "take this bag." "The cardinal's?" cried d'Artagnan, breaking into a loud laugh, he having heard, as may be remembered, thanks to the broken boards, every syllable of the conversation between the mercer and his wife. "The cardinal's," replied Mme. Bonacieux. "You see it makes a very respectable appearance." "PARDIEU," cried d'Artagnan, "it will be a double amusing affair to save the queen with the cardinal's money!" "You are an amiable and charming young man," said Mme. Bonacieux. "Be assured you will not find her Majesty ungrateful." "Oh, I am already grandly recompensed!" cried d'Artagnan. "I love you; you permit me to tell you that I do--that is already more happiness than I dared to hope." "Silence!" said Mme. Bonacieux, starting. "What!" "Someone is talking in the street." "It is the voice of--" "Of my husband! Yes, I recognize it!" D'Artagnan ran to the door and pushed the bolt. "He shall not come in before I am gone," said he; "and when I am gone, you can open to him." "But I ought to be gone, too. And the disappearance of his money; how am I to justify it if I am here?" "You are right; we must go out." "Go out? How? He will see us if we go out." "Then you must come up into my room." "Ah," said Mme. Bonacieux, "you speak that in a tone that frightens me!" Mme. Bonacieux pronounced these words with tears in her eyes. D'Artagnan saw those tears, and much disturbed, softened, he threw himself at her feet. "With me you will be as safe as in a temple; I give you my word of a gentleman." "Let us go," said she, "I place full confidence in you, my friend!" D'Artagnan drew back the bolt with precaution, and both, light as shadows, glided through the interior door into the passage, ascended the stairs as quietly as possible, and entered d'Artagnan's chambers. Once there, for greater security, the young man barricaded the door. They both approached the window, and through a slit in the shutter they saw Bonacieux talking with a man in a cloak. At sight of this man, d'Artagnan started, and half drawing his sword, sprang toward the door. It was the man of Meung. "What are you going to do?" cried Mme. Bonacieux; "you will ruin us all!" "But I have sworn to kill that man!" said d'Artagnan. "Your life is devoted from this moment, and does not belong to you. In the name of the queen I forbid you to throw yourself into any peril which is foreign to that of your journey." "And do you command nothing in your own name?" "In my name," said Mme. Bonacieux, with great emotion, "in my name I beg you! But listen; they appear to be speaking of me." D'Artagnan drew near the window, and lent his ear. M Bonacieux had opened his door, and seeing the apartment, had returned to the man in the cloak, whom he had left alone for an instant. "She is gone," said he; "she must have returned to the Louvre." "You are sure," replied the stranger, "that she did not suspect the intentions with which you went out?" "No," replied Bonacieux, with a self-sufficient air, "she is too superficial a woman." "Is the young Guardsman at home?" "I do not think he is; as you see, his shutter is closed, and you can see no light shine through the chinks of the shutters." "All the same, it is well to be certain." "How so?" "By knocking at his door. Go." "I will ask his servant." Bonacieux re-entered the house, passed through the same door that had afforded a passage for the two fugitives, went up to d'Artagnan's door, and knocked. No one answered. Porthos, in order to make a greater display, had that evening borrowed Planchet. As to d'Artagnan, he took care not to give the least sign of existence. The moment the hand of Bonacieux sounded on the door, the two young people felt their hearts bound within them. "There is nobody within," said Bonacieux. "Never mind. Let us return to your apartment. We shall be safer there than in the doorway." "Ah, my God!" whispered Mme. Bonacieux, "we shall hear no more." "On the contrary," said d'Artagnan, "we shall hear better." D'Artagnan raised the three or four boards which made his chamber another ear of Dionysius, spread a carpet on the floor, went upon his knees, and made a sign to Mme. Bonacieux to stoop as he did toward the opening. "You are sure there is nobody there?" said the stranger. "I will answer for it," said Bonacieux. "And you think that your wife--" "Has returned to the Louvre." "Without speaking to anyone but yourself?" "I am sure of it." "That is an important point, do you understand?" "Then the news I brought you is of value?" "The greatest, my dear Bonacieux; I don't conceal this from you." "Then the cardinal will be pleased with me?" "I have no doubt of it." "The great cardinal!" "Are you sure, in her conversation with you, that your wife mentioned no names?" "I think not." "She did not name Madame de Chevreuse, the Duke of Buckingham, or Madame de Vernet?" "No; she only told me she wished to send me to London to serve the interests of an illustrious personage." "The traitor!" murmured Mme. Bonacieux. "Silence!" said d'Artagnan, taking her hand, which, without thinking of it, she abandoned to him. "Never mind," continued the man in the cloak; "you were a fool not to have pretended to accept the mission. You would then be in present possession of the letter. The state, which is now threatened, would be safe, and you--" "And I?" "Well you--the cardinal would have given you letters of nobility." "Did he tell you so?" "Yes, I know that he meant to afford you that agreeable surprise." "Be satisfied," replied Bonacieux; "my wife adores me, and there is yet time." "The ninny!" murmured Mme. Bonacieux. "Silence!" said d'Artagnan, pressing her hand more closely. "How is there still time?" asked the man in the cloak. "I go to the Louvre; I ask for Mme. Bonacieux; I say that I have reflected; I renew the affair; I obtain the letter, and I run directly to the cardinal." "Well, go quickly! I will return soon to learn the result of your trip." The stranger went out. "Infamous!" said Mme. Bonacieux, addressing this epithet to her husband. "Silence!" said d'Artagnan, pressing her hand still more warmly. A terrible howling interrupted these reflections of d'Artagnan and Mme. Bonacieux. It was her husband, who had discovered the disappearance of the moneybag, and was crying "Thieves!" "Oh, my God!" cried Mme. Bonacieux, "he will rouse the whole quarter." Bonacieux called a long time; but as such cries, on account of their frequency, brought nobody in the Rue des Fossoyeurs, and as lately the mercer's house had a bad name, finding that nobody came, he went out continuing to call, his voice being heard fainter and fainter as he went in the direction of the Rue du Bac. "Now he is gone, it is your turn to get out," said Mme. Bonacieux. "Courage, my friend, but above all, prudence, and think what you owe to the queen." "To her and to you!" cried d'Artagnan. "Be satisfied, beautiful Constance. I shall become worthy of her gratitude; but shall I likewise return worthy of your love?" The young woman only replied by the beautiful glow which mounted to her cheeks. A few seconds afterward d'Artagnan also went out enveloped in a large cloak, which ill-concealed the sheath of a long sword. Mme. Bonacieux followed him with her eyes, with that long, fond look with which he had turned the angle of the street, she fell on her knees, and clasping her hands, "Oh, my God," cried she, "protect the queen, protect me!"

Chapter Eighteen: Lover and Husband

https://web.archive.org/web/20210127112556/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/three-musketeers/summary/chapter-eighteen-lover-and-husband

The first thing D'Artagnan says when he walks into Madame Bonacieux's apartment is that her husband is a bad guy. He overheard the entire conversation, and he's ready to do anything for her. Madame Bonacieux says, "Really?" D'Artagnan claims that he's a trustworthy guy. He ends with "I love you. I'm an honorable man. I am gallant. I am brave." Madame Bonacieux looks at his eager puppy-dog face and decides to share the Queen's secret. She also, the narrator says, is kind of falling for him. She tells him the whole story--the narrator calls it "their mutual declaration of love." Before he leaves, Madame Bonacieux points out that he can't just take off. He needs to ask Treville boss for a leave of absence. She also points out that he needs money. She gives him her husband's money. D'Artagnan remarks that it will be amusing to save the Queen with the Cardinal's money. There are more declarations of love. Then Madame Bonacieux notices that her husband is talking to someone in the street. The two of them need to do the sensible thing, which is to hide in D'Artagnan's apartment. Once in D'Artagnan's apartment the two lovebirds look out the window and see Monsieur Bonacieux chit-chatting with D'Artagnan's worst enemy, the Man from Meung! D'Artagnan wants to run off and slay him right then and there, but Madame Bonacieux orders him not to. Because he's madly in love with Madame Bonacieux, D'Artagnan stops puts his sword away. The two of them eavesdrop on the conversation downstairs. The stranger asks Monsieur Bonacieux if his wife suspects anything. Bonacieux says no. The stranger asks Bonacieux to make sure that D'Artagnan isn't home. Bonacieux does so as the two lovers sit quietly. The conversation continues--Bonacieux is certain that his wife is at the Louvre, and Bonacieux did not hear his wife mention any names. The stranger then scolds Bonacieux for not pretending to accept the mission so they could have the letter. Bonacieux responds, "my wife adores me, and I'll just run over to the Louvre and tell her I changed my mind about the mission!" Madame Bonacieux curses both her husband and the stranger under her breath. The stranger leaves and Bonacieux discovers the missing money. He runs screaming out of his house. D'Artagnan asks if he would win Madame Bonacieux's affection with a successful mission. She blushes, which means "yes," and shortly thereafter, D'Artagnan departs. Madame Bonacieux prays to God for protection.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/1257-chapters/19.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Three Musketeers/section_19_part_0.txt

The Three Musketeers.chapter 19

chapter 19: plan of campaign

{"name": "Chapter Nineteen: Plan of Campaign", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210127112556/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/three-musketeers/summary/chapter-nineteen-plan-of-campaign", "summary": "D'Artagnan shows up at Treville's house all excited. He's about to embark on a mission for glory, money, and love. What more could you want? As soon as Treville sees D'Artagnan, he can tell that something's up. D'Artagnan is ready to tell Treville everything since he's such a good friend, but as soon as D'Artagnan tells Treville that the issue deals with the honor and the life of the Queen, Treville tells him not to say a word, and then asks if he can do anything for D'Artagnan. D'Artagnan asks for a fifteen-day leave of absence, to be enacted immediately. Treville tells D'Artagnan that if he leaves alone, he will be assassinated. Porthos, Aramis, and Athos are going to accompany D'Artagnan. Treville signs the orders under the pretense that the three Musketeers are going to the waters of Forges so that Athos can heal his wound. Treville tells D'Artagnan that the leaves of absence will be completed and signed by two in the morning. D'Artagnan heads for Aramis's place. Aramis has been looking gloomy lately, and especially so tonight, but he says he's been writing an important religious piece. After the two chat for a few minutes, a servant shows up with a leave of absence for Aramis, who is properly shocked because he doesn't recall asking for one. D'Artagnan realizes that Aramis is still pining for the woman with the embroidered handkerchief who helped the Duke of Buckingham meet up with the Queen . It turns out Aramis has been feeling rejected, but D'Artagnan tells him that, a) the woman went back to Tours because she didn't want to be arrested, and b) she didn't write to Aramis because she didn't want him to get arrested. Glad that's all sorted out; Aramis is perfectly happy to go to England with D'Artagnan. Along with Aramis's servant Bazin, they head to Athos's house. On their way D'Artagnan assures Aramis that no one else knows about the lady. When they arrive at Athos's house, they find him holding his leave of absence and looking confused. D'Artagnan explains that Athos is to follow him in service of the King and Queen. Porthos shows up, also confused about his leave of absence. D'Artagnan explains that the whole gang is going to London. And then he pulls out the three hundred pistoles and says that everyone gets seventy-five each. He then also points out that not all of them are going to make it, which sounds vaguely ominous. Athos, Porthos, and Aramis say that they still don't know what this cause worth dying for is, exactly. D'Artagnan asks if the King ever needs to give a reason. And then they say, good point! The four men call for their servants and tell them to prepare for the journey. They talk about how to proceed, and settle on traveling together. If D'Artagnan is killed, someone else will carry the letter. If that person is killed, then someone else will carry the letter and so on until they're all dead or the letter has reached Buckingham. Everyone agrees to the plan and they set off.", "analysis": ""}

19 PLAN OF CAMPAIGN D'Artagnan went straight to M. de Treville's. He had reflected that in a few minutes the cardinal would be warned by this cursed stranger, who appeared to be his agent, and he judged, with reason, he had not a moment to lose. The heart of the young man overflowed with joy. An opportunity presented itself to him in which there would be at the same time glory to be acquired, and money to be gained; and as a far higher encouragement, it brought him into close intimacy with a woman he adored. This chance did, then, for him at once more than he would have dared to ask of Providence. M de Treville was in his saloon with his habitual court of gentlemen. D'Artagnan, who was known as a familiar of the house, went straight to his office, and sent word that he wished to see him on something of importance. D'Artagnan had been there scarcely five minutes when M. de Treville entered. At the first glance, and by the joy which was painted on his countenance, the worthy captain plainly perceived that something new was on foot. All the way along d'Artagnan had been consulting with himself whether he should place confidence in M. de Treville, or whether he should only ask him to give him CARTE BLANCHE for some secret affair. But M. de Treville had always been so thoroughly his friend, had always been so devoted to the king and queen, and hated the cardinal so cordially, that the young man resolved to tell him everything. "Did you ask for me, my good friend?" said M. de Treville. "Yes, monsieur," said d'Artagnan, lowering his voice, "and you will pardon me, I hope, for having disturbed you when you know the importance of my business." "Speak, then, I am all attention." "It concerns nothing less," said d'Artagnan, "than the honor, perhaps the life of the queen." "What did you say?" asked M. de Treville, glancing round to see if they were surely alone, and then fixing his questioning look upon d'Artagnan. "I say, monsieur, that chance has rendered me master of a secret--" "Which you will guard, I hope, young man, as your life." "But which I must impart to you, monsieur, for you alone can assist me in the mission I have just received from her Majesty." "Is this secret your own?" "No, monsieur; it is her Majesty's." "Are you authorized by her Majesty to communicate it to me?" "No, monsieur, for, on the contrary, I am desired to preserve the profoundest mystery." "Why, then, are you about to betray it to me?" "Because, as I said, without you I can do nothing; and I am afraid you will refuse me the favor I come to ask if you do not know to what end I ask it." "Keep your secret, young man, and tell me what you wish." "I wish you to obtain for me, from Monsieur Dessessart, leave of absence for fifteen days." "When?" "This very night." "You leave Paris?" "I am going on a mission." "May you tell me whither?" "To London." "Has anyone an interest in preventing your arrival there?" "The cardinal, I believe, would give the world to prevent my success." "And you are going alone?" "I am going alone." "In that case you will not get beyond Bondy. I tell you so, by the faith of de Treville." "How so?" "You will be assassinated." "And I shall die in the performance of my duty." "But your mission will not be accomplished." "That is true," replied d'Artagnan. "Believe me," continued Treville, "in enterprises of this kind, in order that one may arrive, four must set out." "Ah, you are right, monsieur," said d'Artagnan; "but you know Athos, Porthos, and Aramis, and you know if I can dispose of them." "Without confiding to them the secret which I am not willing to know?" "We are sworn, once for all, to implicit confidence and devotedness against all proof. Besides, you can tell them that you have full confidence in me, and they will not be more incredulous than you." "I can send to each of them leave of absence for fifteen days, that is all--to Athos, whose wound still makes him suffer, to go to the waters of Forges; to Porthos and Aramis to accompany their friend, whom they are not willing to abandon in such a painful condition. Sending their leave of absence will be proof enough that I authorize their journey." "Thanks, monsieur. You are a hundred times too good." "Begone, then, find them instantly, and let all be done tonight! Ha! But first write your request to Dessessart. Perhaps you had a spy at your heels; and your visit, if it should ever be known to the cardinal, will thus seem legitimate." D'Artagnan drew up his request, and M. de Treville, on receiving it, assured him that by two o'clock in the morning the four leaves of absence should be at the respective domiciles of the travelers. "Have the goodness to send mine to Athos's residence. I should dread some disagreeable encounter if I were to go home." "Be easy. Adieu, and a prosperous voyage. A PROPOS," said M. de Treville, calling him back. D'Artagnan returned. "Have you any money?" D'Artagnan tapped the bag he had in his pocket. "Enough?" asked M. de Treville. "Three hundred pistoles." "Oh, plenty! That would carry you to the end of the world. Begone, then!" D'Artagnan saluted M. de Treville, who held out his hand to him; d'Artagnan pressed it with a respect mixed with gratitude. Since his first arrival at Paris, he had had constant occasion to honor this excellent man, whom he had always found worthy, loyal, and great. His first visit was to Aramis, at whose residence he had not been since the famous evening on which he had followed Mme. Bonacieux. Still further, he had seldom seen the young Musketeer; but every time he had seen him, he had remarked a deep sadness imprinted on his countenance. This evening, especially, Aramis was melancholy and thoughtful. D'Artagnan asked some questions about this prolonged melancholy. Aramis pleaded as his excuse a commentary upon the eighteenth chapter of St. Augustine, which he was forced to write in Latin for the following week, and which preoccupied him a good deal. After the two friends had been chatting a few moments, a servant from M. de Treville entered, bringing a sealed packet. "What is that?" asked Aramis. "The leave of absence Monsieur has asked for," replied the lackey. "For me! I have asked for no leave of absence." "Hold your tongue and take it!" said d'Artagnan. "And you, my friend, there is a demipistole for your trouble; you will tell Monsieur de Treville that Monsieur Aramis is very much obliged to him. Go." The lackey bowed to the ground and departed. "What does all this mean?" asked Aramis. "Pack up all you want for a journey of a fortnight, and follow me." "But I cannot leave Paris just now without knowing--" Aramis stopped. "What is become of her? I suppose you mean--" continued d'Artagnan. "Become of whom?" replied Aramis. "The woman who was here--the woman with the embroidered handkerchief." "Who told you there was a woman here?" replied Aramis, becoming as pale as death. "I saw her." "And you know who she is?" "I believe I can guess, at least." "Listen!" said Aramis. "Since you appear to know so many things, can you tell me what is become of that woman?" "I presume that she has returned to Tours." "To Tours? Yes, that may be. You evidently know her. But why did she return to Tours without telling me anything?" "Because she was in fear of being arrested." "Why has she not written to me, then?" "Because she was afraid of compromising you." "d'Artagnan, you restore me to life!" cried Aramis. "I fancied myself despised, betrayed. I was so delighted to see her again! I could not have believed she would risk her liberty for me, and yet for what other cause could she have returned to Paris?" "For the cause which today takes us to England." "And what is this cause?" demanded Aramis. "Oh, you'll know it someday, Aramis; but at present I must imitate the discretion of 'the doctor's niece.'" Aramis smiled, as he remembered the tale he had told his friends on a certain evening. "Well, then, since she has left Paris, and you are sure of it, d'Artagnan, nothing prevents me, and I am ready to follow you. You say we are going--" "To see Athos now, and if you will come thither, I beg you to make haste, for we have lost much time already. A PROPOS, inform Bazin." "Will Bazin go with us?" asked Aramis. "Perhaps so. At all events, it is best that he should follow us to Athos's." Aramis called Bazin, and, after having ordered him to join them at Athos's residence, said "Let us go then," at the same time taking his cloak, sword, and three pistols, opening uselessly two or three drawers to see if he could not find stray coin. When well assured this search was superfluous, he followed d'Artagnan, wondering to himself how this young Guardsman should know so well who the lady was to whom he had given hospitality, and that he should know better than himself what had become of her. Only as they went out Aramis placed his hand upon the arm of d'Artagnan, and looking at him earnestly, "You have not spoken of this lady?" said he. "To nobody in the world." "Not even to Athos or Porthos?" "I have not breathed a syllable to them." "Good enough!" Tranquil on this important point, Aramis continued his way with d'Artagnan, and both soon arrived at Athos's dwelling. They found him holding his leave of absence in one hand, and M. de Treville's note in the other. "Can you explain to me what signify this leave of absence and this letter, which I have just received?" said the astonished Athos. My dear Athos, I wish, as your health absolutely requires it, that you should rest for a fortnight. Go, then, and take the waters of Forges, or any that may be more agreeable to you, and recuperate yourself as quickly as possible. Yours affectionate, de Treville "Well, this leave of absence and that letter mean that you must follow me, Athos." "To the waters of Forges?" "There or elsewhere." "In the king's service?" "Either the king's or the queen's. Are we not their Majesties' servants?" At that moment Porthos entered. "PARDIEU!" said he, "here is a strange thing! Since when, I wonder, in the Musketeers, did they grant men leave of absence without their asking for it?" "Since," said d'Artagnan, "they have friends who ask it for them." "Ah, ah!" said Porthos, "it appears there's something fresh here." "Yes, we are going--" said Aramis. "To what country?" demanded Porthos. "My faith! I don't know much about it," said Athos. "Ask d'Artagnan." "To London, gentlemen," said d'Artagnan. "To London!" cried Porthos; "and what the devil are we going to do in London?" "That is what I am not at liberty to tell you, gentlemen; you must trust to me." "But in order to go to London," added Porthos, "money is needed, and I have none." "Nor I," said Aramis. "Nor I," said Athos. "I have," replied d'Artagnan, pulling out his treasure from his pocket, and placing it on the table. "There are in this bag three hundred pistoles. Let each take seventy-five; that is enough to take us to London and back. Besides, make yourselves easy; we shall not all arrive at London." "Why so?" "Because, in all probability, some one of us will be left on the road." "Is this, then, a campaign upon which we are now entering?" "One of a most dangerous kind, I give you notice." "Ah! But if we do risk being killed," said Porthos, "at least I should like to know what for." "You would be all the wiser," said Athos. "And yet," said Aramis, "I am somewhat of Porthos's opinion." "Is the king accustomed to give you such reasons? No. He says to you jauntily, 'Gentlemen, there is fighting going on in Gascony or in Flanders; go and fight,' and you go there. Why? You need give yourselves no more uneasiness about this." "d'Artagnan is right," said Athos; "here are our three leaves of absence which came from Monsieur de Treville, and here are three hundred pistoles which came from I don't know where. So let us go and get killed where we are told to go. Is life worth the trouble of so many questions? D'Artagnan, I am ready to follow you." "And I also," said Porthos. "And I also," said Aramis. "And, indeed, I am not sorry to quit Paris; I had need of distraction." "Well, you will have distractions enough, gentlemen, be assured," said d'Artagnan. "And, now, when are we to go?" asked Athos. "Immediately," replied d'Artagnan; "we have not a minute to lose." "Hello, Grimaud! Planchet! Mousqueton! Bazin!" cried the four young men, calling their lackeys, "clean my boots, and fetch the horses from the hotel." Each Musketeer was accustomed to leave at the general hotel, as at a barrack, his own horse and that of his lackey. Planchet, Grimaud, Mousqueton, and Bazin set off at full speed. "Now let us lay down the plan of campaign," said Porthos. "Where do we go first?" "To Calais," said d'Artagnan; "that is the most direct line to London." "Well," said Porthos, "this is my advice--" "Speak!" "Four men traveling together would be suspected. D'Artagnan will give each of us his instructions. I will go by the way of Boulogne to clear the way; Athos will set out two hours after, by that of Amiens; Aramis will follow us by that of Noyon; as to d'Artagnan, he will go by what route he thinks is best, in Planchet's clothes, while Planchet will follow us like d'Artagnan, in the uniform of the Guards." "Gentlemen," said Athos, "my opinion is that it is not proper to allow lackeys to have anything to do in such an affair. A secret may, by chance, be betrayed by gentlemen; but it is almost always sold by lackeys." "Porthos's plan appears to me to be impracticable," said d'Artagnan, "inasmuch as I am myself ignorant of what instructions I can give you. I am the bearer of a letter, that is all. I have not, and I cannot make three copies of that letter, because it is sealed. We must, then, as it appears to me, travel in company. This letter is here, in this pocket," and he pointed to the pocket which contained the letter. "If I should be killed, one of you must take it, and continue the route; if he be killed, it will be another's turn, and so on--provided a single one arrives, that is all that is required." "Bravo, d'Artagnan, your opinion is mine," cried Athos, "Besides, we must be consistent; I am going to take the waters, you will accompany me. Instead of taking the waters of Forges, I go and take sea waters; I am free to do so. If anyone wishes to stop us, I will show Monsieur de Treville's letter, and you will show your leaves of absence. If we are attacked, we will defend ourselves; if we are tried, we will stoutly maintain that we were only anxious to dip ourselves a certain number of times in the sea. They would have an easy bargain of four isolated men; whereas four men together make a troop. We will arm our four lackeys with pistols and musketoons; if they send an army out against us, we will give battle, and the survivor, as d'Artagnan says, will carry the letter." "Well said," cried Aramis; "you don't often speak, Athos, but when you do speak, it is like St. John of the Golden Mouth. I agree to Athos's plan. And you, Porthos?" "I agree to it, too," said Porthos, "if d'Artagnan approves of it. D'Artagnan, being the bearer of the letter, is naturally the head of the enterprise; let him decide, and we will execute." "Well," said d'Artagnan, "I decide that we should adopt Athos's plan, and that we set off in half an hour." "Agreed!" shouted the three Musketeers in chorus. Each one, stretching out his hand to the bag, took his seventy-five pistoles, and made his preparations to set out at the time appointed.

Chapter Nineteen: Plan of Campaign

https://web.archive.org/web/20210127112556/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/three-musketeers/summary/chapter-nineteen-plan-of-campaign

D'Artagnan shows up at Treville's house all excited. He's about to embark on a mission for glory, money, and love. What more could you want? As soon as Treville sees D'Artagnan, he can tell that something's up. D'Artagnan is ready to tell Treville everything since he's such a good friend, but as soon as D'Artagnan tells Treville that the issue deals with the honor and the life of the Queen, Treville tells him not to say a word, and then asks if he can do anything for D'Artagnan. D'Artagnan asks for a fifteen-day leave of absence, to be enacted immediately. Treville tells D'Artagnan that if he leaves alone, he will be assassinated. Porthos, Aramis, and Athos are going to accompany D'Artagnan. Treville signs the orders under the pretense that the three Musketeers are going to the waters of Forges so that Athos can heal his wound. Treville tells D'Artagnan that the leaves of absence will be completed and signed by two in the morning. D'Artagnan heads for Aramis's place. Aramis has been looking gloomy lately, and especially so tonight, but he says he's been writing an important religious piece. After the two chat for a few minutes, a servant shows up with a leave of absence for Aramis, who is properly shocked because he doesn't recall asking for one. D'Artagnan realizes that Aramis is still pining for the woman with the embroidered handkerchief who helped the Duke of Buckingham meet up with the Queen . It turns out Aramis has been feeling rejected, but D'Artagnan tells him that, a) the woman went back to Tours because she didn't want to be arrested, and b) she didn't write to Aramis because she didn't want him to get arrested. Glad that's all sorted out; Aramis is perfectly happy to go to England with D'Artagnan. Along with Aramis's servant Bazin, they head to Athos's house. On their way D'Artagnan assures Aramis that no one else knows about the lady. When they arrive at Athos's house, they find him holding his leave of absence and looking confused. D'Artagnan explains that Athos is to follow him in service of the King and Queen. Porthos shows up, also confused about his leave of absence. D'Artagnan explains that the whole gang is going to London. And then he pulls out the three hundred pistoles and says that everyone gets seventy-five each. He then also points out that not all of them are going to make it, which sounds vaguely ominous. Athos, Porthos, and Aramis say that they still don't know what this cause worth dying for is, exactly. D'Artagnan asks if the King ever needs to give a reason. And then they say, good point! The four men call for their servants and tell them to prepare for the journey. They talk about how to proceed, and settle on traveling together. If D'Artagnan is killed, someone else will carry the letter. If that person is killed, then someone else will carry the letter and so on until they're all dead or the letter has reached Buckingham. Everyone agrees to the plan and they set off.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/1257-chapters/20.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Three Musketeers/section_20_part_0.txt

The Three Musketeers.chapter 20

chapter 20: the journey

{"name": "Chapter Twenty: The Journey", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210127112556/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/three-musketeers/summary/chapter-twenty-the-journey", "summary": "They leave at two o'clock in the morning slightly fearful, but by the time morning hits they're in a great and sunny mood. They reach Chantilly at about eight in the morning ready to eat breakfast. They dismount at an inn and tell the lackeys not to unsaddle the horses in case they need to make a quick getaway. A gentleman is eating at the same table as they are, and insists on making small talk. When Mousqueton comes in to announce that the horses are ready, the stranger asks Porthos to toast to the health of the Cardinal. Porthos says he will do so only if the stranger drinks to the health of the King. The stranger says he bows only to the Cardinal, and Porthos calls him a drunk, at which point it's all over and the two draw their swords. Athos yells \"Good luck!\" as the other three mount their horses, leaving Porthos behind to fight. They stop later in the trip, but Porthos does not rejoin them. Later, they come across \"eight or ten men who... appeared to be employed in digging holes and filling up the ruts with mud.\" Aramis is upset at getting his boots dirty and says so, at which point the workers start insulting them. And then they pull out some guns. Aramis and Mousqueton are both hit. Mousqueton falls from his horse. D'Artagnan yells for them to move forward, and Mousqueton's horse rejoins them as they continue down the road. They continue on, but their horses are tired. And Aramis is wounded. At Crevecoeur , they leave Aramis and Bazin behind to recuperate. So to recount: we have Athos and D'Artagnan, along with their lackeys Grimaud and Planchet. Athos swears he will not fall into any more verbal traps and the four press forward. They reach Amiens at midnight. The host of their hotel is nice, which is naturally suspicious. Despite being offered rooms at opposite ends of the hotel, D'Artagnan and Athos opt to sleep together in the common room. Planchet and Grimaud show up. It's decided that Grimaud will stay with the horses to make sure they're ready to go at five in the morning , and that Planchet will serve as a bodyguard by sleeping outside their door. At four o'clock they find Grimaud beaten unconscious. Planchet goes down to get the horses ready, but none of them are in any fit condition to ride. Athos goes to pay their bill while Planchet notices two nice horses all ready to go. When Athos goes to pay his bill, the innkeeper takes a look at the money and calls Athos and his companions frauds and yells for them to be arrested. Athos yells for D'Artagnan to run while he fights four armed men. D'Artagnan and Planchet grab two horses and leave. The two horses completely give up as they're about to reach Calais. They run to the docks. But wait! There's someone already there with his servant. This gentleman is also in a huge rush to get across the channel. There's a ship captain waiting conveniently by the docks, but he informs both D'Artagnan and the stranger that no one can sail without the permission of the Cardinal. The stranger has permission, but needs the governor of the port to countersign it. D'Artagnan picks a fight with the stranger and beats him up. Planchet beats up the stranger's servant. Our hero then finds the necessary permission slip and notes that the stranger's identity is \"Comte de Wardes.\" He takes a look at the unconscious young man and has a moment of remorse for the fact that both of them are risking their lives for other people's messes. They drag Comte de Wardes over to a tree and tie his servant to the tree. They head over to the governor's house and D'Artagnan announces himself as the Comte de Wardes. While chatting with the governor, D'Artagnan drops the hint that a dastardly man, by the name of D'Artagnan, is trying to cross the Channel. D'Artagnan then gives the governor a description of the Comte de Wardes. Very tricky... D'Artagnan heads back to the wharf and jumps on board the ship to England. They reach the other side of the Channel at ten-thirty in the morning and then arrive in London a few hours later. Although he doesn't speak English, D'Artagnan is soon directed to the Duke's residence. It turns out the Duke is out hunting with the King. D'Artagnan manages to convince the Duke's servant that he needs to talk to the most powerful man in England, and they go track the Duke down. The Duke immediately asks if the Queen is okay, and D'Artagnan hands him the letter. The Duke reads it and tells his servant to make his excuses to the King because he needs to get back to London immediately.", "analysis": ""}

20 THE JOURNEY At two o'clock in the morning, our four adventurers left Paris by the Barriere St. Denis. As long as it was dark they remained silent; in spite of themselves they submitted to the influence of the obscurity, and apprehended ambushes on every side. With the first rays of day their tongues were loosened; with the sun gaiety revived. It was like the eve of a battle; the heart beat, the eyes laughed, and they felt that the life they were perhaps going to lose, was, after all, a good thing. Besides, the appearance of the caravan was formidable. The black horses of the Musketeers, their martial carriage, with the regimental step of these noble companions of the soldier, would have betrayed the most strict incognito. The lackeys followed, armed to the teeth. All went well till they arrived at Chantilly, which they reached about eight o'clock in the morning. They needed breakfast, and alighted at the door of an AUBERGE, recommended by a sign representing St. Martin giving half his cloak to a poor man. They ordered the lackeys not to unsaddle the horses, and to hold themselves in readiness to set off again immediately. They entered the common hall, and placed themselves at table. A gentleman, who had just arrived by the route of Dammartin, was seated at the same table, and was breakfasting. He opened the conversation about rain and fine weather; the travelers replied. He drank to their good health, and the travelers returned his politeness. But at the moment Mousqueton came to announce that the horses were ready, and they were arising from table, the stranger proposed to Porthos to drink the health of the cardinal. Porthos replied that he asked no better if the stranger, in his turn, would drink the health of the king. The stranger cried that he acknowledged no other king but his Eminence. Porthos called him drunk, and the stranger drew his sword. "You have committed a piece of folly," said Athos, "but it can't be helped; there is no drawing back. Kill the fellow, and rejoin us as soon as you can." All three remounted their horses, and set out at a good pace, while Porthos was promising his adversary to perforate him with all the thrusts known in the fencing schools. "There goes one!" cried Athos, at the end of five hundred paces. "But why did that man attack Porthos rather than any other one of us?" asked Aramis. "Because, as Porthos was talking louder than the rest of us, he took him for the chief," said d'Artagnan. "I always said that this cadet from Gascony was a well of wisdom," murmured Athos; and the travelers continued their route. At Beauvais they stopped two hours, as well to breathe their horses a little as to wait for Porthos. At the end of two hours, as Porthos did not come, not any news of him, they resumed their journey. At a league from Beauvais, where the road was confined between two high banks, they fell in with eight or ten men who, taking advantage of the road being unpaved in this spot, appeared to be employed in digging holes and filling up the ruts with mud. Aramis, not liking to soil his boots with this artificial mortar, apostrophized them rather sharply. Athos wished to restrain him, but it was too late. The laborers began to jeer the travelers and by their insolence disturbed the equanimity even of the cool Athos, who urged on his horse against one of them. Then each of these men retreated as far as the ditch, from which each took a concealed musket; the result was that our seven travelers were outnumbered in weapons. Aramis received a ball which passed through his shoulder, and Mousqueton another ball which lodged in the fleshy part which prolongs the lower portion of the loins. Therefore Mousqueton alone fell from his horse, not because he was severely wounded, but not being able to see the wound, he judged it to be more serious than it really was. "It was an ambuscade!" shouted d'Artagnan. "Don't waste a charge! Forward!" Aramis, wounded as he was, seized the mane of his horse, which carried him on with the others. Mousqueton's horse rejoined them, and galloped by the side of his companions. "That will serve us for a relay," said Athos. "I would rather have had a hat," said d'Artagnan. "Mine was carried away by a ball. By my faith, it is very fortunate that the letter was not in it." "They'll kill poor Porthos when he comes up," said Aramis. "If Porthos were on his legs, he would have rejoined us by this time," said Athos. "My opinion is that on the ground the drunken man was not intoxicated." They continued at their best speed for two hours, although the horses were so fatigued that it was to be feared they would soon refuse service. The travelers had chosen crossroads in the hope that they might meet with less interruption; but at Crevecoeur, Aramis declared he could proceed no farther. In fact, it required all the courage which he concealed beneath his elegant form and polished manners to bear him so far. He grew more pale every minute, and they were obliged to support him on his horse. They lifted him off at the door of a cabaret, left Bazin with him, who, besides, in a skirmish was more embarrassing than useful, and set forward again in the hope of sleeping at Amiens. "MORBLEU," said Athos, as soon as they were again in motion, "reduced to two masters and Grimaud and Planchet! MORBLEU! I won't be their dupe, I will answer for it. I will neither open my mouth nor draw my sword between this and Calais. I swear by--" "Don't waste time in swearing," said d'Artagnan; "let us gallop, if our horses will consent." And the travelers buried their rowels in their horses' flanks, who thus vigorously stimulated recovered their energies. They arrived at Amiens at midnight, and alighted at the AUBERGE of the Golden Lily. The host had the appearance of as honest a man as any on earth. He received the travelers with his candlestick in one hand and his cotton nightcap in the other. He wished to lodge the two travelers each in a charming chamber; but unfortunately these charming chambers were at the opposite extremities of the hotel. D'Artagnan and Athos refused them. The host replied that he had no other worthy of their Excellencies; but the travelers declared they would sleep in the common chamber, each on a mattress which might be thrown upon the ground. The host insisted; but the travelers were firm, and he was obliged to do as they wished. They had just prepared their beds and barricaded their door within, when someone knocked at the yard shutter; they demanded who was there, and recognizing the voices of their lackeys, opened the shutter. It was indeed Planchet and Grimaud. "Grimaud can take care of the horses," said Planchet. "If you are willing, gentlemen, I will sleep across your doorway, and you will then be certain that nobody can reach you." "And on what will you sleep?" said d'Artagnan. "Here is my bed," replied Planchet, producing a bundle of straw. "Come, then," said d'Artagnan, "you are right. Mine host's face does not please me at all; it is too gracious." "Nor me either," said Athos. Planchet mounted by the window and installed himself across the doorway, while Grimaud went and shut himself up in the stable, undertaking that by five o'clock in the morning he and the four horses should be ready. The night was quiet enough. Toward two o'clock in the morning somebody endeavored to open the door; but as Planchet awoke in an instant and cried, "Who goes there?" somebody replied that he was mistaken, and went away. At four o'clock in the morning they heard a terrible riot in the stables. Grimaud had tried to waken the stable boys, and the stable boys had beaten him. When they opened the window, they saw the poor lad lying senseless, with his head split by a blow with a pitchfork. Planchet went down into the yard, and wished to saddle the horses; but the horses were all used up. Mousqueton's horse which had traveled for five or six hours without a rider the day before, might have been able to pursue the journey; but by an inconceivable error the veterinary surgeon, who had been sent for, as it appeared, to bleed one of the host's horses, had bled Mousqueton's. This began to be annoying. All these successive accidents were perhaps the result of chance; but they might be the fruits of a plot. Athos and d'Artagnan went out, while Planchet was sent to inquire if there were not three horses for sale in the neighborhood. At the door stood two horses, fresh, strong, and fully equipped. These would just have suited them. He asked where their masters were, and was informed that they had passed the night in the inn, and were then settling their bill with the host. Athos went down to pay the reckoning, while d'Artagnan and Planchet stood at the street door. The host was in a lower and back room, to which Athos was requested to go. Athos entered without the least mistrust, and took out two pistoles to pay the bill. The host was alone, seated before his desk, one of the drawers of which was partly open. He took the money which Athos offered to him, and after turning and turning it over and over in his hands, suddenly cried out that it was bad, and that he would have him and his companions arrested as forgers. "You blackguard!" cried Athos, going toward him, "I'll cut your ears off!" At the same instant, four men, armed to the teeth, entered by side doors, and rushed upon Athos. "I am taken!" shouted Athos, with all the power of his lungs. "Go on, d'Artagnan! Spur, spur!" and he fired two pistols. D'Artagnan and Planchet did not require twice bidding; they unfastened the two horses that were waiting at the door, leaped upon them, buried their spurs in their sides, and set off at full gallop. "Do you know what has become of Athos?" asked d'Artagnan of Planchet, as they galloped on. "Ah, monsieur," said Planchet, "I saw one fall at each of his two shots, and he appeared to me, through the glass door, to be fighting with his sword with the others." "Brave Athos!" murmured d'Artagnan, "and to think that we are compelled to leave him; maybe the same fate awaits us two paces hence. Forward, Planchet, forward! You are a brave fellow." "As I told you, monsieur," replied Planchet, "Picards are found out by being used. Besides, I am here in my own country, and that excites me." And both, with free use of the spur, arrived at St. Omer without drawing bit. At St. Omer they breathed their horses with the bridles passed under their arms for fear of accident, and ate a morsel from their hands on the stones of the street, after they departed again. At a hundred paces from the gates of Calais, d'Artagnan's horse gave out, and could not by any means be made to get up again, the blood flowing from his eyes and his nose. There still remained Planchet's horse; but he stopped short, and could not be made to move a step. Fortunately, as we have said, they were within a hundred paces of the city; they left their two nags upon the high road, and ran toward the quay. Planchet called his master's attention to a gentleman who had just arrived with his lackey, and only preceded them by about fifty paces. They made all speed to come up to this gentleman, who appeared to be in great haste. His boots were covered with dust, and he inquired if he could not instantly cross over to England. "Nothing would be more easy," said the captain of a vessel ready to set sail, "but this morning came an order to let no one leave without express permission from the cardinal." "I have that permission," said the gentleman, drawing the paper from his pocket; "here it is." "Have it examined by the governor of the port," said the shipmaster, "and give me the preference." "Where shall I find the governor?" "At his country house." "And that is situated?" "At a quarter of a league from the city. Look, you may see it from here--at the foot of that little hill, that slated roof." "Very well," said the gentleman. And, with his lackey, he took the road to the governor's country house. D'Artagnan and Planchet followed the gentleman at a distance of five hundred paces. Once outside the city, d'Artagnan overtook the gentleman as he was entering a little wood. "Monsieur, you appear to be in great haste?" "No one can be more so, monsieur." "I am sorry for that," said d'Artagnan; "for as I am in great haste likewise, I wish to beg you to render me a service." "What?" "To let me sail first." "That's impossible," said the gentleman; "I have traveled sixty leagues in forty hours, and by tomorrow at midday I must be in London." "I have performed that same distance in forty hours, and by ten o'clock in the morning I must be in London." "Very sorry, monsieur; but I was here first, and will not sail second." "I am sorry, too, monsieur; but I arrived second, and must sail first." "The king's service!" said the gentleman. "My own service!" said d'Artagnan. "But this is a needless quarrel you seek with me, as it seems to me." "PARBLEU! What do you desire it to be?" "What do you want?" "Would you like to know?" "Certainly." "Well, then, I wish that order of which you are bearer, seeing that I have not one of my own and must have one." "You jest, I presume." "I never jest." "Let me pass!" "You shall not pass." "My brave young man, I will blow out your brains. HOLA, Lubin, my pistols!" "Planchet," called out d'Artagnan, "take care of the lackey; I will manage the master." Planchet, emboldened by the first exploit, sprang upon Lubin; and being strong and vigorous, he soon got him on the broad of his back, and placed his knee upon his breast. "Go on with your affair, monsieur," cried Planchet; "I have finished mine." Seeing this, the gentleman drew his sword, and sprang upon d'Artagnan; but he had too strong an adversary. In three seconds d'Artagnan had wounded him three times, exclaiming at each thrust, "One for Athos, one for Porthos; and one for Aramis!" At the third hit the gentleman fell like a log. D'Artagnan believed him to be dead, or at least insensible, and went toward him for the purpose of taking the order; but the moment he extended his hand to search for it, the wounded man, who had not dropped his sword, plunged the point into d'Artagnan's breast, crying, "One for you!" "And one for me--the best for last!" cried d'Artagnan, furious, nailing him to the earth with a fourth thrust through his body. This time the gentleman closed his eyes and fainted. D'Artagnan searched his pockets, and took from one of them the order for the passage. It was in the name of Comte de Wardes. Then, casting a glance on the handsome young man, who was scarcely twenty-five years of age, and whom he was leaving in his gore, deprived of sense and perhaps dead, he gave a sigh for that unaccountable destiny which leads men to destroy each other for the interests of people who are strangers to them and who often do not even know that they exist. But he was soon aroused from these reflections by Lubin, who uttered loud cries and screamed for help with all his might. Planchet grasped him by the throat, and pressed as hard as he could. "Monsieur," said he, "as long as I hold him in this manner, he can't cry, I'll be bound; but as soon as I let go he will howl again. I know him for a Norman, and Normans are obstinate." In fact, tightly held as he was, Lubin endeavored still to cry out. "Stay!" said d'Artagnan; and taking out his handkerchief, he gagged him. "Now," said Planchet, "let us bind him to a tree." This being properly done, they drew the Comte de Wardes close to his servant; and as night was approaching, and as the wounded man and the bound man were at some little distance within the wood, it was evident they were likely to remain there till the next day. "And now," said d'Artagnan, "to the Governor's." "But you are wounded, it seems," said Planchet. "Oh, that's nothing! Let us attend to what is more pressing first, and then we will attend to my wound; besides, it does not seem very dangerous." And they both set forward as fast as they could toward the country house of the worthy functionary. The Comte de Wardes was announced, and d'Artagnan was introduced. "You have an order signed by the cardinal?" said the governor. "Yes, monsieur," replied d'Artagnan; "here it is." "Ah, ah! It is quite regular and explicit," said the governor. "Most likely," said d'Artagnan; "I am one of his most faithful servants." "It appears that his Eminence is anxious to prevent someone from crossing to England?" "Yes; a certain d'Artagnan, a Bearnese gentleman who left Paris in company with three of his friends, with the intention of going to London." "Do you know him personally?" asked the governor. "Whom?" "This d'Artagnan." "Perfectly well." "Describe him to me, then." "Nothing more easy." And d'Artagnan gave, feature for feature, a description of the Comte de Wardes. "Is he accompanied?" "Yes; by a lackey named Lubin." "We will keep a sharp lookout for them; and if we lay hands on them his Eminence may be assured they will be reconducted to Paris under a good escort." "And by doing so, Monsieur the Governor," said d'Artagnan, "you will deserve well of the cardinal." "Shall you see him on your return, Monsieur Count?" "Without a doubt." "Tell him, I beg you, that I am his humble servant." "I will not fail." Delighted with this assurance the governor countersigned the passport and delivered it to d'Artagnan. D'Artagnan lost no time in useless compliments. He thanked the governor, bowed, and departed. Once outside, he and Planchet set off as fast as they could; and by making a long detour avoided the wood and reentered the city by another gate. The vessel was quite ready to sail, and the captain was waiting on the wharf. "Well?" said he, on perceiving d'Artagnan. "Here is my pass countersigned," said the latter. "And that other gentleman? "He will not go today," said d'Artagnan; "but here, I'll pay you for us two." "In that case let us go," said the shipmaster. "Let us go," repeated d'Artagnan. He leaped with Planchet into the boat, and five minutes after they were on board. It was time; for they had scarcely sailed half a league, when d'Artagnan saw a flash and heard a detonation. It was the cannon which announced the closing of the port. He had now leisure to look to his wound. Fortunately, as d'Artagnan had thought, it was not dangerous. The point of the sword had touched a rib, and glanced along the bone. Still further, his shirt had stuck to the wound, and he had lost only a few drops of blood. D'Artagnan was worn out with fatigue. A mattress was laid upon the deck for him. He threw himself upon it, and fell asleep. On the morrow, at break of day, they were still three or four leagues from the coast of England. The breeze had been so light all night, they had made but little progress. At ten o'clock the vessel cast anchor in the harbor of Dover, and at half past ten d'Artagnan placed his foot on English land, crying, "Here I am at last!" But that was not all; they must get to London. In England the post was well served. D'Artagnan and Planchet took each a post horse, and a postillion rode before them. In a few hours they were in the capital. D'Artagnan did not know London; he did not know a word of English; but he wrote the name of Buckingham on a piece of paper, and everyone pointed out to him the way to the duke's hotel. The duke was at Windsor hunting with the king. D'Artagnan inquired for the confidential valet of the duke, who, having accompanied him in all his voyages, spoke French perfectly well; he told him that he came from Paris on an affair of life and death, and that he must speak with his master instantly. The confidence with which d'Artagnan spoke convinced Patrick, which was the name of this minister of the minister. He ordered two horses to be saddled, and himself went as guide to the young Guardsman. As for Planchet, he had been lifted from his horse as stiff as a rush; the poor lad's strength was almost exhausted. D'Artagnan seemed iron. On their arrival at the castle they learned that Buckingham and the king were hawking in the marshes two or three leagues away. In twenty minutes they were on the spot named. Patrick soon caught the sound of his master's voice calling his falcon. "Whom must I announce to my Lord Duke?" asked Patrick. "The young man who one evening sought a quarrel with him on the Pont Neuf, opposite the Samaritaine." "A singular introduction!" "You will find that it is as good as another." Patrick galloped off, reached the duke, and announced to him in the terms directed that a messenger awaited him. Buckingham at once remembered the circumstance, and suspecting that something was going on in France of which it was necessary he should be informed, he only took the time to inquire where the messenger was, and recognizing from afar the uniform of the Guards, he put his horse into a gallop, and rode straight up to d'Artagnan. Patrick discreetly kept in the background. "No misfortune has happened to the queen?" cried Buckingham, the instant he came up, throwing all his fear and love into the question. "I believe not; nevertheless I believe she runs some great peril from which your Grace alone can extricate her." "I!" cried Buckingham. "What is it? I should be too happy to be of any service to her. Speak, speak!" "Take this letter," said d'Artagnan. "This letter! From whom comes this letter?" "From her Majesty, as I think." "From her Majesty!" said Buckingham, becoming so pale that d'Artagnan feared he would faint as he broke the seal. "What is this rent?" said he, showing d'Artagnan a place where it had been pierced through. "Ah," said d'Artagnan, "I did not see that; it was the sword of the Comte de Wardes which made that hole, when he gave me a good thrust in the breast." "You are wounded?" asked Buckingham, as he opened the letter. "Oh, nothing but a scratch," said d'Artagnan. "Just heaven, what have I read?" cried the duke. "Patrick, remain here, or rather join the king, wherever he may be, and tell his Majesty that I humbly beg him to excuse me, but an affair of the greatest importance recalls me to London. Come, monsieur, come!" and both set off towards the capital at full gallop.

Chapter Twenty: The Journey

https://web.archive.org/web/20210127112556/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/three-musketeers/summary/chapter-twenty-the-journey

They leave at two o'clock in the morning slightly fearful, but by the time morning hits they're in a great and sunny mood. They reach Chantilly at about eight in the morning ready to eat breakfast. They dismount at an inn and tell the lackeys not to unsaddle the horses in case they need to make a quick getaway. A gentleman is eating at the same table as they are, and insists on making small talk. When Mousqueton comes in to announce that the horses are ready, the stranger asks Porthos to toast to the health of the Cardinal. Porthos says he will do so only if the stranger drinks to the health of the King. The stranger says he bows only to the Cardinal, and Porthos calls him a drunk, at which point it's all over and the two draw their swords. Athos yells "Good luck!" as the other three mount their horses, leaving Porthos behind to fight. They stop later in the trip, but Porthos does not rejoin them. Later, they come across "eight or ten men who... appeared to be employed in digging holes and filling up the ruts with mud." Aramis is upset at getting his boots dirty and says so, at which point the workers start insulting them. And then they pull out some guns. Aramis and Mousqueton are both hit. Mousqueton falls from his horse. D'Artagnan yells for them to move forward, and Mousqueton's horse rejoins them as they continue down the road. They continue on, but their horses are tired. And Aramis is wounded. At Crevecoeur , they leave Aramis and Bazin behind to recuperate. So to recount: we have Athos and D'Artagnan, along with their lackeys Grimaud and Planchet. Athos swears he will not fall into any more verbal traps and the four press forward. They reach Amiens at midnight. The host of their hotel is nice, which is naturally suspicious. Despite being offered rooms at opposite ends of the hotel, D'Artagnan and Athos opt to sleep together in the common room. Planchet and Grimaud show up. It's decided that Grimaud will stay with the horses to make sure they're ready to go at five in the morning , and that Planchet will serve as a bodyguard by sleeping outside their door. At four o'clock they find Grimaud beaten unconscious. Planchet goes down to get the horses ready, but none of them are in any fit condition to ride. Athos goes to pay their bill while Planchet notices two nice horses all ready to go. When Athos goes to pay his bill, the innkeeper takes a look at the money and calls Athos and his companions frauds and yells for them to be arrested. Athos yells for D'Artagnan to run while he fights four armed men. D'Artagnan and Planchet grab two horses and leave. The two horses completely give up as they're about to reach Calais. They run to the docks. But wait! There's someone already there with his servant. This gentleman is also in a huge rush to get across the channel. There's a ship captain waiting conveniently by the docks, but he informs both D'Artagnan and the stranger that no one can sail without the permission of the Cardinal. The stranger has permission, but needs the governor of the port to countersign it. D'Artagnan picks a fight with the stranger and beats him up. Planchet beats up the stranger's servant. Our hero then finds the necessary permission slip and notes that the stranger's identity is "Comte de Wardes." He takes a look at the unconscious young man and has a moment of remorse for the fact that both of them are risking their lives for other people's messes. They drag Comte de Wardes over to a tree and tie his servant to the tree. They head over to the governor's house and D'Artagnan announces himself as the Comte de Wardes. While chatting with the governor, D'Artagnan drops the hint that a dastardly man, by the name of D'Artagnan, is trying to cross the Channel. D'Artagnan then gives the governor a description of the Comte de Wardes. Very tricky... D'Artagnan heads back to the wharf and jumps on board the ship to England. They reach the other side of the Channel at ten-thirty in the morning and then arrive in London a few hours later. Although he doesn't speak English, D'Artagnan is soon directed to the Duke's residence. It turns out the Duke is out hunting with the King. D'Artagnan manages to convince the Duke's servant that he needs to talk to the most powerful man in England, and they go track the Duke down. The Duke immediately asks if the Queen is okay, and D'Artagnan hands him the letter. The Duke reads it and tells his servant to make his excuses to the King because he needs to get back to London immediately.

shmoop

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The Three Musketeers.chapter 21

chapter 21: the countess de winter

{"name": "Chapter Twenty-One: The Countess de Winter", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210127112556/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/three-musketeers/summary/chapter-twenty-one-the-countess-de-winter", "summary": "The Duke pieces together the full story of the situation, and expresses his astonishment that the Cardinal's agents didn't stop D'Artagnan. D'Artagnan points out that he had three brave friends with him. Still, the Duke is impressed. The two of them reach London and head for the Duke's house. The Duke takes D'Artagnan to the shrine he has dedicated to Queen Anne. This shrine contains a life-size portrait, an altar, and the casket with the diamond studs. The Duke kneels in front of the portrait and retrieves the studs. He begins kissing each of them when he notices that two are missing. The Duke is convinced that the Cardinal had them stolen. He remembers that he wore the studs recently to a ball where he spoke with the Comtess de Winter , an agent of the Cardinal. But there are still five days before Queen Anne has to wear the diamonds. The Duke calls for his servant, Patrick, and asks for his jeweler and secretary. He orders his secretary to put through a law that no ships are to leave the port. This amounts to a declaration of war against France, but hey: a woman's honor is at stake. If the two missing diamonds are still in the country, they will arrive in Paris only after D'Artagnan does. D'Artagnan pauses for a moment to mention the fact that the Duke is abusing power in order to pursue the Queen. The Duke says, yes, that's right, I would do anything for her. Then he lists all the things he would do. The jeweler shows up and the Duke asks him to create two diamond studs identical to those missing. He give the jeweler two days and double the usual price. And then the Duke \"asks\" the jeweler to stay in the castle while he works, . The Duke throws in some more money for good measure. The two men then go to bed--D'Artagnan sleeps in an adjoining room so that the Duke can rave to him about the Queen. Soon the two diamond studs are finished, and D'Artagnan is ready to go back to Paris. The Duke then asks what he can do for D'Artagnan. D'Artagnan is very uncomfortable with the idea of being paid with English money. He tells the Duke, a) that he serves in a military company loyal to the King and Queen of France, b) that the only reason he agreed to this mission was to serve the Queen, and c) that his actions help him woo a very nice young lady. D'Artagnan also points out England and France are now at war, and that the two of them are enemies. The Duke responds by saying that D'Artagnan is very proud. He then gives D'Artagnan detailed instructions for getting back to Paris that involve lots of passwords. D'Artagnan gets back in no time, and checks in with Treville, who tells him that he should join Dessessart's company on duty at the Louvre.", "analysis": ""}

21 THE COUNTESS DE WINTER As they rode along, the duke endeavored to draw from d'Artagnan, not all that had happened, but what d'Artagnan himself knew. By adding all that he heard from the mouth of the young man to his own remembrances, he was enabled to form a pretty exact idea of a position of the seriousness of which, for the rest, the queen's letter, short but explicit, gave him the clue. But that which astonished him most was that the cardinal, so deeply interested in preventing this young man from setting his foot in England, had not succeeded in arresting him on the road. It was then, upon the manifestation of this astonishment, that d'Artagnan related to him the precaution taken, and how, thanks to the devotion of his three friends, whom he had left scattered and bleeding on the road, he had succeeded in coming off with a single sword thrust, which had pierced the queen's letter and for which he had repaid M. de Wardes with such terrible coin. While he was listening to this recital, delivered with the greatest simplicity, the duke looked from time to time at the young man with astonishment, as if he could not comprehend how so much prudence, courage, and devotedness could be allied with a countenance which indicated not more than twenty years. The horses went like the wind, and in a few minutes they were at the gates of London. D'Artagnan imagined that on arriving in town the duke would slacken his pace, but it was not so. He kept on his way at the same rate, heedless about upsetting those whom he met on the road. In fact, in crossing the city two or three accidents of this kind happened; but Buckingham did not even turn his head to see what became of those he had knocked down. D'Artagnan followed him amid cries which strongly resembled curses. On entering the court of his hotel, Buckingham sprang from his horse, and without thinking what became of the animal, threw the bridle on his neck, and sprang toward the vestibule. D'Artagnan did the same, with a little more concern, however, for the noble creatures, whose merits he fully appreciated; but he had the satisfaction of seeing three or four grooms run from the kitchens and the stables, and busy themselves with the steeds. The duke walked so fast that d'Artagnan had some trouble in keeping up with him. He passed through several apartments, of an elegance of which even the greatest nobles of France had not even an idea, and arrived at length in a bedchamber which was at once a miracle of taste and of richness. In the alcove of this chamber was a door concealed in the tapestry which the duke opened with a little gold key which he wore suspended from his neck by a chain of the same metal. With discretion d'Artagnan remained behind; but at the moment when Buckingham crossed the threshold, he turned round, and seeing the hesitation of the young man, "Come in!" cried he, "and if you have the good fortune to be admitted to her Majesty's presence, tell her what you have seen." Encouraged by this invitation, d'Artagnan followed the duke, who closed the door after them. The two found themselves in a small chapel covered with a tapestry of Persian silk worked with gold, and brilliantly lighted with a vast number of candles. Over a species of altar, and beneath a canopy of blue velvet, surmounted by white and red plumes, was a full-length portrait of Anne of Austria, so perfect in its resemblance that d'Artagnan uttered a cry of surprise on beholding it. One might believe the queen was about to speak. On the altar, and beneath the portrait, was the casket containing the diamond studs. The duke approached the altar, knelt as a priest might have done before a crucifix, and opened the casket. "There," said he, drawing from the casket a large bow of blue ribbon all sparkling with diamonds, "there are the precious studs which I have taken an oath should be buried with me. The queen gave them to me, the queen requires them again. Her will be done, like that of God, in all things." Then, he began to kiss, one after the other, those dear studs with which he was about to part. All at once he uttered a terrible cry. "What is the matter?" exclaimed d'Artagnan, anxiously; "what has happened to you, my Lord?" "All is lost!" cried Buckingham, becoming as pale as a corpse; "two of the studs are wanting, there are only ten." "Can you have lost them, my Lord, or do you think they have been stolen?" "They have been stolen," replied the duke, "and it is the cardinal who has dealt this blow. Hold; see! The ribbons which held them have been cut with scissors." "If my Lord suspects they have been stolen, perhaps the person who stole them still has them in his hands." "Wait, wait!" said the duke. "The only time I have worn these studs was at a ball given by the king eight days ago at Windsor. The Comtesse de Winter, with whom I had quarreled, became reconciled to me at that ball. That reconciliation was nothing but the vengeance of a jealous woman. I have never seen her from that day. The woman is an agent of the cardinal." "He has agents, then, throughout the world?" cried d'Artagnan. "Oh, yes," said Buckingham, grating his teeth with rage. "Yes, he is a terrible antagonist. But when is this ball to take place?" "Monday next." "Monday next! Still five days before us. That's more time than we want. Patrick!" cried the duke, opening the door of the chapel, "Patrick!" His confidential valet appeared. "My jeweler and my secretary." The valet went out with a mute promptitude which showed him accustomed to obey blindly and without reply. But although the jeweler had been mentioned first, it was the secretary who first made his appearance. This was simply because he lived in the hotel. He found Buckingham seated at a table in his bedchamber, writing orders with his own hand. "Mr. Jackson," said he, "go instantly to the Lord Chancellor, and tell him that I charge him with the execution of these orders. I wish them to be promulgated immediately." "But, my Lord, if the Lord Chancellor interrogates me upon the motives which may have led your Grace to adopt such an extraordinary measure, what shall I reply?" "That such is my pleasure, and that I answer for my will to no man." "Will that be the answer," replied the secretary, smiling, "which he must transmit to his Majesty if, by chance, his Majesty should have the curiosity to know why no vessel is to leave any of the ports of Great Britain?" "You are right, Mr. Jackson," replied Buckingham. "He will say, in that case, to the king that I am determined on war, and that this measure is my first act of hostility against France." The secretary bowed and retired. "We are safe on that side," said Buckingham, turning toward d'Artagnan. "If the studs are not yet gone to Paris, they will not arrive till after you." "How so?" "I have just placed an embargo on all vessels at present in his Majesty's ports, and without particular permission, not one dare lift an anchor." D'Artagnan looked with stupefaction at a man who thus employed the unlimited power with which he was clothed by the confidence of a king in the prosecution of his intrigues. Buckingham saw by the expression of the young man's face what was passing in his mind, and he smiled. "Yes," said he, "yes, Anne of Austria is my true queen. Upon a word from her, I would betray my country, I would betray my king, I would betray my God. She asked me not to send the Protestants of La Rochelle the assistance I promised them; I have not done so. I broke my word, it is true; but what signifies that? I obeyed my love; and have I not been richly paid for that obedience? It was to that obedience I owe her portrait." D'Artagnan was amazed to note by what fragile and unknown threads the destinies of nations and the lives of men are suspended. He was lost in these reflections when the goldsmith entered. He was an Irishman--one of the most skillful of his craft, and who himself confessed that he gained a hundred thousand livres a year by the Duke of Buckingham. "Mr. O'Reilly," said the duke, leading him into the chapel, "look at these diamond studs, and tell me what they are worth apiece." The goldsmith cast a glance at the elegant manner in which they were set, calculated, one with another, what the diamonds were worth, and without hesitation said, "Fifteen hundred pistoles each, my Lord." "How many days would it require to make two studs exactly like them? You see there are two wanting." "Eight days, my Lord." "I will give you three thousand pistoles apiece if I can have them by the day after tomorrow." "My Lord, they shall be yours." "You are a jewel of a man, Mr. O'Reilly; but that is not all. These studs cannot be trusted to anybody; it must be done in the palace." "Impossible, my Lord! There is no one but myself can so execute them that one cannot tell the new from the old." "Therefore, my dear Mr. O'Reilly, you are my prisoner. And if you wish ever to leave my palace, you cannot; so make the best of it. Name to me such of your workmen as you need, and point out the tools they must bring." The goldsmith knew the duke. He knew all objection would be useless, and instantly determined how to act. "May I be permitted to inform my wife?" said he. "Oh, you may even see her if you like, my dear Mr. O'Reilly. Your captivity shall be mild, be assured; and as every inconvenience deserves its indemnification, here is, in addition to the price of the studs, an order for a thousand pistoles, to make you forget the annoyance I cause you." D'Artagnan could not get over the surprise created in him by this minister, who thus open-handed, sported with men and millions. As to the goldsmith, he wrote to his wife, sending her the order for the thousand pistoles, and charging her to send him, in exchange, his most skillful apprentice, an assortment of diamonds, of which he gave the names and the weight, and the necessary tools. Buckingham conducted the goldsmith to the chamber destined for him, and which, at the end of half an hour, was transformed into a workshop. Then he placed a sentinel at each door, with an order to admit nobody upon any pretense but his VALET DE CHAMBRE, Patrick. We need not add that the goldsmith, O'Reilly, and his assistant, were prohibited from going out under any pretext. This point, settled, the duke turned to d'Artagnan. "Now, my young friend," said he, "England is all our own. What do you wish for? What do you desire?" "A bed, my Lord," replied d'Artagnan. "At present, I confess, that is the thing I stand most in need of." Buckingham gave d'Artagnan a chamber adjoining his own. He wished to have the young man at hand--not that he at all mistrusted him, but for the sake of having someone to whom he could constantly talk of the queen. In one hour after, the ordinance was published in London that no vessel bound for France should leave port, not even the packet boat with letters. In the eyes of everybody this was a declaration of war between the two kingdoms. On the day after the morrow, by eleven o'clock, the two diamond studs were finished, and they were so completely imitated, so perfectly alike, that Buckingham could not tell the new ones from the old ones, and experts in such matters would have been deceived as he was. He immediately called d'Artagnan. "Here," said he to him, "are the diamond studs that you came to bring; and be my witness that I have done all that human power could do." "Be satisfied, my Lord, I will tell all that I have seen. But does your Grace mean to give me the studs without the casket?" "The casket would encumber you. Besides, the casket is the more precious from being all that is left to me. You will say that I keep it." "I will perform your commission, word for word, my Lord." "And now," resumed Buckingham, looking earnestly at the young man, "how shall I ever acquit myself of the debt I owe you?" D'Artagnan blushed up to the whites of his eyes. He saw that the duke was searching for a means of making him accept something and the idea that the blood of his friends and himself was about to be paid for with English gold was strangely repugnant to him. "Let us understand each other, my Lord," replied d'Artagnan, "and let us make things clear beforehand in order that there may be no mistake. I am in the service of the King and Queen of France, and form part of the company of Monsieur Dessessart, who, as well as his brother-in-law, Monsieur de Treville, is particularly attached to their Majesties. What I have done, then, has been for the queen, and not at all for your Grace. And still further, it is very probable I should not have done anything of this, if it had not been to make myself agreeable to someone who is my lady, as the queen is yours." "Yes," said the duke, smiling, "and I even believe that I know that other person; it is--" "My Lord, I have not named her!" interrupted the young man, warmly. "That is true," said the duke; "and it is to this person I am bound to discharge my debt of gratitude." "You have said, my Lord; for truly, at this moment when there is question of war, I confess to you that I see nothing in your Grace but an Englishman, and consequently an enemy whom I should have much greater pleasure in meeting on the field of battle than in the park at Windsor or the corridors of the Louvre--all which, however, will not prevent me from executing to the very point my commission or from laying down my life, if there be need of it, to accomplish it; but I repeat it to your Grace, without your having personally on that account more to thank me for in this second interview than for what I did for you in the first." "We say, 'Proud as a Scotsman,'" murmured the Duke of Buckingham. "And we say, 'Proud as a Gascon,'" replied d'Artagnan. "The Gascons are the Scots of France." D'Artagnan bowed to the duke, and was retiring. "Well, are you going away in that manner? Where, and how?" "That's true!" "Fore Gad, these Frenchmen have no consideration!" "I had forgotten that England was an island, and that you were the king of it." "Go to the riverside, ask for the brig SUND, and give this letter to the captain; he will convey you to a little port, where certainly you are not expected, and which is ordinarily only frequented by fishermen." "The name of that port?" "St. Valery; but listen. When you have arrived there you will go to a mean tavern, without a name and without a sign--a mere fisherman's hut. You cannot be mistaken; there is but one." "Afterward?" "You will ask for the host, and will repeat to him the word 'Forward!'" "Which means?" "In French, EN AVANT. It is the password. He will give you a horse all saddled, and will point out to you the road you ought to take. You will find, in the same way, four relays on your route. If you will give at each of these relays your address in Paris, the four horses will follow you thither. You already know two of them, and you appeared to appreciate them like a judge. They were those we rode on; and you may rely upon me for the others not being inferior to them. These horses are equipped for the field. However proud you may be, you will not refuse to accept one of them, and to request your three companions to accept the others--that is, in order to make war against us. Besides, the end justified the means, as you Frenchmen say, does it not?" "Yes, my Lord, I accept them," said d'Artagnan; "and if it please God, we will make a good use of your presents." "Well, now, your hand, young man. Perhaps we shall soon meet on the field of battle; but in the meantime we shall part good friends, I hope." "Yes, my Lord; but with the hope of soon becoming enemies." "Be satisfied; I promise you that." "I depend upon your word, my Lord." D'Artagnan bowed to the duke, and made his way as quickly as possible to the riverside. Opposite the Tower of London he found the vessel that had been named to him, delivered his letter to the captain, who after having it examined by the governor of the port made immediate preparations to sail. Fifty vessels were waiting to set out. Passing alongside one of them, d'Artagnan fancied he perceived on board it the woman of Meung--the same whom the unknown gentleman had called Milady, and whom d'Artagnan had thought so handsome; but thanks to the current of the stream and a fair wind, his vessel passed so quickly that he had little more than a glimpse of her. The next day about nine o'clock in the morning, he landed at St. Valery. D'Artagnan went instantly in search of the inn, and easily discovered it by the riotous noise which resounded from it. War between England and France was talked of as near and certain, and the jolly sailors were having a carousal. D'Artagnan made his way through the crowd, advanced toward the host, and pronounced the word "Forward!" The host instantly made him a sign to follow, went out with him by a door which opened into a yard, led him to the stable, where a saddled horse awaited him, and asked him if he stood in need of anything else. "I want to know the route I am to follow," said d'Artagnan. "Go from hence to Blangy, and from Blangy to Neufchatel. At Neufchatel, go to the tavern of the Golden Harrow, give the password to the landlord, and you will find, as you have here, a horse ready saddled." "Have I anything to pay?" demanded d'Artagnan. "Everything is paid," replied the host, "and liberally. Begone, and may God guide you!" "Amen!" cried the young man, and set off at full gallop. Four hours later he was in Neufchatel. He strictly followed the instructions he had received. At Neufchatel, as at St. Valery, he found a horse quite ready and awaiting him. He was about to remove the pistols from the saddle he had quit to the one he was about to fill, but he found the holsters furnished with similar pistols. "Your address at Paris?" "Hotel of the Guards, company of Dessessart." "Enough," replied the questioner. "Which route must I take?" demanded d'Artagnan, in his turn. "That of Rouen; but you will leave the city on your right. You must stop at the little village of Eccuis, in which there is but one tavern--the Shield of France. Don't condemn it from appearances; you will find a horse in the stables quite as good as this." "The same password?" "Exactly." "Adieu, master!" "A good journey, gentlemen! Do you want anything?" D'Artagnan shook his head, and set off at full speed. At Eccuis, the same scene was repeated. He found as provident a host and a fresh horse. He left his address as he had done before, and set off again at the same pace for Pontoise. At Pontoise he changed his horse for the last time, and at nine o'clock galloped into the yard of Treville's hotel. He had made nearly sixty leagues in little more than twelve hours. M de Treville received him as if he had seen him that same morning; only, when pressing his hand a little more warmly than usual, he informed him that the company of Dessessart was on duty at the Louvre, and that he might repair at once to his post.

Chapter Twenty-One: The Countess de Winter

https://web.archive.org/web/20210127112556/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/three-musketeers/summary/chapter-twenty-one-the-countess-de-winter

The Duke pieces together the full story of the situation, and expresses his astonishment that the Cardinal's agents didn't stop D'Artagnan. D'Artagnan points out that he had three brave friends with him. Still, the Duke is impressed. The two of them reach London and head for the Duke's house. The Duke takes D'Artagnan to the shrine he has dedicated to Queen Anne. This shrine contains a life-size portrait, an altar, and the casket with the diamond studs. The Duke kneels in front of the portrait and retrieves the studs. He begins kissing each of them when he notices that two are missing. The Duke is convinced that the Cardinal had them stolen. He remembers that he wore the studs recently to a ball where he spoke with the Comtess de Winter , an agent of the Cardinal. But there are still five days before Queen Anne has to wear the diamonds. The Duke calls for his servant, Patrick, and asks for his jeweler and secretary. He orders his secretary to put through a law that no ships are to leave the port. This amounts to a declaration of war against France, but hey: a woman's honor is at stake. If the two missing diamonds are still in the country, they will arrive in Paris only after D'Artagnan does. D'Artagnan pauses for a moment to mention the fact that the Duke is abusing power in order to pursue the Queen. The Duke says, yes, that's right, I would do anything for her. Then he lists all the things he would do. The jeweler shows up and the Duke asks him to create two diamond studs identical to those missing. He give the jeweler two days and double the usual price. And then the Duke "asks" the jeweler to stay in the castle while he works, . The Duke throws in some more money for good measure. The two men then go to bed--D'Artagnan sleeps in an adjoining room so that the Duke can rave to him about the Queen. Soon the two diamond studs are finished, and D'Artagnan is ready to go back to Paris. The Duke then asks what he can do for D'Artagnan. D'Artagnan is very uncomfortable with the idea of being paid with English money. He tells the Duke, a) that he serves in a military company loyal to the King and Queen of France, b) that the only reason he agreed to this mission was to serve the Queen, and c) that his actions help him woo a very nice young lady. D'Artagnan also points out England and France are now at war, and that the two of them are enemies. The Duke responds by saying that D'Artagnan is very proud. He then gives D'Artagnan detailed instructions for getting back to Paris that involve lots of passwords. D'Artagnan gets back in no time, and checks in with Treville, who tells him that he should join Dessessart's company on duty at the Louvre.

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all_chapterized_books/1257-chapters/22.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Three Musketeers/section_22_part_0.txt

The Three Musketeers.chapter 22

chapter 22: the ballet of la merlaison

{"name": "Chapter Twenty-Two: The Ballet of La Merlaison", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210127112556/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/three-musketeers/summary/chapter-twenty-two-the-ballet-of-la-merlaison", "summary": "At the ball, the King and Queen are slated to perform the King's favorite dance. It's called La Merlaison and everyone in the city is excited Preparations are made throughout the day for the fete, and at midnight the King finally arrives, looking \"dull and weary.\" All the notables at the ball have their own dressing rooms; before entering into his, the King asks to be informed when the Cardinal arrives. Half an hour later, the Queen arrives and is subject to the same adulation as the King. She too looks \"dull and weary.\" The Cardinal shows up and looks straight at the Queen. He's overjoyed when he sees that she's not wearing any studs. He goes straight to inform the King, who immediately runs to the Queen and asks why she's not wearing the studs. The Queen gives an excuse and the King tells her that it's not good enough and that she needs to put on the studs. She replies that she will have someone fetch them from the palace. Everyone at the fete is confused: they saw the King and Queen talking, but they didn't hear what they said. The King comes out looking dashing in a hunting costume. The Cardinal approaches and gives the King a small casket containing two diamond studs. He explains that if--laying emphasis on the if--the Queen has the studs, she will be missing two of them. In that eventuality, the Cardinal tells the King to ask the Queen who could have stolen the missing two. The King is about to reply to the Cardinal when the crowd erupts in admiration for the Queen. The Queen was dressed as a huntress and emerged wearing \"a beaver hat with blue feathers, a surtout of gray-pearl velvet, fastened with diamond clasps, and a petticoat of blue satin, embroidered with silver. On her left shoulder sparkled the diamond studs, on a bow of the same color as the plumes and the petticoat.\" The King is happy and the Cardinal is angry at the sight of the diamond studs! The Queen is still too far away to count the number of studs on her shoulder. And the ballet begins! As they dance, the King keeps trying to count the diamonds, but to no avail. Finally, the King goes over to the Queen and is all, I think you lost these. The Queen looks surprised and says she now has fourteen. Twelve diamonds in total sparkle on her shoulder. The King calls the Cardinal over and demands an explanation. The Cardinal gives a made-up explanation. Queen: 1, Cardinal: 0. D'Artagnan stands in the crowd watching the scene play out; he alone understands what is really going on. He's about to leave when a mysterious woman clothed in black gestures for him to follow her. She leads him down all sorts of passageways and finally leaves him alone in a room. He hears ladies chatting, the Queen included. He waits. Finally \"a hand and an arm, surpassingly beautiful in their form and whiteness, glided through the tapestry.\" D'Artagnan falls to his knees and kisses her hand. The hand withdraws and leaves behind it a diamond ring. Madame Bonacieux returns and tells D'Artagnan to go home. He protests. She tells him that a note awaits him at his apartment, and he obeys her unthinkingly.", "analysis": ""}

22 THE BALLET OF LA MERLAISON On the morrow, nothing was talked of in Paris but the ball which the aldermen of the city were to give to the king and queen, and in which their Majesties were to dance the famous La Merlaison--the favorite ballet of the king. Eight days had been occupied in preparations at the Hotel de Ville for this important evening. The city carpenters had erected scaffolds upon which the invited ladies were to be placed; the city grocer had ornamented the chambers with two hundred FLAMBEAUX of white wax, a piece of luxury unheard of at that period; and twenty violins were ordered, and the price for them fixed at double the usual rate, upon condition, said the report, that they should be played all night. At ten o'clock in the morning the Sieur de la Coste, ensign in the king's Guards, followed by two officers and several archers of that body, came to the city registrar, named Clement, and demanded of him all the keys of the rooms and offices of the hotel. These keys were given up to him instantly. Each of them had ticket attached to it, by which it might be recognized; and from that moment the Sieur de la Coste was charged with the care of all the doors and all the avenues. At eleven o'clock came in his turn Duhallier, captain of the Guards, bringing with him fifty archers, who were distributed immediately through the Hotel de Ville, at the doors assigned them. At three o'clock came two companies of the Guards, one French, the other Swiss. The company of French guards was composed of half of M. Duhallier's men and half of M. Dessessart's men. At six in the evening the guests began to come. As fast as they entered, they were placed in the grand saloon, on the platforms prepared for them. At nine o'clock Madame la Premiere Presidente arrived. As next to the queen, she was the most considerable personage of the fete, she was received by the city officials, and placed in a box opposite to that which the queen was to occupy. At ten o'clock, the king's collation, consisting of preserves and other delicacies, was prepared in the little room on the side of the church of St. Jean, in front of the silver buffet of the city, which was guarded by four archers. At midnight great cries and loud acclamations were heard. It was the king, who was passing through the streets which led from the Louvre to the Hotel de Ville, and which were all illuminated with colored lanterns. Immediately the aldermen, clothed in their cloth robes and preceded by six sergeants, each holding a FLAMBEAU in his hand, went to attend upon the king, whom they met on the steps, where the provost of the merchants made him the speech of welcome--a compliment to which his Majesty replied with an apology for coming so late, laying the blame upon the cardinal, who had detained him till eleven o'clock, talking of affairs of state. His Majesty, in full dress, was accompanied by his royal Highness, M. le Comte de Soissons, by the Grand Prior, by the Duc de Longueville, by the Duc d'Euboeuf, by the Comte d'Harcourt, by the Comte de la Roche-Guyon, by M. de Liancourt, by M. de Baradas, by the Comte de Cramail, and by the Chevalier de Souveray. Everybody noticed that the king looked dull and preoccupied. A private room had been prepared for the king and another for Monsieur. In each of these closets were placed masquerade dresses. The same had been done for the queen and Madame the President. The nobles and ladies of their Majesties' suites were to dress, two by two, in chambers prepared for the purpose. Before entering his closet the king desired to be informed the moment the cardinal arrived. Half an hour after the entrance of the king, fresh acclamations were heard; these announced the arrival of the queen. The aldermen did as they had done before, and preceded by their sergeants, advanced to receive their illustrious guest. The queen entered the great hall; and it was remarked that, like the king, she looked dull and even weary. At the moment she entered, the curtain of a small gallery which to that time had been closed, was drawn, and the pale face of the cardinal appeared, he being dressed as a Spanish cavalier. His eyes were fixed upon those of the queen, and a smile of terrible joy passed over his lips; the queen did not wear her diamond studs. The queen remained for a short time to receive the compliments of the city dignitaries and to reply to the salutations of the ladies. All at once the king appeared with the cardinal at one of the doors of the hall. The cardinal was speaking to him in a low voice, and the king was very pale. The king made his way through the crowd without a mask, and the ribbons of his doublet scarcely tied. He went straight to the queen, and in an altered voice said, "Why, madame, have you not thought proper to wear your diamond studs, when you know it would give me so much gratification?" The queen cast a glance around her, and saw the cardinal behind, with a diabolical smile on his countenance. "Sire," replied the queen, with a faltering voice, "because, in the midst of such a crowd as this, I feared some accident might happen to them." "And you were wrong, madame. If I made you that present it was that you might adorn yourself therewith. I tell you that you were wrong." The voice of the king was tremulous with anger. Everybody looked and listened with astonishment, comprehending nothing of what passed. "Sire," said the queen, "I can send for them to the Louvre, where they are, and thus your Majesty's wishes will be complied with." "Do so, madame, do so, and that at once; for within an hour the ballet will commence." The queen bent in token of submission, and followed the ladies who were to conduct her to her room. On his part the king returned to his apartment. There was a moment of trouble and confusion in the assembly. Everybody had remarked that something had passed between the king and queen; but both of them had spoken so low that everybody, out of respect, withdrew several steps, so that nobody had heard anything. The violins began to sound with all their might, but nobody listened to them. The king came out first from his room. He was in a most elegant hunting costume; and Monsieur and the other nobles were dressed like him. This was the costume that best became the king. So dressed, he really appeared the first gentleman of his kingdom. The cardinal drew near to the king, and placed in his hand a small casket. The king opened it, and found in it two diamond studs. "What does this mean?" demanded he of the cardinal. "Nothing," replied the latter; "only, if the queen has the studs, which I very much doubt, count them, sire, and if you only find ten, ask her Majesty who can have stolen from her the two studs that are here." The king looked at the cardinal as if to interrogate him; but he had not time to address any question to him--a cry of admiration burst from every mouth. If the king appeared to be the first gentleman of his kingdom, the queen was without doubt the most beautiful woman in France. It is true that the habit of a huntress became her admirably. She wore a beaver hat with blue feathers, a surtout of gray-pearl velvet, fastened with diamond clasps, and a petticoat of blue satin, embroidered with silver. On her left shoulder sparkled the diamond studs, on a bow of the same color as the plumes and the petticoat. The king trembled with joy and the cardinal with vexation; although, distant as they were from the queen, they could not count the studs. The queen had them. The only question was, had she ten or twelve? At that moment the violins sounded the signal for the ballet. The king advanced toward Madame the President, with whom he was to dance, and his Highness Monsieur with the queen. They took their places, and the ballet began. The king danced facing the queen, and every time he passed by her, he devoured with his eyes those studs of which he could not ascertain the number. A cold sweat covered the brow of the cardinal. The ballet lasted an hour, and had sixteen ENTREES. The ballet ended amid the applause of the whole assemblage, and everyone reconducted his lady to her place; but the king took advantage of the privilege he had of leaving his lady, to advance eagerly toward the queen. "I thank you, madame," said he, "for the deference you have shown to my wishes, but I think you want two of the studs, and I bring them back to you." With these words he held out to the queen the two studs the cardinal had given him. "How, sire?" cried the young queen, affecting surprise, "you are giving me, then, two more: I shall have fourteen." In fact the king counted them, and the twelve studs were all on her Majesty's shoulder. The king called the cardinal. "What does this mean, Monsieur Cardinal?" asked the king in a severe tone. "This means, sire," replied the cardinal, "that I was desirous of presenting her Majesty with these two studs, and that not daring to offer them myself, I adopted this means of inducing her to accept them." "And I am the more grateful to your Eminence," replied Anne of Austria, with a smile that proved she was not the dupe of this ingenious gallantry, "from being certain that these two studs alone have cost you as much as all the others cost his Majesty." Then saluting the king and the cardinal, the queen resumed her way to the chamber in which she had dressed, and where she was to take off her costume. The attention which we have been obliged to give, during the commencement of the chapter, to the illustrious personages we have introduced into it, has diverted us for an instant from him to whom Anne of Austria owed the extraordinary triumph she had obtained over the cardinal; and who, confounded, unknown, lost in the crowd gathered at one of the doors, looked on at this scene, comprehensible only to four persons--the king, the queen, his Eminence, and himself. The queen had just regained her chamber, and d'Artagnan was about to retire, when he felt his shoulder lightly touched. He turned and saw a young woman, who made him a sign to follow her. The face of this young woman was covered with a black velvet mask; but notwithstanding this precaution, which was in fact taken rather against others than against him, he at once recognized his usual guide, the light and intelligent Mme. Bonacieux. On the evening before, they had scarcely seen each other for a moment at the apartment of the Swiss guard, Germain, whither d'Artagnan had sent for her. The haste which the young woman was in to convey to the queen the excellent news of the happy return of her messenger prevented the two lovers from exchanging more than a few words. D'Artagnan therefore followed Mme. Bonacieux moved by a double sentiment--love and curiosity. All the way, and in proportion as the corridors became more deserted, d'Artagnan wished to stop the young woman, seize her and gaze upon her, were it only for a minute; but quick as a bird she glided between his hands, and when he wished to speak to her, her finger placed upon her mouth, with a little imperative gesture full of grace, reminded him that he was under the command of a power which he must blindly obey, and which forbade him even to make the slightest complaint. At length, after winding about for a minute or two, Mme. Bonacieux opened the door of a closet, which was entirely dark, and led d'Artagnan into it. There she made a fresh sign of silence, and opened a second door concealed by tapestry. The opening of this door disclosed a brilliant light, and she disappeared. D'Artagnan remained for a moment motionless, asking himself where he could be; but soon a ray of light which penetrated through the chamber, together with the warm and perfumed air which reached him from the same aperture, the conversation of two of three ladies in language at once respectful and refined, and the word "Majesty" several times repeated, indicated clearly that he was in a closet attached to the queen's apartment. The young man waited in comparative darkness and listened. The queen appeared cheerful and happy, which seemed to astonish the persons who surrounded her and who were accustomed to see her almost always sad and full of care. The queen attributed this joyous feeling to the beauty of the fete, to the pleasure she had experienced in the ballet; and as it is not permissible to contradict a queen, whether she smile or weep, everybody expatiated on the gallantry of the aldermen of the city of Paris. Although d'Artagnan did not at all know the queen, he soon distinguished her voice from the others, at first by a slightly foreign accent, and next by that tone of domination naturally impressed upon all royal words. He heard her approach and withdraw from the partially open door; and twice or three times he even saw the shadow of a person intercept the light. At length a hand and an arm, surpassingly beautiful in their form and whiteness, glided through the tapestry. D'Artagnan at once comprehended that this was his recompense. He cast himself on his knees, seized the hand, and touched it respectfully with his lips. Then the hand was withdrawn, leaving in his an object which he perceived to be a ring. The door immediately closed, and d'Artagnan found himself again in complete obscurity. D'Artagnan placed the ring on his finger, and again waited; it was evident that all was not yet over. After the reward of his devotion, that of his love was to come. Besides, although the ballet was danced, the evening had scarcely begun. Supper was to be served at three, and the clock of St. Jean had struck three quarters past two. The sound of voices diminished by degrees in the adjoining chamber. The company was then heard departing; then the door of the closet in which d'Artagnan was, was opened, and Mme. Bonacieux entered. "You at last?" cried d'Artagnan. "Silence!" said the young woman, placing her hand upon his lips; "silence, and go the same way you came!" "But where and when shall I see you again?" cried d'Artagnan. "A note which you will find at home will tell you. Begone, begone!" At these words she opened the door of the corridor, and pushed d'Artagnan out of the room. D'Artagnan obeyed like a child, without the least resistance or objection, which proved that he was really in love.

Chapter Twenty-Two: The Ballet of La Merlaison

https://web.archive.org/web/20210127112556/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/three-musketeers/summary/chapter-twenty-two-the-ballet-of-la-merlaison

At the ball, the King and Queen are slated to perform the King's favorite dance. It's called La Merlaison and everyone in the city is excited Preparations are made throughout the day for the fete, and at midnight the King finally arrives, looking "dull and weary." All the notables at the ball have their own dressing rooms; before entering into his, the King asks to be informed when the Cardinal arrives. Half an hour later, the Queen arrives and is subject to the same adulation as the King. She too looks "dull and weary." The Cardinal shows up and looks straight at the Queen. He's overjoyed when he sees that she's not wearing any studs. He goes straight to inform the King, who immediately runs to the Queen and asks why she's not wearing the studs. The Queen gives an excuse and the King tells her that it's not good enough and that she needs to put on the studs. She replies that she will have someone fetch them from the palace. Everyone at the fete is confused: they saw the King and Queen talking, but they didn't hear what they said. The King comes out looking dashing in a hunting costume. The Cardinal approaches and gives the King a small casket containing two diamond studs. He explains that if--laying emphasis on the if--the Queen has the studs, she will be missing two of them. In that eventuality, the Cardinal tells the King to ask the Queen who could have stolen the missing two. The King is about to reply to the Cardinal when the crowd erupts in admiration for the Queen. The Queen was dressed as a huntress and emerged wearing "a beaver hat with blue feathers, a surtout of gray-pearl velvet, fastened with diamond clasps, and a petticoat of blue satin, embroidered with silver. On her left shoulder sparkled the diamond studs, on a bow of the same color as the plumes and the petticoat." The King is happy and the Cardinal is angry at the sight of the diamond studs! The Queen is still too far away to count the number of studs on her shoulder. And the ballet begins! As they dance, the King keeps trying to count the diamonds, but to no avail. Finally, the King goes over to the Queen and is all, I think you lost these. The Queen looks surprised and says she now has fourteen. Twelve diamonds in total sparkle on her shoulder. The King calls the Cardinal over and demands an explanation. The Cardinal gives a made-up explanation. Queen: 1, Cardinal: 0. D'Artagnan stands in the crowd watching the scene play out; he alone understands what is really going on. He's about to leave when a mysterious woman clothed in black gestures for him to follow her. She leads him down all sorts of passageways and finally leaves him alone in a room. He hears ladies chatting, the Queen included. He waits. Finally "a hand and an arm, surpassingly beautiful in their form and whiteness, glided through the tapestry." D'Artagnan falls to his knees and kisses her hand. The hand withdraws and leaves behind it a diamond ring. Madame Bonacieux returns and tells D'Artagnan to go home. He protests. She tells him that a note awaits him at his apartment, and he obeys her unthinkingly.

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The Three Musketeers.chapter 23

chapter 23: the rendezvous

{"name": "Chapter Twenty-Three: The Rendezvous", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210127112556/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/three-musketeers/summary/chapter-twenty-three-the-rendezvous", "summary": "D'Artagnan runs home. It is now three o'clock in the morning. D'Artagnan runs back to his apartment , and asks if anyone has brought a letter. Planchet says no, but that a letter has mysteriously appeared. He found a letter in D'Artagnan's bedroom and left it untouched. He thinks it's unnatural and warns D'Artagnan that it is evil. D'Artagnan rushes over and opens the letter. It tells D'Artagnan to go to a pavilion in St. Cloud at ten o'clock. D'Artagnan is overcome with joy, but Planchet gets worried. D'Artagnan gives Planchet some money. It doesn't appease Planchet, however, because he still wants to know where the letter came from and what it said. D'Artagnan says it came from heaven. D'Artagnan goes to bed snuggling his letter. At seven in the morning, D'Artagnan leaves the house and tells Planchet that he will return at seven in the evening and he expects two horses to be ready. Planchet is not happy; he is convinced they're about to go off on another dangerous adventure. The two argue some more, and D'Artagnan wins by questioning Planchet's manliness. D'Artagnan leaves, but on his way out bumps into Monsieur Bonacieux. They start talking about Bonacieux's brief stint in jail. Bonacieux then asks where D'Artagnan has been the past few days, and D'Artagnan replies that he has been on a journey with his friends. D'Artagnan tells his landlord not to worry if he stays out all night. Bonacieux turns pale and tries to excuse his violent reaction. He then tells D'Artagnan that his wife is spending the night at the palace. The two finally part, D'Artagnan having failed to notice during their conversation that Bonacieux may have been up to something. D'Artagnan visits Treville and discusses the previous night. The Cardinal had been really angry and had left early, but the King and Queen had danced until six in the morning. Treville then inquires into D'Artagnan's well being. He warns D'Artagnan that the Cardinal is angry and wants to know who thwarted his plan of embarrassing the Queen. Treville notices D'Artagnan's diamond ring; D'Artagnan explains that the ring is from the Queen. Treville advises him to sell it. He warns D'Artagnan that the ring will give him away--he has to be on his guard. D'Artagnan asks if he should look out for anything in particular, but Treville says that the Cardinal has all sorts of tricks up his sleeve. He tells D'Artagnan that the least he can expect is arrest. Finally Treville tells D'Artagnan to trust no one--especially his mistress. D'Artagnan blushes. Treville says that the Cardinal's favorite means of bringing down a man is through a beautiful woman. D'Artagnan thinks of Madame Bonacieux but does not suspect her at all. Treville changes the subject and asks how D'Artagnan's three friends are doing. D'Artagnan has no idea. D'Artagnan himself only barely escaped by fighting the Comte de Wardes. Treville notes that De Wardes is Rochefort's cousin and one of the Cardinal's men. Treville suggests that D'Artagnan seek out his three friends. D'Artagnan says he will leave tomorrow, which immediately rouses Treville's suspicion, and he again cautions D'Artagnan to be wary of women. D'Artagnan leaves Treville feeling touched by the man's concern. He visits each of his friends' homes, but there is no new information. D'Artagnan then finds Planchet grooming the horses. Planchet asks his master if he trusts Monsieur Bonacieux, and notes that D'Artagnan changed color several times throughout the course of their conversation. Planchet says that Bonacieux left right after D'Artagnan, only heading in the opposite direction. D'Artagnan refuses to Planchet's warnings seriously, and is determined to keep his ten o'clock appointment. He instructs Planchet to be ready by nine o'clock. D'Artagnan, being cautious, visits a Gascon priest for dinner instead of returning home.", "analysis": ""}

23 THE RENDEZVOUS D'Artagnan ran home immediately, and although it was three o'clock in the morning and he had some of the worst quarters of Paris to traverse, he met with no misadventure. Everyone knows that drunkards and lovers have a protecting deity. He found the door of his passage open, sprang up the stairs and knocked softly in a manner agreed upon between him and his lackey. Planchet*, whom he had sent home two hours before from the Hotel de Ville, telling him to sit up for him, opened the door for him. _*The reader may ask, "How came Planchet here?" when he was left "stiff as a rush" in London. In the intervening time Buckingham perhaps sent him to Paris, as he did the horses._ "Has anyone brought a letter for me?" asked d'Artagnan, eagerly. "No one has BROUGHT a letter, monsieur," replied Planchet; "but one has come of itself." "What do you mean, blockhead?" "I mean to say that when I came in, although I had the key of your apartment in my pocket, and that key had never quit me, I found a letter on the green table cover in your bedroom." "And where is that letter?" "I left it where I found it, monsieur. It is not natural for letters to enter people's houses in this manner. If the window had been open or even ajar, I should think nothing of it; but, no--all was hermetically sealed. Beware, monsieur; there is certainly some magic underneath." Meanwhile, the young man had darted in to his chamber, and opened the letter. It was from Mme. Bonacieux, and was expressed in these terms: "There are many thanks to be offered to you, and to be transmitted to you. Be this evening about ten o'clock at St. Cloud, in front of the pavilion which stands at the corner of the house of M. d'Estrees.--C.B." While reading this letter, d'Artagnan felt his heart dilated and compressed by that delicious spasm which tortures and caresses the hearts of lovers. It was the first billet he had received; it was the first rendezvous that had been granted him. His heart, swelled by the intoxication of joy, felt ready to dissolve away at the very gate of that terrestrial paradise called Love! "Well, monsieur," said Planchet, who had observed his master grow red and pale successively, "did I not guess truly? Is it not some bad affair?" "You are mistaken, Planchet," replied d'Artagnan; "and as a proof, there is a crown to drink my health." "I am much obliged to Monsieur for the crown he had given me, and I promise him to follow his instructions exactly; but it is not the less true that letters which come in this way into shut-up houses--" "Fall from heaven, my friend, fall from heaven." "Then Monsieur is satisfied?" asked Planchet. "My dear Planchet, I am the happiest of men!" "And I may profit by Monsieur's happiness, and go to bed?" "Yes, go." "May the blessings of heaven fall upon Monsieur! But it is not the less true that that letter--" And Planchet retired, shaking his head with an air of doubt, which the liberality of d'Artagnan had not entirely effaced. Left alone, d'Artagnan read and reread his billet. Then he kissed and rekissed twenty times the lines traced by the hand of his beautiful mistress. At length he went to bed, fell asleep, and had golden dreams. At seven o'clock in the morning he arose and called Planchet, who at the second summons opened the door, his countenance not yet quite freed from the anxiety of the preceding night. "Planchet," said d'Artagnan, "I am going out for all day, perhaps. You are, therefore, your own master till seven o'clock in the evening; but at seven o'clock you must hold yourself in readiness with two horses." "There!" said Planchet. "We are going again, it appears, to have our hides pierced in all sorts of ways." "You will take your musketoon and your pistols." "There, now! Didn't I say so?" cried Planchet. "I was sure of it--the cursed letter!" "Don't be afraid, you idiot; there is nothing in hand but a party of pleasure." "Ah, like the charming journey the other day, when it rained bullets and produced a crop of steel traps!" "Well, if you are really afraid, Monsieur Planchet," resumed d'Artagnan, "I will go without you. I prefer traveling alone to having a companion who entertains the least fear." "Monsieur does me wrong," said Planchet; "I thought he had seen me at work." "Yes, but I thought perhaps you had worn out all your courage the first time." "Monsieur shall see that upon occasion I have some left; only I beg Monsieur not to be too prodigal of it if he wishes it to last long." "Do you believe you have still a certain amount of it to expend this evening?" "I hope so, monsieur." "Well, then, I count on you." "At the appointed hour I shall be ready; only I believed that Monsieur had but one horse in the Guard stables." "Perhaps there is but one at this moment; but by this evening there will be four." "It appears that our journey was a remounting journey, then?" "Exactly so," said d'Artagnan; and nodding to Planchet, he went out. M Bonacieux was at his door. D'Artagnan's intention was to go out without speaking to the worthy mercer; but the latter made so polite and friendly a salutation that his tenant felt obliged, not only to stop, but to enter into conversation with him. Besides, how is it possible to avoid a little condescension toward a husband whose pretty wife has appointed a meeting with you that same evening at St. Cloud, opposite D'Estrees's pavilion? D'Artagnan approached him with the most amiable air he could assume. The conversation naturally fell upon the incarceration of the poor man. M. Bonacieux, who was ignorant that d'Artagnan had overheard his conversation with the stranger of Meung, related to his young tenant the persecutions of that monster, M. de Laffemas, whom he never ceased to designate, during his account, by the title of the "cardinal's executioner," and expatiated at great length upon the Bastille, the bolts, the wickets, the dungeons, the gratings, the instruments of torture. D'Artagnan listened to him with exemplary complaisance, and when he had finished said, "And Madame Bonacieux, do you know who carried her off?--For I do not forget that I owe to that unpleasant circumstance the good fortune of having made your acquaintance." "Ah!" said Bonacieux, "they took good care not to tell me that; and my wife, on her part, has sworn to me by all that's sacred that she does not know. But you," continued M. Bonacieux, in a tine of perfect good fellowship, "what has become of you all these days? I have not seen you nor your friends, and I don't think you could gather all that dust that I saw Planchet brush off your boots yesterday from the pavement of Paris." "You are right, my dear Monsieur Bonacieux, my friends and I have been on a little journey." "Far from here?" "Oh, Lord, no! About forty leagues only. We went to take Monsieur Athos to the waters of Forges, where my friends still remain." "And you have returned, have you not?" replied M. Bonacieux, giving to his countenance a most sly air. "A handsome young fellow like you does not obtain long leaves of absence from his mistress; and we were impatiently waited for at Paris, were we not?" "My faith!" said the young man, laughing, "I confess it, and so much more the readily, my dear Bonacieux, as I see there is no concealing anything from you. Yes, I was expected, and very impatiently, I acknowledge." A slight shade passed over the brow of Bonacieux, but so slight that d'Artagnan did not perceive it. "And we are going to be recompensed for our diligence?" continued the mercer, with a trifling alteration in his voice--so trifling, indeed, that d'Artagnan did not perceive it any more than he had the momentary shade which, an instant before, had darkened the countenance of the worthy man. "Ah, may you be a true prophet!" said d'Artagnan, laughing. "No; what I say," replied Bonacieux, "is only that I may know whether I am delaying you." "Why that question, my dear host?" asked d'Artagnan. "Do you intend to sit up for me?" "No; but since my arrest and the robbery that was committed in my house, I am alarmed every time I hear a door open, particularly in the night. What the deuce can you expect? I am no swordsman." "Well, don't be alarmed if I return at one, two or three o'clock in the morning; indeed, do not be alarmed if I do not come at all." This time Bonacieux became so pale that d'Artagnan could not help perceiving it, and asked him what was the matter. "Nothing," replied Bonacieux, "nothing. Since my misfortunes I have been subject to faintnesses, which seize me all at once, and I have just felt a cold shiver. Pay no attention to it; you have nothing to occupy yourself with but being happy." "Then I have full occupation, for I am so." "Not yet; wait a little! This evening, you said." "Well, this evening will come, thank God! And perhaps you look for it with as much impatience as I do; perhaps this evening Madame Bonacieux will visit the conjugal domicile." "Madame Bonacieux is not at liberty this evening," replied the husband, seriously; "she is detained at the Louvre this evening by her duties." "So much the worse for you, my dear host, so much the worse! When I am happy, I wish all the world to be so; but it appears that is not possible." The young man departed, laughing at the joke, which he thought he alone could comprehend. "Amuse yourself well!" replied Bonacieux, in a sepulchral tone. But d'Artagnan was too far off to hear him; and if he had heard him in the disposition of mind he then enjoyed, he certainly would not have remarked it. He took his way toward the hotel of M. de Treville; his visit of the day before, it is to be remembered, had been very short and very little explicative. He found Treville in a joyful mood. He had thought the king and queen charming at the ball. It is true the cardinal had been particularly ill-tempered. He had retired at one o'clock under the pretense of being indisposed. As to their Majesties, they did not return to the Louvre till six o'clock in the morning. "Now," said Treville, lowering his voice, and looking into every corner of the apartment to see if they were alone, "now let us talk about yourself, my young friend; for it is evident that your happy return has something to do with the joy of the king, the triumph of the queen, and the humiliation of his Eminence. You must look out for yourself." "What have I to fear," replied d'Artagnan, "as long as I shall have the luck to enjoy the favor of their Majesties?" "Everything, believe me. The cardinal is not the man to forget a mystification until he has settled account with the mystifier; and the mystifier appears to me to have the air of being a certain young Gascon of my acquaintance." "Do you believe that the cardinal is as well posted as yourself, and knows that I have been to London?" "The devil! You have been to London! Was it from London you brought that beautiful diamond that glitters on your finger? Beware, my dear d'Artagnan! A present from an enemy is not a good thing. Are there not some Latin verses upon that subject? Stop!" "Yes, doubtless," replied d'Artagnan, who had never been able to cram the first rudiments of that language into his head, and who had by his ignorance driven his master to despair, "yes, doubtless there is one." "There certainly is one," said M. de Treville, who had a tincture of literature, "and Monsieur de Benserade was quoting it to me the other day. Stop a minute--ah, this is it: 'Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes,' which means, 'Beware of the enemy who makes you presents." "This diamond does not come from an enemy, monsieur," replied d'Artagnan, "it comes from the queen." "From the queen! Oh, oh!" said M. de Treville. "Why, it is indeed a true royal jewel, which is worth a thousand pistoles if it is worth a denier. By whom did the queen send you this jewel?" "She gave it to me herself." "Where?" "In the room adjoining the chamber in which she changed her toilet." "How?" "Giving me her hand to kiss." "You have kissed the queen's hand?" said M. de Treville, looking earnestly at d'Artagnan. "Her Majesty did me the honor to grant me that favor." "And that in the presence of witnesses! Imprudent, thrice imprudent!" "No, monsieur, be satisfied; nobody saw her," replied d'Artagnan, and he related to M. de Treville how the affair came to pass. "Oh, the women, the women!" cried the old soldier. "I know them by their romantic imagination. Everything that savors of mystery charms them. So you have seen the arm, that was all. You would meet the queen, and she would not know who you are?" "No; but thanks to this diamond," replied the young man. "Listen," said M. de Treville; "shall I give you counsel, good counsel, the counsel of a friend?" "You will do me honor, monsieur," said d'Artagnan. "Well, then, off to the nearest goldsmith's, and sell that diamond for the highest price you can get from him. However much of a Jew he may be, he will give you at least eight hundred pistoles. Pistoles have no name, young man, and that ring has a terrible one, which may betray him who wears it." "Sell this ring, a ring which comes from my sovereign? Never!" said d'Artagnan. "Then, at least turn the gem inside, you silly fellow; for everybody must be aware that a cadet from Gascony does not find such stones in his mother's jewel case." "You think, then, I have something to dread?" asked d'Artagnan. "I mean to say, young man, that he who sleeps over a mine the match of which is already lighted, may consider himself in safety in comparison with you." "The devil!" said d'Artagnan, whom the positive tone of M. de Treville began to disquiet, "the devil! What must I do?" "Above all things be always on your guard. The cardinal has a tenacious memory and a long arm; you may depend upon it, he will repay you by some ill turn." "But of what sort?" "Eh! How can I tell? Has he not all the tricks of a demon at his command? The least that can be expected is that you will be arrested." "What! Will they dare to arrest a man in his Majesty's service?" "PARDIEU! They did not scruple much in the case of Athos. At all events, young man, rely upon one who has been thirty years at court. Do not lull yourself in security, or you will be lost; but, on the contrary--and it is I who say it--see enemies in all directions. If anyone seeks a quarrel with you, shun it, were it with a child of ten years old. If you are attacked by day or by night, fight, but retreat, without shame; if you cross a bridge, feel every plank of it with your foot, lest one should give way beneath you; if you pass before a house which is being built, look up, for fear a stone should fall upon your head; if you stay out late, be always followed by your lackey, and let your lackey be armed--if, by the by, you can be sure of your lackey. Mistrust everybody, your friend, your brother, your mistress--your mistress above all." D'Artagnan blushed. "My mistress above all," repeated he, mechanically; "and why her rather than another?" "Because a mistress is one of the cardinal's favorite means; he has not one that is more expeditious. A woman will sell you for ten pistoles, witness Delilah. You are acquainted with the Scriptures?" D'Artagnan thought of the appointment Mme. Bonacieux had made with him for that very evening; but we are bound to say, to the credit of our hero, that the bad opinion entertained by M. de Treville of women in general, did not inspire him with the least suspicion of his pretty hostess. "But, A PROPOS," resumed M. de Treville, "what has become of your three companions?" "I was about to ask you if you had heard any news of them?" "None, monsieur." "Well, I left them on my road--Porthos at Chantilly, with a duel on his hands; Aramis at Crevecoeur, with a ball in his shoulder; and Athos at Amiens, detained by an accusation of coining." "See there, now!" said M. de Treville; "and how the devil did you escape?" "By a miracle, monsieur, I must acknowledge, with a sword thrust in my breast, and by nailing the Comte de Wardes on the byroad to Calais, like a butterfly on a tapestry." "There again! De Wardes, one of the cardinal's men, a cousin of Rochefort! Stop, my friend, I have an idea." "Speak, monsieur." "In your place, I would do one thing." "What?" "While his Eminence was seeking for me in Paris, I would take, without sound of drum or trumpet, the road to Picardy, and would go and make some inquiries concerning my three companions. What the devil! They merit richly that piece of attention on your part." "The advice is good, monsieur, and tomorrow I will set out." "Tomorrow! Any why not this evening?" "This evening, monsieur, I am detained in Paris by indispensable business." "Ah, young man, young man, some flirtation or other. Take care, I repeat to you, take care. It is woman who has ruined us, still ruins us, and will ruin us, as long as the world stands. Take my advice and set out this evening." "Impossible, monsieur." "You have given your word, then?" "Yes, monsieur." "Ah, that's quite another thing; but promise me, if you should not be killed tonight, that you will go tomorrow." "I promise it." "Do you need money?" "I have still fifty pistoles. That, I think, is as much as I shall want." "But your companions?" "I don't think they can be in need of any. We left Paris, each with seventy-five pistoles in his pocket." "Shall I see you again before your departure?" "I think not, monsieur, unless something new should happen." "Well, a pleasant journey." "Thanks, monsieur." D'Artagnan left M. de Treville, touched more than ever by his paternal solicitude for his Musketeers. He called successively at the abodes of Athos, Porthos, and Aramis. Neither of them had returned. Their lackeys likewise were absent, and nothing had been heard of either the one or the other. He would have inquired after them of their mistresses, but he was neither acquainted with Porthos's nor Aramis's, and as to Athos, he had none. As he passed the Hotel des Gardes, he took a glance in to the stables. Three of the four horses had already arrived. Planchet, all astonishment, was busy grooming them, and had already finished two. "Ah, monsieur," said Planchet, on perceiving d'Artagnan, "how glad I am to see you." "Why so, Planchet?" asked the young man. "Do you place confidence in our landlord--Monsieur Bonacieux?" "I? Not the least in the world." "Oh, you do quite right, monsieur." "But why this question?" "Because, while you were talking with him, I watched you without listening to you; and, monsieur, his countenance changed color two or three times!" "Bah!" "Preoccupied as Monsieur was with the letter he had received, he did not observe that; but I, whom the strange fashion in which that letter came into the house had placed on my guard--I did not lose a movement of his features." "And you found it?" "Traitorous, monsieur." "Indeed!" "Still more; as soon as Monsieur had left and disappeared round the corner of the street, Monsieur Bonacieux took his hat, shut his door, and set off at a quick pace in an opposite direction." "It seems you are right, Planchet; all this appears to be a little mysterious; and be assured that we will not pay him our rent until the matter shall be categorically explained to us." "Monsieur jests, but Monsieur will see." "What would you have, Planchet? What must come is written." "Monsieur does not then renounce his excursion for this evening?" "Quite the contrary, Planchet; the more ill will I have toward Monsieur Bonacieux, the more punctual I shall be in keeping the appointment made by that letter which makes you so uneasy." "Then that is Monsieur's determination?" "Undeniably, my friend. At nine o'clock, then, be ready here at the hotel, I will come and take you." Planchet seeing there was no longer any hope of making his master renounce his project, heaved a profound sigh and set to work to groom the third horse. As to d'Artagnan, being at bottom a prudent youth, instead of returning home, went and dined with the Gascon priest, who, at the time of the distress of the four friends, had given them a breakfast of chocolate.

Chapter Twenty-Three: The Rendezvous

https://web.archive.org/web/20210127112556/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/three-musketeers/summary/chapter-twenty-three-the-rendezvous

D'Artagnan runs home. It is now three o'clock in the morning. D'Artagnan runs back to his apartment , and asks if anyone has brought a letter. Planchet says no, but that a letter has mysteriously appeared. He found a letter in D'Artagnan's bedroom and left it untouched. He thinks it's unnatural and warns D'Artagnan that it is evil. D'Artagnan rushes over and opens the letter. It tells D'Artagnan to go to a pavilion in St. Cloud at ten o'clock. D'Artagnan is overcome with joy, but Planchet gets worried. D'Artagnan gives Planchet some money. It doesn't appease Planchet, however, because he still wants to know where the letter came from and what it said. D'Artagnan says it came from heaven. D'Artagnan goes to bed snuggling his letter. At seven in the morning, D'Artagnan leaves the house and tells Planchet that he will return at seven in the evening and he expects two horses to be ready. Planchet is not happy; he is convinced they're about to go off on another dangerous adventure. The two argue some more, and D'Artagnan wins by questioning Planchet's manliness. D'Artagnan leaves, but on his way out bumps into Monsieur Bonacieux. They start talking about Bonacieux's brief stint in jail. Bonacieux then asks where D'Artagnan has been the past few days, and D'Artagnan replies that he has been on a journey with his friends. D'Artagnan tells his landlord not to worry if he stays out all night. Bonacieux turns pale and tries to excuse his violent reaction. He then tells D'Artagnan that his wife is spending the night at the palace. The two finally part, D'Artagnan having failed to notice during their conversation that Bonacieux may have been up to something. D'Artagnan visits Treville and discusses the previous night. The Cardinal had been really angry and had left early, but the King and Queen had danced until six in the morning. Treville then inquires into D'Artagnan's well being. He warns D'Artagnan that the Cardinal is angry and wants to know who thwarted his plan of embarrassing the Queen. Treville notices D'Artagnan's diamond ring; D'Artagnan explains that the ring is from the Queen. Treville advises him to sell it. He warns D'Artagnan that the ring will give him away--he has to be on his guard. D'Artagnan asks if he should look out for anything in particular, but Treville says that the Cardinal has all sorts of tricks up his sleeve. He tells D'Artagnan that the least he can expect is arrest. Finally Treville tells D'Artagnan to trust no one--especially his mistress. D'Artagnan blushes. Treville says that the Cardinal's favorite means of bringing down a man is through a beautiful woman. D'Artagnan thinks of Madame Bonacieux but does not suspect her at all. Treville changes the subject and asks how D'Artagnan's three friends are doing. D'Artagnan has no idea. D'Artagnan himself only barely escaped by fighting the Comte de Wardes. Treville notes that De Wardes is Rochefort's cousin and one of the Cardinal's men. Treville suggests that D'Artagnan seek out his three friends. D'Artagnan says he will leave tomorrow, which immediately rouses Treville's suspicion, and he again cautions D'Artagnan to be wary of women. D'Artagnan leaves Treville feeling touched by the man's concern. He visits each of his friends' homes, but there is no new information. D'Artagnan then finds Planchet grooming the horses. Planchet asks his master if he trusts Monsieur Bonacieux, and notes that D'Artagnan changed color several times throughout the course of their conversation. Planchet says that Bonacieux left right after D'Artagnan, only heading in the opposite direction. D'Artagnan refuses to Planchet's warnings seriously, and is determined to keep his ten o'clock appointment. He instructs Planchet to be ready by nine o'clock. D'Artagnan, being cautious, visits a Gascon priest for dinner instead of returning home.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/1257-chapters/24.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Three Musketeers/section_24_part_0.txt

The Three Musketeers.chapter 24

chapter 24: the pavilion

{"name": "Chapter Twenty-Four: The Pavilion", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210127112556/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/three-musketeers/summary/chapter-twenty-four-the-pavilion", "summary": "D'Artagnan meets Planchet at nine; Planchet is armed and D'Artagnan has his sword and two pistols. The two head out; at first Planchet rides behind D'Artagnan but he gradually moves his horse forward. As the two are riding through the woods, Planchet's mind again turns to Bonacieux. D'Artagnan again makes light of his servant's fears. Shortly, they come to a point where D'Artagnan plans to leave Planchet behind. Planchet isn't too keen on this idea and points out that the night is cold. D'Artagnan tells Planchet to go to one of the inns and to be ready to meet him at six in the morning. So our hero continues to the pavilion and waits for his beloved. He passes the time dreaming pleasant thoughts. The time strikes as he stares at a building where a light shines through the trees. He waits another half-hour. Finally, he begins to get scared. Eleven o'clock rings out and he gets more scared. He worries and then decides to climb into the window that's lit. When D'Artagnan reaches the first floor window , he sees a chaotic scene and evidence of a struggle. He searches the room and finds a woman's torn and scented glove that he keeps. The more he searches, the more he worries. He runs along a path and finds a ferryman whom he interrogates. At about seven in the evening, the man took over a young woman, who must have been Madame Bonacieux. D'Artagnan reads and rereads his letter from Madame Bonacieux to make sure that he was unmistaken about the time and place. D'Artagnan spots a nearby cottage and decides that its inhabitant must have seen the episode. He knocks and a fearful old man pokes out his head. D'Artagnan begs to learn what happened, and tells the old man his own circumstances. The old man tells D'Artagnan that at nine o'clock three strange men with horses and a carriage wanted a ladder. They took his ladder, gave him some money, and warned him not to tell anyone of what he might see and hear that night. The old man pretends to go inside but house but really stands outside to watch everything unfold. The old man tells D'Artagnan that a little man came out of the carriage, ascended the ladder, and peeked into the first floor window of the pavilion, reporting back \"it is she!\" One of the men takes a key and goes into the pavilion while the other two men go up to the window. Then he heard a woman screaming and crying. The men throw her into the carriage and drive off. D'Artagnan is clearly upset. The old man points out that at least she's not dead. D'Artagnan asks for a description of the leader, who turns out to be the Man from Meung. D'Artagnan then asks about the short man, whom, the old man says, was not a gentleman. D'Artagnan promises that he won't reveal the old man as his source of information, and heads for the ferry, his mind \"torn by doubt, grief, and despair.\" And he misses his friends. At this point it's past midnight and D'Artagnan goes to find Planchet. No luck. D'Artagnan realizes he's better off waiting for the appointed hour of six o'clock, and he stops in a cabaret for some wine and rest. There he finds Planchet.", "analysis": ""}

24 THE PAVILION At nine o'clock d'Artagnan was at the Hotel des Gardes; he found Planchet all ready. The fourth horse had arrived. Planchet was armed with his musketoon and a pistol. D'Artagnan had his sword and placed two pistols in his belt; then both mounted and departed quietly. It was quite dark, and no one saw them go out. Planchet took place behind his master, and kept at a distance of ten paces from him. D'Artagnan crossed the quays, went out by the gate of La Conference and followed the road, much more beautiful then than it is now, which leads to St. Cloud. As long as he was in the city, Planchet kept at the respectful distance he had imposed upon himself; but as soon as the road began to be more lonely and dark, he drew softly nearer, so that when they entered the Bois de Boulogne he found himself riding quite naturally side by side with his master. In fact, we must not dissemble that the oscillation of the tall trees and the reflection of the moon in the dark underwood gave him serious uneasiness. D'Artagnan could not help perceiving that something more than usual was passing in the mind of his lackey and said, "Well, Monsieur Planchet, what is the matter with us now?" "Don't you think, monsieur, that woods are like churches?" "How so, Planchet?" "Because we dare not speak aloud in one or the other." "But why did you not dare to speak aloud, Planchet--because you are afraid?" "Afraid of being heard? Yes, monsieur." "Afraid of being heard! Why, there is nothing improper in our conversation, my dear Planchet, and no one could find fault with it." "Ah, monsieur!" replied Planchet, recurring to his besetting idea, "that Monsieur Bonacieux has something vicious in his eyebrows, and something very unpleasant in the play of his lips." "What the devil makes you think of Bonacieux?" "Monsieur, we think of what we can, and not of what we will." "Because you are a coward, Planchet." "Monsieur, we must not confound prudence with cowardice; prudence is a virtue." "And you are very virtuous, are you not, Planchet?" "Monsieur, is not that the barrel of a musket which glitters yonder? Had we not better lower our heads?" "In truth," murmured d'Artagnan, to whom M. de Treville's recommendation recurred, "this animal will end by making me afraid." And he put his horse into a trot. Planchet followed the movements of his master as if he had been his shadow, and was soon trotting by his side. "Are we going to continue this pace all night?" asked Planchet. "No; you are at your journey's end." "How, monsieur! And you?" "I am going a few steps farther." "And Monsieur leaves me here alone?" "You are afraid, Planchet?" "No; I only beg leave to observe to Monsieur that the night will be very cold, that chills bring on rheumatism, and that a lackey who has the rheumatism makes but a poor servant, particularly to a master as active as Monsieur." "Well, if you are cold, Planchet, you can go into one of those cabarets that you see yonder, and be in waiting for me at the door by six o'clock in the morning." "Monsieur, I have eaten and drunk respectfully the crown you gave me this morning, so that I have not a sou left in case I should be cold." "Here's half a pistole. Tomorrow morning." D'Artagnan sprang from his horse, threw the bridle to Planchet, and departed at a quick pace, folding his cloak around him. "Good Lord, how cold I am!" cried Planchet, as soon as he had lost sight of his master; and in such haste was he to warm himself that he went straight to a house set out with all the attributes of a suburban tavern, and knocked at the door. In the meantime d'Artagnan, who had plunged into a bypath, continued his route and reached St. Cloud; but instead of following the main street he turned behind the chateau, reached a sort of retired lane, and found himself soon in front of the pavilion named. It was situated in a very private spot. A high wall, at the angle of which was the pavilion, ran along one side of this lane, and on the other was a little garden connected with a poor cottage which was protected by a hedge from passers-by. He gained the place appointed, and as no signal had been given him by which to announce his presence, he waited. Not the least noise was to be heard; it might be imagined that he was a hundred miles from the capital. D'Artagnan leaned against the hedge, after having cast a glance behind it. Beyond that hedge, that garden, and that cottage, a dark mist enveloped with its folds that immensity where Paris slept--a vast void from which glittered a few luminous points, the funeral stars of that hell! But for d'Artagnan all aspects were clothed happily, all ideas wore a smile, all shades were diaphanous. The appointed hour was about to strike. In fact, at the end of a few minutes the belfry of St. Cloud let fall slowly ten strokes from its sonorous jaws. There was something melancholy in this brazen voice pouring out its lamentations in the middle of the night; but each of those strokes, which made up the expected hour, vibrated harmoniously to the heart of the young man. His eyes were fixed upon the little pavilion situated at the angle of the wall, of which all the windows were closed with shutters, except one on the first story. Through this window shone a mild light which silvered the foliage of two or three linden trees which formed a group outside the park. There could be no doubt that behind this little window, which threw forth such friendly beams, the pretty Mme. Bonacieux expected him. Wrapped in this sweet idea, d'Artagnan waited half an hour without the least impatience, his eyes fixed upon that charming little abode of which he could perceive a part of the ceiling with its gilded moldings, attesting the elegance of the rest of the apartment. The belfry of St. Cloud sounded half past ten. This time, without knowing why, d'Artagnan felt a cold shiver run through his veins. Perhaps the cold began to affect him, and he took a perfectly physical sensation for a moral impression. Then the idea seized him that he had read incorrectly, and that the appointment was for eleven o'clock. He drew near to the window, and placing himself so that a ray of light should fall upon the letter as he held it, he drew it from his pocket and read it again; but he had not been mistaken, the appointment was for ten o'clock. He went and resumed his post, beginning to be rather uneasy at this silence and this solitude. Eleven o'clock sounded. D'Artagnan began now really to fear that something had happened to Mme. Bonacieux. He clapped his hands three times--the ordinary signal of lovers; but nobody replied to him, not even an echo. He then thought, with a touch of vexation, that perhaps the young woman had fallen asleep while waiting for him. He approached the wall, and tried to climb it; but the wall had been recently pointed, and d'Artagnan could get no hold. At that moment he thought of the trees, upon whose leaves the light still shone; and as one of them drooped over the road, he thought that from its branches he might get a glimpse of the interior of the pavilion. The tree was easy to climb. Besides, d'Artagnan was but twenty years old, and consequently had not yet forgotten his schoolboy habits. In an instant he was among the branches, and his keen eyes plunged through the transparent panes into the interior of the pavilion. It was a strange thing, and one which made d'Artagnan tremble from the sole of his foot to the roots of his hair, to find that this soft light, this calm lamp, enlightened a scene of fearful disorder. One of the windows was broken, the door of the chamber had been beaten in and hung, split in two, on its hinges. A table, which had been covered with an elegant supper, was overturned. The decanters broken in pieces, and the fruits crushed, strewed the floor. Everything in the apartment gave evidence of a violent and desperate struggle. D'Artagnan even fancied he could recognize amid this strange disorder, fragments of garments, and some bloody spots staining the cloth and the curtains. He hastened to descend into the street, with a frightful beating at his heart; he wished to see if he could find other traces of violence. The little soft light shone on in the calmness of the night. D'Artagnan then perceived a thing that he had not before remarked--for nothing had led him to the examination--that the ground, trampled here and hoofmarked there, presented confused traces of men and horses. Besides, the wheels of a carriage, which appeared to have come from Paris, had made a deep impression in the soft earth, which did not extend beyond the pavilion, but turned again toward Paris. At length d'Artagnan, in pursuing his researches, found near the wall a woman's torn glove. This glove, wherever it had not touched the muddy ground, was of irreproachable odor. It was one of those perfumed gloves that lovers like to snatch from a pretty hand. As d'Artagnan pursued his investigations, a more abundant and more icy sweat rolled in large drops from his forehead; his heart was oppressed by a horrible anguish; his respiration was broken and short. And yet he said, to reassure himself, that this pavilion perhaps had nothing in common with Mme. Bonacieux; that the young woman had made an appointment with him before the pavilion, and not in the pavilion; that she might have been detained in Paris by her duties, or perhaps by the jealousy of her husband. But all these reasons were combated, destroyed, overthrown, by that feeling of intimate pain which, on certain occasions, takes possession of our being, and cries to us so as to be understood unmistakably that some great misfortune is hanging over us. Then d'Artagnan became almost wild. He ran along the high road, took the path he had before taken, and reaching the ferry, interrogated the boatman. About seven o'clock in the evening, the boatman had taken over a young woman, wrapped in a black mantle, who appeared to be very anxious not to be recognized; but entirely on account of her precautions, the boatman had paid more attention to her and discovered that she was young and pretty. There were then, as now, a crowd of young and pretty women who came to St. Cloud, and who had reasons for not being seen, and yet d'Artagnan did not for an instant doubt that it was Mme. Bonacieux whom the boatman had noticed. D'Artagnan took advantage of the lamp which burned in the cabin of the ferryman to read the billet of Mme. Bonacieux once again, and satisfy himself that he had not been mistaken, that the appointment was at St. Cloud and not elsewhere, before the D'Estrees's pavilion and not in another street. Everything conspired to prove to d'Artagnan that his presentiments had not deceived him, and that a great misfortune had happened. He again ran back to the chateau. It appeared to him that something might have happened at the pavilion in his absence, and that fresh information awaited him. The lane was still deserted, and the same calm soft light shone through the window. D'Artagnan then thought of that cottage, silent and obscure, which had no doubt seen all, and could tell its tale. The gate of the enclosure was shut; but he leaped over the hedge, and in spite of the barking of a chained-up dog, went up to the cabin. No one answered to his first knocking. A silence of death reigned in the cabin as in the pavilion; but as the cabin was his last resource, he knocked again. It soon appeared to him that he heard a slight noise within--a timid noise which seemed to tremble lest it should be heard. Then d'Artagnan ceased knocking, and prayed with an accent so full of anxiety and promises, terror and cajolery, that his voice was of a nature to reassure the most fearful. At length an old, worm-eaten shutter was opened, or rather pushed ajar, but closed again as soon as the light from a miserable lamp which burned in the corner had shone upon the baldric, sword belt, and pistol pommels of d'Artagnan. Nevertheless, rapid as the movement had been, d'Artagnan had had time to get a glimpse of the head of an old man. "In the name of heaven!" cried he, "listen to me; I have been waiting for someone who has not come. I am dying with anxiety. Has anything particular happened in the neighborhood? Speak!" The window was again opened slowly, and the same face appeared, only it was now still more pale than before. D'Artagnan related his story simply, with the omission of names. He told how he had a rendezvous with a young woman before that pavilion, and how, not seeing her come, he had climbed the linden tree, and by the light of the lamp had seen the disorder of the chamber. The old man listened attentively, making a sign only that it was all so; and then, when d'Artagnan had ended, he shook his head with an air that announced nothing good. "What do you mean?" cried d'Artagnan. "In the name of heaven, explain yourself!" "Oh! Monsieur," said the old man, "ask me nothing; for if I dared tell you what I have seen, certainly no good would befall me." "You have, then, seen something?" replied d'Artagnan. "In that case, in the name of heaven," continued he, throwing him a pistole, "tell me what you have seen, and I will pledge you the word of a gentleman that not one of your words shall escape from my heart." The old man read so much truth and so much grief in the face of the young man that he made him a sign to listen, and repeated in a low voice: "It was scarcely nine o'clock when I heard a noise in the street, and was wondering what it could be, when on coming to my door, I found that somebody was endeavoring to open it. As I am very poor and am not afraid of being robbed, I went and opened the gate and saw three men at a few paces from it. In the shadow was a carriage with two horses, and some saddlehorses. These horses evidently belonged to the three men, who were dressed as cavaliers. 'Ah, my worthy gentlemen,' cried I, 'what do you want?' 'You must have a ladder?' said he who appeared to be the leader of the party. 'Yes, monsieur, the one with which I gather my fruit.' 'Lend it to us, and go into your house again; there is a crown for the annoyance we have caused you. Only remember this--if you speak a word of what you may see or what you may hear (for you will look and you will listen, I am quite sure, however we may threaten you), you are lost.' At these words he threw me a crown, which I picked up, and he took the ladder. After shutting the gate behind them, I pretended to return to the house, but I immediately went out a back door, and stealing along in the shade of the hedge, I gained yonder clump of elder, from which I could hear and see everything. The three men brought the carriage up quietly, and took out of it a little man, stout, short, elderly, and commonly dressed in clothes of a dark color, who ascended the ladder very carefully, looked suspiciously in at the window of the pavilion, came down as quietly as he had gone up, and whispered, 'It is she!' Immediately, he who had spoken to me approached the door of the pavilion, opened it with a key he had in his hand, closed the door and disappeared, while at the same time the other two men ascended the ladder. The little old man remained at the coach door; the coachman took care of his horses, the lackey held the saddlehorses. All at once great cries resounded in the pavilion, and a woman came to the window, and opened it, as if to throw herself out of it; but as soon as she perceived the other two men, she fell back and they went into the chamber. Then I saw no more; but I heard the noise of breaking furniture. The woman screamed, and cried for help; but her cries were soon stifled. Two of the men appeared, bearing the woman in their arms, and carried her to the carriage, into which the little old man got after her. The leader closed the window, came out an instant after by the door, and satisfied himself that the woman was in the carriage. His two companions were already on horseback. He sprang into his saddle; the lackey took his place by the coachman; the carriage went off at a quick pace, escorted by the three horsemen, and all was over. From that moment I have neither seen nor heard anything." D'Artagnan, entirely overcome by this terrible story, remained motionless and mute, while all the demons of anger and jealousy were howling in his heart. "But, my good gentleman," resumed the old man, upon whom this mute despair certainly produced a greater effect than cries and tears would have done, "do not take on so; they did not kill her, and that's a comfort." "Can you guess," said d'Artagnan, "who was the man who headed this infernal expedition?" "I don't know him." "But as you spoke to him you must have seen him." "Oh, it's a description you want?" "Exactly so." "A tall, dark man, with black mustaches, dark eyes, and the air of a gentleman." "That's the man!" cried d'Artagnan, "again he, forever he! He is my demon, apparently. And the other?" "Which?" "The short one." "Oh, he was not a gentleman, I'll answer for it; besides, he did not wear a sword, and the others treated him with small consideration." "Some lackey," murmured d'Artagnan. "Poor woman, poor woman, what have they done with you?" "You have promised to be secret, my good monsieur?" said the old man. "And I renew my promise. Be easy, I am a gentleman. A gentleman has but his word, and I have given you mine." With a heavy heart, d'Artagnan again bent his way toward the ferry. Sometimes he hoped it could not be Mme. Bonacieux, and that he should find her next day at the Louvre; sometimes he feared she had had an intrigue with another, who, in a jealous fit, had surprised her and carried her off. His mind was torn by doubt, grief, and despair. "Oh, if I had my three friends here," cried he, "I should have, at least, some hopes of finding her; but who knows what has become of them?" It was past midnight; the next thing was to find Planchet. D'Artagnan went successively into all the cabarets in which there was a light, but could not find Planchet in any of them. At the sixth he began to reflect that the search was rather dubious. D'Artagnan had appointed six o'clock in the morning for his lackey, and wherever he might be, he was right. Besides, it came into the young man's mind that by remaining in the environs of the spot on which this sad event had passed, he would, perhaps, have some light thrown upon the mysterious affair. At the sixth cabaret, then, as we said, d'Artagnan stopped, asked for a bottle of wine of the best quality, and placing himself in the darkest corner of the room, determined thus to wait till daylight; but this time again his hopes were disappointed, and although he listened with all his ears, he heard nothing, amid the oaths, coarse jokes, and abuse which passed between the laborers, servants, and carters who comprised the honorable society of which he formed a part, which could put him upon the least track of her who had been stolen from him. He was compelled, then, after having swallowed the contents of his bottle, to pass the time as well as to evade suspicion, to fall into the easiest position in his corner and to sleep, whether well or ill. D'Artagnan, be it remembered, was only twenty years old, and at that age sleep has its imprescriptible rights which it imperiously insists upon, even with the saddest hearts. Toward six o'clock d'Artagnan awoke with that uncomfortable feeling which generally accompanies the break of day after a bad night. He was not long in making his toilet. He examined himself to see if advantage had been taken of his sleep, and having found his diamond ring on his finger, his purse in his pocket, and his pistols in his belt, he rose, paid for his bottle, and went out to try if he could have any better luck in his search after his lackey than he had had the night before. The first thing he perceived through the damp gray mist was honest Planchet, who, with the two horses in hand, awaited him at the door of a little blind cabaret, before which d'Artagnan had passed without even a suspicion of its existence.

Chapter Twenty-Four: The Pavilion

https://web.archive.org/web/20210127112556/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/three-musketeers/summary/chapter-twenty-four-the-pavilion

D'Artagnan meets Planchet at nine; Planchet is armed and D'Artagnan has his sword and two pistols. The two head out; at first Planchet rides behind D'Artagnan but he gradually moves his horse forward. As the two are riding through the woods, Planchet's mind again turns to Bonacieux. D'Artagnan again makes light of his servant's fears. Shortly, they come to a point where D'Artagnan plans to leave Planchet behind. Planchet isn't too keen on this idea and points out that the night is cold. D'Artagnan tells Planchet to go to one of the inns and to be ready to meet him at six in the morning. So our hero continues to the pavilion and waits for his beloved. He passes the time dreaming pleasant thoughts. The time strikes as he stares at a building where a light shines through the trees. He waits another half-hour. Finally, he begins to get scared. Eleven o'clock rings out and he gets more scared. He worries and then decides to climb into the window that's lit. When D'Artagnan reaches the first floor window , he sees a chaotic scene and evidence of a struggle. He searches the room and finds a woman's torn and scented glove that he keeps. The more he searches, the more he worries. He runs along a path and finds a ferryman whom he interrogates. At about seven in the evening, the man took over a young woman, who must have been Madame Bonacieux. D'Artagnan reads and rereads his letter from Madame Bonacieux to make sure that he was unmistaken about the time and place. D'Artagnan spots a nearby cottage and decides that its inhabitant must have seen the episode. He knocks and a fearful old man pokes out his head. D'Artagnan begs to learn what happened, and tells the old man his own circumstances. The old man tells D'Artagnan that at nine o'clock three strange men with horses and a carriage wanted a ladder. They took his ladder, gave him some money, and warned him not to tell anyone of what he might see and hear that night. The old man pretends to go inside but house but really stands outside to watch everything unfold. The old man tells D'Artagnan that a little man came out of the carriage, ascended the ladder, and peeked into the first floor window of the pavilion, reporting back "it is she!" One of the men takes a key and goes into the pavilion while the other two men go up to the window. Then he heard a woman screaming and crying. The men throw her into the carriage and drive off. D'Artagnan is clearly upset. The old man points out that at least she's not dead. D'Artagnan asks for a description of the leader, who turns out to be the Man from Meung. D'Artagnan then asks about the short man, whom, the old man says, was not a gentleman. D'Artagnan promises that he won't reveal the old man as his source of information, and heads for the ferry, his mind "torn by doubt, grief, and despair." And he misses his friends. At this point it's past midnight and D'Artagnan goes to find Planchet. No luck. D'Artagnan realizes he's better off waiting for the appointed hour of six o'clock, and he stops in a cabaret for some wine and rest. There he finds Planchet.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/1257-chapters/25.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Three Musketeers/section_25_part_0.txt

The Three Musketeers.chapter 25

chapter 25: porthos

{"name": "Chapter Twenty-Five: Porthos", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210127112556/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/three-musketeers/summary/chapter-twenty-five-porthos", "summary": "Rather than go home, D'Artagnan goes to visit Treville. He tells his mentor the full and honest truth, hoping for some advice. Treville is convinced that the Cardinal is behind it all. Treville promises to tell the Queen that Constance has been kidnapped, and recommends that D'Artagnan leave Paris immediately. D'Artagnan heads home in order to pack for his journey, and spots Monsieur Bonacieux. He is suspicious, and the narrator tells us that \"all falsehood is a mask... with a little attention we may always succeed in distinguishing it from the true face.\" D'Artagnan is determined that Bonacieux wears such a mask of falsehood and tries to brush past him, but Bonacieux starts chatting. He makes fun of D'Artagnan for coming home when everyone else is going out. D'Artagnan says something about Bonacieux's pretty wife, and the man pales. Then Bonacieux says that D'Artagnan must've really been somewhere unusual, because there's mud all over his boots. D'Artagnan looks down, and sees the same mud splotches on Bonacieux's boots. D'Artagnan determines that the small, \"not-a-gentleman-man\" from last night must have been Bonacieux. He aided in the kidnapping of his wife! D'Artagnan is ready to kill Bonacieux then and there, but he restrains himself. Still, D'Artagnan looks so fearsome that Bonacieux is scared. D'Artagnan opts for pointing out that Bonacieux's boots look just as dirty as his own. Bonacieux says that he went to St. Mande to ask after a servant. D'Artagnan, switching to interrogator mode, is now certain that Bonacieux was at St. Cloud last night, because St. Mande is in the opposite direction. He realizes that Bonacieux likely knows where his wife is being held, and resolves to get that information from him. D'Artagnan asks for some water, and before Bonacieux can reply, D'Artagnan ducks into Bonacieux's house. Bonacieux's bed has not been used. After drinking some water, D'Artagnan leaves for his own apartment. When he walks in, Planchet is happy to see him. Apparently a certain Monsieur de Cavois, the captain of the Cardinal's Guards, paid the apartment a visit while D'Artagnan was consulting with Treville. The man did not come to arrest D'Artagnan; on the contrary he bore well wishes from the Cardinal and asked D'Artagnan to follow him to the Palais-Royal. Since D'Artagnan wasn't home, the captain asked for D'Artagnan to call upon him at some point that day. Planchet tells the captain that D'Artagnan has set off for Champagne. D'Artagnan congratulates Planchet on his quick thinking; Planchet says he knew D'Artagnan would have time to correct the lie if he wanted, and that since he is not a gentleman, he's allowed to lie. The two of them get ready to leave Paris--in the opposite direction of Champagne. D'Artagnan tells Planchet that he was right about Bonacieux. Before leaving, D'Artagnan visits his friends' houses one more time to make sure that no new information has come. At Aramis's house, there is a pretty and perfumed letter waiting. The two of them travel with four horses in order to bring back their friends. They reach Chantilly with no problem and arrive at the inn where they left Porthos. D'Artagnan's got four horses, so he's looking like a VIP to the innkeeper, who comes over personally to serve him some wine. D'Artagnan begins to ask about Porthos, and learns that Porthos is still at the inn, hasn't paid his bill, and threatens to kill anyone who asks for money. Porthos continues to hang out at this inn, occupying the best room, refusing to leave, and refusing to pay his bill. Mousqueton has also rejoined his master. D'Artagnan tries to allay the innkeeper's fears, pointing out that Porthos is favored by a wealthy woman who will pay the bill. The innkeeper's expresses doubt, saying that he has knows all about this great lady To make a long story short, Porthos's mistress is the wife of an attorney. The mistress's name is Madame Coquenard, and she is not exactly beautiful. In fact, she's fifty years old and is very jealous of Porthos. D'Artagnan asks if Porthos is really wounded, and the innkeeper confesses that Porthos forbids anyone to admit it. He was beaten up badly by his adversary, but refuses to admit it to anyone except his mistress. D'Artagnan goes to visit Porthos. Before D'Artagnan leaves, he assures the innkeeper that if Porthos's mistress will pay the bill. If she doesn't, however, D'Artagnan promises that he will take care of the account, which is already upwards of twenty pistoles. D'Artagnan enters Pothos's room to find him gambling with Mousqueton while food cooks over a fire. Empty wine bottles line the mantles. Porthos says hello, and soon entertains his company with highly embroidered stories. For instance, he says he beat up his adversary, but got a tiny little sprain in the process, which has confined him to his bed. D'Artagnan fills Porthos in on his end of the story. It transpires that the faithful Mousqueton has been poaching animals and stealing wine to keep the two well fed. We learn a bit about Mousqueton's background here. During the war between Catholics and the Huguenots in France, Mousqueton's father opted for a mixed religious system. When he saw a Catholic, all his Protestant beliefs would rise up and he would pull out his gun and talk religion until the Catholic handed over his money. When he saw a Huguenot, the reverse would happen. In keeping with his mixed religious beliefs, Mousqueton's father raised Mousqueton as a Catholic, and his older brother as a Protestant. Mousqueton's father was killed one day when a Catholic and a Huguenot both recognized him. Being a devoted son, Mousqueton later killed the Huguenot, and his brother took care of the Catholic. Mousqueton's father was also a poacher in his spare time, and he taught Mousqueton the basics. The next story concerns the procuring of wine. In Spain Mousqueton learned a number of lassoing techniques that enable him to use the ventilation window in the wine cellar to steal bottles of wine without the innkeeper noticing. D'Artagnan tells Porthos that a horse will be left in the stables for him, and that he must find Aramis and Athos. Planchet comes in to report the horses are ready, and they bid Porthos farewell.", "analysis": ""}

25 PORTHOS Instead of returning directly home, d'Artagnan alighted at the door of M. de Treville, and ran quickly up the stairs. This time he had decided to relate all that had passed. M. de Treville would doubtless give him good advice as to the whole affair. Besides, as M. de Treville saw the queen almost daily, he might be able to draw from her Majesty some intelligence of the poor young woman, whom they were doubtless making pay very dearly for her devotedness to her mistress. M de Treville listened to the young man's account with a seriousness which proved that he saw something else in this adventure besides a love affair. When d'Artagnan had finished, he said, "Hum! All this savors of his Eminence, a league off." "But what is to be done?" said d'Artagnan. "Nothing, absolutely nothing, at present, but quitting Paris, as I told you, as soon as possible. I will see the queen; I will relate to her the details of the disappearance of this poor woman, of which she is no doubt ignorant. These details will guide her on her part, and on your return, I shall perhaps have some good news to tell you. Rely on me." D'Artagnan knew that, although a Gascon, M. de Treville was not in the habit of making promises, and that when by chance he did promise, he more than kept his word. He bowed to him, then, full of gratitude for the past and for the future; and the worthy captain, who on his side felt a lively interest in this young man, so brave and so resolute, pressed his hand kindly, wishing him a pleasant journey. Determined to put the advice of M. de Treville in practice instantly, d'Artagnan directed his course toward the Rue des Fossoyeurs, in order to superintend the packing of his valise. On approaching the house, he perceived M. Bonacieux in morning costume, standing at his threshold. All that the prudent Planchet had said to him the preceding evening about the sinister character of the old man recurred to the mind of d'Artagnan, who looked at him with more attention than he had done before. In fact, in addition to that yellow, sickly paleness which indicates the insinuation of the bile in the blood, and which might, besides, be accidental, d'Artagnan remarked something perfidiously significant in the play of the wrinkled features of his countenance. A rogue does not laugh in the same way that an honest man does; a hypocrite does not shed the tears of a man of good faith. All falsehood is a mask; and however well made the mask may be, with a little attention we may always succeed in distinguishing it from the true face. It appeared, then, to d'Artagnan that M. Bonacieux wore a mask, and likewise that that mask was most disagreeable to look upon. In consequence of this feeling of repugnance, he was about to pass without speaking to him, but, as he had done the day before, M. Bonacieux accosted him. "Well, young man," said he, "we appear to pass rather gay nights! Seven o'clock in the morning! PESTE! You seem to reverse ordinary customs, and come home at the hour when other people are going out." "No one can reproach you for anything of the kind, Monsieur Bonacieux," said the young man; "you are a model for regular people. It is true that when a man possesses a young and pretty wife, he has no need to seek happiness elsewhere. Happiness comes to meet him, does it not, Monsieur Bonacieux?" Bonacieux became as pale as death, and grinned a ghastly smile. "Ah, ah!" said Bonacieux, "you are a jocular companion! But where the devil were you gladding last night, my young master? It does not appear to be very clean in the crossroads." D'Artagnan glanced down at his boots, all covered with mud; but that same glance fell upon the shoes and stockings of the mercer, and it might have been said they had been dipped in the same mud heap. Both were stained with splashes of mud of the same appearance. Then a sudden idea crossed the mind of d'Artagnan. That little stout man, short and elderly, that sort of lackey, dressed in dark clothes, treated without ceremony by the men wearing swords who composed the escort, was Bonacieux himself. The husband had presided at the abduction of his wife. A terrible inclination seized d'Artagnan to grasp the mercer by the throat and strangle him; but, as we have said, he was a very prudent youth, and he restrained himself. However, the revolution which appeared upon his countenance was so visible that Bonacieux was terrified at it, and he endeavored to draw back a step or two; but as he was standing before the half of the door which was shut, the obstacle compelled him to keep his place. "Ah, but you are joking, my worthy man!" said d'Artagnan. "It appears to me that if my boots need a sponge, your stockings and shoes stand in equal need of a brush. May you not have been philandering a little also, Monsieur Bonacieux? Oh, the devil! That's unpardonable in a man of your age, and who besides, has such a pretty wife as yours." "Oh, Lord! no," said Bonacieux, "but yesterday I went to St. Mande to make some inquiries after a servant, as I cannot possibly do without one; and the roads were so bad that I brought back all this mud, which I have not yet had time to remove." The place named by Bonacieux as that which had been the object of his journey was a fresh proof in support of the suspicions d'Artagnan had conceived. Bonacieux had named Mande because Mande was in an exactly opposite direction from St. Cloud. This probability afforded him his first consolation. If Bonacieux knew where his wife was, one might, by extreme means, force the mercer to open his teeth and let his secret escape. The question, then, was how to change this probability into a certainty. "Pardon, my dear Monsieur Bonacieux, if I don't stand upon ceremony," said d'Artagnan, "but nothing makes one so thirsty as want of sleep. I am parched with thirst. Allow me to take a glass of water in your apartment; you know that is never refused among neighbors." Without waiting for the permission of his host, d'Artagnan went quickly into the house, and cast a rapid glance at the bed. It had not been used. Bonacieux had not been abed. He had only been back an hour or two; he had accompanied his wife to the place of her confinement, or else at least to the first relay. "Thanks, Monsieur Bonacieux," said d'Artagnan, emptying his glass, "that is all I wanted of you. I will now go up into my apartment. I will make Planchet brush my boots; and when he has done, I will, if you like, send him to you to brush your shoes." He left the mercer quite astonished at his singular farewell, and asking himself if he had not been a little inconsiderate. At the top of the stairs he found Planchet in a great fright. "Ah, monsieur!" cried Planchet, as soon as he perceived his master, "here is more trouble. I thought you would never come in." "What's the matter now, Planchet?" demanded d'Artagnan. "Oh! I give you a hundred, I give you a thousand times to guess, monsieur, the visit I received in your absence." "When?" "About half an hour ago, while you were at Monsieur de Treville's." "Who has been here? Come, speak." "Monsieur de Cavois." "Monsieur de Cavois?" "In person." "The captain of the cardinal's Guards?" "Himself." "Did he come to arrest me?" "I have no doubt that he did, monsieur, for all his wheedling manner." "Was he so sweet, then?" "Indeed, he was all honey, monsieur." "Indeed!" "He came, he said, on the part of his Eminence, who wished you well, and to beg you to follow him to the Palais-Royal*." _*It was called the Palais-Cardinal before Richelieu gave it to the King._ "What did you answer him?" "That the thing was impossible, seeing that you were not at home, as he could see." "Well, what did he say then?" "That you must not fail to call upon him in the course of the day; and then he added in a low voice, 'Tell your master that his Eminence is very well disposed toward him, and that his fortune perhaps depends upon this interview.'" "The snare is rather MALADROIT for the cardinal," replied the young man, smiling. "Oh, I saw the snare, and I answered you would be quite in despair on your return. "'Where has he gone?' asked Monsieur de Cavois. "'To Troyes, in Champagne,' I answered. "'And when did he set out?' "'Yesterday evening.'" "Planchet, my friend," interrupted d'Artagnan, "you are really a precious fellow." "You will understand, monsieur, I thought there would be still time, if you wish, to see Monsieur de Cavois to contradict me by saying you were not yet gone. The falsehood would then lie at my door, and as I am not a gentleman, I may be allowed to lie." "Be of good heart, Planchet, you shall preserve your reputation as a veracious man. In a quarter of an hour we set off." "That's the advice I was about to give Monsieur; and where are we going, may I ask, without being too curious?" "PARDIEU! In the opposite direction to that which you said I was gone. Besides, are you not as anxious to learn news of Grimaud, Mousqueton, and Bazin as I am to know what has become of Athos, Porthos, and Aramis?" "Yes, monsieur," said Planchet, "and I will go as soon as you please. Indeed, I think provincial air will suit us much better just now than the air of Paris. So then--" "So then, pack up our luggage, Planchet, and let us be off. On my part, I will go out with my hands in my pockets, that nothing may be suspected. You may join me at the Hotel des Gardes. By the way, Planchet, I think you are right with respect to our host, and that he is decidedly a frightfully low wretch." "Ah, monsieur, you may take my word when I tell you anything. I am a physiognomist, I assure you." D'Artagnan went out first, as had been agreed upon. Then, in order that he might have nothing to reproach himself with, he directed his steps, for the last time, toward the residences of his three friends. No news had been received of them; only a letter, all perfumed and of an elegant writing in small characters, had come for Aramis. D'Artagnan took charge of it. Ten minutes afterward Planchet joined him at the stables of the Hotel des Gardes. D'Artagnan, in order that there might be no time lost, had saddled his horse himself. "That's well," said he to Planchet, when the latter added the portmanteau to the equipment. "Now saddle the other three horses." "Do you think, then, monsieur, that we shall travel faster with two horses apiece?" said Planchet, with his shrewd air. "No, Monsieur Jester," replied d'Artagnan; "but with our four horses we may bring back our three friends, if we should have the good fortune to find them living." "Which is a great chance," replied Planchet, "but we must not despair of the mercy of God." "Amen!" said d'Artagnan, getting into his saddle. As they went from the Hotel des Gardes, they separated, leaving the street at opposite ends, one having to quit Paris by the Barriere de la Villette and the other by the Barriere Montmartre, to meet again beyond St. Denis--a strategic maneuver which, having been executed with equal punctuality, was crowned with the most fortunate results. D'Artagnan and Planchet entered Pierrefitte together. Planchet was more courageous, it must be admitted, by day than by night. His natural prudence, however, never forsook him for a single instant. He had forgotten not one of the incidents of the first journey, and he looked upon everybody he met on the road as an enemy. It followed that his hat was forever in his hand, which procured him some severe reprimands from d'Artagnan, who feared that his excess of politeness would lead people to think he was the lackey of a man of no consequence. Nevertheless, whether the passengers were really touched by the urbanity of Planchet or whether this time nobody was posted on the young man's road, our two travelers arrived at Chantilly without any accident, and alighted at the tavern of Great St. Martin, the same at which they had stopped on their first journey. The host, on seeing a young man followed by a lackey with two extra horses, advanced respectfully to the door. Now, as they had already traveled eleven leagues, d'Artagnan thought it time to stop, whether Porthos were or were not in the inn. Perhaps it would not be prudent to ask at once what had become of the Musketeer. The result of these reflections was that d'Artagnan, without asking information of any kind, alighted, commended the horses to the care of his lackey, entered a small room destined to receive those who wished to be alone, and desired the host to bring him a bottle of his best wine and as good a breakfast as possible--a desire which further corroborated the high opinion the innkeeper had formed of the traveler at first sight. D'Artagnan was therefore served with miraculous celerity. The regiment of the Guards was recruited among the first gentlemen of the kingdom; and d'Artagnan, followed by a lackey, and traveling with four magnificent horses, despite the simplicity of his uniform, could not fail to make a sensation. The host desired himself to serve him; which d'Artagnan perceiving, ordered two glasses to be brought, and commenced the following conversation. "My faith, my good host," said d'Artagnan, filling the two glasses, "I asked for a bottle of your best wine, and if you have deceived me, you will be punished in what you have sinned; for seeing that I hate drinking by myself, you shall drink with me. Take your glass, then, and let us drink. But what shall we drink to, so as to avoid wounding any susceptibility? Let us drink to the prosperity of your establishment." "Your Lordship does me much honor," said the host, "and I thank you sincerely for your kind wish." "But don't mistake," said d'Artagnan, "there is more selfishness in my toast than perhaps you may think--for it is only in prosperous establishments that one is well received. In hotels that do not flourish, everything is in confusion, and the traveler is a victim to the embarrassments of his host. Now, I travel a great deal, particularly on this road, and I wish to see all innkeepers making a fortune." "It seems to me," said the host, "that this is not the first time I have had the honor of seeing Monsieur." "Bah, I have passed perhaps ten times through Chantilly, and out of the ten times I have stopped three or four times at your house at least. Why I was here only ten or twelve days ago. I was conducting some friends, Musketeers, one of whom, by the by, had a dispute with a stranger--a man who sought a quarrel with him, for I don't know what." "Exactly so," said the host; "I remember it perfectly. It is not Monsieur Porthos that your Lordship means?" "Yes, that is my companion's name. My God, my dear host, tell me if anything has happened to him?" "Your Lordship must have observed that he could not continue his journey." "Why, to be sure, he promised to rejoin us, and we have seen nothing of him." "He has done us the honor to remain here." "What, he had done you the honor to remain here?" "Yes, monsieur, in this house; and we are even a little uneasy--" "On what account?" "Of certain expenses he has contracted." "Well, but whatever expenses he may have incurred, I am sure he is in a condition to pay them." "Ah, monsieur, you infuse genuine balm into my blood. We have made considerable advances; and this very morning the surgeon declared that if Monsieur Porthos did not pay him, he should look to me, as it was I who had sent for him." "Porthos is wounded, then?" "I cannot tell you, monsieur." "What! You cannot tell me? Surely you ought to be able to tell me better than any other person." "Yes; but in our situation we must not say all we know--particularly as we have been warned that our ears should answer for our tongues." "Well, can I see Porthos?" "Certainly, monsieur. Take the stairs on your right; go up the first flight and knock at Number One. Only warn him that it is you." "Why should I do that?" "Because, monsieur, some mischief might happen to you." "Of what kind, in the name of wonder?" "Monsieur Porthos may imagine you belong to the house, and in a fit of passion might run his sword through you or blow out your brains." "What have you done to him, then?" "We have asked him for money." "The devil! Ah, I can understand that. It is a demand that Porthos takes very ill when he is not in funds; but I know he must be so at present." "We thought so, too, monsieur. As our house is carried on very regularly, and we make out our bills every week, at the end of eight days we presented our account; but it appeared we had chosen an unlucky moment, for at the first word on the subject, he sent us to all the devils. It is true he had been playing the day before." "Playing the day before! And with whom?" "Lord, who can say, monsieur? With some gentleman who was traveling this way, to whom he proposed a game of LANSQUENET." "That's it, then, and the foolish fellow lost all he had?" "Even to his horse, monsieur; for when the gentleman was about to set out, we perceived that his lackey was saddling Monsieur Porthos's horse, as well as his master's. When we observed this to him, he told us all to trouble ourselves about our own business, as this horse belonged to him. We also informed Monsieur Porthos of what was going on; but he told us we were scoundrels to doubt a gentleman's word, and that as he had said the horse was his, it must be so." "That's Porthos all over," murmured d'Artagnan. "Then," continued the host, "I replied that as from the moment we seemed not likely to come to a good understanding with respect to payment, I hoped that he would have at least the kindness to grant the favor of his custom to my brother host of the Golden Eagle; but Monsieur Porthos replied that, my house being the best, he should remain where he was. This reply was too flattering to allow me to insist on his departure. I confined myself then to begging him to give up his chamber, which is the handsomest in the hotel, and to be satisfied with a pretty little room on the third floor; but to this Monsieur Porthos replied that as he every moment expected his mistress, who was one of the greatest ladies in the court, I might easily comprehend that the chamber he did me the honor to occupy in my house was itself very mean for the visit of such a personage. Nevertheless, while acknowledging the truth of what he said, I thought proper to insist; but without even giving himself the trouble to enter into any discussion with me, he took one of his pistols, laid it on his table, day and night, and said that at the first word that should be spoken to him about removing, either within the house or out of it, he would blow out the brains of the person who should be so imprudent as to meddle with a matter which only concerned himself. Since that time, monsieur, nobody entered his chamber but his servant." "What! Mousqueton is here, then?" "Oh, yes, monsieur. Five days after your departure, he came back, and in a very bad condition, too. It appears that he had met with disagreeableness, likewise, on his journey. Unfortunately, he is more nimble than his master; so that for the sake of his master, he puts us all under his feet, and as he thinks we might refuse what he asked for, he takes all he wants without asking at all." "The fact is," said d'Artagnan, "I have always observed a great degree of intelligence and devotedness in Mousqueton." "That is possible, monsieur; but suppose I should happen to be brought in contact, even four times a year, with such intelligence and devotedness--why, I should be a ruined man!" "No, for Porthos will pay you." "Hum!" said the host, in a doubtful tone. "The favorite of a great lady will not be allowed to be inconvenienced for such a paltry sum as he owes you." "If I durst say what I believe on that head--" "What you believe?" "I ought rather to say, what I know." "What you know?" "And even what I am sure of." "And of what are you so sure?" "I would say that I know this great lady." "You?" "Yes; I." "And how do you know her?" "Oh, monsieur, if I could believe I might trust in your discretion." "Speak! By the word of a gentleman, you shall have no cause to repent of your confidence." "Well, monsieur, you understand that uneasiness makes us do many things." "What have you done?" "Oh, nothing which was not right in the character of a creditor." "Well?" "Monsieur Porthos gave us a note for his duchess, ordering us to put it in the post. This was before his servant came. As he could not leave his chamber, it was necessary to charge us with this commission." "And then?" "Instead of putting the letter in the post, which is never safe, I took advantage of the journey of one of my lads to Paris, and ordered him to convey the letter to this duchess himself. This was fulfilling the intentions of Monsieur Porthos, who had desired us to be so careful of this letter, was it not?" "Nearly so." "Well, monsieur, do you know who this great lady is?" "No; I have heard Porthos speak of her, that's all." "Do you know who this pretended duchess is? "I repeat to you, I don't know her." "Why, she is the old wife of a procurator* of the Chatelet, monsieur, named Madame Coquenard, who, although she is at least fifty, still gives herself jealous airs. It struck me as very odd that a princess should live in the Rue aux Ours." _*Attorney_ "But how do you know all this?" "Because she flew into a great passion on receiving the letter, saying that Monsieur Porthos was a weathercock, and that she was sure it was for some woman he had received this wound." "Has he been wounded, then?" "Oh, good Lord! What have I said?" "You said that Porthos had received a sword cut." "Yes, but he has forbidden me so strictly to say so." "And why so." "Zounds, monsieur! Because he had boasted that he would perforate the stranger with whom you left him in dispute; whereas the stranger, on the contrary, in spite of all his rodomontades quickly threw him on his back. As Monsieur Porthos is a very boastful man, he insists that nobody shall know he has received this wound except the duchess, whom he endeavored to interest by an account of his adventure." "It is a wound that confines him to his bed?" "Ah, and a master stroke, too, I assure you. Your friend's soul must stick tight to his body." "Were you there, then?" "Monsieur, I followed them from curiosity, so that I saw the combat without the combatants seeing me." "And what took place?" "Oh! The affair was not long, I assure you. They placed themselves on guard; the stranger made a feint and a lunge, and that so rapidly that when Monsieur Porthos came to the PARADE, he had already three inches of steel in his breast. He immediately fell backward. The stranger placed the point of his sword at his throat; and Monsieur Porthos, finding himself at the mercy of his adversary, acknowledged himself conquered. Upon which the stranger asked his name, and learning that it was Porthos, and not d'Artagnan, he assisted him to rise, brought him back to the hotel, mounted his horse, and disappeared." "So it was with Monsieur d'Artagnan this stranger meant to quarrel?" "It appears so." "And do you know what has become of him?" "No, I never saw him until that moment, and have not seen him since." "Very well; I know all that I wish to know. Porthos's chamber is, you say, on the first story, Number One?" "Yes, monsieur, the handsomest in the inn--a chamber that I could have let ten times over." "Bah! Be satisfied," said d'Artagnan, laughing, "Porthos will pay you with the money of the Duchess Coquenard." "Oh, monsieur, procurator's wife or duchess, if she will but loosen her pursestrings, it will be all the same; but she positively answered that she was tired of the exigencies and infidelities of Monsieur Porthos, and that she would not send him a denier." "And did you convey this answer to your guest?" "We took good care not to do that; he would have found in what fashion we had executed his commission." "So that he still expects his money?" "Oh, Lord, yes, monsieur! Yesterday he wrote again; but it was his servant who this time put the letter in the post." "Do you say the procurator's wife is old and ugly?" "Fifty at least, monsieur, and not at all handsome, according to Pathaud's account." "In that case, you may be quite at ease; she will soon be softened. Besides, Porthos cannot owe you much." "How, not much! Twenty good pistoles, already, without reckoning the doctor. He denies himself nothing; it may easily be seen he has been accustomed to live well." "Never mind; if his mistress abandons him, he will find friends, I will answer for it. So, my dear host, be not uneasy, and continue to take all the care of him that his situation requires." "Monsieur has promised me not to open his mouth about the procurator's wife, and not to say a word of the wound?" "That's agreed; you have my word." "Oh, he would kill me!" "Don't be afraid; he is not so much of a devil as he appears." Saying these words, d'Artagnan went upstairs, leaving his host a little better satisfied with respect to two things in which he appeared to be very much interested--his debt and his life. At the top of the stairs, upon the most conspicuous door of the corridor, was traced in black ink a gigantic number "1." d'Artagnan knocked, and upon the bidding to come in which came from inside, he entered the chamber. Porthos was in bed, and was playing a game at LANSQUENET with Mousqueton, to keep his hand in; while a spit loaded with partridges was turning before the fire, and on each side of a large chimneypiece, over two chafing dishes, were boiling two stewpans, from which exhaled a double odor of rabbit and fish stews, rejoicing to the smell. In addition to this he perceived that the top of a wardrobe and the marble of a commode were covered with empty bottles. At the sight of his friend, Porthos uttered a loud cry of joy; and Mousqueton, rising respectfully, yielded his place to him, and went to give an eye to the two stewpans, of which he appeared to have the particular inspection. "Ah, PARDIEU! Is that you?" said Porthos to d'Artagnan. "You are right welcome. Excuse my not coming to meet you; but," added he, looking at d'Artagnan with a certain degree of uneasiness, "you know what has happened to me?" "No." "Has the host told you nothing, then?" "I asked after you, and came up as soon as I could." Porthos seemed to breathe more freely. "And what has happened to you, my dear Porthos?" continued d'Artagnan. "Why, on making a thrust at my adversary, whom I had already hit three times, and whom I meant to finish with the fourth, I put my foot on a stone, slipped, and strained my knee." "Truly?" "Honor! Luckily for the rascal, for I should have left him dead on the spot, I assure you." "And what has became of him?" "Oh, I don't know; he had enough, and set off without waiting for the rest. But you, my dear d'Artagnan, what has happened to you?" "So that this strain of the knee," continued d'Artagnan, "my dear Porthos, keeps you in bed?" "My God, that's all. I shall be about again in a few days." "Why did you not have yourself conveyed to Paris? You must be cruelly bored here." "That was my intention; but, my dear friend, I have one thing to confess to you." "What's that?" "It is that as I was cruelly bored, as you say, and as I had the seventy-five pistoles in my pocket which you had distributed to me, in order to amuse myself I invited a gentleman who was traveling this way to walk up, and proposed a cast of dice. He accepted my challenge, and, my faith, my seventy-five pistoles passed from my pocket to his, without reckoning my horse, which he won into the bargain. But you, my dear d'Artagnan?" "What can you expect, my dear Porthos; a man is not privileged in all ways," said d'Artagnan. "You know the proverb 'Unlucky at play, lucky in love.' You are too fortunate in your love for play not to take its revenge. What consequence can the reverses of fortune be to you? Have you not, happy rogue that you are--have you not your duchess, who cannot fail to come to your aid?" "Well, you see, my dear d'Artagnan, with what ill luck I play," replied Porthos, with the most careless air in the world. "I wrote to her to send me fifty louis or so, of which I stood absolutely in need on account of my accident." "Well?" "Well, she must be at her country seat, for she has not answered me." "Truly?" "No; so I yesterday addressed another epistle to her, still more pressing than the first. But you are here, my dear fellow, let us speak of you. I confess I began to be very uneasy on your account." "But your host behaves very well toward you, as it appears, my dear Porthos," said d'Artagnan, directing the sick man's attention to the full stewpans and the empty bottles. "So, so," replied Porthos. "Only three or four days ago the impertinent jackanapes gave me his bill, and I was forced to turn both him and his bill out of the door; so that I am here something in the fashion of a conqueror, holding my position, as it were, my conquest. So you see, being in constant fear of being forced from that position, I am armed to the teeth." "And yet," said d'Artagnan, laughing, "it appears to me that from time to time you must make SORTIES." And he again pointed to the bottles and the stewpans. "Not I, unfortunately!" said Porthos. "This miserable strain confines me to my bed; but Mousqueton forages, and brings in provisions. Friend Mousqueton, you see that we have a reinforcement, and we must have an increase of supplies." "Mousqueton," said d'Artagnan, "you must render me a service." "What, monsieur?" "You must give your recipe to Planchet. I may be besieged in my turn, and I shall not be sorry for him to be able to let me enjoy the same advantages with which you gratify your master." "Lord, monsieur! There is nothing more easy," said Mousqueton, with a modest air. "One only needs to be sharp, that's all. I was brought up in the country, and my father in his leisure time was something of a poacher." "And what did he do the rest of his time?" "Monsieur, he carried on a trade which I have always thought satisfactory." "Which?" "As it was a time of war between the Catholics and the Huguenots, and as he saw the Catholics exterminate the Huguenots and the Huguenots exterminate the Catholics--all in the name of religion--he adopted a mixed belief which permitted him to be sometimes Catholic, sometimes a Huguenot. Now, he was accustomed to walk with his fowling piece on his shoulder, behind the hedges which border the roads, and when he saw a Catholic coming alone, the Protestant religion immediately prevailed in his mind. He lowered his gun in the direction of the traveler; then, when he was within ten paces of him, he commenced a conversation which almost always ended by the traveler's abandoning his purse to save his life. It goes without saying that when he saw a Huguenot coming, he felt himself filled with such ardent Catholic zeal that he could not understand how, a quarter of an hour before, he had been able to have any doubts upon the superiority of our holy religion. For my part, monsieur, I am Catholic--my father, faithful to his principles, having made my elder brother a Huguenot." "And what was the end of this worthy man?" asked d'Artagnan. "Oh, of the most unfortunate kind, monsieur. One day he was surprised in a lonely road between a Huguenot and a Catholic, with both of whom he had before had business, and who both knew him again; so they united against him and hanged him on a tree. Then they came and boasted of their fine exploit in the cabaret of the next village, where my brother and I were drinking." "And what did you do?" said d'Artagnan. "We let them tell their story out," replied Mousqueton. "Then, as in leaving the cabaret they took different directions, my brother went and hid himself on the road of the Catholic, and I on that of the Huguenot. Two hours after, all was over; we had done the business of both, admiring the foresight of our poor father, who had taken the precaution to bring each of us up in a different religion." "Well, I must allow, as you say, your father was a very intelligent fellow. And you say in his leisure moments the worthy man was a poacher?" "Yes, monsieur, and it was he who taught me to lay a snare and ground a line. The consequence is that when I saw our laborers, which did not at all suit two such delicate stomachs as ours, I had recourse to a little of my old trade. While walking near the wood of Monsieur le Prince, I laid a few snare in the runs; and while reclining on the banks of his Highness's pieces of water, I slipped a few lines into his fish ponds. So that now, thanks be to God, we do not want, as Monsieur can testify, for partridges, rabbits, carp or eels--all light, wholesome food, suitable for the sick." "But the wine," said d'Artagnan, "who furnishes the wine? Your host?" "That is to say, yes and no." "How yes and no?" "He furnishes it, it is true, but he does not know that he has that honor." "Explain yourself, Mousqueton; your conversation is full of instructive things." "That is it, monsieur. It has so chanced that I met with a Spaniard in my peregrinations who had seen many countries, and among them the New World." "What connection can the New World have with the bottles which are on the commode and the wardrobe?" "Patience, monsieur, everything will come in its turn." "This Spaniard had in his service a lackey who had accompanied him in his voyage to Mexico. This lackey was my compatriot; and we became the more intimate from there being many resemblances of character between us. We loved sporting of all kinds better than anything; so that he related to me how in the plains of the Pampas the natives hunt the tiger and the wild bull with simple running nooses which they throw to a distance of twenty or thirty paces the end of a cord with such nicety; but in face of the proof I was obliged to acknowledge the truth of the recital. My friend placed a bottle at the distance of thirty paces, and at each cast he caught the neck of the bottle in his running noose. I practiced this exercise, and as nature has endowed me with some faculties, at this day I can throw the lasso with any man in the world. Well, do you understand, monsieur? Our host has a well-furnished cellar the key of which never leaves him; only this cellar has a ventilating hole. Now through this ventilating hole I throw my lasso, and as I now know in which part of the cellar is the best wine, that's my point for sport. You see, monsieur, what the New World has to do with the bottles which are on the commode and the wardrobe. Now, will you taste our wine, and without prejudice say what you think of it?" "Thank you, my friend, thank you; unfortunately, I have just breakfasted." "Well," said Porthos, "arrange the table, Mousqueton, and while we breakfast, d'Artagnan will relate to us what has happened to him during the ten days since he left us." "Willingly," said d'Artagnan. While Porthos and Mousqueton were breakfasting, with the appetites of convalescents and with that brotherly cordiality which unites men in misfortune, d'Artagnan related how Aramis, being wounded, was obliged to stop at Crevecoeur, how he had left Athos fighting at Amiens with four men who accused him of being a coiner, and how he, d'Artagnan, had been forced to run the Comtes de Wardes through the body in order to reach England. But there the confidence of d'Artagnan stopped. He only added that on his return from Great Britain he had brought back four magnificent horses--one for himself, and one for each of his companions; then he informed Porthos that the one intended for him was already installed in the stable of the tavern. At this moment Planchet entered, to inform his master that the horses were sufficiently refreshed and that it would be possible to sleep at Clermont. As d'Artagnan was tolerably reassured with regard to Porthos, and as he was anxious to obtain news of his two other friends, he held out his hand to the wounded man, and told him he was about to resume his route in order to continue his researches. For the rest, as he reckoned upon returning by the same route in seven or eight days, if Porthos were still at the Great St. Martin, he would call for him on his way. Porthos replied that in all probability his sprain would not permit him to depart yet awhile. Besides, it was necessary he should stay at Chantilly to wait for the answer from his duchess. D'Artagnan wished that answer might be prompt and favorable; and having again recommended Porthos to the care of Mousqueton, and paid his bill to the host, he resumed his route with Planchet, already relieved of one of his led horses.

Chapter Twenty-Five: Porthos

https://web.archive.org/web/20210127112556/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/three-musketeers/summary/chapter-twenty-five-porthos

Rather than go home, D'Artagnan goes to visit Treville. He tells his mentor the full and honest truth, hoping for some advice. Treville is convinced that the Cardinal is behind it all. Treville promises to tell the Queen that Constance has been kidnapped, and recommends that D'Artagnan leave Paris immediately. D'Artagnan heads home in order to pack for his journey, and spots Monsieur Bonacieux. He is suspicious, and the narrator tells us that "all falsehood is a mask... with a little attention we may always succeed in distinguishing it from the true face." D'Artagnan is determined that Bonacieux wears such a mask of falsehood and tries to brush past him, but Bonacieux starts chatting. He makes fun of D'Artagnan for coming home when everyone else is going out. D'Artagnan says something about Bonacieux's pretty wife, and the man pales. Then Bonacieux says that D'Artagnan must've really been somewhere unusual, because there's mud all over his boots. D'Artagnan looks down, and sees the same mud splotches on Bonacieux's boots. D'Artagnan determines that the small, "not-a-gentleman-man" from last night must have been Bonacieux. He aided in the kidnapping of his wife! D'Artagnan is ready to kill Bonacieux then and there, but he restrains himself. Still, D'Artagnan looks so fearsome that Bonacieux is scared. D'Artagnan opts for pointing out that Bonacieux's boots look just as dirty as his own. Bonacieux says that he went to St. Mande to ask after a servant. D'Artagnan, switching to interrogator mode, is now certain that Bonacieux was at St. Cloud last night, because St. Mande is in the opposite direction. He realizes that Bonacieux likely knows where his wife is being held, and resolves to get that information from him. D'Artagnan asks for some water, and before Bonacieux can reply, D'Artagnan ducks into Bonacieux's house. Bonacieux's bed has not been used. After drinking some water, D'Artagnan leaves for his own apartment. When he walks in, Planchet is happy to see him. Apparently a certain Monsieur de Cavois, the captain of the Cardinal's Guards, paid the apartment a visit while D'Artagnan was consulting with Treville. The man did not come to arrest D'Artagnan; on the contrary he bore well wishes from the Cardinal and asked D'Artagnan to follow him to the Palais-Royal. Since D'Artagnan wasn't home, the captain asked for D'Artagnan to call upon him at some point that day. Planchet tells the captain that D'Artagnan has set off for Champagne. D'Artagnan congratulates Planchet on his quick thinking; Planchet says he knew D'Artagnan would have time to correct the lie if he wanted, and that since he is not a gentleman, he's allowed to lie. The two of them get ready to leave Paris--in the opposite direction of Champagne. D'Artagnan tells Planchet that he was right about Bonacieux. Before leaving, D'Artagnan visits his friends' houses one more time to make sure that no new information has come. At Aramis's house, there is a pretty and perfumed letter waiting. The two of them travel with four horses in order to bring back their friends. They reach Chantilly with no problem and arrive at the inn where they left Porthos. D'Artagnan's got four horses, so he's looking like a VIP to the innkeeper, who comes over personally to serve him some wine. D'Artagnan begins to ask about Porthos, and learns that Porthos is still at the inn, hasn't paid his bill, and threatens to kill anyone who asks for money. Porthos continues to hang out at this inn, occupying the best room, refusing to leave, and refusing to pay his bill. Mousqueton has also rejoined his master. D'Artagnan tries to allay the innkeeper's fears, pointing out that Porthos is favored by a wealthy woman who will pay the bill. The innkeeper's expresses doubt, saying that he has knows all about this great lady To make a long story short, Porthos's mistress is the wife of an attorney. The mistress's name is Madame Coquenard, and she is not exactly beautiful. In fact, she's fifty years old and is very jealous of Porthos. D'Artagnan asks if Porthos is really wounded, and the innkeeper confesses that Porthos forbids anyone to admit it. He was beaten up badly by his adversary, but refuses to admit it to anyone except his mistress. D'Artagnan goes to visit Porthos. Before D'Artagnan leaves, he assures the innkeeper that if Porthos's mistress will pay the bill. If she doesn't, however, D'Artagnan promises that he will take care of the account, which is already upwards of twenty pistoles. D'Artagnan enters Pothos's room to find him gambling with Mousqueton while food cooks over a fire. Empty wine bottles line the mantles. Porthos says hello, and soon entertains his company with highly embroidered stories. For instance, he says he beat up his adversary, but got a tiny little sprain in the process, which has confined him to his bed. D'Artagnan fills Porthos in on his end of the story. It transpires that the faithful Mousqueton has been poaching animals and stealing wine to keep the two well fed. We learn a bit about Mousqueton's background here. During the war between Catholics and the Huguenots in France, Mousqueton's father opted for a mixed religious system. When he saw a Catholic, all his Protestant beliefs would rise up and he would pull out his gun and talk religion until the Catholic handed over his money. When he saw a Huguenot, the reverse would happen. In keeping with his mixed religious beliefs, Mousqueton's father raised Mousqueton as a Catholic, and his older brother as a Protestant. Mousqueton's father was killed one day when a Catholic and a Huguenot both recognized him. Being a devoted son, Mousqueton later killed the Huguenot, and his brother took care of the Catholic. Mousqueton's father was also a poacher in his spare time, and he taught Mousqueton the basics. The next story concerns the procuring of wine. In Spain Mousqueton learned a number of lassoing techniques that enable him to use the ventilation window in the wine cellar to steal bottles of wine without the innkeeper noticing. D'Artagnan tells Porthos that a horse will be left in the stables for him, and that he must find Aramis and Athos. Planchet comes in to report the horses are ready, and they bid Porthos farewell.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/1257-chapters/26.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Three Musketeers/section_26_part_0.txt

The Three Musketeers.chapter 26

chapter 26: aramis and his thesis

{"name": "Chapter Twenty-Six: Aramis and His Thesis", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210127112556/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/three-musketeers/summary/chapter-twenty-six-aramis-and-his-thesis", "summary": "D'Artagnan daydreams of Madame Bonacieux on his way to Crevecoeur and quickly reaches his destination. At the inn where he left Aramis, D'Artagnan is informed that Aramis is with some men from the church, and is planning to join the priesthood. D'Artagnan heads to Aramis's door, which is blocked by Bazin, who wants his master to become a churchman. D'Artagnan shoves the servant aside and goes into Aramis's room. It's filled with theological iconography and two men dressed in black. Aramis says hi, but that his mind is elsewhere. Aramis asks D'Artagnan if he thinks his thesis should be dogmatic and didactic or ideal. D'Artagnan is confused: his talents lie with sword fighting, and not with academics! Aramis and his visitors have a theological discussion peppered with lots of Latin phrases. Finally, the two men leave, promising to return the next day to ordain Aramis into the church. The two friends are left alone. D'Artagnan lets Aramis talk first. The man defends his life choice, telling D'Artagnan that joining the priesthood has long been a wish. Aramis invites his friend to share a spartan meal of vegetables. We then learn about Aramis's background. He was in a seminary from the time he was nine until he was twenty. When he was at a \"house, which I frequented with much pleasure,\" a man insulted him for reading some verses to a lady. Aramis was supposed to respond and fight, but he did not know how. The incident continued to gnaw at him until he received permission to delay his formal entrance into the priesthood. Aramis went to Paris, learned how to fence, and then killed the man who had insulted him. Needless to say, this caused some controversy, so it was necessary for Aramis to lay low for a while. D'Artagnan asks for the reasons behind re-entering the church now. Aramis explains that the wound he sustained has turned his thoughts to higher concerns, but D'Artagnan calls him out, asking if perhaps a woman had made a deeper wound. Aramis scoffs at this claim, asking what woman could possibly have that effect. Aramis complains about life, calling it dull and coffin-like. D'Artagnan produces the pretty, perfumed letter. Aramis reads it and undergoes a complete change of heart--the world is suddenly beautiful, he no longer wants to join the church, and he tells Bazin to fetch them a proper dinner with lots of meat. The chapter ends with the two enjoying four bottles of wine.", "analysis": ""}

26 ARAMIS AND HIS THESIS D'Artagnan had said nothing to Porthos of his wound or of his procurator's wife. Our Bearnais was a prudent lad, however young he might be. Consequently he had appeared to believe all that the vainglorious Musketeer had told him, convinced that no friendship will hold out against a surprised secret. Besides, we feel always a sort of mental superiority over those whose lives we know better than they suppose. In his projects of intrigue for the future, and determined as he was to make his three friends the instruments of his fortune, d'Artagnan was not sorry at getting into his grasp beforehand the invisible strings by which he reckoned upon moving them. And yet, as he journeyed along, a profound sadness weighed upon his heart. He thought of that young and pretty Mme. Bonacieux who was to have paid him the price of his devotedness; but let us hasten to say that this sadness possessed the young man less from the regret of the happiness he had missed, than from the fear he entertained that some serious misfortune had befallen the poor woman. For himself, he had no doubt she was a victim of the cardinal's vengeance; and, as was well known, the vengeance of his Eminence was terrible. How he had found grace in the eyes of the minister, he did not know; but without doubt M. de Cavois would have revealed this to him if the captain of the Guards had found him at home. Nothing makes time pass more quickly or more shortens a journey than a thought which absorbs in itself all the faculties of the organization of him who thinks. External existence then resembles a sleep of which this thought is the dream. By its influence, time has no longer measure, space has no longer distance. We depart from one place, and arrive at another, that is all. Of the interval passed, nothing remains in the memory but a vague mist in which a thousand confused images of trees, mountains, and landscapes are lost. It was as a prey to this hallucination that d'Artagnan traveled, at whatever pace his horse pleased, the six or eight leagues that separated Chantilly from Crevecoeur, without his being able to remember on his arrival in the village any of the things he had passed or met with on the road. There only his memory returned to him. He shook his head, perceived the cabaret at which he had left Aramis, and putting his horse to the trot, he shortly pulled up at the door. This time it was not a host but a hostess who received him. D'Artagnan was a physiognomist. His eye took in at a glance the plump, cheerful countenance of the mistress of the place, and he at once perceived there was no occasion for dissembling with her, or of fearing anything from one blessed with such a joyous physiognomy. "My good dame," asked d'Artagnan, "can you tell me what has become of one of my friends, whom we were obliged to leave here about a dozen days ago?" "A handsome young man, three- or four-and-twenty years old, mild, amiable, and well made?" "That is he--wounded in the shoulder." "Just so. Well, monsieur, he is still here." "Ah, PARDIEU! My dear dame," said d'Artagnan, springing from his horse, and throwing the bridle to Planchet, "you restore me to life; where is this dear Aramis? Let me embrace him, I am in a hurry to see him again." "Pardon, monsieur, but I doubt whether he can see you at this moment." "Why so? Has he a lady with him?" "Jesus! What do you mean by that? Poor lad! No, monsieur, he has not a lady with him." "With whom is he, then?" "With the curate of Montdidier and the superior of the Jesuits of Amiens." "Good heavens!" cried d'Artagnan, "is the poor fellow worse, then?" "No, monsieur, quite the contrary; but after his illness grace touched him, and he determined to take orders." "That's it!" said d'Artagnan, "I had forgotten that he was only a Musketeer for a time." "Monsieur still insists upon seeing him?" "More than ever." "Well, monsieur has only to take the right-hand staircase in the courtyard, and knock at Number Five on the second floor." D'Artagnan walked quickly in the direction indicated, and found one of those exterior staircases that are still to be seen in the yards of our old-fashioned taverns. But there was no getting at the place of sojourn of the future abbe; the defiles of the chamber of Aramis were as well guarded as the gardens of Armida. Bazin was stationed in the corridor, and barred his passage with the more intrepidity that, after many years of trial, Bazin found himself near a result of which he had ever been ambitious. In fact, the dream of poor Bazin had always been to serve a churchman; and he awaited with impatience the moment, always in the future, when Aramis would throw aside the uniform and assume the cassock. The daily-renewed promise of the young man that the moment would not long be delayed, had alone kept him in the service of a Musketeer--a service in which, he said, his soul was in constant jeopardy. Bazin was then at the height of joy. In all probability, this time his master would not retract. The union of physical pain with moral uneasiness had produced the effect so long desired. Aramis, suffering at once in body and mind, had at length fixed his eyes and his thoughts upon religion, and he had considered as a warning from heaven the double accident which had happened to him; that is to say, the sudden disappearance of his mistress and the wound in his shoulder. It may be easily understood that in the present disposition of his master nothing could be more disagreeable to Bazin than the arrival of d'Artagnan, which might cast his master back again into that vortex of mundane affairs which had so long carried him away. He resolved, then, to defend the door bravely; and as, betrayed by the mistress of the inn, he could not say that Aramis was absent, he endeavored to prove to the newcomer that it would be the height of indiscretion to disturb his master in his pious conference, which had commenced with the morning and would not, as Bazin said, terminate before night. But d'Artagnan took very little heed of the eloquent discourse of M. Bazin; and as he had no desire to support a polemic discussion with his friend's valet, he simply moved him out of the way with one hand, and with the other turned the handle of the door of Number Five. The door opened, and d'Artagnan went into the chamber. Aramis, in a black gown, his head enveloped in a sort of round flat cap, not much unlike a CALOTTE, was seated before an oblong table, covered with rolls of paper and enormous volumes in folio. At his right hand was placed the superior of the Jesuits, and on his left the curate of Montdidier. The curtains were half drawn, and only admitted the mysterious light calculated for beatific reveries. All the mundane objects that generally strike the eye on entering the room of a young man, particularly when that young man is a Musketeer, had disappeared as if by enchantment; and for fear, no doubt, that the sight of them might bring his master back to ideas of this world, Bazin had laid his hands upon sword, pistols, plumed hat, and embroideries and laces of all kinds and sorts. In their stead d'Artagnan thought he perceived in an obscure corner a discipline cord suspended from a nail in the wall. At the noise made by d'Artagnan in entering, Aramis lifted up his head, and beheld his friend; but to the great astonishment of the young man, the sight of him did not produce much effect upon the Musketeer, so completely was his mind detached from the things of this world. "Good day, dear d'Artagnan," said Aramis; "believe me, I am glad to see you." "So am I delighted to see you," said d'Artagnan, "although I am not yet sure that it is Aramis I am speaking to." "To himself, my friend, to himself! But what makes you doubt it?" "I was afraid I had made a mistake in the chamber, and that I had found my way into the apartment of some churchman. Then another error seized me on seeing you in company with these gentlemen--I was afraid you were dangerously ill." The two men in black, who guessed d'Artagnan's meaning, darted at him a glance which might have been thought threatening; but d'Artagnan took no heed of it. "I disturb you, perhaps, my dear Aramis," continued d'Artagnan, "for by what I see, I am led to believe that you are confessing to these gentlemen." Aramis colored imperceptibly. "You disturb me? Oh, quite the contrary, dear friend, I swear; and as a proof of what I say, permit me to declare I am rejoiced to see you safe and sound." "Ah, he'll come round," thought d'Artagnan; "that's not bad!" "This gentleman, who is my friend, has just escaped from a serious danger," continued Aramis, with unction, pointing to d'Artagnan with his hand, and addressing the two ecclesiastics. "Praise God, monsieur," replied they, bowing together. "I have not failed to do so, your Reverences," replied the young man, returning their salutation. "You arrive in good time, dear d'Artagnan," said Aramis, "and by taking part in our discussion may assist us with your intelligence. Monsieur the Principal of Amiens, Monsieur the Curate of Montdidier, and I are arguing certain theological questions in which we have been much interested; I shall be delighted to have your opinion." "The opinion of a swordsman can have very little weight," replied d'Artagnan, who began to be uneasy at the turn things were taking, "and you had better be satisfied, believe me, with the knowledge of these gentlemen." The two men in black bowed in their turn. "On the contrary," replied Aramis, "your opinion will be very valuable. The question is this: Monsieur the Principal thinks that my thesis ought to be dogmatic and didactic." "Your thesis! Are you then making a thesis?" "Without doubt," replied the Jesuit. "In the examination which precedes ordination, a thesis is always a requisite." "Ordination!" cried d'Artagnan, who could not believe what the hostess and Bazin had successively told him; and he gazed, half stupefied, upon the three persons before him. "Now," continued Aramis, taking the same graceful position in his easy chair that he would have assumed in bed, and complacently examining his hand, which was as white and plump as that of a woman, and which he held in the air to cause the blood to descend, "now, as you have heard, d'Artagnan, Monsieur the Principal is desirous that my thesis should be dogmatic, while I, for my part, would rather it should be ideal. This is the reason why Monsieur the Principal has proposed to me the following subject, which has not yet been treated upon, and in which I perceive there is matter for magnificent elaboration-'UTRAQUE MANUS IN BENEDICENDO CLERICIS INFERIORIBUS NECESSARIA EST.'" D'Artagnan, whose erudition we are well acquainted with, evinced no more interest on hearing this quotation than he had at that of M. de Treville in allusion to the gifts he pretended that d'Artagnan had received from the Duke of Buckingham. "Which means," resumed Aramis, that he might perfectly understand, "'The two hands are indispensable for priests of the inferior orders, when they bestow the benediction.'" "An admirable subject!" cried the Jesuit. "Admirable and dogmatic!" repeated the curate, who, about as strong as d'Artagnan with respect to Latin, carefully watched the Jesuit in order to keep step with him, and repeated his words like an echo. As to d'Artagnan, he remained perfectly insensible to the enthusiasm of the two men in black. "Yes, admirable! PRORSUS ADMIRABILE!" continued Aramis; "but which requires a profound study of both the Scriptures and the Fathers. Now, I have confessed to these learned ecclesiastics, and that in all humility, that the duties of mounting guard and the service of the king have caused me to neglect study a little. I should find myself, therefore, more at my ease, FACILUS NATANS, in a subject of my own choice, which would be to these hard theological questions what morals are to metaphysics in philosophy." D'Artagnan began to be tired, and so did the curate. "See what an exordium!" cried the Jesuit. "Exordium," repeated the curate, for the sake of saying something. "QUEMADMODUM INTER COELORUM IMMNSITATEM." Aramis cast a glance upon d'Artagnan to see what effect all this produced, and found his friend gaping enough to split his jaws. "Let us speak French, my father," said he to the Jesuit; "Monsieur d'Artagnan will enjoy our conversation better." "Yes," replied d'Artagnan; "I am fatigued with reading, and all this Latin confuses me." "Certainly," replied the Jesuit, a little put out, while the curate, greatly delighted, turned upon d'Artagnan a look full of gratitude. "Well, let us see what is to be derived from this gloss. Moses, the servant of God-he was but a servant, please to understand-Moses blessed with the hands; he held out both his arms while the Hebrews beat their enemies, and then he blessed them with his two hands. Besides, what does the Gospel say? IMPONITE MANUS, and not MANUM-place the HANDS, not the HAND." "Place the HANDS," repeated the curate, with a gesture. "St. Peter, on the contrary, of whom the Popes are the successors," continued the Jesuit; "PORRIGE DIGITOS-present the fingers. Are you there, now?" "CERTES," replied Aramis, in a pleased tone, "but the thing is subtle." "The FINGERS," resumed the Jesuit, "St. Peter blessed with the FINGERS. The Pope, therefore blesses with the fingers. And with how many fingers does he bless? With THREE fingers, to be sure-one for the Father, one for the Son, and one for the Holy Ghost." All crossed themselves. D'Artagnan thought it was proper to follow this example. "The Pope is the successor of St. Peter, and represents the three divine powers; the rest-ORDINES INFERIORES-of the ecclesiastical hierarchy bless in the name of the holy archangels and angels. The most humble clerks such as our deacons and sacristans, bless with holy water sprinklers, which resemble an infinite number of blessing fingers. There is the subject simplified. ARGUMENTUM OMNI DENUDATUM ORNAMENTO. I could make of that subject two volumes the size of this," continued the Jesuit; and in his enthusiasm he struck a St. Chrysostom in folio, which made the table bend beneath its weight. D'Artagnan trembled. "CERTES," said Aramis, "I do justice to the beauties of this thesis; but at the same time I perceive it would be overwhelming for me. I had chosen this text-tell me, dear d'Artagnan, if it is not to your taste-'NON INUTILE EST DESIDERIUM IN OBLATIONE'; that is, 'A little regret is not unsuitable in an offering to the Lord.'" "Stop there!" cried the Jesuit, "for that thesis touches closely upon heresy. There is a proposition almost like it in the AUGUSTINUS of the heresiarch Jansenius, whose book will sooner or later be burned by the hands of the executioner. Take care, my young friend. You are inclining toward false doctrines, my young friend; you will be lost." "You will be lost," said the curate, shaking his head sorrowfully. "You approach that famous point of free will which is a mortal rock. You face the insinuations of the Pelagians and the semi-Pelagians." "But, my Reverend-" replied Aramis, a little amazed by the shower of arguments that poured upon his head. "How will you prove," continued the Jesuit, without allowing him time to speak, "that we ought to regret the world when we offer ourselves to God? Listen to this dilemma: God is God, and the world is the devil. To regret the world is to regret the devil; that is my conclusion." "And that is mine also," said the curate. "But, for heaven's sake-" resumed Aramis. "DESIDERAS DIABOLUM, unhappy man!" cried the Jesuit. "He regrets the devil! Ah, my young friend," added the curate, groaning, "do not regret the devil, I implore you!" D'Artagnan felt himself bewildered. It seemed to him as though he were in a madhouse, and was becoming as mad as those he saw. He was, however, forced to hold his tongue from not comprehending half the language they employed. "But listen to me, then," resumed Aramis with politeness mingled with a little impatience. "I do not say I regret; no, I will never pronounce that sentence, which would not be orthodox." The Jesuit raised his hands toward heaven, and the curate did the same. "No; but pray grant me that it is acting with an ill grace to offer to the Lord only that with which we are perfectly disgusted! Don't you think so, d'Artagnan?" "I think so, indeed," cried he. The Jesuit and the curate quite started from their chairs. "This is the point of departure; it is a syllogism. The world is not wanting in attractions. I quit the world; then I make a sacrifice. Now, the Scripture says positively, 'Make a sacrifice unto the Lord.'" "That is true," said his antagonists. "And then," said Aramis, pinching his ear to make it red, as he rubbed his hands to make them white, "and then I made a certain RONDEAU upon it last year, which I showed to Monsieur Voiture, and that great man paid me a thousand compliments." "A RONDEAU!" said the Jesuit, disdainfully. "A RONDEAU!" said the curate, mechanically. "Repeat it! Repeat it!" cried d'Artagnan; "it will make a little change." "Not so, for it is religious," replied Aramis; "it is theology in verse." "The devil!" said d'Artagnan. "Here it is," said Aramis, with a little look of diffidence, which, however, was not exempt from a shade of hypocrisy: "Vous qui pleurez un passe plein de charmes, Et qui trainez des jours infortunes, Tous vos malheurs se verront termines, Quand a Dieu seul vous offrirez vos larmes, Vous qui pleurez!" "You who weep for pleasures fled, While dragging on a life of care, All your woes will melt in air, If to God your tears are shed, You who weep!" d'Artagnan and the curate appeared pleased. The Jesuit persisted in his opinion. "Beware of a profane taste in your theological style. What says Augustine on this subject: 'SEVERUS SIT CLERICORUM VERBO.'" "Yes, let the sermon be clear," said the curate. "Now," hastily interrupted the Jesuit, on seeing that his acolyte was going astray, "now your thesis would please the ladies; it would have the success of one of Monsieur Patru's pleadings." "Please God!" cried Aramis, transported. "There it is," cried the Jesuit; "the world still speaks within you in a loud voice, ALTISIMM VOCE. You follow the world, my young friend, and I tremble lest grace prove not efficacious." "Be satisfied, my reverend father, I can answer for myself." "Mundane presumption!" "I know myself, Father; my resolution is irrevocable." "Then you persist in continuing that thesis?" "I feel myself called upon to treat that, and no other. I will see about the continuation of it, and tomorrow I hope you will be satisfied with the corrections I shall have made in consequence of your advice." "Work slowly," said the curate; "we leave you in an excellent tone of mind." "Yes, the ground is all sown," said the Jesuit, "and we have not to fear that one portion of the seed may have fallen upon stone, another upon the highway, or that the birds of heaven have eaten the rest, AVES COELI COMEDERUNT ILLAM." "Plague stifle you and your Latin!" said d'Artagnan, who began to feel all his patience exhausted. "Farewell, my son," said the curate, "till tomorrow." "Till tomorrow, rash youth," said the Jesuit. "You promise to become one of the lights of the Church. Heaven grant that this light prove not a devouring fire!" D'Artagnan, who for an hour past had been gnawing his nails with impatience, was beginning to attack the quick. The two men in black rose, bowed to Aramis and d'Artagnan, and advanced toward the door. Bazin, who had been standing listening to all this controversy with a pious jubilation, sprang toward them, took the breviary of the curate and the missal of the Jesuit, and walked respectfully before them to clear their way. Aramis conducted them to the foot of the stairs, and then immediately came up again to d'Artagnan, whose senses were still in a state of confusion. When left alone, the two friends at first kept an embarrassed silence. It however became necessary for one of them to break it first, and as d'Artagnan appeared determined to leave that honor to his companion, Aramis said, "you see that I am returned to my fundamental ideas." "Yes, efficacious grace has touched you, as that gentleman said just now." "Oh, these plans of retreat have been formed for a long time. You have often heard me speak of them, have you not, my friend?" "Yes; but I confess I always thought you jested." "With such things! Oh, d'Artagnan!" "The devil! Why, people jest with death." "And people are wrong, d'Artagnan; for death is the door which leads to perdition or to salvation." "Granted; but if you please, let us not theologize, Aramis. You must have had enough for today. As for me, I have almost forgotten the little Latin I have ever known. Then I confess to you that I have eaten nothing since ten o'clock this morning, and I am devilish hungry." "We will dine directly, my friend; only you must please to remember that this is Friday. Now, on such a day I can neither eat flesh nor see it eaten. If you can be satisfied with my dinner-it consists of cooked tetragones and fruits." "What do you mean by tetragones?" asked d'Artagnan, uneasily. "I mean spinach," replied Aramis; "but on your account I will add some eggs, and that is a serious infraction of the rule-for eggs are meat, since they engender chickens." "This feast is not very succulent; but never mind, I will put up with it for the sake of remaining with you." "I am grateful to you for the sacrifice," said Aramis; "but if your body be not greatly benefited by it, be assured your soul will." "And so, Aramis, you are decidedly going into the Church? What will our two friends say? What will Monsieur de Treville say? They will treat you as a deserter, I warn you." "I do not enter the Church; I re-enter it. I deserted the Church for the world, for you know that I forced myself when I became a Musketeer." "I? I know nothing about it." "You don't know I quit the seminary?" "Not at all." "This is my story, then. Besides, the Scriptures say, 'Confess yourselves to one another,' and I confess to you, d'Artagnan." "And I give you absolution beforehand. You see I am a good sort of a man." "Do not jest about holy things, my friend." "Go on, then, I listen." "I had been at the seminary from nine years old; in three days I should have been twenty. I was about to become an abbe, and all was arranged. One evening I went, according to custom, to a house which I frequented with much pleasure: when one is young, what can be expected?--one is weak. An officer who saw me, with a jealous eye, reading the LIVES OF THE SAINTS to the mistress of the house, entered suddenly and without being announced. That evening I had translated an episode of Judith, and had just communicated my verses to the lady, who gave me all sorts of compliments, and leaning on my shoulder, was reading them a second time with me. Her pose, which I must admit was rather free, wounded this officer. He said nothing; but when I went out he followed, and quickly came up with me. 'Monsieur the Abbe,' said he, 'do you like blows with a cane?' 'I cannot say, monsieur,' answered I; 'no one has ever dared to give me any.' 'Well, listen to me, then, Monsieur the Abbe! If you venture again into the house in which I have met you this evening, I will dare it myself.' I really think I must have been frightened. I became very pale; I felt my legs fail me; I sought for a reply, but could find none-I was silent. The officer waited for his reply, and seeing it so long coming, he burst into a laugh, turned upon his heel, and re-entered the house. I returned to the seminary. "I am a gentleman born, and my blood is warm, as you may have remarked, my dear d'Artagnan. The insult was terrible, and although unknown to the rest of the world, I felt it live and fester at the bottom of my heart. I informed my superiors that I did not feel myself sufficiently prepared for ordination, and at my request the ceremony was postponed for a year. I sought out the best fencing master in Paris, I made an agreement with him to take a lesson every day, and every day for a year I took that lesson. Then, on the anniversary of the day on which I had been insulted, I hung my cassock on a peg, assumed the costume of a cavalier, and went to a ball given by a lady friend of mine and to which I knew my man was invited. It was in the Rue des France-Bourgeois, close to La Force. As I expected, my officer was there. I went up to him as he was singing a love ditty and looking tenderly at a lady, and interrupted him exactly in the middle of the second couplet. 'Monsieur,' said I, 'does it still displease you that I should frequent a certain house of La Rue Payenne? And would you still cane me if I took it into my head to disobey you? The officer looked at me with astonishment, and then said, 'What is your business with me, monsieur? I do not know you.' 'I am,' said I, 'the little abbe who reads LIVES OF THE SAINTS, and translates Judith into verse.' 'Ah, ah! I recollect now,' said the officer, in a jeering tone; 'well, what do you want with me?' 'I want you to spare time to take a walk with me.' 'Tomorrow morning, if you like, with the greatest pleasure.' 'No, not tomorrow morning, if you please, but immediately.' 'If you absolutely insist.' 'I do insist upon it.' 'Come, then. Ladies,' said the officer, 'do not disturb yourselves; allow me time just to kill this gentleman, and I will return and finish the last couplet.' "We went out. I took him to the Rue Payenne, to exactly the same spot where, a year before, at the very same hour, he had paid me the compliment I have related to you. It was a superb moonlight night. We immediately drew, and at the first pass I laid him stark dead." "The devil!" cried d'Artagnan. "Now," continued Aramis, "as the ladies did not see the singer come back, and as he was found in the Rue Payenne with a great sword wound through his body, it was supposed that I had accommodated him thus; and the matter created some scandal which obliged me to renounce the cassock for a time. Athos, whose acquaintance I made about that period, and Porthos, who had in addition to my lessons taught me some effective tricks of fence, prevailed upon me to solicit the uniform of a Musketeer. The king entertained great regard for my father, who had fallen at the siege of Arras, and the uniform was granted. You may understand that the moment has come for me to re-enter the bosom of the Church." "And why today, rather than yesterday or tomorrow? What has happened to you today, to raise all these melancholy ideas?" "This wound, my dear d'Artagnan, has been a warning to me from heaven." "This wound? Bah, it is now nearly healed, and I am sure it is not that which gives you the most pain." "What, then?" said Aramis, blushing. "You have one at heart, Aramis, one deeper and more painful--a wound made by a woman." The eye of Aramis kindled in spite of himself. "Ah," said he, dissembling his emotion under a feigned carelessness, "do not talk of such things, and suffer love pains? VANITAS VANITATUM! According to your idea, then, my brain is turned. And for whom-for some GRISETTE, some chambermaid with whom I have trifled in some garrison? Fie!" "Pardon, my dear Aramis, but I thought you carried your eyes higher." "Higher? And who am I, to nourish such ambition? A poor Musketeer, a beggar, an unknown--who hates slavery, and finds himself ill-placed in the world." "Aramis, Aramis!" cried d'Artagnan, looking at his friend with an air of doubt. "Dust I am, and to dust I return. Life is full of humiliations and sorrows," continued he, becoming still more melancholy; "all the ties which attach him to life break in the hand of man, particularly the golden ties. Oh, my dear d'Artagnan," resumed Aramis, giving to his voice a slight tone of bitterness, "trust me! Conceal your wounds when you have any; silence is the last joy of the unhappy. Beware of giving anyone the clue to your griefs; the curious suck our tears as flies suck the blood of a wounded hart." "Alas, my dear Aramis," said d'Artagnan, in his turn heaving a profound sigh, "that is my story you are relating!" "How?" "Yes; a woman whom I love, whom I adore, has just been torn from me by force. I do not know where she is or whither they have conducted her. She is perhaps a prisoner; she is perhaps dead!" "Yes, but you have at least this consolation, that you can say to yourself she has not quit you voluntarily, that if you learn no news of her, it is because all communication with you is interdicted; while I--" "Well?" "Nothing," replied Aramis, "nothing." "So you renounce the world, then, forever; that is a settled thing--a resolution registered!" "Forever! You are my friend today; tomorrow you will be no more to me than a shadow, or rather, even, you will no longer exist. As for the world, it is a sepulcher and nothing else." "The devil! All this is very sad which you tell me." "What will you? My vocation commands me; it carries me away." D'Artagnan smiled, but made no answer. Aramis continued, "And yet, while I do belong to the earth, I wish to speak of you--of our friends." "And on my part," said d'Artagnan, "I wished to speak of you, but I find you so completely detached from everything! To love you cry, 'Fie! Friends are shadows! The world is a sepulcher!'" "Alas, you will find it so yourself," said Aramis, with a sigh. "Well, then, let us say no more about it," said d'Artagnan; "and let us burn this letter, which, no doubt, announces to you some fresh infidelity of your GRISETTE or your chambermaid." "What letter?" cried Aramis, eagerly. "A letter which was sent to your abode in your absence, and which was given to me for you." "But from whom is that letter?" "Oh, from some heartbroken waiting woman, some desponding GRISETTE; from Madame de Chevreuse's chambermaid, perhaps, who was obliged to return to Tours with her mistress, and who, in order to appear smart and attractive, stole some perfumed paper, and sealed her letter with a duchess's coronet." "What do you say?" "Hold! I must have lost it," said the young man maliciously, pretending to search for it. "But fortunately the world is a sepulcher; the men, and consequently the women, are but shadows, and love is a sentiment to which you cry, 'Fie! Fie!'" "d'Artagnan, d'Artagnan," cried Aramis, "you are killing me!" "Well, here it is at last!" said d'Artagnan, as he drew the letter from his pocket. Aramis made a bound, seized the letter, read it, or rather devoured it, his countenance radiant. "This same waiting maid seems to have an agreeable style," said the messenger, carelessly. "Thanks, d'Artagnan, thanks!" cried Aramis, almost in a state of delirium. "She was forced to return to Tours; she is not faithless; she still loves me! Come, my friend, come, let me embrace you. Happiness almost stifles me!" The two friends began to dance around the venerable St. Chrysostom, kicking about famously the sheets of the thesis, which had fallen on the floor. At that moment Bazin entered with the spinach and the omelet. "Be off, you wretch!" cried Aramis, throwing his skullcap in his face. "Return whence you came; take back those horrible vegetables, and that poor kickshaw! Order a larded hare, a fat capon, mutton leg dressed with garlic, and four bottles of old Burgundy." Bazin, who looked at his master, without comprehending the cause of this change, in a melancholy manner, allowed the omelet to slip into the spinach, and the spinach onto the floor. "Now this is the moment to consecrate your existence to the King of kings," said d'Artagnan, "if you persist in offering him a civility. NON INUTILE DESIDERIUM OBLATIONE." "Go to the devil with your Latin. Let us drink, my dear d'Artagnan, MORBLEU! Let us drink while the wine is fresh! Let us drink heartily, and while we do so, tell me a little of what is going on in the world yonder."

Chapter Twenty-Six: Aramis and His Thesis

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D'Artagnan daydreams of Madame Bonacieux on his way to Crevecoeur and quickly reaches his destination. At the inn where he left Aramis, D'Artagnan is informed that Aramis is with some men from the church, and is planning to join the priesthood. D'Artagnan heads to Aramis's door, which is blocked by Bazin, who wants his master to become a churchman. D'Artagnan shoves the servant aside and goes into Aramis's room. It's filled with theological iconography and two men dressed in black. Aramis says hi, but that his mind is elsewhere. Aramis asks D'Artagnan if he thinks his thesis should be dogmatic and didactic or ideal. D'Artagnan is confused: his talents lie with sword fighting, and not with academics! Aramis and his visitors have a theological discussion peppered with lots of Latin phrases. Finally, the two men leave, promising to return the next day to ordain Aramis into the church. The two friends are left alone. D'Artagnan lets Aramis talk first. The man defends his life choice, telling D'Artagnan that joining the priesthood has long been a wish. Aramis invites his friend to share a spartan meal of vegetables. We then learn about Aramis's background. He was in a seminary from the time he was nine until he was twenty. When he was at a "house, which I frequented with much pleasure," a man insulted him for reading some verses to a lady. Aramis was supposed to respond and fight, but he did not know how. The incident continued to gnaw at him until he received permission to delay his formal entrance into the priesthood. Aramis went to Paris, learned how to fence, and then killed the man who had insulted him. Needless to say, this caused some controversy, so it was necessary for Aramis to lay low for a while. D'Artagnan asks for the reasons behind re-entering the church now. Aramis explains that the wound he sustained has turned his thoughts to higher concerns, but D'Artagnan calls him out, asking if perhaps a woman had made a deeper wound. Aramis scoffs at this claim, asking what woman could possibly have that effect. Aramis complains about life, calling it dull and coffin-like. D'Artagnan produces the pretty, perfumed letter. Aramis reads it and undergoes a complete change of heart--the world is suddenly beautiful, he no longer wants to join the church, and he tells Bazin to fetch them a proper dinner with lots of meat. The chapter ends with the two enjoying four bottles of wine.

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The Three Musketeers.chapter 27

chapter 27: the wife of athos

{"name": "Chapter Twenty-Seven: The Wife of Athos", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210127112556/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/three-musketeers/summary/chapter-twenty-seven-the-wife-of-athos", "summary": "Their next step is to find Athos. It's clear, however, that Aramis is in no state to ride his horse. D'Artagnan tells him to stay, recuperate, and make up with Bazin, who has been depressed since Athos changed his mind about taking orders. D'Artagnan sets off alone. Soon he's immersed deep in thought about Athos. It's clear from his thoughts that he thinks highly of the older Musketeer. Athos is the textbook definition of an aristocrat: he has the handsome looks, the perfect etiquette, the great sword fighting skills, and a complete understanding of Latin, aristocratic history, and falconry. Yet it's clear that something is missing. Deep down inside, Athos is sad. D'Artagnan is mystified by this, and hasn't been able to figure out why. So those are D'Artagnan's thoughts as he rides to meet Athos. He also feels guilty at the thought of Athos being dead. Planchet points out that they also owe their lives to Athos. They reach the inn and D'Artagnan's first act is to menace the innkeeper, who promptly begs for mercy and apologizes for his earlier actions. It turns out the innkeeper had been tipped off that a group of men disguised in the uniforms of Musketeers would try to use fake money at his establishment. Authorities had even sent reinforcements for arresting these known criminals. D'Artagnan demands to know what's become of Athos. The innkeeper explains that, after killing one adversary and seriously wounding two others, Athos barricaded himself in the cellar and refuses to leave. Grimaud arrived and joined Athos in the cellar, and together the two of them threatened everyone who wanted to enter with death. The innkeeper complains that his business has suffered since all his provisions of food and wine are in the cellar. D'Artagnan points out that this is a quite just turn of events. Two Englishmen arrive at the inn and are very angry at the lack of food and drink. After the situation is explained, they want to break down the cellar door. As they descend to the cellar, D'Artagnan and Planchet follow after them with their muskets drawn. They kick in the door as D'Artagnan warns them that they will be attacked by Athos inside the cellar and from D'Artagnan, outside. At the last minute, the two sides succeed in making peace. D'Artagnan sends the Englishmen to their rooms and promises to supply them with food and wine soon. Athos comes out \"moist.\" So does Grimaud, . It turns out the two of them have been drinking in the cellar. Athos reckons he alone drank about one hundred and fifty bottles. The host of the inn, as might be expected, is not happy. He and his wife go down to survey the damage. Athos, Grimaud, D'Artagnan, and Planchet install themselves in the inn's nicest room. Athos calls for some wine, which just makes the innkeeper more irate. Athos and D'Artagnan tell the innkeeper that they should talk the issue over. It's decided that Athos will give the innkeeper his horse to settle the score--after all, D'Artagnan has brought him a better one. Athos calls for six bottles of wine and D'Artagnan calls for four bottles to be sent to the two English gentlemen. Athos and D'Artagnan catch up on what's happened since they last saw each other. D'Artagnan tells Athos the story of Madame Bonacieux's abduction. Athos doesn't think it's a big deal; D'Artagnan tells him he has never been in love. Athos says, I'll tell you a real love story. It happened to a \"friend.\" So this friend of Athos was a young nobleman who fell in love with a beautiful sixteen- year-old girl. She and her brother, who was a curate, had come to the province only recently, and no one knew who they were, but they seemed like good people. Athos's friend, being an honorable sort of man, married her. The two of them were out hunting one day when the lady fell from her horse. She needed air, so her husband ripped open her clothes, to find a fleur-de-lis brand on her shoulder. It turned out the girl had stolen sacred vessels from a church. The count proceeded to hang his wife on a tree. At this point Athos took a bottle of wine and downed it at once. As for the woman's supposed brother, Athos said, he was doubtless her first lover and was just pretending to be a curate. D'Artagnan is so overcome by this story that he pretends to pass out from the wine. Athos looks at him with some pity, saying that young men no longer know how to hold their drink.", "analysis": ""}

27 THE WIFE OF ATHOS We have now to search for Athos," said d'Artagnan to the vivacious Aramis, when he had informed him of all that had passed since their departure from the capital, and an excellent dinner had made one of them forget his thesis and the other his fatigue. "Do you think, then, that any harm can have happened to him?" asked Aramis. "Athos is so cool, so brave, and handles his sword so skillfully." "No doubt. Nobody has a higher opinion of the courage and skill of Athos than I have; but I like better to hear my sword clang against lances than against staves. I fear lest Athos should have been beaten down by serving men. Those fellows strike hard, and don't leave off in a hurry. This is why I wish to set out again as soon as possible." "I will try to accompany you," said Aramis, "though I scarcely feel in a condition to mount on horseback. Yesterday I undertook to employ that cord which you see hanging against the wall, but pain prevented my continuing the pious exercise." "That's the first time I ever heard of anybody trying to cure gunshot wounds with cat-o'-nine-tails; but you were ill, and illness renders the head weak, therefore you may be excused." "When do you mean to set out?" "Tomorrow at daybreak. Sleep as soundly as you can tonight, and tomorrow, if you can, we will take our departure together." "Till tomorrow, then," said Aramis; "for iron-nerved as you are, you must need repose." The next morning, when d'Artagnan entered Aramis's chamber, he found him at the window. "What are you looking at?" asked d'Artagnan. "My faith! I am admiring three magnificent horses which the stable boys are leading about. It would be a pleasure worthy of a prince to travel upon such horses." "Well, my dear Aramis, you may enjoy that pleasure, for one of those three horses is yours." "Ah, bah! Which?" "Whichever of the three you like, I have no preference." "And the rich caparison, is that mine, too?" "Without doubt." "You laugh, d'Artagnan." "No, I have left off laughing, now that you speak French." "What, those rich holsters, that velvet housing, that saddle studded with silver-are they all for me?" "For you and nobody else, as the horse which paws the ground is mine, and the other horse, which is caracoling, belongs to Athos." "PESTE! They are three superb animals!" "I am glad they please you." "Why, it must have been the king who made you such a present." "Certainly it was not the cardinal; but don't trouble yourself whence they come, think only that one of the three is your property." "I choose that which the red-headed boy is leading." "It is yours!" "Good heaven! That is enough to drive away all my pains; I could mount him with thirty balls in my body. On my soul, handsome stirrups! HOLA, Bazin, come here this minute." Bazin appeared on the threshold, dull and spiritless. "That last order is useless," interrupted d'Artagnan; "there are loaded pistols in your holsters." Bazin sighed. "Come, Monsieur Bazin, make yourself easy," said d'Artagnan; "people of all conditions gain the kingdom of heaven." "Monsieur was already such a good theologian," said Bazin, almost weeping; "he might have become a bishop, and perhaps a cardinal." "Well, but my poor Bazin, reflect a little. Of what use is it to be a churchman, pray? You do not avoid going to war by that means; you see, the cardinal is about to make the next campaign, helm on head and partisan in hand. And Monsieur de Nogaret de la Valette, what do you say of him? He is a cardinal likewise. Ask his lackey how often he has had to prepare lint of him." "Alas!" sighed Bazin. "I know it, monsieur; everything is turned topsy-turvy in the world nowadays." While this dialogue was going on, the two young men and the poor lackey descended. "Hold my stirrup, Bazin," cried Aramis; and Aramis sprang into the saddle with his usual grace and agility, but after a few vaults and curvets of the noble animal his rider felt his pains come on so insupportably that he turned pale and became unsteady in his seat. D'Artagnan, who, foreseeing such an event, had kept his eye on him, sprang toward him, caught him in his arms, and assisted him to his chamber. "That's all right, my dear Aramis, take care of yourself," said he; "I will go alone in search of Athos." "You are a man of brass," replied Aramis. "No, I have good luck, that is all. But how do you mean to pass your time till I come back? No more theses, no more glosses upon the fingers or upon benedictions, hey?" Aramis smiled. "I will make verses," said he. "Yes, I dare say; verses perfumed with the odor of the billet from the attendant of Madame de Chevreuse. Teach Bazin prosody; that will console him. As to the horse, ride him a little every day, and that will accustom you to his maneuvers." "Oh, make yourself easy on that head," replied Aramis. "You will find me ready to follow you." They took leave of each other, and in ten minutes, after having commended his friend to the cares of the hostess and Bazin, d'Artagnan was trotting along in the direction of Amiens. How was he going to find Athos? Should he find him at all? The position in which he had left him was critical. He probably had succumbed. This idea, while darkening his brow, drew several sighs from him, and caused him to formulate to himself a few vows of vengeance. Of all his friends, Athos was the eldest, and the least resembling him in appearance, in his tastes and sympathies. Yet he entertained a marked preference for this gentleman. The noble and distinguished air of Athos, those flashes of greatness which from time to time broke out from the shade in which he voluntarily kept himself, that unalterable equality of temper which made him the most pleasant companion in the world, that forced and cynical gaiety, that bravery which might have been termed blind if it had not been the result of the rarest coolness--such qualities attracted more than the esteem, more than the friendship of d'Artagnan; they attracted his admiration. Indeed, when placed beside M. de Treville, the elegant and noble courtier, Athos in his most cheerful days might advantageously sustain a comparison. He was of middle height; but his person was so admirably shaped and so well proportioned that more than once in his struggles with Porthos he had overcome the giant whose physical strength was proverbial among the Musketeers. His head, with piercing eyes, a straight nose, a chin cut like that of Brutus, had altogether an indefinable character of grandeur and grace. His hands, of which he took little care, were the despair of Aramis, who cultivated his with almond paste and perfumed oil. The sound of his voice was at once penetrating and melodious; and then, that which was inconceivable in Athos, who was always retiring, was that delicate knowledge of the world and of the usages of the most brilliant society--those manners of a high degree which appeared, as if unconsciously to himself, in his least actions. If a repast were on foot, Athos presided over it better than any other, placing every guest exactly in the rank which his ancestors had earned for him or that he had made for himself. If a question in heraldry were started, Athos knew all the noble families of the kingdom, their genealogy, their alliances, their coats of arms, and the origin of them. Etiquette had no minutiae unknown to him. He knew what were the rights of the great land owners. He was profoundly versed in hunting and falconry, and had one day when conversing on this great art astonished even Louis XIII himself, who took a pride in being considered a past master therein. Like all the great nobles of that period, Athos rode and fenced to perfection. But still further, his education had been so little neglected, even with respect to scholastic studies, so rare at this time among gentlemen, that he smiled at the scraps of Latin which Aramis sported and which Porthos pretended to understand. Two or three times, even, to the great astonishment of his friends, he had, when Aramis allowed some rudimental error to escape him, replaced a verb in its right tense and a noun in its case. Besides, his probity was irreproachable, in an age in which soldiers compromised so easily with their religion and their consciences, lovers with the rigorous delicacy of our era, and the poor with God's Seventh Commandment. This Athos, then, was a very extraordinary man. And yet this nature so distinguished, this creature so beautiful, this essence so fine, was seen to turn insensibly toward material life, as old men turn toward physical and moral imbecility. Athos, in his hours of gloom--and these hours were frequent--was extinguished as to the whole of the luminous portion of him, and his brilliant side disappeared as into profound darkness. Then the demigod vanished; he remained scarcely a man. His head hanging down, his eye dull, his speech slow and painful, Athos would look for hours together at his bottle, his glass, or at Grimaud, who, accustomed to obey him by signs, read in the faint glance of his master his least desire, and satisfied it immediately. If the four friends were assembled at one of these moments, a word, thrown forth occasionally with a violent effort, was the share Athos furnished to the conversation. In exchange for his silence Athos drank enough for four, and without appearing to be otherwise affected by wine than by a more marked constriction of the brow and by a deeper sadness. D'Artagnan, whose inquiring disposition we are acquainted with, had not--whatever interest he had in satisfying his curiosity on this subject--been able to assign any cause for these fits, or for the periods of their recurrence. Athos never received any letters; Athos never had concerns which all his friends did not know. It could not be said that it was wine which produced this sadness; for in truth he only drank to combat this sadness, which wine however, as we have said, rendered still darker. This excess of bilious humor could not be attributed to play; for unlike Porthos, who accompanied the variations of chance with songs or oaths, Athos when he won remained as unmoved as when he lost. He had been known, in the circle of the Musketeers, to win in one night three thousand pistoles; to lose them even to the gold-embroidered belt for gala days, win all this again with the addition of a hundred louis, without his beautiful eyebrow being heightened or lowered half a line, without his hands losing their pearly hue, without his conversation, which was cheerful that evening, ceasing to be calm and agreeable. Neither was it, as with our neighbors, the English, an atmospheric influence which darkened his countenance; for the sadness generally became more intense toward the fine season of the year. June and July were the terrible months with Athos. For the present he had no anxiety. He shrugged his shoulders when people spoke of the future. His secret, then, was in the past, as had often been vaguely said to d'Artagnan. This mysterious shade, spread over his whole person, rendered still more interesting the man whose eyes or mouth, even in the most complete intoxication, had never revealed anything, however skillfully questions had been put to him. "Well," thought d'Artagnan, "poor Athos is perhaps at this moment dead, and dead by my fault--for it was I who dragged him into this affair, of which he did not know the origin, of which he is ignorant of the result, and from which he can derive no advantage." "Without reckoning, monsieur," added Planchet to his master's audibly expressed reflections, "that we perhaps owe our lives to him. Do you remember how he cried, 'On, d'Artagnan, on, I am taken'? And when he had discharged his two pistols, what a terrible noise he made with his sword! One might have said that twenty men, or rather twenty mad devils, were fighting." These words redoubled the eagerness of d'Artagnan, who urged his horse, though he stood in need of no incitement, and they proceeded at a rapid pace. About eleven o'clock in the morning they perceived Amiens, and at half past eleven they were at the door of the cursed inn. D'Artagnan had often meditated against the perfidious host one of those hearty vengeances which offer consolation while they are hoped for. He entered the hostelry with his hat pulled over his eyes, his left hand on the pommel of the sword, and cracking his whip with his right hand. "Do you remember me?" said he to the host, who advanced to greet him. "I have not that honor, monseigneur," replied the latter, his eyes dazzled by the brilliant style in which d'Artagnan traveled. "What, you don't know me?" "No, monseigneur." "Well, two words will refresh your memory. What have you done with that gentleman against whom you had the audacity, about twelve days ago, to make an accusation of passing false money?" The host became as pale as death; for d'Artagnan had assumed a threatening attitude, and Planchet modeled himself after his master. "Ah, monseigneur, do not mention it!" cried the host, in the most pitiable voice imaginable. "Ah, monseigneur, how dearly have I paid for that fault, unhappy wretch as I am!" "That gentleman, I say, what has become of him?" "Deign to listen to me, monseigneur, and be merciful! Sit down, in mercy!" D'Artagnan, mute with anger and anxiety, took a seat in the threatening attitude of a judge. Planchet glared fiercely over the back of his armchair. "Here is the story, monseigneur," resumed the trembling host; "for I now recollect you. It was you who rode off at the moment I had that unfortunate difference with the gentleman you speak of." "Yes, it was I; so you may plainly perceive that you have no mercy to expect if you do not tell me the whole truth." "Condescend to listen to me, and you shall know all." "I listen." "I had been warned by the authorities that a celebrated coiner of bad money would arrive at my inn, with several of his companions, all disguised as Guards or Musketeers. Monseigneur, I was furnished with a description of your horses, your lackeys, your countenances--nothing was omitted." "Go on, go on!" said d'Artagnan, who quickly understood whence such an exact description had come. "I took then, in conformity with the orders of the authorities, who sent me a reinforcement of six men, such measures as I thought necessary to get possession of the persons of the pretended coiners." "Again!" said d'Artagnan, whose ears chafed terribly under the repetition of this word COINERs. "Pardon me, monseigneur, for saying such things, but they form my excuse. The authorities had terrified me, and you know that an innkeeper must keep on good terms with the authorities." "But once again, that gentleman--where is he? What has become of him? Is he dead? Is he living?" "Patience, monseigneur, we are coming to it. There happened then that which you know, and of which your precipitate departure," added the host, with an acuteness that did not escape d'Artagnan, "appeared to authorize the issue. That gentleman, your friend, defended himself desperately. His lackey, who, by an unforeseen piece of ill luck, had quarreled with the officers, disguised as stable lads--" "Miserable scoundrel!" cried d'Artagnan, "you were all in the plot, then! And I really don't know what prevents me from exterminating you all." "Alas, monseigneur, we were not in the plot, as you will soon see. Monsieur your friend (pardon for not calling him by the honorable name which no doubt he bears, but we do not know that name), Monsieur your friend, having disabled two men with his pistols, retreated fighting with his sword, with which he disabled one of my men, and stunned me with a blow of the flat side of it." "You villain, will you finish?" cried d'Artagnan, "Athos--what has become of Athos?" "While fighting and retreating, as I have told Monseigneur, he found the door of the cellar stairs behind him, and as the door was open, he took out the key, and barricaded himself inside. As we were sure of finding him there, we left him alone." "Yes," said d'Artagnan, "you did not really wish to kill; you only wished to imprison him." "Good God! To imprison him, monseigneur? Why, he imprisoned himself, I swear to you he did. In the first place he had made rough work of it; one man was killed on the spot, and two others were severely wounded. The dead man and the two wounded were carried off by their comrades, and I have heard nothing of either of them since. As for myself, as soon as I recovered my senses I went to Monsieur the Governor, to whom I related all that had passed, and asked, what I should do with my prisoner. Monsieur the Governor was all astonishment. He told me he knew nothing about the matter, that the orders I had received did not come from him, and that if I had the audacity to mention his name as being concerned in this disturbance he would have me hanged. It appears that I had made a mistake, monsieur, that I had arrested the wrong person, and that he whom I ought to have arrested had escaped." "But Athos!" cried d'Artagnan, whose impatience was increased by the disregard of the authorities, "Athos, where is he?" "As I was anxious to repair the wrongs I had done the prisoner," resumed the innkeeper, "I took my way straight to the cellar in order to set him at liberty. Ah, monsieur, he was no longer a man, he was a devil! To my offer of liberty, he replied that it was nothing but a snare, and that before he came out he intended to impose his own conditions. I told him very humbly--for I could not conceal from myself the scrape I had got into by laying hands on one of his Majesty's Musketeers--I told him I was quite ready to submit to his conditions. "'In the first place,' said he, 'I wish my lackey placed with me, fully armed.' We hastened to obey this order; for you will please to understand, monsieur, we were disposed to do everything your friend could desire. Monsieur Grimaud (he told us his name, although he does not talk much)--Monsieur Grimaud, then, went down to the cellar, wounded as he was; then his master, having admitted him, barricaded the door afresh, and ordered us to remain quietly in our own bar." "But where is Athos now?" cried d'Artagnan. "Where is Athos?" "In the cellar, monsieur." "What, you scoundrel! Have you kept him in the cellar all this time?" "Merciful heaven! No, monsieur! We keep him in the cellar! You do not know what he is about in the cellar. Ah! If you could but persuade him to come out, monsieur, I should owe you the gratitude of my whole life; I should adore you as my patron saint!" "Then he is there? I shall find him there?" "Without doubt you will, monsieur; he persists in remaining there. We every day pass through the air hole some bread at the end of a fork, and some meat when he asks for it; but alas! It is not of bread and meat of which he makes the greatest consumption. I once endeavored to go down with two of my servants; but he flew into terrible rage. I heard the noise he made in loading his pistols, and his servant in loading his musketoon. Then, when we asked them what were their intentions, the master replied that he had forty charges to fire, and that he and his lackey would fire to the last one before he would allow a single soul of us to set foot in the cellar. Upon this I went and complained to the governor, who replied that I only had what I deserved, and that it would teach me to insult honorable gentlemen who took up their abode in my house." "So that since that time--" replied d'Artagnan, totally unable to refrain from laughing at the pitiable face of the host. "So from that time, monsieur," continued the latter, "we have led the most miserable life imaginable; for you must know, monsieur, that all our provisions are in the cellar. There is our wine in bottles, and our wine in casks; the beer, the oil, and the spices, the bacon, and sausages. And as we are prevented from going down there, we are forced to refuse food and drink to the travelers who come to the house; so that our hostelry is daily going to ruin. If your friend remains another week in my cellar I shall be a ruined man." "And not more than justice, either, you ass! Could you not perceive by our appearance that we were people of quality, and not coiners--say?" "Yes, monsieur, you are right," said the host. "But, hark, hark! There he is!" "Somebody has disturbed him, without doubt," said d'Artagnan. "But he must be disturbed," cried the host; "Here are two English gentlemen just arrived." "Well?" "Well, the English like good wine, as you may know, monsieur; these have asked for the best. My wife has perhaps requested permission of Monsieur Athos to go into the cellar to satisfy these gentlemen; and he, as usual, has refused. Ah, good heaven! There is the hullabaloo louder than ever!" D'Artagnan, in fact, heard a great noise on the side next the cellar. He rose, and preceded by the host wringing his hands, and followed by Planchet with his musketoon ready for use, he approached the scene of action. The two gentlemen were exasperated; they had had a long ride, and were dying with hunger and thirst. "But this is tyranny!" cried one of them, in very good French, though with a foreign accent, "that this madman will not allow these good people access to their own wine! Nonsense, let us break open the door, and if he is too far gone in his madness, well, we will kill him!" "Softly, gentlemen!" said d'Artagnan, drawing his pistols from his belt, "you will kill nobody, if you please!" "Good, good!" cried the calm voice of Athos, from the other side of the door, "let them just come in, these devourers of little children, and we shall see!" Brave as they appeared to be, the two English gentlemen looked at each other hesitatingly. One might have thought there was in that cellar one of those famished ogres--the gigantic heroes of popular legends, into whose cavern nobody could force their way with impunity. There was a moment of silence; but at length the two Englishmen felt ashamed to draw back, and the angrier one descended the five or six steps which led to the cellar, and gave a kick against the door enough to split a wall. "Planchet," said d'Artagnan, cocking his pistols, "I will take charge of the one at the top; you look to the one below. Ah, gentlemen, you want battle; and you shall have it." "Good God!" cried the hollow voice of Athos, "I can hear d'Artagnan, I think." "Yes," cried d'Artagnan, raising his voice in turn, "I am here, my friend." "Ah, good, then," replied Athos, "we will teach them, these door breakers!" The gentlemen had drawn their swords, but they found themselves taken between two fires. They still hesitated an instant; but, as before, pride prevailed, and a second kick split the door from bottom to top. "Stand on one side, d'Artagnan, stand on one side," cried Athos. "I am going to fire!" "Gentlemen," exclaimed d'Artagnan, whom reflection never abandoned, "gentlemen, think of what you are about. Patience, Athos! You are running your heads into a very silly affair; you will be riddled. My lackey and I will have three shots at you, and you will get as many from the cellar. You will then have our swords, with which, I can assure you, my friend and I can play tolerably well. Let me conduct your business and my own. You shall soon have something to drink; I give you my word." "If there is any left," grumbled the jeering voice of Athos. The host felt a cold sweat creep down his back. "How! 'If there is any left!'" murmured he. "What the devil! There must be plenty left," replied d'Artagnan. "Be satisfied of that; these two cannot have drunk all the cellar. Gentlemen, return your swords to their scabbards." "Well, provided you replace your pistols in your belt." "Willingly." And d'Artagnan set the example. Then, turning toward Planchet, he made him a sign to uncock his musketoon. The Englishmen, convinced of these peaceful proceedings, sheathed their swords grumblingly. The history of Athos's imprisonment was then related to them; and as they were really gentlemen, they pronounced the host in the wrong. "Now, gentlemen," said d'Artagnan, "go up to your room again; and in ten minutes, I will answer for it, you shall have all you desire." The Englishmen bowed and went upstairs. "Now I am alone, my dear Athos," said d'Artagnan; "open the door, I beg of you." "Instantly," said Athos. Then was heard a great noise of fagots being removed and of the groaning of posts; these were the counterscarps and bastions of Athos, which the besieged himself demolished. An instant after, the broken door was removed, and the pale face of Athos appeared, who with a rapid glance took a survey of the surroundings. D'Artagnan threw himself on his neck and embraced him tenderly. He then tried to draw him from his moist abode, but to his surprise he perceived that Athos staggered. "You are wounded," said he. "I! Not at all. I am dead drunk, that's all, and never did a man more strongly set about getting so. By the Lord, my good host! I must at least have drunk for my part a hundred and fifty bottles." "Mercy!" cried the host, "if the lackey has drunk only half as much as the master, I am a ruined man." "Grimaud is a well-bred lackey. He would never think of faring in the same manner as his master; he only drank from the cask. Hark! I don't think he put the faucet in again. Do you hear it? It is running now." D'Artagnan burst into a laugh which changed the shiver of the host into a burning fever. In the meantime, Grimaud appeared in his turn behind his master, with the musketoon on his shoulder, and his head shaking. Like one of those drunken satyrs in the pictures of Rubens. He was moistened before and behind with a greasy liquid which the host recognized as his best olive oil. The four crossed the public room and proceeded to take possession of the best apartment in the house, which d'Artagnan occupied with authority. In the meantime the host and his wife hurried down with lamps into the cellar, which had so long been interdicted to them and where a frightful spectacle awaited them. Beyond the fortifications through which Athos had made a breach in order to get out, and which were composed of fagots, planks, and empty casks, heaped up according to all the rules of the strategic art, they found, swimming in puddles of oil and wine, the bones and fragments of all the hams they had eaten; while a heap of broken bottles filled the whole left-hand corner of the cellar, and a tun, the cock of which was left running, was yielding, by this means, the last drop of its blood. "The image of devastation and death," as the ancient poet says, "reigned as over a field of battle." Of fifty large sausages, suspended from the joists, scarcely ten remained. Then the lamentations of the host and hostess pierced the vault of the cellar. D'Artagnan himself was moved by them. Athos did not even turn his head. To grief succeeded rage. The host armed himself with a spit, and rushed into the chamber occupied by the two friends. "Some wine!" said Athos, on perceiving the host. "Some wine!" cried the stupefied host, "some wine? Why you have drunk more than a hundred pistoles' worth! I am a ruined man, lost, destroyed!" "Bah," said Athos, "we were always dry." "If you had been contented with drinking, well and good; but you have broken all the bottles." "You pushed me upon a heap which rolled down. That was your fault." "All my oil is lost!" "Oil is a sovereign balm for wounds; and my poor Grimaud here was obliged to dress those you had inflicted on him." "All my sausages are gnawed!" "There is an enormous quantity of rats in that cellar." "You shall pay me for all this," cried the exasperated host. "Triple ass!" said Athos, rising; but he sank down again immediately. He had tried his strength to the utmost. D'Artagnan came to his relief with his whip in his hand. The host drew back and burst into tears. "This will teach you," said d'Artagnan, "to treat the guests God sends you in a more courteous fashion." "God? Say the devil!" "My dear friend," said d'Artagnan, "if you annoy us in this manner we will all four go and shut ourselves up in your cellar, and we will see if the mischief is as great as you say." "Oh, gentlemen," said the host, "I have been wrong. I confess it, but pardon to every sin! You are gentlemen, and I am a poor innkeeper. You will have pity on me." "Ah, if you speak in that way," said Athos, "you will break my heart, and the tears will flow from my eyes as the wine flowed from the cask. We are not such devils as we appear to be. Come hither, and let us talk." The host approached with hesitation. "Come hither, I say, and don't be afraid," continued Athos. "At the very moment when I was about to pay you, I had placed my purse on the table." "Yes, monsieur." "That purse contained sixty pistoles; where is it?" "Deposited with the justice; they said it was bad money." "Very well; get me my purse back and keep the sixty pistoles." "But Monseigneur knows very well that justice never lets go that which it once lays hold of. If it were bad money, there might be some hopes; but unfortunately, those were all good pieces." "Manage the matter as well as you can, my good man; it does not concern me, the more so as I have not a livre left." "Come," said d'Artagnan, "let us inquire further. Athos's horse, where is that?" "In the stable." "How much is it worth?" "Fifty pistoles at most." "It's worth eighty. Take it, and there ends the matter." "What," cried Athos, "are you selling my horse--my Bajazet? And pray upon what shall I make my campaign; upon Grimaud?" "I have brought you another," said d'Artagnan. "Another?" "And a magnificent one!" cried the host. "Well, since there is another finer and younger, why, you may take the old one; and let us drink." "What?" asked the host, quite cheerful again. "Some of that at the bottom, near the laths. There are twenty-five bottles of it left; all the rest were broken by my fall. Bring six of them." "Why, this man is a cask!" said the host, aside. "If he only remains here a fortnight, and pays for what he drinks, I shall soon re-establish my business." "And don't forget," said d'Artagnan, "to bring up four bottles of the same sort for the two English gentlemen." "And now," said Athos, "while they bring the wine, tell me, d'Artagnan, what has become of the others, come!" D'Artagnan related how he had found Porthos in bed with a strained knee, and Aramis at a table between two theologians. As he finished, the host entered with the wine ordered and a ham which, fortunately for him, had been left out of the cellar. "That's well!" said Athos, filling his glass and that of his friend; "here's to Porthos and Aramis! But you, d'Artagnan, what is the matter with you, and what has happened to you personally? You have a sad air." "Alas," said d'Artagnan, "it is because I am the most unfortunate." "Tell me." "Presently," said d'Artagnan. "Presently! And why presently? Because you think I am drunk? D'Artagnan, remember this! My ideas are never so clear as when I have had plenty of wine. Speak, then, I am all ears." D'Artagnan related his adventure with Mme. Bonacieux. Athos listened to him without a frown; and when he had finished, said, "Trifles, only trifles!" That was his favorite word. "You always say TRIFLES, my dear Athos!" said d'Artagnan, "and that come very ill from you, who have never loved." The drink-deadened eye of Athos flashed out, but only for a moment; it became as dull and vacant as before. "That's true," said he, quietly, "for my part I have never loved." "Acknowledge, then, you stony heart," said d'Artagnan, "that you are wrong to be so hard upon us tender hearts." "Tender hearts! Pierced hearts!" said Athos. "What do you say?" "I say that love is a lottery in which he who wins, wins death! You are very fortunate to have lost, believe me, my dear d'Artagnan. And if I have any counsel to give, it is, always lose!" "She seemed to love me so!" "She SEEMED, did she?" "Oh, she DID love me!" "You child, why, there is not a man who has not believed, as you do, that his mistress loved him, and there lives not a man who has not been deceived by his mistress." "Except you, Athos, who never had one." "That's true," said Athos, after a moment's silence, "that's true! I never had one! Let us drink!" "But then, philosopher that you are," said d'Artagnan, "instruct me, support me. I stand in need of being taught and consoled." "Consoled for what?" "For my misfortune." "Your misfortune is laughable," said Athos, shrugging his shoulders; "I should like to know what you would say if I were to relate to you a real tale of love!" "Which has happened to you?" "Or one of my friends, what matters?" "Tell it, Athos, tell it." "Better if I drink." "Drink and relate, then." "Not a bad idea!" said Athos, emptying and refilling his glass. "The two things agree marvelously well." "I am all attention," said d'Artagnan. Athos collected himself, and in proportion as he did so, d'Artagnan saw that he became pale. He was at that period of intoxication in which vulgar drinkers fall on the floor and go to sleep. He kept himself upright and dreamed, without sleeping. This somnambulism of drunkenness had something frightful in it. "You particularly wish it?" asked he. "I pray for it," said d'Artagnan. "Be it then as you desire. One of my friends--one of my friends, please to observe, not myself," said Athos, interrupting himself with a melancholy smile, "one of the counts of my province--that is to say, of Berry--noble as a Dandolo or a Montmorency, at twenty-five years of age fell in love with a girl of sixteen, beautiful as fancy can paint. Through the ingenuousness of her age beamed an ardent mind, not of the woman, but of the poet. She did not please; she intoxicated. She lived in a small town with her brother, who was a curate. Both had recently come into the country. They came nobody knew whence; but when seeing her so lovely and her brother so pious, nobody thought of asking whence they came. They were said, however, to be of good extraction. My friend, who was seigneur of the country, might have seduced her, or taken her by force, at his will--for he was master. Who would have come to the assistance of two strangers, two unknown persons? Unfortunately he was an honorable man; he married her. The fool! The ass! The idiot!" "How so, if he love her?" asked d'Artagnan. "Wait," said Athos. "He took her to his chateau, and made her the first lady in the province; and in justice it must be allowed that she supported her rank becomingly." "Well?" asked d'Artagnan. "Well, one day when she was hunting with her husband," continued Athos, in a low voice, and speaking very quickly, "she fell from her horse and fainted. The count flew to her to help, and as she appeared to be oppressed by her clothes, he ripped them open with his poniard, and in so doing laid bare her shoulder. D'Artagnan," said Athos, with a maniacal burst of laughter, "guess what she had on her shoulder." "How can I tell?" said d'Artagnan. "A FLEUR-DE-LIS," said Athos. "She was branded." Athos emptied at a single draught the glass he held in his hand. "Horror!" cried d'Artagnan. "What do you tell me?" "Truth, my friend. The angel was a demon; the poor young girl had stolen the sacred vessels from a church." "And what did the count do?" "The count was of the highest nobility. He had on his estates the rights of high and low tribunals. He tore the dress of the countess to pieces; he tied her hands behind her, and hanged her on a tree." "Heavens, Athos, a murder?" cried d'Artagnan. "No less," said Athos, as pale as a corpse. "But methinks I need wine!" and he seized by the neck the last bottle that was left, put it to his mouth, and emptied it at a single draught, as he would have emptied an ordinary glass. Then he let his head sink upon his two hands, while d'Artagnan stood before him, stupefied. "That has cured me of beautiful, poetical, and loving women," said Athos, after a considerable pause, raising his head, and forgetting to continue the fiction of the count. "God grant you as much! Let us drink." "Then she is dead?" stammered d'Artagnan. "PARBLEU!" said Athos. "But hold out your glass. Some ham, my boy, or we can't drink." "And her brother?" added d'Artagnan, timidly. "Her brother?" replied Athos. "Yes, the priest." "Oh, I inquired after him for the purpose of hanging him likewise; but he was beforehand with me, he had quit the curacy the night before." "Was it ever known who this miserable fellow was?" "He was doubtless the first lover and accomplice of the fair lady. A worthy man, who had pretended to be a curate for the purpose of getting his mistress married, and securing her a position. He has been hanged and quartered, I hope." "My God, my God!" cried d'Artagnan, quite stunned by the relation of this horrible adventure. "Taste some of this ham, d'Artagnan; it is exquisite," said Athos, cutting a slice, which he placed on the young man's plate. "What a pity it is there were only four like this in the cellar. I could have drunk fifty bottles more." D'Artagnan could no longer endure this conversation, which had made him bewildered. Allowing his head to sink upon his two hands, he pretended to sleep. "These young fellows can none of them drink," said Athos, looking at him with pity, "and yet this is one of the best!"

Chapter Twenty-Seven: The Wife of Athos

https://web.archive.org/web/20210127112556/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/three-musketeers/summary/chapter-twenty-seven-the-wife-of-athos

Their next step is to find Athos. It's clear, however, that Aramis is in no state to ride his horse. D'Artagnan tells him to stay, recuperate, and make up with Bazin, who has been depressed since Athos changed his mind about taking orders. D'Artagnan sets off alone. Soon he's immersed deep in thought about Athos. It's clear from his thoughts that he thinks highly of the older Musketeer. Athos is the textbook definition of an aristocrat: he has the handsome looks, the perfect etiquette, the great sword fighting skills, and a complete understanding of Latin, aristocratic history, and falconry. Yet it's clear that something is missing. Deep down inside, Athos is sad. D'Artagnan is mystified by this, and hasn't been able to figure out why. So those are D'Artagnan's thoughts as he rides to meet Athos. He also feels guilty at the thought of Athos being dead. Planchet points out that they also owe their lives to Athos. They reach the inn and D'Artagnan's first act is to menace the innkeeper, who promptly begs for mercy and apologizes for his earlier actions. It turns out the innkeeper had been tipped off that a group of men disguised in the uniforms of Musketeers would try to use fake money at his establishment. Authorities had even sent reinforcements for arresting these known criminals. D'Artagnan demands to know what's become of Athos. The innkeeper explains that, after killing one adversary and seriously wounding two others, Athos barricaded himself in the cellar and refuses to leave. Grimaud arrived and joined Athos in the cellar, and together the two of them threatened everyone who wanted to enter with death. The innkeeper complains that his business has suffered since all his provisions of food and wine are in the cellar. D'Artagnan points out that this is a quite just turn of events. Two Englishmen arrive at the inn and are very angry at the lack of food and drink. After the situation is explained, they want to break down the cellar door. As they descend to the cellar, D'Artagnan and Planchet follow after them with their muskets drawn. They kick in the door as D'Artagnan warns them that they will be attacked by Athos inside the cellar and from D'Artagnan, outside. At the last minute, the two sides succeed in making peace. D'Artagnan sends the Englishmen to their rooms and promises to supply them with food and wine soon. Athos comes out "moist." So does Grimaud, . It turns out the two of them have been drinking in the cellar. Athos reckons he alone drank about one hundred and fifty bottles. The host of the inn, as might be expected, is not happy. He and his wife go down to survey the damage. Athos, Grimaud, D'Artagnan, and Planchet install themselves in the inn's nicest room. Athos calls for some wine, which just makes the innkeeper more irate. Athos and D'Artagnan tell the innkeeper that they should talk the issue over. It's decided that Athos will give the innkeeper his horse to settle the score--after all, D'Artagnan has brought him a better one. Athos calls for six bottles of wine and D'Artagnan calls for four bottles to be sent to the two English gentlemen. Athos and D'Artagnan catch up on what's happened since they last saw each other. D'Artagnan tells Athos the story of Madame Bonacieux's abduction. Athos doesn't think it's a big deal; D'Artagnan tells him he has never been in love. Athos says, I'll tell you a real love story. It happened to a "friend." So this friend of Athos was a young nobleman who fell in love with a beautiful sixteen- year-old girl. She and her brother, who was a curate, had come to the province only recently, and no one knew who they were, but they seemed like good people. Athos's friend, being an honorable sort of man, married her. The two of them were out hunting one day when the lady fell from her horse. She needed air, so her husband ripped open her clothes, to find a fleur-de-lis brand on her shoulder. It turned out the girl had stolen sacred vessels from a church. The count proceeded to hang his wife on a tree. At this point Athos took a bottle of wine and downed it at once. As for the woman's supposed brother, Athos said, he was doubtless her first lover and was just pretending to be a curate. D'Artagnan is so overcome by this story that he pretends to pass out from the wine. Athos looks at him with some pity, saying that young men no longer know how to hold their drink.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/1257-chapters/28.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Three Musketeers/section_28_part_0.txt

The Three Musketeers.chapter 28

chapter 28: the return

{"name": "Chapter Twenty-Eight: The Return", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210127112556/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/three-musketeers/summary/chapter-twenty-eight-the-return", "summary": "The next morning, Athos tells D'Artagnan that he was drunk last night and probably told lots of ridiculous tall tales. D'Artagnan says that he doesn't recall anything particularly crazy. Eventually, however, D'Artagnan tells Athos last night they were talking about the hanging of a beautiful woman. Athos resolves not to get drunk again. The conversation turns to Athos's new horse, which Athos lost to an Englishman earlier that morning in a game of dice. D'Artagnan is not pleased. It turns out Athos also gambled away D'Artagnan's horse too. Athos then staked D'Artagnan's diamond ring, in an effort to regain everything he had lost. He lost the ring. D'Artagnan listens to the story and gets increasingly upset. Having no more possessions to gamble, Athos then used Grimaud as a wager. Finally, Athos regained the diamond ring. Using that, he won back the horses' harnesses. In total, he lost two horses during a morning bout of gambling. Athos suggests that D'Artagnan try his hand at gambling in order to get back his horse. He can stake two harnesses against one horse. D'Artagnan finally agrees to just one throw of the dice. D'Artagnan and the Englishman play with the harnesses staked against one horse or one hundred pistoles. D'Artagnan wins and Athos counsels him to take the one hundred pistoles instead of the horse. The two of them will ride their servants' horses instead while the servants walk and carry the harnesses. They leave and soon make it to Crevecoeur, where they spy Aramis meditating at a window. He was meditating on the loss of his horse, which he sold to a horse dealer. It's soon clear to Aramis that Athos and D'Artagnan also lack horses. They all continue down the road for Porthos and arrive just in time to join him for a superb dinner. It turns out their food was paid for by the sale of Porthos's horse. He needed the money to pay his bill since his mistress didn't come through. He too, however, still has the saddle. It also turns out that Porthos sold his horse for the best deal out of anyone. Although in theory the four friends should at least all have cash, it turns out that they only have forty-seven pistoles between the four of them. They arrive back in Paris and D'Artagnan finds out the King has granted him permission to become a Musketeer. He runs to go tell his friends the good news, but finds them completely depressed. They are going to war on the first of May and are responsible for their own equipment and rations. This is problematic because none of them has any money! They need about eight thousand livres total to purchase their requirements, not counting the saddles.", "analysis": ""}

28 THE RETURN D'Artagnan was astounded by the terrible confidence of Athos; yet many things appeared very obscure to him in this half revelation. In the first place it had been made by a man quite drunk to one who was half drunk; and yet, in spite of the incertainty which the vapor of three or four bottles of Burgundy carries with it to the brain, d'Artagnan, when awaking on the following morning, had all the words of Athos as present to his memory as if they then fell from his mouth--they had been so impressed upon his mind. All this doubt only gave rise to a more lively desire of arriving at a certainty, and he went into his friend's chamber with a fixed determination of renewing the conversation of the preceding evening; but he found Athos quite himself again--that is to say, the most shrewd and impenetrable of men. Besides which, the Musketeer, after having exchanged a hearty shake of the hand with him, broached the matter first. "I was pretty drunk yesterday, d'Artagnan," said he, "I can tell that by my tongue, which was swollen and hot this morning, and by my pulse, which was very tremulous. I wager that I uttered a thousand extravagances." While saying this he looked at his friend with an earnestness that embarrassed him. "No," replied d'Artagnan, "if I recollect well what you said, it was nothing out of the common way." "Ah, you surprise me. I thought I had told you a most lamentable story." And he looked at the young man as if he would read the bottom of his heart. "My faith," said d'Artagnan, "it appears that I was more drunk than you, since I remember nothing of the kind." Athos did not trust this reply, and he resumed; "you cannot have failed to remark, my dear friend, that everyone has his particular kind of drunkenness, sad or gay. My drunkenness is always sad, and when I am thoroughly drunk my mania is to relate all the lugubrious stories which my foolish nurse inculcated into my brain. That is my failing--a capital failing, I admit; but with that exception, I am a good drinker." Athos spoke this in so natural a manner that d'Artagnan was shaken in his conviction. "It is that, then," replied the young man, anxious to find out the truth, "it is that, then, I remember as we remember a dream. We were speaking of hanging." "Ah, you see how it is," said Athos, becoming still paler, but yet attempting to laugh; "I was sure it was so--the hanging of people is my nightmare." "Yes, yes," replied d'Artagnan. "I remember now; yes, it was about--stop a minute--yes, it was about a woman." "That's it," replied Athos, becoming almost livid; "that is my grand story of the fair lady, and when I relate that, I must be very drunk." "Yes, that was it," said d'Artagnan, "the story of a tall, fair lady, with blue eyes." "Yes, who was hanged." "By her husband, who was a nobleman of your acquaintance," continued d'Artagnan, looking intently at Athos. "Well, you see how a man may compromise himself when he does not know what he says," replied Athos, shrugging his shoulders as if he thought himself an object of pity. "I certainly never will get drunk again, d'Artagnan; it is too bad a habit." D'Artagnan remained silent; and then changing the conversation all at once, Athos said: "By the by, I thank you for the horse you have brought me." "Is it to your mind?" asked d'Artagnan. "Yes; but it is not a horse for hard work." "You are mistaken; I rode him nearly ten leagues in less than an hour and a half, and he appeared no more distressed than if he had only made the tour of the Place St. Sulpice." "Ah, you begin to awaken my regret." "Regret?" "Yes; I have parted with him." "How?" "Why, here is the simple fact. This morning I awoke at six o'clock. You were still fast asleep, and I did not know what to do with myself; I was still stupid from our yesterday's debauch. As I came into the public room, I saw one of our Englishman bargaining with a dealer for a horse, his own having died yesterday from bleeding. I drew near, and found he was bidding a hundred pistoles for a chestnut nag. 'PARDIEU,' said I, 'my good gentleman, I have a horse to sell, too.' 'Ay, and a very fine one! I saw him yesterday; your friend's lackey was leading him.' 'Do you think he is worth a hundred pistoles?' 'Yes! Will you sell him to me for that sum?' 'No; but I will play for him.' 'What?' 'At dice.' No sooner said than done, and I lost the horse. Ah, ah! But please to observe I won back the equipage," cried Athos. D'Artagnan looked much disconcerted. "This vexes you?" said Athos. "Well, I must confess it does," replied d'Artagnan. "That horse was to have identified us in the day of battle. It was a pledge, a remembrance. Athos, you have done wrong." "But, my dear friend, put yourself in my place," replied the Musketeer. "I was hipped to death; and still further, upon my honor, I don't like English horses. If it is only to be recognized, why the saddle will suffice for that; it is quite remarkable enough. As to the horse, we can easily find some excuse for its disappearance. Why the devil! A horse is mortal; suppose mine had had the glanders or the farcy?" D'Artagnan did not smile. "It vexes me greatly," continued Athos, "that you attach so much importance to these animals, for I am not yet at the end of my story." "What else have you done." "After having lost my own horse, nine against ten--see how near--I formed an idea of staking yours." "Yes; but you stopped at the idea, I hope?" "No; for I put it in execution that very minute." "And the consequence?" said d'Artagnan, in great anxiety. "I threw, and I lost." "What, my horse?" "Your horse, seven against eight; a point short--you know the proverb." "Athos, you are not in your right senses, I swear." "My dear lad, that was yesterday, when I was telling you silly stories, it was proper to tell me that, and not this morning. I lost him then, with all his appointments and furniture." "Really, this is frightful." "Stop a minute; you don't know all yet. I should make an excellent gambler if I were not too hot-headed; but I was hot-headed, just as if I had been drinking. Well, I was not hot-headed then--" "Well, but what else could you play for? You had nothing left?" "Oh, yes, my friend; there was still that diamond left which sparkles on your finger, and which I had observed yesterday." "This diamond!" said d'Artagnan, placing his hand eagerly on his ring. "And as I am a connoisseur in such things, having had a few of my own once, I estimated it at a thousand pistoles." "I hope," said d'Artagnan, half dead with fright, "you made no mention of my diamond?" "On the contrary, my dear friend, this diamond became our only resource; with it I might regain our horses and their harnesses, and even money to pay our expenses on the road." "Athos, you make me tremble!" cried d'Artagnan. "I mentioned your diamond then to my adversary, who had likewise remarked it. What the devil, my dear, do you think you can wear a star from heaven on your finger, and nobody observe it? Impossible!" "Go on, go on, my dear fellow!" said d'Artagnan; "for upon my honor, you will kill me with your indifference." "We divided, then, this diamond into ten parts of a hundred pistoles each." "You are laughing at me, and want to try me!" said d'Artagnan, whom anger began to take by the hair, as Minerva takes Achilles, in the ILLIAD. "No, I do not jest, MORDIEU! I should like to have seen you in my place! I had been fifteen days without seeing a human face, and had been left to brutalize myself in the company of bottles." "That was no reason for staking my diamond!" replied d'Artagnan, closing his hand with a nervous spasm. "Hear the end. Ten parts of a hundred pistoles each, in ten throws, without revenge; in thirteen throws I had lost all--in thirteen throws. The number thirteen was always fatal to me; it was on the thirteenth of July that--" "VENTREBLEU!" cried d'Artagnan, rising from the table, the story of the present day making him forget that of the preceding one. "Patience!" said Athos; "I had a plan. The Englishman was an original; I had seen him conversing that morning with Grimaud, and Grimaud had told me that he had made him proposals to enter into his service. I staked Grimaud, the silent Grimaud, divided into ten portions." "Well, what next?" said d'Artagnan, laughing in spite of himself. "Grimaud himself, understand; and with the ten parts of Grimaud, which are not worth a ducatoon, I regained the diamond. Tell me, now, if persistence is not a virtue?" "My faith! But this is droll," cried d'Artagnan, consoled, and holding his sides with laughter. "You may guess, finding the luck turned, that I again staked the diamond." "The devil!" said d'Artagnan, becoming angry again. "I won back your harness, then your horse, then my harness, then my horse, and then I lost again. In brief, I regained your harness and then mine. That's where we are. That was a superb throw, so I left off there." D'Artagnan breathed as if the whole hostelry had been removed from his breast. "Then the diamond is safe?" said he, timidly. "Intact, my dear friend; besides the harness of your Bucephalus and mine." "But what is the use of harnesses without horses?" "I have an idea about them." "Athos, you make me shudder." "Listen to me. You have not played for a long time, d'Artagnan." "And I have no inclination to play." "Swear to nothing. You have not played for a long time, I said; you ought, then, to have a good hand." "Well, what then?" "Well; the Englishman and his companion are still here. I remarked that he regretted the horse furniture very much. You appear to think much of your horse. In your place I would stake the furniture against the horse." "But he will not wish for only one harness." "Stake both, PARDIEU! I am not selfish, as you are." "You would do so?" said d'Artagnan, undecided, so strongly did the confidence of Athos begin to prevail, in spite of himself. "On my honor, in one single throw." "But having lost the horses, I am particularly anxious to preserve the harnesses." "Stake your diamond, then." "This? That's another matter. Never, never!" "The devil!" said Athos. "I would propose to you to stake Planchet, but as that has already been done, the Englishman would not, perhaps, be willing." "Decidedly, my dear Athos," said d'Artagnan, "I should like better not to risk anything." "That's a pity," said Athos, coolly. "The Englishman is overflowing with pistoles. Good Lord, try one throw! One throw is soon made!" "And if I lose?" "You will win." "But if I lose?" "Well, you will surrender the harnesses." "Have with you for one throw!" said d'Artagnan. Athos went in quest of the Englishman, whom he found in the stable, examining the harnesses with a greedy eye. The opportunity was good. He proposed the conditions--the two harnesses, either against one horse or a hundred pistoles. The Englishman calculated fast; the two harnesses were worth three hundred pistoles. He consented. D'Artagnan threw the dice with a trembling hand, and turned up the number three; his paleness terrified Athos, who, however, consented himself with saying, "That's a sad throw, comrade; you will have the horses fully equipped, monsieur." The Englishman, quite triumphant, did not even give himself the trouble to shake the dice. He threw them on the table without looking at them, so sure was he of victory; d'Artagnan turned aside to conceal his ill humor. "Hold, hold, hold!" said Athos, wit his quiet tone; "that throw of the dice is extraordinary. I have not seen such a one four times in my life. Two aces!" The Englishman looked, and was seized with astonishment. D'Artagnan looked, and was seized with pleasure. "Yes," continued Athos, "four times only; once at the house of Monsieur Crequy; another time at my own house in the country, in my chateau at--when I had a chateau; a third time at Monsieur de Treville's where it surprised us all; and the fourth time at a cabaret, where it fell to my lot, and where I lost a hundred louis and a supper on it." "Then Monsieur takes his horse back again," said the Englishman. "Certainly," said d'Artagnan. "Then there is no revenge?" "Our conditions said, 'No revenge,' you will please to recollect." "That is true; the horse shall be restored to your lackey, monsieur." "A moment," said Athos; "with your permission, monsieur, I wish to speak a word with my friend." "Say on." Athos drew d'Artagnan aside. "Well, Tempter, what more do you want with me?" said d'Artagnan. "You want me to throw again, do you not?" "No, I would wish you to reflect." "On what?" "You mean to take your horse?" "Without doubt." "You are wrong, then. I would take the hundred pistoles. You know you have staked the harnesses against the horse or a hundred pistoles, at your choice." "Yes." "Well, then, I repeat, you are wrong. What is the use of one horse for us two? I could not ride behind. We should look like the two sons of Anmon, who had lost their brother. You cannot think of humiliating me by prancing along by my side on that magnificent charger. For my part, I should not hesitate a moment; I should take the hundred pistoles. We want money for our return to Paris." "I am much attached to that horse, Athos." "And there again you are wrong. A horse slips and injures a joint; a horse stumbles and breaks his knees to the bone; a horse eats out of a manger in which a glandered horse has eaten. There is a horse, while on the contrary, the hundred pistoles feed their master." "But how shall we get back?" "Upon our lackey's horses, PARDIEU. Anybody may see by our bearing that we are people of condition." "Pretty figures we shall cut on ponies while Aramis and Porthos caracole on their steeds." "Aramis! Porthos!" cried Athos, and laughed aloud. "What is it?" asked d'Artagnan, who did not at all comprehend the hilarity of his friend. "Nothing, nothing! Go on!" "Your advice, then?" "To take the hundred pistoles, d'Artagnan. With the hundred pistoles we can live well to the end of the month. We have undergone a great deal of fatigue, remember, and a little rest will do no harm." "I rest? Oh, no, Athos. Once in Paris, I shall prosecute my search for that unfortunate woman!" "Well, you may be assured that your horse will not be half so serviceable to you for that purpose as good golden louis. Take the hundred pistoles, my friend; take the hundred pistoles!" D'Artagnan only required one reason to be satisfied. This last reason appeared convincing. Besides, he feared that by resisting longer he should appear selfish in the eyes of Athos. He acquiesced, therefore, and chose the hundred pistoles, which the Englishman paid down on the spot. They then determined to depart. Peace with the landlord, in addition to Athos's old horse, cost six pistoles. D'Artagnan and Athos took the nags of Planchet and Grimaud, and the two lackeys started on foot, carrying the saddles on their heads. However ill our two friends were mounted, they were soon far in advance of their servants, and arrived at Creveccoeur. From a distance they perceived Aramis, seated in a melancholy manner at his window, looking out, like Sister Anne, at the dust in the horizon. "HOLA, Aramis! What the devil are you doing there?" cried the two friends. "Ah, is that you, d'Artagnan, and you, Athos?" said the young man. "I was reflecting upon the rapidity with which the blessings of this world leave us. My English horse, which has just disappeared amid a cloud of dust, has furnished me with a living image of the fragility of the things of the earth. Life itself may be resolved into three words: ERAT, EST, FUIT." "Which means--" said d'Artagnan, who began to suspect the truth. "Which means that I have just been duped-sixty louis for a horse which by the manner of his gait can do at least five leagues an hour." D'Artagnan and Athos laughed aloud. "My dear d'Artagnan," said Aramis, "don't be too angry with me, I beg. Necessity has no law; besides, I am the person punished, as that rascally horsedealer has robbed me of fifty louis, at least. Ah, you fellows are good managers! You ride on our lackey's horses, and have your own gallant steeds led along carefully by hand, at short stages." At the same instant a market cart, which some minutes before had appeared upon the Amiens road, pulled up at the inn, and Planchet and Grimaud came out of it with the saddles on their heads. The cart was returning empty to Paris, and the two lackeys had agreed, for their transport, to slake the wagoner's thirst along the route. "What is this?" said Aramis, on seeing them arrive. "Nothing but saddles?" "Now do you understand?" said Athos. "My friends, that's exactly like me! I retained my harness by instinct. HOLA, Bazin! Bring my new saddle and carry it along with those of these gentlemen." "And what have you done with your ecclesiastics?" asked d'Artagnan. "My dear fellow, I invited them to a dinner the next day," replied Aramis. "They have some capital wine here--please to observe that in passing. I did my best to make them drunk. Then the curate forbade me to quit my uniform, and the Jesuit entreated me to get him made a Musketeer." "Without a thesis?" cried d'Artagnan, "without a thesis? I demand the suppression of the thesis." "Since then," continued Aramis, "I have lived very agreeably. I have begun a poem in verses of one syllable. That is rather difficult, but the merit in all things consists in the difficulty. The matter is gallant. I will read you the first canto. It has four hundred lines, and lasts a minute." "My faith, my dear Aramis," said d'Artagnan, who detested verses almost as much as he did Latin, "add to the merit of the difficulty that of the brevity, and you are sure that your poem will at least have two merits." "You will see," continued Aramis, "that it breathes irreproachable passion. And so, my friends, we return to Paris? Bravo! I am ready. We are going to rejoin that good fellow, Porthos. So much the better. You can't think how I have missed him, the great simpleton. To see him so self-satisfied reconciles me with myself. He would not sell his horse; not for a kingdom! I think I can see him now, mounted upon his superb animal and seated in his handsome saddle. I am sure he will look like the Great Mogul!" They made a halt for an hour to refresh their horses. Aramis discharged his bill, placed Bazin in the cart with his comrades, and they set forward to join Porthos. They found him up, less pale than when d'Artagnan left him after his first visit, and seated at a table on which, though he was alone, was spread enough for four persons. This dinner consisted of meats nicely dressed, choice wines, and superb fruit. "Ah, PARDIEU!" said he, rising, "you come in the nick of time, gentlemen. I was just beginning the soup, and you will dine with me." "Oh, oh!" said d'Artagnan, "Mousqueton has not caught these bottles with his lasso. Besides, here is a piquant FRICANDEAU and a fillet of beef." "I am recruiting myself," said Porthos, "I am recruiting myself. Nothing weakens a man more than these devilish strains. Did you ever suffer from a strain, Athos?" "Never! Though I remember, in our affair of the Rue Ferou, I received a sword wound which at the end of fifteen or eighteen days produced the same effect." "But this dinner was not intended for you alone, Porthos?" said Aramis. "No," said Porthos, "I expected some gentlemen of the neighborhood, who have just sent me word they could not come. You will take their places and I shall not lose by the exchange. HOLA, Mousqueton, seats, and order double the bottles!" "Do you know what we are eating here?" said Athos, at the end of ten minutes. "PARDIEU!" replied d'Artagnan, "for my part, I am eating veal garnished with shrimps and vegetables." "And I some lamb chops," said Porthos. "And I a plain chicken," said Aramis. "You are all mistaken, gentlemen," answered Athos, gravely; "you are eating horse." "Eating what?" said d'Artagnan. "Horse!" said Aramis, with a grimace of disgust. Porthos alone made no reply. "Yes, horse. Are we not eating a horse, Porthos? And perhaps his saddle, therewith." "No, gentlemen, I have kept the harness," said Porthos. "My faith," said Aramis, "we are all alike. One would think we had tipped the wink." "What could I do?" said Porthos. "This horse made my visitors ashamed of theirs, and I don't like to humiliate people." "Then your duchess is still at the waters?" asked d'Artagnan. "Still," replied Porthos. "And, my faith, the governor of the province--one of the gentlemen I expected today--seemed to have such a wish for him, that I gave him to him." "Gave him?" cried d'Artagnan. "My God, yes, GAVE, that is the word," said Porthos; "for the animal was worth at least a hundred and fifty louis, and the stingy fellow would only give me eighty." "Without the saddle?" said Aramis. "Yes, without the saddle." "You will observe, gentlemen," said Athos, "that Porthos has made the best bargain of any of us." And then commenced a roar of laughter in which they all joined, to the astonishment of poor Porthos; but when he was informed of the cause of their hilarity, he shared it vociferously according to his custom. "There is one comfort, we are all in cash," said d'Artagnan. "Well, for my part," said Athos, "I found Aramis's Spanish wine so good that I sent on a hamper of sixty bottles of it in the wagon with the lackeys. That has weakened my purse." "And I," said Aramis, "imagined that I had given almost my last sou to the church of Montdidier and the Jesuits of Amiens, with whom I had made engagements which I ought to have kept. I have ordered Masses for myself, and for you, gentlemen, which will be said, gentlemen, for which I have not the least doubt you will be marvelously benefited." "And I," said Porthos, "do you think my strain cost me nothing?--without reckoning Mousqueton's wound, for which I had to have the surgeon twice a day, and who charged me double on account of that foolish Mousqueton having allowed himself a ball in a part which people generally only show to an apothecary; so I advised him to try never to get wounded there any more." "Ay, ay!" said Athos, exchanging a smile with d'Artagnan and Aramis, "it is very clear you acted nobly with regard to the poor lad; that is like a good master." "In short," said Porthos, "when all my expenses are paid, I shall have, at most, thirty crowns left." "And I about ten pistoles," said Aramis. "Well, then it appears that we are the Croesuses of the society. How much have you left of your hundred pistoles, d'Artagnan?" "Of my hundred pistoles? Why, in the first place I gave you fifty." "You think so?" "PARDIEU!" "Ah, that is true. I recollect." "Then I paid the host six." "What a brute of a host! Why did you give him six pistoles?" "You told me to give them to him." "It is true; I am too good-natured. In brief, how much remains?" "Twenty-five pistoles," said d'Artagnan. "And I," said Athos, taking some small change from his pocket, "I--" "You? Nothing!" "My faith! So little that it is not worth reckoning with the general stock." "Now, then, let us calculate how much we posses in all." "Porthos?" "Thirty crowns." "Aramis?" "Ten pistoles." "And you, d'Artagnan?" "Twenty-five." "That makes in all?" said Athos. "Four hundred and seventy-five livres," said d'Artagnan, who reckoned like Archimedes. "On our arrival in Paris, we shall still have four hundred, besides the harnesses," said Porthos. "But our troop horses?" said Aramis. "Well, of the four horses of our lackeys we will make two for the masters, for which we will draw lots. With the four hundred livres we will make the half of one for one of the unmounted, and then we will give the turnings out of our pockets to d'Artagnan, who has a steady hand, and will go and play in the first gaming house we come to. There!" "Let us dine, then," said Porthos; "it is getting cold." The friends, at ease with regard to the future, did honor to the repast, the remains of which were abandoned to Mousqueton, Bazin, Planchet, and Grimaud. On arriving in Paris, d'Artagnan found a letter from M. de Treville, which informed him that, at his request, the king had promised that he should enter the company of the Musketeers. As this was the height of d'Artagnan's worldly ambition--apart, be it well understood, from his desire of finding Mme. Bonacieux--he ran, full of joy, to seek his comrades, whom he had left only half an hour before, but whom he found very sad and deeply preoccupied. They were assembled in council at the residence of Athos, which always indicated an event of some gravity. M. de Treville had intimated to them his Majesty's fixed intention to open the campaign on the first of May, and they must immediately prepare their outfits. The four philosophers looked at one another in a state of bewilderment. M. de Treville never jested in matters relating to discipline. "And what do you reckon your outfit will cost?" said d'Artagnan. "Oh, we can scarcely say. We have made our calculations with Spartan economy, and we each require fifteen hundred livres." "Four times fifteen makes sixty--six thousand livres," said Athos. "It seems to me," said d'Artagnan, "with a thousand livres each--I do not speak as a Spartan, but as a procurator--" This word PROCURATOR roused Porthos. "Stop," said he, "I have an idea." "Well, that's something, for I have not the shadow of one," said Athos coolly; "but as to d'Artagnan, gentlemen, the idea of belonging to OURS has driven him out of his senses. A thousand livres! For my part, I declare I want two thousand." "Four times two makes eight," then said Aramis; "it is eight thousand that we want to complete our outfits, toward which, it is true, we have already the saddles." "Besides," said Athos, waiting till d'Artagnan, who went to thank Monsieur de Treville, had shut the door, "besides, there is that beautiful ring which beams from the finger of our friend. What the devil! D'Artagnan is too good a comrade to leave his brothers in embarrassment while he wears the ransom of a king on his finger."

Chapter Twenty-Eight: The Return

https://web.archive.org/web/20210127112556/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/three-musketeers/summary/chapter-twenty-eight-the-return

The next morning, Athos tells D'Artagnan that he was drunk last night and probably told lots of ridiculous tall tales. D'Artagnan says that he doesn't recall anything particularly crazy. Eventually, however, D'Artagnan tells Athos last night they were talking about the hanging of a beautiful woman. Athos resolves not to get drunk again. The conversation turns to Athos's new horse, which Athos lost to an Englishman earlier that morning in a game of dice. D'Artagnan is not pleased. It turns out Athos also gambled away D'Artagnan's horse too. Athos then staked D'Artagnan's diamond ring, in an effort to regain everything he had lost. He lost the ring. D'Artagnan listens to the story and gets increasingly upset. Having no more possessions to gamble, Athos then used Grimaud as a wager. Finally, Athos regained the diamond ring. Using that, he won back the horses' harnesses. In total, he lost two horses during a morning bout of gambling. Athos suggests that D'Artagnan try his hand at gambling in order to get back his horse. He can stake two harnesses against one horse. D'Artagnan finally agrees to just one throw of the dice. D'Artagnan and the Englishman play with the harnesses staked against one horse or one hundred pistoles. D'Artagnan wins and Athos counsels him to take the one hundred pistoles instead of the horse. The two of them will ride their servants' horses instead while the servants walk and carry the harnesses. They leave and soon make it to Crevecoeur, where they spy Aramis meditating at a window. He was meditating on the loss of his horse, which he sold to a horse dealer. It's soon clear to Aramis that Athos and D'Artagnan also lack horses. They all continue down the road for Porthos and arrive just in time to join him for a superb dinner. It turns out their food was paid for by the sale of Porthos's horse. He needed the money to pay his bill since his mistress didn't come through. He too, however, still has the saddle. It also turns out that Porthos sold his horse for the best deal out of anyone. Although in theory the four friends should at least all have cash, it turns out that they only have forty-seven pistoles between the four of them. They arrive back in Paris and D'Artagnan finds out the King has granted him permission to become a Musketeer. He runs to go tell his friends the good news, but finds them completely depressed. They are going to war on the first of May and are responsible for their own equipment and rations. This is problematic because none of them has any money! They need about eight thousand livres total to purchase their requirements, not counting the saddles.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/1257-chapters/29.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Three Musketeers/section_29_part_0.txt

The Three Musketeers.chapter 29

chapter 29: hunting for the equipments

{"name": "Chapter Twenty-Nine: Hunting for the Equipments", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210127112556/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/three-musketeers/summary/chapter-twenty-nine-hunting-for-the-equipments", "summary": "There is still no information on the whereabouts of Madame Bonacieux. Athos refuses to leave his house to find money. There are fifteen days before the campaign starts, and Athos tells his friends that if he still doesn't have any money when the time comes, he will pick a fight with the Cardinal's Guards or some Englishmen in order to die with honor. Porthos is concocting some plan. Aramis says nothing. Three of them take to the streets in long, mournful walks, hoping to find a wallet full of money on the sidewalk. No luck. Porthos, however, gets ready to execute his plan. D'Artagnan spies him heading to the church of St. Leu and follows him. Mass is going on, and Porthos looks magnificently handsome. There are two women in the church of importance. The first is \"a sort of ripe beauty, rather yellow and rather dry, but erect and haughty under her black hood.\" The lady in the black hood is obviously keenly aware of Porthos's presence, but he ignores her. He's busy spying on a beautiful lady sitting on a red cushion near the choir. The lady with the red cushion is absolutely gorgeous, and D'Artagnan can tell that the woman in the black hood is jealous. D'Artagnan also recognizes the lady with the red cushion as the one from Meung, called Milady. D'Artagnan guesses the lady in the black hood to be the attorney's wife, and that Porthos is taking his revenge for her stingy attitude during his time in Chantilly. With mass over, Porthos goes to the font of holy water ahead of the lady in the black hood. She thinks he's going to offer it to her, but instead he offers it to the beautiful woman. Really angry now, the cloaked woman asks Porthos if he's going to offer any holy water to her. Porthos smiles to himself. The plan is working! To make a long story short, Porthos drops all sorts of not-so-subtle hints about all the rich, wealthy, beautiful women in his life that are willing to lend him money. Madame Coquenard gets increasingly jealous. Finally, she tells him to pretend to be her cousin, who is dealing with several lawsuits. She warns him to be careful of her husband, who is seventy-six years old. The two part on good terms.", "analysis": ""}

29 HUNTING FOR THE EQUIPMENTS The most preoccupied of the four friends was certainly d'Artagnan, although he, in his quality of Guardsman, would be much more easily equipped than Messieurs the Musketeers, who were all of high rank; but our Gascon cadet was, as may have been observed, of a provident and almost avaricious character, and with that (explain the contradiction) so vain as almost to rival Porthos. To this preoccupation of his vanity, d'Artagnan at this moment joined an uneasiness much less selfish. Notwithstanding all his inquiries respecting Mme. Bonacieux, he could obtain no intelligence of her. M. de Treville had spoken of her to the queen. The queen was ignorant where the mercer's young wife was, but had promised to have her sought for; but this promise was very vague and did not at all reassure d'Artagnan. Athos did not leave his chamber; he made up his mind not to take a single step to equip himself. "We have still fifteen days before us," said he to his friends, "well, if at the end of a fortnight I have found nothing, or rather if nothing has come to find me, as I, too good a Catholic to kill myself with a pistol bullet, I will seek a good quarrel with four of his Eminence's Guards or with eight Englishmen, and I will fight until one of them has killed me, which, considering the number, cannot fail to happen. It will then be said of me that I died for the king; so that I shall have performed my duty without the expense of an outfit." Porthos continued to walk about with his hands behind him, tossing his head and repeating, "I shall follow up on my idea." Aramis, anxious and negligently dressed, said nothing. It may be seen by these disastrous details that desolation reigned in the community. The lackeys on their part, like the coursers of Hippolytus, shared the sadness of their masters. Mousqueton collected a store of crusts; Bazin, who had always been inclined to devotion, never quit the churches; Planchet watched the flight of flies; and Grimaud, whom the general distress could not induce to break the silence imposed by his master, heaved sighs enough to soften the stones. The three friends--for, as we have said, Athos had sworn not to stir a foot to equip himself--went out early in the morning, and returned late at night. They wandered about the streets, looking at the pavement as if to see whether the passengers had not left a purse behind them. They might have been supposed to be following tracks, so observant were they wherever they went. When they met they looked desolately at one another, as much as to say, "Have you found anything?" However, as Porthos had first found an idea, and had thought of it earnestly afterward, he was the first to act. He was a man of execution, this worthy Porthos. D'Artagnan perceived him one day walking toward the church of St. Leu, and followed him instinctively. He entered, after having twisted his mustache and elongated his imperial, which always announced on his part the most triumphant resolutions. As d'Artagnan took some precautions to conceal himself, Porthos believed he had not been seen. D'Artagnan entered behind him. Porthos went and leaned against the side of a pillar. D'Artagnan, still unperceived, supported himself against the other side. There happened to be a sermon, which made the church very full of people. Porthos took advantage of this circumstance to ogle the women. Thanks to the cares of Mousqueton, the exterior was far from announcing the distress of the interior. His hat was a little napless, his feather was a little faded, his gold lace was a little tarnished, his laces were a trifle frayed; but in the obscurity of the church these things were not seen, and Porthos was still the handsome Porthos. D'Artagnan observed, on the bench nearest to the pillar against which Porthos leaned, a sort of ripe beauty, rather yellow and rather dry, but erect and haughty under her black hood. The eyes of Porthos were furtively cast upon this lady, and then roved about at large over the nave. On her side the lady, who from time to time blushed, darted with the rapidity of lightning a glance toward the inconstant Porthos; and then immediately the eyes of Porthos wandered anxiously. It was plain that this mode of proceeding piqued the lady in the black hood, for she bit her lips till they bled, scratched the end of her nose, and could not sit still in her seat. Porthos, seeing this, retwisted his mustache, elongated his imperial a second time, and began to make signals to a beautiful lady who was near the choir, and who not only was a beautiful lady, but still further, no doubt, a great lady--for she had behind her a Negro boy who had brought the cushion on which she knelt, and a female servant who held the emblazoned bag in which was placed the book from which she read the Mass. The lady with the black hood followed through all their wanderings the looks of Porthos, and perceived that they rested upon the lady with the velvet cushion, the little Negro, and the maid-servant. During this time Porthos played close. It was almost imperceptible motions of his eyes, fingers placed upon the lips, little assassinating smiles, which really did assassinate the disdained beauty. Then she cried, "Ahem!" under cover of the MEA CULPA, striking her breast so vigorously that everybody, even the lady with the red cushion, turned round toward her. Porthos paid no attention. Nevertheless, he understood it all, but was deaf. The lady with the red cushion produced a great effect--for she was very handsome--upon the lady with the black hood, who saw in her a rival really to be dreaded; a great effect upon Porthos, who thought her much prettier than the lady with the black hood; a great effect upon d'Artagnan, who recognized in her the lady of Meung, of Calais, and of Dover, whom his persecutor, the man with the scar, had saluted by the name of Milady. D'Artagnan, without losing sight of the lady of the red cushion, continued to watch the proceedings of Porthos, which amused him greatly. He guessed that the lady of the black hood was the procurator's wife of the Rue aux Ours, which was the more probable from the church of St. Leu being not far from that locality. He guessed, likewise, by induction, that Porthos was taking his revenge for the defeat of Chantilly, when the procurator's wife had proved so refractory with respect to her purse. Amid all this, d'Artagnan remarked also that not one countenance responded to the gallantries of Porthos. There were only chimeras and illusions; but for real love, for true jealousy, is there any reality except illusions and chimeras? The sermon over, the procurator's wife advanced toward the holy font. Porthos went before her, and instead of a finger, dipped his whole hand in. The procurator's wife smiled, thinking that it was for her Porthos had put himself to this trouble; but she was cruelly and promptly undeceived. When she was only about three steps from him, he turned his head round, fixing his eyes steadfastly upon the lady with the red cushion, who had risen and was approaching, followed by her black boy and her woman. When the lady of the red cushion came close to Porthos, Porthos drew his dripping hand from the font. The fair worshipper touched the great hand of Porthos with her delicate fingers, smiled, made the sign of the cross, and left the church. This was too much for the procurator's wife; she doubted not there was an intrigue between this lady and Porthos. If she had been a great lady she would have fainted; but as she was only a procurator's wife, she contented herself saying to the Musketeer with concentrated fury, "Eh, Monsieur Porthos, you don't offer me any holy water?" Porthos, at the sound of that voice, started like a man awakened from a sleep of a hundred years. "Ma-madame!" cried he; "is that you? How is your husband, our dear Monsieur Coquenard? Is he still as stingy as ever? Where can my eyes have been not to have seen you during the two hours of the sermon?" "I was within two paces of you, monsieur," replied the procurator's wife; "but you did not perceive me because you had no eyes but for the pretty lady to whom you just now gave the holy water." Porthos pretended to be confused. "Ah," said he, "you have remarked--" "I must have been blind not to have seen." "Yes," said Porthos, "that is a duchess of my acquaintance whom I have great trouble to meet on account of the jealousy of her husband, and who sent me word that she should come today to this poor church, buried in this vile quarter, solely for the sake of seeing me." "Monsieur Porthos," said the procurator's wife, "will you have the kindness to offer me your arm for five minutes? I have something to say to you." "Certainly, madame," said Porthos, winking to himself, as a gambler does who laughs at the dupe he is about to pluck. At that moment d'Artagnan passed in pursuit of Milady; he cast a passing glance at Porthos, and beheld this triumphant look. "Eh, eh!" said he, reasoning to himself according to the strangely easy morality of that gallant period, "there is one who will be equipped in good time!" Porthos, yielding to the pressure of the arm of the procurator's wife, as a bark yields to the rudder, arrived at the cloister St. Magloire--a little-frequented passage, enclosed with a turnstile at each end. In the daytime nobody was seen there but mendicants devouring their crusts, and children at play. "Ah, Monsieur Porthos," cried the procurator's wife, when she was assured that no one who was a stranger to the population of the locality could either see or hear her, "ah, Monsieur Porthos, you are a great conqueror, as it appears!" "I, madame?" said Porthos, drawing himself up proudly; "how so?" "The signs just now, and the holy water! But that must be a princess, at least--that lady with her Negro boy and her maid!" "My God! Madame, you are deceived," said Porthos; "she is simply a duchess." "And that running footman who waited at the door, and that carriage with a coachman in grand livery who sat waiting on his seat?" Porthos had seen neither the footman nor the carriage, but with the eye of a jealous woman, Mme. Coquenard had seen everything. Porthos regretted that he had not at once made the lady of the red cushion a princess. "Ah, you are quite the pet of the ladies, Monsieur Porthos!" resumed the procurator's wife, with a sigh. "Well," responded Porthos, "you may imagine, with the physique with which nature has endowed me, I am not in want of good luck." "Good Lord, how quickly men forget!" cried the procurator's wife, raising her eyes toward heaven. "Less quickly than the women, it seems to me," replied Porthos; "for I, madame, I may say I was your victim, when wounded, dying, I was abandoned by the surgeons. I, the offspring of a noble family, who placed reliance upon your friendship--I was near dying of my wounds at first, and of hunger afterward, in a beggarly inn at Chantilly, without you ever deigning once to reply to the burning letters I addressed to you." "But, Monsieur Porthos," murmured the procurator's wife, who began to feel that, to judge by the conduct of the great ladies of the time, she was wrong. "I, who had sacrificed for you the Baronne de--" "I know it well." "The Comtesse de--" "Monsieur Porthos, be generous!" "You are right, madame, and I will not finish." "But it was my husband who would not hear of lending." "Madame Coquenard," said Porthos, "remember the first letter you wrote me, and which I preserve engraved in my memory." The procurator's wife uttered a groan. "Besides," said she, "the sum you required me to borrow was rather large." "Madame Coquenard, I gave you the preference. I had but to write to the Duchesse--but I won't repeat her name, for I am incapable of compromising a woman; but this I know, that I had but to write to her and she would have sent me fifteen hundred." The procurator's wife shed a tear. "Monsieur Porthos," said she, "I can assure you that you have severely punished me; and if in the time to come you should find yourself in a similar situation, you have but to apply to me." "Fie, madame, fie!" said Porthos, as if disgusted. "Let us not talk about money, if you please; it is humiliating." "Then you no longer love me!" said the procurator's wife, slowly and sadly. Porthos maintained a majestic silence. "And that is the only reply you make? Alas, I understand." "Think of the offense you have committed toward me, madame! It remains HERE!" said Porthos, placing his hand on his heart, and pressing it strongly. "I will repair it, indeed I will, my dear Porthos." "Besides, what did I ask of you?" resumed Porthos, with a movement of the shoulders full of good fellowship. "A loan, nothing more! After all, I am not an unreasonable man. I know you are not rich, Madame Coquenard, and that your husband is obliged to bleed his poor clients to squeeze a few paltry crowns from them. Oh! If you were a duchess, a marchioness, or a countess, it would be quite a different thing; it would be unpardonable." The procurator's wife was piqued. "Please to know, Monsieur Porthos," said she, "that my strongbox, the strongbox of a procurator's wife though it may be, is better filled than those of your affected minxes." "That doubles the offense," said Porthos, disengaging his arm from that of the procurator's wife; "for if you are rich, Madame Coquenard, then there is no excuse for your refusal." "When I said rich," replied the procurator's wife, who saw that she had gone too far, "you must not take the word literally. I am not precisely rich, though I am pretty well off." "Hold, madame," said Porthos, "let us say no more upon the subject, I beg of you. You have misunderstood me, all sympathy is extinct between us." "Ingrate that you are!" "Ah! I advise you to complain!" said Porthos. "Begone, then, to your beautiful duchess; I will detain you no longer." "And she is not to be despised, in my opinion." "Now, Monsieur Porthos, once more, and this is the last! Do you love me still?" "Ah, madame," said Porthos, in the most melancholy tone he could assume, "when we are about to enter upon a campaign--a campaign, in which my presentiments tell me I shall be killed--" "Oh, don't talk of such things!" cried the procurator's wife, bursting into tears. "Something whispers me so," continued Porthos, becoming more and more melancholy. "Rather say that you have a new love." "Not so; I speak frankly to you. No object affects me; and I even feel here, at the bottom of my heart, something which speaks for you. But in fifteen days, as you know, or as you do not know, this fatal campaign is to open. I shall be fearfully preoccupied with my outfit. Then I must make a journey to see my family, in the lower part of Brittany, to obtain the sum necessary for my departure." Porthos observed a last struggle between love and avarice. "And as," continued he, "the duchess whom you saw at the church has estates near to those of my family, we mean to make the journey together. Journeys, you know, appear much shorter when we travel two in company." "Have you no friends in Paris, then, Monsieur Porthos?" said the procurator's wife. "I thought I had," said Porthos, resuming his melancholy air; "but I have been taught my mistake." "You have some!" cried the procurator's wife, in a transport that surprised even herself. "Come to our house tomorrow. You are the son of my aunt, consequently my cousin; you come from Noyon, in Picardy; you have several lawsuits and no attorney. Can you recollect all that?" "Perfectly, madame." "Come at dinnertime." "Very well." "And be upon your guard before my husband, who is rather shrewd, notwithstanding his seventy-six years." "Seventy-six years! PESTE! That's a fine age!" replied Porthos. "A great age, you mean, Monsieur Porthos. Yes, the poor man may be expected to leave me a widow, any hour," continued she, throwing a significant glance at Porthos. "Fortunately, by our marriage contract, the survivor takes everything." "All?" "Yes, all." "You are a woman of precaution, I see, my dear Madame Coquenard," said Porthos, squeezing the hand of the procurator's wife tenderly. "We are then reconciled, dear Monsieur Porthos?" said she, simpering. "For life," replied Porthos, in the same manner. "Till we meet again, then, dear traitor!" "Till we meet again, my forgetful charmer!" "Tomorrow, my angel!" "Tomorrow, flame of my life!"

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Hunting for the Equipments

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There is still no information on the whereabouts of Madame Bonacieux. Athos refuses to leave his house to find money. There are fifteen days before the campaign starts, and Athos tells his friends that if he still doesn't have any money when the time comes, he will pick a fight with the Cardinal's Guards or some Englishmen in order to die with honor. Porthos is concocting some plan. Aramis says nothing. Three of them take to the streets in long, mournful walks, hoping to find a wallet full of money on the sidewalk. No luck. Porthos, however, gets ready to execute his plan. D'Artagnan spies him heading to the church of St. Leu and follows him. Mass is going on, and Porthos looks magnificently handsome. There are two women in the church of importance. The first is "a sort of ripe beauty, rather yellow and rather dry, but erect and haughty under her black hood." The lady in the black hood is obviously keenly aware of Porthos's presence, but he ignores her. He's busy spying on a beautiful lady sitting on a red cushion near the choir. The lady with the red cushion is absolutely gorgeous, and D'Artagnan can tell that the woman in the black hood is jealous. D'Artagnan also recognizes the lady with the red cushion as the one from Meung, called Milady. D'Artagnan guesses the lady in the black hood to be the attorney's wife, and that Porthos is taking his revenge for her stingy attitude during his time in Chantilly. With mass over, Porthos goes to the font of holy water ahead of the lady in the black hood. She thinks he's going to offer it to her, but instead he offers it to the beautiful woman. Really angry now, the cloaked woman asks Porthos if he's going to offer any holy water to her. Porthos smiles to himself. The plan is working! To make a long story short, Porthos drops all sorts of not-so-subtle hints about all the rich, wealthy, beautiful women in his life that are willing to lend him money. Madame Coquenard gets increasingly jealous. Finally, she tells him to pretend to be her cousin, who is dealing with several lawsuits. She warns him to be careful of her husband, who is seventy-six years old. The two part on good terms.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/1257-chapters/30.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Three Musketeers/section_30_part_0.txt

The Three Musketeers.chapter 30

chapter 30: d'artagnan and the englishman

{"name": "Chapter Thirty: D'Artagnan and the Englishman", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210127112556/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/three-musketeers/summary/chapter-thirty-dartagnan-and-the-englishman", "summary": "D'Artagnan follows Milady out of the church. She gets in her carriage and drives to St. Germain. He then tracks down Planchet and orders him to fetch two horses from Treville's stable and meet him at Athos's house. When D'Artagnan arrives, Athos is drinking some Spanish wine. D'Artagnan tells him about Porthos's method of getting equipped. Athos resolves that women with have nothing to do with his equipment. Planchet arrives; the horses are ready to go. D'Artagnan explains to Athos where he is going. Athos assumes that D'Artagnan is in love with the mysterious and beautiful Milady. D'Artagnan protests that he still loves Madame Bonacieux dearly; the only reason he does not save her is because he does not know where she is. Athos opens another bottle of wine as D'Artagnan and Planchet head for St. Germain. D'Artagnan convinces himself that since Milady probably has information regarding Constance, going in search of Milady means possibly saving his true love. On their way, Planchet and D'Artagnan spy Comte de Wardes's lackey, Lubin. Figuring that Lubin probably doesn't remember Planchet, D'Artagnan tells Planchet to go talk to him and find out if the Comte de Wardes is alive or dead. Planchet strikes up a conversation while D'Artagnan hides behind a hedge. Milady's carriage stops in front of the house and she gives orders to her maid. The maid heads over to Planchet and Lubin, but right at that moment Lubin is called back into his own house, leaving Planchet alone on the sidewalk. Mistaking Planchet for Lubin, the maid walks straight up to Planchet and hands him a note for \"his master.\" Planchet is confused, but, being accustomed to obedience, he runs over to D'Artagnan and gives him the note. Milady requests a \"walk in the forest\" with the gentleman. The letter was intended for the Comte de Wardes, however, and not for D'Artagnan. Planchet reports that the Comte de Wardes is still recovering from his earlier sword fight with D'Artagnan. D'Artagnan congratulates Planchet on a job well done and the two of them jump back on their horses to continue tailing Milady. They find her in her carriage having a heated exchange with a gentleman on horseback. They are speaking English, but D'Artagnan understands the tone of the conversation well enough. He offers Milady his services in dealing with the man's lack of respect. The man is Milady's brother , and she appears to be fine with the quarrel. Meanwhile, Milady's maid is checking out D'Artagnan. D'Artagnan recognizes the Milady's interlocutor as the Englishman from Amiens. They definitely have a reason to fight. The Englishman is going to bring three friends, and D'Artagnan will do likewise. Of course, our hero will bring Porthos, Aramis, and Athos: his friends are excited for the duel.", "analysis": ""}

30 D'ARTAGNAN AND THE ENGLISHMAN D'Artagnan followed Milady without being perceived by her. He saw her get into her carriage, and heard her order the coachman to drive to St. Germain. It was useless to try to keep pace on foot with a carriage drawn by two powerful horses. D'Artagnan therefore returned to the Rue Ferou. In the Rue de Seine he met Planchet, who had stopped before the house of a pastry cook, and was contemplating with ecstasy a cake of the most appetizing appearance. He ordered him to go and saddle two horses in M. de Treville's stables--one for himself, d'Artagnan, and one for Planchet--and bring them to Athos's place. Once for all, Treville had placed his stable at d'Artagnan's service. Planchet proceeded toward the Rue du Colombier, and d'Artagnan toward the Rue Ferou. Athos was at home, emptying sadly a bottle of the famous Spanish wine he had brought back with him from his journey into Picardy. He made a sign for Grimaud to bring a glass for d'Artagnan, and Grimaud obeyed as usual. D'Artagnan related to Athos all that had passed at the church between Porthos and the procurator's wife, and how their comrade was probably by that time in a fair way to be equipped. "As for me," replied Athos to this recital, "I am quite at my ease; it will not be women that will defray the expense of my outfit." "Handsome, well-bred, noble lord as you are, my dear Athos, neither princesses nor queens would be secure from your amorous solicitations." "How young this d'Artagnan is!" said Athos, shrugging his shoulders; and he made a sign to Grimaud to bring another bottle. At that moment Planchet put his head modestly in at the half-open door, and told his master that the horses were ready. "What horses?" asked Athos. "Two horses that Monsieur de Treville lends me at my pleasure, and with which I am now going to take a ride to St. Germain." "Well, and what are you going to do at St. Germain?" then demanded Athos. Then d'Artagnan described the meeting which he had at the church, and how he had found that lady who, with the seigneur in the black cloak and with the scar near his temple, filled his mind constantly. "That is to say, you are in love with this lady as you were with Madame Bonacieux," said Athos, shrugging his shoulders contemptuously, as if he pitied human weakness. "I? not at all!" said d'Artagnan. "I am only curious to unravel the mystery to which she is attached. I do not know why, but I imagine that this woman, wholly unknown to me as she is, and wholly unknown to her as I am, has an influence over my life." "Well, perhaps you are right," said Athos. "I do not know a woman that is worth the trouble of being sought for when she is once lost. Madame Bonacieux is lost; so much the worse for her if she is found." "No, Athos, no, you are mistaken," said d'Artagnan; "I love my poor Constance more than ever, and if I knew the place in which she is, were it at the end of the world, I would go to free her from the hands of her enemies; but I am ignorant. All my researches have been useless. What is to be said? I must divert my attention!" "Amuse yourself with Milady, my dear d'Artagnan; I wish you may with all my heart, if that will amuse you." "Hear me, Athos," said d'Artagnan. "Instead of shutting yourself up here as if you were under arrest, get on horseback and come and take a ride with me to St. Germain." "My dear fellow," said Athos, "I ride horses when I have any; when I have none, I go afoot." "Well," said d'Artagnan, smiling at the misanthropy of Athos, which from any other person would have offended him, "I ride what I can get; I am not so proud as you. So AU REVOIR, dear Athos." "AU REVOIR," said the Musketeer, making a sign to Grimaud to uncork the bottle he had just brought. D'Artagnan and Planchet mounted, and took the road to St. Germain. All along the road, what Athos had said respecting Mme. Bonacieux recurred to the mind of the young man. Although d'Artagnan was not of a very sentimental character, the mercer's pretty wife had made a real impression upon his heart. As he said, he was ready to go to the end of the world to seek her; but the world, being round, has many ends, so that he did not know which way to turn. Meantime, he was going to try to find out Milady. Milady had spoken to the man in the black cloak; therefore she knew him. Now, in the opinion of d'Artagnan, it was certainly the man in the black cloak who had carried off Mme. Bonacieux the second time, as he had carried her off the first. D'Artagnan then only half-lied, which is lying but little, when he said that by going in search of Milady he at the same time went in search of Constance. Thinking of all this, and from time to time giving a touch of the spur to his horse, d'Artagnan completed his short journey, and arrived at St. Germain. He had just passed by the pavilion in which ten years later Louis XIV was born. He rode up a very quiet street, looking to the right and the left to see if he could catch any vestige of his beautiful Englishwoman, when from the ground floor of a pretty house, which, according to the fashion of the time, had no window toward the street, he saw a face peep out with which he thought he was acquainted. This person walked along the terrace, which was ornamented with flowers. Planchet recognized him first. "Eh, monsieur!" said he, addressing d'Artagnan, "don't you remember that face which is blinking yonder?" "No," said d'Artagnan, "and yet I am certain it is not the first time I have seen that visage." "PARBLEU, I believe it is not," said Planchet. "Why, it is poor Lubin, the lackey of the Comte de Wardes--he whom you took such good care of a month ago at Calais, on the road to the governor's country house!" "So it is!" said d'Artagnan; "I know him now. Do you think he would recollect you?" "My faith, monsieur, he was in such trouble that I doubt if he can have retained a very clear recollection of me." "Well, go and talk with the boy," said d'Artagnan, "and make out if you can from his conversation whether his master is dead." Planchet dismounted and went straight up to Lubin, who did not at all remember him, and the two lackeys began to chat with the best understanding possible; while d'Artagnan turned the two horses into a lane, went round the house, and came back to watch the conference from behind a hedge of filberts. At the end of an instant's observation he heard the noise of a vehicle, and saw Milady's carriage stop opposite to him. He could not be mistaken; Milady was in it. D'Artagnan leaned upon the neck of his horse, in order that he might see without being seen. Milady put her charming blond head out at the window, and gave her orders to her maid. The latter--a pretty girl of about twenty or twenty-two years, active and lively, the true SOUBRETTE of a great lady--jumped from the step upon which, according to the custom of the time, she was seated, and took her way toward the terrace upon which d'Artagnan had perceived Lubin. D'Artagnan followed the soubrette with his eyes, and saw her go toward the terrace; but it happened that someone in the house called Lubin, so that Planchet remained alone, looking in all directions for the road where d'Artagnan had disappeared. The maid approached Planchet, whom she took for Lubin, and holding out a little billet to him said, "For your master." "For my master?" replied Planchet, astonished. "Yes, and important. Take it quickly." Thereupon she ran toward the carriage, which had turned round toward the way it came, jumped upon the step, and the carriage drove off. Planchet turned and returned the billet. Then, accustomed to passive obedience, he jumped down from the terrace, ran toward the lane, and at the end of twenty paces met d'Artagnan, who, having seen all, was coming to him. "For you, monsieur," said Planchet, presenting the billet to the young man. "For me?" said d'Artagnan; "are you sure of that?" "PARDIEU, monsieur, I can't be more sure. The SOUBRETTE said, 'For your master.' I have no other master but you; so--a pretty little lass, my faith, is that SOUBRETTE!" D'Artagnan opened the letter, and read these words: "A person who takes more interest in you than she is willing to confess wishes to know on what day it will suit you to walk in the forest? Tomorrow, at the Hotel Field of the Cloth of Gold, a lackey in black and red will wait for your reply." "Oh!" said d'Artagnan, "this is rather warm; it appears that Milady and I are anxious about the health of the same person. Well, Planchet, how is the good Monsieur de Wardes? He is not dead, then?" "No, monsieur, he is as well as a man can be with four sword wounds in his body; for you, without question, inflicted four upon the dear gentleman, and he is still very weak, having lost almost all his blood. As I said, monsieur, Lubin did not know me, and told me our adventure from one end to the other." "Well done, Planchet! you are the king of lackeys. Now jump onto your horse, and let us overtake the carriage." This did not take long. At the end of five minutes they perceived the carriage drawn up by the roadside; a cavalier, richly dressed, was close to the door. The conversation between Milady and the cavalier was so animated that d'Artagnan stopped on the other side of the carriage without anyone but the pretty SOUBRETTE perceiving his presence. The conversation took place in English--a language which d'Artagnan could not understand; but by the accent the young man plainly saw that the beautiful Englishwoman was in a great rage. She terminated it by an action which left no doubt as to the nature of this conversation; this was a blow with her fan, applied with such force that the little feminine weapon flew into a thousand pieces. The cavalier laughed aloud, which appeared to exasperate Milady still more. D'Artagnan thought this was the moment to interfere. He approached the other door, and taking off his hat respectfully, said, "Madame, will you permit me to offer you my services? It appears to me that this cavalier has made you very angry. Speak one word, madame, and I take upon myself to punish him for his want of courtesy." At the first word Milady turned, looking at the young man with astonishment; and when he had finished, she said in very good French, "Monsieur, I should with great confidence place myself under your protection if the person with whom I quarrel were not my brother." "Ah, excuse me, then," said d'Artagnan. "You must be aware that I was ignorant of that, madame." "What is that stupid fellow troubling himself about?" cried the cavalier whom Milady had designated as her brother, stooping down to the height of the coach window. "Why does not he go about his business?" "Stupid fellow yourself!" said d'Artagnan, stooping in his turn on the neck of his horse, and answering on his side through the carriage window. "I do not go on because it pleases me to stop here." The cavalier addressed some words in English to his sister. "I speak to you in French," said d'Artagnan; "be kind enough, then, to reply to me in the same language. You are Madame's brother, I learn--be it so; but fortunately you are not mine." It might be thought that Milady, timid as women are in general, would have interposed in this commencement of mutual provocations in order to prevent the quarrel from going too far; but on the contrary, she threw herself back in her carriage, and called out coolly to the coachman, "Go on--home!" The pretty SOUBRETTE cast an anxious glance at d'Artagnan, whose good looks seemed to have made an impression on her. The carriage went on, and left the two men facing each other; no material obstacle separated them. The cavalier made a movement as if to follow the carriage; but d'Artagnan, whose anger, already excited, was much increased by recognizing in him the Englishman of Amiens who had won his horse and had been very near winning his diamond of Athos, caught at his bridle and stopped him. "Well, monsieur," said he, "you appear to be more stupid than I am, for you forget there is a little quarrel to arrange between us two." "Ah," said the Englishman, "is it you, my master? It seems you must always be playing some game or other." "Yes; and that reminds me that I have a revenge to take. We will see, my dear monsieur, if you can handle a sword as skillfully as you can a dice box." "You see plainly that I have no sword," said the Englishman. "Do you wish to play the braggart with an unarmed man?" "I hope you have a sword at home; but at all events, I have two, and if you like, I will throw with you for one of them." "Needless," said the Englishman; "I am well furnished with such playthings." "Very well, my worthy gentleman," replied d'Artagnan, "pick out the longest, and come and show it to me this evening." "Where, if you please?" "Behind the Luxembourg; that's a charming spot for such amusements as the one I propose to you." "That will do; I will be there." "Your hour?" "Six o'clock." "A PROPOS, you have probably one or two friends?" "I have three, who would be honored by joining in the sport with me." "Three? Marvelous! That falls out oddly! Three is just my number!" "Now, then, who are you?" asked the Englishman. "I am Monsieur d'Artagnan, a Gascon gentleman, serving in the king's Musketeers. And you?" "I am Lord de Winter, Baron Sheffield." "Well, then, I am your servant, Monsieur Baron," said d'Artagnan, "though you have names rather difficult to recollect." And touching his horse with the spur, he cantered back to Paris. As he was accustomed to do in all cases of any consequence, d'Artagnan went straight to the residence of Athos. He found Athos reclining upon a large sofa, where he was waiting, as he said, for his outfit to come and find him. He related to Athos all that had passed, except the letter to M. de Wardes. Athos was delighted to find he was going to fight an Englishman. We might say that was his dream. They immediately sent their lackeys for Porthos and Aramis, and on their arrival made them acquainted with the situation. Porthos drew his sword from the scabbard, and made passes at the wall, springing back from time to time, and making contortions like a dancer. Aramis, who was constantly at work at his poem, shut himself up in Athos's closet, and begged not to be disturbed before the moment of drawing swords. Athos, by signs, desired Grimaud to bring another bottle of wine. D'Artagnan employed himself in arranging a little plan, of which we shall hereafter see the execution, and which promised him some agreeable adventure, as might be seen by the smiles which from time to time passed over his countenance, whose thoughtfulness they animated.

Chapter Thirty: D'Artagnan and the Englishman

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D'Artagnan follows Milady out of the church. She gets in her carriage and drives to St. Germain. He then tracks down Planchet and orders him to fetch two horses from Treville's stable and meet him at Athos's house. When D'Artagnan arrives, Athos is drinking some Spanish wine. D'Artagnan tells him about Porthos's method of getting equipped. Athos resolves that women with have nothing to do with his equipment. Planchet arrives; the horses are ready to go. D'Artagnan explains to Athos where he is going. Athos assumes that D'Artagnan is in love with the mysterious and beautiful Milady. D'Artagnan protests that he still loves Madame Bonacieux dearly; the only reason he does not save her is because he does not know where she is. Athos opens another bottle of wine as D'Artagnan and Planchet head for St. Germain. D'Artagnan convinces himself that since Milady probably has information regarding Constance, going in search of Milady means possibly saving his true love. On their way, Planchet and D'Artagnan spy Comte de Wardes's lackey, Lubin. Figuring that Lubin probably doesn't remember Planchet, D'Artagnan tells Planchet to go talk to him and find out if the Comte de Wardes is alive or dead. Planchet strikes up a conversation while D'Artagnan hides behind a hedge. Milady's carriage stops in front of the house and she gives orders to her maid. The maid heads over to Planchet and Lubin, but right at that moment Lubin is called back into his own house, leaving Planchet alone on the sidewalk. Mistaking Planchet for Lubin, the maid walks straight up to Planchet and hands him a note for "his master." Planchet is confused, but, being accustomed to obedience, he runs over to D'Artagnan and gives him the note. Milady requests a "walk in the forest" with the gentleman. The letter was intended for the Comte de Wardes, however, and not for D'Artagnan. Planchet reports that the Comte de Wardes is still recovering from his earlier sword fight with D'Artagnan. D'Artagnan congratulates Planchet on a job well done and the two of them jump back on their horses to continue tailing Milady. They find her in her carriage having a heated exchange with a gentleman on horseback. They are speaking English, but D'Artagnan understands the tone of the conversation well enough. He offers Milady his services in dealing with the man's lack of respect. The man is Milady's brother , and she appears to be fine with the quarrel. Meanwhile, Milady's maid is checking out D'Artagnan. D'Artagnan recognizes the Milady's interlocutor as the Englishman from Amiens. They definitely have a reason to fight. The Englishman is going to bring three friends, and D'Artagnan will do likewise. Of course, our hero will bring Porthos, Aramis, and Athos: his friends are excited for the duel.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/1257-chapters/31.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Three Musketeers/section_31_part_0.txt

The Three Musketeers.chapter 31

chapter 31: english and french

{"name": "Chapter Thirty-One: English and French", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210127112556/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/three-musketeers/summary/chapter-thirty-one-english-and-french", "summary": "All parties show up at the designated meeting place: a little spot behind the Luxembourg. The Englishmen tell the Frenchmen their names and rank. D'Artagnan, Athos, Porthos, and Aramis give their names, much to the annoyance of the Englishmen, who think those names belong to shepherds and not to gentlemen. The Englishmen point out that they're not going to risk their blood by fighting a bunch of unknowns. Athos, Porthos, and Aramis take their adversaries aside and whisper their true names and ranks. Athos tells his opponent that now he has to die. Finally, the duel starts: Athos kills his opponent; Porthos wounds his in the thigh; Aramis's opponent turns and runs away. D'Artagnan fights defensively and disarms his opponent. He puts his sword point at the man's throat and tells him that he spares the man's life only because of the man's sister. The Englishman is impressed with all of them. Porthos and Aramis turn their attention to the dead man, whom they undress in order to ascertain the extent of the wound. As they do so, a giant bag of money falls out. D'Artagnan gives it to the Lord de Winter so that he may give it to the dead man's family. Lord de Winter tells him not to be ridiculous and suggests they give the purse to the Frenchmen's lackeys. He offers to introduce D'Artagnan to his sister that very evening. Athos asks D'Artagnan what he plans to do with the money. D'Artagnan replies that he was going to give it to Athos, who rightfully owns it since he killed the previous owner. Athos says they should give it to the lackeys--the Englishmen's lackeys. Athos executes his own opinion, much to Porthos's sadness. Lord de Winter gives his sister's address to D'Artagnan and tells him to show up at eight that evening. D'Artagnan feels inexplicably drawn to Milady, even though he knows she's an agent of the Cardinal. He gets ready for his big night at Athos's place, who continues to warn him against this woman. Lord de Winter picks up D'Artagnan, and the two head over to Milady's place. Milady has a beautiful new home, proving her lack of concern over the war between England and France. Milady appears to be upset when she learns that Lord de Winter owes his life to D'Artagnan, but she hides it well and her brother fails to notice. The maid comes in with a message for Lord de Winter that obliges him to leave. D'Artagnan and Milady continue to hang out. He learns that she is technically Lord de Winter's sister-in-law; she had married his younger brother and bore a child. D'Artagnan flirts incessantly with her. On his way out, he brushes past the maid, who gives him come-hither glances. D'Artagnan continues to visit Milady every night, and every night the maid finds an excuse to brush past him on his way out and give him come-hither glances. D'Artagnan is falling so much in love with Milady that he does not notice her maid falling in love with him.", "analysis": ""}

31 ENGLISH AND FRENCH The hour having come, they went with their four lackeys to a spot behind the Luxembourg given up to the feeding of goats. Athos threw a piece of money to the goatkeeper to withdraw. The lackeys were ordered to act as sentinels. A silent party soon drew near to the same enclosure, entered, and joined the Musketeers. Then, according to foreign custom, the presentations took place. The Englishmen were all men of rank; consequently the odd names of their adversaries were for them not only a matter of surprise, but of annoyance. "But after all," said Lord de Winter, when the three friends had been named, "we do not know who you are. We cannot fight with such names; they are names of shepherds." "Therefore your lordship may suppose they are only assumed names," said Athos. "Which only gives us a greater desire to know the real ones," replied the Englishman. "You played very willingly with us without knowing our names," said Athos, "by the same token that you won our horses." "That is true, but we then only risked our pistoles; this time we risk our blood. One plays with anybody; but one fights only with equals." "And that is but just," said Athos, and he took aside the one of the four Englishmen with whom he was to fight, and communicated his name in a low voice. Porthos and Aramis did the same. "Does that satisfy you?" said Athos to his adversary. "Do you find me of sufficient rank to do me the honor of crossing swords with me?" "Yes, monsieur," said the Englishman, bowing. "Well! now shall I tell you something?" added Athos, coolly. "What?" replied the Englishman. "Why, that is that you would have acted much more wisely if you had not required me to make myself known." "Why so?" "Because I am believed to be dead, and have reasons for wishing nobody to know I am living; so that I shall be obliged to kill you to prevent my secret from roaming over the fields." The Englishman looked at Athos, believing that he jested, but Athos did not jest the least in the world. "Gentlemen," said Athos, addressing at the same time his companions and their adversaries, "are we ready?" "Yes!" answered the Englishmen and the Frenchmen, as with one voice. "On guard, then!" cried Athos. Immediately eight swords glittered in the rays of the setting sun, and the combat began with an animosity very natural between men twice enemies. Athos fenced with as much calmness and method as if he had been practicing in a fencing school. Porthos, abated, no doubt, of his too-great confidence by his adventure of Chantilly, played with skill and prudence. Aramis, who had the third canto of his poem to finish, behaved like a man in haste. Athos killed his adversary first. He hit him but once, but as he had foretold, that hit was a mortal one; the sword pierced his heart. Second, Porthos stretched his upon the grass with a wound through his thigh, As the Englishman, without making any further resistance, then surrendered his sword, Porthos took him up in his arms and bore him to his carriage. Aramis pushed his so vigorously that after going back fifty paces, the man ended by fairly taking to his heels, and disappeared amid the hooting of the lackeys. As to d'Artagnan, he fought purely and simply on the defensive; and when he saw his adversary pretty well fatigued, with a vigorous side thrust sent his sword flying. The baron, finding himself disarmed, took two or three steps back, but in this movement his foot slipped and he fell backward. D'Artagnan was over him at a bound, and said to the Englishman, pointing his sword to his throat, "I could kill you, my Lord, you are completely in my hands; but I spare your life for the sake of your sister." D'Artagnan was at the height of joy; he had realized the plan he had imagined beforehand, whose picturing had produced the smiles we noted upon his face. The Englishman, delighted at having to do with a gentleman of such a kind disposition, pressed d'Artagnan in his arms, and paid a thousand compliments to the three Musketeers, and as Porthos's adversary was already installed in the carriage, and as Aramis's had taken to his heels, they had nothing to think about but the dead. As Porthos and Aramis were undressing him, in the hope of finding his wound not mortal, a large purse dropped from his clothes. D'Artagnan picked it up and offered it to Lord de Winter. "What the devil would you have me do with that?" said the Englishman. "You can restore it to his family," said d'Artagnan. "His family will care much about such a trifle as that! His family will inherit fifteen thousand louis a year from him. Keep the purse for your lackeys." D'Artagnan put the purse into his pocket. "And now, my young friend, for you will permit me, I hope, to give you that name," said Lord de Winter, "on this very evening, if agreeable to you, I will present you to my sister, Milady Clarik, for I am desirous that she should take you into her good graces; and as she is not in bad odor at court, she may perhaps on some future day speak a word that will not prove useless to you." D'Artagnan blushed with pleasure, and bowed a sign of assent. At this time Athos came up to d'Artagnan. "What do you mean to do with that purse?" whispered he. "Why, I meant to pass it over to you, my dear Athos." "Me! why to me?" "Why, you killed him! They are the spoils of victory." "I, the heir of an enemy!" said Athos; "for whom, then, do you take me?" "It is the custom in war," said d'Artagnan, "why should it not be the custom in a duel?" "Even on the field of battle, I have never done that." Porthos shrugged his shoulders; Aramis by a movement of his lips endorsed Athos. "Then," said d'Artagnan, "let us give the money to the lackeys, as Lord de Winter desired us to do." "Yes," said Athos; "let us give the money to the lackeys--not to our lackeys, but to the lackeys of the Englishmen." Athos took the purse, and threw it into the hand of the coachman. "For you and your comrades." This greatness of spirit in a man who was quite destitute struck even Porthos; and this French generosity, repeated by Lord de Winter and his friend, was highly applauded, except by MM Grimaud, Bazin, Mousqueton and Planchet. Lord de Winter, on quitting d'Artagnan, gave him his sister's address. She lived in the Place Royale--then the fashionable quarter--at Number 6, and he undertook to call and take d'Artagnan with him in order to introduce him. D'Artagnan appointed eight o'clock at Athos's residence. This introduction to Milady Clarik occupied the head of our Gascon greatly. He remembered in what a strange manner this woman had hitherto been mixed up in his destiny. According to his conviction, she was some creature of the cardinal, and yet he felt himself invincibly drawn toward her by one of those sentiments for which we cannot account. His only fear was that Milady would recognize in him the man of Meung and of Dover. Then she knew that he was one of the friends of M. de Treville, and consequently, that he belonged body and soul to the king; which would make him lose a part of his advantage, since when known to Milady as he knew her, he played only an equal game with her. As to the commencement of an intrigue between her and M. de Wardes, our presumptuous hero gave but little heed to that, although the marquis was young, handsome, rich, and high in the cardinal's favor. It is not for nothing we are but twenty years old, above all if we were born at Tarbes. D'Artagnan began by making his most splendid toilet, then returned to Athos's, and according to custom, related everything to him. Athos listened to his projects, then shook his head, and recommended prudence to him with a shade of bitterness. "What!" said he, "you have just lost one woman, whom you call good, charming, perfect; and here you are, running headlong after another." D'Artagnan felt the truth of this reproach. "I loved Madame Bonacieux with my heart, while I only love Milady with my head," said he. "In getting introduced to her, my principal object is to ascertain what part she plays at court." "The part she plays, PARDIEU! It is not difficult to divine that, after all you have told me. She is some emissary of the cardinal; a woman who will draw you into a snare in which you will leave your head." "The devil! my dear Athos, you view things on the dark side, methinks." "My dear fellow, I mistrust women. Can it be otherwise? I bought my experience dearly--particularly fair women. Milady is fair, you say?" "She has the most beautiful light hair imaginable!" "Ah, my poor d'Artagnan!" said Athos. "Listen to me! I want to be enlightened on a subject; then, when I shall have learned what I desire to know, I will withdraw." "Be enlightened!" said Athos, phlegmatically. Lord de Winter arrived at the appointed time; but Athos, being warned of his coming, went into the other chamber. He therefore found d'Artagnan alone, and as it was nearly eight o'clock he took the young man with him. An elegant carriage waited below, and as it was drawn by two excellent horses, they were soon at the Place Royale. Milady Clarik received d'Artagnan ceremoniously. Her hotel was remarkably sumptuous, and while the most part of the English had quit, or were about to quit, France on account of the war, Milady had just been laying out much money upon her residence; which proved that the general measure which drove the English from France did not affect her. "You see," said Lord de Winter, presenting d'Artagnan to his sister, "a young gentleman who has held my life in his hands, and who has not abused his advantage, although we have been twice enemies, although it was I who insulted him, and although I am an Englishman. Thank him, then, madame, if you have any affection for me." Milady frowned slightly; a scarcely visible cloud passed over her brow, and so peculiar a smile appeared upon her lips that the young man, who saw and observed this triple shade, almost shuddered at it. The brother did not perceive this; he had turned round to play with Milady's favorite monkey, which had pulled him by the doublet. "You are welcome, monsieur," said Milady, in a voice whose singular sweetness contrasted with the symptoms of ill-humor which d'Artagnan had just remarked; "you have today acquired eternal rights to my gratitude." The Englishman then turned round and described the combat without omitting a single detail. Milady listened with the greatest attention, and yet it was easily to be perceived, whatever effort she made to conceal her impressions, that this recital was not agreeable to her. The blood rose to her head, and her little foot worked with impatience beneath her robe. Lord de Winter perceived nothing of this. When he had finished, he went to a table upon which was a salver with Spanish wine and glasses. He filled two glasses, and by a sign invited d'Artagnan to drink. D'Artagnan knew it was considered disobliging by an Englishman to refuse to pledge him. He therefore drew near to the table and took the second glass. He did not, however, lose sight of Milady, and in a mirror he perceived the change that came over her face. Now that she believed herself to be no longer observed, a sentiment resembling ferocity animated her countenance. She bit her handkerchief with her beautiful teeth. That pretty little SOUBRETTE whom d'Artagnan had already observed then came in. She spoke some words to Lord de Winter in English, who thereupon requested d'Artagnan's permission to retire, excusing himself on account of the urgency of the business that had called him away, and charging his sister to obtain his pardon. D'Artagnan exchanged a shake of the hand with Lord de Winter, and then returned to Milady. Her countenance, with surprising mobility, had recovered its gracious expression; but some little red spots on her handkerchief indicated that she had bitten her lips till the blood came. Those lips were magnificent; they might be said to be of coral. The conversation took a cheerful turn. Milady appeared to have entirely recovered. She told d'Artagnan that Lord de Winter was her brother-in-law, and not her brother. She had married a younger brother of the family, who had left her a widow with one child. This child was the only heir to Lord de Winter, if Lord de Winter did not marry. All this showed d'Artagnan that there was a veil which concealed something; but he could not yet see under this veil. In addition to this, after a half hour's conversation d'Artagnan was convinced that Milady was his compatriot; she spoke French with an elegance and a purity that left no doubt on that head. D'Artagnan was profuse in gallant speeches and protestations of devotion. To all the simple things which escaped our Gascon, Milady replied with a smile of kindness. The hour came for him to retire. D'Artagnan took leave of Milady, and left the saloon the happiest of men. On the staircase he met the pretty SOUBRETTE, who brushed gently against him as she passed, and then, blushing to the eyes, asked his pardon for having touched him in a voice so sweet that the pardon was granted instantly. D'Artagnan came again on the morrow, and was still better received than on the evening before. Lord de Winter was not at home; and it was Milady who this time did all the honors of the evening. She appeared to take a great interest in him, asked him whence he came, who were his friends, and whether he had not sometimes thought of attaching himself to the cardinal. D'Artagnan, who, as we have said, was exceedingly prudent for a young man of twenty, then remembered his suspicions regarding Milady. He launched into a eulogy of his Eminence, and said that he should not have failed to enter into the Guards of the cardinal instead of the king's Guards if he had happened to know M. de Cavois instead of M. de Treville. Milady changed the conversation without any appearance of affectation, and asked d'Artagnan in the most careless manner possible if he had ever been in England. D'Artagnan replied that he had been sent thither by M. de Treville to treat for a supply of horses, and that he had brought back four as specimens. Milady in the course of the conversation twice or thrice bit her lips; she had to deal with a Gascon who played close. At the same hour as on the preceding evening, d'Artagnan retired. In the corridor he again met the pretty Kitty; that was the name of the SOUBRETTE. She looked at him with an expression of kindness which it was impossible to mistake; but d'Artagnan was so preoccupied by the mistress that he noticed absolutely nothing but her. D'Artagnan came again on the morrow and the day after that, and each day Milady gave him a more gracious reception. Every evening, either in the antechamber, the corridor, or on the stairs, he met the pretty SOUBRETTE. But, as we have said, d'Artagnan paid no attention to this persistence of poor Kitty.

Chapter Thirty-One: English and French

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All parties show up at the designated meeting place: a little spot behind the Luxembourg. The Englishmen tell the Frenchmen their names and rank. D'Artagnan, Athos, Porthos, and Aramis give their names, much to the annoyance of the Englishmen, who think those names belong to shepherds and not to gentlemen. The Englishmen point out that they're not going to risk their blood by fighting a bunch of unknowns. Athos, Porthos, and Aramis take their adversaries aside and whisper their true names and ranks. Athos tells his opponent that now he has to die. Finally, the duel starts: Athos kills his opponent; Porthos wounds his in the thigh; Aramis's opponent turns and runs away. D'Artagnan fights defensively and disarms his opponent. He puts his sword point at the man's throat and tells him that he spares the man's life only because of the man's sister. The Englishman is impressed with all of them. Porthos and Aramis turn their attention to the dead man, whom they undress in order to ascertain the extent of the wound. As they do so, a giant bag of money falls out. D'Artagnan gives it to the Lord de Winter so that he may give it to the dead man's family. Lord de Winter tells him not to be ridiculous and suggests they give the purse to the Frenchmen's lackeys. He offers to introduce D'Artagnan to his sister that very evening. Athos asks D'Artagnan what he plans to do with the money. D'Artagnan replies that he was going to give it to Athos, who rightfully owns it since he killed the previous owner. Athos says they should give it to the lackeys--the Englishmen's lackeys. Athos executes his own opinion, much to Porthos's sadness. Lord de Winter gives his sister's address to D'Artagnan and tells him to show up at eight that evening. D'Artagnan feels inexplicably drawn to Milady, even though he knows she's an agent of the Cardinal. He gets ready for his big night at Athos's place, who continues to warn him against this woman. Lord de Winter picks up D'Artagnan, and the two head over to Milady's place. Milady has a beautiful new home, proving her lack of concern over the war between England and France. Milady appears to be upset when she learns that Lord de Winter owes his life to D'Artagnan, but she hides it well and her brother fails to notice. The maid comes in with a message for Lord de Winter that obliges him to leave. D'Artagnan and Milady continue to hang out. He learns that she is technically Lord de Winter's sister-in-law; she had married his younger brother and bore a child. D'Artagnan flirts incessantly with her. On his way out, he brushes past the maid, who gives him come-hither glances. D'Artagnan continues to visit Milady every night, and every night the maid finds an excuse to brush past him on his way out and give him come-hither glances. D'Artagnan is falling so much in love with Milady that he does not notice her maid falling in love with him.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/1257-chapters/32.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Three Musketeers/section_32_part_0.txt

The Three Musketeers.chapter 32

chapter 32: a procurator's dinner

{"name": "Chapter Thirty-Two: A Procurator's Dinner", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210127112556/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/three-musketeers/summary/chapter-thirty-two-a-procurators-dinner", "summary": "It is the evening of the dinner at the lawyer's house and Porthos is looking forward to this meal. He dreams of being welcomed as a member of the family and eating a delicious home-cooked meal. As he approaches the house, however, his dreams bear no resemblance to reality. The house is dingy and the kitchen lacks the hustle and bustle indicating that a good meal is being prepared. He meets the old lawyer, who is so old his legs no longer function. The man glances frequently at a large chest, which presumably contains all his money. Dinner is disgusting and stingy, although the lawyer remarks over and over again that it's a magnificent repast and his wife is really spoiling her cousin. After dinner, Madame Coquenard and Porthos step into another room for a chat. She invites him to dinner three times a week, which he respectfully declines. He brings up the issue of getting outfitted for war. They enter into negotiations: she wants to know his exact requirements because she may be able to get him a better deal on a horse, for instance. Porthos would prefer, for obvious reasons, to get a lump sum of money. They finally agree that she will give him eight hundred livres and then obtain a horse and mule. The two part amicably. Porthos returns home hungry.", "analysis": ""}

32 A PROCURATOR'S DINNER However brilliant had been the part played by Porthos in the duel, it had not made him forget the dinner of the procurator's wife. On the morrow he received the last touches of Mousqueton's brush for an hour, and took his way toward the Rue aux Ours with the steps of a man who was doubly in favor with fortune. His heart beat, but not like d'Artagnan's with a young and impatient love. No; a more material interest stirred his blood. He was about at last to pass that mysterious threshold, to climb those unknown stairs by which, one by one, the old crowns of M. Coquenard had ascended. He was about to see in reality a certain coffer of which he had twenty times beheld the image in his dreams--a coffer long and deep, locked, bolted, fastened in the wall; a coffer of which he had so often heard, and which the hands--a little wrinkled, it is true, but still not without elegance--of the procurator's wife were about to open to his admiring looks. And then he--a wanderer on the earth, a man without fortune, a man without family, a soldier accustomed to inns, cabarets, taverns, and restaurants, a lover of wine forced to depend upon chance treats--was about to partake of family meals, to enjoy the pleasures of a comfortable establishment, and to give himself up to those little attentions which "the harder one is, the more they please," as old soldiers say. To come in the capacity of a cousin, and seat himself every day at a good table; to smooth the yellow, wrinkled brow of the old procurator; to pluck the clerks a little by teaching them BASSETTE, PASSE-DIX, and LANSQUENET, in their utmost nicety, and winning from them, by way of fee for the lesson he would give them in an hour, their savings of a month--all this was enormously delightful to Porthos. The Musketeer could not forget the evil reports which then prevailed, and which indeed have survived them, of the procurators of the period--meanness, stinginess, fasts; but as, after all, excepting some few acts of economy which Porthos had always found very unseasonable, the procurator's wife had been tolerably liberal--that is, be it understood, for a procurator's wife--he hoped to see a household of a highly comfortable kind. And yet, at the very door the Musketeer began to entertain some doubts. The approach was not such as to prepossess people--an ill-smelling, dark passage, a staircase half-lighted by bars through which stole a glimmer from a neighboring yard; on the first floor a low door studded with enormous nails, like the principal gate of the Grand Chatelet. Porthos knocked with his hand. A tall, pale clerk, his face shaded by a forest of virgin hair, opened the door, and bowed with the air of a man forced at once to respect in another lofty stature, which indicated strength, the military dress, which indicated rank, and a ruddy countenance, which indicated familiarity with good living. A shorter clerk came behind the first, a taller clerk behind the second, a stripling of a dozen years rising behind the third. In all, three clerks and a half, which, for the time, argued a very extensive clientage. Although the Musketeer was not expected before one o'clock, the procurator's wife had been on the watch ever since midday, reckoning that the heart, or perhaps the stomach, of her lover would bring him before his time. Mme. Coquenard therefore entered the office from the house at the same moment her guest entered from the stairs, and the appearance of the worthy lady relieved him from an awkward embarrassment. The clerks surveyed him with great curiosity, and he, not knowing well what to say to this ascending and descending scale, remained tongue-tied. "It is my cousin!" cried the procurator's wife. "Come in, come in, Monsieur Porthos!" The name of Porthos produced its effect upon the clerks, who began to laugh; but Porthos turned sharply round, and every countenance quickly recovered its gravity. They reached the office of the procurator after having passed through the antechamber in which the clerks were, and the study in which they ought to have been. This last apartment was a sort of dark room, littered with papers. On quitting the study they left the kitchen on the right, and entered the reception room. All these rooms, which communicated with one another, did not inspire Porthos favorably. Words might be heard at a distance through all these open doors. Then, while passing, he had cast a rapid, investigating glance into the kitchen; and he was obliged to confess to himself, to the shame of the procurator's wife and his own regret, that he did not see that fire, that animation, that bustle, which when a good repast is on foot prevails generally in that sanctuary of good living. The procurator had without doubt been warned of his visit, as he expressed no surprise at the sight of Porthos, who advanced toward him with a sufficiently easy air, and saluted him courteously. "We are cousins, it appears, Monsieur Porthos?" said the procurator, rising, yet supporting his weight upon the arms of his cane chair. The old man, wrapped in a large black doublet, in which the whole of his slender body was concealed, was brisk and dry. His little gray eyes shone like carbuncles, and appeared, with his grinning mouth, to be the only part of his face in which life survived. Unfortunately the legs began to refuse their service to this bony machine. During the last five or six months that this weakness had been felt, the worthy procurator had nearly become the slave of his wife. The cousin was received with resignation, that was all. M. Coquenard, firm upon his legs, would have declined all relationship with M. Porthos. "Yes, monsieur, we are cousins," said Porthos, without being disconcerted, as he had never reckoned upon being received enthusiastically by the husband. "By the female side, I believe?" said the procurator, maliciously. Porthos did not feel the ridicule of this, and took it for a piece of simplicity, at which he laughed in his large mustache. Mme. Coquenard, who knew that a simple-minded procurator was a very rare variety in the species, smiled a little, and colored a great deal. M Coquenard had, since the arrival of Porthos, frequently cast his eyes with great uneasiness upon a large chest placed in front of his oak desk. Porthos comprehended that this chest, although it did not correspond in shape with that which he had seen in his dreams, must be the blessed coffer, and he congratulated himself that the reality was several feet higher than the dream. M Coquenard did not carry his genealogical investigations any further; but withdrawing his anxious look from the chest and fixing it upon Porthos, he contented himself with saying, "Monsieur our cousin will do us the favor of dining with us once before his departure for the campaign, will he not, Madame Coquenard?" This time Porthos received the blow right in his stomach, and felt it. It appeared likewise that Mme. Coquenard was not less affected by it on her part, for she added, "My cousin will not return if he finds that we do not treat him kindly; but otherwise he has so little time to pass in Paris, and consequently to spare to us, that we must entreat him to give us every instant he can call his own previous to his departure." "Oh, my legs, my poor legs! where are you?" murmured Coquenard, and he tried to smile. This succor, which came to Porthos at the moment in which he was attacked in his gastronomic hopes, inspired much gratitude in the Musketeer toward the procurator's wife. The hour of dinner soon arrived. They passed into the eating room--a large dark room situated opposite the kitchen. The clerks, who, as it appeared, had smelled unusual perfumes in the house, were of military punctuality, and held their stools in hand quite ready to sit down. Their jaws moved preliminarily with fearful threatenings. "Indeed!" thought Porthos, casting a glance at the three hungry clerks--for the errand boy, as might be expected, was not admitted to the honors of the magisterial table, "in my cousin's place, I would not keep such gourmands! They look like shipwrecked sailors who have not eaten for six weeks." M Coquenard entered, pushed along upon his armchair with casters by Mme. Coquenard, whom Porthos assisted in rolling her husband up to the table. He had scarcely entered when he began to agitate his nose and his jaws after the example of his clerks. "Oh, oh!" said he; "here is a soup which is rather inviting." "What the devil can they smell so extraordinary in this soup?" said Porthos, at the sight of a pale liquid, abundant but entirely free from meat, on the surface of which a few crusts swam about as rare as the islands of an archipelago. Mme. Coquenard smiled, and upon a sign from her everyone eagerly took his seat. M Coquenard was served first, then Porthos. Afterward Mme. Coquenard filled her own plate, and distributed the crusts without soup to the impatient clerks. At this moment the door of the dining room unclosed with a creak, and Porthos perceived through the half-open flap the little clerk who, not being allowed to take part in the feast, ate his dry bread in the passage with the double odor of the dining room and kitchen. After the soup the maid brought a boiled fowl--a piece of magnificence which caused the eyes of the diners to dilate in such a manner that they seemed ready to burst. "One may see that you love your family, Madame Coquenard," said the procurator, with a smile that was almost tragic. "You are certainly treating your cousin very handsomely!" The poor fowl was thin, and covered with one of those thick, bristly skins through which the teeth cannot penetrate with all their efforts. The fowl must have been sought for a long time on the perch, to which it had retired to die of old age. "The devil!" thought Porthos, "this is poor work. I respect old age, but I don't much like it boiled or roasted." And he looked round to see if anybody partook of his opinion; but on the contrary, he saw nothing but eager eyes which were devouring, in anticipation, that sublime fowl which was the object of his contempt. Mme. Coquenard drew the dish toward her, skillfully detached the two great black feet, which she placed upon her husband's plate, cut off the neck, which with the head she put on one side for herself, raised the wing for Porthos, and then returned the bird otherwise intact to the servant who had brought it in, who disappeared with it before the Musketeer had time to examine the variations which disappointment produces upon faces, according to the characters and temperaments of those who experience it. In the place of the fowl a dish of haricot beans made its appearance--an enormous dish in which some bones of mutton that at first sight one might have believed to have some meat on them pretended to show themselves. But the clerks were not the dupes of this deceit, and their lugubrious looks settled down into resigned countenances. Mme. Coquenard distributed this dish to the young men with the moderation of a good housewife. The time for wine came. M. Coquenard poured from a very small stone bottle the third of a glass for each of the young men, served himself in about the same proportion, and passed the bottle to Porthos and Mme. Coquenard. The young men filled up their third of a glass with water; then, when they had drunk half the glass, they filled it up again, and continued to do so. This brought them, by the end of the repast, to swallowing a drink which from the color of the ruby had passed to that of a pale topaz. Porthos ate his wing of the fowl timidly, and shuddered when he felt the knee of the procurator's wife under the table, as it came in search of his. He also drank half a glass of this sparingly served wine, and found it to be nothing but that horrible Montreuil--the terror of all expert palates. M Coquenard saw him swallowing this wine undiluted, and sighed deeply. "Will you eat any of these beans, Cousin Porthos?" said Mme. Coquenard, in that tone which says, "Take my advice, don't touch them." "Devil take me if I taste one of them!" murmured Porthos to himself, and then said aloud, "Thank you, my cousin, I am no longer hungry." There was silence. Porthos could hardly keep his countenance. The procurator repeated several times, "Ah, Madame Coquenard! Accept my compliments; your dinner has been a real feast. Lord, how I have eaten!" M Coquenard had eaten his soup, the black feet of the fowl, and the only mutton bone on which there was the least appearance of meat. Porthos fancied they were mystifying him, and began to curl his mustache and knit his eyebrows; but the knee of Mme. Coquenard gently advised him to be patient. This silence and this interruption in serving, which were unintelligible to Porthos, had, on the contrary, a terrible meaning for the clerks. Upon a look from the procurator, accompanied by a smile from Mme. Coquenard, they arose slowly from the table, folded their napkins more slowly still, bowed, and retired. "Go, young men! go and promote digestion by working," said the procurator, gravely. The clerks gone, Mme. Coquenard rose and took from a buffet a piece of cheese, some preserved quinces, and a cake which she had herself made of almonds and honey. M Coquenard knit his eyebrows because there were too many good things. Porthos bit his lips because he saw not the wherewithal to dine. He looked to see if the dish of beans was still there; the dish of beans had disappeared. "A positive feast!" cried M. Coquenard, turning about in his chair, "a real feast, EPULCE EPULORUM. Lucullus dines with Lucullus." Porthos looked at the bottle, which was near him, and hoped that with wine, bread, and cheese, he might make a dinner; but wine was wanting, the bottle was empty. M. and Mme. Coquenard did not seem to observe it. "This is fine!" said Porthos to himself; "I am prettily caught!" He passed his tongue over a spoonful of preserves, and stuck his teeth into the sticky pastry of Mme. Coquenard. "Now," said he, "the sacrifice is consummated! Ah! if I had not the hope of peeping with Madame Coquenard into her husband's chest!" M Coquenard, after the luxuries of such a repast, which he called an excess, felt the want of a siesta. Porthos began to hope that the thing would take place at the present sitting, and in that same locality; but the procurator would listen to nothing, he would be taken to his room, and was not satisfied till he was close to his chest, upon the edge of which, for still greater precaution, he placed his feet. The procurator's wife took Porthos into an adjoining room, and they began to lay the basis of a reconciliation. "You can come and dine three times a week," said Mme. Coquenard. "Thanks, madame!" said Porthos, "but I don't like to abuse your kindness; besides, I must think of my outfit!" "That's true," said the procurator's wife, groaning, "that unfortunate outfit!" "Alas, yes," said Porthos, "it is so." "But of what, then, does the equipment of your company consist, Monsieur Porthos?" "Oh, of many things!" said Porthos. "The Musketeers are, as you know, picked soldiers, and they require many things useless to the Guardsmen or the Swiss." "But yet, detail them to me." "Why, they may amount to--", said Porthos, who preferred discussing the total to taking them one by one. The procurator's wife waited tremblingly. "To how much?" said she. "I hope it does not exceed--" She stopped; speech failed her. "Oh, no," said Porthos, "it does not exceed two thousand five hundred livres! I even think that with economy I could manage it with two thousand livres." "Good God!" cried she, "two thousand livres! Why, that is a fortune!" Porthos made a most significant grimace; Mme. Coquenard understood it. "I wished to know the detail," said she, "because, having many relatives in business, I was almost sure of obtaining things at a hundred per cent less than you would pay yourself." "Ah, ah!" said Porthos, "that is what you meant to say!" "Yes, dear Monsieur Porthos. Thus, for instance, don't you in the first place want a horse?" "Yes, a horse." "Well, then! I can just suit you." "Ah!" said Porthos, brightening, "that's well as regards my horse; but I must have the appointments complete, as they include objects which a Musketeer alone can purchase, and which will not amount, besides, to more than three hundred livres." "Three hundred livres? Then put down three hundred livres," said the procurator's wife, with a sigh. Porthos smiled. It may be remembered that he had the saddle which came from Buckingham. These three hundred livres he reckoned upon putting snugly into his pocket. "Then," continued he, "there is a horse for my lackey, and my valise. As to my arms, it is useless to trouble you about them; I have them." "A horse for your lackey?" resumed the procurator's wife, hesitatingly; "but that is doing things in lordly style, my friend." "Ah, madame!" said Porthos, haughtily; "do you take me for a beggar?" "No; I only thought that a pretty mule makes sometimes as good an appearance as a horse, and it seemed to me that by getting a pretty mule for Mousqueton--" "Well, agreed for a pretty mule," said Porthos; "you are right, I have seen very great Spanish nobles whose whole suite were mounted on mules. But then you understand, Madame Coquenard, a mule with feathers and bells." "Be satisfied," said the procurator's wife. "There remains the valise," added Porthos. "Oh, don't let that disturb you," cried Mme. Coquenard. "My husband has five or six valises; you shall choose the best. There is one in particular which he prefers in his journeys, large enough to hold all the world." "Your valise is then empty?" asked Porthos, with simplicity. "Certainly it is empty," replied the procurator's wife, in real innocence. "Ah, but the valise I want," cried Porthos, "is a well-filled one, my dear." Madame uttered fresh sighs. Moliere had not written his scene in "L'Avare" then. Mme. Coquenard was in the dilemma of Harpagan. Finally, the rest of the equipment was successively debated in the same manner; and the result of the sitting was that the procurator's wife should give eight hundred livres in money, and should furnish the horse and the mule which should have the honor of carrying Porthos and Mousqueton to glory. These conditions being agreed to, Porthos took leave of Mme. Coquenard. The latter wished to detain him by darting certain tender glances; but Porthos urged the commands of duty, and the procurator's wife was obliged to give place to the king. The Musketeer returned home hungry and in bad humor.

Chapter Thirty-Two: A Procurator's Dinner

https://web.archive.org/web/20210127112556/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/three-musketeers/summary/chapter-thirty-two-a-procurators-dinner

It is the evening of the dinner at the lawyer's house and Porthos is looking forward to this meal. He dreams of being welcomed as a member of the family and eating a delicious home-cooked meal. As he approaches the house, however, his dreams bear no resemblance to reality. The house is dingy and the kitchen lacks the hustle and bustle indicating that a good meal is being prepared. He meets the old lawyer, who is so old his legs no longer function. The man glances frequently at a large chest, which presumably contains all his money. Dinner is disgusting and stingy, although the lawyer remarks over and over again that it's a magnificent repast and his wife is really spoiling her cousin. After dinner, Madame Coquenard and Porthos step into another room for a chat. She invites him to dinner three times a week, which he respectfully declines. He brings up the issue of getting outfitted for war. They enter into negotiations: she wants to know his exact requirements because she may be able to get him a better deal on a horse, for instance. Porthos would prefer, for obvious reasons, to get a lump sum of money. They finally agree that she will give him eight hundred livres and then obtain a horse and mule. The two part amicably. Porthos returns home hungry.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/1257-chapters/33.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Three Musketeers/section_33_part_0.txt

The Three Musketeers.chapter 33

chapter 33: soubrette and mistress

{"name": "Chapter Thirty-Three: Soubrette and Mistress", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210127112556/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/three-musketeers/summary/chapter-thirty-three-soubrette-and-mistress", "summary": "\"Soubrette\" refers to a young and pretty lady's maid--that would be Milady's maid. D'Artagnan continues to visit Milady every night and grows more deeply in love with her. Milady's maid, Kitty, continues to brush past him after every visit. Finally, one night on his way in to see Milady Kitty accosts him and tells him that they need to talk. They go to her room. Kitty tells D'Artagnan that Milady doesn't really love him. D'Artagnan demands proof. Kitty hands him a note addressed to the Comte de Wardes. He tears it open: in no uncertain terms, Milady is telling the Comte to court her. D'Artagnan immediately wants revenge. He asks Kitty if she knows what it's like to be in love, and whether she will help him. Kitty points out that a) Milady will never love him, and b) she loves him. D'Artagnan kisses her. He realizes that he has a lot to gain by her love. He can intercept Milady's letters, for instance. He tells Kitty that he loves her, and, as proof, he's going to spend the evening with her instead of Milady. Finally, midnight strikes and Milady calls for Kitty to help her get ready for bed. Kitty tells D'Artagnan to leave, but he decides to hide in the closet. D'Artagnan stays there to listen to Milady and Kitty talking. First, Milady scolds Kitty. Then, she brags about how she has complete control over D'Artagnan. She complains that she hates him for making her look bad to the Cardinal and for sparing Lord de Winter's life. Had Lord de Winter died, Milady would have been very rich indeed. D'Artagnan listens and realizes that Milady is truly a monster. Milady tells Kitty to try and get a response from Comte de Wardes this time. Kitty returns and D'Artagnan comes out of the closet. He kisses Kitty. He wants to avenge himself of Milady. D'Artagnan continues to visit Milady nightly, but he soon develops a plan. Milady gives Kitty a third note for the Comte de Wardes. D'Artagnan makes Kitty promise to give him the letter. She does so. This time the letter is much more explicit. Milady declares her love for the Comte and says this is his absolute last chance to do anything about it. Kitty worries that D'Artagnan is still in love with Milady, but he tries to allay those fears. He tells her that he wants revenge, that's all. He forges a reply to Milady apologizing for not having written sooner and requesting a meeting at eleven in the evening. He signs it as the Comte de Wardes. Although D'Artagnan understands that Milady is a monster, he still feels an incredible passion for her. He hands Kitty the note, who suspects that D'Artagnan doesn't love her. He promises Kitty that he will cut his visit short tomorrow in order to spend time with her.", "analysis": ""}

33 SOUBRETTE AND MISTRESS Meantime, as we have said, despite the cries of his conscience and the wise counsels of Athos, d'Artagnan became hourly more in love with Milady. Thus he never failed to pay his diurnal court to her; and the self-satisfied Gascon was convinced that sooner or later she could not fail to respond. One day, when he arrived with his head in the air, and as light at heart as a man who awaits a shower of gold, he found the SOUBRETTE under the gateway of the hotel; but this time the pretty Kitty was not contented with touching him as he passed, she took him gently by the hand. "Good!" thought d'Artagnan, "She is charged with some message for me from her mistress; she is about to appoint some rendezvous of which she had not courage to speak." And he looked down at the pretty girl with the most triumphant air imaginable. "I wish to say three words to you, Monsieur Chevalier," stammered the SOUBRETTE. "Speak, my child, speak," said d'Artagnan; "I listen." "Here? Impossible! That which I have to say is too long, and above all, too secret." "Well, what is to be done?" "If Monsieur Chevalier would follow me?" said Kitty, timidly. "Where you please, my dear child." "Come, then." And Kitty, who had not let go the hand of d'Artagnan, led him up a little dark, winding staircase, and after ascending about fifteen steps, opened a door. "Come in here, Monsieur Chevalier," said she; "here we shall be alone, and can talk." "And whose room is this, my dear child?" "It is mine, Monsieur Chevalier; it communicates with my mistress's by that door. But you need not fear. She will not hear what we say; she never goes to bed before midnight." D'Artagnan cast a glance around him. The little apartment was charming for its taste and neatness; but in spite of himself, his eyes were directed to that door which Kitty said led to Milady's chamber. Kitty guessed what was passing in the mind of the young man, and heaved a deep sigh. "You love my mistress, then, very dearly, Monsieur Chevalier?" said she. "Oh, more than I can say, Kitty! I am mad for her!" Kitty breathed a second sigh. "Alas, monsieur," said she, "that is too bad." "What the devil do you see so bad in it?" said d'Artagnan. "Because, monsieur," replied Kitty, "my mistress loves you not at all." "HEIN!" said d'Artagnan, "can she have charged you to tell me so?" "Oh, no, monsieur; but out of the regard I have for you, I have taken the resolution to tell you so." "Much obliged, my dear Kitty; but for the intention only--for the information, you must agree, is not likely to be at all agreeable." "That is to say, you don't believe what I have told you; is it not so?" "We have always some difficulty in believing such things, my pretty dear, were it only from self-love." "Then you don't believe me?" "I confess that unless you deign to give me some proof of what you advance--" "What do you think of this?" Kitty drew a little note from her bosom. "For me?" said d'Artagnan, seizing the letter. "No; for another." "For another?" "Yes." "His name; his name!" cried d'Artagnan. "Read the address." "Monsieur El Comte de Wardes." The remembrance of the scene at St. Germain presented itself to the mind of the presumptuous Gascon. As quick as thought, he tore open the letter, in spite of the cry which Kitty uttered on seeing what he was going to do, or rather, what he was doing. "Oh, good Lord, Monsieur Chevalier," said she, "what are you doing?" "I?" said d'Artagnan; "nothing," and he read, "You have not answered my first note. Are you indisposed, or have you forgotten the glances you favored me with at the ball of Mme. de Guise? You have an opportunity now, Count; do not allow it to escape." d'Artagnan became very pale; he was wounded in his SELF-love: he thought that it was in his LOVE. "Poor dear Monsieur d'Artagnan," said Kitty, in a voice full of compassion, and pressing anew the young man's hand. "You pity me, little one?" said d'Artagnan. "Oh, yes, and with all my heart; for I know what it is to be in love." "You know what it is to be in love?" said d'Artagnan, looking at her for the first time with much attention. "Alas, yes." "Well, then, instead of pitying me, you would do much better to assist me in avenging myself on your mistress." "And what sort of revenge would you take?" "I would triumph over her, and supplant my rival." "I will never help you in that, Monsieur Chevalier," said Kitty, warmly. "And why not?" demanded d'Artagnan. "For two reasons." "What ones?" "The first is that my mistress will never love you." "How do you know that?" "You have cut her to the heart." "I? In what can I have offended her--I who ever since I have known her have lived at her feet like a slave? Speak, I beg you!" "I will never confess that but to the man--who should read to the bottom of my soul!" D'Artagnan looked at Kitty for the second time. The young girl had freshness and beauty which many duchesses would have purchased with their coronets. "Kitty," said he, "I will read to the bottom of your soul when-ever you like; don't let that disturb you." And he gave her a kiss at which the poor girl became as red as a cherry. "Oh, no," said Kitty, "it is not me you love! It is my mistress you love; you told me so just now." "And does that hinder you from letting me know the second reason?" "The second reason, Monsieur the Chevalier," replied Kitty, emboldened by the kiss in the first place, and still further by the expression of the eyes of the young man, "is that in love, everyone for herself!" Then only d'Artagnan remembered the languishing glances of Kitty, her constantly meeting him in the antechamber, the corridor, or on the stairs, those touches of the hand every time she met him, and her deep sighs; but absorbed by his desire to please the great lady, he had disdained the soubrette. He whose game is the eagle takes no heed of the sparrow. But this time our Gascon saw at a glance all the advantage to be derived from the love which Kitty had just confessed so innocently, or so boldly: the interception of letters addressed to the Comte de Wardes, news on the spot, entrance at all hours into Kitty's chamber, which was contiguous to her mistress's. The perfidious deceiver was, as may plainly be perceived, already sacrificing, in intention, the poor girl in order to obtain Milady, willy-nilly. "Well," said he to the young girl, "are you willing, my dear Kitty, that I should give you a proof of that love which you doubt?" "What love?" asked the young girl. "Of that which I am ready to feel toward you." "And what is that proof?" "Are you willing that I should this evening pass with you the time I generally spend with your mistress?" "Oh, yes," said Kitty, clapping her hands, "very willing." "Well, then, come here, my dear," said d'Artagnan, establishing himself in an easy chair; "come, and let me tell you that you are the prettiest SOUBRETTE I ever saw!" And he did tell her so much, and so well, that the poor girl, who asked nothing better than to believe him, did believe him. Nevertheless, to d'Artagnan's great astonishment, the pretty Kitty defended herself resolutely. Time passes quickly when it is passed in attacks and defenses. Midnight sounded, and almost at the same time the bell was rung in Milady's chamber. "Good God," cried Kitty, "there is my mistress calling me! Go; go directly!" D'Artagnan rose, took his hat, as if it had been his intention to obey, then, opening quickly the door of a large closet instead of that leading to the staircase, he buried himself amid the robes and dressing gowns of Milady. "What are you doing?" cried Kitty. D'Artagnan, who had secured the key, shut himself up in the closet without reply. "Well," cried Milady, in a sharp voice. "Are you asleep, that you don't answer when I ring?" And d'Artagnan heard the door of communication opened violently. "Here am I, Milady, here am I!" cried Kitty, springing forward to meet her mistress. Both went into the bedroom, and as the door of communication remained open, d'Artagnan could hear Milady for some time scolding her maid. She was at length appeased, and the conversation turned upon him while Kitty was assisting her mistress. "Well," said Milady, "I have not seen our Gascon this evening." "What, Milady! has he not come?" said Kitty. "Can he be inconstant before being happy?" "Oh, no; he must have been prevented by Monsieur de Treville or Monsieur Dessessart. I understand my game, Kitty; I have this one safe." "What will you do with him, madame?" "What will I do with him? Be easy, Kitty, there is something between that man and me that he is quite ignorant of: he nearly made me lose my credit with his Eminence. Oh, I will be revenged!" "I believed that Madame loved him." "I love him? I detest him! An idiot, who held the life of Lord de Winter in his hands and did not kill him, by which I missed three hundred thousand livres' income." "That's true," said Kitty; "your son was the only heir of his uncle, and until his majority you would have had the enjoyment of his fortune." D'Artagnan shuddered to the marrow at hearing this suave creature reproach him, with that sharp voice which she took such pains to conceal in conversation, for not having killed a man whom he had seen load her with kindnesses. "For all this," continued Milady, "I should long ago have revenged myself on him if, and I don't know why, the cardinal had not requested me to conciliate him." "Oh, yes; but Madame has not conciliated that little woman he was so fond of." "What, the mercer's wife of the Rue des Fossoyeurs? Has he not already forgotten she ever existed? Fine vengeance that, on my faith!" A cold sweat broke from d'Artagnan's brow. Why, this woman was a monster! He resumed his listening, but unfortunately the toilet was finished. "That will do," said Milady; "go into your own room, and tomorrow endeavor again to get me an answer to the letter I gave you." "For Monsieur de Wardes?" said Kitty. "To be sure; for Monsieur de Wardes." "Now, there is one," said Kitty, "who appears to me quite a different sort of a man from that poor Monsieur d'Artagnan." "Go to bed, mademoiselle," said Milady; "I don't like comments." D'Artagnan heard the door close; then the noise of two bolts by which Milady fastened herself in. On her side, but as softly as possible, Kitty turned the key of the lock, and then d'Artagnan opened the closet door. "Oh, good Lord!" said Kitty, in a low voice, "what is the matter with you? How pale you are!" "The abominable creature," murmured d'Artagnan. "Silence, silence, begone!" said Kitty. "There is nothing but a wainscot between my chamber and Milady's; every word that is uttered in one can be heard in the other." "That's exactly the reason I won't go," said d'Artagnan. "What!" said Kitty, blushing. "Or, at least, I will go--later." He drew Kitty to him. She had the less motive to resist, resistance would make so much noise. Therefore Kitty surrendered. It was a movement of vengeance upon Milady. D'Artagnan believed it right to say that vengeance is the pleasure of the gods. With a little more heart, he might have been contented with this new conquest; but the principal features of his character were ambition and pride. It must, however, be confessed in his justification that the first use he made of his influence over Kitty was to try and find out what had become of Mme. Bonacieux; but the poor girl swore upon the crucifix to d'Artagnan that she was entirely ignorant on that head, her mistress never admitting her into half her secrets--only she believed she could say she was not dead. As to the cause which was near making Milady lose her credit with the cardinal, Kitty knew nothing about it; but this time d'Artagnan was better informed than she was. As he had seen Milady on board a vessel at the moment he was leaving England, he suspected that it was, almost without a doubt, on account of the diamond studs. But what was clearest in all this was that the true hatred, the profound hatred, the inveterate hatred of Milady, was increased by his not having killed her brother-in-law. D'Artagnan came the next day to Milady's, and finding her in a very ill-humor, had no doubt that it was lack of an answer from M. de Wardes that provoked her thus. Kitty came in, but Milady was very cross with her. The poor girl ventured a glance at d'Artagnan which said, "See how I suffer on your account!" Toward the end of the evening, however, the beautiful lioness became milder; she smilingly listened to the soft speeches of d'Artagnan, and even gave him her hand to kiss. D'Artagnan departed, scarcely knowing what to think, but as he was a youth who did not easily lose his head, while continuing to pay his court to Milady, he had framed a little plan in his mind. He found Kitty at the gate, and, as on the preceding evening, went up to her chamber. Kitty had been accused of negligence and severely scolded. Milady could not at all comprehend the silence of the Comte de Wardes, and she ordered Kitty to come at nine o'clock in the morning to take a third letter. D'Artagnan made Kitty promise to bring him that letter on the following morning. The poor girl promised all her lover desired; she was mad. Things passed as on the night before. D'Artagnan concealed himself in his closet; Milady called, undressed, sent away Kitty, and shut the door. As the night before, d'Artagnan did not return home till five o'clock in the morning. At eleven o'clock Kitty came to him. She held in her hand a fresh billet from Milady. This time the poor girl did not even argue with d'Artagnan; she gave it to him at once. She belonged body and soul to her handsome soldier. D'Artagnan opened the letter and read as follows: This is the third time I have written to you to tell you that I love you. Beware that I do not write to you a fourth time to tell you that I detest you. If you repent of the manner in which you have acted toward me, the young girl who brings you this will tell you how a man of spirit may obtain his pardon. d'Artagnan colored and grew pale several times in reading this billet. "Oh, you love her still," said Kitty, who had not taken her eyes off the young man's countenance for an instant. "No, Kitty, you are mistaken. I do not love her, but I will avenge myself for her contempt." "Oh, yes, I know what sort of vengeance! You told me that!" "What matters it to you, Kitty? You know it is you alone whom I love." "How can I know that?" "By the scorn I will throw upon her." D'Artagnan took a pen and wrote: Madame, Until the present moment I could not believe that it was to me your first two letters were addressed, so unworthy did I feel myself of such an honor; besides, I was so seriously indisposed that I could not in any case have replied to them. But now I am forced to believe in the excess of your kindness, since not only your letter but your servant assures me that I have the good fortune to be beloved by you. She has no occasion to teach me the way in which a man of spirit may obtain his pardon. I will come and ask mine at eleven o'clock this evening. To delay it a single day would be in my eyes now to commit a fresh offense. From him whom you have rendered the happiest of men, Comte de Wardes This note was in the first place a forgery; it was likewise an indelicacy. It was even, according to our present manners, something like an infamous action; but at that period people did not manage affairs as they do today. Besides, d'Artagnan from her own admission knew Milady culpable of treachery in matters more important, and could entertain no respect for her. And yet, notwithstanding this want of respect, he felt an uncontrollable passion for this woman boiling in his veins--passion drunk with contempt; but passion or thirst, as the reader pleases. D'Artagnan's plan was very simple. By Kitty's chamber he could gain that of her mistress. He would take advantage of the first moment of surprise, shame, and terror, to triumph over her. He might fail, but something must be left to chance. In eight days the campaign would open, and he would be compelled to leave Paris; d'Artagnan had no time for a prolonged love siege. "There," said the young man, handing Kitty the letter sealed; "give that to Milady. It is the count's reply." Poor Kitty became as pale as death; she suspected what the letter contained. "Listen, my dear girl," said d'Artagnan; "you cannot but perceive that all this must end, some way or other. Milady may discover that you gave the first billet to my lackey instead of to the count's; that it is I who have opened the others which ought to have been opened by de Wardes. Milady will then turn you out of doors, and you know she is not the woman to limit her vengeance." "Alas!" said Kitty, "for whom have I exposed myself to all that?" "For me, I well know, my sweet girl," said d'Artagnan. "But I am grateful, I swear to you." "But what does this note contain?" "Milady will tell you." "Ah, you do not love me!" cried Kitty, "and I am very wretched." To this reproach there is always one response which deludes women. D'Artagnan replied in such a manner that Kitty remained in her great delusion. Although she cried freely before deciding to transmit the letter to her mistress, she did at last so decide, which was all d'Artagnan wished. Finally he promised that he would leave her mistress's presence at an early hour that evening, and that when he left the mistress he would ascend with the maid. This promise completed poor Kitty's consolation.

Chapter Thirty-Three: Soubrette and Mistress

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"Soubrette" refers to a young and pretty lady's maid--that would be Milady's maid. D'Artagnan continues to visit Milady every night and grows more deeply in love with her. Milady's maid, Kitty, continues to brush past him after every visit. Finally, one night on his way in to see Milady Kitty accosts him and tells him that they need to talk. They go to her room. Kitty tells D'Artagnan that Milady doesn't really love him. D'Artagnan demands proof. Kitty hands him a note addressed to the Comte de Wardes. He tears it open: in no uncertain terms, Milady is telling the Comte to court her. D'Artagnan immediately wants revenge. He asks Kitty if she knows what it's like to be in love, and whether she will help him. Kitty points out that a) Milady will never love him, and b) she loves him. D'Artagnan kisses her. He realizes that he has a lot to gain by her love. He can intercept Milady's letters, for instance. He tells Kitty that he loves her, and, as proof, he's going to spend the evening with her instead of Milady. Finally, midnight strikes and Milady calls for Kitty to help her get ready for bed. Kitty tells D'Artagnan to leave, but he decides to hide in the closet. D'Artagnan stays there to listen to Milady and Kitty talking. First, Milady scolds Kitty. Then, she brags about how she has complete control over D'Artagnan. She complains that she hates him for making her look bad to the Cardinal and for sparing Lord de Winter's life. Had Lord de Winter died, Milady would have been very rich indeed. D'Artagnan listens and realizes that Milady is truly a monster. Milady tells Kitty to try and get a response from Comte de Wardes this time. Kitty returns and D'Artagnan comes out of the closet. He kisses Kitty. He wants to avenge himself of Milady. D'Artagnan continues to visit Milady nightly, but he soon develops a plan. Milady gives Kitty a third note for the Comte de Wardes. D'Artagnan makes Kitty promise to give him the letter. She does so. This time the letter is much more explicit. Milady declares her love for the Comte and says this is his absolute last chance to do anything about it. Kitty worries that D'Artagnan is still in love with Milady, but he tries to allay those fears. He tells her that he wants revenge, that's all. He forges a reply to Milady apologizing for not having written sooner and requesting a meeting at eleven in the evening. He signs it as the Comte de Wardes. Although D'Artagnan understands that Milady is a monster, he still feels an incredible passion for her. He hands Kitty the note, who suspects that D'Artagnan doesn't love her. He promises Kitty that he will cut his visit short tomorrow in order to spend time with her.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/1257-chapters/34.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Three Musketeers/section_34_part_0.txt

The Three Musketeers.chapter 34

chapter 34: in which the equipment of aramis and porthos is treated of

{"name": "Chapter Thirty-Four: In Which the Equipment of Aramis and Porthos is Treated Of", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210127112556/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/three-musketeers/summary/chapter-thirty-four-in-which-the-equipment-of-aramis-and-porthos-is-treated-of", "summary": "Since the four have been searching for a means to equip themselves, they haven't been spending much time together. They've been meeting only about once a week. When they meet this week, Porthos looks tranquil, D'Artagnan looks hopeful, Aramis looks uneasy, and Athos looks careless. Mousqueton interrupts their meeting and asks Porthos to come check the equipment. Soon after, Bazin arrives for Aramis, saying that a beggar is at Aramis's house asking to see him. Aramis is reluctant until he learns the beggar is from Tours. Athos and D'Artagnan are left alone. Athos kids D'Artagnan about his method of rescuing Madame Bonacieux. The narrator then turns our attention to Aramis, who finds the beggar waiting. The beggar asks to be shown a certain handkerchief. Aramis produces it, and in turn, the beggar gives him a letter and one hundred and fifty Spanish double pistoles. The letter is from Aramis's mistress, who asks Aramis to take the money and tells him that the beggar is really a Spanish count in disguise. Aramis is overcome with joy and kisses the letter over and over again. D'Artagnan shows up at the door; Aramis tells him that the money is from a publisher who has bought one of his poems. The two friends go over to Athos's for dinner. Afterwards, they find Porthos with a mule and a horse. The horse is none other than the ridiculous yellow horse that D'Artagnan used to ride into Paris. Mousqueton believes that a trick is being played on them by the husband of the lawyer. He and Porthos return the animals. Madame Coquenard is confused, but Porthos soon visits and explains that the animals are not suitable. The Musketeer says he will find more generous friends, and the woman's jealousy is inflamed. She promises that the two of them can talk about money later that evening.", "analysis": ""}

34 IN WHICH THE EQUIPMENT OF ARAMIS AND PORTHOS IS TREATED OF Since the four friends had been each in search of his equipments, there had been no fixed meeting between them. They dined apart from one another, wherever they might happen to be, or rather where they could. Duty likewise on its part took a portion of that precious time which was gliding away so rapidly--only they had agreed to meet once a week, about one o'clock, at the residence of Athos, seeing that he, in agreement with the vow he had formed, did not pass over the threshold of his door. This day of reunion was the same day as that on which Kitty came to find d'Artagnan. Soon as Kitty left him, d'Artagnan directed his steps toward the Rue Ferou. He found Athos and Aramis philosophizing. Aramis had some slight inclination to resume the cassock. Athos, according to his system, neither encouraged nor dissuaded him. Athos believed that everyone should be left to his own free will. He never gave advice but when it was asked, and even then he required to be asked twice. "People, in general," he said, "only ask advice not to follow it; or if they do follow it, it is for the sake of having someone to blame for having given it." Porthos arrived a minute after d'Artagnan. The four friends were reunited. The four countenances expressed four different feelings: that of Porthos, tranquillity; that of d'Artagnan, hope; that of Aramis, uneasiness; that of Athos, carelessness. At the end of a moment's conversation, in which Porthos hinted that a lady of elevated rank had condescended to relieve him from his embarrassment, Mousqueton entered. He came to request his master to return to his lodgings, where his presence was urgent, as he piteously said. "Is it my equipment?" "Yes and no," replied Mousqueton. "Well, but can't you speak?" "Come, monsieur." Porthos rose, saluted his friends, and followed Mousqueton. An instant after, Bazin made his appearance at the door. "What do you want with me, my friend?" said Aramis, with that mildness of language which was observable in him every time that his ideas were directed toward the Church. "A man wishes to see Monsieur at home," replied Bazin. "A man! What man?" "A mendicant." "Give him alms, Bazin, and bid him pray for a poor sinner." "This mendicant insists upon speaking to you, and pretends that you will be very glad to see him." "Has he sent no particular message for me?" "Yes. If Monsieur Aramis hesitates to come," he said, "tell him I am from Tours." "From Tours!" cried Aramis. "A thousand pardons, gentlemen; but no doubt this man brings me the news I expected." And rising also, he went off at a quick pace. There remained Athos and d'Artagnan. "I believe these fellows have managed their business. What do you think, d'Artagnan?" said Athos. "I know that Porthos was in a fair way," replied d'Artagnan; "and as to Aramis to tell you the truth, I have never been seriously uneasy on his account. But you, my dear Athos--you, who so generously distributed the Englishman's pistoles, which were our legitimate property--what do you mean to do?" "I am satisfied with having killed that fellow, my boy, seeing that it is blessed bread to kill an Englishman; but if I had pocketed his pistoles, they would have weighed me down like a remorse." "Go to, my dear Athos; you have truly inconceivable ideas." "Let it pass. What do you think of Monsieur de Treville telling me, when he did me the honor to call upon me yesterday, that you associated with the suspected English, whom the cardinal protects?" "That is to say, I visit an Englishwoman--the one I named." "Oh, ay! the fair woman on whose account I gave you advice, which naturally you took care not to adopt." "I gave you my reasons." "Yes; you look there for your outfit, I think you said." "Not at all. I have acquired certain knowledge that that woman was concerned in the abduction of Madame Bonacieux." "Yes, I understand now: to find one woman, you court another. It is the longest road, but certainly the most amusing." D'Artagnan was on the point of telling Athos all; but one consideration restrained him. Athos was a gentleman, punctilious in points of honor; and there were in the plan which our lover had devised for Milady, he was sure, certain things that would not obtain the assent of this Puritan. He was therefore silent; and as Athos was the least inquisitive of any man on earth, d'Artagnan's confidence stopped there. We will therefore leave the two friends, who had nothing important to say to each other, and follow Aramis. Upon being informed that the person who wanted to speak to him came from Tours, we have seen with what rapidity the young man followed, or rather went before, Bazin; he ran without stopping from the Rue Ferou to the Rue de Vaugirard. On entering he found a man of short stature and intelligent eyes, but covered with rags. "You have asked for me?" said the Musketeer. "I wish to speak with Monsieur Aramis. Is that your name, monsieur?" "My very own. You have brought me something?" "Yes, if you show me a certain embroidered handkerchief." "Here it is," said Aramis, taking a small key from his breast and opening a little ebony box inlaid with mother of pearl, "here it is. Look." "That is right," replied the mendicant; "dismiss your lackey." In fact, Bazin, curious to know what the mendicant could want with his master, kept pace with him as well as he could, and arrived almost at the same time he did; but his quickness was not of much use to him. At the hint from the mendicant his master made him a sign to retire, and he was obliged to obey. Bazin gone, the mendicant cast a rapid glance around him in order to be sure that nobody could either see or hear him, and opening his ragged vest, badly held together by a leather strap, he began to rip the upper part of his doublet, from which he drew a letter. Aramis uttered a cry of joy at the sight of the seal, kissed the superscription with an almost religious respect, and opened the epistle, which contained what follows: "My Friend, it is the will of fate that we should be still for some time separated; but the delightful days of youth are not lost beyond return. Perform your duty in camp; I will do mine elsewhere. Accept that which the bearer brings you; make the campaign like a handsome true gentleman, and think of me, who kisses tenderly your black eyes. "Adieu; or rather, AU REVOIR." The mendicant continued to rip his garments; and drew from amid his rags a hundred and fifty Spanish double pistoles, which he laid down on the table; then he opened the door, bowed, and went out before the young man, stupefied by his letter, had ventured to address a word to him. Aramis then reperused the letter, and perceived a postscript: PS. You may behave politely to the bearer, who is a count and a grandee of Spain! "Golden dreams!" cried Aramis. "Oh, beautiful life! Yes, we are young; yes, we shall yet have happy days! My love, my blood, my life! all, all, all, are thine, my adored mistress!" And he kissed the letter with passion, without even vouchsafing a look at the gold which sparkled on the table. Bazin scratched at the door, and as Aramis had no longer any reason to exclude him, he bade him come in. Bazin was stupefied at the sight of the gold, and forgot that he came to announce d'Artagnan, who, curious to know who the mendicant could be, came to Aramis on leaving Athos. Now, as d'Artagnan used no ceremony with Aramis, seeing that Bazin forgot to announce him, he announced himself. "The devil! my dear Aramis," said d'Artagnan, "if these are the prunes that are sent to you from Tours, I beg you will make my compliments to the gardener who gathers them." "You are mistaken, friend d'Artagnan," said Aramis, always on his guard; "this is from my publisher, who has just sent me the price of that poem in one-syllable verse which I began yonder." "Ah, indeed," said d'Artagnan. "Well, your publisher is very generous, my dear Aramis, that's all I can say." "How, monsieur?" cried Bazin, "a poem sell so dear as that! It is incredible! Oh, monsieur, you can write as much as you like; you may become equal to Monsieur de Voiture and Monsieur de Benserade. I like that. A poet is as good as an abbe. Ah! Monsieur Aramis, become a poet, I beg of you." "Bazin, my friend," said Aramis, "I believe you meddle with my conversation." Bazin perceived he was wrong; he bowed and went out. "Ah!" said d'Artagnan with a smile, "you sell your productions at their weight in gold. You are very fortunate, my friend; but take care or you will lose that letter which is peeping from your doublet, and which also comes, no doubt, from your publisher." Aramis blushed to the eyes, crammed in the letter, and re-buttoned his doublet. "My dear d'Artagnan," said he, "if you please, we will join our friends; as I am rich, we will today begin to dine together again, expecting that you will be rich in your turn." "My faith!" said d'Artagnan, with great pleasure. "It is long since we have had a good dinner; and I, for my part, have a somewhat hazardous expedition for this evening, and shall not be sorry, I confess, to fortify myself with a few glasses of good old Burgundy." "Agreed, as to the old Burgundy; I have no objection to that," said Aramis, from whom the letter and the gold had removed, as by magic, his ideas of conversion. And having put three or four double pistoles into his pocket to answer the needs of the moment, he placed the others in the ebony box, inlaid with mother of pearl, in which was the famous handkerchief which served him as a talisman. The two friends repaired to Athos's, and he, faithful to his vow of not going out, took upon him to order dinner to be brought to them. As he was perfectly acquainted with the details of gastronomy, d'Artagnan and Aramis made no objection to abandoning this important care to him. They went to find Porthos, and at the corner of the Rue Bac met Mousqueton, who, with a most pitiable air, was driving before him a mule and a horse. D'Artagnan uttered a cry of surprise, which was not quite free from joy. "Ah, my yellow horse," cried he. "Aramis, look at that horse!" "Oh, the frightful brute!" said Aramis. "Ah, my dear," replied d'Artagnan, "upon that very horse I came to Paris." "What, does Monsieur know this horse?" said Mousqueton. "It is of an original color," said Aramis; "I never saw one with such a hide in my life." "I can well believe it," replied d'Artagnan, "and that was why I got three crowns for him. It must have been for his hide, for, CERTES, the carcass is not worth eighteen livres. But how did this horse come into your hands, Mousqueton?" "Pray," said the lackey, "say nothing about it, monsieur; it is a frightful trick of the husband of our duchess!" "How is that, Mousqueton?" "Why, we are looked upon with a rather favorable eye by a lady of quality, the Duchesse de--but, your pardon; my master has commanded me to be discreet. She had forced us to accept a little souvenir, a magnificent Spanish GENET and an Andalusian mule, which were beautiful to look upon. The husband heard of the affair; on their way he confiscated the two magnificent beasts which were being sent to us, and substituted these horrible animals." "Which you are taking back to him?" said d'Artagnan. "Exactly!" replied Mousqueton. "You may well believe that we will not accept such steeds as these in exchange for those which had been promised to us." "No, PARDIEU; though I should like to have seen Porthos on my yellow horse. That would give me an idea of how I looked when I arrived in Paris. But don't let us hinder you, Mousqueton; go and perform your master's orders. Is he at home?" "Yes, monsieur," said Mousqueton, "but in a very ill humor. Get up!" He continued his way toward the Quai des Grands Augustins, while the two friends went to ring at the bell of the unfortunate Porthos. He, having seen them crossing the yard, took care not to answer, and they rang in vain. Meanwhile Mousqueton continued on his way, and crossing the Pont Neuf, still driving the two sorry animals before him, he reached the Rue aux Ours. Arrived there, he fastened, according to the orders of his master, both horse and mule to the knocker of the procurator's door; then, without taking any thought for their future, he returned to Porthos, and told him that his commission was completed. In a short time the two unfortunate beasts, who had not eaten anything since the morning, made such a noise in raising and letting fall the knocker that the procurator ordered his errand boy to go and inquire in the neighborhood to whom this horse and mule belonged. Mme. Coquenard recognized her present, and could not at first comprehend this restitution; but the visit of Porthos soon enlightened her. The anger which fired the eyes of the Musketeer, in spite of his efforts to suppress it, terrified his sensitive inamorata. In fact, Mousqueton had not concealed from his master that he had met d'Artagnan and Aramis, and that d'Artagnan in the yellow horse had recognized the Bearnese pony upon which he had come to Paris, and which he had sold for three crowns. Porthos went away after having appointed a meeting with the procurator's wife in the cloister of St. Magloire. The procurator, seeing he was going, invited him to dinner--an invitation which the Musketeer refused with a majestic air. Mme. Coquenard repaired trembling to the cloister of St. Magloire, for she guessed the reproaches that awaited her there; but she was fascinated by the lofty airs of Porthos. All that which a man wounded in his self-love could let fall in the shape of imprecations and reproaches upon the head of a woman Porthos let fall upon the bowed head of the procurator's wife. "Alas," said she, "I did all for the best! One of our clients is a horsedealer; he owes money to the office, and is backward in his pay. I took the mule and the horse for what he owed us; he assured me that they were two noble steeds." "Well, madame," said Porthos, "if he owed you more than five crowns, your horsedealer is a thief." "There is no harm in trying to buy things cheap, Monsieur Porthos," said the procurator's wife, seeking to excuse herself. "No, madame; but they who so assiduously try to buy things cheap ought to permit others to seek more generous friends." And Porthos, turning on his heel, made a step to retire. "Monsieur Porthos! Monsieur Porthos!" cried the procurator's wife. "I have been wrong; I see it. I ought not to have driven a bargain when it was to equip a cavalier like you." Porthos, without reply, retreated a second step. The procurator's wife fancied she saw him in a brilliant cloud, all surrounded by duchesses and marchionesses, who cast bags of money at his feet. "Stop, in the name of heaven, Monsieur Porthos!" cried she. "Stop, and let us talk." "Talking with you brings me misfortune," said Porthos. "But, tell me, what do you ask?" "Nothing; for that amounts to the same thing as if I asked you for something." The procurator's wife hung upon the arm of Porthos, and in the violence of her grief she cried out, "Monsieur Porthos, I am ignorant of all such matters! How should I know what a horse is? How should I know what horse furniture is?" "You should have left it to me, then, madame, who know what they are; but you wished to be frugal, and consequently to lend at usury." "It was wrong, Monsieur Porthos; but I will repair that wrong, upon my word of honor." "How so?" asked the Musketeer. "Listen. This evening M. Coquenard is going to the house of the Due de Chaulnes, who has sent for him. It is for a consultation, which will last three hours at least. Come! We shall be alone, and can make up our accounts." "In good time. Now you talk, my dear." "You pardon me?" "We shall see," said Porthos, majestically; and the two separated saying, "Till this evening." "The devil!" thought Porthos, as he walked away, "it appears I am getting nearer to Monsieur Coquenard's strongbox at last."

Chapter Thirty-Four: In Which the Equipment of Aramis and Porthos is Treated Of

https://web.archive.org/web/20210127112556/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/three-musketeers/summary/chapter-thirty-four-in-which-the-equipment-of-aramis-and-porthos-is-treated-of

Since the four have been searching for a means to equip themselves, they haven't been spending much time together. They've been meeting only about once a week. When they meet this week, Porthos looks tranquil, D'Artagnan looks hopeful, Aramis looks uneasy, and Athos looks careless. Mousqueton interrupts their meeting and asks Porthos to come check the equipment. Soon after, Bazin arrives for Aramis, saying that a beggar is at Aramis's house asking to see him. Aramis is reluctant until he learns the beggar is from Tours. Athos and D'Artagnan are left alone. Athos kids D'Artagnan about his method of rescuing Madame Bonacieux. The narrator then turns our attention to Aramis, who finds the beggar waiting. The beggar asks to be shown a certain handkerchief. Aramis produces it, and in turn, the beggar gives him a letter and one hundred and fifty Spanish double pistoles. The letter is from Aramis's mistress, who asks Aramis to take the money and tells him that the beggar is really a Spanish count in disguise. Aramis is overcome with joy and kisses the letter over and over again. D'Artagnan shows up at the door; Aramis tells him that the money is from a publisher who has bought one of his poems. The two friends go over to Athos's for dinner. Afterwards, they find Porthos with a mule and a horse. The horse is none other than the ridiculous yellow horse that D'Artagnan used to ride into Paris. Mousqueton believes that a trick is being played on them by the husband of the lawyer. He and Porthos return the animals. Madame Coquenard is confused, but Porthos soon visits and explains that the animals are not suitable. The Musketeer says he will find more generous friends, and the woman's jealousy is inflamed. She promises that the two of them can talk about money later that evening.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/1257-chapters/35.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Three Musketeers/section_35_part_0.txt

The Three Musketeers.chapter 35

chapter 35: a gascon a match for cupid

{"name": "Chapter Thirty-Five: A Gascon A Match for Cupid", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210127112556/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/three-musketeers/summary/chapter-thirty-five-a-gascon-a-match-for-cupid", "summary": "It is the morning after the key evening for both Porthos and D'Artagnan. Athos, who is now with D'Artagnan, listens eagerly as the Gascon recounts the previous evening's events. D'Artagnan shows up at Milady's, where he is warmly received. As Kitty serves them sorbet, D'Artagnan can't help but reflect that the maid has a better personality than the noblewoman. Kitty remains worried that D'Artagnan loves Milady. Milady kicks D'Artagnan out at about ten o'clock, and he consoles Kitty. Milady orders that all the lights in the house be extinguished. D'Artagnan visits Kitty early and where he finds the maid weeping. He explains that what he is about to do is motivated solely by revenge. At the appointed hour, D'Artagnan, disguised as the Comte de Wardes, enters Milady's room. Believing her lover to be the Comte de Wardes, Milady tells him that she's still upset that D'Artagnan wounded him. She's plotting her revenge. D'Artagnan plays along. He marvels at his simultaneous extreme love and hate for her. She gives him a beautiful sapphire ring as a token of her love. They plan to get together again in another week. D'Artagnan shows Athos the sapphire ring, which reminds Athos of a family jewel. Athos expresses his surprise at recognizing the ring. He remembers that his family ring had one of the faces scratched; D'Artagnan's ring also has a face scratched. Athos advises D'Artagnan to stop seeing this woman because there's something dangerous about her. D'Artagnan agrees. The two friends say good-bye. D'Artagnan arrives home to find Kitty waiting for him with a note for the fake Comte de Wardes. He gathers up his courage and writes Milady the following note: There are just so many women for me to see; I'll let you know when it's your turn again. Kitty reads the letter and practically dances for joy. She runs home to hand it to Milady. Milady is flaming mad. Kitty, thinking that her mistress has fainted or is ill, goes to help her. Milady then delivers one of the ultimate power lines: \"I faint? I? I? Do you take me for half a woman? When I am insulted I do not faint; I avenge myself!\" It looks like our hero is headed for trouble!", "analysis": ""}

35 A GASCON A MATCH FOR CUPID The evening so impatiently waited for by Porthos and by d'Artagnan at last arrived. As was his custom, d'Artagnan presented himself at Milady's at about nine o'clock. He found her in a charming humor. Never had he been so well received. Our Gascon knew, by the first glance of his eye, that his billet had been delivered, and that this billet had had its effect. Kitty entered to bring some sherbet. Her mistress put on a charming face, and smiled on her graciously; but alas! the poor girl was so sad that she did not even notice Milady's condescension. D'Artagnan looked at the two women, one after the other, and was forced to acknowledge that in his opinion Dame Nature had made a mistake in their formation. To the great lady she had given a heart vile and venal; to the SOUBRETTE she had given the heart of a duchess. At ten o'clock Milady began to appear restless. D'Artagnan knew what she wanted. She looked at the clock, rose, reseated herself, smiled at d'Artagnan with an air which said, "You are very amiable, no doubt, but you would be charming if you would only depart." D'Artagnan rose and took his hat; Milady gave him her hand to kiss. The young man felt her press his hand, and comprehended that this was a sentiment, not of coquetry, but of gratitude because of his departure. "She loves him devilishly," he murmured. Then he went out. This time Kitty was nowhere waiting for him; neither in the antechamber, nor in the corridor, nor beneath the great door. It was necessary that d'Artagnan should find alone the staircase and the little chamber. She heard him enter, but she did not raise her head. The young man went to her and took her hands; then she sobbed aloud. As d'Artagnan had presumed, on receiving his letter, Milady in a delirium of joy had told her servant everything; and by way of recompense for the manner in which she had this time executed the commission, she had given Kitty a purse. Returning to her own room, Kitty had thrown the purse into a corner, where it lay open, disgorging three or four gold pieces on the carpet. The poor girl, under the caresses of d'Artagnan, lifted her head. D'Artagnan himself was frightened by the change in her countenance. She joined her hands with a suppliant air, but without venturing to speak a word. As little sensitive as was the heart of d'Artagnan, he was touched by this mute sorrow; but he held too tenaciously to his projects, above all to this one, to change the program which he had laid out in advance. He did not therefore allow her any hope that he would flinch; only he represented his action as one of simple vengeance. For the rest this vengeance was very easy; for Milady, doubtless to conceal her blushes from her lover, had ordered Kitty to extinguish all the lights in the apartment, and even in the little chamber itself. Before daybreak M. de Wardes must take his departure, still in obscurity. Presently they heard Milady retire to her room. D'Artagnan slipped into the wardrobe. Hardly was he concealed when the little bell sounded. Kitty went to her mistress, and did not leave the door open; but the partition was so thin that one could hear nearly all that passed between the two women. Milady seemed overcome with joy, and made Kitty repeat the smallest details of the pretended interview of the soubrette with de Wardes when he received the letter; how he had responded; what was the expression of his face; if he seemed very amorous. And to all these questions poor Kitty, forced to put on a pleasant face, responded in a stifled voice whose dolorous accent her mistress did not however remark, solely because happiness is egotistical. Finally, as the hour for her interview with the count approached, Milady had everything about her darkened, and ordered Kitty to return to her own chamber, and introduce de Wardes whenever he presented himself. Kitty's detention was not long. Hardly had d'Artagnan seen, through a crevice in his closet, that the whole apartment was in obscurity, than he slipped out of his concealment, at the very moment when Kitty reclosed the door of communication. "What is that noise?" demanded Milady. "It is I," said d'Artagnan in a subdued voice, "I, the Comte de Wardes." "Oh, my God, my God!" murmured Kitty, "he has not even waited for the hour he himself named!" "Well," said Milady, in a trembling voice, "why do you not enter? Count, Count," added she, "you know that I wait for you." At this appeal d'Artagnan drew Kitty quietly away, and slipped into the chamber. If rage or sorrow ever torture the heart, it is when a lover receives under a name which is not his own protestations of love addressed to his happy rival. D'Artagnan was in a dolorous situation which he had not foreseen. Jealousy gnawed his heart; and he suffered almost as much as poor Kitty, who at that very moment was crying in the next chamber. "Yes, Count," said Milady, in her softest voice, and pressing his hand in her own, "I am happy in the love which your looks and your words have expressed to me every time we have met. I also--I love you. Oh, tomorrow, tomorrow, I must have some pledge from you which will prove that you think of me; and that you may not forget me, take this!" and she slipped a ring from her finger onto d'Artagnan's. D'Artagnan remembered having seen this ring on the finger of Milady; it was a magnificent sapphire, encircled with brilliants. The first movement of d'Artagnan was to return it, but Milady added, "No, no! Keep that ring for love of me. Besides, in accepting it," she added, in a voice full of emotion, "you render me a much greater service than you imagine." "This woman is full of mysteries," murmured d'Artagnan to himself. At that instant he felt himself ready to reveal all. He even opened his mouth to tell Milady who he was, and with what a revengeful purpose he had come; but she added, "Poor angel, whom that monster of a Gascon barely failed to kill." The monster was himself. "Oh," continued Milady, "do your wounds still make you suffer?" "Yes, much," said d'Artagnan, who did not well know how to answer. "Be tranquil," murmured Milady; "I will avenge you--and cruelly!" "PESTE!" said d'Artagnan to himself, "the moment for confidences has not yet come." It took some time for d'Artagnan to resume this little dialogue; but then all the ideas of vengeance which he had brought with him had completely vanished. This woman exercised over him an unaccountable power; he hated and adored her at the same time. He would not have believed that two sentiments so opposite could dwell in the same heart, and by their union constitute a passion so strange, and as it were, diabolical. Presently it sounded one o'clock. It was necessary to separate. D'Artagnan at the moment of quitting Milady felt only the liveliest regret at the parting; and as they addressed each other in a reciprocally passionate adieu, another interview was arranged for the following week. Poor Kitty hoped to speak a few words to d'Artagnan when he passed through her chamber; but Milady herself reconducted him through the darkness, and only quit him at the staircase. The next morning d'Artagnan ran to find Athos. He was engaged in an adventure so singular that he wished for counsel. He therefore told him all. "Your Milady," said he, "appears to be an infamous creature, but not the less you have done wrong to deceive her. In one fashion or another you have a terrible enemy on your hands." While thus speaking Athos regarded with attention the sapphire set with diamonds which had taken, on d'Artagnan's finger, the place of the queen's ring, carefully kept in a casket. "You notice my ring?" said the Gascon, proud to display so rich a gift in the eyes of his friends. "Yes," said Athos, "it reminds me of a family jewel." "It is beautiful, is it not?" said d'Artagnan. "Yes," said Athos, "magnificent. I did not think two sapphires of such a fine water existed. Have you traded it for your diamond?" "No. It is a gift from my beautiful Englishwoman, or rather Frenchwoman--for I am convinced she was born in France, though I have not questioned her." "That ring comes from Milady?" cried Athos, with a voice in which it was easy to detect strong emotion. "Her very self; she gave it me last night. Here it is," replied d'Artagnan, taking it from his finger. Athos examined it and became very pale. He tried it on his left hand; it fit his finger as if made for it. A shade of anger and vengeance passed across the usually calm brow of this gentleman. "It is impossible it can be she," said he. "How could this ring come into the hands of Milady Clarik? And yet it is difficult to suppose such a resemblance should exist between two jewels." "Do you know this ring?" said d'Artagnan. "I thought I did," replied Athos; "but no doubt I was mistaken." And he returned d'Artagnan the ring without, however, ceasing to look at it. "Pray, d'Artagnan," said Athos, after a minute, "either take off that ring or turn the mounting inside; it recalls such cruel recollections that I shall have no head to converse with you. Don't ask me for counsel; don't tell me you are perplexed what to do. But stop! let me look at that sapphire again; the one I mentioned to you had one of its faces scratched by accident." D'Artagnan took off the ring, giving it again to Athos. Athos started. "Look," said he, "is it not strange?" and he pointed out to d'Artagnan the scratch he had remembered. "But from whom did this ring come to you, Athos?" "From my mother, who inherited it from her mother. As I told you, it is an old family jewel." "And you--sold it?" asked d'Artagnan, hesitatingly. "No," replied Athos, with a singular smile. "I gave it away in a night of love, as it has been given to you." D'Artagnan became pensive in his turn; it appeared as if there were abysses in Milady's soul whose depths were dark and unknown. He took back the ring, but put it in his pocket and not on his finger. "d'Artagnan," said Athos, taking his hand, "you know I love you; if I had a son I could not love him better. Take my advice, renounce this woman. I do not know her, but a sort of intuition tells me she is a lost creature, and that there is something fatal about her." "You are right," said d'Artagnan; "I will have done with her. I own that this woman terrifies me." "Shall you have the courage?" said Athos. "I shall," replied d'Artagnan, "and instantly." "In truth, my young friend, you will act rightly," said the gentleman, pressing the Gascon's hand with an affection almost paternal; "and God grant that this woman, who has scarcely entered into your life, may not leave a terrible trace in it!" And Athos bowed to d'Artagnan like a man who wishes it understood that he would not be sorry to be left alone with his thoughts. On reaching home d'Artagnan found Kitty waiting for him. A month of fever could not have changed her more than this one night of sleeplessness and sorrow. She was sent by her mistress to the false de Wardes. Her mistress was mad with love, intoxicated with joy. She wished to know when her lover would meet her a second night; and poor Kitty, pale and trembling, awaited d'Artagnan's reply. The counsels of his friend, joined to the cries of his own heart, made him determine, now his pride was saved and his vengeance satisfied, not to see Milady again. As a reply, he wrote the following letter: Do not depend upon me, madame, for the next meeting. Since my convalescence I have so many affairs of this kind on my hands that I am forced to regulate them a little. When your turn comes, I shall have the honor to inform you of it. I kiss your hands. Comte de Wardes Not a word about the sapphire. Was the Gascon determined to keep it as a weapon against Milady, or else, let us be frank, did he not reserve the sapphire as a last resource for his outfit? It would be wrong to judge the actions of one period from the point of view of another. That which would now be considered as disgraceful to a gentleman was at that time quite a simple and natural affair, and the younger sons of the best families were frequently supported by their mistresses. D'Artagnan gave the open letter to Kitty, who at first was unable to comprehend it, but who became almost wild with joy on reading it a second time. She could scarcely believe in her happiness; and d'Artagnan was forced to renew with the living voice the assurances which he had written. And whatever might be--considering the violent character of Milady--the danger which the poor girl incurred in giving this billet to her mistress, she ran back to the Place Royale as fast as her legs could carry her. The heart of the best woman is pitiless toward the sorrows of a rival. Milady opened the letter with eagerness equal to Kitty's in bringing it; but at the first words she read she became livid. She crushed the paper in her hand, and turning with flashing eyes upon Kitty, she cried, "What is this letter?" "The answer to Madame's," replied Kitty, all in a tremble. "Impossible!" cried Milady. "It is impossible a gentleman could have written such a letter to a woman." Then all at once, starting, she cried, "My God! can he have--" and she stopped. She ground her teeth; she was of the color of ashes. She tried to go toward the window for air, but she could only stretch forth her arms; her legs failed her, and she sank into an armchair. Kitty, fearing she was ill, hastened toward her and was beginning to open her dress; but Milady started up, pushing her away. "What do you want with me?" said she, "and why do you place your hand on me?" "I thought that Madame was ill, and I wished to bring her help," responded the maid, frightened at the terrible expression which had come over her mistress's face. "I faint? I? I? Do you take me for half a woman? When I am insulted I do not faint; I avenge myself!" And she made a sign for Kitty to leave the room.

Chapter Thirty-Five: A Gascon A Match for Cupid

https://web.archive.org/web/20210127112556/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/three-musketeers/summary/chapter-thirty-five-a-gascon-a-match-for-cupid

It is the morning after the key evening for both Porthos and D'Artagnan. Athos, who is now with D'Artagnan, listens eagerly as the Gascon recounts the previous evening's events. D'Artagnan shows up at Milady's, where he is warmly received. As Kitty serves them sorbet, D'Artagnan can't help but reflect that the maid has a better personality than the noblewoman. Kitty remains worried that D'Artagnan loves Milady. Milady kicks D'Artagnan out at about ten o'clock, and he consoles Kitty. Milady orders that all the lights in the house be extinguished. D'Artagnan visits Kitty early and where he finds the maid weeping. He explains that what he is about to do is motivated solely by revenge. At the appointed hour, D'Artagnan, disguised as the Comte de Wardes, enters Milady's room. Believing her lover to be the Comte de Wardes, Milady tells him that she's still upset that D'Artagnan wounded him. She's plotting her revenge. D'Artagnan plays along. He marvels at his simultaneous extreme love and hate for her. She gives him a beautiful sapphire ring as a token of her love. They plan to get together again in another week. D'Artagnan shows Athos the sapphire ring, which reminds Athos of a family jewel. Athos expresses his surprise at recognizing the ring. He remembers that his family ring had one of the faces scratched; D'Artagnan's ring also has a face scratched. Athos advises D'Artagnan to stop seeing this woman because there's something dangerous about her. D'Artagnan agrees. The two friends say good-bye. D'Artagnan arrives home to find Kitty waiting for him with a note for the fake Comte de Wardes. He gathers up his courage and writes Milady the following note: There are just so many women for me to see; I'll let you know when it's your turn again. Kitty reads the letter and practically dances for joy. She runs home to hand it to Milady. Milady is flaming mad. Kitty, thinking that her mistress has fainted or is ill, goes to help her. Milady then delivers one of the ultimate power lines: "I faint? I? I? Do you take me for half a woman? When I am insulted I do not faint; I avenge myself!" It looks like our hero is headed for trouble!

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/1257-chapters/36.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Three Musketeers/section_36_part_0.txt

The Three Musketeers.chapter 36

chapter 36: dream of vengeance

{"name": "Chapter Thirty-Six: Dream of Vengeance", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210127112556/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/three-musketeers/summary/chapter-thirty-six-dream-of-vengeance", "summary": "Milady continues to wait for a visit from D'Artagnan, but none is forthcoming. Finally, she sends him a note asking him to come visit. D'Artagnan notes that the worse the Comte's behavior is, the more he rises in Milady's estimation. He convinces himself it would be rude to refuse the invitation. Kitty gets worried again and D'Artagnan tells her that he will not, under any circumstance, fall in love with Milady. At nine o'clock, he shows up at Milady's. She looks like she's been crying. Soon, however, D'Artagnan is lured by her beauty and he's back to being in love. He declares his love for her. He hopes she will love him back. He declares he would do anything for her, and Milady requests that he kill the Comte de Wardes. He again swears that he would kill his own brother for her love. He kisses her passionately. He promises to fight de Wardes tomorrow. But before he does so, is there anything Milady wants to give him? Milady tells him to come back at eleven. He resolves to be careful.", "analysis": ""}

36 DREAM OF VENGEANCE That evening Milady gave orders that when M. d'Artagnan came as usual, he should be immediately admitted; but he did not come. The next day Kitty went to see the young man again, and related to him all that had passed on the preceding evening. D'Artagnan smiled; this jealous anger of Milady was his revenge. That evening Milady was still more impatient than on the preceding evening. She renewed the order relative to the Gascon; but as before she expected him in vain. The next morning, when Kitty presented herself at d'Artagnan's, she was no longer joyous and alert as on the two preceding days; but on the contrary sad as death. D'Artagnan asked the poor girl what was the matter with her; but she, as her only reply, drew a letter from her pocket and gave it to him. This letter was in Milady's handwriting; only this time it was addressed to M. d'Artagnan, and not to M. de Wardes. He opened it and read as follows: Dear M. d'Artagnan, It is wrong thus to neglect your friends, particularly at the moment you are about to leave them for so long a time. My brother-in-law and myself expected you yesterday and the day before, but in vain. Will it be the same this evening? Your very grateful, Milady Clarik "That's all very simple," said d'Artagnan; "I expected this letter. My credit rises by the fall of that of the Comte de Wardes." "And will you go?" asked Kitty. "Listen to me, my dear girl," said the Gascon, who sought for an excuse in his own eyes for breaking the promise he had made Athos; "you must understand it would be impolitic not to accept such a positive invitation. Milady, not seeing me come again, would not be able to understand what could cause the interruption of my visits, and might suspect something; who could say how far the vengeance of such a woman would go?" "Oh, my God!" said Kitty, "you know how to represent things in such a way that you are always in the right. You are going now to pay your court to her again, and if this time you succeed in pleasing her in your own name and with your own face, it will be much worse than before." Instinct made poor Kitty guess a part of what was to happen. D'Artagnan reassured her as well as he could, and promised to remain insensible to the seductions of Milady. He desired Kitty to tell her mistress that he could not be more grateful for her kindnesses than he was, and that he would be obedient to her orders. He did not dare to write for fear of not being able--to such experienced eyes as those of Milady--to disguise his writing sufficiently. As nine o'clock sounded, d'Artagnan was at the Place Royale. It was evident that the servants who waited in the antechamber were warned, for as soon as d'Artagnan appeared, before even he had asked if Milady were visible, one of them ran to announce him. "Show him in," said Milady, in a quick tone, but so piercing that d'Artagnan heard her in the antechamber. He was introduced. "I am at home to nobody," said Milady; "observe, to nobody." The servant went out. D'Artagnan cast an inquiring glance at Milady. She was pale, and looked fatigued, either from tears or want of sleep. The number of lights had been intentionally diminished, but the young woman could not conceal the traces of the fever which had devoured her for two days. D'Artagnan approached her with his usual gallantry. She then made an extraordinary effort to receive him, but never did a more distressed countenance give the lie to a more amiable smile. To the questions which d'Artagnan put concerning her health, she replied, "Bad, very bad." "Then," replied he, "my visit is ill-timed; you, no doubt, stand in need of repose, and I will withdraw." "No, no!" said Milady. "On the contrary, stay, Monsieur d'Artagnan; your agreeable company will divert me." "Oh, oh!" thought d'Artagnan. "She has never been so kind before. On guard!" Milady assumed the most agreeable air possible, and conversed with more than her usual brilliancy. At the same time the fever, which for an instant abandoned her, returned to give luster to her eyes, color to her cheeks, and vermillion to her lips. D'Artagnan was again in the presence of the Circe who had before surrounded him with her enchantments. His love, which he believed to be extinct but which was only asleep, awoke again in his heart. Milady smiled, and d'Artagnan felt that he could damn himself for that smile. There was a moment at which he felt something like remorse. By degrees, Milady became more communicative. She asked d'Artagnan if he had a mistress. "Alas!" said d'Artagnan, with the most sentimental air he could assume, "can you be cruel enough to put such a question to me--to me, who, from the moment I saw you, have only breathed and sighed through you and for you?" Milady smiled with a strange smile. "Then you love me?" said she. "Have I any need to tell you so? Have you not perceived it?" "It may be; but you know the more hearts are worth the capture, the more difficult they are to be won." "Oh, difficulties do not affright me," said d'Artagnan. "I shrink before nothing but impossibilities." "Nothing is impossible," replied Milady, "to true love." "Nothing, madame?" "Nothing," replied Milady. "The devil!" thought d'Artagnan. "The note is changed. Is she going to fall in love with me, by chance, this fair inconstant; and will she be disposed to give me myself another sapphire like that which she gave me for de Wardes?" D'Artagnan rapidly drew his seat nearer to Milady's. "Well, now," she said, "let us see what you would do to prove this love of which you speak." "All that could be required of me. Order; I am ready." "For everything?" "For everything," cried d'Artagnan, who knew beforehand that he had not much to risk in engaging himself thus. "Well, now let us talk a little seriously," said Milady, in her turn drawing her armchair nearer to d'Artagnan's chair. "I am all attention, madame," said he. Milady remained thoughtful and undecided for a moment; then, as if appearing to have formed a resolution, she said, "I have an enemy." "You, madame!" said d'Artagnan, affecting surprise; "is that possible, my God?--good and beautiful as you are!" "A mortal enemy." "Indeed!" "An enemy who has insulted me so cruelly that between him and me it is war to the death. May I reckon on you as an auxiliary?" D'Artagnan at once perceived the ground which the vindictive creature wished to reach. "You may, madame," said he, with emphasis. "My arm and my life belong to you, like my love." "Then," said Milady, "since you are as generous as you are loving--" She stopped. "Well?" demanded d'Artagnan. "Well," replied Milady, after a moment of silence, "from the present time, cease to talk of impossibilities." "Do not overwhelm me with happiness," cried d'Artagnan, throwing himself on his knees, and covering with kisses the hands abandoned to him. "Avenge me of that infamous de Wardes," said Milady, between her teeth, "and I shall soon know how to get rid of you--you double idiot, you animated sword blade!" "Fall voluntarily into my arms, hypocritical and dangerous woman," said d'Artagnan, likewise to himself, "after having abused me with such effrontery, and afterward I will laugh at you with him whom you wish me to kill." D'Artagnan lifted up his head. "I am ready," said he. "You have understood me, then, dear Monsieur d'Artagnan," said Milady. "I could interpret one of your looks." "Then you would employ for me your arm which has already acquired so much renown?" "Instantly!" "But on my part," said Milady, "how should I repay such a service? I know these lovers. They are men who do nothing for nothing." "You know the only reply that I desire," said d'Artagnan, "the only one worthy of you and of me!" And he drew nearer to her. She scarcely resisted. "Interested man!" cried she, smiling. "Ah," cried d'Artagnan, really carried away by the passion this woman had the power to kindle in his heart, "ah, that is because my happiness appears so impossible to me; and I have such fear that it should fly away from me like a dream that I pant to make a reality of it." "Well, merit this pretended happiness, then!" "I am at your orders," said d'Artagnan. "Quite certain?" said Milady, with a last doubt. "Only name to me the base man that has brought tears into your beautiful eyes!" "Who told you that I had been weeping?" said she. "It appeared to me--" "Such women as I never weep," said Milady. "So much the better! Come, tell me his name!" "Remember that his name is all my secret." "Yet I must know his name." "Yes, you must; see what confidence I have in you!" "You overwhelm me with joy. What is his name?" "You know him." "Indeed." "Yes." "It is surely not one of my friends?" replied d'Artagnan, affecting hesitation in order to make her believe him ignorant. "If it were one of your friends you would hesitate, then?" cried Milady; and a threatening glance darted from her eyes. "Not if it were my own brother!" cried d'Artagnan, as if carried away by his enthusiasm. Our Gascon promised this without risk, for he knew all that was meant. "I love your devotedness," said Milady. "Alas, do you love nothing else in me?" asked d'Artagnan. "I love you also, YOU!" said she, taking his hand. The warm pressure made d'Artagnan tremble, as if by the touch that fever which consumed Milady attacked himself. "You love me, you!" cried he. "Oh, if that were so, I should lose my reason!" And he folded her in his arms. She made no effort to remove her lips from his kisses; only she did not respond to them. Her lips were cold; it appeared to d'Artagnan that he had embraced a statue. He was not the less intoxicated with joy, electrified by love. He almost believed in the tenderness of Milady; he almost believed in the crime of de Wardes. If de Wardes had at that moment been under his hand, he would have killed him. Milady seized the occasion. "His name is--" said she, in her turn. "De Wardes; I know it," cried d'Artagnan. "And how do you know it?" asked Milady, seizing both his hands, and endeavoring to read with her eyes to the bottom of his heart. D'Artagnan felt he had allowed himself to be carried away, and that he had committed an error. "Tell me, tell me, tell me, I say," repeated Milady, "how do you know it?" "How do I know it?" said d'Artagnan. "Yes." "I know it because yesterday Monsieur de Wardes, in a saloon where I was, showed a ring which he said he had received from you." "Wretch!" cried Milady. The epithet, as may be easily understood, resounded to the very bottom of d'Artagnan's heart. "Well?" continued she. "Well, I will avenge you of this wretch," replied d'Artagnan, giving himself the airs of Don Japhet of Armenia. "Thanks, my brave friend!" cried Milady; "and when shall I be avenged?" "Tomorrow--immediately--when you please!" Milady was about to cry out, "Immediately," but she reflected that such precipitation would not be very gracious toward d'Artagnan. Besides, she had a thousand precautions to take, a thousand counsels to give to her defender, in order that he might avoid explanations with the count before witnesses. All this was answered by an expression of d'Artagnan's. "Tomorrow," said he, "you will be avenged, or I shall be dead." "No," said she, "you will avenge me; but you will not be dead. He is a coward." "With women, perhaps; but not with men. I know something of him." "But it seems you had not much reason to complain of your fortune in your contest with him." "Fortune is a courtesan; favorable yesterday, she may turn her back tomorrow." "Which means that you now hesitate?" "No, I do not hesitate; God forbid! But would it be just to allow me to go to a possible death without having given me at least something more than hope?" Milady answered by a glance which said, "Is that all?--speak, then." And then accompanying the glance with explanatory words, "That is but too just," said she, tenderly. "Oh, you are an angel!" exclaimed the young man. "Then all is agreed?" said she. "Except that which I ask of you, dear love." "But when I assure you that you may rely on my tenderness?" "I cannot wait till tomorrow." "Silence! I hear my brother. It will be useless for him to find you here." She rang the bell and Kitty appeared. "Go out this way," said she, opening a small private door, "and come back at eleven o'clock; we will then terminate this conversation. Kitty will conduct you to my chamber." The poor girl almost fainted at hearing these words. "Well, mademoiselle, what are you thinking about, standing there like a statue? Do as I bid you: show the chevalier out; and this evening at eleven o'clock--you have heard what I said." "It appears that these appointments are all made for eleven o'clock," thought d'Artagnan; "that's a settled custom." Milady held out her hand to him, which he kissed tenderly. "But," said he, as he retired as quickly as possible from the reproaches of Kitty, "I must not play the fool. This woman is certainly a great liar. I must take care."

Chapter Thirty-Six: Dream of Vengeance

https://web.archive.org/web/20210127112556/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/three-musketeers/summary/chapter-thirty-six-dream-of-vengeance

Milady continues to wait for a visit from D'Artagnan, but none is forthcoming. Finally, she sends him a note asking him to come visit. D'Artagnan notes that the worse the Comte's behavior is, the more he rises in Milady's estimation. He convinces himself it would be rude to refuse the invitation. Kitty gets worried again and D'Artagnan tells her that he will not, under any circumstance, fall in love with Milady. At nine o'clock, he shows up at Milady's. She looks like she's been crying. Soon, however, D'Artagnan is lured by her beauty and he's back to being in love. He declares his love for her. He hopes she will love him back. He declares he would do anything for her, and Milady requests that he kill the Comte de Wardes. He again swears that he would kill his own brother for her love. He kisses her passionately. He promises to fight de Wardes tomorrow. But before he does so, is there anything Milady wants to give him? Milady tells him to come back at eleven. He resolves to be careful.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/1257-chapters/37.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Three Musketeers/section_37_part_0.txt

The Three Musketeers.chapter 37

chapter 37: milady's secret

{"name": "Chapter Thirty-Seven: Milady's Secret", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210127112556/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/three-musketeers/summary/chapter-thirty-seven-miladys-secret", "summary": "D'Artagnan goes home to reflect on his situation. Clearly, he's head over heels in love with Milady and she does not seem to care. Yet he also wants Milady to suffer, and he wants revenge in his own name. At eleven o'clock D'Artagnan goes straight to her bedroom. She boldly invites him in, right in front of Kitty, whose heart is breaking. D'Artagnan is pleased that he can now return her affections as himself and not disguised as the Comte de Wardes. They make passionate love. Right afterwards, Milady asks him if he's ready for the duel. D'Artagnan tries to dodge the issue, but Milady is insistent. Such a duel is impossible--how could he fight himself? He begins to question Milady's supposed love for him. Isn't she afraid that he might die in the duel? Finally, driven by love for her and blindly believing that she would forgive him if she really loved him, D'Artagnan decides to tell her the truth. He tells her that he was really the Comte de Wardes from last Thursday. Wrong move! Milady goes nuts. She hits D'Artagnan and jumps out of bed. He grabs her nightdress in an effort to stop her escape, but the dress tears, and D'Artagnan sees a fleur-de-lis on her shoulder. Milady grabs a small dagger and tries to stab him. The young man is momentarily scared, but quickly grabs his sword. Soon he has the sword pointed at her throat and makes his way into Kitty's room. He and Kitty quickly secure the locks. Milady continues to try stabbing her way through the door. D'Artagnan tells Kitty he needs to get out of the building. Kitty points out that D'Artagnan is naked. He asks for some clothes and she outfits him in \"a flowered robe, a large hood, and a cloak.\" Milady is screaming for all the servants as he makes his escape.", "analysis": ""}

37 MILADY'S SECRET D'Artagnan left the hotel instead of going up at once to Kitty's chamber, as she endeavored to persuade him to do--and that for two reasons: the first, because by this means he should escape reproaches, recriminations, and prayers; the second, because he was not sorry to have an opportunity of reading his own thoughts and endeavoring, if possible, to fathom those of this woman. What was most clear in the matter was that d'Artagnan loved Milady like a madman, and that she did not love him at all. In an instant d'Artagnan perceived that the best way in which he could act would be to go home and write Milady a long letter, in which he would confess to her that he and de Wardes were, up to the present moment absolutely the same, and that consequently he could not undertake, without committing suicide, to kill the Comte de Wardes. But he also was spurred on by a ferocious desire of vengeance. He wished to subdue this woman in his own name; and as this vengeance appeared to him to have a certain sweetness in it, he could not make up his mind to renounce it. He walked six or seven times round the Place Royale, turning at every ten steps to look at the light in Milady's apartment, which was to be seen through the blinds. It was evident that this time the young woman was not in such haste to retire to her apartment as she had been the first. At length the light disappeared. With this light was extinguished the last irresolution in the heart of d'Artagnan. He recalled to his mind the details of the first night, and with a beating heart and a brain on fire he re-entered the hotel and flew toward Kitty's chamber. The poor girl, pale as death and trembling in all her limbs, wished to delay her lover; but Milady, with her ear on the watch, had heard the noise d'Artagnan had made, and opening the door, said, "Come in." All this was of such incredible immodesty, of such monstrous effrontery, that d'Artagnan could scarcely believe what he saw or what he heard. He imagined himself to be drawn into one of those fantastic intrigues one meets in dreams. He, however, darted not the less quickly toward Milady, yielding to that magnetic attraction which the loadstone exercises over iron. As the door closed after them Kitty rushed toward it. Jealousy, fury, offended pride, all the passions in short that dispute the heart of an outraged woman in love, urged her to make a revelation; but she reflected that she would be totally lost if she confessed having assisted in such a machination, and above all, that d'Artagnan would also be lost to her forever. This last thought of love counseled her to make this last sacrifice. D'Artagnan, on his part, had gained the summit of all his wishes. It was no longer a rival who was beloved; it was himself who was apparently beloved. A secret voice whispered to him, at the bottom of his heart, that he was but an instrument of vengeance, that he was only caressed till he had given death; but pride, but self-love, but madness silenced this voice and stifled its murmurs. And then our Gascon, with that large quantity of conceit which we know he possessed, compared himself with de Wardes, and asked himself why, after all, he should not be beloved for himself? He was absorbed entirely by the sensations of the moment. Milady was no longer for him that woman of fatal intentions who had for a moment terrified him; she was an ardent, passionate mistress, abandoning herself to love which she also seemed to feel. Two hours thus glided away. When the transports of the two lovers were calmer, Milady, who had not the same motives for forgetfulness that d'Artagnan had, was the first to return to reality, and asked the young man if the means which were on the morrow to bring on the encounter between him and de Wardes were already arranged in his mind. But d'Artagnan, whose ideas had taken quite another course, forgot himself like a fool, and answered gallantly that it was too late to think about duels and sword thrusts. This coldness toward the only interests that occupied her mind terrified Milady, whose questions became more pressing. Then d'Artagnan, who had never seriously thought of this impossible duel, endeavored to turn the conversation; but he could not succeed. Milady kept him within the limits she had traced beforehand with her irresistible spirit and her iron will. D'Artagnan fancied himself very cunning when advising Milady to renounce, by pardoning de Wardes, the furious projects she had formed. But at the first word the young woman started, and exclaimed in a sharp, bantering tone, which sounded strangely in the darkness, "Are you afraid, dear Monsieur d'Artagnan?" "You cannot think so, dear love!" replied d'Artagnan; "but now, suppose this poor Comte de Wardes were less guilty than you think him?" "At all events," said Milady, seriously, "he has deceived me, and from the moment he deceived me, he merited death." "He shall die, then, since you condemn him!" said d'Artagnan, in so firm a tone that it appeared to Milady an undoubted proof of devotion. This reassured her. We cannot say how long the night seemed to Milady, but d'Artagnan believed it to be hardly two hours before the daylight peeped through the window blinds, and invaded the chamber with its paleness. Seeing d'Artagnan about to leave her, Milady recalled his promise to avenge her on the Comte de Wardes. "I am quite ready," said d'Artagnan; "but in the first place I should like to be certain of one thing." "And what is that?" asked Milady. "That is, whether you really love me?" "I have given you proof of that, it seems to me." "And I am yours, body and soul!" "Thanks, my brave lover; but as you are satisfied of my love, you must, in your turn, satisfy me of yours. Is it not so?" "Certainly; but if you love me as much as you say," replied d'Artagnan, "do you not entertain a little fear on my account?" "What have I to fear?" "Why, that I may be dangerously wounded--killed even." "Impossible!" cried Milady, "you are such a valiant man, and such an expert swordsman." "You would not, then, prefer a method," resumed d'Artagnan, "which would equally avenge you while rendering the combat useless?" Milady looked at her lover in silence. The pale light of the first rays of day gave to her clear eyes a strangely frightful expression. "Really," said she, "I believe you now begin to hesitate." "No, I do not hesitate; but I really pity this poor Comte de Wardes, since you have ceased to love him. I think that a man must be so severely punished by the loss of your love that he stands in need of no other chastisement." "Who told you that I loved him?" asked Milady, sharply. "At least, I am now at liberty to believe, without too much fatuity, that you love another," said the young man, in a caressing tone, "and I repeat that I am really interested for the count." "You?" asked Milady. "Yes, I." "And why YOU?" "Because I alone know--" "What?" "That he is far from being, or rather having been, so guilty toward you as he appears." "Indeed!" said Milady, in an anxious tone; "explain yourself, for I really cannot tell what you mean." And she looked at d'Artagnan, who embraced her tenderly, with eyes which seemed to burn themselves away. "Yes; I am a man of honor," said d'Artagnan, determined to come to an end, "and since your love is mine, and I am satisfied I possess it--for I do possess it, do I not?" "Entirely; go on." "Well, I feel as if transformed--a confession weighs on my mind." "A confession!" "If I had the least doubt of your love I would not make it, but you love me, my beautiful mistress, do you not?" "Without doubt." "Then if through excess of love I have rendered myself culpable toward you, you will pardon me?" "Perhaps." D'Artagnan tried with his sweetest smile to touch his lips to Milady's, but she evaded him. "This confession," said she, growing paler, "what is this confession?" "You gave de Wardes a meeting on Thursday last in this very room, did you not?" "No, no! It is not true," said Milady, in a tone of voice so firm, and with a countenance so unchanged, that if d'Artagnan had not been in such perfect possession of the fact, he would have doubted. "Do not lie, my angel," said d'Artagnan, smiling; "that would be useless." "What do you mean? Speak! you kill me." "Be satisfied; you are not guilty toward me, and I have already pardoned you." "What next? what next?" "De Wardes cannot boast of anything." "How is that? You told me yourself that that ring--" "That ring I have! The Comte de Wardes of Thursday and the d'Artagnan of today are the same person." The imprudent young man expected a surprise, mixed with shame--a slight storm which would resolve itself into tears; but he was strangely deceived, and his error was not of long duration. Pale and trembling, Milady repulsed d'Artagnan's attempted embrace by a violent blow on the chest, as she sprang out of bed. It was almost broad daylight. D'Artagnan detained her by her night dress of fine India linen, to implore her pardon; but she, with a strong movement, tried to escape. Then the cambric was torn from her beautiful shoulders; and on one of those lovely shoulders, round and white, d'Artagnan recognized, with inexpressible astonishment, the FLEUR-DE-LIS--that indelible mark which the hand of the infamous executioner had imprinted. "Great God!" cried d'Artagnan, loosing his hold of her dress, and remaining mute, motionless, and frozen. But Milady felt herself denounced even by his terror. He had doubtless seen all. The young man now knew her secret, her terrible secret--the secret she concealed even from her maid with such care, the secret of which all the world was ignorant, except himself. She turned upon him, no longer like a furious woman, but like a wounded panther. "Ah, wretch!" cried she, "you have basely betrayed me, and still more, you have my secret! You shall die." And she flew to a little inlaid casket which stood upon the dressing table, opened it with a feverish and trembling hand, drew from it a small poniard, with a golden haft and a sharp thin blade, and then threw herself with a bound upon d'Artagnan. Although the young man was brave, as we know, he was terrified at that wild countenance, those terribly dilated pupils, those pale cheeks, and those bleeding lips. He recoiled to the other side of the room as he would have done from a serpent which was crawling toward him, and his sword coming in contact with his nervous hand, he drew it almost unconsciously from the scabbard. But without taking any heed of the sword, Milady endeavored to get near enough to him to stab him, and did not stop till she felt the sharp point at her throat. She then tried to seize the sword with her hands; but d'Artagnan kept it free from her grasp, and presenting the point, sometimes at her eyes, sometimes at her breast, compelled her to glide behind the bedstead, while he aimed at making his retreat by the door which led to Kitty's apartment. Milady during this time continued to strike at him with horrible fury, screaming in a formidable way. As all this, however, bore some resemblance to a duel, d'Artagnan began to recover himself little by little. "Well, beautiful lady, very well," said he; "but, PARDIEU, if you don't calm yourself, I will design a second FLEUR-DE-LIS upon one of those pretty cheeks!" "Scoundrel, infamous scoundrel!" howled Milady. But d'Artagnan, still keeping on the defensive, drew near to Kitty's door. At the noise they made, she in overturning the furniture in her efforts to get at him, he in screening himself behind the furniture to keep out of her reach, Kitty opened the door. D'Artagnan, who had unceasingly maneuvered to gain this point, was not at more than three paces from it. With one spring he flew from the chamber of Milady into that of the maid, and quick as lightning, he slammed to the door, and placed all his weight against it, while Kitty pushed the bolts. Then Milady attempted to tear down the doorcase, with a strength apparently above that of a woman; but finding she could not accomplish this, she in her fury stabbed at the door with her poniard, the point of which repeatedly glittered through the wood. Every blow was accompanied with terrible imprecations. "Quick, Kitty, quick!" said d'Artagnan, in a low voice, as soon as the bolts were fast, "let me get out of the hotel; for if we leave her time to turn round, she will have me killed by the servants." "But you can't go out so," said Kitty; "you are naked." "That's true," said d'Artagnan, then first thinking of the costume he found himself in, "that's true. But dress me as well as you are able, only make haste; think, my dear girl, it's life and death!" Kitty was but too well aware of that. In a turn of the hand she muffled him up in a flowered robe, a large hood, and a cloak. She gave him some slippers, in which he placed his naked feet, and then conducted him down the stairs. It was time. Milady had already rung her bell, and roused the whole hotel. The porter was drawing the cord at the moment Milady cried from her window, "Don't open!" The young man fled while she was still threatening him with an impotent gesture. The moment she lost sight of him, Milady tumbled fainting into her chamber.

Chapter Thirty-Seven: Milady's Secret

https://web.archive.org/web/20210127112556/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/three-musketeers/summary/chapter-thirty-seven-miladys-secret

D'Artagnan goes home to reflect on his situation. Clearly, he's head over heels in love with Milady and she does not seem to care. Yet he also wants Milady to suffer, and he wants revenge in his own name. At eleven o'clock D'Artagnan goes straight to her bedroom. She boldly invites him in, right in front of Kitty, whose heart is breaking. D'Artagnan is pleased that he can now return her affections as himself and not disguised as the Comte de Wardes. They make passionate love. Right afterwards, Milady asks him if he's ready for the duel. D'Artagnan tries to dodge the issue, but Milady is insistent. Such a duel is impossible--how could he fight himself? He begins to question Milady's supposed love for him. Isn't she afraid that he might die in the duel? Finally, driven by love for her and blindly believing that she would forgive him if she really loved him, D'Artagnan decides to tell her the truth. He tells her that he was really the Comte de Wardes from last Thursday. Wrong move! Milady goes nuts. She hits D'Artagnan and jumps out of bed. He grabs her nightdress in an effort to stop her escape, but the dress tears, and D'Artagnan sees a fleur-de-lis on her shoulder. Milady grabs a small dagger and tries to stab him. The young man is momentarily scared, but quickly grabs his sword. Soon he has the sword pointed at her throat and makes his way into Kitty's room. He and Kitty quickly secure the locks. Milady continues to try stabbing her way through the door. D'Artagnan tells Kitty he needs to get out of the building. Kitty points out that D'Artagnan is naked. He asks for some clothes and she outfits him in "a flowered robe, a large hood, and a cloak." Milady is screaming for all the servants as he makes his escape.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/1257-chapters/38.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Three Musketeers/section_38_part_0.txt

The Three Musketeers.chapter 38

chapter 38: how, without incommoding himself, athos procured his equipment

{"name": "Chapter Thirty-Eight: How, Without Incommoding Himself, Athos Procured His Equipment", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210127112556/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/three-musketeers/summary/chapter-thirty-eight-how-without-incommoding-himself-athos-procured-his-equipment", "summary": "D'Artagnan runs straight to Athos's house. Athos, luckily, recognizes his friend. D'Artagnan relates the past events to his friend. D'Artagnan asks if Athos is sure that the other lady with a fleur-de-lis brand on her shoulder is dead. Athos asks for a full description of Milady. It now seems highly likely that Milady is indeed Athos's wife. Athos points out that they are all leaving for La Rochelle soon. Grimaud goes off to fetch D'Artagnan some actual clothes. D'Artagnan gives the sapphire ring to Athos, saying that he can raise the needed money with it. Athos accepts on the condition that D'Artagnan split the money with him. Grimaud returns with Planchet, who is anxious to see how his master is doing. Everyone heads over to D'Artagnan's place. Monsieur Bonacieux sees them go inside, and tells D'Artagnan that a young girl is waiting for him. It's Kitty. He asks what happened after he left. Kitty says she's not sure, since she made her escape as quickly as possible. She asks if he can help her find employment somewhere outside of Paris. D'Artagnan orders Planchet to find Aramis. On his own, D'Artagnan has no connections for getting a maid employed, but his friends might be able to help. D'Artagnan then lies to Kitty about his being in love with Madame Bonacieux; he says that it is Athos who is in love with her. They are reminded that the Cardinal has spies everywhere, and a propos, Athos goes down to check if Bonacieux is still around. He's not. They make a decision to leave as soon as possible. Aramis shows up. D'Artagnan asks if he can find Kitty some work. Aramis sends her to Tours. Before leaving, Kitty makes protestations of love to D'Artagnan. D'Artagnan, Aramis, and Athos part ways, agreeing to meet at four o'clock at Athos's house. Planchet is left behind to guard the apartment. D'Artagnan and Athos sell the sapphire ring and uses the proceeds to buy some horses. Athos is now properly equipped for war!", "analysis": ""}

38 HOW, WITHOUT INCOMMDING HIMSELF, ATHOS PROCURES HIS EQUIPMENT D'Artagnan was so completely bewildered that without taking any heed of what might become of Kitty he ran at full speed across half Paris, and did not stop till he came to Athos's door. The confusion of his mind, the terror which spurred him on, the cries of some of the patrol who started in pursuit of him, and the hooting of the people who, notwithstanding the early hour, were going to their work, only made him precipitate his course. He crossed the court, ran up the two flights to Athos's apartment, and knocked at the door enough to break it down. Grimaud came, rubbing his half-open eyes, to answer this noisy summons, and d'Artagnan sprang with such violence into the room as nearly to overturn the astonished lackey. In spite of his habitual silence, the poor lad this time found his speech. "Holloa, there!" cried he; "what do you want, you strumpet? What's your business here, you hussy?" D'Artagnan threw off his hood, and disengaged his hands from the folds of the cloak. At sight of the mustaches and the naked sword, the poor devil perceived he had to deal with a man. He then concluded it must be an assassin. "Help! murder! help!" cried he. "Hold your tongue, you stupid fellow!" said the young man; "I am d'Artagnan; don't you know me? Where is your master?" "You, Monsieur d'Artagnan!" cried Grimaud, "impossible." "Grimaud," said Athos, coming out of his apartment in a dressing gown, "Grimaud, I thought I heard you permitting yourself to speak?" "Ah, monsieur, it is--" "Silence!" Grimaud contented himself with pointing d'Artagnan out to his master with his finger. Athos recognized his comrade, and phlegmatic as he was, he burst into a laugh which was quite excused by the strange masquerade before his eyes--petticoats falling over his shoes, sleeves tucked up, and mustaches stiff with agitation. "Don't laugh, my friend!" cried d'Artagnan; "for heaven's sake, don't laugh, for upon my soul, it's no laughing matter!" And he pronounced these words with such a solemn air and with such a real appearance of terror, that Athos eagerly seized his hand, crying, "Are you wounded, my friend? How pale you are!" "No, but I have just met with a terrible adventure! Are you alone, Athos?" "PARBLEU! whom do you expect to find with me at this hour?" "Well, well!" and d'Artagnan rushed into Athos's chamber. "Come, speak!" said the latter, closing the door and bolting it, that they might not be disturbed. "Is the king dead? Have you killed the cardinal? You are quite upset! Come, come, tell me; I am dying with curiosity and uneasiness!" "Athos," said d'Artagnan, getting rid of his female garments, and appearing in his shirt, "prepare yourself to hear an incredible, an unheard-of story." "Well, but put on this dressing gown first," said the Musketeer to his friend. D'Artagnan donned the robe as quickly as he could, mistaking one sleeve for the other, so greatly was he still agitated. "Well?" said Athos. "Well," replied d'Artagnan, bending his mouth to Athos's ear, and lowering his voice, "Milady is marked with a FLEUR-DE-LIS upon her shoulder!" "Ah!" cried the Musketeer, as if he had received a ball in his heart. "Let us see," said d'Artagnan. "Are you SURE that the OTHER is dead?" "THE OTHER?" said Athos, in so stifled a voice that d'Artagnan scarcely heard him. "Yes, she of whom you told me one day at Amiens." Athos uttered a groan, and let his head sink on his hands. "This is a woman of twenty-six or twenty-eight years." "Fair," said Athos, "is she not?" "Very." "Blue and clear eyes, of a strange brilliancy, with black eyelids and eyebrows?" "Yes." "Tall, well-made? She has lost a tooth, next to the eyetooth on the left?" "Yes." "The FLEUR-DE-LIS is small, rosy in color, and looks as if efforts had been made to efface it by the application of poultices?" "Yes." "But you say she is English?" "She is called Milady, but she may be French. Lord de Winter is only her brother-in-law." "I will see her, d'Artagnan!" "Beware, Athos, beware. You tried to kill her; she is a woman to return you the like, and not to fail." "She will not dare to say anything; that would be to denounce herself." "She is capable of anything or everything. Did you ever see her furious?" "No," said Athos. "A tigress, a panther! Ah, my dear Athos, I am greatly afraid I have drawn a terrible vengeance on both of us!" D'Artagnan then related all--the mad passion of Milady and her menaces of death. "You are right; and upon my soul, I would give my life for a hair," said Athos. "Fortunately, the day after tomorrow we leave Paris. We are going according to all probability to La Rochelle, and once gone--" "She will follow you to the end of the world, Athos, if she recognizes you. Let her, then, exhaust her vengeance on me alone!" "My dear friend, of what consequence is it if she kills me?" said Athos. "Do you, perchance, think I set any great store by life?" "There is something horribly mysterious under all this, Athos; this woman is one of the cardinal's spies, I am sure of that." "In that case, take care! If the cardinal does not hold you in high admiration for the affair of London, he entertains a great hatred for you; but as, considering everything, he cannot accuse you openly, and as hatred must be satisfied, particularly when it's a cardinal's hatred, take care of yourself. If you go out, do not go out alone; when you eat, use every precaution. Mistrust everything, in short, even your own shadow." "Fortunately," said d'Artagnan, "all this will be only necessary till after tomorrow evening, for when once with the army, we shall have, I hope, only men to dread." "In the meantime," said Athos, "I renounce my plan of seclusion, and wherever you go, I will go with you. You must return to the Rue des Fossoyeurs; I will accompany you." "But however near it may be," replied d'Artagnan, "I cannot go thither in this guise." "That's true," said Athos, and he rang the bell. Grimaud entered. Athos made him a sign to go to d'Artagnan's residence, and bring back some clothes. Grimaud replied by another sign that he understood perfectly, and set off. "All this will not advance your outfit," said Athos; "for if I am not mistaken, you have left the best of your apparel with Milady, and she will certainly not have the politeness to return it to you. Fortunately, you have the sapphire." "The jewel is yours, my dear Athos! Did you not tell me it was a family jewel?" "Yes, my grandfather gave two thousand crowns for it, as he once told me. It formed part of the nuptial present he made his wife, and it is magnificent. My mother gave it to me, and I, fool as I was, instead of keeping the ring as a holy relic, gave it to this wretch." "Then, my friend, take back this ring, to which I see you attach much value." "I take back the ring, after it has passed through the hands of that infamous creature? Never; that ring is defiled, d'Artagnan." "Sell it, then." "Sell a jewel which came from my mother! I vow I should consider it a profanation." "Pledge it, then; you can borrow at least a thousand crowns on it. With that sum you can extricate yourself from your present difficulties; and when you are full of money again, you can redeem it, and take it back cleansed from its ancient stains, as it will have passed through the hands of usurers." Athos smiled. "You are a capital companion, d'Artagnan," said be; "your never-failing cheerfulness raises poor souls in affliction. Well, let us pledge the ring, but upon one condition." "What?" "That there shall be five hundred crowns for you, and five hundred crowns for me." "Don't dream it, Athos. I don't need the quarter of such a sum--I who am still only in the Guards--and by selling my saddles, I shall procure it. What do I want? A horse for Planchet, that's all. Besides, you forget that I have a ring likewise." "To which you attach more value, it seems, than I do to mine; at least, I have thought so." "Yes, for in any extreme circumstance it might not only extricate us from some great embarrassment, but even a great danger. It is not only a valuable diamond, but it is an enchanted talisman." "I don't at all understand you, but I believe all you say to be true. Let us return to my ring, or rather to yours. You shall take half the sum that will be advanced upon it, or I will throw it into the Seine; and I doubt, as was the case with Polycrates, whether any fish will be sufficiently complaisant to bring it back to us." "Well, I will take it, then," said d'Artagnan. At this moment Grimaud returned, accompanied by Planchet; the latter, anxious about his master and curious to know what had happened to him, had taken advantage of the opportunity and brought the garments himself. d'Artagnan dressed himself, and Athos did the same. When the two were ready to go out, the latter made Grimaud the sign of a man taking aim, and the lackey immediately took down his musketoon, and prepared to follow his master. They arrived without accident at the Rue des Fossoyeurs. Bonacieux was standing at the door, and looked at d'Artagnan hatefully. "Make haste, dear lodger," said he; "there is a very pretty girl waiting for you upstairs; and you know women don't like to be kept waiting." "That's Kitty!" said d'Artagnan to himself, and darted into the passage. Sure enough! Upon the landing leading to the chamber, and crouching against the door, he found the poor girl, all in a tremble. As soon as she perceived him, she cried, "You have promised your protection; you have promised to save me from her anger. Remember, it is you who have ruined me!" "Yes, yes, to be sure, Kitty," said d'Artagnan; "be at ease, my girl. But what happened after my departure?" "How can I tell!" said Kitty. "The lackeys were brought by the cries she made. She was mad with passion. There exist no imprecations she did not pour out against you. Then I thought she would remember it was through my chamber you had penetrated hers, and that then she would suppose I was your accomplice; so I took what little money I had and the best of my things, and I got away. "Poor dear girl! But what can I do with you? I am going away the day after tomorrow." "Do what you please, Monsieur Chevalier. Help me out of Paris; help me out of France!" "I cannot take you, however, to the siege of La Rochelle," aid d'Artagnan. "No; but you can place me in one of the provinces with some lady of your acquaintance--in your own country, for instance." "My dear little love! In my country the ladies do without chambermaids. But stop! I can manage your business for you. Planchet, go and find Aramis. Request him to come here directly. We have something very important to say to him." "I understand," said Athos; "but why not Porthos? I should have thought that his duchess--" "Oh, Porthos's duchess is dressed by her husband's clerks," said d'Artagnan, laughing. "Besides, Kitty would not like to live in the Rue aux Ours. Isn't it so, Kitty?" "I do not care where I live," said Kitty, "provided I am well concealed, and nobody knows where I am." "Meanwhile, Kitty, when we are about to separate, and you are no longer jealous of me--" "Monsieur Chevalier, far off or near," said Kitty, "I shall always love you." "Where the devil will constancy niche itself next?" murmured Athos. "And I, also," said d'Artagnan, "I also. I shall always love you; be sure of that. But now answer me. I attach great importance to the question I am about to put to you. Did you never hear talk of a young woman who was carried off one night?" "There, now! Oh, Monsieur Chevalier, do you love that woman still?" "No, no; it is one of my friends who loves her--Monsieur Athos, this gentleman here." "I?" cried Athos, with an accent like that of a man who perceives he is about to tread upon an adder. "You, to be sure!" said d'Artagnan, pressing Athos's hand. "You know the interest we both take in this poor little Madame Bonacieux. Besides, Kitty will tell nothing; will you, Kitty? You understand, my dear girl," continued d'Artagnan, "she is the wife of that frightful baboon you saw at the door as you came in." "Oh, my God! You remind me of my fright! If he should have known me again!" "How? know you again? Did you ever see that man before?" "He came twice to Milady's." "That's it. About what time?" "Why, about fifteen or eighteen days ago." "Exactly so." "And yesterday evening he came again." "Yesterday evening?" "Yes, just before you came." "My dear Athos, we are enveloped in a network of spies. And do you believe he knew you again, Kitty?" "I pulled down my hood as soon as I saw him, but perhaps it was too late." "Go down, Athos--he mistrusts you less than me--and see if he be still at his door." Athos went down and returned immediately. "He has gone," said he, "and the house door is shut." "He has gone to make his report, and to say that all the pigeons are at this moment in the dovecot." "Well, then, let us all fly," said Athos, "and leave nobody here but Planchet to bring us news." "A minute. Aramis, whom we have sent for!" "That's true," said Athos; "we must wait for Aramis." At that moment Aramis entered. The matter was all explained to him, and the friends gave him to understand that among all his high connections he must find a place for Kitty. Aramis reflected for a minute, and then said, coloring, "Will it be really rendering you a service, d'Artagnan?" "I shall be grateful to you all my life." "Very well. Madame de Bois-Tracy asked me, for one of her friends who resides in the provinces, I believe, for a trustworthy maid. If you can, my dear d'Artagnan, answer for Mademoiselle-" "Oh, monsieur, be assured that I shall be entirely devoted to the person who will give me the means of quitting Paris." "Then," said Aramis, "this falls out very well." He placed himself at the table and wrote a little note which he sealed with a ring, and gave the billet to Kitty. "And now, my dear girl," said d'Artagnan, "you know that it is not good for any of us to be here. Therefore let us separate. We shall meet again in better days." "And whenever we find each other, in whatever place it may be," said Kitty, "you will find me loving you as I love you today." "Dicers' oaths!" said Athos, while d'Artagnan went to conduct Kitty downstairs. An instant afterward the three young men separated, agreeing to meet again at four o'clock with Athos, and leaving Planchet to guard the house. Aramis returned home, and Athos and d'Artagnan busied themselves about pledging the sapphire. As the Gascon had foreseen, they easily obtained three hundred pistoles on the ring. Still further, the Jew told them that if they would sell it to him, as it would make a magnificent pendant for earrings, he would give five hundred pistoles for it. Athos and d'Artagnan, with the activity of two soldiers and the knowledge of two connoisseurs, hardly required three hours to purchase the entire equipment of the Musketeer. Besides, Athos was very easy, and a noble to his fingers' ends. When a thing suited him he paid the price demanded, without thinking to ask for any abatement. D'Artagnan would have remonstrated at this; but Athos put his hand upon his shoulder, with a smile, and d'Artagnan understood that it was all very well for such a little Gascon gentleman as himself to drive a bargain, but not for a man who had the bearing of a prince. The Musketeer met with a superb Andalusian horse, black as jet, nostrils of fire, legs clean and elegant, rising six years. He examined him, and found him sound and without blemish. They asked a thousand livres for him. He might perhaps have been bought for less; but while d'Artagnan was discussing the price with the dealer, Athos was counting out the money on the table. Grimaud had a stout, short Picard cob, which cost three hundred livres. But when the saddle and arms for Grimaud were purchased, Athos had not a sou left of his hundred and fifty pistoles. D'Artagnan offered his friend a part of his share which he should return when convenient. But Athos only replied to this proposal by shrugging his shoulders. "How much did the Jew say he would give for the sapphire if he purchased it?" said Athos. "Five hundred pistoles." "That is to say, two hundred more--a hundred pistoles for you and a hundred pistoles for me. Well, now, that would be a real fortune to us, my friend; let us go back to the Jew's again." "What! will you--" "This ring would certainly only recall very bitter remembrances; then we shall never be masters of three hundred pistoles to redeem it, so that we really should lose two hundred pistoles by the bargain. Go and tell him the ring is his, d'Artagnan, and bring back the two hundred pistoles with you." "Reflect, Athos!" "Ready money is needful for the present time, and we must learn how to make sacrifices. Go, d'Artagnan, go; Grimaud will accompany you with his musketoon." A half hour afterward, d'Artagnan returned with the two thousand livres, and without having met with any accident. It was thus Athos found at home resources which he did not expect.

Chapter Thirty-Eight: How, Without Incommoding Himself, Athos Procured His Equipment

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D'Artagnan runs straight to Athos's house. Athos, luckily, recognizes his friend. D'Artagnan relates the past events to his friend. D'Artagnan asks if Athos is sure that the other lady with a fleur-de-lis brand on her shoulder is dead. Athos asks for a full description of Milady. It now seems highly likely that Milady is indeed Athos's wife. Athos points out that they are all leaving for La Rochelle soon. Grimaud goes off to fetch D'Artagnan some actual clothes. D'Artagnan gives the sapphire ring to Athos, saying that he can raise the needed money with it. Athos accepts on the condition that D'Artagnan split the money with him. Grimaud returns with Planchet, who is anxious to see how his master is doing. Everyone heads over to D'Artagnan's place. Monsieur Bonacieux sees them go inside, and tells D'Artagnan that a young girl is waiting for him. It's Kitty. He asks what happened after he left. Kitty says she's not sure, since she made her escape as quickly as possible. She asks if he can help her find employment somewhere outside of Paris. D'Artagnan orders Planchet to find Aramis. On his own, D'Artagnan has no connections for getting a maid employed, but his friends might be able to help. D'Artagnan then lies to Kitty about his being in love with Madame Bonacieux; he says that it is Athos who is in love with her. They are reminded that the Cardinal has spies everywhere, and a propos, Athos goes down to check if Bonacieux is still around. He's not. They make a decision to leave as soon as possible. Aramis shows up. D'Artagnan asks if he can find Kitty some work. Aramis sends her to Tours. Before leaving, Kitty makes protestations of love to D'Artagnan. D'Artagnan, Aramis, and Athos part ways, agreeing to meet at four o'clock at Athos's house. Planchet is left behind to guard the apartment. D'Artagnan and Athos sell the sapphire ring and uses the proceeds to buy some horses. Athos is now properly equipped for war!

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The Three Musketeers.chapter 39

chapter 39: a vision

{"name": "Chapter Thirty-Nine: A Vision", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210127112556/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/three-musketeers/summary/chapter-thirty-nine-a-vision", "summary": "All four friends meet up at four o'clock. Planchet enters with two letters for his master. The first is clearly from a lady, and the second is from the Cardinal. The first is unsigned, but requests D'Artagnan's presence on a certain road at a certain time. He is to look into the carriages that pass, but must give no indication that he recognizes any of the passengers. His friends warn him it may be a trap, and determine to accompany him. The second is an invitation from the Cardinal, the kind that can't be refused. This too seems dangerous, but D'Artagnan doesn't have a choice. The Musketeers determine that they will bring reinforcements. After all, it's been a while since they fought with cardinalists. Porthos, Aramis, and Athos are looking forward to displaying all their new equipment and horses. Shortly after five o'clock, the men are decked out and ready to ride. They look fantastic. Finally, D'Artagnan arrives at the appointed place. After some time a carriage drives by that contains Madame Bonacieux. He attempts to follow but stops after remembering the note expressly told him not to. He worries about her, convinced that she is being transported from one prison to another. Still, they can't remain for much longer because D'Artagnan has his appointment with the Cardinal. The Musketeers collect about twelve other Musketeers, and together the fifteen of them form D'Artagnan's escort. At the Palais-Cardinal, D'Artagnan is shown into a library where a poet sits writing his manuscript. The man finishes and then looks up at D'Artagnan. Our hero recognizes the Cardinal.", "analysis": ""}

39 A VISION At four o'clock the four friends were all assembled with Athos. Their anxiety about their outfits had all disappeared, and each countenance only preserved the expression of its own secret disquiet--for behind all present happiness is concealed a fear for the future. Suddenly Planchet entered, bringing two letters for d'Artagnan. The one was a little billet, genteelly folded, with a pretty seal in green wax on which was impressed a dove bearing a green branch. The other was a large square epistle, resplendent with the terrible arms of his Eminence the cardinal duke. At the sight of the little letter the heart of d'Artagnan bounded, for he believed he recognized the handwriting, and although he had seen that writing but once, the memory of it remained at the bottom of his heart. He therefore seized the little epistle, and opened it eagerly. "Be," said the letter, "on Thursday next, at from six to seven o'clock in the evening, on the road to Chaillot, and look carefully into the carriages that pass; but if you have any consideration for your own life or that of those who love you, do not speak a single word, do not make a movement which may lead anyone to believe you have recognized her who exposes herself to everything for the sake of seeing you but for an instant." No signature. "That's a snare," said Athos; "don't go, d'Artagnan." "And yet," replied d'Artagnan, "I think I recognize the writing." "It may be counterfeit," said Athos. "Between six and seven o'clock the road of Chaillot is quite deserted; you might as well go and ride in the forest of Bondy." "But suppose we all go," said d'Artagnan; "what the devil! They won't devour us all four, four lackeys, horses, arms, and all!" "And besides, it will be a chance for displaying our new equipments," said Porthos. "But if it is a woman who writes," said Aramis, "and that woman desires not to be seen, remember, you compromise her, d'Artagnan; which is not the part of a gentleman." "We will remain in the background," said Porthos, "and he will advance alone." "Yes; but a pistol shot is easily fired from a carriage which goes at a gallop." "Bah!" said d'Artagnan, "they will miss me; if they fire we will ride after the carriage, and exterminate those who may be in it. They must be enemies." "He is right," said Porthos; "battle. Besides, we must try our own arms." "Bah, let us enjoy that pleasure," said Aramis, with his mild and careless manner. "As you please," said Athos. "Gentlemen," said d'Artagnan, "it is half past four, and we have scarcely time to be on the road of Chaillot by six." "Besides, if we go out too late, nobody will see us," said Porthos, "and that will be a pity. Let us get ready, gentlemen." "But this second letter," said Athos, "you forget that; it appears to me, however, that the seal denotes that it deserves to be opened. For my part, I declare, d'Artagnan, I think it of much more consequence than the little piece of waste paper you have so cunningly slipped into your bosom." D'Artagnan blushed. "Well," said he, "let us see, gentlemen, what are his Eminence's commands," and d'Artagnan unsealed the letter and read, "M. d'Artagnan, of the king's Guards, company Dessessart, is expected at the Palais-Cardinal this evening, at eight o'clock. "La Houdiniere, CAPTAIN OF THE GUARDS" "The devil!" said Athos; "here's a rendezvous much more serious than the other." "I will go to the second after attending the first," said d'Artagnan. "One is for seven o'clock, and the other for eight; there will be time for both." "Hum! I would not go at all," said Aramis. "A gallant knight cannot decline a rendezvous with a lady; but a prudent gentleman may excuse himself from not waiting on his Eminence, particularly when he has reason to believe he is not invited to make his compliments." "I am of Aramis's opinion," said Porthos. "Gentlemen," replied d'Artagnan, "I have already received by Monsieur de Cavois a similar invitation from his Eminence. I neglected it, and on the morrow a serious misfortune happened to me--Constance disappeared. Whatever may ensue, I will go." "If you are determined," said Athos, "do so." "But the Bastille?" said Aramis. "Bah! you will get me out if they put me there," said d'Artagnan. "To be sure we will," replied Aramis and Porthos, with admirable promptness and decision, as if that were the simplest thing in the world, "to be sure we will get you out; but meantime, as we are to set off the day after tomorrow, you would do much better not to risk this Bastille." "Let us do better than that," said Athos; "do not let us leave him during the whole evening. Let each of us wait at a gate of the palace with three Musketeers behind him; if we see a close carriage, at all suspicious in appearance, come out, let us fall upon it. It is a long time since we have had a skirmish with the Guards of Monsieur the Cardinal; Monsieur de Treville must think us dead." "To a certainty, Athos," said Aramis, "you were meant to be a general of the army! What do you think of the plan, gentlemen?" "Admirable!" replied the young men in chorus. "Well," said Porthos, "I will run to the hotel, and engage our comrades to hold themselves in readiness by eight o'clock; the rendezvous, the Place du Palais-Cardinal. Meantime, you see that the lackeys saddle the horses." "I have no horse," said d'Artagnan; "but that is of no consequence, I can take one of Monsieur de Treville's." "That is not worth while," said Aramis, "you can have one of mine." "One of yours! how many have you, then?" asked d'Artagnan. "Three," replied Aramis, smiling. "Certes," cried Athos, "you are the best-mounted poet of France or Navarre." "Well, my dear Aramis, you don't want three horses? I cannot comprehend what induced you to buy three!" "Therefore I only purchased two," said Aramis. "The third, then, fell from the clouds, I suppose?" "No, the third was brought to me this very morning by a groom out of livery, who would not tell me in whose service he was, and who said he had received orders from his master." "Or his mistress," interrupted d'Artagnan. "That makes no difference," said Aramis, coloring; "and who affirmed, as I said, that he had received orders from his master or mistress to place the horse in my stable, without informing me whence it came." "It is only to poets that such things happen," said Athos, gravely. "Well, in that case, we can manage famously," said d'Artagnan; "which of the two horses will you ride--that which you bought or the one that was given to you?" "That which was given to me, assuredly. You cannot for a moment imagine, d'Artagnan, that I would commit such an offense toward--" "The unknown giver," interrupted d'Artagnan. "Or the mysterious benefactress," said Athos. "The one you bought will then become useless to you?" "Nearly so." "And you selected it yourself?" "With the greatest care. The safety of the horseman, you know, depends almost always upon the goodness of his horse." "Well, transfer it to me at the price it cost you?" "I was going to make you the offer, my dear d'Artagnan, giving you all the time necessary for repaying me such a trifle." "How much did it cost you?" "Eight hundred livres." "Here are forty double pistoles, my dear friend," said d'Artagnan, taking the sum from his pocket; "I know that is the coin in which you were paid for your poems." "You are rich, then?" said Aramis. "Rich? Richest, my dear fellow!" And d'Artagnan chinked the remainder of his pistoles in his pocket. "Send your saddle, then, to the hotel of the Musketeers, and your horse can be brought back with ours." "Very well; but it is already five o'clock, so make haste." A quarter of an hour afterward Porthos appeared at the end of the Rue Ferou on a very handsome genet. Mousqueton followed him upon an Auvergne horse, small but very handsome. Porthos was resplendent with joy and pride. At the same time, Aramis made his appearance at the other end of the street upon a superb English charger. Bazin followed him upon a roan, holding by the halter a vigorous Mecklenburg horse; this was d'Artagnan's mount. The two Musketeers met at the gate. Athos and d'Artagnan watched their approach from the window. "The devil!" cried Aramis, "you have a magnificent horse there, Porthos." "Yes," replied Porthos, "it is the one that ought to have been sent to me at first. A bad joke of the husband's substituted the other; but the husband has been punished since, and I have obtained full satisfaction." Planchet and Grimaud appeared in their turn, leading their masters' steeds. D'Artagnan and Athos put themselves into saddle with their companions, and all four set forward; Athos upon a horse he owed to a woman, Aramis on a horse he owed to his mistress, Porthos on a horse he owed to his procurator's wife, and d'Artagnan on a horse he owed to his good fortune--the best mistress possible. The lackeys followed. As Porthos had foreseen, the cavalcade produced a good effect; and if Mme. Coquenard had met Porthos and seen what a superb appearance he made upon his handsome Spanish genet, she would not have regretted the bleeding she had inflicted upon the strongbox of her husband. Near the Louvre the four friends met with M. de Treville, who was returning from St. Germain; he stopped them to offer his compliments upon their appointments, which in an instant drew round them a hundred gapers. D'Artagnan profited by the circumstance to speak to M. de Treville of the letter with the great red seal and the cardinal's arms. It is well understood that he did not breathe a word about the other. M de Treville approved of the resolution he had adopted, and assured him that if on the morrow he did not appear, he himself would undertake to find him, let him be where he might. At this moment the clock of La Samaritaine struck six; the four friends pleaded an engagement, and took leave of M. de Treville. A short gallop brought them to the road of Chaillot; the day began to decline, carriages were passing and repassing. D'Artagnan, keeping at some distance from his friends, darted a scrutinizing glance into every carriage that appeared, but saw no face with which he was acquainted. At length, after waiting a quarter of an hour and just as twilight was beginning to thicken, a carriage appeared, coming at a quick pace on the road of Sevres. A presentiment instantly told d'Artagnan that this carriage contained the person who had appointed the rendezvous; the young man was himself astonished to find his heart beat so violently. Almost instantly a female head was put out at the window, with two fingers placed upon her mouth, either to enjoin silence or to send him a kiss. D'Artagnan uttered a slight cry of joy; this woman, or rather this apparition--for the carriage passed with the rapidity of a vision--was Mme. Bonacieux. By an involuntary movement and in spite of the injunction given, d'Artagnan put his horse into a gallop, and in a few strides overtook the carriage; but the window was hermetically closed, the vision had disappeared. D'Artagnan then remembered the injunction: "If you value your own life or that of those who love you, remain motionless, and as if you had seen nothing." He stopped, therefore, trembling not for himself but for the poor woman who had evidently exposed herself to great danger by appointing this rendezvous. The carriage pursued its way, still going at a great pace, till it dashed into Paris, and disappeared. D'Artagnan remained fixed to the spot, astounded and not knowing what to think. If it was Mme. Bonacieux and if she was returning to Paris, why this fugitive rendezvous, why this simple exchange of a glance, why this lost kiss? If, on the other side, it was not she--which was still quite possible--for the little light that remained rendered a mistake easy--might it not be the commencement of some plot against him through the allurement of this woman, for whom his love was known? His three companions joined him. All had plainly seen a woman's head appear at the window, but none of them, except Athos, knew Mme. Bonacieux. The opinion of Athos was that it was indeed she; but less preoccupied by that pretty face than d'Artagnan, he had fancied he saw a second head, a man's head, inside the carriage. "If that be the case," said d'Artagnan, "they are doubtless transporting her from one prison to another. But what can they intend to do with the poor creature, and how shall I ever meet her again?" "Friend," said Athos, gravely, "remember that it is the dead alone with whom we are not likely to meet again on this earth. You know something of that, as well as I do, I think. Now, if your mistress is not dead, if it is she we have just seen, you will meet with her again some day or other. And perhaps, my God!" added he, with that misanthropic tone which was peculiar to him, "perhaps sooner than you wish." Half past seven had sounded. The carriage had been twenty minutes behind the time appointed. D'Artagnan's friends reminded him that he had a visit to pay, but at the same time bade him observe that there was yet time to retract. But d'Artagnan was at the same time impetuous and curious. He had made up his mind that he would go to the Palais-Cardinal, and that he would learn what his Eminence had to say to him. Nothing could turn him from his purpose. They reached the Rue St. Honore, and in the Place du Palais-Cardinal they found the twelve invited Musketeers, walking about in expectation of their comrades. There only they explained to them the matter in hand. D'Artagnan was well known among the honorable corps of the king's Musketeers, in which it was known he would one day take his place; he was considered beforehand as a comrade. It resulted from these antecedents that everyone entered heartily into the purpose for which they met; besides, it would not be unlikely that they would have an opportunity of playing either the cardinal or his people an ill turn, and for such expeditions these worthy gentlemen were always ready. Athos divided them into three groups, assumed the command of one, gave the second to Aramis, and the third to Porthos; and then each group went and took their watch near an entrance. D'Artagnan, on his part, entered boldly at the principal gate. Although he felt himself ably supported, the young man was not without a little uneasiness as he ascended the great staircase, step by step. His conduct toward Milady bore a strong resemblance to treachery, and he was very suspicious of the political relations which existed between that woman and the cardinal. Still further, de Wardes, whom he had treated so ill, was one of the tools of his Eminence; and d'Artagnan knew that while his Eminence was terrible to his enemies, he was strongly attached to his friends. "If de Wardes has related all our affair to the cardinal, which is not to be doubted, and if he has recognized me, as is probable, I may consider myself almost as a condemned man," said d'Artagnan, shaking his head. "But why has he waited till now? That's all plain enough. Milady has laid her complaints against me with that hypocritical grief which renders her so interesting, and this last offense has made the cup overflow." "Fortunately," added he, "my good friends are down yonder, and they will not allow me to be carried away without a struggle. Nevertheless, Monsieur de Treville's company of Musketeers alone cannot maintain a war against the cardinal, who disposes of the forces of all France, and before whom the queen is without power and the king without will. D'Artagnan, my friend, you are brave, you are prudent, you have excellent qualities; but the women will ruin you!" He came to this melancholy conclusion as he entered the antechamber. He placed his letter in the hands of the usher on duty, who led him into the waiting room and passed on into the interior of the palace. In this waiting room were five or six of the cardinals Guards, who recognized d'Artagnan, and knowing that it was he who had wounded Jussac, they looked upon him with a smile of singular meaning. This smile appeared to d'Artagnan to be of bad augury. Only, as our Gascon was not easily intimidated--or rather, thanks to a great pride natural to the men of his country, he did not allow one easily to see what was passing in his mind when that which was passing at all resembled fear--he placed himself haughtily in front of Messieurs the Guards, and waited with his hand on his hip, in an attitude by no means deficient in majesty. The usher returned and made a sign to d'Artagnan to follow him. It appeared to the young man that the Guards, on seeing him depart, chuckled among themselves. He traversed a corridor, crossed a grand saloon, entered a library, and found himself in the presence of a man seated at a desk and writing. The usher introduced him, and retired without speaking a word. D'Artagnan remained standing and examined this man. D'Artagnan at first believed that he had to do with some judge examining his papers; but he perceived that the man at the desk wrote, or rather corrected, lines of unequal length, scanning the words on his fingers. He saw then that he was with a poet. At the end of an instant the poet closed his manuscript, upon the cover of which was written "Mirame, a Tragedy in Five Acts," and raised his head. D'Artagnan recognized the cardinal.

Chapter Thirty-Nine: A Vision

https://web.archive.org/web/20210127112556/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/three-musketeers/summary/chapter-thirty-nine-a-vision

All four friends meet up at four o'clock. Planchet enters with two letters for his master. The first is clearly from a lady, and the second is from the Cardinal. The first is unsigned, but requests D'Artagnan's presence on a certain road at a certain time. He is to look into the carriages that pass, but must give no indication that he recognizes any of the passengers. His friends warn him it may be a trap, and determine to accompany him. The second is an invitation from the Cardinal, the kind that can't be refused. This too seems dangerous, but D'Artagnan doesn't have a choice. The Musketeers determine that they will bring reinforcements. After all, it's been a while since they fought with cardinalists. Porthos, Aramis, and Athos are looking forward to displaying all their new equipment and horses. Shortly after five o'clock, the men are decked out and ready to ride. They look fantastic. Finally, D'Artagnan arrives at the appointed place. After some time a carriage drives by that contains Madame Bonacieux. He attempts to follow but stops after remembering the note expressly told him not to. He worries about her, convinced that she is being transported from one prison to another. Still, they can't remain for much longer because D'Artagnan has his appointment with the Cardinal. The Musketeers collect about twelve other Musketeers, and together the fifteen of them form D'Artagnan's escort. At the Palais-Cardinal, D'Artagnan is shown into a library where a poet sits writing his manuscript. The man finishes and then looks up at D'Artagnan. Our hero recognizes the Cardinal.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/1257-chapters/40.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Three Musketeers/section_40_part_0.txt

The Three Musketeers.chapter 40

chapter 40: the cardinal

{"name": "Chapter Forty: The Cardinal", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210127112556/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/three-musketeers/summary/chapter-forty-the-cardinal", "summary": "The Cardinal stares at D'Artagnan for a bit, then questions him about his family and his past. He says that D'Artagnan had an interesting incident at Meung, demonstrating that he knows exactly what happened. The Cardinal knows that D'Artagnan lost his letter of introduction to Treville, but that Treville put him in Dessessart's company anyway. The Cardinal is one well-informed man. He continues to explicate D'Artagnan's past adventures, including his recent trip to England and his meeting with the Queen. The Cardinal then chastises D'Artagnan for not visiting him after Cavois extended an invitation. D'Artagnan apologizes, saying he feared the Cardinal's displeasure. The Cardinal points out that D'Artagnan is both intelligent and courageous, and that he admires those traits. He only punishes those who disobey--he points out that when D'Artagnan ignored his first invitation, Constance Bonacieux was abducted. The Cardinal then shifts gears to a discussion of D'Artagnan's future. The Cardinal offers D'Artagnan the rank of ensign in the Cardinal's Guards, and a separate company to command after the campaign at La Rochelle. D'Artagnan refuses, saying that he has no reason to leave the Majesty's Guards. The Cardinal is astonished, pointing out that both Guards serve the King and France. Finally D'Artagnan says simply that his friends are Musketeers and Guards, and all his enemies work for the Cardinal. There is simply no way he can accept the Cardinal's offer. Shocked, the Cardinal ends their interview with a warning--D'Artagnan better watch out for his life. If anything happens to D'Artagnan later, remember that the Cardinal's protection was once offered to him. With these ominous sayings, the meeting is over. D'Artagnan almost turns back but thinks of Athos's principles and continues on. When D'Artagnan tells his three friends that he refused the post of ensign in the Cardinal's service, Aramis and Porthos immediately congratulate him, but Athos \"fell into a profound reverie and said nothing.\" Later he tells D'Artagnan that it was perhaps the wrong move. As you can imagine, there is a big celebration that night. The next day, they prepare for war. Everyone goes to the palace so the King can review the troops. As they're traveling, the lawyer's wife spots Porthos and is excited because he looks so good. Aramis wrote a long letter, probably destined for Tours. Athos drank a bottle of wine. D'Artagnan is spotted by Milady, who points him out to two \"ill-looking men.\" The two men join D'Artagnan's company.", "analysis": ""}

40 A TERRIBLE VISION The cardinal leaned his elbow on his manuscript, his cheek upon his hand, and looked intently at the young man for a moment. No one had a more searching eye than the Cardinal de Richelieu, and d'Artagnan felt this glance run through his veins like a fever. He however kept a good countenance, holding his hat in his hand and awaiting the good pleasure of his Eminence, without too much assurance, but also without too much humility. "Monsieur," said the cardinal, "are you a d'Artagnan from Bearn?" "Yes, monseigneur," replied the young man. "There are several branches of the d'Artagnans at Tarbes and in its environs," said the cardinal; "to which do you belong?" "I am the son of him who served in the Religious Wars under the great King Henry, the father of his gracious Majesty." "That is well. It is you who set out seven or eight months ago from your country to seek your fortune in the capital?" "Yes, monseigneur." "You came through Meung, where something befell you. I don't very well know what, but still something." "Monseigneur," said d'Artagnan, "this was what happened to me--" "Never mind, never mind!" resumed the cardinal, with a smile which indicated that he knew the story as well as he who wished to relate it. "You were recommended to Monsieur de Treville, were you not?" "Yes, monseigneur; but in that unfortunate affair at Meung--" "The letter was lost," replied his Eminence; "yes, I know that. But Monsieur de Treville is a skilled physiognomist, who knows men at first sight; and he placed you in the company of his brother-in-law, Monsieur Dessessart, leaving you to hope that one day or other you should enter the Musketeers." "Monseigneur is correctly informed," said d'Artagnan. "Since that time many things have happened to you. You were walking one day behind the Chartreux, when it would have been better if you had been elsewhere. Then you took with your friends a journey to the waters of Forges; they stopped on the road, but you continued yours. That is all very simple: you had business in England." "Monseigneur," said d'Artagnan, quite confused, "I went--" "Hunting at Windsor, or elsewhere--that concerns nobody. I know, because it is my office to know everything. On your return you were received by an august personage, and I perceive with pleasure that you preserve the souvenir she gave you." D'Artagnan placed his hand upon the queen's diamond, which he wore, and quickly turned the stone inward; but it was too late. "The day after that, you received a visit from Cavois," resumed the cardinal. "He went to desire you to come to the palace. You have not returned that visit, and you were wrong." "Monseigneur, I feared I had incurred disgrace with your Eminence." "How could that be, monsieur? Could you incur my displeasure by having followed the orders of your superiors with more intelligence and courage than another would have done? It is the people who do not obey that I punish, and not those who, like you, obey--but too well. As a proof, remember the date of the day on which I had you bidden to come to me, and seek in your memory for what happened to you that very night." That was the very evening when the abduction of Mme. Bonacieux took place. D'Artagnan trembled; and he likewise recollected that during the past half hour the poor woman had passed close to him, without doubt carried away by the same power that had caused her disappearance. "In short," continued the cardinal, "as I have heard nothing of you for some time past, I wished to know what you were doing. Besides, you owe me some thanks. You must yourself have remarked how much you have been considered in all the circumstances." D'Artagnan bowed with respect. "That," continued the cardinal, "arose not only from a feeling of natural equity, but likewise from a plan I have marked out with respect to you." D'Artagnan became more and more astonished. "I wished to explain this plan to you on the day you received my first invitation; but you did not come. Fortunately, nothing is lost by this delay, and you are now about to hear it. Sit down there, before me, d'Artagnan; you are gentleman enough not to listen standing." And the cardinal pointed with his finger to a chair for the young man, who was so astonished at what was passing that he awaited a second sign from his interlocutor before he obeyed. "You are brave, Monsieur d'Artagnan," continued his Eminence; "you are prudent, which is still better. I like men of head and heart. Don't be afraid," said he, smiling. "By men of heart I mean men of courage. But young as you are, and scarcely entering into the world, you have powerful enemies; if you do not take great heed, they will destroy you." "Alas, monseigneur!" replied the young man, "very easily, no doubt, for they are strong and well supported, while I am alone." "Yes, that's true; but alone as you are, you have done much already, and will do still more, I don't doubt. Yet you have need, I believe, to be guided in the adventurous career you have undertaken; for, if I mistake not, you came to Paris with the ambitious idea of making your fortune." "I am at the age of extravagant hopes, monseigneur," said d'Artagnan. "There are no extravagant hopes but for fools, monsieur, and you are a man of understanding. Now, what would you say to an ensign's commission in my Guards, and a company after the campaign?" "Ah, monseigneur." "You accept it, do you not?" "Monseigneur," replied d'Artagnan, with an embarrassed air. "How? You refuse?" cried the cardinal, with astonishment. "I am in his Majesty's Guards, monseigneur, and I have no reason to be dissatisfied." "But it appears to me that my Guards--mine--are also his Majesty's Guards; and whoever serves in a French corps serves the king." "Monseigneur, your Eminence has ill understood my words." "You want a pretext, do you not? I comprehend. Well, you have this excuse: advancement, the opening campaign, the opportunity which I offer you--so much for the world. As regards yourself, the need of protection; for it is fit you should know, Monsieur d'Artagnan, that I have received heavy and serious complaints against you. You do not consecrate your days and nights wholly to the king's service." D'Artagnan colored. "In fact," said the cardinal, placing his hand upon a bundle of papers, "I have here a whole pile which concerns you. I know you to be a man of resolution; and your services, well directed, instead of leading you to ill, might be very advantageous to you. Come; reflect, and decide." "Your goodness confounds me, monseigneur," replied d'Artagnan, "and I am conscious of a greatness of soul in your Eminence that makes me mean as an earthworm; but since Monseigneur permits me to speak freely--" D'Artagnan paused. "Yes; speak." "Then, I will presume to say that all my friends are in the king's Musketeers and Guards, and that by an inconceivable fatality my enemies are in the service of your Eminence; I should, therefore, be ill received here and ill regarded there if I accepted what Monseigneur offers me." "Do you happen to entertain the haughty idea that I have not yet made you an offer equal to your value?" asked the cardinal, with a smile of disdain. "Monseigneur, your Eminence is a hundred times too kind to me; and on the contrary, I think I have not proved myself worthy of your goodness. The siege of La Rochelle is about to be resumed, monseigneur. I shall serve under the eye of your Eminence, and if I have the good fortune to conduct myself at the siege in such a manner as merits your attention, then I shall at least leave behind me some brilliant action to justify the protection with which you honor me. Everything is best in its time, monseigneur. Hereafter, perhaps, I shall have the right of giving myself; at present I shall appear to sell myself." "That is to say, you refuse to serve me, monsieur," said the cardinal, with a tone of vexation, through which, however, might be seen a sort of esteem; "remain free, then, and guard your hatreds and your sympathies." "Monseigneur--" "Well, well," said the cardinal, "I don't wish you any ill; but you must be aware that it is quite trouble enough to defend and recompense our friends. We owe nothing to our enemies; and let me give you a piece of advice; take care of yourself, Monsieur d'Artagnan, for from the moment I withdraw my hand from behind you, I would not give an obolus for your life." "I will try to do so, monseigneur," replied the Gascon, with a noble confidence. "Remember at a later period and at a certain moment, if any mischance should happen to you," said Richelieu, significantly, "that it was I who came to seek you, and that I did all in my power to prevent this misfortune befalling you." "I shall entertain, whatever may happen," said d'Artagnan, placing his hand upon his breast and bowing, "an eternal gratitude toward your Eminence for that which you now do for me." "Well, let it be, then, as you have said, Monsieur d'Artagnan; we shall see each other again after the campaign. I will have my eye upon you, for I shall be there," replied the cardinal, pointing with his finger to a magnificent suit of armor he was to wear, "and on our return, well--we will settle our account!" "Young man," said Richelieu, "if I shall be able to say to you at another time what I have said to you today, I promise you to do so." This last expression of Richelieu's conveyed a terrible doubt; it alarmed d'Artagnan more than a menace would have done, for it was a warning. The cardinal, then, was seeking to preserve him from some misfortune which threatened him. He opened his mouth to reply, but with a haughty gesture the cardinal dismissed him. D'Artagnan went out, but at the door his heart almost failed him, and he felt inclined to return. Then the noble and severe countenance of Athos crossed his mind; if he made the compact with the cardinal which he required, Athos would no more give him his hand--Athos would renounce him. It was this fear that restrained him, so powerful is the influence of a truly great character on all that surrounds it. D'Artagnan descended by the staircase at which he had entered, and found Athos and the four Musketeers waiting his appearance, and beginning to grow uneasy. With a word, d'Artagnan reassured them; and Planchet ran to inform the other sentinels that it was useless to keep guard longer, as his master had come out safe from the Palais-Cardinal. Returned home with Athos, Aramis and Porthos inquired eagerly the cause of the strange interview; but d'Artagnan confined himself to telling them that M. de Richelieu had sent for him to propose to him to enter into his guards with the rank of ensign, and that he had refused. "And you were right," cried Aramis and Porthos, with one voice. Athos fell into a profound reverie and answered nothing. But when they were alone he said, "You have done that which you ought to have done, d'Artagnan; but perhaps you have been wrong." D'Artagnan sighed deeply, for this voice responded to a secret voice of his soul, which told him that great misfortunes awaited him. The whole of the next day was spent in preparations for departure. D'Artagnan went to take leave of M. de Treville. At that time it was believed that the separation of the Musketeers and the Guards would be but momentary, the king holding his Parliament that very day and proposing to set out the day after. M. de Treville contented himself with asking d'Artagnan if he could do anything for him, but d'Artagnan answered that he was supplied with all he wanted. That night brought together all those comrades of the Guards of M. Dessessart and the company of Musketeers of M. de Treville who had been accustomed to associate together. They were parting to meet again when it pleased God, and if it pleased God. That night, then, was somewhat riotous, as may be imagined. In such cases extreme preoccupation is only to be combated by extreme carelessness. At the first sound of the morning trumpet the friends separated; the Musketeers hastening to the hotel of M. de Treville, the Guards to that of M. Dessessart. Each of the captains then led his company to the Louvre, where the king held his review. The king was dull and appeared ill, which detracted a little from his usual lofty bearing. In fact, the evening before, a fever had seized him in the midst of the Parliament, while he was holding his Bed of Justice. He had, not the less, decided upon setting out that same evening; and in spite of the remonstrances that had been offered to him, he persisted in having the review, hoping by setting it at defiance to conquer the disease which began to lay hold upon him. The review over, the Guards set forward alone on their march, the Musketeers waiting for the king, which allowed Porthos time to go and take a turn in his superb equipment in the Rue aux Ours. The procurator's wife saw him pass in his new uniform and on his fine horse. She loved Porthos too dearly to allow him to part thus; she made him a sign to dismount and come to her. Porthos was magnificent; his spurs jingled, his cuirass glittered, his sword knocked proudly against his ample limbs. This time the clerks evinced no inclination to laugh, such a real ear clipper did Porthos appear. The Musketeer was introduced to M. Coquenard, whose little gray eyes sparkled with anger at seeing his cousin all blazing new. Nevertheless, one thing afforded him inward consolation; it was expected by everybody that the campaign would be a severe one. He whispered a hope to himself that this beloved relative might be killed in the field. Porthos paid his compliments to M. Coquenard and bade him farewell. M. Coquenard wished him all sorts of prosperities. As to Mme. Coquenard, she could not restrain her tears; but no evil impressions were taken from her grief as she was known to be very much attached to her relatives, about whom she was constantly having serious disputes with her husband. But the real adieux were made in Mme. Coquenard's chamber; they were heartrending. As long as the procurator's wife could follow him with her eyes, she waved her handkerchief to him, leaning so far out of the window as to lead people to believe she wished to precipitate herself. Porthos received all these attentions like a man accustomed to such demonstrations, only on turning the corner of the street he lifted his hat gracefully, and waved it to her as a sign of adieu. On his part Aramis wrote a long letter. To whom? Nobody knew. Kitty, who was to set out that evening for Tours, was waiting in the next chamber. Athos sipped the last bottle of his Spanish wine. In the meantime d'Artagnan was defiling with his company. Arriving at the Faubourg St. Antoine, he turned round to look gaily at the Bastille; but as it was the Bastille alone he looked at, he did not observe Milady, who, mounted upon a light chestnut horse, designated him with her finger to two ill-looking men who came close up to the ranks to take notice of him. To a look of interrogation which they made, Milady replied by a sign that it was he. Then, certain that there could be no mistake in the execution of her orders, she started her horse and disappeared. The two men followed the company, and on leaving the Faubourg St. Antoine, mounted two horses properly equipped, which a servant without livery had waiting for them.

Chapter Forty: The Cardinal

https://web.archive.org/web/20210127112556/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/three-musketeers/summary/chapter-forty-the-cardinal

The Cardinal stares at D'Artagnan for a bit, then questions him about his family and his past. He says that D'Artagnan had an interesting incident at Meung, demonstrating that he knows exactly what happened. The Cardinal knows that D'Artagnan lost his letter of introduction to Treville, but that Treville put him in Dessessart's company anyway. The Cardinal is one well-informed man. He continues to explicate D'Artagnan's past adventures, including his recent trip to England and his meeting with the Queen. The Cardinal then chastises D'Artagnan for not visiting him after Cavois extended an invitation. D'Artagnan apologizes, saying he feared the Cardinal's displeasure. The Cardinal points out that D'Artagnan is both intelligent and courageous, and that he admires those traits. He only punishes those who disobey--he points out that when D'Artagnan ignored his first invitation, Constance Bonacieux was abducted. The Cardinal then shifts gears to a discussion of D'Artagnan's future. The Cardinal offers D'Artagnan the rank of ensign in the Cardinal's Guards, and a separate company to command after the campaign at La Rochelle. D'Artagnan refuses, saying that he has no reason to leave the Majesty's Guards. The Cardinal is astonished, pointing out that both Guards serve the King and France. Finally D'Artagnan says simply that his friends are Musketeers and Guards, and all his enemies work for the Cardinal. There is simply no way he can accept the Cardinal's offer. Shocked, the Cardinal ends their interview with a warning--D'Artagnan better watch out for his life. If anything happens to D'Artagnan later, remember that the Cardinal's protection was once offered to him. With these ominous sayings, the meeting is over. D'Artagnan almost turns back but thinks of Athos's principles and continues on. When D'Artagnan tells his three friends that he refused the post of ensign in the Cardinal's service, Aramis and Porthos immediately congratulate him, but Athos "fell into a profound reverie and said nothing." Later he tells D'Artagnan that it was perhaps the wrong move. As you can imagine, there is a big celebration that night. The next day, they prepare for war. Everyone goes to the palace so the King can review the troops. As they're traveling, the lawyer's wife spots Porthos and is excited because he looks so good. Aramis wrote a long letter, probably destined for Tours. Athos drank a bottle of wine. D'Artagnan is spotted by Milady, who points him out to two "ill-looking men." The two men join D'Artagnan's company.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/1257-chapters/41.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Three Musketeers/section_41_part_0.txt

The Three Musketeers.chapter 41

chapter 41: the siege of la rochelle

{"name": "Chapter Forty-One: The Siege of La Rochelle", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210127112556/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/three-musketeers/summary/chapter-forty-one-the-siege-of-la-rochelle", "summary": "The narrator of The Three Musketeers also provides a historical overview in this chapter. Remember the Huguenots and the Catholics from Mousqueton's story earlier? To recap, the Huguenots are French Protestants who saw Catholicism as far too invested in pompous ritual and overly materialistic. Since most of France, including all the powerful people, such as the King, were Catholic, the Huguenots were not in a good position. Several holy wars ensued, which were halted temporarily when King Henry IV of France issued the Edict of Nantes, One of those areas was La Rochelle. La Rochelle became a hotbed of civic unrest, and foreign influence. The city revolted, and the Musketeers are on their way to put down this revolt. Although it's not historically accurate, the narrator frames the issue entirely around Queen Anne. The English are a natural ally of the Huguenots, . Still, in the world of The Three Musketeers, the Duke of Buckingham uses the war as a pretext for seeing Anne. The Cardinal uses the war as a pretext to get some revenge on the guy whom Anne currently favors. The narrator points out that the \"real stake in the game... was simply a kind look from Anne of Austria.\" Since he is not a Musketeer, D'Artagnan is member of a company apart from his friends. The narrator says this might have troubled him had he known the dangers he was about to face. D'Artagnan is going for a walk to reflect on life when he spots two muskets being aimed at him. He drops to the ground. Bullets fire at him. He runs back to camp as fast as possible while bullets continue coming at him. One of them hits his hat. He keeps running. Later, he considers who these enemies could be: the Rochellais, the Cardinal, or Milady. He decides it must be Milady. The next day, Dessessart signals out D'Artagnan for a dangerous mission. He asks him to pick a couple men to go with him. The assignment is to evaluate the protection of a recently recaptured bastion. Four men volunteer to accompany D'Artagnan. Before they reach the bastion, two of the men disappear. The rest of them go to check out the bastion and then commence a retreat. One of the men gets hit by a musket ball. D'Artagnan is trying to help the wounded man when more shots ring out. He soon realizes that these shots are not coming from the enemy. Quickly, he falls to the ground and pretends to be hurt. The two would-be assassins--the same soldiers who disappeared earlier--come forward to make sure D'Artagnan is really dead. He's not at all dead--he gets up with his sword in hand! One of the men runs away straight into enemy fire. He falls. The other man begs for mercy, and tells D'Artagnan that a woman named Milady put them up to this task. The man tells D'Artagnan that the instructions are with his comrade. D'Artagnan tells him to fetch it, but the man is too afraid to venture into enemy fire. D'Artagnan winds up going himself. He finds a letter chastising the two would-be assassins for their neglect of keeping an eye on one particular woman; Milady hopes her assassins will do better getting rid of D'Artagnan. He keeps the letter as future evidence. D'Artagnan now fully comprehends what Milady will do to exact revenge on him. At the same time, he realizes that the Queen must have discovered where Milady was hiding Constance, and extricated the poor Madame Bonacieux. D'Artagnan spares the life of the wounded man; the two of them go back to camp. Strangely enough, D'Artagnan feels much more at ease regarding his life. The narrator points out that this means he still underestimates Milady.", "analysis": ""}

41 THE SEIGE OF LA ROCHELLE The Siege of La Rochelle was one of the great political events of the reign of Louis XIII, and one of the great military enterprises of the cardinal. It is, then, interesting and even necessary that we should say a few words about it, particularly as many details of this siege are connected in too important a manner with the story we have undertaken to relate to allow us to pass it over in silence. The political plans of the cardinal when he undertook this siege were extensive. Let us unfold them first, and then pass on to the private plans which perhaps had not less influence upon his Eminence than the others. Of the important cities given up by Henry IV to the Huguenots as places of safety, there only remained La Rochelle. It became necessary, therefore, to destroy this last bulwark of Calvinism--a dangerous leaven with which the ferments of civil revolt and foreign war were constantly mingling. Spaniards, Englishmen, and Italian malcontents, adventurers of all nations, and soldiers of fortune of every sect, flocked at the first summons under the standard of the Protestants, and organized themselves like a vast association, whose branches diverged freely over all parts of Europe. La Rochelle, which had derived a new importance from the ruin of the other Calvinist cities, was, then, the focus of dissensions and ambition. Moreover, its port was the last in the kingdom of France open to the English, and by closing it against England, our eternal enemy, the cardinal completed the work of Joan of Arc and the Duc de Guise. Thus Bassompierre, who was at once Protestant and Catholic--Protestant by conviction and Catholic as commander of the order of the Holy Ghost; Bassompierre, who was a German by birth and a Frenchman at heart--in short, Bassompierre, who had a distinguished command at the siege of La Rochelle, said, in charging at the head of several other Protestant nobles like himself, "You will see, gentlemen, that we shall be fools enough to take La Rochelle." And Bassompierre was right. The cannonade of the Isle of Re presaged to him the dragonnades of the Cevennes; the taking of La Rochelle was the preface to the revocation of the Edict of Nantes. We have hinted that by the side of these views of the leveling and simplifying minister, which belong to history, the chronicler is forced to recognize the lesser motives of the amorous man and jealous rival. Richelieu, as everyone knows, had loved the queen. Was this love a simple political affair, or was it naturally one of those profound passions which Anne of Austria inspired in those who approached her? That we are not able to say; but at all events, we have seen, by the anterior developments of this story, that Buckingham had the advantage over him, and in two or three circumstances, particularly that of the diamond studs, had, thanks to the devotedness of the three Musketeers and the courage and conduct of d'Artagnan, cruelly mystified him. It was, then, Richelieu's object, not only to get rid of an enemy of France, but to avenge himself on a rival; but this vengeance must be grand and striking and worthy in every way of a man who held in his hand, as his weapon for combat, the forces of a kingdom. Richelieu knew that in combating England he combated Buckingham; that in triumphing over England he triumphed over Buckingham--in short, that in humiliating England in the eyes of Europe he humiliated Buckingham in the eyes of the queen. On his side Buckingham, in pretending to maintain the honor of England, was moved by interests exactly like those of the cardinal. Buckingham also was pursuing a private vengeance. Buckingham could not under any pretense be admitted into France as an ambassador; he wished to enter it as a conqueror. It resulted from this that the real stake in this game, which two most powerful kingdoms played for the good pleasure of two amorous men, was simply a kind look from Anne of Austria. The first advantage had been gained by Buckingham. Arriving unexpectedly in sight of the Isle of Re with ninety vessels and nearly twenty thousand men, he had surprised the Comte de Toiras, who commanded for the king in the Isle, and he had, after a bloody conflict, effected his landing. Allow us to observe in passing that in this fight perished the Baron de Chantal; that the Baron de Chantal left a little orphan girl eighteen months old, and that this little girl was afterward Mme. de Sevigne. The Comte de Toiras retired into the citadel St. Martin with his garrison, and threw a hundred men into a little fort called the fort of La Pree. This event had hastened the resolutions of the cardinal; and till the king and he could take the command of the siege of La Rochelle, which was determined, he had sent Monsieur to direct the first operations, and had ordered all the troops he could dispose of to march toward the theater of war. It was of this detachment, sent as a vanguard, that our friend d'Artagnan formed a part. The king, as we have said, was to follow as soon as his Bed of Justice had been held; but on rising from his Bed of Justice on the twenty-eighth of June, he felt himself attacked by fever. He was, notwithstanding, anxious to set out; but his illness becoming more serious, he was forced to stop at Villeroy. Now, whenever the king halted, the Musketeers halted. It followed that d'Artagnan, who was as yet purely and simply in the Guards, found himself, for the time at least, separated from his good friends--Athos, Porthos, and Aramis. This separation, which was no more than an unpleasant circumstance, would have certainly become a cause of serious uneasiness if he had been able to guess by what unknown dangers he was surrounded. He, however, arrived without accident in the camp established before La Rochelle, on the tenth of the month of September of the year 1627. Everything was in the same state. The Duke of Buckingham and his English, masters of the Isle of Re, continued to besiege, but without success, the citadel St. Martin and the fort of La Pree; and hostilities with La Rochelle had commenced, two or three days before, about a fort which the Duc d'Angouleme had caused to be constructed near the city. The Guards, under the command of M. Dessessart, took up their quarters at the Minimes; but, as we know, d'Artagnan, possessed with ambition to enter the Musketeers, had formed but few friendships among his comrades, and he felt himself isolated and given up to his own reflections. His reflections were not very cheerful. From the time of his arrival in Paris, he had been mixed up with public affairs; but his own private affairs had made no great progress, either in love or fortune. As to love, the only woman he could have loved was Mme. Bonacieux; and Mme. Bonacieux had disappeared, without his being able to discover what had become of her. As to fortune, he had made--he, humble as he was--an enemy of the cardinal; that is to say, of a man before whom trembled the greatest men of the kingdom, beginning with the king. That man had the power to crush him, and yet he had not done so. For a mind so perspicuous as that of d'Artagnan, this indulgence was a light by which he caught a glimpse of a better future. Then he had made himself another enemy, less to be feared, he thought; but nevertheless, he instinctively felt, not to be despised. This enemy was Milady. In exchange for all this, he had acquired the protection and good will of the queen; but the favor of the queen was at the present time an additional cause of persecution, and her protection, as it was known, protected badly--as witness Chalais and Mme. Bonacieux. What he had clearly gained in all this was the diamond, worth five or six thousand livres, which he wore on his finger; and even this diamond--supposing that d'Artagnan, in his projects of ambition, wished to keep it, to make it someday a pledge for the gratitude of the queen--had not in the meanwhile, since he could not part with it, more value than the gravel he trod under his feet. We say the gravel he trod under his feet, for d'Artagnan made these reflections while walking solitarily along a pretty little road which led from the camp to the village of Angoutin. Now, these reflections had led him further than he intended, and the day was beginning to decline when, by the last ray of the setting sun, he thought he saw the barrel of a musket glitter from behind a hedge. D'Artagnan had a quick eye and a prompt understanding. He comprehended that the musket had not come there of itself, and that he who bore it had not concealed himself behind a hedge with any friendly intentions. He determined, therefore, to direct his course as clear from it as he could when, on the opposite side of the road, from behind a rock, he perceived the extremity of another musket. This was evidently an ambuscade. The young man cast a glance at the first musket and saw, with a certain degree of inquietude, that it was leveled in his direction; but as soon as he perceived that the orifice of the barrel was motionless, he threw himself upon the ground. At the same instant the gun was fired, and he heard the whistling of a ball pass over his head. No time was to be lost. D'Artagnan sprang up with a bound, and at the same instant the ball from the other musket tore up the gravel on the very spot on the road where he had thrown himself with his face to the ground. D'Artagnan was not one of those foolhardy men who seek a ridiculous death in order that it may be said of them that they did not retreat a single step. Besides, courage was out of the question here; d'Artagnan had fallen into an ambush. "If there is a third shot," said he to himself, "I am a lost man." He immediately, therefore, took to his heels and ran toward the camp, with the swiftness of the young men of his country, so renowned for their agility; but whatever might be his speed, the first who fired, having had time to reload, fired a second shot, and this time so well aimed that it struck his hat, and carried it ten paces from him. As he, however, had no other hat, he picked up this as he ran, and arrived at his quarters very pale and quite out of breath. He sat down without saying a word to anybody, and began to reflect. This event might have three causes: The first and the most natural was that it might be an ambuscade of the Rochellais, who might not be sorry to kill one of his Majesty's Guards, because it would be an enemy the less, and this enemy might have a well-furnished purse in his pocket. D'Artagnan took his hat, examined the hole made by the ball, and shook his head. The ball was not a musket ball--it was an arquebus ball. The accuracy of the aim had first given him the idea that a special weapon had been employed. This could not, then, be a military ambuscade, as the ball was not of the regular caliber. This might be a kind remembrance of Monsieur the Cardinal. It may be observed that at the very moment when, thanks to the ray of the sun, he perceived the gun barrel, he was thinking with astonishment on the forbearance of his Eminence with respect to him. But d'Artagnan again shook his head. For people toward whom he had but to put forth his hand, his Eminence had rarely recourse to such means. It might be a vengeance of Milady; that was most probable. He tried in vain to remember the faces or dress of the assassins; he had escaped so rapidly that he had not had leisure to notice anything. "Ah, my poor friends!" murmured d'Artagnan; "where are you? And that you should fail me!" D'Artagnan passed a very bad night. Three or four times he started up, imagining that a man was approaching his bed for the purpose of stabbing him. Nevertheless, day dawned without darkness having brought any accident. But d'Artagnan well suspected that that which was deferred was not relinquished. D'Artagnan remained all day in his quarters, assigning as a reason to himself that the weather was bad. At nine o'clock the next morning, the drums beat to arms. The Duc d'Orleans visited the posts. The guards were under arms, and d'Artagnan took his place in the midst of his comrades. Monsieur passed along the front of the line; then all the superior officers approached him to pay their compliments, M. Dessessart, captain of the Guards, as well as the others. At the expiration of a minute or two, it appeared to d'Artagnan that M. Dessessart made him a sign to approach. He waited for a fresh gesture on the part of his superior, for fear he might be mistaken; but this gesture being repeated, he left the ranks, and advanced to receive orders. "Monsieur is about to ask for some men of good will for a dangerous mission, but one which will do honor to those who shall accomplish it; and I made you a sign in order that you might hold yourself in readiness." "Thanks, my captain!" replied d'Artagnan, who wished for nothing better than an opportunity to distinguish himself under the eye of the lieutenant general. In fact the Rochellais had made a sortie during the night, and had retaken a bastion of which the royal army had gained possession two days before. The matter was to ascertain, by reconnoitering, how the enemy guarded this bastion. At the end of a few minutes Monsieur raised his voice, and said, "I want for this mission three or four volunteers, led by a man who can be depended upon." "As to the man to be depended upon, I have him under my hand, monsieur," said M. Dessessart, pointing to d'Artagnan; "and as to the four or five volunteers, Monsieur has but to make his intentions known, and the men will not be wanting." "Four men of good will who will risk being killed with me!" said d'Artagnan, raising his sword. Two of his comrades of the Guards immediately sprang forward, and two other soldiers having joined them, the number was deemed sufficient. D'Artagnan declined all others, being unwilling to take the first chance from those who had the priority. It was not known whether, after the taking of the bastion, the Rochellais had evacuated it or left a garrison in it; the object then was to examine the place near enough to verify the reports. D'Artagnan set out with his four companions, and followed the trench; the two Guards marched abreast with him, and the two soldiers followed behind. They arrived thus, screened by the lining of the trench, till they came within a hundred paces of the bastion. There, on turning round, d'Artagnan perceived that the two soldiers had disappeared. He thought that, beginning to be afraid, they had stayed behind, and he continued to advance. At the turning of the counterscarp they found themselves within about sixty paces of the bastion. They saw no one, and the bastion seemed abandoned. The three composing our forlorn hope were deliberating whether they should proceed any further, when all at once a circle of smoke enveloped the giant of stone, and a dozen balls came whistling around d'Artagnan and his companions. They knew all they wished to know; the bastion was guarded. A longer stay in this dangerous spot would have been useless imprudence. D'Artagnan and his two companions turned their backs, and commenced a retreat which resembled a flight. On arriving at the angle of the trench which was to serve them as a rampart, one of the Guardsmen fell. A ball had passed through his breast. The other, who was safe and sound, continued his way toward the camp. D'Artagnan was not willing to abandon his companion thus, and stooped to raise him and assist him in regaining the lines; but at this moment two shots were fired. One ball struck the head of the already-wounded guard, and the other flattened itself against a rock, after having passed within two inches of d'Artagnan. The young man turned quickly round, for this attack could not have come from the bastion, which was hidden by the angle of the trench. The idea of the two soldiers who had abandoned him occurred to his mind, and with them he remembered the assassins of two evenings before. He resolved this time to know with whom he had to deal, and fell upon the body of his comrade as if he were dead. He quickly saw two heads appear above an abandoned work within thirty paces of him; they were the heads of the two soldiers. D'Artagnan had not been deceived; these two men had only followed for the purpose of assassinating him, hoping that the young man's death would be placed to the account of the enemy. As he might be only wounded and might denounce their crime, they came up to him with the purpose of making sure. Fortunately, deceived by d'Artagnan's trick, they neglected to reload their guns. When they were within ten paces of him, d'Artagnan, who in falling had taken care not to let go his sword, sprang up close to them. The assassins comprehended that if they fled toward the camp without having killed their man, they should be accused by him; therefore their first idea was to join the enemy. One of them took his gun by the barrel, and used it as he would a club. He aimed a terrible blow at d'Artagnan, who avoided it by springing to one side; but by this movement he left a passage free to the bandit, who darted off toward the bastion. As the Rochellais who guarded the bastion were ignorant of the intentions of the man they saw coming toward them, they fired upon him, and he fell, struck by a ball which broke his shoulder. Meantime d'Artagnan had thrown himself upon the other soldier, attacking him with his sword. The conflict was not long; the wretch had nothing to defend himself with but his discharged arquebus. The sword of the Guardsman slipped along the barrel of the now-useless weapon, and passed through the thigh of the assassin, who fell. D'Artagnan immediately placed the point of his sword at his throat. "Oh, do not kill me!" cried the bandit. "Pardon, pardon, my officer, and I will tell you all." "Is your secret of enough importance to me to spare your life for it?" asked the young man, withholding his arm. "Yes; if you think existence worth anything to a man of twenty, as you are, and who may hope for everything, being handsome and brave, as you are." "Wretch," cried d'Artagnan, "speak quickly! Who employed you to assassinate me?" "A woman whom I don't know, but who is called Milady." "But if you don't know this woman, how do you know her name?" "My comrade knows her, and called her so. It was with him she agreed, and not with me; he even has in his pocket a letter from that person, who attaches great importance to you, as I have heard him say." "But how did you become concerned in this villainous affair?" "He proposed to me to undertake it with him, and I agreed." "And how much did she give you for this fine enterprise?" "A hundred louis." "Well, come!" said the young man, laughing, "she thinks I am worth something. A hundred louis? Well, that was a temptation for two wretches like you. I understand why you accepted it, and I grant you my pardon; but upon one condition." "What is that?" said the soldier, uneasy at perceiving that all was not over. "That you will go and fetch me the letter your comrade has in his pocket." "But," cried the bandit, "that is only another way of killing me. How can I go and fetch that letter under the fire of the bastion?" "You must nevertheless make up your mind to go and get it, or I swear you shall die by my hand." "Pardon, monsieur; pity! In the name of that young lady you love, and whom you perhaps believe dead but who is not!" cried the bandit, throwing himself upon his knees and leaning upon his hand--for he began to lose his strength with his blood. "And how do you know there is a young woman whom I love, and that I believed that woman dead?" asked d'Artagnan. "By that letter which my comrade has in his pocket." "You see, then," said d'Artagnan, "that I must have that letter. So no more delay, no more hesitation; or else whatever may be my repugnance to soiling my sword a second time with the blood of a wretch like you, I swear by my faith as an honest man--" and at these words d'Artagnan made so fierce a gesture that the wounded man sprang up. "Stop, stop!" cried he, regaining strength by force of terror. "I will go--I will go!" D'Artagnan took the soldier's arquebus, made him go on before him, and urged him toward his companion by pricking him behind with his sword. It was a frightful thing to see this wretch, leaving a long track of blood on the ground he passed over, pale with approaching death, trying to drag himself along without being seen to the body of his accomplice, which lay twenty paces from him. Terror was so strongly painted on his face, covered with a cold sweat, that d'Artagnan took pity on him, and casting upon him a look of contempt, "Stop," said he, "I will show you the difference between a man of courage and such a coward as you. Stay where you are; I will go myself." And with a light step, an eye on the watch, observing the movements of the enemy and taking advantage of the accidents of the ground, d'Artagnan succeeded in reaching the second soldier. There were two means of gaining his object--to search him on the spot, or to carry him away, making a buckler of his body, and search him in the trench. D'Artagnan preferred the second means, and lifted the assassin onto his shoulders at the moment the enemy fired. A slight shock, the dull noise of three balls which penetrated the flesh, a last cry, a convulsion of agony, proved to d'Artagnan that the would-be assassin had saved his life. D'Artagnan regained the trench, and threw the corpse beside the wounded man, who was as pale as death. Then he began to search. A leather pocketbook, a purse, in which was evidently a part of the sum which the bandit had received, with a dice box and dice, completed the possessions of the dead man. He left the box and dice where they fell, threw the purse to the wounded man, and eagerly opened the pocketbook. Among some unimportant papers he found the following letter, that which he had sought at the risk of his life: "Since you have lost sight of that woman and she is now in safety in the convent, which you should never have allowed her to reach, try, at least, not to miss the man. If you do, you know that my hand stretches far, and that you shall pay very dearly for the hundred louis you have from me." No signature. Nevertheless it was plain the letter came from Milady. He consequently kept it as a piece of evidence, and being in safety behind the angle of the trench, he began to interrogate the wounded man. He confessed that he had undertaken with his comrade--the same who was killed--to carry off a young woman who was to leave Paris by the Barriere de La Villette; but having stopped to drink at a cabaret, they had missed the carriage by ten minutes. "But what were you to do with that woman?" asked d'Artagnan, with anguish. "We were to have conveyed her to a hotel in the Place Royale," said the wounded man. "Yes, yes!" murmured d'Artagnan; "that's the place--Milady's own residence!" Then the young man tremblingly comprehended what a terrible thirst for vengeance urged this woman on to destroy him, as well as all who loved him, and how well she must be acquainted with the affairs of the court, since she had discovered all. There could be no doubt she owed this information to the cardinal. But amid all this he perceived, with a feeling of real joy, that the queen must have discovered the prison in which poor Mme. Bonacieux was explaining her devotion, and that she had freed her from that prison; and the letter he had received from the young woman, and her passage along the road of Chaillot like an apparition, were now explained. Then also, as Athos had predicted, it became possible to find Mme. Bonacieux, and a convent was not impregnable. This idea completely restored clemency to his heart. He turned toward the wounded man, who had watched with intense anxiety all the various expressions of his countenance, and holding out his arm to him, said, "Come, I will not abandon you thus. Lean upon me, and let us return to the camp." "Yes," said the man, who could scarcely believe in such magnanimity, "but is it not to have me hanged?" "You have my word," said he; "for the second time I give you your life." The wounded man sank upon his knees, to again kiss the feet of his preserver; but d'Artagnan, who had no longer a motive for staying so near the enemy, abridged the testimonials of his gratitude. The Guardsman who had returned at the first discharge announced the death of his four companions. They were therefore much astonished and delighted in the regiment when they saw the young man come back safe and sound. D'Artagnan explained the sword wound of his companion by a sortie which he improvised. He described the death of the other soldier, and the perils they had encountered. This recital was for him the occasion of veritable triumph. The whole army talked of this expedition for a day, and Monsieur paid him his compliments upon it. Besides this, as every great action bears its recompense with it, the brave exploit of d'Artagnan resulted in the restoration of the tranquility he had lost. In fact, d'Artagnan believed that he might be tranquil, as one of his two enemies was killed and the other devoted to his interests. This tranquillity proved one thing--that d'Artagnan did not yet know Milady.

Chapter Forty-One: The Siege of La Rochelle

https://web.archive.org/web/20210127112556/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/three-musketeers/summary/chapter-forty-one-the-siege-of-la-rochelle

The narrator of The Three Musketeers also provides a historical overview in this chapter. Remember the Huguenots and the Catholics from Mousqueton's story earlier? To recap, the Huguenots are French Protestants who saw Catholicism as far too invested in pompous ritual and overly materialistic. Since most of France, including all the powerful people, such as the King, were Catholic, the Huguenots were not in a good position. Several holy wars ensued, which were halted temporarily when King Henry IV of France issued the Edict of Nantes, One of those areas was La Rochelle. La Rochelle became a hotbed of civic unrest, and foreign influence. The city revolted, and the Musketeers are on their way to put down this revolt. Although it's not historically accurate, the narrator frames the issue entirely around Queen Anne. The English are a natural ally of the Huguenots, . Still, in the world of The Three Musketeers, the Duke of Buckingham uses the war as a pretext for seeing Anne. The Cardinal uses the war as a pretext to get some revenge on the guy whom Anne currently favors. The narrator points out that the "real stake in the game... was simply a kind look from Anne of Austria." Since he is not a Musketeer, D'Artagnan is member of a company apart from his friends. The narrator says this might have troubled him had he known the dangers he was about to face. D'Artagnan is going for a walk to reflect on life when he spots two muskets being aimed at him. He drops to the ground. Bullets fire at him. He runs back to camp as fast as possible while bullets continue coming at him. One of them hits his hat. He keeps running. Later, he considers who these enemies could be: the Rochellais, the Cardinal, or Milady. He decides it must be Milady. The next day, Dessessart signals out D'Artagnan for a dangerous mission. He asks him to pick a couple men to go with him. The assignment is to evaluate the protection of a recently recaptured bastion. Four men volunteer to accompany D'Artagnan. Before they reach the bastion, two of the men disappear. The rest of them go to check out the bastion and then commence a retreat. One of the men gets hit by a musket ball. D'Artagnan is trying to help the wounded man when more shots ring out. He soon realizes that these shots are not coming from the enemy. Quickly, he falls to the ground and pretends to be hurt. The two would-be assassins--the same soldiers who disappeared earlier--come forward to make sure D'Artagnan is really dead. He's not at all dead--he gets up with his sword in hand! One of the men runs away straight into enemy fire. He falls. The other man begs for mercy, and tells D'Artagnan that a woman named Milady put them up to this task. The man tells D'Artagnan that the instructions are with his comrade. D'Artagnan tells him to fetch it, but the man is too afraid to venture into enemy fire. D'Artagnan winds up going himself. He finds a letter chastising the two would-be assassins for their neglect of keeping an eye on one particular woman; Milady hopes her assassins will do better getting rid of D'Artagnan. He keeps the letter as future evidence. D'Artagnan now fully comprehends what Milady will do to exact revenge on him. At the same time, he realizes that the Queen must have discovered where Milady was hiding Constance, and extricated the poor Madame Bonacieux. D'Artagnan spares the life of the wounded man; the two of them go back to camp. Strangely enough, D'Artagnan feels much more at ease regarding his life. The narrator points out that this means he still underestimates Milady.

shmoop

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The Three Musketeers.chapter 42

chapter 42: the anjou wine

{"name": "Chapter Forty-Two: The Anjou Wine", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210127112556/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/three-musketeers/summary/chapter-forty-two-the-anjou-wine", "summary": "The King isn't in the best of health, but he's eager to join the siege as soon as he can. D'Artagnan is much more relaxed after his near brush with death; his only worry is that he has not heard from his friends. He gets a letter, however, written by the supplier of the Musketeers. It obliges him to accept twelve bottles of wine from his friends, who wish for him to toast them with it. D'Artagnan is pleased, and he invites a couple of his Guardsmen friends over for dinner that night. Due to conflicting schedules, they decide to have dinner together the day after that. Planchet gets help from another lackey named Fourreau, along with the would-be assassin. This man's name is Brisemont. The men prepare dinner. When Brisemont pours out the wine, the first bottle is a little thick at the bottom. D'Artagnan instructs him to pour the lees into a glass and drink it, as Brisemont is still weak from his wound. At the dinner, everyone is about to pick up their wine glasses when a canon sounds and they are obliged to rush out. It turns out that the King has arrived with ten thousand troops! The Musketeers proceed in before the King, and D'Artagnan spots his friends and Treville. Greetings are exchanged all around, and D'Artagnan introduces his new friends, explaining that they were about to drink the wine sent by the Musketeers. Athos, Porthos, and Aramis deny having sent wine. Moreover, Athos looks at the letter from the supplier, and declares that it's not the man's handwriting. D'Artagnan wonders out loud if Milady can be behind this. When they return to the dining room, Brisemont is dying. He castigates D'Artagnan, saying that he was spared only to be poisoned later. D'Artagnan denies this. No one really wants to celebrate after this. D'Artagnan's Guardsmen friends leave, and the four friends retreat into another room to discuss the situation. Athos says that D'Artagnan cannot live in constant fear that Milady will kill him. D'Artagnan accepts the situation, since he is a man, but mourns over Constance's fate. Aramis points out that the letter D'Artagnan discovered indicates that Constance was moved from a prison to a convent by the Queen. They ask Porthos if his mistress can help them discover which convent it is. Porthos says no. Aramis then says he will do it. When questioned, he says he knows one of the Queen's servants, but it is clear that he will write to a certain noblewoman in Tours.", "analysis": ""}

42 THE ANJOU WINE After the most disheartening news of the king's health, a report of his convalescence began to prevail in the camp; and as he was very anxious to be in person at the siege, it was said that as soon as he could mount a horse he would set forward. Meantime, Monsieur, who knew that from one day to the other he might expect to be removed from his command by the Duc d'Angouleme, by Bassompierre, or by Schomberg, who were all eager for his post, did but little, lost his days in wavering, and did not dare to attempt any great enterprise to drive the English from the Isle of Re, where they still besieged the citadel St. Martin and the fort of La Pree, as on their side the French were besieging La Rochelle. D'Artagnan, as we have said, had become more tranquil, as always happens after a past danger, particularly when the danger seems to have vanished. He only felt one uneasiness, and that was at not hearing any tidings from his friends. But one morning at the commencement of the month of November everything was explained to him by this letter, dated from Villeroy: M d'Artagnan, MM Athos, Porthos, and Aramis, after having had an entertainment at my house and enjoying themselves very much, created such a disturbance that the provost of the castle, a rigid man, has ordered them to be confined for some days; but I accomplish the order they have given me by forwarding to you a dozen bottles of my Anjou wine, with which they are much pleased. They are desirous that you should drink to their health in their favorite wine. I have done this, and am, monsieur, with great respect, Your very humble and obedient servant, Godeau, Purveyor of the Musketeers "That's all well!" cried d'Artagnan. "They think of me in their pleasures, as I thought of them in my troubles. Well, I will certainly drink to their health with all my heart, but I will not drink alone." And d'Artagnan went among those Guardsmen with whom he had formed greater intimacy than with the others, to invite them to enjoy with him this present of delicious Anjou wine which had been sent him from Villeroy. One of the two Guardsmen was engaged that evening, and another the next, so the meeting was fixed for the day after that. D'Artagnan, on his return, sent the twelve bottles of wine to the refreshment room of the Guards, with strict orders that great care should be taken of it; and then, on the day appointed, as the dinner was fixed for midday d'Artagnan sent Planchet at nine in the morning to assist in preparing everything for the entertainment. Planchet, very proud of being raised to the dignity of landlord, thought he would make all ready, like an intelligent man; and with this view called in the assistance of the lackey of one of his master's guests, named Fourreau, and the false soldier who had tried to kill d'Artagnan and who, belonging to no corps, had entered into the service of d'Artagnan, or rather of Planchet, after d'Artagnan had saved his life. The hour of the banquet being come, the two guards arrived, took their places, and the dishes were arranged on the table. Planchet waited, towel on arm; Fourreau uncorked the bottles; and Brisemont, which was the name of the convalescent, poured the wine, which was a little shaken by its journey, carefully into decanters. Of this wine, the first bottle being a little thick at the bottom, Brisemont poured the lees into a glass, and d'Artagnan desired him to drink it, for the poor devil had not yet recovered his strength. The guests having eaten the soup, were about to lift the first glass of wine to their lips, when all at once the cannon sounded from Fort Louis and Fort Neuf. The Guardsmen, imagining this to be caused by some unexpected attack, either of the besieged or the English, sprang to their swords. D'Artagnan, not less forward than they, did likewise, and all ran out, in order to repair to their posts. But scarcely were they out of the room before they were made aware of the cause of this noise. Cries of "Live the king! Live the cardinal!" resounded on every side, and the drums were beaten in all directions. In short, the king, impatient, as has been said, had come by forced marches, and had that moment arrived with all his household and a reinforcement of ten thousand troops. His Musketeers proceeded and followed him. D'Artagnan, placed in line with his company, saluted with an expressive gesture his three friends, whose eyes soon discovered him, and M. de Treville, who detected him at once. The ceremony of reception over, the four friends were soon in one another's arms. "Pardieu!" cried d'Artagnan, "you could not have arrived in better time; the dinner cannot have had time to get cold! Can it, gentlemen?" added the young man, turning to the two Guards, whom he introduced to his friends. "Ah, ah!" said Porthos, "it appears we are feasting!" "I hope," said Aramis, "there are no women at your dinner." "Is there any drinkable wine in your tavern?" asked Athos. "Well, pardieu! there is yours, my dear friend," replied d'Artagnan. "Our wine!" said Athos, astonished. "Yes, that you sent me." "We sent you wine?" "You know very well--the wine from the hills of Anjou." "Yes, I know what brand you are talking about." "The wine you prefer." "Well, in the absence of champagne and chambertin, you must content yourselves with that." "And so, connoisseurs in wine as we are, we have sent you some Anjou wine?" said Porthos. "Not exactly, it is the wine that was sent by your order." "On our account?" said the three Musketeers. "Did you send this wine, Aramis?" said Athos. "No; and you, Porthos?" "No; and you, Athos?" "No!" "If it was not you, it was your purveyor," said d'Artagnan. "Our purveyor!" "Yes, your purveyor, Godeau--the purveyor of the Musketeers." "My faith! never mind where it comes from," said Porthos, "let us taste it, and if it is good, let us drink it." "No," said Athos; "don't let us drink wine which comes from an unknown source." "You are right, Athos," said d'Artagnan. "Did none of you charge your purveyor, Godeau, to send me some wine?" "No! And yet you say he has sent you some as from us?" "Here is his letter," said d'Artagnan, and he presented the note to his comrades. "This is not his writing!" said Athos. "I am acquainted with it; before we left Villeroy I settled the accounts of the regiment." "A false letter altogether," said Porthos, "we have not been disciplined." "d'Artagnan," said Aramis, in a reproachful tone, "how could you believe that we had made a disturbance?" D'Artagnan grew pale, and a convulsive trembling shook all his limbs. "Thou alarmest me!" said Athos, who never used thee and thou but upon very particular occasions, "what has happened?" "Look you, my friends!" cried d'Artagnan, "a horrible suspicion crosses my mind! Can this be another vengeance of that woman?" It was now Athos who turned pale. D'Artagnan rushed toward the refreshment room, the three Musketeers and the two Guards following him. The first object that met the eyes of d'Artagnan on entering the room was Brisemont, stretched upon the ground and rolling in horrible convulsions. Planchet and Fourreau, as pale as death, were trying to give him succor; but it was plain that all assistance was useless--all the features of the dying man were distorted with agony. "Ah!" cried he, on perceiving d'Artagnan, "ah! this is frightful! You pretend to pardon me, and you poison me!" "I!" cried d'Artagnan. "I, wretch? What do you say?" "I say that it was you who gave me the wine; I say that it was you who desired me to drink it. I say you wished to avenge yourself on me, and I say that it is horrible!" "Do not think so, Brisemont," said d'Artagnan; "do not think so. I swear to you, I protest--" "Oh, but God is above! God will punish you! My God, grant that he may one day suffer what I suffer!" "Upon the Gospel," said d'Artagnan, throwing himself down by the dying man, "I swear to you that the wine was poisoned and that I was going to drink of it as you did." "I do not believe you," cried the soldier, and he expired amid horrible tortures. "Frightful! frightful!" murmured Athos, while Porthos broke the bottles and Aramis gave orders, a little too late, that a confessor should be sent for. "Oh, my friends," said d'Artagnan, "you come once more to save my life, not only mine but that of these gentlemen. Gentlemen," continued he, addressing the Guardsmen, "I request you will be silent with regard to this adventure. Great personages may have had a hand in what you have seen, and if talked about, the evil would only recoil upon us." "Ah, monsieur!" stammered Planchet, more dead than alive, "ah, monsieur, what an escape I have had!" "How, sirrah! you were going to drink my wine?" "To the health of the king, monsieur; I was going to drink a small glass of it if Fourreau had not told me I was called." "Alas!" said Fourreau, whose teeth chattered with terror, "I wanted to get him out of the way that I might drink myself." "Gentlemen," said d'Artagnan, addressing the Guardsmen, "you may easily comprehend that such a feast can only be very dull after what has taken place; so accept my excuses, and put off the party till another day, I beg of you." The two Guardsmen courteously accepted d'Artagnan's excuses, and perceiving that the four friends desired to be alone, retired. When the young Guardsman and the three Musketeers were without witnesses, they looked at one another with an air which plainly expressed that each of them perceived the gravity of their situation. "In the first place," said Athos, "let us leave this chamber; the dead are not agreeable company, particularly when they have died a violent death." "Planchet," said d'Artagnan, "I commit the corpse of this poor devil to your care. Let him be interred in holy ground. He committed a crime, it is true; but he repented of it." And the four friends quit the room, leaving to Planchet and Fourreau the duty of paying mortuary honors to Brisemont. The host gave them another chamber, and served them with fresh eggs and some water, which Athos went himself to draw at the fountain. In a few words, Porthos and Aramis were posted as to the situation. "Well," said d'Artagnan to Athos, "you see, my dear friend, that this is war to the death." Athos shook his head. "Yes, yes," replied he, "I perceive that plainly; but do you really believe it is she?" "I am sure of it." "Nevertheless, I confess I still doubt." "But the fleur-de-lis on her shoulder?" "She is some Englishwoman who has committed a crime in France, and has been branded in consequence." "Athos, she is your wife, I tell you," repeated d'Artagnan; "only reflect how much the two descriptions resemble each other." "Yes; but I should think the other must be dead, I hanged her so effectually." It was d'Artagnan who now shook his head in his turn. "But in either case, what is to be done?" said the young man. "The fact is, one cannot remain thus, with a sword hanging eternally over his head," said Athos. "We must extricate ourselves from this position." "But how?" "Listen! You must try to see her, and have an explanation with her. Say to her: 'Peace or war! My word as a gentleman never to say anything of you, never to do anything against you; on your side, a solemn oath to remain neutral with respect to me. If not, I will apply to the chancellor, I will apply to the king, I will apply to the hangman, I will move the courts against you, I will denounce you as branded, I will bring you to trial; and if you are acquitted, well, by the faith of a gentleman, I will kill you at the corner of some wall, as I would a mad dog.'" "I like the means well enough," said d'Artagnan, "but where and how to meet with her?" "Time, dear friend, time brings round opportunity; opportunity is the martingale of man. The more we have ventured the more we gain, when we know how to wait." "Yes; but to wait surrounded by assassins and poisoners." "Bah!" said Athos. "God has preserved us hitherto, God will preserve us still." "Yes, we. Besides, we are men; and everything considered, it is our lot to risk our lives; but she," asked he, in an undertone. "What she?" asked Athos. "Constance." "Madame Bonacieux! Ah, that's true!" said Athos. "My poor friend, I had forgotten you were in love." "Well, but," said Aramis, "have you not learned by the letter you found on the wretched corpse that she is in a convent? One may be very comfortable in a convent; and as soon as the siege of La Rochelle is terminated, I promise you on my part--" "Good," cried Athos, "good! Yes, my dear Aramis, we all know that your views have a religious tendency." "I am only temporarily a Musketeer," said Aramis, humbly. "It is some time since we heard from his mistress," said Athos, in a low voice. "But take no notice; we know all about that." "Well," said Porthos, "it appears to me that the means are very simple." "What?" asked d'Artagnan. "You say she is in a convent?" replied Porthos. "Yes." "Very well. As soon as the siege is over, we'll carry her off from that convent." "But we must first learn what convent she is in." "That's true," said Porthos. "But I think I have it," said Athos. "Don't you say, dear d'Artagnan, that it is the queen who has made choice of the convent for her?" "I believe so, at least." "In that case Porthos will assist us." "And how so, if you please?" "Why, by your marchioness, your duchess, your princess. She must have a long arm." "Hush!" said Porthos, placing a finger on his lips. "I believe her to be a cardinalist; she must know nothing of the matter." "Then," said Aramis, "I take upon myself to obtain intelligence of her." "You, Aramis?" cried the three friends. "You! And how?" "By the queen's almoner, to whom I am very intimately allied," said Aramis, coloring. And on this assurance, the four friends, who had finished their modest repast, separated, with the promise of meeting again that evening. D'Artagnan returned to less important affairs, and the three Musketeers repaired to the king's quarters, where they had to prepare their lodging.

Chapter Forty-Two: The Anjou Wine

https://web.archive.org/web/20210127112556/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/three-musketeers/summary/chapter-forty-two-the-anjou-wine

The King isn't in the best of health, but he's eager to join the siege as soon as he can. D'Artagnan is much more relaxed after his near brush with death; his only worry is that he has not heard from his friends. He gets a letter, however, written by the supplier of the Musketeers. It obliges him to accept twelve bottles of wine from his friends, who wish for him to toast them with it. D'Artagnan is pleased, and he invites a couple of his Guardsmen friends over for dinner that night. Due to conflicting schedules, they decide to have dinner together the day after that. Planchet gets help from another lackey named Fourreau, along with the would-be assassin. This man's name is Brisemont. The men prepare dinner. When Brisemont pours out the wine, the first bottle is a little thick at the bottom. D'Artagnan instructs him to pour the lees into a glass and drink it, as Brisemont is still weak from his wound. At the dinner, everyone is about to pick up their wine glasses when a canon sounds and they are obliged to rush out. It turns out that the King has arrived with ten thousand troops! The Musketeers proceed in before the King, and D'Artagnan spots his friends and Treville. Greetings are exchanged all around, and D'Artagnan introduces his new friends, explaining that they were about to drink the wine sent by the Musketeers. Athos, Porthos, and Aramis deny having sent wine. Moreover, Athos looks at the letter from the supplier, and declares that it's not the man's handwriting. D'Artagnan wonders out loud if Milady can be behind this. When they return to the dining room, Brisemont is dying. He castigates D'Artagnan, saying that he was spared only to be poisoned later. D'Artagnan denies this. No one really wants to celebrate after this. D'Artagnan's Guardsmen friends leave, and the four friends retreat into another room to discuss the situation. Athos says that D'Artagnan cannot live in constant fear that Milady will kill him. D'Artagnan accepts the situation, since he is a man, but mourns over Constance's fate. Aramis points out that the letter D'Artagnan discovered indicates that Constance was moved from a prison to a convent by the Queen. They ask Porthos if his mistress can help them discover which convent it is. Porthos says no. Aramis then says he will do it. When questioned, he says he knows one of the Queen's servants, but it is clear that he will write to a certain noblewoman in Tours.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/1257-chapters/43.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Three Musketeers/section_43_part_0.txt

The Three Musketeers.chapter 43

chapter 43: the inn of the red dovecot

{"name": "Chapter Forty-Three: The Inn of the Red Dovecot", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210127112556/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/three-musketeers/summary/chapter-forty-three-the-inn-of-the-red-dovecot", "summary": "We're given some more history: the two generals of the war are Bassompierre and Schomberg, but they argue so much that they have to be given separate commands. In particular, the Cardinal fears that Bassompierre, a Huguenot at heart, may not fight his best. The narrator says that without getting into the minutiae of military history, all that we need to know is that the French beat the English at the Isle of Loie--a great military victory. The siege of La Rochelle can therefore continue in peace without fear of English intervention. Word comes that Germany, Spain, England, and the Lorraine have allied together against France. The Cardinal is blamed. He spends his time working night and day on a strategy. Couriers and spies are constantly going to and from his residence, and it is whispered that attempts have been made on his life. Regardless of these attempts, the Cardinal still goes out and about alone, even at night. On one night, Porthos, Athos, and Aramis are on their way home from the Inn of the Red Dovecot when they hear horses approaching. Fearful of an ambush, they stop and listen. Two men on horseback are at the other end of the road. Athos shouts out for the identification of the other riders. A clear and commanding voice demands the Musketeer's identifications. Athos decides that it's a superior officer and replies that they're Musketeers of Treville's company. The companions ride up for further questioning by this unknown superior. When Athos finally demands to know the man's identity, he is stunned to learn it is the Cardinal. The Cardinal requests that the Musketeers guard his envoy. They are honored to do so. Before they leave, they tell the Cardinal that they fought some men at the inn who were going to attack a young woman staying at the inn. It is discovered that this is the very same woman the Cardinal was going to visit! Together, they all ride back to the Inn of the Red Dovecot. It is deserted, the owner having sent everyone away in preparation for his illustrious visitor. The Musketeers are given a room on the ground floor where they can wait while the Cardinal conducts his business. The Cardinal goes upstairs.", "analysis": ""}

43 THE SIGN OF THE RED DOVECOT Meanwhile the king, who, with more reason than the cardinal, showed his hatred for Buckingham, although scarcely arrived was in such a haste to meet the enemy that he commanded every disposition to be made to drive the English from the Isle of Re, and afterward to press the siege of La Rochelle; but notwithstanding his earnest wish, he was delayed by the dissensions which broke out between MM Bassompierre and Schomberg, against the Duc d'Angouleme. MM Bassompierre and Schomberg were marshals of France, and claimed their right of commanding the army under the orders of the king; but the cardinal, who feared that Bassompierre, a Huguenot at heart, might press but feebly the English and Rochellais, his brothers in religion, supported the Duc d'Angouleme, whom the king, at his instigation, had named lieutenant general. The result was that to prevent MM Bassompierre and Schomberg from deserting the army, a separate command had to be given to each. Bassompierre took up his quarters on the north of the city, between Leu and Dompierre; the Duc d'Angouleme on the east, from Dompierre to Perigny; and M. de Schomberg on the south, from Perigny to Angoutin. The quarters of Monsieur were at Dompierre; the quarters of the king were sometimes at Estree, sometimes at Jarrie; the cardinal's quarters were upon the downs, at the bridge of La Pierre, in a simple house without any entrenchment. So that Monsieur watched Bassompierre; the king, the Duc d'Angouleme; and the cardinal, M. de Schomberg. As soon as this organization was established, they set about driving the English from the Isle. The juncture was favorable. The English, who require, above everything, good living in order to be good soldiers, only eating salt meat and bad biscuit, had many invalids in their camp. Still further, the sea, very rough at this period of the year all along the sea coast, destroyed every day some little vessel; and the shore, from the point of l'Aiguillon to the trenches, was at every tide literally covered with the wrecks of pinnacles, roberges, and feluccas. The result was that even if the king's troops remained quietly in their camp, it was evident that some day or other, Buckingham, who only continued in the Isle from obstinacy, would be obliged to raise the siege. But as M. de Toiras gave information that everything was preparing in the enemy's camp for a fresh assault, the king judged that it would be best to put an end to the affair, and gave the necessary orders for a decisive action. As it is not our intention to give a journal of the siege, but on the contrary only to describe such of the events of it as are connected with the story we are relating, we will content ourselves with saying in two words that the expedition succeeded, to the great astonishment of the king and the great glory of the cardinal. The English, repulsed foot by foot, beaten in all encounters, and defeated in the passage of the Isle of Loie, were obliged to re-embark, leaving on the field of battle two thousand men, among whom were five colonels, three lieutenant colonels, two hundred and fifty captains, twenty gentlemen of rank, four pieces of cannon, and sixty flags, which were taken to Paris by Claude de St. Simon, and suspended with great pomp in the arches of Notre Dame. Te Deums were chanted in camp, and afterward throughout France. The cardinal was left free to carry on the siege, without having, at least at the present, anything to fear on the part of the English. But it must be acknowledged, this response was but momentary. An envoy of the Duke of Buckingham, named Montague, was taken, and proof was obtained of a league between the German Empire, Spain, England, and Lorraine. This league was directed against France. Still further, in Buckingham's lodging, which he had been forced to abandon more precipitately than he expected, papers were found which confirmed this alliance and which, as the cardinal asserts in his memoirs, strongly compromised Mme. de Chevreuse and consequently the queen. It was upon the cardinal that all the responsibility fell, for one is not a despotic minister without responsibility. All, therefore, of the vast resources of his genius were at work night and day, engaged in listening to the least report heard in any of the great kingdoms of Europe. The cardinal was acquainted with the activity, and more particularly the hatred, of Buckingham. If the league which threatened France triumphed, all his influence would be lost. Spanish policy and Austrian policy would have their representatives in the cabinet of the Louvre, where they had as yet but partisans; and he, Richelieu--the French minister, the national minister--would be ruined. The king, even while obeying him like a child, hated him as a child hates his master, and would abandon him to the personal vengeance of Monsieur and the queen. He would then be lost, and France, perhaps, with him. All this must be prepared against. Courtiers, becoming every instant more numerous, succeeded one another, day and night, in the little house of the bridge of La Pierre, in which the cardinal had established his residence. There were monks who wore the frock with such an ill grace that it was easy to perceive they belonged to the church militant; women a little inconvenienced by their costume as pages and whose large trousers could not entirely conceal their rounded forms; and peasants with blackened hands but with fine limbs, savoring of the man of quality a league off. There were also less agreeable visits--for two or three times reports were spread that the cardinal had nearly been assassinated. It is true that the enemies of the cardinal said that it was he himself who set these bungling assassins to work, in order to have, if wanted, the right of using reprisals; but we must not believe everything ministers say, nor everything their enemies say. These attempts did not prevent the cardinal, to whom his most inveterate detractors have never denied personal bravery, from making nocturnal excursions, sometimes to communicate to the Duc d'Angouleme important orders, sometimes to confer with the king, and sometimes to have an interview with a messenger whom he did not wish to see at home. On their part the Musketeers, who had not much to do with the siege, were not under very strict orders and led a joyous life. This was the more easy for our three companions in particular; for being friends of M. de Treville, they obtained from him special permission to be absent after the closing of the camp. Now, one evening when d'Artagnan, who was in the trenches, was not able to accompany them, Athos, Porthos, and Aramis, mounted on their battle steeds, enveloped in their war cloaks, with their hands upon their pistol butts, were returning from a drinking place called the Red Dovecot, which Athos had discovered two days before upon the route to Jarrie, following the road which led to the camp and quite on their guard, as we have stated, for fear of an ambuscade, when, about a quarter of a league from the village of Boisnau, they fancied they heard the sound of horses approaching them. They immediately all three halted, closed in, and waited, occupying the middle of the road. In an instant, and as the moon broke from behind a cloud, they saw at a turning of the road two horsemen who, on perceiving them, stopped in their turn, appearing to deliberate whether they should continue their route or go back. The hesitation created some suspicion in the three friends, and Athos, advancing a few paces in front of the others, cried in a firm voice, "Who goes there?" "Who goes there, yourselves?" replied one of the horsemen. "That is not an answer," replied Athos. "Who goes there? Answer, or we charge." "Beware of what you are about, gentlemen!" said a clear voice which seemed accustomed to command. "It is some superior officer making his night rounds," said Athos. "What do you wish, gentlemen?" "Who are you?" said the same voice, in the same commanding tone. "Answer in your turn, or you may repent of your disobedience." "King's Musketeers," said Athos, more and more convinced that he who interrogated them had the right to do so. "What company?" "Company of Treville." "Advance, and give an account of what you are doing here at this hour." The three companions advanced rather humbly--for all were now convinced that they had to do with someone more powerful than themselves--leaving Athos the post of speaker. One of the two riders, he who had spoken second, was ten paces in front of his companion. Athos made a sign to Porthos and Aramis also to remain in the rear, and advanced alone. "Your pardon, my officer," said Athos; "but we were ignorant with whom we had to do, and you may see that we were keeping good guard." "Your name?" said the officer, who covered a part of his face with his cloak. "But yourself, monsieur," said Athos, who began to be annoyed by this inquisition, "give me, I beg you, the proof that you have the right to question me." "Your name?" repeated the cavalier a second time, letting his cloak fall, and leaving his face uncovered. "Monsieur the Cardinal!" cried the stupefied Musketeer. "Your name?" cried his Eminence, for the third time. "Athos," said the Musketeer. The cardinal made a sign to his attendant, who drew near. "These three Musketeers shall follow us," said he, in an undertone. "I am not willing it should be known I have left the camp; and if they follow us we shall be certain they will tell nobody." "We are gentlemen, monseigneur," said Athos; "require our parole, and give yourself no uneasiness. Thank God, we can keep a secret." The cardinal fixed his piercing eyes on this courageous speaker. "You have a quick ear, Monsieur Athos," said the cardinal; "but now listen to this. It is not from mistrust that I request you to follow me, but for my security. Your companions are no doubt Messieurs Porthos and Aramis." "Yes, your Eminence," said Athos, while the two Musketeers who had remained behind advanced hat in hand. "I know you, gentlemen," said the cardinal, "I know you. I know you are not quite my friends, and I am sorry you are not so; but I know you are brave and loyal gentlemen, and that confidence may be placed in you. Monsieur Athos, do me, then, the honor to accompany me; you and your two friends, and then I shall have an escort to excite envy in his Majesty, if we should meet him." The three Musketeers bowed to the necks of their horses. "Well, upon my honor," said Athos, "your Eminence is right in taking us with you; we have seen several ill-looking faces on the road, and we have even had a quarrel at the Red Dovecot with four of those faces." "A quarrel, and what for, gentlemen?" said the cardinal; "you know I don't like quarrelers." "And that is the reason why I have the honor to inform your Eminence of what has happened; for you might learn it from others, and upon a false account believe us to be in fault." "What have been the results of your quarrel?" said the cardinal, knitting his brow. "My friend, Aramis, here, has received a slight sword wound in the arm, but not enough to prevent him, as your Eminence may see, from mounting to the assault tomorrow, if your Eminence orders an escalade." "But you are not the men to allow sword wounds to be inflicted upon you thus," said the cardinal. "Come, be frank, gentlemen, you have settled accounts with somebody! Confess; you know I have the right of giving absolution." "I, monseigneur?" said Athos. "I did not even draw my sword, but I took him who offended me round the body, and threw him out of the window. It appears that in falling," continued Athos, with some hesitation, "he broke his thigh." "Ah, ah!" said the cardinal; "and you, Monsieur Porthos?" "I, monseigneur, knowing that dueling is prohibited--I seized a bench, and gave one of those brigands such a blow that I believe his shoulder is broken." "Very well," said the cardinal; "and you, Monsieur Aramis?" "Monseigneur, being of a very mild disposition, and being, likewise, of which Monseigneur perhaps is not aware, about to enter into orders, I endeavored to appease my comrades, when one of these wretches gave me a wound with a sword, treacherously, across my left arm. Then I admit my patience failed me; I drew my sword in my turn, and as he came back to the charge, I fancied I felt that in throwing himself upon me, he let it pass through his body. I only know for a certainty that he fell; and it seemed to me that he was borne away with his two companions." "The devil, gentlemen!" said the cardinal, "three men placed hors de combat in a cabaret squabble! You don't do your work by halves. And pray what was this quarrel about?" "These fellows were drunk," said Athos, "and knowing there was a lady who had arrived at the cabaret this evening, they wanted to force her door." "Force her door!" said the cardinal, "and for what purpose?" "To do her violence, without doubt," said Athos. "I have had the honor of informing your Eminence that these men were drunk." "And was this lady young and handsome?" asked the cardinal, with a certain degree of anxiety. "We did not see her, monseigneur," said Athos. "You did not see her? Ah, very well," replied the cardinal, quickly. "You did well to defend the honor of a woman; and as I am going to the Red Dovecot myself, I shall know if you have told me the truth." "Monseigneur," said Athos, haughtily, "we are gentlemen, and to save our heads we would not be guilty of a falsehood." "Therefore I do not doubt what you say, Monsieur Athos, I do not doubt it for a single instant; but," added he, "to change the conversation, was this lady alone?" "The lady had a cavalier shut up with her," said Athos, "but as notwithstanding the noise, this cavalier did not show himself, it is to be presumed that he is a coward." "'Judge not rashly', says the Gospel," replied the cardinal. Athos bowed. "And now, gentlemen, that's well," continued the cardinal. "I know what I wish to know; follow me." The three Musketeers passed behind his Eminence, who again enveloped his face in his cloak, and put his horse in motion, keeping from eight to ten paces in advance of his four companions. They soon arrived at the silent, solitary inn. No doubt the host knew what illustrious visitor was expected, and had consequently sent intruders out of the way. Ten paces from the door the cardinal made a sign to his esquire and the three Musketeers to halt. A saddled horse was fastened to the window shutter. The cardinal knocked three times, and in a peculiar manner. A man, enveloped in a cloak, came out immediately, and exchanged some rapid words with the cardinal; after which he mounted his horse, and set off in the direction of Surgeres, which was likewise the way to Paris. "Advance, gentlemen," said the cardinal. "You have told me the truth, my gentlemen," said he, addressing the Musketeers, "and it will not be my fault if our encounter this evening be not advantageous to you. In the meantime, follow me." The cardinal alighted; the three Musketeers did likewise. The cardinal threw the bridle of his horse to his esquire; the three Musketeers fastened the horses to the shutters. The host stood at the door. For him, the cardinal was only an officer coming to visit a lady. "Have you any chamber on the ground floor where these gentlemen can wait near a good fire?" said the cardinal. The host opened the door of a large room, in which an old stove had just been replaced by a large and excellent chimney. "I have this," said he. "That will do," replied the cardinal. "Enter, gentlemen, and be kind enough to wait for me; I shall not be more than half an hour." And while the three Musketeers entered the ground floor room, the cardinal, without asking further information, ascended the staircase like a man who has no need of having his road pointed out to him.

Chapter Forty-Three: The Inn of the Red Dovecot

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We're given some more history: the two generals of the war are Bassompierre and Schomberg, but they argue so much that they have to be given separate commands. In particular, the Cardinal fears that Bassompierre, a Huguenot at heart, may not fight his best. The narrator says that without getting into the minutiae of military history, all that we need to know is that the French beat the English at the Isle of Loie--a great military victory. The siege of La Rochelle can therefore continue in peace without fear of English intervention. Word comes that Germany, Spain, England, and the Lorraine have allied together against France. The Cardinal is blamed. He spends his time working night and day on a strategy. Couriers and spies are constantly going to and from his residence, and it is whispered that attempts have been made on his life. Regardless of these attempts, the Cardinal still goes out and about alone, even at night. On one night, Porthos, Athos, and Aramis are on their way home from the Inn of the Red Dovecot when they hear horses approaching. Fearful of an ambush, they stop and listen. Two men on horseback are at the other end of the road. Athos shouts out for the identification of the other riders. A clear and commanding voice demands the Musketeer's identifications. Athos decides that it's a superior officer and replies that they're Musketeers of Treville's company. The companions ride up for further questioning by this unknown superior. When Athos finally demands to know the man's identity, he is stunned to learn it is the Cardinal. The Cardinal requests that the Musketeers guard his envoy. They are honored to do so. Before they leave, they tell the Cardinal that they fought some men at the inn who were going to attack a young woman staying at the inn. It is discovered that this is the very same woman the Cardinal was going to visit! Together, they all ride back to the Inn of the Red Dovecot. It is deserted, the owner having sent everyone away in preparation for his illustrious visitor. The Musketeers are given a room on the ground floor where they can wait while the Cardinal conducts his business. The Cardinal goes upstairs.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/1257-chapters/44.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Three Musketeers/section_44_part_0.txt

The Three Musketeers.chapter 44

chapter 44: the utility of stovepipes

{"name": "Chapter Forty-Four: The Utility of Stovepipes", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210127112556/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/three-musketeers/summary/chapter-forty-four-the-utility-of-stovepipes", "summary": "The three men don't know the identity of the woman they protected that night, but it's clear that she is an ally of the Cardinal. Porthos calls for some dice. Aramis and Porthos begin to play as Athos paces around the room thinking. Several times, he passes a stovepipe and hears voices. Athos gestures for his friends to be quiet, and the three of them crowd around the pipe to listen. The Cardinal is talking to Milady: he orders to find Buckingham in England and instruct him to cease and desist. Buckingham must stop his war preparations or else the Cardinal will ruin the Queen. The Cardinal outlines everything he knows about the Duke's movements that could compromise the Queen's honor. Milady memorizes the list of accusations, and then asks what should happen if the Duke persists in continuing his war. The Cardinal says that is highly unlikely, but if the Duke does persist, he would hope \"for one of those events which change the destinies of states.\" He suggests that Milady find one of the Duke's enemies to stab the Duke to death. Milady, worried that she would be named as an accomplice, asks the Cardinal for a carte blanche, that is, an order deeming that all her actions are beneficial to France. She recites all the evidence that the Cardinal has against the Queen and Buckingham. Satisfied that she will carry out the Cardinal's instructions, Milady then has a list of requests for the Cardinal. She points out that she made a number of enemies while serving him, the first being Madame Bonacieux. Milady wants to know which where Madame Boancieux is located. The Cardinal promises to find out. Next, Milady vents about D'Artagnan. The Cardinal demands proof of his connection with Buckingham before arresting him. Milady promises to deliver that proof. While the Cardinal signs the carte blanche, Athos draws his friends to the other side of the room and tells them he has to leave. Porthos and Aramis are to tell the Cardinal that the roads are unsafe and that Athos has gone on the lookout. Athos instructs the esquire to tell the Cardinal the same story, and then departs on the road back to camp.", "analysis": ""}

44 THE UTILITY OF STOVEPIPES It was evident that without suspecting it, and actuated solely by their chivalrous and adventurous character, our three friends had just rendered a service to someone the cardinal honored with his special protection. Now, who was that someone? That was the question the three Musketeers put to one another. Then, seeing that none of their replies could throw any light on the subject, Porthos called the host and asked for dice. Porthos and Aramis placed themselves at the table and began to play. Athos walked about in a contemplative mood. While thinking and walking, Athos passed and repassed before the pipe of the stove, broken in halves, the other extremity passing into the chamber above; and every time he passed and repassed he heard a murmur of words, which at length fixed his attention. Athos went close to it, and distinguished some words that appeared to merit so great an interest that he made a sign to his friends to be silent, remaining himself bent with his ear directed to the opening of the lower orifice. "Listen, Milady," said the cardinal, "the affair is important. Sit down, and let us talk it over." "Milady!" murmured Athos. "I listen to your Eminence with greatest attention," replied a female voice which made the Musketeer start. "A small vessel with an English crew, whose captain is on my side, awaits you at the mouth of Charente, at Fort La Pointe*. He will set sail tomorrow morning." _*Fort La Pointe, or Fort Vasou, was not built until 1672, nearly 50 years later._ "I must go thither tonight?" "Instantly! That is to say, when you have received my instructions. Two men, whom you will find at the door on going out, will serve you as escort. You will allow me to leave first; then, after half an hour, you can go away in your turn." "Yes, monseigneur. Now let us return to the mission with which you wish to charge me; and as I desire to continue to merit the confidence of your Eminence, deign to unfold it to me in terms clear and precise, that I may not commit an error." There was an instant of profound silence between the two interlocutors. It was evident that the cardinal was weighing beforehand the terms in which he was about to speak, and that Milady was collecting all her intellectual faculties to comprehend the things he was about to say, and to engrave them in her memory when they should be spoken. Athos took advantage of this moment to tell his two companions to fasten the door inside, and to make them a sign to come and listen with him. The two Musketeers, who loved their ease, brought a chair for each of themselves and one for Athos. All three then sat down with their heads together and their ears on the alert. "You will go to London," continued the cardinal. "Arrived in London, you will seek Buckingham." "I must beg your Eminence to observe," said Milady, "that since the affair of the diamond studs, about which the duke always suspected me, his Grace distrusts me." "Well, this time," said the cardinal, "it is not necessary to steal his confidence, but to present yourself frankly and loyally as a negotiator." "Frankly and loyally," repeated Milady, with an unspeakable expression of duplicity. "Yes, frankly and loyally," replied the cardinal, in the same tone. "All this negotiation must be carried on openly." "I will follow your Eminence's instructions to the letter. I only wait till you give them." "You will go to Buckingham in my behalf, and you will tell him I am acquainted with all the preparations he has made; but that they give me no uneasiness, since at the first step he takes I will ruin the queen." "Will he believe that your Eminence is in a position to accomplish the threat thus made?" "Yes; for I have the proofs." "I must be able to present these proofs for his appreciation." "Without doubt. And you will tell him I will publish the report of Bois-Robert and the Marquis de Beautru, upon the interview which the duke had at the residence of Madame the Constable with the queen on the evening Madame the Constable gave a masquerade. You will tell him, in order that he may not doubt, that he came there in the costume of the Great Mogul, which the Chevalier de Guise was to have worn, and that he purchased this exchange for the sum of three thousand pistoles." "Well, monseigneur?" "All the details of his coming into and going out of the palace--on the night when he introduced himself in the character of an Italian fortune teller--you will tell him, that he may not doubt the correctness of my information; that he had under his cloak a large white robe dotted with black tears, death's heads, and crossbones--for in case of a surprise, he was to pass for the phantom of the White Lady who, as all the world knows, appears at the Louvre every time any great event is impending." "Is that all, monseigneur?" "Tell him also that I am acquainted with all the details of the adventure at Amiens; that I will have a little romance made of it, wittily turned, with a plan of the garden and portraits of the principal actors in that nocturnal romance." "I will tell him that." "Tell him further that I hold Montague in my power; that Montague is in the Bastille; that no letters were found upon him, it is true, but that torture may make him tell much of what he knows, and even what he does not know." "Exactly." "Then add that his Grace has, in the precipitation with which he quit the Isle of Re, forgotten and left behind him in his lodging a certain letter from Madame de Chevreuse which singularly compromises the queen, inasmuch as it proves not only that her Majesty can love the enemies of the king but that she can conspire with the enemies of France. You recollect perfectly all I have told you, do you not?" "Your Eminence will judge: the ball of Madame the Constable; the night at the Louvre; the evening at Amiens; the arrest of Montague; the letter of Madame de Chevreuse." "That's it," said the cardinal, "that's it. You have an excellent memory, Milady." "But," resumed she to whom the cardinal addressed this flattering compliment, "if, in spite of all these reasons, the duke does not give way and continues to menace France?" "The duke is in love to madness, or rather to folly," replied Richelieu, with great bitterness. "Like the ancient paladins, he has only undertaken this war to obtain a look from his lady love. If he becomes certain that this war will cost the honor, and perhaps the liberty, of the lady of his thoughts, as he says, I will answer for it he will look twice." "And yet," said Milady, with a persistence that proved she wished to see clearly to the end of the mission with which she was about to be charged, "if he persists?" "If he persists?" said the cardinal. "That is not probable." "It is possible," said Milady. "If he persists--" His Eminence made a pause, and resumed: "If he persists--well, then I shall hope for one of those events which change the destinies of states." "If your Eminence would quote to me some one of these events in history," said Milady, "perhaps I should partake of your confidence as to the future." "Well, here, for example," said Richelieu: "when, in 1610, for a cause similar to that which moves the duke, King Henry IV, of glorious memory, was about, at the same time, to invade Flanders and Italy, in order to attack Austria on both sides. Well, did there not happen an event which saved Austria? Why should not the king of France have the same chance as the emperor?" "Your Eminence means, I presume, the knife stab in the Rue de la Feronnerie?" "Precisely," said the cardinal. "Does not your Eminence fear that the punishment inflicted upon Ravaillac may deter anyone who might entertain the idea of imitating him?" "There will be, in all times and in all countries, particularly if religious divisions exist in those countries, fanatics who ask nothing better than to become martyrs. Ay, and observe--it just occurs to me that the Puritans are furious against Buckingham, and their preachers designate him as the Antichrist." "Well?" said Milady. "Well," continued the cardinal, in an indifferent tone, "the only thing to be sought for at this moment is some woman, handsome, young, and clever, who has cause of quarrel with the duke. The duke has had many affairs of gallantry; and if he has fostered his amours by promises of eternal constancy, he must likewise have sown the seeds of hatred by his eternal infidelities." "No doubt," said Milady, coolly, "such a woman may be found." "Well, such a woman, who would place the knife of Jacques Clement or of Ravaillac in the hands of a fanatic, would save France." "Yes; but she would then be the accomplice of an assassination." "Were the accomplices of Ravaillac or of Jacques Clement ever known?" "No; for perhaps they were too high-placed for anyone to dare look for them where they were. The Palace of Justice would not be burned down for everybody, monseigneur." "You think, then, that the fire at the Palace of Justice was not caused by chance?" asked Richelieu, in the tone with which he would have put a question of no importance. "I, monseigneur?" replied Milady. "I think nothing; I quote a fact, that is all. Only I say that if I were named Madame de Montpensier, or the Queen Marie de Medicis, I should use less precautions than I take, being simply called Milady Clarik." "That is just," said Richelieu. "What do you require, then?" "I require an order which would ratify beforehand all that I should think proper to do for the greatest good of France." "But in the first place, this woman I have described must be found who is desirous of avenging herself upon the duke." "She is found," said Milady. "Then the miserable fanatic must be found who will serve as an instrument of God's justice." "He will be found." "Well," said the cardinal, "then it will be time to claim the order which you just now required." "Your Eminence is right," replied Milady; "and I have been wrong in seeing in the mission with which you honor me anything but that which it really is--that is, to announce to his Grace, on the part of your Eminence, that you are acquainted with the different disguises by means of which he succeeded in approaching the queen during the fete given by Madame the Constable; that you have proofs of the interview granted at the Louvre by the queen to a certain Italian astrologer who was no other than the Duke of Buckingham; that you have ordered a little romance of a satirical nature to be written upon the adventures of Amiens, with a plan of the gardens in which those adventures took place, and portraits of the actors who figured in them; that Montague is in the Bastille, and that the torture may make him say things he remembers, and even things he has forgotten; that you possess a certain letter from Madame de Chevreuse, found in his Grace's lodging, which singularly compromises not only her who wrote it, but her in whose name it was written. Then, if he persists, notwithstanding all this--as that is, as I have said, the limit of my mission--I shall have nothing to do but to pray God to work a miracle for the salvation of France. That is it, is it not, monseigneur, and I shall have nothing else to do?" "That is it," replied the cardinal, dryly. "And now," said Milady, without appearing to remark the change of the duke's tone toward her--"now that I have received the instructions of your Eminence as concerns your enemies, Monseigneur will permit me to say a few words to him of mine?" "Have you enemies, then?" asked Richelieu. "Yes, monseigneur, enemies against whom you owe me all your support, for I made them by serving your Eminence." "Who are they?" replied the duke. "In the first place, there is a little intrigante named Bonacieux." "She is in the prison of Nantes." "That is to say, she was there," replied Milady; "but the queen has obtained an order from the king by means of which she has been conveyed to a convent." "To a convent?" said the duke. "Yes, to a convent." "And to which?" "I don't know; the secret has been well kept." "But I will know!" "And your Eminence will tell me in what convent that woman is?" "I can see nothing inconvenient in that," said the cardinal. "Well, now I have an enemy much more to be dreaded by me than this little Madame Bonacieux." "Who is that?" "Her lover." "What is his name?" "Oh, your Eminence knows him well," cried Milady, carried away by her anger. "He is the evil genius of both of us. It is he who in an encounter with your Eminence's Guards decided the victory in favor of the king's Musketeers; it is he who gave three desperate wounds to de Wardes, your emissary, and who caused the affair of the diamond studs to fail; it is he who, knowing it was I who had Madame Bonacieux carried off, has sworn my death." "Ah, ah!" said the cardinal, "I know of whom you speak." "I mean that miserable d'Artagnan." "He is a bold fellow," said the cardinal. "And it is exactly because he is a bold fellow that he is the more to be feared." "I must have," said the duke, "a proof of his connection with Buckingham." "A proof?" cried Milady; "I will have ten." "Well, then, it becomes the simplest thing in the world; get me that proof, and I will send him to the Bastille." "So far good, monseigneur; but afterwards?" "When once in the Bastille, there is no afterward!" said the cardinal, in a low voice. "Ah, pardieu!" continued he, "if it were as easy for me to get rid of my enemy as it is easy to get rid of yours, and if it were against such people you require impunity--" "Monseigneur," replied Milady, "a fair exchange. Life for life, man for man; give me one, I will give you the other." "I don't know what you mean, nor do I even desire to know what you mean," replied the cardinal; "but I wish to please you, and see nothing out of the way in giving you what you demand with respect to so infamous a creature--the more so as you tell me this d'Artagnan is a libertine, a duelist, and a traitor." "An infamous scoundrel, monseigneur, a scoundrel!" "Give me paper, a quill, and some ink, then," said the cardinal. "Here they are, monseigneur." There was a moment of silence, which proved that the cardinal was employed in seeking the terms in which he should write the note, or else in writing it. Athos, who had not lost a word of the conversation, took his two companions by the hand, and led them to the other end of the room. "Well," said Porthos, "what do you want, and why do you not let us listen to the end of the conversation?" "Hush!" said Athos, speaking in a low voice. "We have heard all it was necessary we should hear; besides, I don't prevent you from listening, but I must be gone." "You must be gone!" said Porthos; "and if the cardinal asks for you, what answer can we make?" "You will not wait till he asks; you will speak first, and tell him that I am gone on the lookout, because certain expressions of our host have given me reason to think the road is not safe. I will say two words about it to the cardinal's esquire likewise. The rest concerns myself; don't be uneasy about that." "Be prudent, Athos," said Aramis. "Be easy on that head," replied Athos; "you know I am cool enough." Porthos and Aramis resumed their places by the stovepipe. As to Athos, he went out without any mystery, took his horse, which was tied with those of his friends to the fastenings of the shutters, in four words convinced the attendant of the necessity of a vanguard for their return, carefully examined the priming of his pistols, drew his sword, and took, like a forlorn hope, the road to the camp.

Chapter Forty-Four: The Utility of Stovepipes

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The three men don't know the identity of the woman they protected that night, but it's clear that she is an ally of the Cardinal. Porthos calls for some dice. Aramis and Porthos begin to play as Athos paces around the room thinking. Several times, he passes a stovepipe and hears voices. Athos gestures for his friends to be quiet, and the three of them crowd around the pipe to listen. The Cardinal is talking to Milady: he orders to find Buckingham in England and instruct him to cease and desist. Buckingham must stop his war preparations or else the Cardinal will ruin the Queen. The Cardinal outlines everything he knows about the Duke's movements that could compromise the Queen's honor. Milady memorizes the list of accusations, and then asks what should happen if the Duke persists in continuing his war. The Cardinal says that is highly unlikely, but if the Duke does persist, he would hope "for one of those events which change the destinies of states." He suggests that Milady find one of the Duke's enemies to stab the Duke to death. Milady, worried that she would be named as an accomplice, asks the Cardinal for a carte blanche, that is, an order deeming that all her actions are beneficial to France. She recites all the evidence that the Cardinal has against the Queen and Buckingham. Satisfied that she will carry out the Cardinal's instructions, Milady then has a list of requests for the Cardinal. She points out that she made a number of enemies while serving him, the first being Madame Bonacieux. Milady wants to know which where Madame Boancieux is located. The Cardinal promises to find out. Next, Milady vents about D'Artagnan. The Cardinal demands proof of his connection with Buckingham before arresting him. Milady promises to deliver that proof. While the Cardinal signs the carte blanche, Athos draws his friends to the other side of the room and tells them he has to leave. Porthos and Aramis are to tell the Cardinal that the roads are unsafe and that Athos has gone on the lookout. Athos instructs the esquire to tell the Cardinal the same story, and then departs on the road back to camp.