ORIGINAL PLAYS

BY

W. S. GILBERT

SECOND SERIES

CONTAINING

BROKEN HEARTS, ENGAGED, SWEETHEARTS, DAN’L DRUCE, GRETCHEN, TOM COBB, THE SORCERER, H.M.S. PINAFORE, THE PIRATES OF PENZANCE

LONDON CHATTO & WINDUS 1899

BROKEN HEARTS.

AN ENTIRELY ORIGINAL FAIRY PLAY, IN THREE ACTS.

First produced at the Royal Court Theatre, under the management of Mr. Hare, Thursday, 9th December, 1875.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

SCENE: THE ISLAND OF BROKEN HEARTS.

The action of the piece takes place within twenty four hours.

Costumes—1300-1350.

[Pg 3]

BROKEN HEARTS.

ACT I.

Scene: A tropical landscape. In the distance, a calm sea. A natural fountain—a mere thread of water—falls over a rock into a natural basin. An old sun-dial formed of the upper part of a broken pillar, round the shaft of which some creeping flowers are trained, stands on a small mound. The time is within half an hour of sunset.

Mousta, a deformed, ill-favoured dwarf hump-backed and one-eyed, is discovered seated, reading a small black-letter volume.

Enter Vavir, who listens in amazement.

The Lady Hilda has entered during the last line.

Enter Florian. He comes down, looking around him in admiration.

Enter Mousta (with book).

[Florian covers his head with veil as Vavir enters with flowers.

[Pg 13]

Enter Melusine (a small hand-mirror hangs from her waist).

Enter Lady Hilda, singing and playing on mandolin.

[Towards the close of the song, she sinks on her knees as a ray of moonlight falls on her. Florian has watched her eagerly during the song, with every symptom of the profoundest admiration.

[During these lines Hilda, seated by the fountain, has been playing with its water, and kissing her wet hands.

Enter Mousta unperceived; he places himself so that the dial conceals him from Florian and Hilda.

ACT II.

Scene, same as Act I. Time, Sunrise.

Enter Mousta, cautiously.

Enter Florian, angrily.

[Pg 19]

Enter Vavir; she starts in intense alarm on seeing Florian.

Enter Mousta, watching them.

[Takes veil from behind stone as Hilda enters hurriedly. He winds it about his head.

[Mousta hobbles across behind the fountain, and replies as Florian.

[Mousta reveals himself. Hilda, whose fears have been gradually aroused during this speech, recoils in horror and amazement at seeing him.

Enter Florian.

Enter Hilda, still veiled; she gazes in amazement at Florian.

[She advances to reveal herself, when Vavir enters, and sits lovingly at Florian’s feet. Hilda, horrified, veils herself again.

[Vavir falls senseless in Florian’s arms. Hilda, who has been listening eagerly to the latter part of Florian’s tale, kneels, praying, as the act drop falls.

ACT III.

Scene, same as Act I. About half an hour before Sunset.

Vavir discovered sleeping at foot of Sun-dial. Melusine is kneeling. Amanthis is standing, leaning on dial. Vavir’s head rests on pillows, and a cloak envelopes her.

Hilda enters, veiled.

[Hilda pauses, looking at Vavir for a moment, then covers her face with the veil, and exit.

Enter Melusine, followed by Florian.

[Exit Vavir, supported by Melusine. She shows by her change of expression that the effort to appear cheerful has caused her great suffering.

Mousta has entered during this speech.

Enter Hilda, veiled.

Enter Vavir, very pale and weak, supported by Melusine and Amanthis. Florian receives her in his arms and they lay her gently on the ground. Hilda rushes to her, as they place her on the ground, near the sun-dial. Florian kneels by her, and takes her hand.

[Vavir dies; Hilda falling senseless on her body.

Curtain.

ENGAGED.

AN ENTIRELY ORIGINAL FARCICAL COMEDY, IN THREE ACTS.

First produced at the Haymarket Theatre, under the management of Mr. J. S. Clarke, Wednesday, 3rd October, 1877.

[Pg 40]

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

ACT I.

GARDEN OF A COTTAGE, NEAR GRETNA.

(On the border, between England and Scotland.)

ACTS II. AND III.

DRAWING-ROOM IN SYMPERSON’S HOUSE IN LONDON.

Three months’ interval is supposed to elapse between Acts I. and II.

Three days’ interval is supposed to elapse between Acts II. and III.

[Pg 41]

ENGAGED.

ACT I.

Scene.—Garden of a humble but picturesque cottage, near Gretna, on the border between England and Scotland. The whole scene is suggestive of rustic prosperity and content. Maggie Macfarlane, a pretty country girl, is discovered spinning at a wheel, and singing as she spins. Angus Macalister, a good-looking peasant lad, appears on at back, and creeps softly down to Maggie as she sings and spins, and places his hands over her eyes.

Ang. Wha is it?

Mag. Oh, Angus, ye frightened me sae! (He releases her.) And see there—the flax is a’ knotted and scribbled—and I’ll do naething wi’ it!

Ang. Meg! My Meg! My ain bonnie Meg!

Mag. Angus, why, lad, what’s wrang wi’ e’e? Thou hast tear-drops in thy bonnie blue een.

Ang. Dinna heed them, Meg. It comes fra glowerin’ at thy bright beauty. Glowerin’ at thee is like glowerin’ at the noonday sun!

Mag. Angus, thou’rt talking fulishly. I’m but a puir brown hill-side lassie. I dinna like to hear sic things from a straight honest lad like thee. It’s the way the dandy toun-folk speak to me, and it does na come rightly from the lips of a simple man.

Ang. Forgive me, Meg, for I speak honestly to ye. Angus Macalister is not the man to deal in squeaming compliments. Meg, I love thee dearly, as thou well knowest. I’m but a puir lad, and I’ve little but twa braw arms and a straight hairt to live by, but I’ve saved a wee bit siller—I’ve a braw housie and a scrappie of gude garden-land—and it’s a’ for thee, lassie, if thou’ll gie me thy true and tender little hairt!

Mag. Angus, I’ll be fair and straight wi’ ee. Thou askest[Pg 42] me for my hairt. Why, Angus, thou’rt tall, and fair, and brave. Thou’st a gude, honest face, and a gude, honest hairt, which is mair precious than a’ the gold on earth! No man has a word to say against Angus Macalister—no, nor any woman neither. Thou hast strong arms to work wi’, and a strong hairt to help thee work. And wha am I that I should say that a’ these blessings are not enough for me? If thou, gude, brave, honest man, will be troubled wi’ sic a puir little, humble mousie as Maggie Macfarlane, why, she’ll just be the proudest and happiest lassie in a’ Dumfries!

Ang. My ain darling! (They embrace.)

Enter Mrs. Macfarlane from cottage.

Mrs. Mac. Why, Angus—Maggie, what’s a’ this!

Ang. Mistress Macfarlane, dinna be fasht wi’ me; dinna think worse o’ me than I deserve. I’ve loved your lass honestly these fifteen years, but I never plucked up the hairt to tell her so until noo; and when she answered fairly, it wasna in human nature to do aught else but hold her to my hairt and place one kiss on her bonnie cheek.

Mrs. Mac. Angus, say nae mair. My hairt is sair at losing my only bairn; but I’m nae fasht wi’ ee. Thou’rt a gude lad, and it’s been the hope of my widowed auld heart to see you twain one. Thou’lt treat her kindly—I ken that weel. Thou’rt a prosperous, kirk-going man, and my Mag should be a happy lass indeed. Bless thee, Angus; bless thee!

Ang. (wiping his eyes). Dinna heed the water in my ee—it will come when I’m ower glad. Yes, I’m a fairly prosperous man. What wi’ farmin’ a bit land, and gillieing odd times, and a bit o’ poachin’ now and again; and what wi’ my illicit whusky still—and throwin’ trains off the line, that the poor distracted passengers may come to my cot, I’ve mair ways than one of making an honest living—and I’ll work them a’ nicht and day for my bonnie Meg!

Mrs. Mac. D’ye ken, Angus, I sometimes think that thou’rt losing some o’ thine auld skill at upsetting railway trains. Thou hast not done sic a thing these sax weeks, and the cottage stands sairly in need of sic chance custom as the poor delayed passengers may bring.

Mag. Nay, mither, thou wrangest him. Even noo, this very day, has he not placed twa bonnie braw sleepers across the up-line, ready for the express from Glaisgie, which is due in twa minutes or so?

[Pg 43]

Mrs. Mac. Gude lad! Gude thoughtfu’ lad! But I hope the unfortunate passengers will na’ be much hurt, puir unconscious bodies!

Ang. Fear nought, mither. Lang experience has taught me to do my work deftly. The train will run off the line, and the traffic will just be blocked for half a day, but I’ll warrant ye that, wi’ a’ this, nae mon, woman, or child amang them will get sae much as a bruised head or a broken nose.

Mag. My ain tender-hearted Angus! He wadna hurt sae much as a blatherin’ buzzin’ bluebottle flee!

Ang. Nae, Meg, not if takin’ care and thought could help the poor dumb thing! (Wiping his eyes.) There, see, lass (looking off), the train’s at a standstill, and there’s nae harm done. I’ll just go and tell the puir distraught passengers that they may rest them here, in thy cot, gin they will, till the line is cleared again. Mither, get thy rooms ready, and put brose i’ the pot, for mebbe they’ll be hungry, puir souls. Farewell, Meg; I’ll be back ere lang, and if I don’t bring ’ee a full half-dozen o’ well-paying passengers, thou may’st just wed the red-headed exciseman!

[Exit Angus.

Mag. Oh, mither, mither, I’m ower happy! I’ve nae deserved sic a good fortune as to be the wife o’ yon brave and honest lad!

Mrs. Mac. Meg, thine auld mither’s hairt is sair at the thought o’ losin’ ye, for hitherto she’s just been a’ the world to ’ee; but now thou’lt cleave to thine Angus, and thou’lt learn to love him better than thy puir auld mither! But it mun be—it mun be!

Mag. Nay, mither, say not that. A gude girl loves her husband wi’ one love and her mither wi’ anither. They are not alike, but neither is greater nor less than the ither, and they dwell together in peace and unity. That is how a gude girl loves.

Mrs. Mac. And thou art a gude girl, Meg?

Mag. I am a varra gude girl indeed, mither—a varra, varra gude girl!

Mrs. Mac. I’m richt sure o’ that. Well, the puir belated passengers will be here directly, and it is our duty to provide for them sic puir hospitality as our humble roof will afford. It shall never be said o’ Janie Macfarlane that she ever turned the weary traveller fainting from her door.

Mac. My ain gentle-hearted mither!

[Exeunt together into cottage.

[Pg 44]

Enter Angus with Belvawney and Miss Treherne. She is in travelling costume, and both are much agitated and alarmed.

Ang. Step in, sir—step in, and sit ye doun for a wee. I’ll just send Mistress Macfarlane to ye. She’s a gude auld bodie, and will see to your comforts as if she was your ain mither.

Bel. Thank you, my worthy lad, for your kindness at this trying moment. I assure you we shall not forget it.

Ang. Ah, sir, wadna any mon do as muckle? A dry shelter, a bannock and a pan o’ parritch is a’ we can offer ye, but sic as it is ye’re hairtily welcome.

Bel. It is well—we thank you.

Ang. For wha wadna help the unfortunate?

Bel. (occupied with Miss Treherne). Exactly—every one would.

Ang. Or feed the hungry?

Bel. No doubt.

Ang. It just brings the tear drop to my ee’ to think——

Bel. (leading him off). My friend, we would be alone, this maiden and I. Farewell! (Exit Angus, into cottage.) Belinda—my own—my life! Compose yourself. It was in truth a weird and gruesome accident. The line is blocked—your parasol is broken, and your butterscotch trampled in the dust, but no serious harm is done. Come, be cheerful. We are safe—quite safe.

Miss T. Safe! Ah, Belvawney, my own own Belvawney—there is, I fear, no safety for us so long as we are liable to be overtaken by that fearful Major to whom I was to have been married this morning!

Bel. Major McGillicuddy? I confess I do not feel comfortable when I think of Major McGillicuddy.

Miss T. You know his barbaric nature, and how madly jealous he is. If he should find that I have eloped with you he will most surely shoot us both!

Bel. It is an uneasy prospect. (Suddenly.) Belinda, do you love me?

Miss T. With an impetuous passion that I shall carry with me to the tomb!

Bel. Then be mine to-morrow! We are not far from Gretna, and the thing can be done without delay. Once married, the arm of the law will protect us from this fearful man, and we can defy him to do his worst.

Miss T. Belvawney, all this is quite true. I love you madly,[Pg 45] passionately; I care to live but in your heart, I breathe but for your love; yet, before I actually consent to take the irrevocable step that will place me on the pinnacle of my fondest hopes, you must give me some definite idea of your pecuniary position. I am not mercenary, Heaven knows; but business is business, and I confess I should like a little definite information about the settlements.

Bel. I often think that it is deeply to be deplored that these grovelling questions of money should alloy the tenderest and most hallowed sentiments that inspire our imperfect natures.

Miss T. It is unfortunate, no doubt, but at the same time it is absolutely necessary.

Bel. Belinda, I will be frank with you. My income is £1000 a year, which I hold on certain conditions. You know my friend Cheviot Hill, who is travelling to London in the same train with us, but in the third class?

Miss T. I believe I know the man you mean.

Bel. Cheviot, who is a young man of large property, but extremely close-fisted, is cursed with a strangely amatory disposition, as you will admit when I tell you that he has contracted a habit of proposing marriage, as a matter of course, to every woman he meets. His haughty father (who comes of a very old family—the Cheviot Hills had settled in this part of the world centuries before the Conquest) is compelled by his health to reside in Madeira. Knowing that I exercise an all but supernatural influence over his son, and fearing that his affectionate disposition would lead him to contract an undesirable marriage, the old gentleman allows me £1000 a year so long as Cheviot shall live single, but at his death or marriage the money goes over to Cheviot’s uncle Symperson, who is now travelling to town with him.

Miss T. Then so long as your influence over him lasts, so long only will you retain your income?

Bel. That is, I am sorry to say, the state of the case.

Miss T. (after a pause). Belvawney, I love you with an imperishable ardour which mocks the power of words. If I were to begin to tell you now of the force of my indomitable passion for you, the tomb would close over me before I could exhaust the entrancing subject. But, as I said before, business is business, and unless I can see some distinct probability that your income will be permanent, I shall have no alternative but to weep my heart out in all the anguish of maiden solitude—uncared for, unloved, and alone!

[Exit Miss Treherne into cottage.

[Pg 46]

Bel. There goes a noble-hearted girl, indeed! Oh, for the gift of Cheviot’s airy badinage—oh, for his skill in weaving a net about the hearts of women! If I could but induce her to marry me at once before the dreadful Major learns our flight! Why not? We are in Scotland. Methinks I’ve heard two loving hearts can wed, in this strange country, by merely making declaration to that effect. I will think out some cunning scheme to lure her into marriage unawares.

Enter Maggie, from cottage.

Mag. Will ye walk in and rest a wee, Maister Belvawney? There’s a room ready for ye, kind sir, and ye’re heartily welcome to it.

Bel. It is well. Stop! Come hither, maiden.

Mag. Oh, sir! you do not mean any harm towards a puir, innocent, unprotected cottage lassie?

Bel. Harm! No: of course, I don’t. What do you mean?

Mag. I’m but a puir, humble mountain girl; but let me tell you, sir, that my character’s just as dear to me as the richest and proudest lady’s in the land. Before I consent to approach ye, swear to me that you mean me no harm.

Bel. Harm? Of course, I don’t. Don’t be a little fool! Come here.

Mag. There is something in his manner that reassures me. It is not that of the airy trifler with innocent hairts. (Aloud.) What wad ye wi’ puir, harmless Maggie Macfarlane, gude sir?

Bel. Can you tell me what constitutes a Scotch marriage?

Mag. Oh, sir, it’s nae use asking me that; for my hairt is not my ain to give. I’m betrothed to the best and noblest lad in a’ the bonnie Borderland. Oh, sir, I canna be your bride!

Bel. My girl, you mistake. I do not want you for my bride. Can’t you answer a simple question? What constitutes a Scotch marriage?

Mag. Ye’ve just to say before twa witnesses, “Maggie Macfarlane is my wife;” and I’ve just to say, “Maister Belvawney is my husband,” and nae mon can set us asunder. But, sir, I canna be your bride; for I am betrothed to the best and noblest——

Bel. I congratulate you. You can go.

Mag. Yes, sir.

[Exit Maggie into cottage.

Bel. It is a simple process; simple, but yet how beautiful! One thing is certain—Cheviot may marry any day, despite my[Pg 47] precautions, and then I shall be penniless. He may die, and equally I shall be penniless. Belinda has £500 a year; it is not much, but it would, at least, save me from starvation.

[Exit Belvawney.

Enter Symperson and Cheviot Hill over bridge. They both show signs of damage—their hats are beaten in and their clothes disordered through the accident.

Sym. Well, here we are at last——

Ch. Yes; here we are at last, and a pretty state I’m in, to be sure.

Sym. My dear nephew, you would travel third class, and this is the consequence. After all, there’s not much harm done.

Ch. Not much harm? What d’ye call that? (Showing his hat.) Ten and ninepence at one operation! My gloves split—one and four! My coat ruined—eighteen and six! It’s a coarse and brutal nature that recognizes no harm that don’t involve loss of blood. I’m reduced by this accident from a thinking, feeling, reflecting human being, to a moral pulp—a mash—a poultice. Damme, sir, that’s what I am! I’m a poultice!

Sym. Cheviot, my dear boy, at the moment of the accident you were speaking to me on a very interesting subject.

Ch. Was I? I forget what it was. The accident has knocked it clean out of my head.

Sym. You were saying that you were a man of good position and fortune; that you derived £2000 a year from your bank; that you thought it was time you settled. You then reminded me that I should come into Belvawney’s £1000 a year on your marriage, and I’m not sure, but I rather think you mentioned, casually, that my daughter Minnie is an Angel of Light.

Ch. True, and just then we went off the line. To resume—Uncle Symperson, your daughter Minnie is an Angel of Light, a perfect being, as innocent as a new-laid egg.

Sym. Minnie is, indeed, all that you have described her.

Ch. Uncle, I’m a man of few words. I feel and I speak. I love that girl, madly, passionately, irresistibly. She is my whole life, my whole soul and body, my Past, my Present, and my To Come. I have thought for none but her; she fills my mind, sleeping and waking; she is the essence of every hope—the tree upon which the fruit of my heart is growing—my own To Come!

[Pg 48]

Sym. (who has sunk overpowered on to stool during this speech). Cheviot, my dear boy, excuse a father’s tears. I won’t beat about the bush. You have anticipated my devoutest wish. Cheviot, my dear boy, take her, she is yours!

Ch. I have often heard of rapture, but I never knew what it was till now. Uncle Symperson, bearing in mind the fact that your income will date from the day of the wedding, when may this be?

Sym. My boy, the sooner the better! Delicacy would prompt me to give Belvawney a reasonable notice of the impending loss of his income, but should I, for such a mere selfish reason as that, rob my child of one hour of the happiness that you are about to confer upon her? No! Duty to my child is paramount!

Ch. On one condition, however, I must insist. This must be kept from Belvawney’s knowledge. You know the strange, mysterious influence that his dreadful eyes exercise over me.

Sym. I have remarked it with astonishment.