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Pierre Beaumarchais

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Pierre-Augustin Caron de Beaumarchais
French author
born Jan. 24, 1732, Paris, France
died May 18, 1799, Paris
Main
French author of two outstanding comedies of intrigue that still retain
their freshness, Le Barbier de Séville (1775; The Barber of Seville,
1776) and Le Mariage de Figaro (1784; The Marriage of Figaro, 1785).

Although Beaumarchais did not invent the type character of the
scheming valet (who has appeared in comedy as far back as Roman times),
his Figaro, hero of both plays, became the highest expression of the
type. The valet’s resourcefulness and cunning were portrayed by
Beaumarchais with a definite class-conscious sympathy. Le Barbier de
Séville became the basis of a popular opera by the Italian composer
Gioacchino Rossini. The second play, which inspired W.A. Mozart’s opera
Le nozze di Figaro (1786), is openly critical of aristocratic privilege
and somewhat anticipates the social upheavals of the Revolution of 1789.
Beaumarchais’s life rivals his work as a drama of controversy,
adventure, and intrigue. The son of a watchmaker, he invented an
escapement mechanism, and the question of its patent led to the first of
many legal actions. For his defense in these suits he wrote a series of
brilliant polemics (Mémoires), which made his reputation, though he was
only partly successful at law.

After 1773, because of his legal involvements, Beaumarchais left
France on secret royal missions to England and Germany for both Louis XV
and Louis XVI. Despite growing popularity as a dramatist, Beaumarchais
was addicted to financial speculation. He bought arms for the American
revolutionaries and brought out the first complete edition of the works
of Voltaire. Of his dramatic works, only his two classic comedies were
to have lasting success. Because of his wealth, he was imprisoned during
the French Revolution (in 1792), but, through the intervention of a
former mistress, he was released
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"The Marriage of Figaro"
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ADVERTISEMENT.
THOUGH to thank the Public is to thank nobody, since
no particular Person takes this Sort of Compliments
to himself, yet were I not to feel that Gratitude,
which individually I know not where to pay, I were
unworthy of past, of present, or of future Favours.
An Author’s Thanks to the World at large may be seen
under two very different Aspects: For, to thank the
Public is to tell the Public he is successful;
which, supposing it true, it would be strange if
they did not already know; it appears therefore only
to be taking an Opportunity of indulging his Vanity:
And yet to thank them seems his Duty, since his
Silence might not only be construed a want of
Respect, but an arrogant Self-confidence that, when
they applauded or approved his Work, they only did
him justice. The Reader must determine which of
these Faces he will please to view.
I am so well convinced that the best Writer stands
in need of Indulgence, and that he only does well by
Comparison, and might do much better, that I shall
find little Mortification in subscribing to the
Opinions of those who shall tell me I am in this
latter Predicament.
Readers are divided into two Classes; the one will
allow an Author much more than he merits, and the
other much less; but the principal Excellencies of
The Follies of a Day are so known to be another’s
Right, that for me to claim them would be
ridiculous. Some, however, have affirmed that it is
a mere Translation, who have never seen, read, or
heard the Original; if they had, indeed, they would
have been still more culpable. Few will trouble
themselves to examine the precise Extent of my
Claims; nor, if they did, would they have an
Opportunity ’till M. de Beaumarchais shall think
proper to publish La Folle Journee. The Public in
general are so willing to overlook Defects, and
applaud wherever they can, that to complain of, or
be angry at the Few who seek for, and wish to find,
Errors only, can proceed alone from that Self-love
which is so inherent and irritable in all bosoms,
and so difficult to subdue.
To enumerate all the Obstacles encountered and
overcome in bringing this Comedy on the English
Stage, would be to indulge this Vanity; which it is
every wise Man’s Pride, and every prudent Man’s
Interest to resist. It may, however, afford some
Pleasure to be informed, that, finding it impossible
to procure a Copy of the original French, though a
Journey to Paris was undertaken expressly for that
Purpose, the Copy made use of in the composing The
Follies of a Day, was taken by Memory, only, during
eight or nine Representations; that I furnished the
Plot, Incidents, Entrances, and Exits, and gave some
other occasional Hints; that the remainder was the
Work of a young Frenchman, whose Talents and whose
Heart are an Ornament and an Honour to his Country;
and that, after it was brought to England and
received by Mr. Harris, it was translated, cast,
copied, recopied, studied, and, in one of its
longest Parts, re-studied, and played in little more
than a Month. The Attention and Care of Mr. Harris,
and the Merits of the respective Performers in
playing, as they did, under such Circumstances, need
not my Encomiums. Had the Town known the peculiar
Exertions, of those especially who performed the
longest and most essential Parts, the applause would
have been endless. From me they are justly entitled
to my warmest and sincerest Thanks.
Upper Mary-le-Bone Street,
Feb. 21, 1785.
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PROLOGUE,
Spoken by Mr. DAVIES.
TO-NIGHT, a
Child of Chance is hither brought,
Who could be neither borrow’d, begg’d, nor bought;
Nay, so alert was said to be the Droll,
’Twas well affirm’d he was not to be stole;
But hence dispatch’d, back’d by Apollo’s warrant,
A messenger has kidnapp’d this Wag-errant;
Poetic Fugitive, has hither dragg’d him,
And, safely here arriv’d, has now ungagg’d him,
To plead before this Court, his whole amenance;
Where, should you sentence him to public Penance,
Oh, sad reverse! how would he foam and fret,
And sigh for Paris and his sweet Soubrette!
Where twice ten thousand tongues are proud to greet
him,
And wing’d Applause, on tip-toe, stands to meet him;
Where the grim Guard, in nightly rapture, stands,
And grounds his musquet to get at his hands;
Where the retentive Pitt, all prone t’ adore him,
Repeat his Bon mots half a bar before him;
While every Bel-Esprit, at every hit,
Grows fifty-fold more conscious of his Wit.
If far
fetch’d and dear bought give Trifles worth,
Sure you’ll applaud our Figaro’s second birth.
Nought of his present merit must we say;
Bear but in mind, our Day’s a Spanish Day.
Cupid, in warmer Climes, urg’d by the Grape,
Calls not each petty violence a Rape!
But oft his Votaries leaves intoxicate,
Hence Figaro himself is illegitimate.
Sanction’d
by you, howe’er, this little Blot,
So much in fashion, will be soon forgot;
That Signature which each kind hand bestows,
Shall make him well receiv’d where’er he goes!
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DRAMATIS PERSONĘ.
Count Almaviva, Mr. LEWIS.
Don Guzman, Mr. QUICK.
Doctor Bartholo, Mr. WILSON.
Figaro, Mr. BONNOR.
Antonio, Mr. EDWIN.
Basil, Mr. WEWITZER.
Doublefee, Mr. THOMPSON.
Bounce, Mr. STEVENS.
Courier, Mr. JONES.
Crier of the Court, Mr. BATES.
Servant, Mr. NEWTON.
Page, Mrs. MARTYR.
Countess, Mrs. BATES.
Marcelina, Mrs. WEBB.
Agnes, Miss WEWITZER.
Susan, Miss YOUNGE.
Counsellors,
Guards, Vassals.
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ACT I.
SCENE, the
Castle of Count ALMAVIVA.
FIGARO
and SUSAN.
(Figaro
measuring the chamber with a
wand.)
Figaro.
EIGHTEEN feet by twenty-six,
good.
Susan.
What art thou so busy about?
Figaro.
Measuring, to try if the bed our
noble Lord intends to give us
will stand well here.
Susan.
In this chamber!
Figaro.
Yes.
Susan.
I won’t lie in this chamber.
Figaro.
Why so?
Susan.
I tell you I won’t lie in this
chamber.
Figaro.
Well but—
Susan.
I don’t like it.
Figaro.
Your reason.
Susan.
What if I have no reason?—What
if I don’t chuse to give my
reason?
Figaro.
“Ah, ah!—Thus it is when once
they think they have us fast.
Susan.
“Are you, or are you not my most
obedient very humble servant?
Figaro.
“Your slave—(Bows
very low.)
Susan.
“Oh!
Figaro.
“But wherefore take exception to
the most convenient room in the
whole house?
Susan.
“Yes, yes!—The most convenient!—(Satirically.)
Figaro.
“If during the night my Lady
should be taken ill, she rings
her bell, and crack!—in two
steps thou art standing at her
side.—In the morning when my
Lord wakes, he calls, I start,
and pop—three skips and I am
there.
Susan.
“Very true—And in the morning
when my Lord has sent thee on
some fine errand of an hour
long, he starts from his bed as
soon as Mr. Figaro’s back is
turn’d, and crack!—in three
skips—he—(significantly.)
Figaro.
“He?
Susan.
“Yes—he—
Figaro.
“(Keeps
rubbing his forehead and looking
at Susan.) He!
Susan.
“He!—Dost thou feel any thing?
Figaro.
“(Presses
his finger and thumb against his
forehead) Buttons!—In
pairs!—Mushrooms sprout not so
suddenly—Yes, yes—it’s a
fruitful spot.”
Susan.
Thou knowest how our generous
Count when he by thy help
obtained Rosina’s hand, and made
her Countess of Almaviva, during
the first transports of love
abolished a certain gothic
right—
Figaro.
Of sleeping the first night with
every Bride.
Susan.
Which as Lord of the Manor he
could claim.
Figaro.
Know it!—To be sure I do, or I
would not have married even my
charming Susan in his Domain.
Susan.
Tired of prowling among the
rustic beauties of the
neighbourhood he returned to the
Castle—
Figaro.
And his wife.
Susan.
And thy wife—(Figaro
stares)—Dost thou
understand me?
Figaro.
Perfectly!
Susan.
And endeavours, once more,
secretly to purchase from her, a
right which he now most
sincerely repents he ever parted
with.
Figaro.
Most gracious Penitent!
Susan.
This is what he hints to me
every instant, and this the
faithful Basil, honest agent of
his pleasures, and my most noble
music master, every day repeats
with my lesson.
Figaro.
Basil!
Susan.
Basil.
Figaro.
Indeed! But if tough ashen plant
or supple-jack twine not round
thy lazy sides, Rascal—
Susan.
Ha, ha, ha! Why wert thou ever
wise enough to imagine the
portion the Count intends to
give us was meant as a reward
for thy services?
Figaro.
I think I had some reason to
hope as much.
Susan.
Lord, lord! What great fools are
you men of wit!
Figaro.
I believe so.
Susan.
I am sure so.
Figaro.
Oh that it were possible to
deceive this arch Deceiver, this
Lord of mine! To lead him into
some excellent snare, pocket his
gold and—
Susan.
Hah! Now thou art in thy
element—Gold and intrigue—Plots
and purses—But let him that
diggeth a pit beware he—
Figaro.
I’ll try—“The Lover’s jealousy
and the Husband’s shame shall
not deter me”—Your trick, most
noble Count, is common place—A
thousand blundering Boobies have
had art enough to filch a Wife
from the side of her sleeping,
simple, unsuspecting Spouse, and
if he complained, to redress his
injuries with a cudgel—But to
turn the tables on this Poacher,
make him pay for a delicious
morsel he shall never taste,
infect him with fears for his
own honor, to—
Susan.
(The bell
rings) Hark! My Lady
is awake—I must run, for she has
several times strictly charged
me to be the first at her
bedside the morning of my
marriage.
Figaro.
Why the first?
Susan.
The old saying tells us, that to
meet a young Bride the first on
the morning of her wedding-day
is lucky to a neglected wife.
(Going.)
Figaro.
Prithee, my Susan, give me a
kiss before thou goest—It will
quicken my wits, and lend
imagination a new impulse.
Susan.
To be sure!—But if I kiss my
Lover to-day what will my
Husband say to me to-morrow?
(seems to
refuse, Figaro kisses her).
Pshaw Figaro! when wilt thou
cease to trifle thus from
morning till night
(playfully).
Figaro.
When I may trifle from night to
morning
(in the same tone).
Susan.
There, there—There’s all the
kisses I shall give.
(Kisses
her hand at him and runs, he
pursues to the side.)
Figaro.
Stop, stop, you cheating little
knave; that was not the way you
received them.
(Returns)
A sweet Girl! An Angel! Such
wit! Such grace! and so much
prudence and modesty too!—I am a
happy fellow!—So Mr. Basil! Is
it me, Rascal, you mean to
practice the tricks of your
trade upon?—I’ll teach you to
put your spoon in my milk—But
hold—Dissemble is the word—Feign
we ignorance and endeavour to
catch them in their own traps—I
wondered why the Count, who had
made me Steward and
Inspector-general of the Castle,
should change his mind so
suddenly, and want to take me
with him on his embassy to
Paris, there to institute me his
Messenger in ordinary—A cunning
contrivance that—He,
Plenipotentiary in chief, I, a
break-neck Politician, and
Susan, Lady of the back-stairs,
Ambassadress of the
bed-chamber—I dashing through
thick and thin and wearing
myself to a skeleton, for the
good of my most gracious Lord’s
family, and he labouring, night
and day, for the increase of
mine—Really, most honorable
Count, you are too kind—What to
represent his Majesty and me
both at once—It’s too much, too
much by half—A moment’s
reflection friend Figaro on the
events of the day—First, thou
must promote the Sports and
Feasting already projected, that
appearances may not cool, but
that thy Marriage may proceed
with greater certainty; next,
keep off one madam Marcelina,
whose liquorish mouth waters at
thee, and to whom thou hast
given a Promise of Marriage, in
default of the repayment of
certain borrowed Sums which it
would be very convenient to thy
affairs never more to
mention—Talk of the Devil and—
Enter
Doctor BARTHOLO and
MARCELINA.
Marcelina.
Good-morrow to Mr. Bridegroom.
Figaro.
Good-morrow to madam
Marcelina—What! My old fat
friend the Doctor! Are you
there?
Doctor.
Yes, Knave’s face.
Figaro.
As witty, I perceive, and no
doubt as wise as ever—And have
you been complaisant enough to
come thus far to see me married?
Doctor.
To see thee hang’d.
Figaro.
Most kind Doctor—But who takes
care of your Mule? I know you
have as much mercy on your Beast
as you have on your Patient.
Doctor.
Do you hear him?
Figaro.
And you, gentle Marcelina, do
you still wish to marry me—What,
because I cannot fall in love
with you, would you drive me to
hate you?
[Exit
Figaro.
Doctor.
The Rascal will never mend.
Marcelina.
’Tis you, Doctor, will never
mend—“You are so eternally wise,
dull and slow, that when a
Patient has need of your
assistance he may die before you
get to him, like as formerly
your Mistress got married in
spite of your precautions.”
Doctor.
Was it to entertain me thus
agreeably that you sent for me
in such haste from Seville?
Marcelina.
Not entirely for that.
Doctor.
What then—Is any body ill? Is
the Count indisposed?
Marcelina.
No, it is the Countess who is
indisposed.
Doctor.
What the artful, the deceitful
Rosina? What’s her disorder?
Marcelina.
A faithless Husband.
Doctor.
A very common complaint indeed.
Marcelina.
The Count forsakes her, and
falls in love with every fresh
face.
Doctor.
I am glad of it—I am glad of
it—I foresaw it—I thought Count
Almaviva would revenge the
wrongs of Doctor Bartholo.
Marcelina.
After toying with a thousand
neighbouring Beauties, he now
returns to the castle to
terminate the marriage of Susan
and Figaro.
Doctor.
Which he himself has made
necessary.
Marcelina.
Oh no—But at which he wishes to
act rather as a Principal than
an Agent.
Doctor.
In private with the Bride.
Marcelina.
Even so.
Doctor.
She I suppose has no great
objection.
Marcelina.
Charitable Doctor—Basil,
however, her music master, who
takes great pains to instruct
her, says to the contrary.
Doctor.
Basil! What is that other Rascal
here too?—Why the house is a den
of Thieves—What does he do here?
Marcelina.
All the mischief he can—He
persecutes me with his odious
love unceasingly; I cannot get
rid of him.
Doctor.
Marry him—I’ll answer for his
cure.
Marcelina.
That’s what he wants—But pray
Doctor, why will not you get rid
of me by the same means? The
claims of Justice and oaths out
of number should—
Doctor.
So so so so—What is the
matrimonial furor come upon you
again?
Marcelina.
Our long lost son, Fernando! the
dear pledge of my virgin love!
were he but found, perhaps—
Doctor.
And so you sent for me to hear
this stale rhodomontade?
Marcelina.
“And are you, now you have lost
your Rosina, as inflexible and
unjust as ever?”
Doctor.
Pshaw!
Marcelina.
Well—Since you are determined
never to marry me yourself, will
you have the complaisance to aid
me in marrying another?
Doctor.
With all my heart!—With all my
heart!—
Marcelina.
Ah!
(curtsies).
Doctor.
But who?—What miserable Mortal,
abandoned of Heaven and Women—
Marcelina.
Who but the amiable, the gay,
the ever sprightly Figaro?
Doctor.
Figaro! That Rascal!
Marcelina.
Youthful and generous!
Doctor.
As a Highwayman.
Marcelina.
As a Nobleman—
Doctor.
Pshaw, impossible! what on the
very day he is going to marry
another?
Marcelina.
“Things more improbable have
come to pass.
Doctor.
“But your motive?
Marcelina.
“For you, Doctor, I have no
secrets.
Doctor.
“Women seldom have for Doctors.
Marcelina.
“I own our sex, though timid, is
ardent in the pursuit of
pleasure. There is, in all our
bosoms, a small still voice
which unceasing cries—Woman, be
as beautiful as thou canst, as
virtuous as thou wilt, but, at
all events, be conspicuous, be
talk’d about; for thy Wisdom, if
thou hast it—if not for thy
Folly.
Doctor.
“She utters Oracles—Well, well,
accomplish this, and I will
engage you shall be talk’d
about.”
Marcelina.
We must endeavour to work upon
Susan by fear and shame, for the
more obstinately she refuses the
amorous offers of the Count, the
more effectually she will serve
our purpose; disappointment and
revenge will lead him to support
my cause, and as he is sovereign
Judge in his own Lordship, his
power may make Figaro’s promise
of marriage to me valid.
Doctor.
Promise—Has he given you any
such promise?
Marcelina.
A written one—You shall see it.
Doctor.
By Galen, this is excellent! The
rascal shall marry my old
House-keeper, and I shall be
revenged for the tricks he
lately played me, and the
hundred pistoles he contrived to
cheat me of.
Marcelina.
(transported)
Yes, yes, Doctor! I shall have
him! He shall marry me! He shall
marry me!
Enter
SUSAN, with a gown on her
arm, and a cap and riband of the
Countess, in her hand.
Susan.
Marry you! Who is to marry you?
Not my Figaro, I assure you,
madam.
Marcelina.
Why not me, as soon as you,
madam?
Susan.
Indeed! your most obedient,
madam.
Doctor.
(aside)
So now for a merry scolding
match.—We were saying, handsome
Susan, how happy Figaro must be
in such a Bride—
(Susan
curtsies to the Doctor.)
Marcelina.
Not to mention the secret
satisfaction of my Lord the
Count.
Susan.
Dear madam, you are so
abundantly kind.
Marcelina.
Not so abundant in kindness, as
a liberal young Lord—But I own
it is very natural, he should
partake the pleasures he so
freely bestows upon his Vassals.
Susan.
(half
angry)
Partake—Happily madam, your Envy
is as obvious, and your Slander
as false, as your Claims on
Figaro are weak and ill founded.
Marcelino.
“If they are weak, it is because
I wanted the art to strengthen
them, after the manner of madam.
Susan.
“Yet madam has ever been
reckoned a mistress of her art.
Marcelina.
“I hope, madam, I shall always
have your good word, madam.(Curtsies.)
Susan.
“Oh, I can assure you, madam,
you have nothing to regret on
that score, madam.”
(Curtsies
mockingly.)
Marcelina.
The young Lady is really a very
pretty kind of Person—
(with a
contemptuous side glance.)
Susan.
Oh yes
(mimicking) The young
Lady is at least as pretty as
the old Lady.
Marcelina.
“And very respectable.
Susan.
“Respectable! Oh no, that is the
characteristic of a Duenna.
Marcelina.
“A Duenna! A Duenna!
Doctor.
(coming
between them) “Come,
come—
Marcelina.
“I—I—You—your very humble
servant, madam.
Susan.
“Your most devoted, madam.”
Marcelina.
Farewell, madam.
(Exeunt
Doctor and Marcelina.)
Susan.
Adieu, madam—this old
Sibyl, because she formerly
tormented the infancy of my
Lady, thinks she has a right to
domineer over every person in
the Castle—I declare I have
forgot what I came for.
(Susan
hangs the gown on a great arm
chair that stands in the room,
and keeps the cap and riband of
the Countess in her hand.)
Enter
HANNIBAL the Page, running.
Susan.
So, Youth! What do you do here?
Page.
Good morrow, Susan—I have been
watching these two hours to find
you alone.
Susan.
Well, what have you to say, now
you have found me?
Page.
(Childishly amorous)
How does your beauteous Lady do,
Susan?
Susan.
Very well.
Page.
(Poutingly) Do you
know, Susan, my Lord is going to
send me back to my Pappa and
Mamma?
Susan.
Poor Child!
Page.
Child indeed!—Umph!—And if my
charming God-mother, your dear
Lady, cannot obtain my pardon, I
shall soon be deprived of the
pleasure of your company, Susan.
Susan.
Upon my word!—He is toying all
day long with Agnes, and is,
moreover, in love with my Lady,
and then comes to tell me he
shall be deprived of my company.
(Aside.)
Page.
Agnes is good natured enough to
listen to me, and that is more
than you are, Susan, for all I
love you so.
Susan.
Love me!—Why you amorous little
villain, you are in love with
every Woman you meet.
Page.
So I am, Susan, and I can’t help
it—If no-body is by, I swear it
to the trees, the waters, and
the winds, nay, to
myself—Yesterday I happened to
meet Marcelina—
Susan.
Marcelina! Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha!
Page.
Why, she is a Woman, Susan.
Susan.
Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha!
Page.
And what’s more, unmarried? Oh
how sweet are the words Woman,
Maiden, and Love, in my ear!
Susan.
Ha! ha! ha!—He’s bewitch’d!—And
what is the Count going to send
you from the Castle for?
Page.
Last night, you must know, he
caught me in the chamber with
Agnes; begone, said he, thou
little—
Susan.
Little what?
Page.
Lord, he called me such a name,
I can’t for shame repeat it
before a woman.
Susan.
And what were you doing in the
chamber of Agnes?
Page.
Teaching her her part.
Susan.
Her part?
Page.
Yes, the love scene, you know,
she is to play in the Comedy
this evening.
Susan.
Which my Lord would chuse to
teach her himself.
(aside.)
Page.
Agnes is very kind, Susan.
Susan.
Well, well, I’ll tell the
Countess what you say—But you
are a little more circumspect in
her presence.
Page.
Ah Susan, she is a Divinity! How
noble is her manner! Her very
smiles are awful!
Susan.
That is to say, you can take
what liberties you please with
such people as me.
Page.
Oh how do I envy thy happiness,
Susan! Always near her! Dressing
her every morning! Undressing
her every evening! Putting her
to bed! Touching her! Looking at
her! Speaking to—What is it thou
hast got there, Susan?
Susan.
(Counterfeiting
the amorous air, and
animatedtone of the Page.)
It is the fortunate riband of
the happy cap, which at night
enfolds the auburn ringlets of
the beauteous Countess.
Page.
Give it me—Nay, give it me—I
will have it.
Susan.
But I say you shan’t
(the Page
snatches it, and runs round the
great chair, dodging Susan)
Oh my riband!
Page.
Be as angry as thou wilt, but
thou shalt never have it
again, thou shouldst have one of
my eyes rather.
Susan.
I can venture to predict, young
gentleman, that three or four
years hence, thou wilt be one of
the most deceitful veriest
Knaves—
Page.
If thou dost not hold thy
tongue, Susan, I’ll kiss thee
into the bargain.
Susan.
Kiss me!—Do not come near me, if
thou lov’st thy ears—I say, beg
my Lord to forgive you, indeed!
No I assure you—“I shall say to
him, you do very right, my Lord,
to send this little Rascal
packing, who is not only in love
with my Lady, but wants to kiss
other folks into the bargain.”
Page.
“How can I help it, Susan”?
Here, take this paper.
Susan.
For what?
Page.
It contains a Song I have
written on thy beauteous Lady,
my charming God-mother.
Count.
(without)
Jaquez.
Page.
Ah! I’m undone!—’Tis my Lord!
(The Page
crouches down, and hides himself
behind Susan’s petticoats and
the great chair.)
Enter
Count ALMAVIVA.
(Page
remains hid behind the great
chair.)
Count.
So, charming Susan, have I found
thee at last? But thou seemest
frightened my little Beauty.
Susan.
Consider, my Lord, if any body
should come and catch you here—
Count.
That would be rather
mal-a-propos; but there’s no
great danger.
(The
Count offers to kiss Susan.)
Susan.
Fie, my Lord!
(The
Count seats himself in the great
chair, and endeavours to pull
Susan on his knee, who resists.)
Count.
Thou knowest, my charming Susan,
the King has done me the honour
to appoint me Ambassador to the
court of Paris. I shall take
Figaro with me, and give him a
very—excellent post; and
as it is the duty of a Wife to
follow her Husband, we shall
then have every opportunity we
could wish.
Susan.
I really don’t understand you,
my Lord. I thought your
affection for my Lady, whom you
took so much pains to steal from
her old Guardian, Dr. Bartholo,
and for love of whom you
generously abolished a certain
vile privilege.—
Count.
For which all the young girls
are very sorry; are they not?
Susan.
No indeed, my Lord—I thought, my
Lord, I say—
Count.
Prithee say no more, my sweet
Susan, but promise thou wilt
meet me this evening, at
twilight, by the Pavilion in the
garden; and be certain, that if
thou wilt but grant me this
small favour, nothing thou canst
ask shall—
Basil.
(without.)
He is not in his own room.
Count.
Heavens! Here’s somebody coming!
Where can I hide! Is there no
place here?
(The Count runs to get behind
the great chair, Susan keeps
between him and the Page, who
steals away as the Count
advances, leaps into the great
chair, with his legs doubled
under him, and is covered over
with the Countess’s gown, by
Susan.)
Enter
BASIL.
Basil.
Ah, Susan, Good morrow—Is my
lord the Count here?
Susan.
Here! What should he be here
for?
Basil.
Nay, there would be no miracle
in it if he were: would there,
hey gentle Susan?
(Smiles
and leers at her.)
Susan.
It would be a greater miracle to
see you honest.
Basil.
Figaro is in search of him.
Susan.
Then he is in search of the man
who wishes most to injure
him—yourself excepted.
Basil.
It is strange, that a man should
injure the Husband by obliging
the Wife.
(The
Count peeps from behind the
great chair.)
Count.
I shall hear, now, how well he
pleads my cause.
Basil.
For my part, Marriage being, of
all serious things, the greatest
Farce, I imagined—
Susan.
All manner of wickedness.
Basil.
That though you are obliged to
fast today, you might be glad to
feed to-morrow, grace being
first duly said.
Susan.
Be gone, and do not shock my
ears with your vile principles.
Basil.
Yes, my pretty Susan, but you
must not suppose I am the dupe
of these fine appearances. I
know it isn’t Figaro who is the
great obstacle to my Lord’s
happiness, but a certain
beardless Page, whom I surprised
here, this morning, looking for
you as I entered.
Susan.
I wish you would be gone, you
wicked—Devil.
Basil.
Wicked Devil! Ah, one is a
wicked Devil for not shutting
one’s eyes.
Susan.
I wish you would be gone, I tell
you.
Basil.
Was it not for you that he wrote
the Song, which he goes chanting
up and down the house, at every
instant?
Susan.
O yes! For me, to be sure!
Basil.
At least it was either for you,
or your Lady.
Susan.
What next?
Basil.
Why really, when he sits at
table, he does cast certain very
significant glances towards a
beauteous Countess, who shall be
nameless—But let him beware! If
my Lord catches him at his
tricks, he’ll make him dance
without music.
Susan.
Nobody, but such a wicked
creature as you, could ever
invent such scandalous tales, to
the ruin of a poor Youth, who
has unhappily fallen into his
Lord’s disgrace.
Basil.
I invent! Why it is in every
body’s mouth.
(The
Count discovers himself, and
comes forward.)
Count.
How! In every body’s mouth!
Basil.
Zounds!
Count.
Run, Basil, let him have fifty
pistoles and a horse given him,
and sent back to his friends
instantly.
Basil.
I’m very sorry, my Lord, I
happened to speak—
Susan.
I’m quite suffocated.
(Susan
seems almost ready to faint, the
Count supports her, and Basil
assists.)
Count.
Let us seat her in this great
chair, Basil.
Susan.
(Frightened,
and exclaims) No!—I
won’t sit down!—(After
a pause)—This wicked
fellow has ruined the poor boy.
Basil.
I assure you, my Lord, what I
said, was only meant to sound
Susan.
Count.
No matter, he shall depart! A
little, wanton, impudent Rascal,
that I meet at every turning—No
longer ago than yesterday I
surprised him with the
Gardiner’s daughter.
Basil.
Agnes?
Count.
In her very bed-chamber.
Susan.
Where my Lord happened to have
business himself.
Count.
Hem!—I was going there to seek
your uncle Antonio, Susan, my
drunken Gardiner; I knock’d at
the door, and waited some time;
at last Agnes came, with
confusion in her countenance—I
entered, cast a look round, and
perceiving a kind of long Cloak,
or Curtain, or some such thing,
approach’d, and without seeming
to take the least notice, drew
it gently aside, thus—Hey!
Basil.
Zounds! (The
Count, during his speech,
approaches the arm chair, and
acting his description draws
aside the gown that hides the
Page. They all stand motionless
with surprise, for some time.)
Count.
Why, this is a better trick than
t’other!
Basil.
No!—I won’t sit down!
(Mimicking
Susan.)
Count.
(To Susan)
And so it was to receive this
pretty Youth, that you were so
desirous of being alone—And you,
you little Villain, what you
don’t intend to mend your
manners then? But forgetting all
respect for your friend Figaro,
and for the Countess your
Godmother, likewise, you are
endeavouring here to seduce her
favourite woman! I, however
(turning
towards Basil) shall
not suffer Figaro, a man—whom—I
esteem—sincerely—to fall
the Victim of such deceit—Did he
enter with you, Basil?
Basil.
No, my Lord.
Susan.
There is neither Victim nor
deceit in the case, my Lord. He
was here when you entered.
Count.
I hope that’s false: his
greatest Enemy could not wish
him so much mischief.
Susan.
Knowing that you were angry with
him, the poor Boy came running
to me, begging me to solicit my
Lady in his favour, in hopes she
might engage you to forgive him;
but was so terrified, as soon as
he heard you coming, that he hid
himself in the great Chair.
Count.
A likely story—I sat down in it,
as soon as I came in.
Page.
Yes, my Lord, but I was then
trembling behind it.
Count.
That’s false, again, for I hid
myself behind it, when Basil
entered.
Page.
(Timidly)
Pardon me, my Lord, but as you
approach’d, I retired, and
crouched down as you now see me.
Count.
(Angrily)
It’s a little Serpent that
glides into every crevice—And he
has been listening too to our
discourse!
Page.
Indeed, my Lord, I did all I
could not to hear a word.
Count.
(To Susan)
There is no Figaro, no Husband
for you, however.
Basil.
Somebody is coming; get down.
Enter the
COUNTESS, FIGARO, AGNES, and
VASSALS, in their holiday
cloaths. Figaro carrying
the nuptial cap—The Count
runs and plucks the Page from
the great chair, just as they
enter.
Count.
What! Would you continue
crouching there before the whole
world?
(The
Count and Countess salute.
Figaro.
We are come, my Lord, to beg a
favour, which we hope, for your
Lady’s sake, you will grant.
(Aside to
Susan) Be sure to
second what I say.
Susan.
It will end in nothing.
(Aside.
Figaro.
No matter: let us try, at least.
(Aside.
Countess.
You see, my Lord, I am supposed
to have a much greater degree of
influence over you than I really
possess.
Count.
Oh no, my Lady; not an atom, I
assure you.
Figaro.
(Presenting
the cap to the Count)
Our petition is, that the Bride
may have the honor of receiving
from our worthy Lord’s hand,
this Nuptial-Cap; ornamented
with half-blown roses, and white
ribbands, Symbols of the purity
of his intentions.
Count.
Do they mean to laugh at me?
(Aside.
Figaro.
“And as you have been kindly
pleased to abolish that
abominable right, which, as Lord
of the Manor, you might have
claimed, permit us, your
Vassals, to celebrate your
praise, in a rustic Chorus I
have prepared for this occasion.
The Virtues of so good a master
should not remain unsung.
Count.
“A Lover, a Poet, and a
Musician!—These titles, Figaro,
might perhaps merit our
indulgence, if”—
Countess.
Let me beg, my Lord, you will
not deny their request: in the
name of that Love you once had
for me.
Count.
And have still, Madam.
Figaro, Join with me, my
friends.
Omnes.
My Lord.
Susan.
Why should your Lordship refuse
Eulogiums which you merit so
well?
Count.
Oh the Traitress.
(Aside)
Well, well,—I consent.
Figaro.
Look at her, my Lord; never
could a more beauteous Bride
better prove the greatness of
the sacrifice you have made.
Susan.
Oh do not speak of my Beauty,
but of his Lordship’s Virtues.
Count.
My Virtues!—Yes, yes,—I see they
understand each other.
(Aside)
Who can tell me where is
Marcelina?
Agnes.
I met her, my Lord, just now, in
the close walk by the park wall,
along with Doctor Bartholo. She
seemed in a passion, and the
Doctor tried to pacify her. I
heard her mention my Cousin
Figaro’s name.
Count.
(Aside)
No Cousin yet, my dear; and
perhaps never may be.
Agnes.
(Pointing
to the Page) Have you
forgiven what happened
yesterday, my Lord?
Count.
(Afraid
lest the Countess should hear,
and chucking Agnes under the
chin) Hush!
Figaro.
(To the
Page) What’s the
matter, young Hanibal the brave?
What makes you so silent?
Susan.
He is sorrowful because my Lord
is going to send him from the
castle.
Omnes.
Oh pray, my Lord!
Countess.
Let me beg you will
forgive him.
Count.
He does not deserve to be
forgiven.
Countess.
Consider, he is so young.
Count.
(Half
aside) Not so young,
perhaps, as you suppose.
Page.
My Lord certainly has not ceded
away the right to pardon.
Susan.
And if he had, that would
certainly be the first he would
secretly endeavour to
reclaim. (Looking
significantly at the Count and
Figaro, by turns.)
Count.
(Understanding
her) No doubt: no
doubt.
Page.
My conduct, my Lord, may have
been indiscreet, but I can
assure your Lordship, that never
the least word shall pass my
lips—
Count.
(Interrupting him)
Enough, enough—Since every body
begs for him, I must grant—I
shall moreover give him a
Company in my Regiment.
Omnes.
Thanks noble Count.
Count.
But on condition that he depart
immediately for Catalonia to
join the Corps.
Omnes.
Oh my Lord?
Figaro.
To morrow my Lord.
Count.
To day! It shall be so.
(To the
Page) Take leave of
your Godmother, and beg her
protection.
(The Page kneels to the
Countess with a sorrowful air.
As he approaches to kneel, he
goes very slowly and Figaro
gently pushes him forward.)
Fig.
Go, go, Child; go.
Countess.
(With
great emotion)
Since—it is not possible—to
obtain leave—for you to remain
here to day, depart, young man,
and follow the noble career
which lies before you—Forget not
those with whom you have spent
some of the first years of your
life, and among whom you have
friends who wish you every
success—Go where Fortune and
Glory call—Be obedient, polite,
and brave, and be certain we
shall take part in your
Prosperity.
(Raises
him.
Count.
You seem agitated Madam.
Countess.
How can I help it, recollecting
the perils to which his youth
must be exposed? He has been
bred in the same house with me,
is of the same kindred, and is
likewise my Godson.
Count.
(Aside)
Basil I see was in the right.—(Turns
to the Page) Go; kiss
Susan for the last time.
(The Page
and Susan approach, Figaro steps
between them and intercepts the
Page.)
Fig.
Oh! There’s no occasion for
kissing, my Lord: he’ll return
in the winter, and in the mean
time he may kiss me—The scene
must now be changed my delicate
Youth: you must not run up
stairs and down, into the
Women’s Chambers, play at
Hunt-the-slipper, steal Cream,
suck Oranges, and live upon
Sweetmeats. Instead of that,
Zounds! You must look bluff! Tan
your face! Handle your musket!
Turn to the right! Wheel to the
left! And march to Glory.—At
least if you are not stopt short
by a Bullet.
Susan:
Fie, Figaro.
Countess.
(Terrified.)
What a Prophecy!
Fig.
Were I a Soldier I would make
some of them scamper—But, come,
come, my friends; let us prepare
our feast against the evening.
Marcelina I hear intends to
disturb our Diversions.
Count.
That she will I can assure you.
(Aside)
I must go and send for her.
(going.)
Countess.
You will not leave us, my Lord?
Count.
I am undrest, you see.
Countess.
We shall see nobody but our own
servants.
Count.
I must do what you please. Wait
for me in the study, Basil.
Exeunt
Count, Countess, and Vassals.
Manent
Figaro, Basil and Page.
Fig.
(Retains
the Page) Come, come;
let us study our parts well for
the Play in the evening: and do
not let us resemble those Actors
who never play so ill as on the
first night of a Piece; when
Criticism is most watchful to
detect Errors, and when they
ought to play the best—“We
shall not have an opportunity of
playing better to-morrow.”
Basil.
My part is more difficult than
you imagine.
Figaro, And you may be
rewarded for it, in a manner you
little expect.
[Aside.
Page.
You forget, Figaro, that I am
going.
Figaro.
And you wish to stay?
(In the
same sorrowful tone.)
Page.
(Sighs.)
Ah yes,
Figaro.
Follow my advice, and so thou
shalt.
Page.
How, how?
Figaro.
Make no murmuring, but clap on
your boots, and seem to depart;
gallop as far as the Farm,
return to the Castle on foot,
enter by the back way, and hide
yourself till I can come to you.
Page.
And who shall teach Agnes her
part, then?
Figaro.
Oh oh!
Basil.
Why, what the devil have you
been about, young Gentleman, for
these eight days past, during
which you have hardly ever left
her? Take care, Hannibal, take
care, or your Scholar will give
her Tutor a bad character.—Ah
Hannibal! Hannibal! The Pitcher
that goes often to the Well—
Figaro.
Listen to the Pedant and his
Proverb.—Well, and what says the
wisdom of Nations—The pitcher
that goes often to the well—
Basil.
Stands a chance, sometime, to
return full.
Figaro.
Not so foolish as I thought.
End of ACT I.
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ACT II.
SCENE, the
COUNTESS’s Bed-Chamber.
(A
state-bed in the back ground
under an Alcove: three doors;
one the entrance into the room,
another into Susan’s room, and
the third to the Countess’s
dressing-room: a large window
that opens to the street.)
The
COUNTESS seated, SUSAN
waiting.
Countess.
SHUT the door—And so the Page
was hid behind the great chair?
Susan.
Yes, Madam.
Countess.
But how did he happen to be in
your room, Susan?
Susan.
The poor Boy came to beg I would
prevail on you to obtain his
pardon of my Lord the Count.
Countess.
But why did not he come to me
himself? I should not have
refused him a favor of that
kind.
Susan.
Bashfulness, Madam. Ah Susan!
said he, she is a Divinity!
How noble is her Manner! Her,
very smiles are awful.
Countess.
(Smiling)
Is that true, Susan?
Susan.
Can you doubt it, Madam?
Countess.
I have always afforded him my
protection.
Susan.
Had you, Madam, but seen him
snatch the ribband from me!
Countess.
(Rising)
Pshaw! Enough of this
nonsense—And so my Lord the
Count endeavours to seduce you,
Susan?
Susan, Oh, no indeed,
Madam, he does not give himself
the trouble to seduce; he
endeavours to purchase me: and
because I refuse him will
certainly prevent my marriage
with Figaro, and support the
pretensions of Marcelina.
Countess.
Fear nothing—We shall have need,
however, of a little artifice
perhaps; in the execution of
which Figaro’s assistance may
not be amiss.
Susan.
He will be here, Madam, as soon
as my Lord is gone a coursing.
Countess.
Your Lord is an ungrateful man,
Susan!—An ungrateful man!
(The
Countess walks up and down the
room with some emotion)
Open the window; I am stifled
for want of air—Vows,
protestations and tenderness are
all forgotten—My Love offends,
my Caresses disgust—He thinks
his own Infidelities must all be
overlook’d, yet my Conduct must
be irreproachable.
Susan
(At the
window looking into the street).
Yonder goes my Lord with all his
Grooms and Greyhounds.
Countess.
To divert himself with
hunting a poor timid harmless
Hare to death—This, however,
will give us time—Somebody
knocks, Susan.
Susan.
“For Figaro’s the lad, is the
lad for me.”
(Goes
singing to the Door.)
Enter
FIGARO.
(He
kisses Susan’s hand, she makes
signs to him to be more prudent,
and points to the Countess.)
Countess.
Well, Figaro, you have heard of
my Lord the Count’s designs on
your young Bride.
Figaro.
Oh yes, my Lady. There was
nothing very surprising in the
news. My Lord sees a sweet,
young, lovely—Angel! (Susan
curtsies) and wishes to have
her for himself. Can any thing
be more natural? I wish the very
same—
Countess.
I don’t find it so very
pleasant, Figaro.
Figaro.
He endeavours to overturn the
schemes of those who oppose his
wishes; and in this he only
follows the example of the rest
of the world. I endeavour to do
the very same.
Susan.
But with less probability of
success, Figaro.
Figaro.
Follow my advice, and I’ll
convince you of your mistake.
Countess.
Let me hear.
Figaro.
You, my lovely Susan, must
appoint the Count to meet him,
as he proposed, this evening, by
the Pavillion in the Garden.
Countess.
How! Figaro! Can you consent?
Figaro.
And why not, Madam?
Susan.
But if you can, sir, do you
think I—
Figaro.
Nay, my Charmer, do not imagine
I would wish thee to grant him
any thing thou wishest to
refuse—But first we must dress
up the Page in your cloaths, my
dear Susan; he is to be your
Representative.
Countess.
The Page!
Susan.
He is gone.
Figaro.
Is he?—Perhaps so. But a whistle
from me will bring him back.
(The
Countess seems pleased.)
Susan.
So! Now Figaro’s happy!—Plots
and Contrivances—
Figaro.
Two! Three! Four at a time!
Embarrass’d! Involv’d!
Perplex’d!—Leave me to unravel
them. I was born to thrive in
Courts.
Susan.
I have heard the Trade of a
Courtier is not so difficult as
some pretend.
Figaro.
Ask for every thing that falls,
seize every thing in your power,
and accept every thing that’s
offered—There is the whole art
and mystery in three words.
Countess.
Well, but the Count, Figaro?
Figaro.
Permit me, Madam, to manage
him—And first, the better to
secure my property, I
shall begin by making him dread
the loss of his own.—“Oh,
what pleasure shall I have in
cutting out Employment for him
during the whole day!—To see him
waste that time in
jealously-watching your conduct,
Madam, which he meant to employ
in amorous dalliance with my
sweet Bride—To behold him
running here and there and he
does not know where, and hunting
a monstrous Shadow, which he
dreads to find, yet longs to
grasp.”
Countess.
Surely, Figaro, you are out of
your wits.
Figaro.
Pardon, my dear Lady, but it is
your good Lord who will soon be
out of his wits.
Countess.
But as you know him to be so
jealous, how will you dare?—
Figaro.
Oh, Madam! Were he not jealous,
my scheme would not be worth a
doit: but it will now serve a
double purpose—The Jewel which
Possession has made him neglect,
will again become valuable, if
once he can be brought to dread
its loss.
Countess.
To confess the truth, Figaro,
your project exactly corresponds
with the one I meant to
practise—An anonymous Letter
must be sent, informing him,
that a Gallant, meaning to
profit by his neglect—
Figaro.
And absence—is at present with
his beauteous Countess—The thing
is already done, Madam.
Countess.
How!—Have you dared to trifle
thus with a Woman of Honor?
Figaro.
Oh, Madam, it is only with a
Woman of Honor I should presume
to take a liberty like this;
least my Joke should happen to
prove a Reality.
Countess
(Smiles).
You don’t want an agreeable
excuse, Figaro.
Figaro.
The hour of performing the
mariage ceremony will arrive
poste haste—he will be
disconcerted, and having no good
excuse ready, will never venture
in your presence, Madam, to
oppose our union.
Susan.
But if he will not, Marcelina
will; and thou wilt be condemned
to pay—
Figaro.
Poh! Thou hast forgot the Count
is our Judge!—And, after being
entrapp’d at the rendezvous,
will he condemn us, thinkest
thou?—But come, come, we must be
quick—I’ll send the Page hither
to be dress’d—We must not lose a
moment.
(Exit
Figaro.
Countess
(Examining
her head dress in a pocket
looking-glass). What
a hideous cap this is, Susan;
its quite awry—This Youth who is
coming—
Susan.
Ah, Madam! Your Beauty needs not
the addition of Art in his eyes.
Countess.
And my hair too—I assure you,
Susan, I shall be very severe
with him.
Susan
(Smoothing
the Countess’s hair).
Let me spread this Curl a
little, Madam—Oh, pray Madam,
make him sing the song he has
written.
(Susan
throws the song into the
Countess’s lap, which the Page
had given her.)
Countess.
I shall tell him of all the
complaints I hear against him.
Susan.
Oh yes, Madam; I can see you
will scold him, heartily.
Countess
(Seriously).
What do you say, Susan?
Susan
(Goes to
the door). Come; come
in Mr. Soldier.
Enter
PAGE.
(Susan
pretends to threaten him by
signs.)
Page.
Um—(Pouts
aside.)
Countess.
Well, young gentleman,
(With
assumed severity)—How
innocent he looks, Susan!
(Aside to
Susan).
Susan.
And how bashful, Madam!
Countess
(Resuming
her serious air).
Have you reflected on the duties
of your new Profession?
(The Page
imagines the Countess is angry,
and timidly draws back.)
Susan
(Aside to
the Page). Ay, ay,
young Rake, I’ll tell all I
know.—(Returns
to the Countess).
Observe his downcast eyes,
Madam, and long eyelashes.—(Aside
to the Page) Yes,
Hypocrite, I’ll tell.
Countess
(Seeing
the Page more and more fearful).
Nay, Hannibal—don’t—be
terrified—I—Come nearer.
Susan
(Pushing
him towards the Countess).
Advance, Modesty.
Countess.
Poor Youth, he is quite
affected—I am not angry with
you; I was only going to speak
to you on the duties of a
Soldier—Why do you seem so
sorrowful?
Page.
Alas, Madam, I may well be
sorrowful! Being, as I am,
obliged to leave a Lady so
gentle and so kind—
Susan.
And so beautiful—(In
the same tone and half aside.)
Page.
Ah, yes! (Sighs).
Susan
(Mimicking).
Ah, yes!—Come, come, let me try
on one of my Gowns upon you—Come
here—Let us measure—I declare
the little Villain is not so
tall as I am.
Page.
Um—(Pouts.)
Susan.
Turn about—Let me untie your
cloak.
(Susan
takes off the Page’s cloak.)
Countess.
But suppose somebody should
come?
Susan.
Dear, my Lady, we are not doing
any harm—I’ll lock the door,
however, for fear—(The
Page casts a glance or two at
the Countess, Susan returns)
Well! Have you nothing to say to
my beauteous Lady, and your
charming God mother?
Page
(Sighs).
Oh, yes! That I am sure I shall
love her as long as I live!
Countess.
Esteem, you mean, Hannibal.
Page.
Ye—ye—yes—Es--teem! I should
have said.
Susan
(Laughs).
Yes, yes, Esteem! The poor Youth
overflows with Es-teem and
Aff--ection—and—
Page.
Um!
(Aside to Susan).
Susan.
Nia, nia, nia,
(Mocking
the Page).—Dear,
Madam, do make him sing those
good-for-nothing Verses.
Countess.
(Takes
the verses Susan gave her, from
her pocket) Pray who
wrote them?
Susan
(Pointing
to the Page). Look,
Madam, look! His sins rise in
his face—Nobody but an Author
could look so silly—
Countess.
Come, Hannibal, sing.
Susan.
Ah, the bashful Scribbler!
SONG.
To the Winds, to the Waves,
to the Woods I complain;
Ah, well-a-day! My poor heart!
They hear not my Sighs, and they
heed not my Pain;
Ah, well-a-day! My poor heart!
“The name of my Goddess I
’grave on each Tree;
Ah, well-a-day! My poor heart!
’Tis I wound the bark, but
Love’s arrows wound me:
Ah, well-a-day! My poor heart!
“The Heav’ns I view with
their azure bright skies;
Ah, well-a-day! My poor heart!
But Heaven to me are her still
brighter eyes:
Ah, well-a-day! My poor heart!”
To the Sun’s morning splendor
the poor Indian bows;
Ah, well-a-day! My poor heart!
But I dare not worship where I
pay my Vows:
Ah, well-a-day! My poor heart!
“His God each morn rises and
he can adore;
Ah, well-a-day! My poor heart!
But my Goddess to me must soon
never rise more:
Ah, well-a-day! My poor heart!”
(During the song the Countess is
evidently affected by the
Passion with which the Page
sings.)
Susan.
Now let us try whether one of my
Caps—
Countess.
There is one of mine lies on my
dressing-table.
(Exit
Susan to the dressing room of
the Countess.)—Is
your Commission made out?
Page.
Oh yes, Madam, and given me.
Here it is.
(Presents
his commission to the Countess.)
Countess.
Already? They have made haste I
see! They are not willing to
lose a moment—Their hurry has
made them even forget to affix
the Seal.
Susan.
(Returns)
The Seal! To what, Madam?
Countess.
His Commission.
Susan.
So soon!
Countess.
I was observing, there has been
no time lost.
(Returns
the Page his Commission; he
sticks it in his girdle.)
Susan.
Come—(Makes
the Page kneel down, and puts
him on the cap) What
a pretty little Villain it is! I
declare I am jealous: see if he
is not handsomer than I am! Turn
about—There—What’s here?—The
riband!—So, so, so! Now all is
out! I’m glad of it—I told my
young Gentleman I would let you
know his thievish tricks, Madam.
Countess.
Fetch me some black patches
Susan.
(Exit
Susan to her own chamber.
The
Countess and the Page remain
mute for a considerable time
during which the Page looks at
the Countess with great passion,
though with the bashful side
glances natural to his
character—The Countess pretends
not to observe him, and visibly
makes several efforts to
overcome her own feelings.)
Countess.
And—and—so—you—you are sorry—to
leave us?
Page.
Ye—yes—Madam.
Countess.
(Observing
the Page’s heart so full that he
is ready to burst into tears)
’Tis that good-for-nothing
Figaro who has frightened the
child with his prognostics.
Page.
(Unable
to contain himself any longer)
N-o-o-o indee-ee-eed, Madam,
I-I-am o-on-only-griieved to
part from-so dear a-La-a-ady.
Countess.
(Takes
out her handkerchief and wipes
his eyes) Nay, but
don’t weep, don’t weep—Come,
come, be comforted.
(A
knocking is heard at the
Countesses chamber door)
Who’s there?
(In an authoritative tone.)
The Count
speaks without.
Count.
Open the door, my Lady.
Countess.
Heavens! It is the Count!—I am
ruined!—If he finds the Page
here after receiving Figaro’s
anonymous Letter I shall be for
ever lost!—What imprudence!
Count.
(Without)
Why don’t you open the door?
Countess.
Because—I’m alone.
Count.
Alone! Who are you talking to
then!
Countess.
To you, to be sure—How could I
be so thoughtless—This
villainous Figaro.
Page.
After the scene of the great
chair this morning he will
certainly murder me if he finds
me here.
Countess.
Run into my dressing-room and
lock the door on the inside.
(The
Countess opens the door to the
Count.)
Enter the
COUNT.
Count.
You did not use to lock yourself
in, when you were alone, Madam!
Who were you speaking to?
Countess.
(Endeavouring to conceal her
agitation) To—To
Susan, who is rumaging in her
own room.
Count.
But you seem agitated, Madam.
Countess.
That is not impossible
(affecting
to take a serious air)
We were speaking of you.
Count.
Of me!
Countess.
Your jealousy, your
indifference, my Lord.
Count.
“I cannot say for indifference,
my Lady, and as for jealousy,
you know best whether I have any
cause.
Countess.
“My Lord!
Count.
“In short, my Lady, there are
people in the world, who are
malicious enough to wish to
disturb either your repose or
mine. I have received private
advice that a certain Thing
called a Lover—
Countess.
“Lover!
Count.
“Ay, or Gallant, or any other
title you like best, meant to
take advantage of my absence,
and introduce himself into the
Castle.
Countess.
“If there even were any one
audacious enough to make such an
attempt, he would find himself
disappointed of meeting me; for
I shall not stir out of my room
to day.
Count.
“What, not to the Wedding?
Countess.
I am indisposed.
Count.
“Its lucky then that the Doctor
is here.” (The
Page oversets a table in the
Countess’s dressing-room.)
Countess.
(Terrified.) What
will become of me?
(Aside.)
Count.
What noise is that?
Countess.
I heard no noise.
Count.
No? You must be most
confoundedly absent, then.
Countess.
(Affecting
to return his irony)
Oh, to be sure.
Count.
But there is somebody in your
dressing-room, Madam.
Countess.
Who should there be?
Count.
That’s what I want to know.
Countess.
It is Susan, I suppose, putting
the chairs and tables to rights.
Count.
What! Your favourite woman
turned house-maid! You told me
just now she was in her own
room.
Countess.
In her room, or my
room, it is all one.
Count.
Really, my Lady, this Susan of
yours is a very nimble,
convenient kind of person.
Countess.
Really, my Lord, this Susan of
mine disturbs your quiet very
much.
Count.
Very true, my Lady, so much that
I am determined to see her.
Countess.
These suspicions are very much
to your credit, my Lord.
Count.
If they are not to your
discredit, my Lady, it is very
easy to remove them—But I see
you mean to trifle with me
(he goes
to the Countess’s dressing-room
door, and calls)
Susan! Susan! If Susan you are,
come forth!
Countess.
Very well, my Lord! Very well!
Would you have the girl come out
half undressed? She is trying on
one of my left off dresses—To
disturb female privacy, in this
manner, my Lord, is certainly
very unprecedented.
(During
the warmth of this dispute,
Susan comes from her own room,
perceives what is passing, and
after listening long enough to
know how to act, slips, unseen
by both, behind the curtains of
the bed which stands in the
Alcove.)
Count.
Well, if she can’t come out, she
can answer at least. (Calls)
Susan!—Answer me, Susan.
Countess.
I say, do not answer, Susan! I
forbid you to speak a word!—We
shall see who she’ll obey.
Count.
But if you are so innocent,
Madam, what is the reason of
that emotion and perplexity so
very evident in your
countenance?
Countess.
(Affecting
to laugh) Emotion and
perplexity! Ha! ha! ha!
Ridiculous!
Count.
Well, Madam, be it as ridiculous
as it may, I am determined to be
satisfied, and I think present
appearances give me a sufficient
plea. (Goes
to the side of the Scenes and
calls) Hollo! Who
waits there?
Countess.
Do, do, my Lord! Expose your
jealousy to your very servants!
Make yourself and me the jest of
the whole world.
Count.
Why do you oblige me to
it?—However, Madam, since you
will not suffer that door to be
opened, will you please to
accompany me while I procure an
instrument to force it?
Countess.
To be sure, my Lord! To be sure!
If you please.
Count.
And, in order that you may be
fully justified, I will make
this other door fast (Goes to
Susan’s chamber door, locks it,
and takes the key.) As to
the Susan of the dressing-room,
she must have the complaisance
to wait my return.
Countess.
This behaviour is greatly to
your honor, my Lord!
(This
speech is heard as they are
going through the door, which
the Count locks after him.)(Exeunt.)
Enter
SUSAN, peeping as they go
off, then runs to the
dressing-room door and calls.
Susan.
Hannibal!—Hannibal!—Open the
door! Quick! Quick!—Its I,
Susan.
Enter
PAGE, frightened.
Page.
Oh Susan!
Susan.
Oh my poor Mistress!
Page.
What will become of her?
Susan.
What will become of my marriage?
Page.
What will become of me?
Susan.
Don’t stand babbling here, but
fly.
Page.
The doors are all fast, how can
I fly?
Susan.
Don’t ask me! Fly!
Page.
Here’s a window open
(runs to
the window)
Underneath is a bed of flowers;
I’ll leap out.
Susan.
(Screams)
You’ll break your neck!
Page.
Better that than ruin my dear
Lady—Give me one kiss Susan.
Susan.
Was there ever seen such a
young—(Page
kisses her, runs and leaps out
of the window, and Susan shrieks
at seeing him) Ah!
(Susan
sinks into a chair, overcome
with fear—At last she takes
courage, rises, goes with dread
towards the window, and after
looking out, turns round with
her hand upon her heart, a sigh
of relief, and a smile
expressive of sudden ease and
pleasure.) He is
safe! Yonder he runs!—As light
and as swift as the winds!—If
that Boy does not make some
woman’s heart ache I’m mistaken.
(Susan
goes towards the dressing-room
door, enters, and peeps out as
she is going to shut it.)
And now, my good jealous Count,
perhaps, I may teach you to
break open doors another time.
(Locks
herself in.)
Enter
COUNT, with a wrenching iron
in one hand, and leading in the
COUNTESS with the other. Goes
and examines the doors.
Count.
Every thing is as I left it. We
now shall come to an
eclairessement.
Countess.
But, my Lord!—He’ll murder him!
(Aside.)
Count.
Now we shall know—Do you still
persist in forcing me to break
open this door?—I am determined
to see who’s within.
Countess.
Let me beg, my Lord, you’ll have
a moment’s patience!—Hear me
only and you shall satisfy your
utmost curiosity!—Let me intreat
you to be assured, that, however
appearances may condemn me, no
injury was intended to your
honour.
Count.
Then there is a man?
Countess.
No—none of whom you can
reasonably entertain the least
suspicion.
Count.
How?
Countess.
A jest!—A meer innocent,
harmless frolic, for our
evening’s diversion! Nothing
more, upon my Honor!—On my soul!
Count.
But who—who is it?
Countess.
A Child!
Count.
Let us see your child!—What
child?
Countess.
Hannibal.
Count.
The Page! (Turns
away) This damnable
Page again?—Thus then is the
Letter!—thus are my Suspicions
realized at last!—I am now no
longer astonished, Madam, at
your emotion for your pretty
Godson this morning!—The whole
is unravelled!—Come forth,
Viper!
(In great
wrath.)
Countess.
(Terrified
and trembling) Do not
let the Disorder in which you
will see him—
Count.
The Disorder!—The Disorder!
Countess.
We were going to dress him in
women’s cloaths for our
evening’s diversion—
Count.
I’ll stab him!—I’ll!—“And this
is your indisposition!—This is
why you would keep your Chamber
all day! False, unworthy Woman!
You shall keep it longer than
you expected.”—I’ll make him a
terrible example of an injured
Husband’s wrath!
Countess.
(Falling
on her knees between the Count
and the door) Hold,
my Lord, hold! Or let your anger
light on me!—I, alone, am
guilty! If there be any
guilt—Have pity on his youth!
His infancy!
Count.
What! Intercede for him!—On your
knees!—And to me! There wanted
but this!—I’ll rack
him!—Rise!—I’ll
(Furiously.)
Countess.
Promise me to spare his life!
Count.
Rise! (The
Countess rises terrified, and
sinks into an arm chair ready to
faint.)
Countess.
He’ll murder him!
Count.
Come forth, I say, once more; or
I’ll drag—(While
the Count is speaking, Susan
unlocks the door and bolts out
upon him.)
Susan.
I’ll stab him!—I’ll rack him!
(The
Countess, at hearing Susan’s
voice, recovers sufficiently to
look round—Is astonished,
endeavours to collect herself,
and turns back into her former
position to conceal her
surprise.)
Countess.
(After
standing fixed some time, and
first looking at Susan and then
at the Countess)
Here’s a seminary!—And can you
act astonishment too, Madam?
(Observing
the Countess, who cannot totally
hide her surprise.)
Countess.
(Attempting to speak)
I—My Lord—
Count.
(Recollecting
himself.) But,
perhaps, she was not alone.
(Enters
the dressing-room, Countess
again alarmed, Susan runs to the
Countess.
Susan.
Fear nothing—He is not there—He
has jumped out of the window.
Countess.
And broke his neck!
(Her
terror returns.)
Susan.
Hush! (Susan
claps herself bolt upright
against her Lady, to hide her
new disorder from the Count.)
Hem! Hem!
Re-enter
COUNT, (greatly abashed)
Count.
Nobody there!—I have been to
blame—(approaching
the Countess.)
Madam!—
(With
great submission as if going to
beg her pardon, but the
confusion still visible in her
countenance calls up the
recollection of all that had
just passed, and he bursts out
into an exclamation.)
Upon my soul, Madam, you are a
most excellent Actress!
Susan.
And am not I too, my Lord?
Count.
You see my Confusion, Madam—be
generous.
Susan.
As you have been.
Count.
Hush!—(Makes
signs to Susan to take his part.)
My dear Rosina—
Countess.
No, no, my Lord! I am no longer
that Rosina whom you formerly
loved with such affection!—I am
now nothing but the poor
Countess of Almaviva! A
neglected Wife, and not a
beloved Mistress.
Count.
Nay, do not make my humiliation
too severe—(His
suspicions again in part revive.)
But wherefore, my Lady, have you
been thus mysterious on this
occasion?
Countess.
That I might not betray that
headlong thoughtless Figaro.
Count.
What! He wrote the anonymous
billet then?
Countess.
It was without my knowledge, my
Lord.
Count.
But you were afterwards informed
of it?
Countess.
Certainly.
Count.
Who did he give it to?
Countess.
Basil—
Count.
Who sent it me by a
Peasant—Indeed, Mr. Basil.—Yes,
vile Thrummer, thou shalt pay
for all!
Countess
But where is the justice of
refusing that pardon to others
we stand so much in need of
ourselves? If ever I could be
brought to forgive, it should
only be on condition of passing
a general amnesty.
Count.
I acknowledge my guilt.
(The
Countess stands in the middle of
the stage, the Count a little in
the back ground, as if
expressive of his timidity, but
his countenance shews he is
confident of obtaining his
pardon—Susan stands forwarder
than either, and her looks are
significantly applicable to the
circumstances of both parties.)
Susan.
To suspect a man in my Lady’s
dressingroom!—
Count.
And to be thus severely punished
for my suspicion!—
Susan.
Not to believe my Lady when she
assured you it was her
Woman!
Count.
Ah!—(with
affected confusion)
Deign, Madam, once more, to
repeat my pardon.
Countess.
Have I already pronounced it,
Susan?
Susan.
Not that I heard, Madam.
Count.
Let the gentle sentence then
escape.
Countess.
And do you merit it, ungrateful
man?
(with
tenderness.)
Count.
(Looking
at Susan, who returns his look)
Certainly, my Lady.
Countess.
A fine example I set you, Susan!
(The
Count takes her hand and kisses
it.) Who, hereafter,
will dread a Woman’s anger?
(Countess
turns her head towards Susan,
and laughs as she says this.)
Susan.
(In the
same tone) Yes, yes,
Madam—I observe—Men may well
accuse us of frailty.
Count.
And yet I cannot, for the soul
of me, forget the agony, Rosina,
in which you seemed to be just
now! Your cries, your tears,
your—How was it possible, this
being a Fiction, you should so
suddenly give it the tragic tone
of a Reality?—Ha! ha! ha!—So
astonishingly natural!
Countess.
You see your Page, and I dare
say your Lordship was not sorry
for the mistake—I’m sure the
sight of Susan does not give you
offence.
Count.
Hem!—Offence! Oh! No, no, no—But
what’s the reason, you
malicicious little hussey, you
did not come when I called?
Susan.
What! Undress’d, my Lord?
Count.
But why didn’t you answer then?
Susan.
My Lady forbad me: and good
reason she had so to do.
Count.
Such distraction in your
countenance!
(To the Countess)
Nay, it’s not calm even yet!
Countess.
Oh you—you fancy so my Lord.
Count.
Men, I perceive, are poor
Politicians—Women make Children
of us—Were his Majesty wife, he
would name you, and not me, for
his Ambassador.
Enter
FIGARO, chearfully: perceives
the Count, who puts on a very
serious air.
Fig.
They told me my Lady was
indisposed, I ran to enquire,
and am very happy to find there
was nothing in it.
Count.
You are very attentive.
Fig.
It is my duty so to be, my Lord.
(Turns to
Susan.) Come, come,
my Charmer! Prepare for the
Ceremony! Go to your Bridemaids.
Count.
But who is to guard the Countess
in the mean time?
Figaro.
(Surprised)
Guard her, my Lord! My Lady
seems very well: she wants no
guarding.
Count.
From the Gallant, who was to
profit by my absence?
(Susan
and the Countess make signs to
Figaro.)
Countess.
Nay, nay, Figaro, the Count
knows all.
Susan.
Yes, yes, we have told my Lord
every thing.—The jest is
ended—Its all over.
Figaro.
The jest is ended!—And its all
over!
Count.
Yes—Ended, ended, ended!—And all
over—What have you to say to
that?
Fig.
Say, my Lord!
(The
confusion of Figaro arises from
not supposing it possible the
Countess and Susan should have
betrayed him, and when he
understands something by their
signs, from not knowing how much
they have told.)
Count.
Ay, say.
Fig.
I—I—I wish I could say as much
of my Marriage.
Count.
And who wrote the pretty Letter?
Figaro.
Not I, my Lord.
Count.
If I did not know thou liest, I
could read it in thy face.
Figaro.
Indeed, my Lord!—Then it is my
face that lies; and not I.
Countess.
Pshaw, Figaro! Why should you
endeavour to conceal any thing,
when I tell you we have
confess’d all?
Susan.
(Making
signs to Figaro) We
have told my Lord of the Letter,
which made him suspect that
Hannibal, the Page, who is far
enough off by this, was hid in
my Lady’s dressing-room, where I
myself was lock’d in.
Figaro.
Well, well, since my Lord will
have it so, and my Lady will
have it so, and you all will
have it so, why then so let it
be.
Count.
Still at his Wiles.—
Countess.
Why, my Lord, would you oblige
him to speak truth, so much
against his inclination?
(Count
and Countess walk familiarly up
the stage.)
Susan.
Hast thou seen the Page?
Fig.
Yes, yes: you have shook his
young joints for him, among you.
Enter
ANTONIO, the Gardiner, with a
broken Flower-pot under his arm
half drunk.
Antonio.
My Lord—My good Lord—If so be as
your Lordship will not have the
goodness to have these Windows
nailed up, I shall never have a
Nosegay fit to give to my
Lady—They break all my pots, and
spoil my flowers; for they not
only throw other Rubbish out of
the windows, as they used to do,
but they have just now tossed
out a Man.
Count.
A Man!—(The
Count’s suspicions all revive.)
Antonio.
In white stockings!
(Countess
and Susan discover their fears,
and make signs to Figaro to
assist them if possible.)
Count.
Where is the Man?
(Eagerly.)
Antonio.
That’s what I want to know, my
Lord!—I wish I could find him,—I
am your Lordship’s Gardener;
and, tho’ I say it, a better
Gardener is not to be found in
all Spain;—but if Chambermaids
are permitted to toss men out of
the window to save their own
Reputation, what is to become of
mine?—“It will wither with my
flowers to be sure.
Figaro.
Oh fie! What sotting so soon in
a morning?
Antonio,
Why, can one begin one’s day’s
work too early?
Count.
Your day’s work, Sir?
Antonio.
Your Lordship knows my Niece,
there she stands, is to be
married to day; and I am sure
she would never forgive me if—
Count.
If you were not to get drunk an
hour sooner than usual—But on
with your story, Sir—What of the
Man?—What followed?
Antonio.
I followed him myself, my Lord,
as fast as I could; but,
somehow, I unluckily happened to
make a false step, and came with
such a confounded whirl against
the Garden-gate—that I—I quite
for—forgot my Errand.
Count.
And should you know this man
again?
Antonio.
To be sure I should, my Lord!—If
I had seen him, that is
Count.
Either speak more clearly,
Rascal, or I’ll send you packing
to—
Antonio.
Send me packing, my Lord?—Oh,
no! If your Lordship has not
enough—enough
(Points
to his forehead) to
know when you have a good
Gardener, I warrant I know when
I have a good Place.
Figaro.
There is no occasion, my Lord,
for all this mystery! It was I
who jump’d out of the window
into the garden.
Count.
You?
Figaro.
My own self, my Lord.
Count.
Jump out of a one pair of stairs
window and run the risk of
breaking your Neck?
Figaro.
The ground was soft, my Lord.
Antonio.
And his Neck is in no danger of
being broken.
Figaro.
To besure I hurt my right leg, a
little, in the fall; just here
at the ancle—I feel it still.
(Rubbing
his ancle.)
Count.
But what reason had you to jump
out of the window?
Figaro.
You had received my letter, my
Lord, since I must own it, and
was come, somewhat sooner than I
expected, in a dreadful passion,
in search of a man.—
Antonio.
If it was you, you have grown
plaguy fast within this half
hour, to my thinking. The man
that I saw did not seem so tall
by the head and shoulders.
Figaro.
Pshaw! Does not one double one’s
self up when one takes a leap?
Antonio.
It seem’d a great deal more like
the Page.
Count.
The Page!
Figaro.
Oh yes, to be sure, the Page has
gallop’d back from Seville,
Horse and all, to leap out of
the window!
Antonio.
No, no, my Lord! I saw no such
thing! I’ll take my oath I saw
no horse leap out of the window.
Figaro.
Come, come, let us prepare for
our sports.
Antonio.
Well, since it was you, as I am
an honest man, I ought to return
you this Paper which drop’d out
of your pocket as you fell.
Count.
(Snatches
the paper. The Countess, Figaro,
and Susan are all surprised and
embarrassed. Figaro shakes
himself, and eadeavours to
recover his fortitude.)
Ay, since it was you, you
doubtless can tell what this
Paper contains
(claps
the paper behind his back as he
faces Figaro) and how
it happened to come in your
Pocket?
Figaro.
Oh, my Lord, I have such
quantities of Papers
(searches
his pockets, pulls out a great
many) No, it is not
this!—Hem!—This is a double
Love-letter from Marcelina, in
seven pages—Hem!—Hem!—It would
do a man’s heart good to read
it—Hem!—And this is a petition
from the poor Poacher in prison.
I never presented it to your
Lordship, because I know you
have affairs much more serious
on your hands, than the
Complaints of such half-starved
Rascals—Ah!—Hem!—this—this—no,
this is an Inventory of your
Lordship’s Sword-knots, Ruffs,
Ruffies, and Roses—must take
care of this—
(Endeavours
to gain time, and keeps glancing
and hemming to Susan and the
Countess, to look at the paper
and give him a hint.)
Count.
It is neither this, nor this,
nor that, nor t’other, that you
have in your hand, but what I
hold here in mine, that I want
to know the contents of.
(Holds
out the paper in action as he
speaks, the Countess who stands
next him catches a sight of it.)
Countess.
Tis the Commission.
(Aside to
Susan.)
Susan.
The Page’s Commission.
(Aside to
Figaro.)
Count.
Well, Sir!—So you know nothing
of the matter?
An tonio.
(Reels
round to Figaro) My
Lord says you—know nothing of
the matter.
Figaro.
Keep off, and don’t come to
whisper me.
(pretending to recollect
himself.) Oh Lord!
Lord! What a stupid fool I am!—I
declare it is the Commission of
that poor youth, Hannibal—which
I, like a Blockhead, forgot to
return him—He will be quite
unhappy about it, poor Boy.
Count.
And how came you by it?
Figaro.
By it, my Lord?
Count.
Why did he give it you?
Figaro.
To—to—to—
Count.
To what?
Figaro.
To get—
Count.
To get what? It wants nothing!
Countess.
(to
Susan) It wants the
Seal.
Susan.
(to
Figaro) It wants the
Seal.
Figaro.
Oh, my Lord, what it wants to be
sure is a mere trifle.
Count.
What trifle?
Figaro.
You know, my Lord, it’s
customary to—
Count.
To what?
Figaro.
To affix your Lordship’s Seal.
Count.
(Looks at
the Commission, finds the Seal
is wanting, and exclaims with
vexation and disappointment)
The Devil and his Imps!—It is
written, Count, thou shalt be a
Dupe!—Where is this Marcelina?
[Going.
Figaro.
Are you going, my Lord, without
giving Orders for our Wedding?
Enter
MARCELINA, BASIL, BOUNCE, and
Vassals.
(The
Count returns.)
Marcelina.
Forbear, my Lord, to give such
Orders; in Justice forbear. I
have a written promise under his
hand, and I appeal to you, to
redress my injuries! You are my
lawful Judge.
Figaro.
Pshaw! A trifle, my Lord: a note
of hand for money borrowed;
nothing more.
Count.
Let the Advocates and Officers
of Justice be assembled in the
great Hall; we will there
determine on the justice of your
claim. It becomes us not to
suffer any Vassal of ours,
however we may privately esteem
him, to be guilty of public
injury.
Basil.
Your Lordship is acquainted with
my claims on Marcelina: I hope
your Lordship will grant me your
support.
Count.
Oh, oh! Are you there, Prince of
Knaves?
Antanio.
Yes, that’s his title, sure
enough.
Count.
Approach, honest Basil; faithful
Agent of our Will and Pleasure.
(Basil
bows) Go order the
Lawyers to assemble.
Basil.
My Lord!—
Count.
And tell the Peasant, by whom
you sent me the Letter this
morning, I want to speak with
him.
Basil.
Your Lordship is pleased to joke
with your humble Servant. I know
no such Peasant.
Count.
You will be pleased to find him,
notwithstanding.
Basil.
My Office, in this House, as
your Lordship knows, is not to
go of Errands! Think, my Lord,
how that would degrade a man of
my talents; who have the honour
to teach my Lady the
Harpsichord, the Mandoline to
her Woman, and to entertain your
Lordship, and your Lordship’s
good Company, with my Voice and
my Guitar, whenever your
Lordship pleases to honor me
with your Commands.
Bounce.
I will go, if your Lordship
pleases to let me: I should be
very glad to oblige your
Lordship.
Count.
What’s thy Name?
Bounce.
Pedro Bounce, my Lord, Fire-work
maker to your Lordship.
Count.
Thy zeal pleases me, thou shalt
go.
Bounce.
Thank your Lordship, thank your
noble Lordship.
(Leaps.)
Count.
(To
Basil) And do you be
pleased, Sir, to entertain the
Gentleman, on his Journey, with
your Voice and your Guitar; he
is part of my good Company.
Bounce.
(Leaps)
I am part of my Lord’s good
Company! Who would have thought
it!
Basil.
My Lord—
Count.
Depart! Obey! Or, depart from my
Service. (Exit.)
Basil.
’Tis in vain to resist. Shall I
wage war with a Lion, who am
only—
Figaro.
A Calf—“But come, you seem vex’d
about it—I will open the
Ball—Strike up, tis my Susan’s
Wedding-day.”
Basil.
Come along, Mr. Bounce,
(Basil begins to play, Figaro
dances and sings off before him,
and Bounce follows, dancing
after.(Exeunt.)
Manent
COUNTESS and SUSAN.
Countess.
You see, Susan, to what Danger I
have been exposed by Figaro and
his fine concerted Billet.
Susan.
“Dear Madam, if you had but seen
yourself when I bounced out upon
my Lord! So pale, such Terror in
your Countenance! And then your
suddenly assumed tranquillity!
Countess.
“Oh no, every Faculty was lost
in my Fears.
Susan.
“I assure your Ladyship to the
contrary; in a few Lessons you
would learn to dissemble and fib
with as good a Grace as any Lady
in the Land.”
Countess.
And so that poor Child jumped
out of the Window?
Susan.
Without the least hesitation—as
light and as chearful as a
Linnet.
Countess.
I wish however I could convict
my false Count of his
Infidelity.
Susan.
The Page will never dare, after
this, to make a second attempt.
Countess.
Ha!—A lucky project! I will meet
him myself; and then nobody will
be exposed.
Susan.
But suppose, Madam—
Countess.
My Success has emboldened me,
and I am determined to try—(Sees
the Riband left on the chair)
What’s here? My Riband! I will
keep it as a Memento of the
danger to which that poor
Youth—“Ah my Lord—“Yet let me
have a care, let me look to
myself, to my own Conduct, lest
I should give occasion to say—Ah
my Lady!” (The Countess puts
the Riband in her Pocket.)
You must not mention a Word of
this, Susan, to any body.
Susan.
Except Figaro.
Countess.
No exceptions, he must not be
told; he will spoil it, by
mixing some plot of his own with
it—I have promised thee a
Portion thou knowest—these men
are liberal in their
Pleasures—Perhaps I may double
it for thee; it will be Susan’s
Right.
Susan.
Your Project is a charming one,
Madam, and I shall yet have my
Figaro.
[Exit
Susan, kissing the Countess’s
Hand.
End of ACT II.
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ACT III.
SCENE, the
Great Hall.
(A
Judge’s Chair, four other
Chairs, Benches with red Baize,
a Table and a Stool, with Pen,
Ink and Paper.)
Enter the
COUNT, dressed, and a
SERVANT, booted.
Count.
RIDE to Seville with all speed;
enquire if the Page has joined
his Regiment, and at what
o’clock precisely he arrived;
give him this Commission, and
return like lightening.
Servant.
And if he is not there—
Count.
Return still quicker.—Go; fly!—(Exit
Servant)—I was wrong
to send Basil out of the way—He
might have been very
serviceable—But Anger was never
wise—I scarcely know at present
what I wish—When once the
Passions have obtained the
Mastery, there is no Mind,
however consistent, but becomes
as wild and incongruous as a
Dream—If the Countess, Susan,
and Figaro should understand
each other and plot to betray
me!—If the Page was shut
up in her dressing-room—Oh!
no!—The Respect she bears
herself—my Honor!—My Honor? And
in my Wife’s keeping?—Honor in a
Woman’s possession, like Ice
Cream in the mouth, melts away
in a contest of Pleasure and
Pain—I will sound Figaro,
however.
Enter
FIGARO, behind.
Figaro.
Here am I. (Aside.)
Count.
And if I have reason to suppose
them plotting against me, he
shall marry Marcelina.
Figaro.
Perhaps not.
(Aside.)
Count.
But in that case, what must
Susan be?
Figaro.
My Wife, if you please.—(Figaro’s
eagerness occasions him to speak
aloud—The Count turns round
astonished.)
Count.
My Wife, if you please!—To whom
did you say my Wife, if you
please?
Figaro.
To—to—to—That is—They were the
last words of a sentence I was
saying to one of the Servants—Go
and tell so and so to—my
Wife, if you please.
Count.
Your Wife!—Zounds, you are very
fond of your Wife.
Figaro.
I love to be singular.
Count.
You have made me wait for you
here a long while.
Figaro.
I have been changing my
Stockings, which I dirtied in
the fall.
Count.
Servants, I think, are longer
dressing than their Masters.
Figaro.
Well they may—They are obliged
to dress themselves.
Count.
If in sifting my Gentleman, I
find him unwilling to go to
France, I may conclude Susan has
betrayed me.
(Aside.)
Figaro.
He has mischief in his head, but
I’ll watch his motions.
(Aside.)
Count.
(Approaches
Figaro with familiarity)—Thou
knowest, Figaro, it was my
intention to have taken thee
with me on my Embassy to Paris,
but I believe thou dost not
understand French.
Figaro.
Perfectly.
Count.
Indeed!—Let’s hear.—(Figaro
pull’s out his purse and jingles
it)—Is that all the
French thou understandest?
Figaro.
All!—Is not that enough, think
you, my Lord?—That’s a I anguage
understood in every corner of
the habitable Earth, and in no
place better than in
Paris.—“Your Philosophers, who
lament the loss of an universal
Language, are Fools—They always
carry one in their pockets. As
for a knowledge of French, my
Lord, I maintain, s’il vous
plait, and a Purse are all
that’s necessary—Let but the
sound of Silver jingle in a
Frenchman’s ears, and he will
instantly understand your
meaning, be it what it will.—“If
you have a Law-suit, and wish to
gain your Cause, go to the
Judge, pull off your Hat, and
pull out your Purse; smile,
shake it, and pronounce, s’il
vous plait, Monsieur—
Count.
“And your Adversary is
overthrown.
Figaro.
“Undoubtedly—Unless he
understands French still
better than you—Do you wish the
Friendship of a great Lord, or a
great Lady, its still the
same—Chink, chink, and s’il
vous plait, Monseigneur—S’il
vous plait, Madame—The
French are a very witty
People!—Amazingly quick of
apprehension!—Therefore, my
Lord, if you have no other
reason than this for leaving me
behind—”
Count.
But thou art no Politician.
Figaro.
Pardon me, my Lord, I am as
great a master of Politics—
Count.
As thou art of French.
Figaro.
Oh, my Lord, the thing is so
easy—He must be a Fool indeed
who could find his vanity
flattered by his skill in
Politics—To appear always deeply
concerned for the good of the
State, yet to have no other end
but Self-interest; to assemble
and say Nothing; to pretend vast
Secrecy where there is nothing
to conceal; to shut yourself up
in your Chamber, and mend your
Pen or pick your Teeth, while
your Footmen inform the
attending Croud you are too busy
to be approach’d—this, with the
art of intercepting Letters,
imitating Hands, pensioning
Traitors, and rewarding
Flatterers, is the whole mystery
of Politics, or I am an Idiot.
Count.
This is the definition of a
Partisan not a Politician.
Figaro.
Party and Politics are much the
same, they are become synonimous
terms.
Count.
(Aside)
Since he is so willing to go to
Paris, Susan has said nothing.
Figaro.
’Tis now my turn to attack.
(Aside.)
Count.
And—I suppose thou wilt take thy
Wife with thee—to Paris?
Figaro.
No—no—I should be obliged to
quit her so frequently, that I
am afraid the Cares of
the marriage state would lie too
heavy on my head
(sgnificantly.)
Count.
Susan has betrayed me.
(Aside.)
Figaro.
(Aside)
He does not like the retort.
(The
Count smiles, approaches Figaro
with great familiarity, and
leans upon his shoulder—By-play
between the Count and Figaro.)
Count.
The time was, Figaro, when thou
wert more open—Formerly thou
wouldst tell me any thing.
Figaro.
And at present I conceal
nothing.
Count.
What can be the Countess’s
motives—(The
Count puts his arm round
Figaro’s neck—By-play again)—I—Thou
seest I anticipate her wishes,
load her with presents—
Figaro.
Will give her any thing but
yourself—Of what worth are
Trinkets when we are in want of
Necessaries?
Count.
Come, come; be sincere—Tell
me—How much did the Countess
give thee for this last plot?
Figaro.
As much as your Lordship gave me
for helping you to steal her
from her old jealous Guardian—“A
noble Lord should not endeavour
to degrade an honest Servant,
lest he should make him a
Knave.”
Count.
But wherefore is there
continually some Mystery in thy
conduct?
Figaro.
Because the Conduct of others is
mysterious.
Count.
Appearances, my dear Figaro,
really speak thee a great Knave.
Figaro.
(Looking
round at the Count’s hand upon
his shoulders, and observing his
familiarity)—Appearances,
my dear Lord, are frequently
false—I am much better than I
appear to be—Can the Great in
general say as much?—(Aside)—Take
that.
Count.
Yes, yes; she has told him.
(Aside.)
Figaro.
“I shall content myself, my
Lord, with the portion your
Lordship has promised me on my
Marriage, and the place of
Steward of this Castle, with
which you have honoured me, and
willingly remain with my Wife
here in Andalusia, far from
troubles and intrigue.
Count.
“But thou hast Abilities, and
might rise to Preferment.
Figaro.
“Preferred by my Abilities my
Lord!—Your Lordship is pleased
to laugh at me.”
Count.
Yes, yes; Susan has betrayed me,
and my Gentleman marries
Marcelina. (Aside.)
Figaro.
He has been angling for
Gudgeons, and what has he
caught? (Aside.)
Enter a
SERVANT.
Servant.
Don Guzman and the Counsellors
are without.
Count.
Let them wait.
Figaro.
(Ironically)
Aye, let them wait.
(Exit
Serv.)
Count.
And dost thou expect to gain thy
Cause?
Figaro.
With the assistance of Justice
and my Lord’s good wishes, who
respects Youth too much himself
to force others to wed with Age.
Count.
A Judge knows no distinction of
persons.
Figaro.
“Well—Time, say the Italians, is
a valiant Fellow, and tells
Truth”—But what was it your
Lordship was pleased to send for
me for?
Count.
For—(Somewhat
embarrassed) To see
these benches and chairs set in
order.
Figaro.
That is already done, my Lord.
Here is the great chair for your
Lordship, a seat for the
President, a table and stool for
his Clerk, two benches for the
Lawyers, the middle for the Beau
monde, and the Mob in the back
ground. (Exit.)
Count.
He is too cunning; I can get
nothing out of him; but they
certainly understand each
other.—They may toy and be as
loving as they please, but as
for wedding—
Enter
SUSAN.
(She
comes up to the Count’s elbow
while he is speaking, and is
surprized to see him in such an
ill humour.)
Susan.
My Lord!
Count.
My Lady!
Susan.
My Lady has sent me for your
Lordship’s smelling-bottle; she
has got the vapours.
Count.
Here; and when she has done with
it, borrow it for yourself,—it
may be useful.
Susan.
I the vapours, my Lord! Oh no,
that’s too polite a disease for
a Servant to pretend to!
Count.
Fits may come;—Love so violent
as your’s cannot bear
disappointment; and when Figaro
marries Marcelina—
Susan.
Oh, suppose the worst, my Lord,
we can pay Marcelina with the
Portion your Lordship has
promised us!
Count.
I promis’d you a portion?
Susan.
If my ears did not deceive me, I
understood as much.
Count.
Yes, if you had pleas’d to
understand me, but since you
do not.—
Susan.
(Pretending
bashfulness) It’s
always soon enough to own one’s
weakness, my Lord.
Count.
(with an
instant change of countenance)
What! Wilt thou take a walk this
evening in the garden, by the
Pavilion?
Susan.
Don’t I take Walks every
evening, my Lord?
Count.
Nay, nay, but let us understand
each other—No Pavilion, no
Marriage.
Susan.
And no Marriage, no Pavilion, my
Lord!
(curtsying)
Count.
What a witty little Devil! I
wonder what she does to
fascinate me so!—But prithee
tell me why hast thou always,
till now, refused with such
obstinacy? This very Morning,
thou knowest—
Susan.
This Morning, my Lord!—What, and
the Page behind the Great-chair!
Count.
Oh, true! I had forgot!—But when
Basil has spoken to thee in my
behalf.—
Susan.
Is it necessary, my Lord, such a
knave as Basil should know every
thing that passes?
Count.
She is right again!—But—(Suspicious)
thou wilt go, now, and tell
Figaro all.
Susan.
To be sure, my Lord. I always
tell him all—except what is
necessary to conceal.
Count.
Ah the Hussey! What a charming
little Knave it is! Run, run to
thy Mistress; she is waiting,
and may suspect us.
Susan.
(Hesitati
g) So your Lordship
can’t perceive that I only
wanted a pretext to speak to
your Lordship.
(The
Count unable to conceal his
transport, is going to kiss her,
but hears somebody coming, and
they separate)
Count.
(As he
turns.) She
absolutely bewitches me! I had
sworn to think no more of her,
but she winds me just as she
pleases!
(The
Count goes off, and Figaro
enters, but the Count hearing
Figaro’s Voice, returns and
peeps)
Figaro.
Well, my Susan, what does he
say?
Susan.
Hush! Hush! He is just gone—Thou
hast gained thy Cause—Run, run,
run.
(Exit
Susan, running, Figaro
following.)
Figaro.
Well, but how, how, my Charmer?
(Exeunt.)
Re-enter
COUNT.
Count.
Thou hast gained thy Cause—Aha!
And is it so, my pair of
Knaves!—Am I your Dupe then?—A
very pretty Net! But the Cuckoo
is not caught—Come!—Proceed we
to judgment!
(With passion) Be
we
just!—Cool!—Impartial!—Inflexible—
(Exit.)
Enter
Don GUZMAN, MARCELINA, and
DOCTOR.
Marcelina.
I shall be happy, Mr. President,
to explain the justice of my
Cause.
Doctor.
To shew you on what grounds this
Lady proceeds.
D. Guzman.
(Stuttering)
We-e-e-ell, le-et us exa-a-mine
the matter ve-erbally.
Marcelina.
There is a promise of Marriage—
Guzman.
I co-o-o-ompre—hend! Gi-i-iven
by you-ou-ou—to—
Marcelina.
No, Mr. President, given to
me.
Guz.
I co-o-o-omprehend! Gi-iven
to you.
Marcelina.
And a sum of Money which I—
Guzman.
I co-o-o-omprehend! Which you-ou
ha-ave received.
Marcelina.
No, Mr. President, which I have
lent.
Guzman.
I co-o-o-omprehend!—It is
re-e-paid.
Marcelina.
No, Mr. President, it is not
repaid.
Guzman.
I co-o-o-omprehend—The m-m-man
would marry you to pay his
de-de-de-bts.
Marcelina.
No, Mr. President, he would
neither marry me, nor pay
his debts.
Guzman.
D-d-do you think I d-d-d-don’t
co-o-omprehend you?
Doctor.
And are you, Mr. President, to
judge this Cause?
Guzman.
T-t-t-to be sure—Wha-at else did
I purchase my Place for thi-ink
you, (Loughs
stupidly at the supposed folly
of the Question) And
where is the De-fe-e-endant?
Enter
FIGARO.
Figaro.
Here, at your service.
Doctor.
Yes, that’s the Knave.
Figaro.
Perhaps I interrupt you.
Guzman.
“Ha-ave not I see-een you
before, young Man?
Figaro.
“Oh yes, Mr. President, I once
served your Lady.
Guzman.
“How lo-ong since?
Figaro.
“Nine months before the birth of
her last Child—And a fine Boy it
is, though I say it.
Guzman.
“Y-es—He’s the F-flower of the
Flock”—And the cau-ause
betwee-een—
Figaro.
A Bagatelle, Mr. President! A
Bagatelle.
Guzman.
(Laughs.)
A Ba-ag-a-telle! A pro-o-mise of
Ma-a-arriage a Ba-a-gatelle! Ha!
ha! ha!—And dost thou hope to
ca-ast the Pla-aintiff?
Figaro.
To be sure, Mr. President! You
being one of the Judges.
Guzman.
(With
stupid dignity)
Ye-e-es! I am one of the
Judges!—Hast thou see-een
D-D-Doublefee, my Se-ecretary?
Figaro.
Yes, Mr. President! That’s a
duty not to be neglected.
Guzman,
The young Fellow is not so
si-i-imple I thought.
Enter
Cryer of the Court, Guards,
Count, Counsellors and Vassals.
Cryer.
Make room there, for my Lord,
the Count.
Count.
Wherefore in your Robes, Don
Guzman? It was unnecessary for a
mere domestic matter like this.
Guzman.
Pa-a-ardon me, my Lord! “Those
who would tre-e-emble at the
Clerk of the Court in his Robes,
would la-augh at the Judge
without ’em.” Forms! Forms! are
sacred things.
(The
Count and the Court seat
themselves.)
Count.
Call silence in the Court.
Cryer.
Silence in the Court.
Guzman.
Read “over the Causes”,
D-D-Doublefee.
Doublefee.
“The Count de los Altos Montes
di Agnas Frescas, Senor di
Montes Fieros, y otros Montes,
Plaintiff, against Alonzo
Calderon, a Comic Poet. The
question at present before the
Court, is, to know the Author of
a Comedy that has been damned;
which they mutually disavow and
attribute to each other.
Count.
“They are both very right in
mutually disavowing it; and be
it decreed, that if, hereafter,
they should produce a successful
Piece, its Fame shall appertain
to the Count, and its Merit to
the Poet—The next.
Doublefee.
“Diego Macho, Day-labourer,
Plaintiff, against
Gil-Perez-Borcado Tax-gatherer,
and receiver of the Gabels, for
having violently dispossessed
the said Diego Macho,
Day-labourer, of his Cow.
Count.
“This Cause does not come within
my Jurisdiction; but as it is
probable the Day-labourer will
never obtain Justice, do thou
see, Figaro, that another Cow be
sent him, lest his Family should
be starved—The next.”
Doublefee.
Marcelina-Jane-Maria-Angelica-Mustacio,
Spinster, Plaintiff, against—(To
Figaro) Here’s no surname!
Figaro.
Anonymous.
Guzman.
Ano-o-onymous—I never heard the
Name before!
Doublefee.
Against Figaro Anonymous. What
Profession?
Figaro.
Gentleman.
Count.
Gentleman!
Figaro.
I might have been born a Prince,
if Heaven had pleased.
Doublefee.
Against Figaro Anonymous,
Gentleman, Defendant. The
Question before the Court
relates to a promise of
Marriage; the Parties have
retained no Council, contrary to
the ancient and established
practice of Courts.
Figaro.
What occasion for Council? A
race of Gentleman who are always
so very learned, they know every
thing, except their Briefs! Who
insolently interrogate Modesty
and Timidity, and endeavour, by
confusing, to make Honesty
forswear itself; and, after
having laboured for hours, with
all legal prolixity, to perplex
self-evident Propositions, and
bewilder the understandings of
the Judges, sit down as proud as
if they had just pronounced a
Phillipic of Demosthenes—(Addressing
himself to the Court) My
Lord, and Gentlemen—The Question
before the Court is—
Doublefee.
(Interrupting
him) It is not you to
speak, you are the Defendant—Who
pleads for the Plaintiff.
Doctor.
I.
Doublefee.
You! A Physician turn Lawyer?—
Figaro.
Oh yes, and equally skilful in
both.
Count.
Read the Promise of Marriage,
Doctor.
Guzman.
Re-e-ead the Pro-o-omise of
Marriage.
Doctor.
(Reads)
I acknowledge to have received
of
Marcelina-Jane-Maria-Angelica-Mustachio,
the sum of two thousand
Piasters, in the Castle of Count
Almaviva, which sum I promise to
repay to the said
Marcelina-Jane-Maria-Angelica-Mustachio,
and to marry her. Signed,
Figaro. (Addressing
himself to the Count)
My Lord, and Gentlemen! Hem!
Never did cause more
interesting, more intricate, or
in which the Interest of
Mankind, their Rights,
Properties, Lives and Liberties
were more materially involved,
ever claim the profound
Attention of this most learned,
most honourable Court, and from
the time of Alexander the Great,
who promised to espouse the
beauteous Thalestris—
Count.
Stop, most formidable Orator;
and ere you proceed, enquire
whether the Defendant does not
contest the validity of your
Deed.
Guzman.
(To
Figaro) Do you
co-ontest the va-va-va-va-lidity
of the Dee-eed?
Figaro.
My Lord and Gentlemen! Hem!
There is in this Case, either
Fraud, Error, Malice, or
mischievous Intention, for the
Words of the Acknowledgment are,
I promise to repay the said
Marcelina-Jane-Maria-Angelica-Mustachio,
the said sum of two thousand
Piasters or to marry her,
which is very different.
Doctor.
I affirm it is AND.
Figaro.
I affirm it is OR.
Doctor.
Well, suppose it.
Figaro.
No Supposition, I will have it
granted.
Count.
Clerk, Read you the Promise.
Guzman.
Re-e-ead the P-P-P-Promise,
D-D-D-Double-fee.
Doublefee.
(Reads)
I acknowledge to have received
of
Marcelina-Jane-Maria-Angelica-Mustachio,
the sum of two thousand
Piasters, in the Castle of Count
Almaviva, which sum I promise to
repay the said
Marcelina-Jane-Maria-Angelica-Mustachio,
and—or—and—or—or—The Word
is blotted.
Doctor.
No matter; the sense of the
Phrase is equally clear. This
learned Court is not now to be
informed the word or particle,
Or, hath various
significations—It means
otherwise and either—It
likewise means before—For
example, in the language of the
Poet.
Or ’ere the Sun
decline the western Sky,
’Tis Fate’s decree the Victims
all must die.
Figaro.
This was the language of
Prophesy, and spoken of the
Doctor’s own Patients.
Count.
“Silence in the Court.
Crier.
“Silence in the Court.
Doctor.
“Hence then, I clearly deduce
(granting
the word to be Or)
the Defendant doth hereby
promise, not only to pay the
Plaintiff, but marry her
before he pays her—Again,
the the word Or doth
sometimes signify Wherefore,
as another great and learned
Poet hath it,
“Or how could heav’nly
Justice damn us all,
Who ne’er consented to our
Father’s Fall?
“That is wherefore? For
what reason could heavenly
Justice do such an unjust thing?
Let us then substitute the
adverb Wherefore, and the
intent and meaning of the
Promise will be incontestable;
for, after reciting an
acknowledgement of the debt, it
concludes with the remarkable
words, Or to marry her,
that is, wherefore, for which
reason, out of gratitude, for
the Favour above done me,
I
will marry her.
Figaro.
“Oh most celebrated Doctor? Most
poetic Quibbler!
“Hark with what florid
Impotence he speaks,
And as his Malice prompts, the
Puppet squeaks,
Or at the ear of Eve, familiar
Toad,
Half froth, half venom, spits
himself abroad
In legal Puns, or Quibbles,
Quirks, or Lies,
Or Spite, or Taunts, or Rhymes,
or Blasphemies.
“What think you we know not
Quotations, and Poets, and
Ands, and Ors, and
Whys, and
Wherefores.
“What Drop or Nostrum, can
such Plagues remove,
Or which must end me, a Fool’s
Wrath—Or Love?
(Pointing first to the
Doctor, and then to Marcelina.)
“We have neither forgot our
Reading nor our Syntax, but can
easily translate a dull Knave
into a palpable Fool—” My Lord,
and Gentlemen, You hear his
Sophisms, Poetical, and
Conundrums, Grammatical.
Count.
Yes, yes, we hear.
(Count
and the Counsellors rise and
consult together.)
Antonio, I’m glad they
have put an end to your prating.
Marcelina.
Their Whisperings and wise
Grimaces forebode me no good.
That Susan has corrupted the
chief Judge, and he is
corrupting all the others.
Doctor.
It looks devilish like it.
(The
Count and Counsellors resume
their seats.)
Doublefee.
Silence in the Court.
Crier.
Silence in the Court.
Count.
The judgment of the Court is,
that since the validity of the
promise of Marriage is not
well-established, Figaro is
permitted to dispose of his
Person.
Figaro.
The Day’s my own.
Marcelina.
I thought how it would be.
Count.
But as the Acknowledgement
clearly expresses the words,
Which sum I promise to pay the
said
Marcelina-Jane-Maria-Angelica-Mustachio,
or to marry her, the said
Figaro stands condemned to pay
the two thousand Piasters to the
Plaintiff, or marry her in the
course of the Day.
Figaro.
I’m undone!
Marcelina.
I am happy!
Count.
And I am revenged!
Antonio.
Thank your noble Lordship! Most
humbly thank your noble
Lordship!—Ah ha! I’m glad thou
art not to marry my Niece! I’ll
go and tell her the good news!
(Exit.)
Crier.
Clear the Court.
(Exeunt
Guards, Counsellors, and
Vassels.
Manent
Don Guzman, Figaro, Marcelina
and Dr. Bartholo.
Figaro.
’Tis this Furze-ball, this
Fungus of a President that has
lost me my Cause.
Guzman.
I a F-F-Furze-ball and a
F-F-Fungus!
Figaro.
(Sits
down dejected) I will
never marry her.
Guzman.
Thou mu-ust ma-arry her.
Figaro.
What! Without the Consent of my
noble Parents?
Count.
(Returning)
Where are they? Who are they?—He
will still complain of
injustice—Name them.
Figaro.
Allow me time, my Lord—I must
first know where to find them,
and yet it ought not to be long,
for I have been seeking them
these five Years.
Doctor.
What! A Foundling?
Figaro.
No Foundling, but stolen from my
Parents.
Count.
Poh! This is too palpable.
(Exit
Count.)
Figaro.
Had I no other Proof of my Birth
than the precious Stones, Ring,
and Jewels found upon me, these
would be sufficient—but I bear
the Mark— (He
is going to shew his Arm.)
Marcelina.
Of a Lobster on your left Arm.
Figaro.
How do you know that?
Marcelina.
’Tis he himself!
Figaro.
“Yes, its me myself.”
Marcelina.
’Tis Fernando!
Doctor.
Thou wert stolen away by
Gypsies.
Figaro.
By Gypsies!—Oh Doctor, if thou
can’st but restore me to my
illustrious Parents, “Mountains
of Gold will not sufficiently
speak their gratitude.”
Doctor.
Behold thy Mother.
(Pointing
to Marcelina.)
Figaro.
Nurse, you mean!
Doctor.
Thy own Mother!
Figaro.
Explain!
Marcelina.
And there behold thy Father.
(Pointing
to the Doctor.)
Figaro.
He, my Father! Oh Lord! Oh Lord!
Oh Lord! (Stamps
about.)
Guzman.
(With
great wisdom) It will
be no m-m-match—that’s evi-dent.
Marcelina.
Hast thou not felt Nature
pleading within thee, at sight
of me?
Figaro.
Never.
Marcelina.
This was the secret cause of all
my Fondness for thee.
Figaro.
No doubt—And of my
aversion—Instinct is very
powerful.
Marcelina.
Come to my arms, my dear, my
long lost Child.
(Figaro
and Marcelina embrace, the
Doctor leans against the
Benches.)
Enter
ANTONIO and SUSAN.
(The
latter runs to find the Count)
Susan.
(In great
Agitation) Oh, where
is my Lord? Here is the Money to
pay Marcelina with! The Portion
which my noble and generous Lady
has given me!
Antonio.
(pulling
Susan, and pointing to Figaro,
who kisses Marcelina.)
Here! here! Look this way!
(Susan,
at seeing them embrace becomes
furious, and is going away,
Figaro runs and brings her back.)
Figaro.
Stop, stop, my Susan.
Susan.
I have seen enough—Since you are
so fond of her, pray marry her.
Figaro.
Thou art mistaken.
Susan.
No, I am not mistaken.
(Gives
him a slap in the face.)
Figaro.
(Rubbing
his Cheek) “This is
Love—Pshaw! Prithee come hither,
look at that Lady—How dost thou
like her?
Susan.
“Not at all.
Figaro.
“Well said Jealousy, she does
not mince the Matter.”
Marcelina.
Dear Susan, this, this is my
Son!
Figaro.
“Yes, they wanted me to marry my
Mother.”
Antonio.
“Your Mother!—It is not long
since—
Figaro.
“I have known it—True”
Marcelina.
Yes, my dearest Susan, embrace
thy Mother—Thy Mother, who will
love thee dearly.
Susan.
And do you consent I shall have
my Figaro?
Marcelina.
Willingly, (Susan
runs and kisses her)
Here, my Son, here is the
Promise.
(Gives
him the Paper.)
Susan.
And here is the Portion.
(Gives
him a Purse of Money.)
Figaro.
“My manly Pride would fain make
me restrain my tears, but they
flew in spite of me—Well, let
’em! Let ’em flow! Joys like
these never come twice in one’s
Life! Oh, my Mother, Oh, my
Susan!”
(They all
three embrace, weeping.)
Guzman.
(weeping.)
What a Foo-oo-ool am I!
L-L-Look, if I don’t k-k-k-cry
as well as the best of ’em.
Figaro.
(to the
Doctor) My Father.
Doctor.
Keep off! I disclaim thee!
Antonio.
Why then, if you are his Father,
you are a Turkish Jew, and no
Christian Father.
Doctor.
A Knave that tricked me of my
Ward, cheated me of my Money,
and now has been turning my
Wisdom into ridicule.
Susan.
And are not you, being a wise
Man, proud to have a Son wiser
than yourself?
Doctor.
No—I would have no one wiser
than myself.
Antonio.
Come, come, look you, I am “a
good Catholic, and” an old
Castilian, therefore, unless
your Father and Mother become
lawful Man and Wife, I will
never consent to give you my
Niece. No, no, she sha’n’t marry
a man who is the child of
Nobody, neither.
Guzman.
Here’s an old Fool!—The Child of
Nobody, Ha! ha! ha!
(Laughs
stupidly, and then assumes great
Wisdom) Hav’n’t you
lived long enough to know that
every Child must have a Father?
Marcelina.
“Consider, good Doctor, your
Promise, if ever our Child was
found.
Doctor.
“Pshaw!
Marcelina.
“And here is a Son you surely
need not be ashamed of.
Susan.
“Ah my dear Pappa!
Figaro.
“My generous, worthy Father.
(Susan
strokes his Cheek, Figaro
kneels, and Marcelina coaxes
him.)
Susan.
“You don’t know how we will all
love you.
Marcelina.
“What care we will take of you.
Figaro.
“How happy we will make you.
Doctor.
“Good Doctor, dear Pappa,
generous Father!
(Bursts
out a crying) See, if
I am not even a greater
Foo-oo-ool than Mr. President!
(Guzman
staggers back at the Doctor’s
Compliment) they
mould me like Dough, lead me
like a Child,
(Marcelina,
Susan, and Figaro testify their
Joy by their Actions.)
Nay, nay, but I hav’n’t yet said
yes.
Susan.
“But you have thought yes.
Marcelina.
“And look’d yes.
Figaro.
“Come, come, we must be quick;
let us run and find the Count,
otherwise he will invent some
new pretext to break off the
Match.
(Exeunt
Doctor, Marcelina, Figaro and
Susan.)
Manent
Don GUZMAN.
Guzman.
“A greater Foo-oo-ool than Mr.
President!—The People in this
House are truly very stupid and
ill bred.” (Exit.)
End of ACT III.
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ACT IV.
SCENE, a
large Saloon.
FIGARO
and SUSAN, both joyous.
Figaro.
SHE has converted her Doctor at
last—They are to be married, and
these so late implacable Enemies
are now become our dearest
Friends.
Susan.
What unexpected Happiness!
Figaro.
Chance, my Susan—All the effect
of Chance—“Yesterday, without a
Relation in the World I could
claim, to-day, behold me
restored to my Parents—True it
is, they are neither so rich nor
so right honorable, so belaced
nor betitled as my imagination
had painted them—But that’s all
one, they are mine”—I may truly
be called both a Chance Child,
and a Child of Chance—By Chance
was I begot, by Chance brought
into the World, by Chance was I
stole, by Chance am I found, by
Chance have I lived, and by
Chance I shall die—Chance is
Nature’s Sovereign, and must be
mine.
Susan.
Yes, and by Chance thou mayst
come to be hang’d.
(Laughs.)
Figaro.
Or thou to be an Empress—Neither
of them are impossible—He, the
Conqueror, whose Ambition
ravages the Earth, and whose
Pride eats up Nations, is not
less the sport of Chance than
the blind Beggar who is
conducted by his dog.
Susan.
Ha, ha, ha!—Prithee leave thy
Philosophy, and—
Figaro.
And think of that other blind
beggar, Love—Most willingly, my
Angel. (Kisses
her.)
Susan.
Pooh, Pooh!—That was not what I
meant.
Figaro.
Rather say it was not half thy
meaning, or thy meaning ill
expressed. (Kisses
her again.)
Susan.
Ah, Figaro! Were this fondness,
these days but durable—
Figaro.
Durable!—Iron and Adamant—No;
may millions of imaginary
Gallants wrack my heart and
decorate my—
Susan.
“No rhodomantade, Figaro—Tell me
the simple truth.
Figaro.
“By the truest of all Truths I
swear—
Susan.
“Truest of Truths!—Are there
various kinds of Truths then?
Figaro.
“No doubt.
Susan.
“Fie!
Figaro.
“There are Truths that may be
spoken: such as the Peccadillos
of a poor Rascal! Truths that
may not be spoken: such as the
Robberies of a rich Rascal—There
are your Truths comprehensible:
such as that two and two make
four; and your Truths
incomprehensible: such as that
two and two make five—Then there
are your Tradesman’s Truths,
which he retails to his
Customers, your Lover’s Truths,
which he pours wholesale into
his Mistress’s ear—Your
Courtier’s Truths, on which he
feeds his Dependants and
Parasites—Your Court of Law, or
Kiss-the-Book Truths, which are
the daily support of a vast
number of very honest
people—There are also your
physical and metaphysical
Truths—Your old Truths and your
new Truths—Your heterodox and
orthodox Truths—Your Mahometan
Truths, your Jewish Truths, and
your—other kind of truths,
concerning which there never was
nor ever will be any doubt—Not
to mention your Truths in
fashion: such as that Idleness,
Ignorance, Dissipation, Gaming
and Seduction are the requisites
of a Gentleman—And your Truths
out of fashion: such as
that Gentleness, Obedience,
Œconomy, and connubial Love are
the requisites of a
Gentlewoman.
Susan.
“I find by your account of the
matter, Figaro, that poor Truth,
like a Lottery Ticket, is so
divided and sub-divided, so
halved, quartered, cut, carv’d,
split and spliced, it is no
where entire to be found.
Figaro.
“No where.
Susan.
“And moreover, that what is
Truth to-day may be a Lie
to-morrow.
Figaro.
“May be! Must be.
Susan.
“Consequently, that in less than
twenty-four hours, my very
tender submissive, ardent Lover
may be metamorphosed into an
arbitrary, cold, haughty
Husband.
Figaro.
“Impossible!—Impossible, my
Susan! As it is for thee, my
gentle, kind, and beauteous
Bride, to be transformed into an
ill-tempered, extravagant
slatternly Wife.
Susan.
“I understand thee”—Well,
Well—We will endeavour to
convert the iron Bands of
Matrimony into a flowery Wreath
which Love shall teach us to
bear lightly and joyously
through Life.
Figaro.
Aye, and thus live a happy
Exception to the established
usage of a mad World.
Susan.
But prithee, who is to go
disguised and meet the Count?
Figaro.
Who?—Nobody—Let him wait and
fret, and bite his Nails—I never
meant thou shouldst go.
Susan.
I assure thee I never had any
inclination.
Figaro.
“Is that the real Truth, Susan?”
Susan.
“What! Thinkest thou I am as
learned as thou art? And that I
keep several sorts of Truths?”
Figaro.
(With
fond Vivacity). And
dost thou love me?
Susan.
(Tenderly). Too much,
I doubt.
Figaro.
Ah!—That’s but little.
Susan.
How!
Figaro.
In Love’s Creed, too much is not
even enough.
Susan.
I understand nothing of this
over-refinement, but I feel I
shall love my Husband most
heartily.
Figaro.
Keep thy word, and put our
modern Wives to the blush.
Susan.
Afford them a subject to laugh
and point at, thou mean’st.
Enter the
COUNTESS.
Countess.
Wherever you meet One of them,
be certain you shall find a
Pair.
(They salute the Countess)—The
Bridesmen and Maids wait for
you, Figaro.
Figaro.
I will take my excuse in my
hand—(Going
to lead out Susan)—Few
offenders can plead so charming
a one.
Countess.
No, no; stop Susan: I want
you—She shall come presently.
(Exit
Figaro).—Well, Susan,
the time approaches, we must
prepare for the Rendezvous.
Susan.
“I must not go, Madam, Figaro is
unwilling.
Countess.
(Angry).
“Figaro!—Figaro is not so
scrupulous when a
Marriage-portion is in
question—That’s a poor Pretence;
you are sorry you have told the
truth, and discovered the
Intentions of the Count.—Go,
go—I am not to be so deceived.
(Going).
Susan.
(Catching
hold of her and kneeling).
“Ah, Madam! Let me conjure you
to hear me, to pardon me.—How
can you think me capable of
deceiving so good, so liberal a
Lady, whose bounties I have so
often felt!—Oh, no; it is
because I have promised Figaro.
Countess.
(Mildly
and Smiling).
“Rise—Hast thou forgot, silly
Girl, that it is I who am to go
and not thee.—(Kisses
her forehead,—But—I was too
hasty.
Susan.
“My dear, my generous Mistress.”
Countess.
And what is the place of
Rendezvous?
Susan.
The Pavilion in the Garden.
Countess.
There are two.
Susan.
But they are opposite.
Countess.
True—At what hour?
Susan.
I don’t know.
Countess.
That must be fixed—Sit down,
take the pen and write—(Susan
sits down, the Countess dictates)
A NEW SONG,
To the Tune of,
The
Twilight past, the Bell had
toll’d.
Susan.
(Writes).
New song—Tune of—Bell had
toll’d—What next, Madam?
Countess.
Dost think he will not
understand thee?
Susan.
(Looking
archly at the Countess).
Very true—(Folding
up the Letter)—But
here is neither Wax nor Wafer.
Countess.
Fasten it with a Pin, and write
on the direction, Return the
Seal.(Smiling.)
Susan.
(Laughs)
The Seal!—(Gets
up.)—This is not
quite so serious as the
Commission just now was.
Countess.
(Sighs).
Ah, Susan.
Susan.
I have never a Pin.
Countess.
Take this. (Gives
her one which fastened the
Page’s riband to her breast; it
falls.)
Susan.
(Picking
up the riband) This
is the Page’s riband, Madam.
Countess.
Wouldst thou have me let him
wear it? It will do for Agnes; I
will give it her the first
Bouquet she presents me.
(Just as
the Countess has said this,
Agnes and a troop of young
Maidens, among them the Page, in
girl’s cloaths, enter with
nosegays for the Countess, who
instantly puts the riband in her
pocket, with an evident wish, by
her looks and action, to
preserve it.)
Countess.
(Looking
at the Page) What
pretty maiden is this?
Agnes.
A Cousin of mine, Madam, that we
have invited to the Wedding.
Countess.
Well, then, as we can wear but
one nosegay, let us do honour to
the Stranger
(Takes the Nosegay from the
Page, and kisses his
forehead.—Aside to Susan)
Don’t you think, Susan, she
resembles amazingly—(Stops
short, and looks at Susan).
Susan.
Amazingly, indeed, Madam!
Page.
(Aside)
What a precious kiss! I feel it
here. (Putting
his hand on his heart.)
Enter the
Count, and Antonio with a hat in
his hand.
Antonio.
(As he
enters) Yes, yes, my
Lord, I’m certain it was him.
The rakish little Rascal is
disguised among the Girls. I
found his new hat and cockade
here—hid in a basket.
(The
Countess and Susan surprised,
look at the Page, and then at
each other. The girls surround
and endeavour to hide Hannibal;
Antonio seeks among them).
Ay, ay, here he is—here he is.
(Antonio
takes off his cap, and puts on
his hat) There, my
Lord! There’s a pretty, modest
Virgin for you!
Count.
Well, my Lady!
Countess.
Well, my Lord!—I am as much
surprized as you can be; and, I
assure you, not less vex’d.—At
present, however, it is time to
tell you the whole Truth. This
young gentleman
(Pointing
to the Page) was hid
in my Dressing-room.—We
attempted a Joke, which these
Girls have put in practice.
Count.
But wherefore hide him from me?
Countess.
Because, my Lord, when your
Passions are predominant, you
are incapable of either
listening to or believing the
Truth.
Count.
(Aside)
Must I for ever be disturbed,
haunted, and bewitch’d thus by
this beardless Boy?
(Turning
with great wrath towards the
Page) What is the
reason, Sir, you have not obeyed
my Commands?
Page.
(Draws
back frightened, and takes off
his hat) My-my-my
Lord, I staid to teach Agnes the
Love scene she is to play in the
Comedy this evening.
Agnes.
(Steps
forward) Ah, my Lord,
when you come to my room, you
know, and want to kiss me—
Count.
I! (The
Countess remarks his
embarrassment, Susan laughs
silently, and makes signs to the
Countess).
Agnes.
Yes, my Lord! You say to me, My
pretty Agnes, if you will but
love me, I will give you any
thing you wish to have; now, my
Lord, if you will give me
Hannibal for a husband, I will
love you with all my heart.
Countess.
You hear, my Lord!—Has not the
simplicity of this Child’s
confession, as artless as the
one I have this moment made,
sufficiently justified my
Conduct? And do not
circumstances prove, how
injurious your Suspicions have
been, and how well founded mine?
(Count
bows to the Countess.)
Antonio.
You see, my Lord, what a giddy
young thing it is.
Count.
And very loving too.
Antonio.
Her mother, as every body knows,
was just such another.
Enter
FIGARO.
Figaro.
Come, my pretty Maidens, come.
(Turns to
the Count) While you
keep the Lasses here, my Lord,
we can neither begin our
Procession nor our Dances.
Count.
(Gravely
putting on his hat)
Why surely, Sir, you don’t
intend to dance.
Figaro.
Why not, my Lord?
Count.
What! With a hurt in your ancle?
Figaro.
Oh! Is that all?—It pains me a
little, to be sure; but that’s a
trifle—Come Girls.
Count.
(Turning
him back) You were
very lucky to light upon such
soft ground.
Figaro.
Exceedingly, my Lord:—Come
Lasses.
Antonio.
(Turning
him back on the other side)
And then you double yourself up,
when you take a leap? Yet, like
a Cat, you fall on your feet.
Figaro.
What then?—Come Gir—
Count.
But how unhappy the poor Youth
will be about his Commission.
Figaro.
What is the meaning of all this,
my Lord?
Antonio.
(Bringing
the Page forward) Do
you know this bashful young
Lady?
Figaro.
The Devil! Hannibal!—(Aside.)
Well, and what Riddle has he to
propound?
Count.
No Riddle, Sir, but a simple
matter of fact:—He affirms, it
was he who jump’d out of the
window.
Figaro.
Does he?—Well, if he say so, I
suppose it is so.
Count.
How! What two at a time?
Figaro.
Two? Twenty! Why not, my Lord?
One sheep begins, and the rest
naturally follow:
(Flourish
of Music without)
Come, come, my merry Maidens,
don’t you hear the music? Quick,
quick, run, run, run.
(Exeunt
Susan and Figaro, with the Girls)
Count.
(To the
Page) Harkee, little
Rascal, begone, instantly; put
off your Petticoats, and don’t
stir out of your room the rest
of the day.—Take care, Sir, I
don’t meet you again.
Page.
(Putting
on his hat) No
matter—I bare away that upon my
forehead, which would compensate
for an age of imprisonment
(Exit
joyously).
Count.
(Looks at
the Countess, who recollects the
kiss she had just given the Page)
His forehead! What is it he
bears away so triumphantly upon
his forehead?
Countess.
(Embarrassed)
A—His Officer’s hat, I suppose.
Every new Bauble pleases a
Child.
(Going.)
Count.
The Procession is coming, will
not your Ladyship stay and be a
witness of your Favourite’s
happiness?
Countess.
As your Lordship pleases.
(Enter
the Procession of the two
Weddings. A March is played;
Doctor Bartholo and Marcelina
are preceded by Cryer of the
Court, Guards, Double-fee,
Counsellors, Don Guzman; after
them come Antonio, Figaro, and
Susan, followed by the Bridesmen
and Maids, and a troop of
Dancers. They all salute the
Count and Countess as they pass;
and after making the tour of the
stage, Antonio presents his
Niece to the Count; Susan
kneels, one of the Bridemaids
gives the Count the nuptial Cap;
and Susan, while the Count is
placing it on her head, plucks
him by the cloak, and shews him
the Note she had just before
written. He pretends to keep
adjusting the Cap, and slily
reaches to take the Note, which
he instantly claps in his bosom,
having previously unbuttoned
himself for that purpose. While
this is transacting a
Castanet-Dance is performed. As
soon as Susan rises, she
purposely places herself before
the Countess, to encourage the
Count to read the Note, who
accordingly steps forward, is
going to open it, and pricks his
finger with the Pin, which he
plucks out and throws angrily on
the floor.)
Count.
These Women and their curst
Pins.
Figaro.
(Aside to
his Mother laughing)
The Count has received a
Billet-doux from some pretty
Girl, sealed with a Pin! This is
a new fashion, which he does not
seem to admire.
(The
Count reads the Note, is
exceedingly pleased, folds it up
again, and reads on the outside,
“Return the Seal,”
hepretends to walk carelessly
about the stage, but is all the
while looking earnestly for the
pin he had thrown away, which he
at lost finds, picks up and
sticks upon his Sleeve.)
Figaro.
(To his
Mother) Every thing
is precious that appertains to a
beloved object.—He picks up the
very Pin, you see.
(All this
while Susan and the Countess
remark who is passing with
laughter, and private looks and
gestures.)
Countess.
(Rising)
Come with me, Susan. We shall
soon be back, my Lord,
(Aside to
Susan) Let us make
haste and exchange dresses.
(Exeunt
Countess and Susan.
Crier.
“Guards! Guards!—This way,
Guards! (Places
the Guards at the door, runs up
to the Count) My
Lord, here’s Mr. Basil coming,
my Lord, with the whole Village
at his heels, because he has
been singing all the way he
went.
Figaro.
“Orpheus and the Brutes. But
I’ll make him change his Tune.
Enter
BASIL singing, followed by
BOUNCE.
Count.
So, Mr. Basil, what is your will
and pleasure?
Basil.
“After having fulfilled your
Lordship’s commands, by amusing
this honest Gentleman—
Bounce.
“Me, my Lord? I assure your
Lordship he has not amused me in
the least.
Basil.
“I now return to enforce my
claims on Marcelina.
Figaro.
“Look you, Sir—Should you
venture but to cast one look, or
approach one step nearer that
Lady—
Doctor.
“Let him speak, Figaro, let him
speak.
Guzman.
“Oh f-f-fie!—What f-f-friends!—
Figaro.
“I disclaim such friendship.
Basil.
“And I—Error in Judgment, Mr.
President.
Figaro.
“He!—A Street-corner
Ballad-Bawler!
Basil.
“As good, at least, as a
Barber-Surgeon!
Figaro.
“Who hashes up a dinner out of
Horse-hair and Catgut!
Basil.
“Who has hungrily devoured
Razors and Hones, and fed half
his life upon Froth!
(Imitates
beating up a Lather.)
Figaro.
“The high Priest of Pimps!
Basil.
“The vile Drudge of Intrigue!
Figaro.
“Execrated by those he serves!
Basil.
“Gulled by his own Cunning!
Figaro.
“So great a Fool, Knavery itself
cannot make him thrive!
Basil.
“So stupid, he never yet could
invent a probable Lie!
Doctor.}
“Hold, hold.
Guzman.}
“Hold, hold.
Figaro.
“A Pedantic!
Basil.
“Pert!
Figaro.
“Preposterous!
Basil.
“Pragmatical!
Figaro.
“Braying!
Basil.
“Lop-eared!
Figaro.
“Ass!
Count.
“How now!—Is this all the
Respect you shew?—
Basil.
“You hear, my Lord, how he
insults me! When, it is well
known, there is not, in all
Andalusia, a more eminent!—
Figaro.
“Empty!
Basil.
“Able!
Figaro.
“Abject!
Basil.
“Musician!
Figaro.
“Miscreant!
Basil.
“Is this to be borne?
Figero.
“Whose countenance prophecies of
Pillories, Scaffolds, and the
stretching of Hemp; and whose
whole appearance is a continual
Memento of public Calamity,
Plague, Pestilence, and
Famine;—A Misericordia,
Sackcloth-and-ashes Knave;—A
Scape Goat, that looks like a
Jew in the yellow Jaundice.
(Doctor
Bartholo and Don Guzman prevent
Basil from falling upon Figaro.)
Count.
“Do you think this proper, Mr.
Figaro?
Figaro.
“Why not, my Lord?—Let him
listen to Truth, since he is too
Poor to pay Parasites and Liars.
Count.
“Silence, Sir!—Let us hear, Mr.
Basil, what you have to say.
Basil.
“(Composing
himself) I demand the
hand of Marcelina, my Lord, who
promised to marry me.
Marcelina.
“On what condition was this
promise made?
Basil.
“That I should adopt your lost
Son, if ever you should be happy
enough to find him.
Marcelina.
“Well.
Doctor.
“He is found.
Basil.
“Where is he?
Doctor.
“Here he stands.
(Pointing
to Figaro).
Guzman.
“The-e-e-ere he stands.
Basil.
“He!—Oh, my curst Stars!
Guzman.
“Do you re-e-nounce your
pre-e-tentions to his de-e-ear
Mother?
Basil.
“Renounce!—As I would renounce
the Devil and all his Works.
Figaro.
“What! Renounce your best
Friend?—But that’s like your
Rogue’s tricks.
Basil.
“I will not live under the same
roof with him—I would rather
even quit the service of my
Lord.
Figaro.
“Don’t be uneasy, I shan’t
trouble you long—Restored to my
Parents, and married to my
Susan, I shall retire and live
in Peace.
Count.
“(Aside)
And I shall retire to meet my
Mistress.
Guzman.
“So every body is sa-a-tisfied.”
Count.
Let the marriage Contracts be
prepared, and I will sign them.
Figaro.
Thanks, gracious Lord.
Bounce.
And I will go and prepare the
Fireworks in the Garden, near
the Pavilion.
Count.
(Returning)
Who, pray Sir, gave you those
Orders?—The Countess is too much
indisposed to come out; let
them, therefore, be played off
in front of the Castle, facing
her Windows—(Aside)—The
Rascal was going to set fire to
my Place of Rendezvous!
(Exeunt).
Manent
FIGARO and MARCELINA.
Figaro.
How attentive he is to his Wife.
Marcelina.
“It is necessary”—My dear
Figaro, “I should undeceive thee
respecting my former false
accusations of Susan—Basil has
always told me she obstinately
refused to listen to the Count’s
Overtures, and” I am both sorry
and ashamed to have excited thy
Jealousy.
Figaro.
Oh, be under no apprehensions,
my dear Mother; Jealousy is the
foolish Child of Pride, the
Disease of a Madman—My
Philosophy is invulnerable to
its poisonous Arrows.
(Figaro
turns and sees Agnes just behind
him, coming down the Stage).—So!
What you have been listening, my
little inquisitive Cousin?
Agnes.
Oh, no; they tell me that is not
polite.
Figaro.
Then what’s your errand?—He is
not here.
Agnes.
Who?
Figaro.
Hannibal.
Agnes.
Oh, I know that very well—I know
where he is—I want my Cousin
Susan.
Figaro.
Aye!—And what do you want with
her?
Agnes.
Not much; only to give her a
Pin.
Figaro.
(Starts)
A Pin! (Striding
about in great anger)
A Pin!—And how dare you, you
little Hussey, undertake such
Messages?—What! Have you learnt
your trade already?—(Marcelina
makes a sign to Figaro, who
recollects himself, and
endeavours to disguise his
feelings)—Come, come,
my pretty Cousin, don’t be
frighten’d, I was but in
joke—I—I—I know all about it;
its a Pin that my Lord has sent
by you to Susan.
Agnes.
Since you know so well, why need
you ask me then?
Figaro.
(Coaxing)
Only to hear what my Lord said
when he sent thee on this
errand.
Agnes.
Here, said he, here, my pretty
little Agnes, take this Pin to
thy Cousin Susan, and tell her
it is the Seal of the new Song
about the Twilight and the
Pavilion.
Figaro.
And the—
Agnes.
The Pavilion—And take great
care, said he, that nobody sees
thee.
Figaro.
Well, well, I was but joking; go
and execute thy Message
faithfully, exactly as my Lord
bade thee.
Agnes.
Law! My Cousin takes me for a
Ninny, I believe.
(Exit
skipping).
Figaro.
So, my Mother!
Marcelina.
So, my Son!
Figaro.
Here’s a sweet Daughter!—A
delightful Bride!—And will be a
most virtuous Wife!—(Walking
up and down with great agitation)—A
false—Deceitful—I’m happy,
however, I have found her out—I
will detect, expose, and abandon
her!
Marcelina.
Nay, but gently, my Son, gently;
recollect that Jealousy is the
disease of a Madman, and that
your Philosophy is
invulnerable.—Fie! fie!—All this
passion about a Pin!
Figaro.
A Pin that has wounded me to the
heart!—Didn’t we see the Count
pick it up?
Marcelina.
We did so; but how can we tell
whether she means to deceive
thee or him?—Art thou sure she
will go to the Rendezvous; and
wilt thou condemn her without
hearing her?
Figaro.
I am sorry—I am a Fool—And
yet!—If she should be false!
Marcelina.
Nay, but my dear Figaro—
Figaro.
Well, well; I will be calm—Yes,
my amorous Count, you will at
least meet with somebody you
don’t expect—If you do not make
haste we shall be at the
Pavilion as soon as your
Lordship! (Exeunt).
The End of ACT IV.
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ACT V.
SCENE,
the Garden,
With
walks of cut trees in the back
ground, and two Pavilions, one
on each side of the stage.
Enter
AGNES. (A lanthorn in one
hand, and two cakes and an
orange in the other)
THE Pavilion to the left? Ay,
that’s it.—But if he should not
come soon!—He has not half
learnt me my part yet—Poor
thing, he hasn’t eat any thing
all day; and the cross,
good-for-nothing Cook would not
give me a morsel for him; so I
was obliged to ask the Butler
for these Cakes and this
Orange:—It cost me a good kiss
on the cheek, but I know who’ll
repay—Oh dear, here’s somebody
coming!—
Enter
FIGARO, disguised in a red
Rocquelaure; Doctor
Bartholo, Don Guzman, Basil,
Antonio. Figaro imagines at
first Agnes to be Susan; and, as
it is too dark to see,
endeavours to follow the sound
of her voice, having entered
while she was speaking. Agnes
enters the Pavilion on the left.
Figaro.
I was mistaken, ’tis Agnes!
(They all
grope down the stage till they
get round Figaro)
What a clock is it?
Antonio.
Almost near the moon’s rising.
Bosil.
What a gloomy night.
Doctor.
We look like so many
Conspirators.
Figaro.
You understand, Gentlemen, why
you are come hither—It is to be
Witnesses of the Conduct of the
virtuous Bride I am soon to
espouse, and the honourable Lord
who has graciously bestowed her
upon me.
Basil.
(Aside)
This will be a precious Revenge.
Doctor.
Remember, Figaro, a wife Man has
never any Contest with the
Great; it is the Battle of Don
Quixote with the Windmills; they
whirl and dash you to a
Distance, without once altering
or retarding their Course.
Figaro.
Rather remember they have not
courage to oppress any but
Cowards.
Doctor.
He’s mad.
Guzman.
Ye-e-es, he is ma-a-ad.
Antonio.
But what about?
Basil.
A certain Rendezvous;—Come this
way, and I’ll tell you the
whole.
Figaro.
Hide yourselves hereabouts, and
come running the Moment you hear
me call.
Doctor.
He is turning Fool.
Guzman.
Ye-e-es, he’s turning
foo-oo-ool—Stay and take ca-are
of him,
(Exeunt.
Manent
Figaro and Doctor.
Figaro.
“Oh Woman, Woman, Woman!
Inconstant, weak, deceitful
Woman!—But each Animal is
obliged to follow the instinct
of its Nature; and it is thine
to betray!—What, after swearing
this very Morning to remain for
ever Faithful; and on the
identical Day! The bridal Day!—
Doctor.
“Patience.
Figaro.
“I even saw her laugh with
Delight, while he read her
Billet!—They think themselves
secure, but perhaps they yet may
be deceived.”—No, my very worthy
Lord and Master, you have not
got her yet—What! Because you
are a great Man, you fancy
yourself a great Genius.—“Which
way?—How came you to be the rich
and mighty Count Almaviva? Why
truly, you gave yourself the
Trouble to be born! While the
obscurity in which I have been
cast demanded more Abilities to
gain a mere Subsistence than are
requisite to govern Empires. And
what, most noble Count, are your
Claims to Distinction, to
pompous Titles, and immense
Wealth, of which you are so
proud, and which, by Accident,
you possess? For which of your
Virtues? Your Wisdom? Your
Generosity? Your Justice?—The
Wisdom you have acquired
consists in vile Arts, to
gratify vile Passions; your
Generosity is lavished on your
hireling Instruments, but whose
Necessities make them far less
Contemptible than yourself; and
your Justice is the inveterate
Persecution of those who who
have the Will and the Wit to
resist your Depredations.” But
this has ever been the Practice
of the little Great;
those they cannot degrade, they
endeavour to crush.
Doctor.
Be advised, Figaro—be calm—there
has ever been a Respect paid—
Figaro.
To Vice—where it is not
due.—Shame light on them that
pay it.
Doctor.
Consider, he is—
Figaro.
A Lord—and I am—a Man!—Yes, I am
a Man, but the nocturnal Spells
of that enchantress Woman, soon
shall make me a Monster. “Why,
what an Ass am I!—Acting here
the idiot part of a
(Strikes
his forehead)—a—Husband—Altho’
I am but half finished.”
(Agnes
peeps out of the Pavilion, and
approaches a little way to
listen.)
Agnes.
Is that Hannibal?
Doctor.
I hear somebody!
(Agnes
hears the voice of the Doctor,
and runs in again) I
will retire, but if you are
wise, you will wait the Event
patiently; your suspicions may
be unjust,—should they prove
real, then shake her from you,
as her Ingratitude deserves.
(Exit.
Figaro.
“Oh, how easy it is for the
prayer mumbling Priest to bid
the Wretch on the Rack suffer
patiently.
(Figaro listens) I
hear nothing—all is silent—and
dark as their designs.
(Figaro
pulls off his Roquelaure, and
throws it on a Garden-bench)
Why, what a Destiny is mine—Am I
for ever doom’d to be the
foot-ball of Fortune?—Son of I
knew not who, stol’n I knew not
how, and brought up to I knew
not what, lying and thieving
excepted, I had the sense, tho’
young, to despise a life so
base, and fled such infernal
Tutors. My Genius, tho’ cramp’d,
could not be totally subdued,
and I spent what little time and
money I could spare in Books and
Study. Alas! it was but time and
money thrown away. Desolate in
the world, unfriended,
unprotected, my poor stock of
knowledge not being whip’d into
me by the masculine hic hęc hoc
hand of a School-master, I could
not get Bread, much less
Preserment.—Disheartened by the
failure of all my projects, I
yet had the audacity to attempt
a Comedy, but as I had the still
greater audacity to attack the
favorite Vice of the favorite
Mistress, of the favorite
Footman of the favorite
Minister, I could not get it
licensed.—It happened about that
time, that the fashionable
Question of the day was an
enquiry into the real and
imaginary Wealth of Nations;
and, as it is not necessary to
possess the thing you write
about, I, with lank Cheeks,
pennnyless Purse, and all the
simplicity of a Boy, or a
Philosopher, freely described
the true causes of national
Poverty: when suddenly I was
awaken’d in my bed at Mid-night,
and entrusted to the tender care
of his Catholic Majesty’s
Mirmidons, whose Magic-power
caused the heavy gates of an old
Castle to fly open at my
approach, where I was graciously
received, lodged, and
ornamented, according to the
fashion of the place, and
provided with Straw, and Bread,
and Water gratis. My ardor for
Liberty sufficiently cool’d. I
was once more turned adrift into
the wide World, with leave to
provide Straw and Bread and
Water for myself.—On this my
second birth, I found all Madrid
in Raptures, concerning a most
generous Royal Edict, lately
published, in favor of the
Liberty of the Press: and I soon
learnt, that, provided I neither
spoke of the Wealth of Nations
in my writings, nor of the
Government, nor of Religion, nor
of any Corporate-Companies, nor
offended the favorite Mistress
of the Minister’s favorite
Footman, nor said any one thing
which could be twisted into a
reference, or hint, derogatory
to any one Individual, who had
more powerful friends than I
had, I was at liberty to write,
freely, all, and whatever I
pleased, under the inspection of
some two or three Censors!—Soon
after this, a Place happened to
be vacant, which required a
person well acquainted with
Calculation; I offered my
Services; my Abilities were not
questioned; I waited, in anxious
expectation of the Event, and,
in three days, learnt it had
been bestowed, two days before,
upon a
Dancing-master.—Persecuted by
Creditors, tired of starving,
and unable, through the
feebleness of Youth to sustain
so unequal a Struggle, I had the
weakness, at last, to sink
before Temptation, and set up a
Pharaoh Bank. And now, for once,
behold the Scene changed! See me
equally familiar with Lords as
with their Lacquies! Every door
was open to me! Every hand held
out! But, notwithstanding my
desire to be Something in this
world, my detestation of the
brazen Effrontery, profound
Ignorance, and insupportable
Insolence of these fashionable
Friends of Nobility was so
innate that I found I could
better endure all the Miseries
of Poverty than the Disgrace and
Disgust of such
Society.—Quitting, therefore,
with contempt this new Trade,
and leaving false Shame behind
me, as a burthen too heavy for a
Foot-passenger, I once more took
up my strap and hone, and
travelled for employment from
Town to Town.—At Seville I found
a Lord mad to marry his
Mistress; my Wit procured him
what his could not, a Wife; and,
in return, he gratefully
endeavours to Seduce
mine—Strange concatenation of
circumstance! My Parents all at
once claim me!—’Tis he, ’tis
she, ’tis me, ’tis—I don’t know
who!—I came into the world
without my Knowledge, and I
shall go out on’t without my
Will; and thus do I continue to
torment myself about this Being
of mine, without understanding
what this Being is, what it was,
what it shall be, whence it
came, where it is, or whither it
shall go.—I only know it to be a
compound of Contradictions! A
little, wise, foolish Animal,
ardent in the pursuit of
Pleasure, capricious through
Vanity, laborious from
Necessity, but indolent by
Choice. After having exhausted
every Art for enjoyment, and
every Profession for a
livelihood, I found myself
intoxicated by a heavenly
Illusion, that has vanish’d at
my approach!—Vanished!—And is it
vanish’d?”—Oh Susan! Susan!
(Figaro
sinks melancholy upon the
garden-seat; but being suddenly
roused by a noise, wraps himself
up in his Rocquelaure.
Enter
softly, in each other’s dress,
the COUNTESS and
SUSAN, followed by
MARCELINA.
Susan.
So Figaro is to be here.
(In an
under voice)
Marcelina.
He is here.
Susan.
Thus one is come to lay the
Springe, and the other to seize
the Game.
Marcelina.
I will go and hide myself in
this Pavilion, where I shall
hear all. (Exit
into the Pavilion on the left.)
Susan.
We may begin.
(Speaks
louder) If my Lady
does not want me, I will walk
and enjoy the fresh air.
Figaro.
Oh, the Cecatrice.
Countess.
It may give thee cold.
Susan.
Oh no, my Lady.
Figaro.
Oh no! She’ll not take cold
to-night. (Aside).
Susan retires a little
towards the Pavilion on the
left; Hannibal is heard singing,
and, as he enters, perceives the
Countess, in Susan’s dress.
Page.
Is that Agnes, yonder?
(He
approaches) By her
long Lappets and white Feathers,
it must be Susan.
(Comes up
and takes hold of the Countess’s
hand) Ah, my dear
Susan!
Countess.
Let me go. (In
a feigned voice.)
Page.
Come, Come; don’t be so coy. I
know it is not Figaro you are
waiting for, it is my Lord the
Count—What! Did not I hear, this
Morning, when I was behind the
great Chair?
Susan.
(Aside).
The babbling little Villain.
Enter the
COUNT behind, and hears the
Page.
Count.
Is not that somebody with
Susan?—(Advances
close up to them, and draws back
in a fury).—’Tis that
infernal Page again.
(Susan
keeps out of the way and
silently laughing.)
Page.
’Tis in vain to say no:—Since
thou art going to be the
Representative of the Countess,
I am determined to give the one
kiss for thyself, and a hundred
for thy beauteous Lady.
Susan.
(Aside).
“As impudent as a Page, says the
Proverb.”
(The
Countess draws back to avoid
being kissed by the Page, and
the Count advances and presents
himself in her place; the Page
feels the rough beard of the
Count, and suddenly retreats,
crying in an under voice)—Oh,
the Devil!—The Count again!
(Exit
Page into the Pavilion on the
left.)
(While
this passes, Figaro likewise
advances to drive the Page from
Susan; meanwhile the Count, on
the Page’s supposed next
approach, prepares to give him a
proper reception).
Count.
(Thinking
he speaks to the Page).
Since you are so fond of
kissing, take that.
(Gives
Figaro a severe box on the ear).
Figaro.
I have paid for listening.
(Susan
cannot contein herself, but
bursts out a laughing).
Count.
(Hears
her laugh). Why this
is inconceiveable!—Do such
Salutations make the impudent
Rascal laugh?
Figaro.
It would be strange if he should
cry this time.
(Aside).
(Count
and Countess approach).
Count.
But let us not lose the precious
moments, my charming Susan!—Let
these Kisses speak my ardour!
(Kisses
the Countess several times with
rapture).
Figaro.
(Aside,
and beating his forehead).
Oh! Oh! Oh!
Count.
Why dost thou tremble?
Countess.
(Cominuing
her feigned voice).
Because I am afraid.
Count.
Thou seemest to have got a cold.
(Takes
the Countess’s hand between his
own, and amorously strokes and
kisses her fingers).
What a sweet, delicate, Angel’s
hand!—How smooth and soft!—How
long and small the fingers!—What
pleasure in the touch!—Ah! How
different is this from the
Countess’s hand!—
Countess.
(Sighing).
And yet you loved her once.
Count.
Yes—Yes—I did so—But three Years
of better Acquaintance has made
the Marriage-state so
respectable—And then Wives are
so loving—when they do
love, that is—that one is
surprised when in search of
Pleasure, to find Satiety.
Countess.
Pleasure?—Love!
Count.
Oh, no; Love is but the Romance
of the Heart; Pleasure is its
History—As for thee, my dear
Susan, add but one grain more of
Caprice to thy Composition and
thou wilt make one of the most
enticing, teazing, agreeable
Mistresses.
Countess.
’Tis my Duty to oblige my Lord.
Figaro.
Her Duty!—
Count.
Yes—Women’s Duties are
unlimited—They owe all—Men
nothing.
Countess.
Nothing?
Count.
It is not our Faults; ’tis the
law of Nature—And then Wives
think to ensure our fidelity by
being always Wives—Whereas they
should sometimes become—
Cruntess.
What?
Count.
Our Mistresses—I hope thou wilt
not forget this Lesson.
Countess.
Oh no, indeed, not I.
Susan.
(Aloud).
Nor I.
Figaro.
(Aloud).
Nor I.
Count.
(Astonished).
Are there Echoes here?
Countess.
Oh, yes.
Count.
And now, my sweet Susan, receive
the Portion I promised thee.
(Gives a
purse and puts a ring upon her
finger)—And continue
likewise to wear this Ring for
my sake.
Countess.
Susan accepts your Favors.
Figaro.
(Aside).
Was there ever so faithless a
Hussey?
Susan.
(Aside).
These riches are all for us!
(Still
keeps chuckling very heartily at
what is going forwards.)
Countess.
I perceive Torches.
Count.
They are preparatory to thy
Nuptials. (the
Countess pretends to be afraid).
Come, come, let us retire for a
moment into the Pavilion.
Countess.
What! In the dark?
Count.
Why not? There are no Spirits.
Figaro.
(Aside).
Yes, but there are; and evil
ones too. (Countess
follows the Count).
She is going!—Hem!
(Figaro
hem’s in a great passion).
Count.
(Raising
his voice majesterially).
Who goes there!
Figaro.
A man.
Count.
(Aside to
the Countess). It’s
Figaro! (The
Countess enters the Pavilion on
the right hand and the Count
retires).
Figaro.
(Desperate).
They are gone in.
(Walks
about). Let her
go—Let her go!
Susan.
(Aside.)
Thou shalt pay presently for
these fine Suspicions.
(Susan
advances and mimics the voice of
the Countess). Who is
that?
Figaro.
’Tis the Countess
(Aside).—What
lucky Chance conducted you
hither, Madam—You know not what
Scenes are this moment
transacting.
Susan.
Oh yes, but I do, Figaro.
Figaro.
What! That the Count and my very
virtuous Bride are this moment
in yonder Pavilion Madam!
Susan.
(Aside).
Very well, my Gentleman!—I know
more than thou dost.
Figaro.
And will you not be revenged?
Susan.
Oh yes, we always have our
Revenge in our own power.
Figaro.
(Aside).
What does she mean?—Perhaps what
I suspect—Why that would be a
glorious Retaliation.—(To
Susan) There is no
Means but one, Madam, of
revenging such Wrongs; that now
presents itself.
Susan.
(Jealous)
What does the good-for-nothing
Fellow mean?
(Speaks in a tone of
compliance to Figaro).
Does it Figaro?
Figaro.
Pardon my Presumption, Madam! On
any other occasion, the Respect
I bear your Ladyship would keep
me silent, but on the present I
dare encounter all!
(Falls on
his knees). Oh,
excuse, forgive me, Madam; but
let not the precious moments
slip!—Grant me your hand.
Susan.
(Unable
any longer to contain herself
gives him a slap on the face).
Take it.
Figaro.
I have it, I think!—The Devil!
This is the Day of Stripes!
Susan.
Susan gives it thee
(as soon
as Figaro hears it is Susan, his
satisfaction is so extreme, he
laughs very heartily, and keeps
laughing all the while she keeps
beating him) and
that, and that, and that, and
that for thy Insolence—And that
for thy Jealousy—And that for
thy Infidelity
(Susan
out of breath, Figaro still
laughing.)
Figaro.
Oh happy Figaro—Take thy
Revenge, my dear, kind, good
Angel; Never did Man or Martyr
suffer with such Extacy!
Susan.
Don’t tell me of your Extacy!
How durst you, you good for
nothing, base, false-hearted
Man, make love to me, supposing
me the Countess.
Figaro.
I must bring myself off,
(aside)—Dost
think I could mistake the music
of my Susan’s Voice?
Susan.
What, you pretend you knew me
then?
Figaro.
Pretend! Canst thou doubt it?
Susan.
And this was a Trick upon
me!—But I’ll be revenged.
Figaro.
Talk not of Revenge, my Love,
but tell me what blest Angel
sent thee hither, and how thou
camest by this Disguise, which
so fully proves thy Innocence!
Susan.
“I could find in my Heart not to
tell thee; but know, to thy
Confusion, it is my Lady’s; and
that, coming to catch one Fox,
we have entrapped two!
Figaro.
“But who has taken the other?
Susan.
“His Wife.
Figaro.
“His Wife!—Go and hang thyself,
Figaro—Go and hang thyself, for
wanting the Wit to divine this
Plot!—And has all this
intriguing been about his Wife?
Susan.
“Yes, about his Wife.
Figaro.
(a little
suspicious) “But who
did the Page kiss?
Susan.
“The Count.
Figaro.
“The Count! Ha! ha! ha! that is
excellent, (Resuming
his gravity) But who
did the Count kiss?
Susan.
“The Countess.
Figaro.
“Ay, but who did he kiss this
Morning—behind the great Chair?
Susan.
(Gravely)
“Nobody.
Figaro.
“Art thou—quite sure?”
Susan.
(Holding
out her Hand) Dost
thou want another Proof?
Figaro.
Ah! Thine are but proofs of
Love—That of the Count, indeed,
was not so gentle.
Enter
COUNT behind.
Count.
’St—’st! Susan!—Susan!
Figaro.
(Aside to
Susan) A lucky
thought strikes me; prithee
second me, Susan,
(Speaks
in a feigned Voice, falls on his
Knees and kisses Susan’s Hand)—Ah
Madam! Let us not longer
converse of Love, but enjoy it’s
Treasures.
Gount.
What’s here! A Man on his Knees
to the Countess!—(Feels
for his Sword, they keep
silently laughing)
And I unarm’d!
Figaro.
(Acting
the Petit Maitre)
Upon my Honour, Madam, I could
not have supposed Timidity
should make you hesitate a
moment.
Count.
(Furiously)
So this is our Dressing-room
Gentleman, at last! I shall know
all at least, now—(Figaro
kisses her hand again.)
Oh Rage! Oh Hell!
Susan.
How delightfully he swears.
Figaro.
(Figaro
and Susan still inwardly
laughing) Quickly
then, Madam, let us repair the
wrong which Love this Morning
suffered at the impertinent
intrusion of your Lord.
Count.
This is not to be borne
(Darts
between them, seizes Figaro by
the Collar, while Susan escapes
into the Pavilion on the left.)
Figaro.
(Pretends
amazement) My Lord!
Count.
How! Rascal! And is it
you!—Hollo—Hollo—Who hears?
Enter
blundering in the dark, and in a
great hurry, the COURIER, who
had been to Seville after the
Page.
Courier.
Here!—Here!—Here am I, my Lord!
Just arrived from Seville! But
he is not there! I might as well
have sought for this Page in my
pocket! Here is the Packet
again.
Count.
Stand out of the way,
Rascal—Hollo!—Where are my
People? Lights! Lights!
Courier.
What’s my Lord afraid of? Is
there not Mr. Figaro and I?
Enter
Flambeaux, Don GUZMAN,
Dr. BARTHOLO, ANTONIO,
BASIL, and Servants.
Count.
(To the
Servants) Guard that
Door and some of you seize this
Fellow.
Figaro.
You command, with absolute
Authority, over all present, my
Lord, except yourself.
Count.
“The Villain’s impenetrable,
cool Impudence is intolerable.
Figaro.
“We are not Soldiers, that we
should kill one another without
Malice: for my part, I like to
know why I am angry.”
Count.
Be pleased, Sir, to declare,
before this Company, who
the—the—Woman is that just now
ran into that Pavilion.
Figaro.
Into that—(Going
to cross to the Pavilion on the
right.)
Count.
(Stopping
him) No,
prevaricating Fiend; into that.
(Pointing
to the other.)
Figaro.
Ah! That alters the Case.
Count.
Answer, or—
Figaro.
“The Lady that escaped into that
Pavilion?
Count.
“Ay, Demon, the Lady.
Figaro.
The Lady “that escaped into that
Pavilion,” is a young Lady to
whom my Lord once paid his
Addresses, but who, happening to
love me more than my Betters,
has this day yielded me the
Preference.
Count.
The Preference!—The
Preference!—he does not lie at
least.—Yes, Gentlemen, what he
confesses, I pledge my Honour I
just have heard from the very
mouth of his Accomplice!
Guzman.
His Accomplice!
Count.
Come forth, Madam!
(Enters
the Pavilion.)
Basil.
Which of these two has made
a—Gentleman of the other.
Figaro.
Perhaps neither.
Count.
(In the
Pavilion.) Come
forth, I say, shew yourself.
(Enter,
dragging out the PAGE,
still speaking and not looking
at him till he gets on a line
with the rest of the Company.)
Happily, Madam, there is no
Pledge of a Union, now so justly
detested.—
Omnes.
The Page!
Guzman.
(After
all the rest.) The
Pa-a-age!
Count.
Again! And again! And
everlastingly this damn’d,
diabolical Page.
(Page
flies to the other side of the
stage.) You shall
find, however, he was not alone.
Page.
Ah, no! My lot would have been
hard indeed then.
Count.
Enter Antonio, and drag the
guilty Thing before her Judge.
Antonio.
(In the
Pavilion.) Come,
Madam, you must come out; I must
not let you go since my Lord
knows you are here.
Enter
with his Daughter, AGNES.
Omnes.
Agnes!
Guzman.
A-A-Agnes!
Antonio.
Odzooks, my Lord, its a pleasant
Trick, enough, to send me in,
before all these good Folks, for
my Daughter.
Count.
I’ll find her, I warrant.
(Going.)
Doctor.
(Stopping
the Count.) Pardon
me, my Lord, but you are too
angry at present; let me go.
(Exit
Doctor to the Pavilion.)
Guzman.
This Cause is very perplex’d.
Doctor.
(Entering
with Marcelina.) Fear
nothing, Madam, fear nothing.
Omnes.
Marcelina!
Figaro.
My Mother too! Ha! ha! ha! ha!
ha!
Count.
Where then is this Daughter of
Infamy who thus evades my just
Fury?
Enter
SUSAN, with her Fan before
her face.
Here she comes, at last; bearing
her own Shame and my Dishonour.
(Susan
kneels to him, still hiding her
Face.)
Omnes.
Pardon, pardon, gracious Lord!
Count.
No! No! No!
(They all fall on their
knees.) No! No! Were
the World to kneel I would be
deaf.
Enter the
COUNTESS from the Pavilion on
the right, and kneels to the
Count, whose back is turned to
her.
Countess.
At least I will make one of the
Number. (Susan
drops her fan, the Count hears
the voice of the Countess, looks
round, and suddenly conceives
the whole Trick they have been
playing him. All the Company
burst into a laugh: the Count’s
shame, confusion, &c.)
Guzman.
(Laughing
stupidly) Ha! ha! ha!
ha! ’Tis the Countess!
Count.
(With
great humility.)
And—is it you my Lady?
Countess.
(Inclines
her body in token of
Affirmation.)
Count.
(Returning
her bow with great confusion.)
Ah!—Yes!—Yes! A generous
pardon—tho’ unmerited.—
Countess.
Were you in my place, you would
exclaim, No! No! No! But I grant
it without a single Stipulation.
Susan.
And I.
Figaro.
And I.—There are Echoes here.
Count.
(Surprised)
I perceive—I perceive—I have
been rightly served.
Countess.
Here, Susan, here is the Purse
and Ring, which my Lord gave
thee. He will remember thy sweet
delicate Fingers, so long and so
small.
Susan.
Thank your Lordship—Here Figaro.
(Gives
him the Purse.
Figaro.
It was devilish hard to get at—
Count.
(To Susan)
And the Letter you wrote—
Susan.
Was dictated by my Lady.
Count.
(Smiling
good naturedly.)
Well, well! I am an Answer in
her Debt.
Figaro.
Thus every Man shall have his
own.
Bounce.
And shall we throw the Stocking?
Countess.
There is the Garter.
(Throws
down the Riband Hannibal had
stolen in the Morning; Bounce is
going to stoop for it, and the
Page pushes him back.)
Page.
This is my Right, and if any one
dare dispute it with me—
Count.
Indeed! Mr. Officer—So bold a
Champion already!—Pray how did
your Valour like the Box on the
Ear I gave you just now?
Page.
(With his
Hand to his Sword)
Me! My Colonel?
Figaro.
Which I kindly received.
Count.
Thou!
Figaro.
I—And thus do the Great
distribute Justice.
Count.
(laughing)
Well, Mr. President,
(Don
Guzman instantly calls up all
his Wisdom on finding himself
addressed) what do
you think of all these things?
Guzman.
Thi-ink, my Lord?
(Considers)
I—I think that—I do-o-on’t know
what to think.
Figaro.
I think, a few such Days as this
would form an excellent
Ambassador—But lately I was a
poor, deserted, solitary Being,
in this wide World, and now I
have Gold, Relations, and a
handsome Wife—
Doctor.
And Friends will flock in
abundance.
Figaro.
Do you think so?
Doctor.
Oh I know so.
Figaro.
Well, let them, they shall be
welcome to all I have—My Wife
and my Wealth excepted.
Susan.
Our Errors past, and all our
Follies done, Oh! That ’twere
possible you might be won To
pardon Faults, and Misdemeanors
smother, With the same ease we
pardon One-another! So should we
rest, To-night, devoid of
Sorrow, And hope to meet you,
joyously, To-morrow.
THE END.
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