The Way of the World
WIT. Petulant’s an enemy to learning; he relies altogether on his parts.
PET. No, I’m no enemy to learning; it hurts not me.
MRS. MAR. That’s a sign, indeed, it’s no enemy to you.
PET. No, no, it’s no enemy to anybody but them that have it.
MILLA. Well, an illiterate man’s my aversion; I wonder at the impudence
of any illiterate man to offer to make love.
WIT. That I confess I wonder at, too.
MILLA. Ah, to marry an ignorant that can hardly read or write!
PET. Why should a man be any further from being married, though he can’t
read, than he is from being hanged? The ordinary’s paid for setting the
psalm, and the parish priest for reading the ceremony. And for the rest
which is to follow in both cases, a man may do it without book. So all’s
one for that.
MILLA. D’ye hear the creature? Lord, here’s company; I’ll begone.
SCENE XIV.
SIR WILFULL WITWOUD _in a riding dress_, MRS. MARWOOD, PETULANT, WITWOUD,
FOOTMAN.
WIT. In the name of Bartlemew and his Fair, what have we here?
MRS. MAR. ’Tis your brother, I fancy. Don’t you know him?
WIT. Not I:—yes, I think it is he. I’ve almost forgot him; I have not
seen him since the revolution.
FOOT. Sir, my lady’s dressing. Here’s company, if you please to walk
in, in the meantime.
SIR WIL. Dressing! What, it’s but morning here, I warrant, with you in
London; we should count it towards afternoon in our parts down in
Shropshire:—why, then, belike my aunt han’t dined yet. Ha, friend?
FOOT. Your aunt, sir?
SIR WIL. My aunt, sir? Yes my aunt, sir, and your lady, sir; your lady
is my aunt, sir. Why, what dost thou not know me, friend? Why, then,
send somebody hither that does. How long hast thou lived with thy lady,
fellow, ha?
FOOT. A week, sir; longer than anybody in the house, except my lady’s
woman.
SIR WIL. Why, then, belike thou dost not know thy lady, if thou seest
her. Ha, friend?
FOOT. Why, truly, sir, I cannot safely swear to her face in a morning,
before she is dressed. ’Tis like I may give a shrewd guess at her by
this time.
SIR WIL. Well, prithee try what thou canst do; if thou canst not guess,
enquire her out, dost hear, fellow? And tell her her nephew, Sir Wilfull
Witwoud, is in the house.
FOOT. I shall, sir.
SIR WIL. Hold ye, hear me, friend, a word with you in your ear: prithee
who are these gallants?
FOOT. Really, sir, I can’t tell; here come so many here, ’tis hard to
know ’em all.
SCENE XV.
SIR WILFULL WITWOUD, PETULANT, WITWOUD, MRS. MARWOOD.
SIR WIL. Oons, this fellow knows less than a starling: I don’t think a
knows his own name.
MRS. MAR. Mr. Witwoud, your brother is not behindhand in forgetfulness.
I fancy he has forgot you too.
WIT. I hope so. The devil take him that remembers first, I say.
SIR WIL. Save you, gentlemen and lady.
MRS. MAR. For shame, Mr. Witwoud; why won’t you speak to him?—And you,
sir.
WIT. Petulant, speak.
PET. And you, sir.
SIR WIL. No offence, I hope? [_Salutes_ MARWOOD.]
MRS. MAR. No, sure, sir.
WIT. This is a vile dog, I see that already. No offence? Ha, ha, ha.
To him, to him, Petulant, smoke him.
PET. It seems as if you had come a journey, sir; hem, hem. [_Surveying
him round_.]
SIR WIL. Very likely, sir, that it may seem so.
PET. No offence, I hope, sir?
WIT. Smoke the boots, the boots, Petulant, the boots; ha, ha, ha!
SIR WILL. Maybe not, sir; thereafter as ’tis meant, sir.
PET. Sir, I presume upon the information of your boots.
SIR WIL. Why, ’tis like you may, sir: if you are not satisfied with the
information of my boots, sir, if you will step to the stable, you may
enquire further of my horse, sir.
PET. Your horse, sir! Your horse is an ass, sir!
SIR WIL. Do you speak by way of offence, sir?
MRS. MAR. The gentleman’s merry, that’s all, sir. ’Slife, we shall have
a quarrel betwixt an horse and an ass, before they find one another
out.—You must not take anything amiss from your friends, sir. You are
among your friends here, though it—may be you don’t know it. If I am not
mistaken, you are Sir Wilfull Witwoud?
SIR WIL. Right, lady; I am Sir Wilfull Witwoud, so I write myself; no
offence to anybody, I hope? and nephew to the Lady Wishfort of this
mansion.
MRS. MAR. Don’t you know this gentleman, sir?
SIR WIL. Hum! What, sure ’tis not—yea by’r lady but ’tis—’sheart, I
know not whether ’tis or no. Yea, but ’tis, by the Wrekin. Brother
Antony! What, Tony, i’faith! What, dost thou not know me? By’r lady,
nor I thee, thou art so becravated and so beperiwigged. ’Sheart, why
dost not speak? Art thou o’erjoyed?
WIT. Odso, brother, is it you? Your servant, brother.
SIR WIL. Your servant? Why, yours, sir. Your servant again—’sheart,
and your friend and servant to that—and a—[_puff_] and a flap-dragon for
your service, sir, and a hare’s foot and a hare’s scut for your service,
sir, an you be so cold and so courtly!
WIT. No offence, I hope, brother?
SIR WIL. ’Sheart, sir, but there is, and much offence. A pox, is this
your inns o’ court breeding, not to know your friends and your relations,
your elders, and your betters?
WIT. Why, brother Wilfull of Salop, you may be as short as a Shrewsbury
cake, if you please. But I tell you ’tis not modish to know relations in
town. You think you’re in the country, where great lubberly brothers
slabber and kiss one another when they meet, like a call of sergeants.
’Tis not the fashion here; ’tis not, indeed, dear brother.
SIR WIL. The fashion’s a fool and you’re a fop, dear brother. ’Sheart,
I’ve suspected this—by’r lady I conjectured you were a fop, since you
began to change the style of your letters, and write in a scrap of paper
gilt round the edges, no bigger than a subpoena. I might expect this
when you left off ‘Honoured brother,’ and ‘Hoping you are in good
health,’ and so forth, to begin with a ‘Rat me, knight, I’m so sick of a
last night’s debauch.’ Ods heart, and then tell a familiar tale of a
cock and a bull, and a whore and a bottle, and so conclude. You could
write news before you were out of your time, when you lived with honest
Pumple-Nose, the attorney of Furnival’s Inn. You could intreat to be
remembered then to your friends round the Wrekin. We could have Gazettes
then, and Dawks’s Letter, and the Weekly Bill, till of late days.
PET. ’Slife, Witwoud, were you ever an attorney’s clerk? Of the family
of the Furnivals? Ha, ha, ha!
WIT. Ay, ay, but that was but for a while. Not long, not long; pshaw, I
was not in my own power then. An orphan, and this fellow was my
guardian; ay, ay, I was glad to consent to that man to come to London.
He had the disposal of me then. If I had not agreed to that, I might
have been bound prentice to a feltmaker in Shrewsbury: this fellow would
have bound me to a maker of felts.
SIR WIL. ’Sheart, and better than to be bound to a maker of fops, where,
I suppose, you have served your time, and now you may set up for
yourself.
MRS. MAR. You intend to travel, sir, as I’m informed?
SIR WIL. Belike I may, madam. I may chance to sail upon the salt seas,
if my mind hold.
PET. And the wind serve.
SIR WIL. Serve or not serve, I shan’t ask license of you, sir, nor the
weathercock your companion. I direct my discourse to the lady, sir.
’Tis like my aunt may have told you, madam? Yes, I have settled my
concerns, I may say now, and am minded to see foreign parts. If an how
that the peace holds, whereby, that is, taxes abate.
MRS. MAR. I thought you had designed for France at all adventures.
SIR WIL. I can’t tell that; ’tis like I may, and ’tis like I may not. I
am somewhat dainty in making a resolution, because when I make it I keep
it. I don’t stand shill I, shall I, then; if I say’t, I’ll do’t. But I
have thoughts to tarry a small matter in town, to learn somewhat of your
lingo first, before I cross the seas. I’d gladly have a spice of your
French as they say, whereby to hold discourse in foreign countries.
MRS. MAR. Here’s an academy in town for that use.
SIR WIL. There is? ’Tis like there may.
MRS. MAR. No doubt you will return very much improved.
WIT. Yes, refined like a Dutch skipper from a whale-fishing.
SCENE XVI.
[_To them_] LADY WISHFORT _and_ FAINALL.
LADY. Nephew, you are welcome.
SIR WIL. Aunt, your servant.
FAIN. Sir Wilfull, your most faithful servant.
SIR WIL. Cousin Fainall, give me your hand.
LADY. Cousin Witwoud, your servant; Mr. Petulant, your servant. Nephew,
you are welcome again. Will you drink anything after your journey,
nephew, before you eat? Dinner’s almost ready.
SIR WIL. I’m very well, I thank you, aunt. However, I thank you for
your courteous offer. ’Sheart, I was afraid you would have been in the
fashion too, and have remembered to have forgot your relations. Here’s
your cousin Tony, belike, I mayn’t call him brother for fear of offence.
LADY. Oh, he’s a rallier, nephew. My cousin’s a wit: and your great
wits always rally their best friends to choose. When you have been
abroad, nephew, you’ll understand raillery better. [FAINALL _and_ MRS.
MARWOOD _talk apart_.]
SIR WIL. Why, then, let him hold his tongue in the meantime, and rail
when that day comes.
SCENE XVII.
[_To them_] MINCING.
MINC. Mem, I come to acquaint your laship that dinner is impatient.
SIR WIL. Impatient? Why, then, belike it won’t stay till I pull off my
boots. Sweetheart, can you help me to a pair of slippers? My man’s with
his horses, I warrant.
LADY. Fie, fie, nephew, you would not pull off your boots here? Go down
into the hall:—dinner shall stay for you. My nephew’s a little unbred:
you’ll pardon him, madam. Gentlemen, will you walk? Marwood?
MRS. MAR. I’ll follow you, madam,—before Sir Wilfull is ready.
SCENE XVIII.
MRS. MARWOOD, FAINALL.
FAIN. Why, then, Foible’s a bawd, an errant, rank match-making bawd.
And I, it seems, am a husband, a rank husband, and my wife a very errant,
rank wife,—all in the way of the world. ’Sdeath, to be a cuckold by
anticipation, a cuckold in embryo! Sure I was born with budding antlers
like a young satyr, or a citizen’s child, ’sdeath, to be out-witted, to
be out-jilted, out-matrimonied. If I had kept my speed like a stag,
’twere somewhat, but to crawl after, with my horns like a snail, and be
outstripped by my wife—’tis scurvy wedlock.
MRS. MAR. Then shake it off: you have often wished for an opportunity to
part, and now you have it. But first prevent their plot:—the half of
Millamant’s fortune is too considerable to be parted with to a foe, to
Mirabell.
FAIN. Damn him, that had been mine—had you not made that fond discovery.
That had been forfeited, had they been married. My wife had added lustre
to my horns by that increase of fortune: I could have worn ’em tipt with
gold, though my forehead had been furnished like a deputy-lieutenant’s
hall.
MRS. MAR. They may prove a cap of maintenance to you still, if you can
away with your wife. And she’s no worse than when you had her:—I dare
swear she had given up her game before she was married.
FAIN. Hum! That may be—
MRS. MAR. You married her to keep you; and if you can contrive to have
her keep you better than you expected, why should you not keep her longer
than you intended?
FAIN. The means, the means?
MRS. MAR. Discover to my lady your wife’s conduct; threaten to part with
her. My lady loves her, and will come to any composition to save her
reputation. Take the opportunity of breaking it just upon the discovery