I've
murdered
too my brother.
Thomas Otway
_ Ah, poor Castalio!
[_Exit.
_
_Cast. _ Pity! by the gods,
She pities me! Then thou wilt go eternally?
What means all this? why all this stir, to plague
A single wretch? If but your word can shake
This world to atoms, why so much ado
With me? Think me but dead, and lay me so.
_Enter_ POLYDORE.
_Pol. _ To live, and live a torment to myself!
What dog would bear't, that knew but his condition?
We've little knowledge, and that makes us cowards,
Because it cannot tell us what's to come.
_Cast. _ Who's there?
_Pol. _ Why, what art thou?
_Cast. _ My brother Polydore?
_Pol. _ My name is Polydore.
_Cast. _ Canst thou inform me--
_Pol. _ Of what?
_Cast. _ Of my Monimia?
_Pol. _ No. Good-day.
_Cast. _ In haste?
Methinks my Polydore appears in sadness.
_Pol. _ Indeed, and so to me does my Castalio.
_Cast. _ Do I?
_Pol. _ Thou dost.
_Cast. _ Alas! I've wondrous reason;
I'm strangely altered, brother, since I saw thee.
_Pol. _ Why?
_Cast. _ Oh! to tell thee would but put thy heart
To pain. Let me embrace thee but a little,
And weep upon thy neck; I would repose
Within thy friendly bosom all my follies;
For thou wilt pardon them, because they're mine.
_Pol. _ Be not too credulous; consider first;
Friends may be false. Is there no friendship false?
_Cast. _ Why dost thou ask me that? does this appear
Like a false friendship, when with open arms
And streaming eyes I run upon thy breast?
Oh, 'tis in thee alone I must have comfort!
_Pol. _ I fear, Castalio, I have none to give thee.
_Cast. _ Dost thou not love me then?
_Pol. _ Oh, more than life:
I never had a thought of my Castalio
Might wrong the friendship we had vowed together.
Hast thou dealt so by me?
_Cast. _ I hope I have.
_Pol. _ Then tell me why this mourning; this disorder?
_Cast. _ O Polydore! I know not how to tell thee;
Shame rises in my face, and interrupts
The story of my tongue.
_Pol. _ I grieve my friend
Knows anything which he's ashamed to tell me;
Or didst thou e'er conceal thy thoughts from Polydore?
_Cast. _ Oh! much too oft; but let me here conjure thee,
By all the kind affection of a brother,--
For I'm ashamed to call myself thy friend,--
Forgive me.
_Pol. _ Well, go on.
_Cast. _ Our destiny contrived
To plague us both with one unhappy love:
Thou, like a friend, a constant generous friend,
In its first pangs didst trust me with thy passion;
Whilst I still smoothed my pain with smiles before thee,
And made a contract I ne'er meant to keep.
_Pol. _ How!
_Cast. _ Still new ways I studied to abuse thee,
And kept thee as a stranger to my passion,
Till yesterday I wedded with Monimia.
_Pol. _ Ah, Castalio,
Was that well done?
_Cast. _ No; to conceal't from thee
Was much a fault.
_Pol. _ A fault! When thou hast heard
The tale I'll tell, what wilt thou call it then?
_Cast. _ How my heart throbs!
_Pol. _ First, for thy friendship, traitor,
I cancel it thus; after this day I'll ne'er
Hold trust or converse with the false Castalio:
This witness Heaven!
_Cast. _ What will my fate do with me?
I've lost all happiness, and know not why.
What means this, brother?
_Pol. _ Perjured, treacherous wretch,
Farewell!
_Cast. _ I'll be thy slave; and thou shalt use me
Just as thou wilt, do but forgive me.
_Pol. _ Never.
_Cast. _ Oh! think a little what thy heart is doing;
How from our infancy we hand in hand
Have trod the path of life in love together;
One bed has held us, and the same desires,
The same aversions, still employed our thoughts;
Whene'er had I a friend that was not Polydore's,
Or Polydore a foe that was not mine?
Even in the womb we embraced; and wilt thou now,
For the first fault, abandon and forsake me,
Leave me amidst afflictions to myself,
Plunged in the gulf of grief, and none to help me?
_Pol. _ Go to Monimia; in her arms thou'lt find
Repose; she has the art of healing sorrows.
_Cast. _ What arts?
_Pol. _ Blind wretch, thou husband! there's a question!
Go to her fulsome bed, and wallow there,
Till some hot ruffian, full of lust and wine,
Come storm thee out, and show thee what's thy bargain.
_Cast. _ Hold there, I charge thee!
_Pol. _ Is she not a--
_Cast. _ Whore?
_Pol. _ Ay, whore; I think that word needs no explaining.
_Cast. _ Alas! I can forgive even this to thee:
But let me tell thee, Polydore, I'm grieved
To find thee guilty of such low revenge,
To wrong that virtue which thou couldst not ruin.
_Pol. _ It seems I lie then?
_Cast. _ Should the bravest man
That e'er wore conquering sword but dare to whisper
What thou proclaim'st, he were the worst of liars:
My friend may be mistaken.
_Pol. _ Damn the evasion!
Thou mean'st the worst; and he's a base-born villain
That said I lied.
_Cast. _ Do, draw thy sword, and thrust it through my heart;
There is no joy in life, if thou art lost.
A base-born villain!
_Pol. _ Yes, thou never camest
From old Acasto's loins; the midwife put
A cheat upon my mother, and, instead
Of a true brother, in the cradle by me
Placed some coarse peasant's cub, and thou art he.
_Cast. _ Thou art my brother still.
_Pol. _ Thou liest.
_Cast. _ Nay then: [_He draws. _
Yet I am calm.
_Pol. _ A coward's always so.
_Cast. _ Ah--ah--that stings home: coward!
_Pol. _ Ay, base-born coward, villain.
_Cast. _ This to thy heart then, though my mother bore thee.
[_They fight_; POLYDORE _drops his sword, and runs on_
CASTALIO'S.
_Pol. _ Now my Castalio is again my friend.
_Cast. _ What have I done? my sword is in thy breast!
_Pol. _ So I would have it be, thou best of men,
Thou kindest brother, and thou truest friend.
_Cast. _ Ye gods, we're taught that all your works are justice;
You're painted merciful, and friends to innocence:
If so, then why these plagues upon my head?
_Pol. _ Blame not the Heavens; here lies thy fate, Castalio.
They're not the gods, 'tis Polydore has wronged thee;
I've stained thy bed; thy spotless marriage-joys
Have been polluted by thy brother's lust.
_Cast. _ By thee!
_Pol. _ By me: last night the horrid deed
Was done, when all things slept, but rage and incest.
_Cast. _ Now where's Monimia? Oh!
_Re-enter_ MONIMIA.
_Mon. _ I'm here; who calls me?
Methought I heard a voice
Sweet as the shepherd's pipe upon the mountains,
When all his little flock's at feed before him.
But what means this? here's blood!
_Cast. _ Ay, brother's blood.
Art thou prepared for everlasting pains?
_Pol. _ Oh, let me charge thee by the eternal justice,
Hurt not her tender life!
_Cast. _ Not kill her! Rack me,
Ye powers above, with all your choicest torments,
Horror of mind, and pains yet uninvented,
If I not practise cruelty upon her,
And wreak revenge some way yet never known!
_Mon. _ That task myself have finished: I shall die
Before we part; I've drunk a healing draught
For all my cares, and never more shall wrong thee.
_Pol. _ Oh, she is innocent.
_Cast. _ Tell me that story,
And thou wilt make a wretch of me indeed.
_Pol. _ Hadst thou, Castalio, used me like a friend,
This ne'er had happened; hadst thou let me know
Thy marriage, we had all now met in joy:
But, ignorant of that,
Hearing the appointment made, enraged to think
Thou hadst outdone me in successful love,
I, in the dark, went and supplied thy place;
Whilst all the night, 'midst our triumphant joys,
The trembling, tender, kind, deceived Monimia
Embraced, caressed, and called me her Castalio.
_Cast. _ And all this is the work of my own fortune!
None but myself could e'er have been so curst.
My fatal love, alas! has ruined thee,
Thou fairest, goodliest frame the gods e'er made,
Or ever human eyes and heart adored!
I've murdered too my brother.
Why wouldst thou study ways to damn me further,
And force the sin of parricide upon me?
_Pol. _ 'Twas my own fault, and thou art innocent.
Forgive the barbarous trespass of my tongue;
'Twas a hard violence; I could have died
With love of thee, even when I used thee worst;
Nay, at each word that my distraction uttered,
My heart recoiled, and 'twas half death to speak them.
_Mon. _ Now, my Castalio, the most dear of men,
Wilt thou receive pollution to thy bosom,
And close the eyes of one that has betrayed thee?
_Cast. _ Oh, I'm the unhappy wretch whose cursèd fate
Has weighed thee down into destruction with him;
Why then thus kind to me?
_Mon. _ When I'm laid low i' the grave, and quite forgotten,
Mayst thou be happy in a fairer bride!
But none can ever love thee like Monimia.
When I am dead,--as presently I shall be,
For the grim tyrant grasps my heart already,--
Speak well of me; and if thou find ill tongues
Too busy with my fame, don't hear me wronged;
'Twill be a noble justice to the memory
Of a poor wretch once honoured with thy love.
How my head swims! --'tis very dark. Good-night! [_Dies. _
_Cast. _ If I survive thee! what a thought was that!
Thank Heaven, I go prepared against that curse!
_Enter_ CHAMONT, _disarmed, and held by_ ACASTO
_and_ Servants.
_Cham. _ Gape, hell, and swallow me to quick damnation,
If I forgive your house, if I not live
An everlasting plague to thee, Acasto,
And all thy race! You've overpowered me now;
But hear me, Heaven! --Ah! here's the scene of death.
My sister, my Monimia! breathless! --Now,
Ye powers above, if ye have justice, strike,
Strike bolts through me, and through the cursed Castalio!
_Acast. _ My Polydore!
_Pol. _ Who calls?
_Acast. _ How camest thou wounded?
_Cast. _ Stand off, thou hot-brained, boisterous, noisy ruffian,
And leave me to my sorrows.
_Cham. _ By the love
I bore her living, I will ne'er forsake her!
But here remain till my heart burst with sobbing.
_Cast. _ Vanish, I charge thee, or-- [_Draws a dagger. _
_Cham. _ Thou canst not kill me;
That would be kindness, and against thy nature.
_Acast. _ What means Castalio? Sure thou wilt not pull
More sorrows on thy agèd father's head.
Tell me, I beg you, tell me the sad cause
Of all this ruin.
_Pol. _ That must be my task:
But 'tis too long for one in pains to tell;
You'll in my closet find the story written
Of all our woes. Castalio's innocent,
And so's Monimia; only I'm to blame:
Inquire no farther.
_Cast. _ Thou, unkind Chamont,
Unjustly hast pursued me with thy hate,
And sought the life of him that never wronged thee:
Now, if thou wilt embrace a noble vengeance,
Come join with me and curse.
_Cham. _ What?
_Cast. _ First thyself,
As I do, and the hour that gave thee birth.
Confusion and disorder seize the world,
To spoil all trust and converse amongst men;
'Twixt families engender endless feuds,
In countries needless fears, in cities factions,
In states rebellion, and in churches schism;
Till all things move against the course of nature;
Till form's dissolved, the chain of causes broken,
And the originals of being lost!
_Acast. _ Have patience.
_Cast. _ Patience! preach it to the winds,
To roaring seas, or raging fires! The knaves
That teach it laugh at ye when ye believe them.
Strip me of all the common needs of life,
Scald me with leprosy, let friends forsake me,
I'll bear it all; but, cursed to the degree
That I am now, 'tis this must give me patience:
Thus I find rest, and shall complain no more. [23] [_Stabs himself. _
[_Dies. _
_Pol. _ Castalio! Oh!
_Cast. _ I come.
Chamont, to thee my birthright I bequeath:
Comfort my mourning father, heal his griefs,
[ACASTO _faints into the arms of a_ Servant.
For I perceive they fall with weight upon him;
And for Monimia's sake, whom thou wilt find
I never wronged, be kind to poor Serina.
Now all I beg is, lay me in one grave
Thus with my love. Farewell! I now am--nothing. [_Dies. _
_Cham. _ Take care of good Acasto, whilst I go
To search the means by which the fates have plagued us.
'Tis thus that Heaven its empire does maintain;
It may afflict, but man must not complain. [_Exeunt. _
FOOTNOTES:
[23] This may be rant, but it is rant in the right place. The line is
a fine one that divides true from false hyperbole, but this utterance
of Castalio has, I think, the real ring of maddened emotion, which is
often absent from Dryden's heroic plays. Rage and despair do sometimes
vent themselves in hyperbole and trope. Whether the poet can make us
feel the utterance to be inevitable is the question, and that depends
on his own sympathy with the situation.
[Illustration:
EPILOGUE. ]
SPOKEN BY SERINA.
You've seen one Orphan ruined here; and I
May be the next, if old Acasto die.
Should it prove so, I'd fain amongst you find
Who 'tis would to the fatherless be kind.
To whose protection might I safely go?
Is there amongst you no good-nature? No.
What should I do? Should I the godly seek,
And go a conventicling twice a week;
Quit the lewd stage, and its profane pollution,
Affect each form and saint-like institution;
So draw the brethren all to contribution?
Or shall I (as I guess the poet may
Within these three days) fairly run away?
No; to some city-lodgings I'll retire;
Seem very grave, and privacy desire;
Till I am thought some heiress rich in lands,
Fled to escape a cruel guardian's hands:
Which may produce a story worth the telling,
Of the next sparks that go a fortune-stealing.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
_THE SOLDIER'S FORTUNE. _
Quem recitas, meus est, O Fidentine, libellus;
Sed male quum recitas, incipit esse tuus. [24]--
MARTIAL, Lib. I. , Ep. 39.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
This Play is neither more nor less indecent than Otway's other
comedies, but less uninteresting, on account of its autobiographical
allusions to the writer's own adventures in Flanders, and the
disbandment without their pay of the troops he was sent to join. Like
most of the old comedies, this one throws light upon the manners,
customs, and costumes of the period represented. Its distinctive
quality is a certain rollicking vein of fun and mere buffoonery,
together with a rapidity of movement and variety of incident, that
vindicate the work from any charge of absolute dulness--nay, it is
undeniably amusing to those whose stomach is strong enough not to be
nauseated with the dirt. The play is not a mere jumble of bustling
incidents, as many of the contemporary comedies are, written by one
who "faggoted his notions as they fell. " At least the main intrigue is
regular and connected, and the characters speak naturally.
Otway wrote hastily, and "lived to please," since he must "please to
live. " _The Soldier's Fortune_ is the kind of thing that pleased very
much. For Downes tells us that the play was extraordinarily successful,
bringing both profit and reputation to the theatre. Betterton acted the
part of Beaugard, and Mrs. Barry played Lady Dunce. The dedication to
Bentley, the publisher, is unique and curious, while the Epilogue shows
the gloomy and bitter feelings to which the writer was now frequently a
prey. Langbaine and Thornton have respectively drawn attention to the
many different sources from which much of the plot and material of the
play seems to have been taken. Thus Lady Dunce's scheme for conveying
the ring and letter to her lover may be found in several earlier plays,
and Otway probably derived it from Molière's _L'Ecole des Maris_; the
story comes originally from Boccaccio.
_The Soldier's Fortune_ was acted in 1681 and printed in 4to in the
same year. In 1748 a farce, founded upon it, was brought out at Covent
Garden, but was never printed.
[Illustration]
TO MR. BENTLEY.
I have often (during this play's being in the press) been importuned
for a preface; which you, I suppose, would have speak something in
vindication of the comedy: now, to please you, Mr. Bentley, I will, as
briefly as I can, speak my mind upon that occasion, which you may be
pleased to accept of, both as a dedication to yourself, and next as a
preface to the book.
And I am not a little proud that it has happened into my thoughts to be
the first who in these latter years has made an epistle dedicatory to
his stationer: it is a compliment as reasonable as it is just. For, Mr.
Bentley, you pay honestly for the copy; and an epistle to you is a sort
of an acquittance, and may be probably welcome; when to a person of
higher rank and order, it looks like an obligation for praises, which
he knows he does not deserve, and therefore is very unwilling to part
with ready money for.
As to the vindication of this comedy, between friends and acquaintance,
I believe it is possible that as much may be said in its behalf as
heretofore has been for a great many others. But of all the apish
qualities about me, I have not that of being fond of my own issue; nay,
I must confess myself a very unnatural parent, for when it is once
brought into the world, e'en let the brat shift for itself, I say.
The objections made against the merit of this poor play, I must
confess, are very grievous--
First, says a lady, that shall be nameless because the world may think
civilly of her: "Faugh! Oh, sherreu! 'tis so filthy, so bawdy, no
modest woman ought to be seen at it: let me die, it has made me sick! "
When the world lies, Mr. Bentley, if that very lady has not easily
digested a much ranker morsel in a little ale-house towards Paddington,
and never made a face at it. But your true jilt is a creature that can
extract bawdy out of the chastest sense, as easily as a spider can
poison out of a rose; they know true bawdy, let it be never so much
concealed, as perfectly as Falstaff did the true prince by instinct;
they will separate the true metal from the alloy, let us temper it as
well as we can. Some women are the touchstones of filthiness: though I
have heard a lady (that has more modesty than any of those she-critics,
and I am sure more wit) say, she wondered at the impudence of any of
her sex, that would pretend to understand the thing called _bawdy_. So,
Mr. Bentley, for aught I perceive, my play may be innocent yet, and
the lady mistaken in pretending to the knowledge of a mystery above
her; though to speak honestly, she has had, besides her wit, a liberal
education; and if we may credit the world, has not buried her talent
neither.
This is, Mr. Bentley, all I can say in behalf of my play: wherefore I
throw it into your arms; make the best of it you can; praise it to your
customers; sell ten thousand of them, if possible, and then you will
complete the wishes of
Your Friend and Servant,
THO. OTWAY.
FOOTNOTES:
[24]
"The lines you read were writ by me alone,
But your bad reading makes them half your own. "--H. S.
[Illustration:
PROLOGUE. ]
BY LORD FALKLAND.
Forsaken dames with less concern reflect
On their inconstant hero's cold neglect
Than we (provoked by this ungrateful age)
Bear the hard fate of our abandoned stage.
With grief we see you ravished from our arms,
And curse the feeble virtue of our charms:
Curse your false hearts, for none so false as they,
And curse the eyes that stole those hearts away.
Remember, faithless friends, there was a time,
(But oh the sad remembrance of our prime! )
When to our arms with eager joys ye flew,
And we believed your treach'rous hearts as true
As e'er was nymph of ours to one of you.
But a more powerful Saint[25] enjoys ye now;
Fraught with sweet sins, and absolutions too:
To her are all your pious vows addressed;
She's both your love's and your religion's test,
The fairest prelate of her time, and best.
We own her more deserving far than we,
A just excuse for your inconstancy.
Yet 'twas unkindly done to leave us so;
First to betray with love, and then undo,
A horrid crime you're all addicted to.
Too soon, alas! your appetites are cloyed,
And Phillis rules no more when once enjoyed.
But all rash oaths of love and constancy
With the too short, forgotten pleasures die;
Whilst she, poor soul, robbed of her dearest ease,
Still drudges on with vain desire to please;
And restless follows you from place to place,
For tributes due to her autumnal face.
Deserted thus by such ungrateful men,
How can we hope you'll e'er return again?
Here's no new charm to tempt ye as before,
Wit now's our only treasure left in store,
And that's a coin will pass with you no more.
You who such dreadful bullies would appear,--
True bullies! quiet when there's danger near,--
Show your great souls in damning poets here.
FOOTNOTES:
[25] This was the _Female Prelate_, a tragedy by Settle, founded upon
the well-known story of a female Pope.
[Illustration:
_DRAMATIS PERSONÆ. _]
Captain BEAUGARD.
COURTINE.
Sir DAVY DUNCE.
Sir JOLLY JUMBLE.
FRISK.
FOURBIN, a Servant To Beaugard.
BLOODY-BONES.
VERMIN, a Servant To Sir Davy.
WILL, Sylvia's Footman.
A Constable, Watchmen, Whores, Bullies, Drawer, &c.
Lady DUNCE.
SYLVIA.
Maid.
SCENE--LONDON.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
_THE SOLDIER'S FORTUNE. _
ACT THE FIRST.
SCENE I. --_The Mall in St. James's Park. _
_Enter_ BEAUGARD, COURTINE, _and_ FOURBIN.
Beau. A pox o' fortune! Thou art always teasing me about
fortune: thou risest in a morning with ill-luck in thy mouth;
nay, never eatest a dinner, but thou sighest two hours after
it, with thinking where to get the next. Fortune be damned,
since the world's so wide!
_Cour. _ As wide as it is, 'tis so thronged and crammed with
knaves and fools, that an honest man can hardly get a living in
it.
_Beau. _ Do, rail, Courtine, do: it may get thee employment.
_Cour. _ At you I ought to rail; 'twas your fault we left our
employments abroad, to come home and be loyal; and now we as
loyally starve for it.
_Beau. _ Did not thy ancestors do it before thee, man? I tell
thee, loyalty and starving are all one. The old cavaliers got
such a trick of it in the king's exile, that their posterity
could never thrive since.
_Cour. _ 'Tis a fine equipage I am like to be reduced to; I
shall be ere long as greasy as an Alsatian bully; this flopping
hat, pinned up on one side, with a sandy, weather-beaten
peruke, dirty linen, and, to complete the figure, a long
scandalous iron sword jarring at my heels, like a--
_Beau. _ Snarling, thou meanest, like its master.
_Cour. _ My companions the worthy knights of the most noble
order of the post; your peripatetic philosophers of the
Temple-walks,[26] rogues in rags, and yet not honest; villains
that undervalue damnation, will forswear themselves for a
dinner, and hang their fathers for half-a-crown.
_Beau.
_Cast. _ Pity! by the gods,
She pities me! Then thou wilt go eternally?
What means all this? why all this stir, to plague
A single wretch? If but your word can shake
This world to atoms, why so much ado
With me? Think me but dead, and lay me so.
_Enter_ POLYDORE.
_Pol. _ To live, and live a torment to myself!
What dog would bear't, that knew but his condition?
We've little knowledge, and that makes us cowards,
Because it cannot tell us what's to come.
_Cast. _ Who's there?
_Pol. _ Why, what art thou?
_Cast. _ My brother Polydore?
_Pol. _ My name is Polydore.
_Cast. _ Canst thou inform me--
_Pol. _ Of what?
_Cast. _ Of my Monimia?
_Pol. _ No. Good-day.
_Cast. _ In haste?
Methinks my Polydore appears in sadness.
_Pol. _ Indeed, and so to me does my Castalio.
_Cast. _ Do I?
_Pol. _ Thou dost.
_Cast. _ Alas! I've wondrous reason;
I'm strangely altered, brother, since I saw thee.
_Pol. _ Why?
_Cast. _ Oh! to tell thee would but put thy heart
To pain. Let me embrace thee but a little,
And weep upon thy neck; I would repose
Within thy friendly bosom all my follies;
For thou wilt pardon them, because they're mine.
_Pol. _ Be not too credulous; consider first;
Friends may be false. Is there no friendship false?
_Cast. _ Why dost thou ask me that? does this appear
Like a false friendship, when with open arms
And streaming eyes I run upon thy breast?
Oh, 'tis in thee alone I must have comfort!
_Pol. _ I fear, Castalio, I have none to give thee.
_Cast. _ Dost thou not love me then?
_Pol. _ Oh, more than life:
I never had a thought of my Castalio
Might wrong the friendship we had vowed together.
Hast thou dealt so by me?
_Cast. _ I hope I have.
_Pol. _ Then tell me why this mourning; this disorder?
_Cast. _ O Polydore! I know not how to tell thee;
Shame rises in my face, and interrupts
The story of my tongue.
_Pol. _ I grieve my friend
Knows anything which he's ashamed to tell me;
Or didst thou e'er conceal thy thoughts from Polydore?
_Cast. _ Oh! much too oft; but let me here conjure thee,
By all the kind affection of a brother,--
For I'm ashamed to call myself thy friend,--
Forgive me.
_Pol. _ Well, go on.
_Cast. _ Our destiny contrived
To plague us both with one unhappy love:
Thou, like a friend, a constant generous friend,
In its first pangs didst trust me with thy passion;
Whilst I still smoothed my pain with smiles before thee,
And made a contract I ne'er meant to keep.
_Pol. _ How!
_Cast. _ Still new ways I studied to abuse thee,
And kept thee as a stranger to my passion,
Till yesterday I wedded with Monimia.
_Pol. _ Ah, Castalio,
Was that well done?
_Cast. _ No; to conceal't from thee
Was much a fault.
_Pol. _ A fault! When thou hast heard
The tale I'll tell, what wilt thou call it then?
_Cast. _ How my heart throbs!
_Pol. _ First, for thy friendship, traitor,
I cancel it thus; after this day I'll ne'er
Hold trust or converse with the false Castalio:
This witness Heaven!
_Cast. _ What will my fate do with me?
I've lost all happiness, and know not why.
What means this, brother?
_Pol. _ Perjured, treacherous wretch,
Farewell!
_Cast. _ I'll be thy slave; and thou shalt use me
Just as thou wilt, do but forgive me.
_Pol. _ Never.
_Cast. _ Oh! think a little what thy heart is doing;
How from our infancy we hand in hand
Have trod the path of life in love together;
One bed has held us, and the same desires,
The same aversions, still employed our thoughts;
Whene'er had I a friend that was not Polydore's,
Or Polydore a foe that was not mine?
Even in the womb we embraced; and wilt thou now,
For the first fault, abandon and forsake me,
Leave me amidst afflictions to myself,
Plunged in the gulf of grief, and none to help me?
_Pol. _ Go to Monimia; in her arms thou'lt find
Repose; she has the art of healing sorrows.
_Cast. _ What arts?
_Pol. _ Blind wretch, thou husband! there's a question!
Go to her fulsome bed, and wallow there,
Till some hot ruffian, full of lust and wine,
Come storm thee out, and show thee what's thy bargain.
_Cast. _ Hold there, I charge thee!
_Pol. _ Is she not a--
_Cast. _ Whore?
_Pol. _ Ay, whore; I think that word needs no explaining.
_Cast. _ Alas! I can forgive even this to thee:
But let me tell thee, Polydore, I'm grieved
To find thee guilty of such low revenge,
To wrong that virtue which thou couldst not ruin.
_Pol. _ It seems I lie then?
_Cast. _ Should the bravest man
That e'er wore conquering sword but dare to whisper
What thou proclaim'st, he were the worst of liars:
My friend may be mistaken.
_Pol. _ Damn the evasion!
Thou mean'st the worst; and he's a base-born villain
That said I lied.
_Cast. _ Do, draw thy sword, and thrust it through my heart;
There is no joy in life, if thou art lost.
A base-born villain!
_Pol. _ Yes, thou never camest
From old Acasto's loins; the midwife put
A cheat upon my mother, and, instead
Of a true brother, in the cradle by me
Placed some coarse peasant's cub, and thou art he.
_Cast. _ Thou art my brother still.
_Pol. _ Thou liest.
_Cast. _ Nay then: [_He draws. _
Yet I am calm.
_Pol. _ A coward's always so.
_Cast. _ Ah--ah--that stings home: coward!
_Pol. _ Ay, base-born coward, villain.
_Cast. _ This to thy heart then, though my mother bore thee.
[_They fight_; POLYDORE _drops his sword, and runs on_
CASTALIO'S.
_Pol. _ Now my Castalio is again my friend.
_Cast. _ What have I done? my sword is in thy breast!
_Pol. _ So I would have it be, thou best of men,
Thou kindest brother, and thou truest friend.
_Cast. _ Ye gods, we're taught that all your works are justice;
You're painted merciful, and friends to innocence:
If so, then why these plagues upon my head?
_Pol. _ Blame not the Heavens; here lies thy fate, Castalio.
They're not the gods, 'tis Polydore has wronged thee;
I've stained thy bed; thy spotless marriage-joys
Have been polluted by thy brother's lust.
_Cast. _ By thee!
_Pol. _ By me: last night the horrid deed
Was done, when all things slept, but rage and incest.
_Cast. _ Now where's Monimia? Oh!
_Re-enter_ MONIMIA.
_Mon. _ I'm here; who calls me?
Methought I heard a voice
Sweet as the shepherd's pipe upon the mountains,
When all his little flock's at feed before him.
But what means this? here's blood!
_Cast. _ Ay, brother's blood.
Art thou prepared for everlasting pains?
_Pol. _ Oh, let me charge thee by the eternal justice,
Hurt not her tender life!
_Cast. _ Not kill her! Rack me,
Ye powers above, with all your choicest torments,
Horror of mind, and pains yet uninvented,
If I not practise cruelty upon her,
And wreak revenge some way yet never known!
_Mon. _ That task myself have finished: I shall die
Before we part; I've drunk a healing draught
For all my cares, and never more shall wrong thee.
_Pol. _ Oh, she is innocent.
_Cast. _ Tell me that story,
And thou wilt make a wretch of me indeed.
_Pol. _ Hadst thou, Castalio, used me like a friend,
This ne'er had happened; hadst thou let me know
Thy marriage, we had all now met in joy:
But, ignorant of that,
Hearing the appointment made, enraged to think
Thou hadst outdone me in successful love,
I, in the dark, went and supplied thy place;
Whilst all the night, 'midst our triumphant joys,
The trembling, tender, kind, deceived Monimia
Embraced, caressed, and called me her Castalio.
_Cast. _ And all this is the work of my own fortune!
None but myself could e'er have been so curst.
My fatal love, alas! has ruined thee,
Thou fairest, goodliest frame the gods e'er made,
Or ever human eyes and heart adored!
I've murdered too my brother.
Why wouldst thou study ways to damn me further,
And force the sin of parricide upon me?
_Pol. _ 'Twas my own fault, and thou art innocent.
Forgive the barbarous trespass of my tongue;
'Twas a hard violence; I could have died
With love of thee, even when I used thee worst;
Nay, at each word that my distraction uttered,
My heart recoiled, and 'twas half death to speak them.
_Mon. _ Now, my Castalio, the most dear of men,
Wilt thou receive pollution to thy bosom,
And close the eyes of one that has betrayed thee?
_Cast. _ Oh, I'm the unhappy wretch whose cursèd fate
Has weighed thee down into destruction with him;
Why then thus kind to me?
_Mon. _ When I'm laid low i' the grave, and quite forgotten,
Mayst thou be happy in a fairer bride!
But none can ever love thee like Monimia.
When I am dead,--as presently I shall be,
For the grim tyrant grasps my heart already,--
Speak well of me; and if thou find ill tongues
Too busy with my fame, don't hear me wronged;
'Twill be a noble justice to the memory
Of a poor wretch once honoured with thy love.
How my head swims! --'tis very dark. Good-night! [_Dies. _
_Cast. _ If I survive thee! what a thought was that!
Thank Heaven, I go prepared against that curse!
_Enter_ CHAMONT, _disarmed, and held by_ ACASTO
_and_ Servants.
_Cham. _ Gape, hell, and swallow me to quick damnation,
If I forgive your house, if I not live
An everlasting plague to thee, Acasto,
And all thy race! You've overpowered me now;
But hear me, Heaven! --Ah! here's the scene of death.
My sister, my Monimia! breathless! --Now,
Ye powers above, if ye have justice, strike,
Strike bolts through me, and through the cursed Castalio!
_Acast. _ My Polydore!
_Pol. _ Who calls?
_Acast. _ How camest thou wounded?
_Cast. _ Stand off, thou hot-brained, boisterous, noisy ruffian,
And leave me to my sorrows.
_Cham. _ By the love
I bore her living, I will ne'er forsake her!
But here remain till my heart burst with sobbing.
_Cast. _ Vanish, I charge thee, or-- [_Draws a dagger. _
_Cham. _ Thou canst not kill me;
That would be kindness, and against thy nature.
_Acast. _ What means Castalio? Sure thou wilt not pull
More sorrows on thy agèd father's head.
Tell me, I beg you, tell me the sad cause
Of all this ruin.
_Pol. _ That must be my task:
But 'tis too long for one in pains to tell;
You'll in my closet find the story written
Of all our woes. Castalio's innocent,
And so's Monimia; only I'm to blame:
Inquire no farther.
_Cast. _ Thou, unkind Chamont,
Unjustly hast pursued me with thy hate,
And sought the life of him that never wronged thee:
Now, if thou wilt embrace a noble vengeance,
Come join with me and curse.
_Cham. _ What?
_Cast. _ First thyself,
As I do, and the hour that gave thee birth.
Confusion and disorder seize the world,
To spoil all trust and converse amongst men;
'Twixt families engender endless feuds,
In countries needless fears, in cities factions,
In states rebellion, and in churches schism;
Till all things move against the course of nature;
Till form's dissolved, the chain of causes broken,
And the originals of being lost!
_Acast. _ Have patience.
_Cast. _ Patience! preach it to the winds,
To roaring seas, or raging fires! The knaves
That teach it laugh at ye when ye believe them.
Strip me of all the common needs of life,
Scald me with leprosy, let friends forsake me,
I'll bear it all; but, cursed to the degree
That I am now, 'tis this must give me patience:
Thus I find rest, and shall complain no more. [23] [_Stabs himself. _
[_Dies. _
_Pol. _ Castalio! Oh!
_Cast. _ I come.
Chamont, to thee my birthright I bequeath:
Comfort my mourning father, heal his griefs,
[ACASTO _faints into the arms of a_ Servant.
For I perceive they fall with weight upon him;
And for Monimia's sake, whom thou wilt find
I never wronged, be kind to poor Serina.
Now all I beg is, lay me in one grave
Thus with my love. Farewell! I now am--nothing. [_Dies. _
_Cham. _ Take care of good Acasto, whilst I go
To search the means by which the fates have plagued us.
'Tis thus that Heaven its empire does maintain;
It may afflict, but man must not complain. [_Exeunt. _
FOOTNOTES:
[23] This may be rant, but it is rant in the right place. The line is
a fine one that divides true from false hyperbole, but this utterance
of Castalio has, I think, the real ring of maddened emotion, which is
often absent from Dryden's heroic plays. Rage and despair do sometimes
vent themselves in hyperbole and trope. Whether the poet can make us
feel the utterance to be inevitable is the question, and that depends
on his own sympathy with the situation.
[Illustration:
EPILOGUE. ]
SPOKEN BY SERINA.
You've seen one Orphan ruined here; and I
May be the next, if old Acasto die.
Should it prove so, I'd fain amongst you find
Who 'tis would to the fatherless be kind.
To whose protection might I safely go?
Is there amongst you no good-nature? No.
What should I do? Should I the godly seek,
And go a conventicling twice a week;
Quit the lewd stage, and its profane pollution,
Affect each form and saint-like institution;
So draw the brethren all to contribution?
Or shall I (as I guess the poet may
Within these three days) fairly run away?
No; to some city-lodgings I'll retire;
Seem very grave, and privacy desire;
Till I am thought some heiress rich in lands,
Fled to escape a cruel guardian's hands:
Which may produce a story worth the telling,
Of the next sparks that go a fortune-stealing.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
_THE SOLDIER'S FORTUNE. _
Quem recitas, meus est, O Fidentine, libellus;
Sed male quum recitas, incipit esse tuus. [24]--
MARTIAL, Lib. I. , Ep. 39.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
This Play is neither more nor less indecent than Otway's other
comedies, but less uninteresting, on account of its autobiographical
allusions to the writer's own adventures in Flanders, and the
disbandment without their pay of the troops he was sent to join. Like
most of the old comedies, this one throws light upon the manners,
customs, and costumes of the period represented. Its distinctive
quality is a certain rollicking vein of fun and mere buffoonery,
together with a rapidity of movement and variety of incident, that
vindicate the work from any charge of absolute dulness--nay, it is
undeniably amusing to those whose stomach is strong enough not to be
nauseated with the dirt. The play is not a mere jumble of bustling
incidents, as many of the contemporary comedies are, written by one
who "faggoted his notions as they fell. " At least the main intrigue is
regular and connected, and the characters speak naturally.
Otway wrote hastily, and "lived to please," since he must "please to
live. " _The Soldier's Fortune_ is the kind of thing that pleased very
much. For Downes tells us that the play was extraordinarily successful,
bringing both profit and reputation to the theatre. Betterton acted the
part of Beaugard, and Mrs. Barry played Lady Dunce. The dedication to
Bentley, the publisher, is unique and curious, while the Epilogue shows
the gloomy and bitter feelings to which the writer was now frequently a
prey. Langbaine and Thornton have respectively drawn attention to the
many different sources from which much of the plot and material of the
play seems to have been taken. Thus Lady Dunce's scheme for conveying
the ring and letter to her lover may be found in several earlier plays,
and Otway probably derived it from Molière's _L'Ecole des Maris_; the
story comes originally from Boccaccio.
_The Soldier's Fortune_ was acted in 1681 and printed in 4to in the
same year. In 1748 a farce, founded upon it, was brought out at Covent
Garden, but was never printed.
[Illustration]
TO MR. BENTLEY.
I have often (during this play's being in the press) been importuned
for a preface; which you, I suppose, would have speak something in
vindication of the comedy: now, to please you, Mr. Bentley, I will, as
briefly as I can, speak my mind upon that occasion, which you may be
pleased to accept of, both as a dedication to yourself, and next as a
preface to the book.
And I am not a little proud that it has happened into my thoughts to be
the first who in these latter years has made an epistle dedicatory to
his stationer: it is a compliment as reasonable as it is just. For, Mr.
Bentley, you pay honestly for the copy; and an epistle to you is a sort
of an acquittance, and may be probably welcome; when to a person of
higher rank and order, it looks like an obligation for praises, which
he knows he does not deserve, and therefore is very unwilling to part
with ready money for.
As to the vindication of this comedy, between friends and acquaintance,
I believe it is possible that as much may be said in its behalf as
heretofore has been for a great many others. But of all the apish
qualities about me, I have not that of being fond of my own issue; nay,
I must confess myself a very unnatural parent, for when it is once
brought into the world, e'en let the brat shift for itself, I say.
The objections made against the merit of this poor play, I must
confess, are very grievous--
First, says a lady, that shall be nameless because the world may think
civilly of her: "Faugh! Oh, sherreu! 'tis so filthy, so bawdy, no
modest woman ought to be seen at it: let me die, it has made me sick! "
When the world lies, Mr. Bentley, if that very lady has not easily
digested a much ranker morsel in a little ale-house towards Paddington,
and never made a face at it. But your true jilt is a creature that can
extract bawdy out of the chastest sense, as easily as a spider can
poison out of a rose; they know true bawdy, let it be never so much
concealed, as perfectly as Falstaff did the true prince by instinct;
they will separate the true metal from the alloy, let us temper it as
well as we can. Some women are the touchstones of filthiness: though I
have heard a lady (that has more modesty than any of those she-critics,
and I am sure more wit) say, she wondered at the impudence of any of
her sex, that would pretend to understand the thing called _bawdy_. So,
Mr. Bentley, for aught I perceive, my play may be innocent yet, and
the lady mistaken in pretending to the knowledge of a mystery above
her; though to speak honestly, she has had, besides her wit, a liberal
education; and if we may credit the world, has not buried her talent
neither.
This is, Mr. Bentley, all I can say in behalf of my play: wherefore I
throw it into your arms; make the best of it you can; praise it to your
customers; sell ten thousand of them, if possible, and then you will
complete the wishes of
Your Friend and Servant,
THO. OTWAY.
FOOTNOTES:
[24]
"The lines you read were writ by me alone,
But your bad reading makes them half your own. "--H. S.
[Illustration:
PROLOGUE. ]
BY LORD FALKLAND.
Forsaken dames with less concern reflect
On their inconstant hero's cold neglect
Than we (provoked by this ungrateful age)
Bear the hard fate of our abandoned stage.
With grief we see you ravished from our arms,
And curse the feeble virtue of our charms:
Curse your false hearts, for none so false as they,
And curse the eyes that stole those hearts away.
Remember, faithless friends, there was a time,
(But oh the sad remembrance of our prime! )
When to our arms with eager joys ye flew,
And we believed your treach'rous hearts as true
As e'er was nymph of ours to one of you.
But a more powerful Saint[25] enjoys ye now;
Fraught with sweet sins, and absolutions too:
To her are all your pious vows addressed;
She's both your love's and your religion's test,
The fairest prelate of her time, and best.
We own her more deserving far than we,
A just excuse for your inconstancy.
Yet 'twas unkindly done to leave us so;
First to betray with love, and then undo,
A horrid crime you're all addicted to.
Too soon, alas! your appetites are cloyed,
And Phillis rules no more when once enjoyed.
But all rash oaths of love and constancy
With the too short, forgotten pleasures die;
Whilst she, poor soul, robbed of her dearest ease,
Still drudges on with vain desire to please;
And restless follows you from place to place,
For tributes due to her autumnal face.
Deserted thus by such ungrateful men,
How can we hope you'll e'er return again?
Here's no new charm to tempt ye as before,
Wit now's our only treasure left in store,
And that's a coin will pass with you no more.
You who such dreadful bullies would appear,--
True bullies! quiet when there's danger near,--
Show your great souls in damning poets here.
FOOTNOTES:
[25] This was the _Female Prelate_, a tragedy by Settle, founded upon
the well-known story of a female Pope.
[Illustration:
_DRAMATIS PERSONÆ. _]
Captain BEAUGARD.
COURTINE.
Sir DAVY DUNCE.
Sir JOLLY JUMBLE.
FRISK.
FOURBIN, a Servant To Beaugard.
BLOODY-BONES.
VERMIN, a Servant To Sir Davy.
WILL, Sylvia's Footman.
A Constable, Watchmen, Whores, Bullies, Drawer, &c.
Lady DUNCE.
SYLVIA.
Maid.
SCENE--LONDON.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
_THE SOLDIER'S FORTUNE. _
ACT THE FIRST.
SCENE I. --_The Mall in St. James's Park. _
_Enter_ BEAUGARD, COURTINE, _and_ FOURBIN.
Beau. A pox o' fortune! Thou art always teasing me about
fortune: thou risest in a morning with ill-luck in thy mouth;
nay, never eatest a dinner, but thou sighest two hours after
it, with thinking where to get the next. Fortune be damned,
since the world's so wide!
_Cour. _ As wide as it is, 'tis so thronged and crammed with
knaves and fools, that an honest man can hardly get a living in
it.
_Beau. _ Do, rail, Courtine, do: it may get thee employment.
_Cour. _ At you I ought to rail; 'twas your fault we left our
employments abroad, to come home and be loyal; and now we as
loyally starve for it.
_Beau. _ Did not thy ancestors do it before thee, man? I tell
thee, loyalty and starving are all one. The old cavaliers got
such a trick of it in the king's exile, that their posterity
could never thrive since.
_Cour. _ 'Tis a fine equipage I am like to be reduced to; I
shall be ere long as greasy as an Alsatian bully; this flopping
hat, pinned up on one side, with a sandy, weather-beaten
peruke, dirty linen, and, to complete the figure, a long
scandalous iron sword jarring at my heels, like a--
_Beau. _ Snarling, thou meanest, like its master.
_Cour. _ My companions the worthy knights of the most noble
order of the post; your peripatetic philosophers of the
Temple-walks,[26] rogues in rags, and yet not honest; villains
that undervalue damnation, will forswear themselves for a
dinner, and hang their fathers for half-a-crown.
_Beau.
