Chapter 64

(_A Chamber._) Epilogue.

Notes to _The Dutch Lover_

217 ARGUMENT.

Roderigo—the natural son of the great Count d’ Olivarez, minister to Philip IV of Spain—was, upon his father’s disgrace, given over when very young to the care of a certain Don Ambrosio, and by him brought up as his own child. Ambrosio has one son, Marcel, and two daughters, Hippolita and Cleonte. Marcel, whilst in Flanders, promised Hippolita to his friend Alonzo. This Alonzo is the son of a lady Octavia and Don Manuel. But Manuel’s rival in Octavia’s love, Alonzo, stole their boy when an infant and brought him up to arms, giving him his own name. Pedro, an old servant, who is cognizant of this, is sworn to secrecy. Alonzo arrives in Madrid purposing to wed Hippolita as he desires to ally himself with so ancient and powerful a family as Ambrosio’s. Hippolita, however, having been betrayed by a German named Antonio, has fled, and now resides in a house of pleasure in the town, having assumed the habit of a Venetian courtezan. Alonzo meeting Euphemia, sister to his friend Lovis, becomes enamoured of her, and the lady grants him a rendezvous at a house where they will be uninterrupted—it happens this house is the bagnio where Hippolita is secreted. Marcel, on his way to visit Clarinda, whom he loves, recognizes Alonzo and follows him to his rendezvous, Olinda, Euphemia’s maid, mistakenly introduces Marcel to her mistress. Euphemia is veiled and Marcel, who has heard that his sister is living in that house, in his turn mistakes the lady for Hippolita, more especially as he meets Antonio there. The two men fight, but Alonzo entering interferes. Antonio escapes, bearing away Hippolita. Euphemia, whom Marcel in a passion of revenge would kill, is soon discovered not to be Hippolita, and the angry brother duly retires from the scene. Alonzo, however, leaving the house is accosted for Marcel by Dormida, Clarinda’s maid, who gives him the key to their house. Alonzo enters followed by Marcel who is close on his heels. They jostle and fight in the darkness of the hall within, and Alonzo departs leaving Marcel wounded. Dormida fearing trouble drags Clarinda forth and meeting Alonzo in the street they throw themselves on his honourable protection. A complete stranger, in his dilemma he escorts them to the mansion of Ambrosio, and they chance on Cleonte’s chamber. She has just had a visit from Silvio (under which name Roderigo passes), who is burning with passion for her but shrinks from his supposed sister. Cleonte offers the two ladies a refuge and Alonzo retires. With the aid of his friend Lovis he assumes the habit of Haunce van Ezel, a Dutch boor who is contracted to Euphemia, and, as Haunce, courts Lovis’ sister with the full approbation of their father Don Carlo. When Haunce himself appears he is greeted with some familiarity as having been at the house before. The Dutch Lover, who has newly arrived, chances on a strife between Antonio and Hippolita and interfering disarms Antonio, wounding him in the face. Cleonte meantime has introduced her guest Clarinda to Silvio, and Marcel seeing them together concludes that his own brother is the man who fought him on the previous night and indeed his favoured rival. At once he challenges him and they arrange to have a duel in a grove near the town. Here, however, comes Hippolita disguised in man’s attire, 218 awaiting Antonio to whom she has sent a billet signed ‘Alonzo’. She retires, whilst Silvio appears, and when he is engaged with Marcel, Alonzo rushes in and parts them. Alonzo avows that it was he who caused the confusion with Clarinda, and arranges to meet Marcel later in another spot. Antonio next arrives and Hippolita, calling herself Alonzo, draws, but Alonzo himself insists on taking up the quarrel. At the clash of steel Marcel returns and all four fight, Marcel with Hippolita, whom he wounds, Alonzo with Antonio, whom he disarms—Hippolita reveals herself, Alonzo claims her, but Antonio declaring that he is bound to her by sacred vows rescues her from Marcel’s vengeance and obtains his forgiveness. All return to Ambrosio’s house where they find Cleonte and Clarinda. Explanations ensue, and Marcel is at Clarinda’s feet. Pedro, however, who attends Alonzo, recognizes his old fellow-servant, Dormida, duenna to Clarinda, and learning Don Manuel is dead, reveals that Alonzo is Clarinda’s brother, also handing over papers left by Don Alonzo the foster-father, which bestow 12,000 crowns a year on his adopted son, Alonzo portions Clarinda and gives her to Marcel. Francisca, woman to Cleonte, informs Silvio that Cleonte will yield to him—Silvio, suddenly revolted, declares he will present himself, but secretly resolves to poinard his sister. Marcel who has overheard the conference, beside himself with rage, dashes on Silvio with dagger drawn and when checked by Ambrosio and the rest who rush in at Francisca’s cries makes known the cause of his wrath. Francisca confesses that Cleonte had sent no such message, but herself purposed to take her mistress’ place that night and receive Silvio. Ambrosio then reveals the secret of Silvio’s birth and gives Cleonte to him, in his joy even taking Hippolita to his arms since Antonio has married her. Alonzo, meanwhile, disguised as Haunce has been united to Euphemia. He is discovered by the arrival on the scene of the real Haunce accompanied by Gload, a foolish tutor. Carlo is soon reconciled to the new bridegroom, whilst Haunce and Gload joining in a masquerade find themselves unexpectedly wedded to Olinda and Dorice, two women attendant on the lady Euphemia.

SOURCE.

Mrs. Behn founded the plot of _The Dutch Lover_ upon the stories of Eufemie and Theodore, Don Jame and Frederic, in a pseudo-Spanish novel entitled ‘_The History of Don Fenise_, a new Romance written in Spanish by Francisco de Las Coveras, And now Englished by a Person of Honour, London, Printed for Humphrey Moseley,’ 8vo, 1651. There is of course no such Spanish author as ‘the ingenious Don Francisco de las Coveras’. The chief merit of the book is purely bibliographical: it is a very rare volume and difficult to meet with. The Bodleian indeed contains a copy, but it is not to be found in the British Museum library. The somewhat morbid theme of overwhelming passion barred by consanguinity eventually discovered to be false, which is here exemplified in the love of Silvio for Cleonte, occurs more than once in the later Jacobean and Carolan drama. In Beaumont and Fletcher’s tragicomedy _A King and no King_ (1611: 4to, 1619), we have Arbaces enamoured of Panthea, his reputed sister; similar motives are to be found in Arthur Wilson’s _The Swizzer_ (1631); but in 219 Middleton’s _Women beware Women_ (circa 1612: 4to, 1657), no contrivance can legitimize the incestuous loves of Hippolito and Isabella, and death is the only solution. In Massinger’s _The Unnatural Combat_ (1621: 4to, 1639), the demoniac Malefort pursues his daughter Theocrine with the same baleful fires as Francesco Cenci looked on Beatrice, but the height of horror, harrowing the soul with pity and anguish, culminates in Ford’s terrible scenes _Tis Pity She’s a Whore_ (4to, 1633), so tenderly tragic, so exquisitely beautiful for all their moral perversity, that they remain unequalled outside Shakespeare.

In the Restoration Theatre the theme of consanguinity was originally dealt with no less than three times by Dryden: comically, in _The Spanish Friar_ (1681), when Lorenzo—after all the love-brokerage of pursy Father Dominic—discovers Elvira to be his sister: tragically, in _Don Sebastian_ (1690), when Sebastian and Almeyda are separated by the disclosures of old Alvarez: sentimentally and romantically, in _Love Triumphant_ (1693-4), when Alphonso wins Victoria whom he has long loved, even whilst she was supposed to be his sister. Otway it will be remembered turns the pathetic catastrophe of _The Orphan_ (1680), upon a deceit which produces similar though unhappy circumstances. In 1679, _Oedipus_, a joint production of Dryden and Lee, was brought out with great success at the Duke’s Theatre, Dorset Gardens.

Unhallowed and incestuous passions again form the plot of _The Fatal Discovery; or, Love in Ruins_ (4to, 1698), produced at Drury Lane, a play seemingly derived from _Bandello, Part II_, Novel 35, which coincides with the thirtieth tale of the _Heptameron_. In various forms, however, this legend is to be found in the literature of all countries, and a cognate tradition is even attached to certain districts. _Innocence Distress’d; or, The Royal Penitents_, a tragedy by Robert Gould (ob. 1709), never performed but published by subscription (8vo, 1737), for the benefit of his daughter Hannah, is based on the same story. Gould’s work is weak and insipid.

Later in the eighteenth century we have Horace Walpole’s _The Mysterious Mother_ (8vo, 1768), an unacted drama of extraordinary power and undissipated gloom on the same terrible theme; whilst Shelley’s _The Centi_, published in 1819, which the poet most emphatically intended for the boards, remains a masterpiece of supreme genius.

Wagner in _Die Walküre_ shows the irresistible passion of Siegmund and Sieglinde, brother and sister, from whose union sprang the mighty hero Siegfried; and in _Gengangere_ (Ghosts), 1881, Ibsen threw, by the sickly craving of the fibreless Oswald Alving for Regina, a lurid light across that awesome tragedy of shadows, Nemesis, and blank despair.

THEATRICAL HISTORY.

_The Dutch Lover_ was produced at the Duke’s Theatre, Dorset Garden, in February, 1673, but owing to the manifold disadvantages under which it was put on the stage it did not meet with that success it certainly deserved. It was indeed, to quote the preface, ‘hugely injured in the acting.’ The performers were anything but word perfect and hopelessly forgot or confused their business, which, more especially in a play of such a type as this romantic comedy so full of busy and complicated detail demanding close and continuous attention, was enough to mystify the 220 audience completely and foredoom the piece to failure. The worst sinner was Haunce himself, who hardly spoke one of his lines but gagged from start to finish. Not unnaturally, Mrs. Behn resented this and avows that she would have trounced him roundly in print except ‘de mortuis...’ Although the original cast is not given, this detail enables us to fix the representative of Haunce as Angel, a leading comedian, who died in the spring of 1673, his name last appearing as de Boastado in Ravenscroft’s _Careless Lovers_.

In addition to these serious detriments the costumes were very poor, especially the disguise of Alonzo as the Hollander, and Haunce’s own ‘fantastical travelling habit,’ dresses on the aptness of which the probability of the intrigue can be made so largely to depend.

Yet another mishap occurred. The epilogue, which had been promised by a friend, did not come to hand, and accordingly the present epilogue was hastily composed. Though containing nothing notably witty or pointed it does not fall below the generality of these productions. Of the prologue we have no means of judging as it was unfortunately lost before it could find its way into print.

Had _The Dutch Lover_ received fair treatment from the actors it should surely have commanded no small success in its day. Technically it is well contrived, and exhibits the skill and clever stage-craft of its authoress in a high degree, qualities which have often given a long lease of life to plays of infinitely less merit.

221 AN EPISTLE TO THE READER.

Good, Sweet, Honey, Sugar-Candied Reader,

Which I think is more than anyone has called you yet, I must have a word or two with you before you do advance into the Treatise; but ’tis not to beg your pardon for diverting you from your affairs, by such an idle Pamphlet as this is, for I presume you have not much to do and therefore are to be obliged to me for keeping you from worse employment, and if you have a better you may get you gone about your business: but if you will misspend your Time, pray lay the fault upon yourself; for I have dealt pretty fairly in the matter, told you in the Title Page what you are to expect within. Indeed, had I hung a sign of the Immortality of the Soul, of the Mystery of Godliness, or of Ecclesiastical Policie, and then had treated you with Indiscerpibility and Essential Spissitude (words, which though I am no competent Judge of, for want of Languages, yet I fancy strongly ought to mean just nothing) with a company of Apocryphal midnight Tales cull’d out of the choicest Insignificant Authors; If I had only proved in Folio that Apollonius was a naughty knave, or had presented you with two or three of the worst principles transcrib’d out of the peremptory and ill-natur’d (though prettily ingenious) Doctor of Malmsbury undigested and ill-manag’d by a silly, saucy, ignorant, impertinent, ill educated Chaplain I were then indeed sufficiently in fault; but having inscrib’d Comedy on the beginning of my Book, you may guess pretty near what penny-worths you are like to have, and ware your money and your time accordingly. I would not yet be understood to lessen the dignity of Playes, for surely they deserve a place among the middle if not the better sort of Books; for I have heard the most of that which bears the name of Learning, and which has abused such quantities of Ink and Paper, and continually employs so many ignorant, unhappy souls for ten, twelve, twenty years in the University (who yet poor wretches think they are doing something all the while) as Logick etc. and several other things (that shall be nameless lest I misspell them) are much more absolutely nothing than the errantest Play that e’er was writ. Take notice, Reader, I do not assert this purely upon my own knowledge, but I think I have known it very fully prov’d, both sides being fairly heard, and even some ingenious opposers of it most abominably baffl’d in the Argument: Some of which I have got so perfectly by rote, that if this were a proper place for it, I am apt to think myself could almost make it clear; and as I would not undervalue Poetry, so neither am I altogether of their judgement who believe no wisdom in the world beyond it. I have often heard indeed 222 (and read) how much the World was anciently oblig’d to it for most of that which they call’d Science, which my want of letters makes me less assured of than others happily may be: but I have heard some wise men say that no considerable part of useful knowledge was this way communicated, and on the other way, that it hath serv’d to propogate so many idle superstitions, as all the benefits it hath or can be guilty of, can never make sufficient amends for; which unaided by the unlucky charms of Poetry, could never have possest a thinking Creature such as man. However true this is, I am myself well able to affirm that none of all our English Poets, and least the Dramatique (so I think you call them) can be justly charg’d with too great reformation of men’s minds or manners, and for that I may appeal to general experiment, if those who are the most assiduous Disciples of the Stage, do not make the fondest and the lewdest Crew about this Town; for if you should unhappily converse them through the year, you will not find one Dram of sense amongst a Club of them, unless you will allow for such a little Link-Boy’s Ribaldry thick larded with unseasonable oaths & impudent defiance of God, and all things serious; and that at such a senseless damn’d unthinking rate, as, if ’twere well distributed, would spoil near half the Apothecaries trade, and save the sober people of the Town the charge of Vomits; And it was smartly said (how prudently I cannot tell) by a late learned Doctor, who, though himself no great asserter of a Deity, (as you’ll believe by that which follows) yet was observed to be continually persuading of this sort of men (if I for once may call them so) of the necessity and truth of our Religion; and being ask’d how he came to bestir himself so much this way, made answer that it was because their ignorance and indiscreet debauch made them a scandal to the profession of Atheism. And for their wisdom and design I never knew it reach beyond the invention of some notable expedient, for the speedier ridding them of their Estate, (a devilish clog to Wit and Parts), than other grouling Mortals know, or battering half-a-dozen fair new Windows in a Morning after their debauch, whilst the dull unjantee Rascal they belong to is fast asleep. But I’ll proceed no farther in their character, because that miracle of Wit (in spite of Academick frippery) the mighty Echard hath already done it to my satisfaction; and whoever undertakes a Supplement to anything he hath discourst, had better for their reputation be doing nothing.

Besides this Theam is worn too thread-bare by the whiffling would-be Wits of the Town, and of both the stone-blind-eyes of the Kingdom. And therefore to return to that which I before was speaking of, I will have leave to say that in my judgement the increasing number of our latter Plays have not done much more towards the amending of men’s Morals, or their Wit, than hath the frequent Preaching, which this last age hath been pester’d with, (indeed without all Controversie they have done less harm) nor can I 223 once imagine what temptation anyone can have to expect it from them; for sure I am no Play was ever writ with that design. If you consider Tragedy, you’ll find their best of Characters unlikely patterns for a wise man to pursue: For he that is the Knight of the Play, no sublunary feats must serve his Dulcinea; for if he can’t bestrid the Moon, he’ll ne’er make good his business to the end, and if he chance to be offended, he must without considering right or wrong confound all things he meets, and put you half-a-score likely tall fellows into each pocket; and truly if he come not something near this Pitch I think the Tragedy’s not worth a farthing; for Playes were certainly intended for the exercising of men’s passions not their understandings, and he is infinitely far from wise that will bestow one moment’s meditation on such things: And as for Comedie, the finest folks you meet with there are still unfitter for your imitation, for though within a leaf or two of the Prologue, you are told that they are people of Wit, good Humour, good Manners, and all that: yet if the Authors did not kindly add their proper names, you’d never know them by their Characters; for whatsoe’er’s the matter, it hath happen’d so spightfully in several Playes, which have been prettie well received of late, that even those persons that were meant to be the ingenious Censors of the Play, have either prov’d the most debauch’d, or most unwittie people in the Company: nor is this error very lamentable, since as I take it Comedie was never meant, either for a converting or a conforming Ordinance: In short, I think a Play the best divertisement that wise men have: but I do also think them nothing so who do discourse as formallie about the rules of it, as if ’twere the grand affair of humane life. This being my opinion of Plays, I studied only to make this as entertaining as I could, which whether I have been successful in, my gentle Reader, you may for your shilling judge. To tell you my thoughts of it, were to little purpose, for were they very ill, you may be sure I would not have expos’d it; nor did I so till I had first consulted most of those who have a reputation for judgement of this kind; who were at least so civil (if not kind) to it as did encourage me to venture it upon the Stage, and in the Press: Nor did I take their single word for it, but us’d their reasons as a confirmation of my own.

Indeed that day ’twas Acted first, there comes me into the Pit, a long, lither, phlegmatick, white, ill-favour’d, wretched Fop, an Officer in Masquerade newly transported with a Scarf & Feather out of France, a sorry Animal that has nought else to shield it from the uttermost contempt of all mankind, but that respect which we afford to Rats and Toads, which though we do not well allow to live, yet when considered as a part of God’s Creation, we make honourable mention of them. A thing, Reader—but no more of such a Smelt: This thing, I tell ye, opening that which serves it for a mouth, out issued such a noise as this to those that sate about it, that 224 they were to expect a woful Play, God damn him, for it was a woman’s. Now how this came about I am not sure, but I suppose he brought it piping hot from some who had with him the reputation of a villanous Wit: for Creatures of his size of sense talk without all imagination, such scraps as they pick up from other folks. I would not for a world be taken arguing with such a propertie as this; but if I thought there were a man of any tolerable parts, who could upon mature deliberation distinguish well his right hand from his left, and justly state the difference between the number of sixteen and two, yet had this prejudice upon him; I would take a little pains to make him know how much he errs. For waving the examination why women having equal education with men, were not as capable of knowledge, of whatsoever sort as well as they: I’ll only say as I have touch’d before, that Plays have no great room for that which is men’s great advantage over women, that is Learning; We all well know that the immortal Shakespeare’s Plays (who was not guilty of much more of this than often falls to women’s share) have better pleas’d the World than Johnson’s works, though by the way ’tis said that Benjamin was no such Rabbi neither, for I am inform’d that his Learning was but Grammar high; (sufficient indeed to rob poor Salust of his best orations) and it hath been observ’d that they are apt to admire him most confoundedly, who have just such a scantling of it as he had; and I have seen a man the most severe of Johnson’s Sect, sit with his Hat remov’d less than a hair’s breadth from one sullen posture for almost three hours at _The Alchymist_; who at that excellent Play of _Harry the Fourth_ (which yet I hope is far enough from Farce) hath very hardly kept his Doublet whole; but affectation hath always had a greater share both in the action and discourse of men than truth and judgement have; and for our Modern ones, except our most unimitable Laureat, I dare to say I know of none that write at such a formidable rate, but that a woman may well hope to reach their greatest heights. Then for their musty rules of Unity, and God knows what besides, if they meant anything, they are enough intelligible and as practible by a woman; but really methinks they that disturb their heads with any other rule of Playes besides the making them pleasant, and avoiding of scurrility, might much better be employed in studying how to improve men’s too imperfect knowledge of that ancient English Game which hight long Laurence: And if Comedy should be the picture of ridiculous mankind I wonder anyone should think it such a sturdy task, whilst we are furnish’d with such precious Originals as him I lately told you of; if at least that Character do not dwindle into Farce, and so become too mean an entertainment for those persons who are us’d to think. Reader, I have a complaint or two to make to you and I have done; Know then that this Play was hugely injur’d in the Acting, for ’twas done so imperfectly as never any was 225 before, which did more harm to this than it could have done to any of another sort; the Plot being busie (though I think not intricate) and so requiring a continual attention, which being interrupted by the intolerable negligence of some that acted in it, must needs much spoil the beauty on’t. My Dutch Lover spoke but little of what I intended for him, but supplied it with a great deal of idle stuff, which I was wholly unacquainted with until I had heard it first from him; so that Jack-pudding ever us’d to do: which though I knew before, I gave him yet the Part, because I knew him so acceptable to most o’th’ lighter Periwigs about the Town, and he indeed did vex me so, I could almost be angry: Yet, but Reader, you remember, I suppose, a fusty piece of Latine that has past from hand to hand this thousand years they say (and how much longer I can’t tell) in favour of the dead. I intended him a habit much more notably ridiculous, which if ever it be important was so here, for many of the Scenes in the three last Acts depended upon the mistakes of the Colonel for Haunce, which the ill-favour’d likeness of their Habits is suppos’d to cause. Lastly my Epilogue was promis’d me by a Person who had surely made it good, if any, but he failing of his word, deput’d one, who has made it as you see, and to make out your penyworth you have it here. The Prologue is by misfortune lost. Now, Reader, I have eas’d my mind of all I had to say, and so sans farther complyment, Adieu.

226

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

MEN. _Ambrosio_, A Nobleman of _Spain_. _Marcel_, His Son. _Silvio_, Supposed Bastard Son to _Ambrosio_. _Antonio_, A German that has debauch’d _Hippolyta_. _Alonzo_, A _Flanders_ Colonel contracted to _Hippolyta_ and newly arriv’d at _Madrid_. _Lovis_, His Friend. _Carlo_, Father to _Lovis_ and _Euphemia_. _Haunce van Ezel_, A Dutch Fop contracted to _Euphemia_, newly arriv’d at _Madrid_. _Gload_, His Cash-keeper. _Pedro_, An old Servant to _Alonzo_. Boy, Page to _Marcel_. Servant to _Carlo_. A Friar. WOMEN. _Euphemia_, In love with _Alonzo_. _Hippolyta_, In love with _Antonio_, Daughters to _Ambrosio_. _Cleonte_, In love with _Silvio_, _Clarinda_, Sister unknown to _Alonzo_, in love with _Marcel_. _Dormida_, Her Governess. _Francisca_, Woman to _Cleonte_. _Olinda_, Two Maids to _Euphemia_. _Dorice_, Swains, Four Shepherds, Four Nymphs, Dutch Men and Dutch Women.

The Scene, _Madrid_.

227

THE _DUTCH_ LOVER.