The Complete Plays of Gilbert and Sullivan Part 84

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

MORTALS

SIR RUTHVEN MURGATROYD (disguised as Robin Oakapple, a Young Farmer) RICHARD DAUNTLESS (his Foster-Brother, a Man-o'-war's man) SIR DESPARD MURGATROYD, OF RUDDIGORE (a Wicked Baronet) OLD ADAM GOODHEART (Robin's Faithful Servant) ROSE MAYBUD (a Village Maiden) MAD MARGARET DAME HANNAH (Rose's Aunt) ZORAH and RUTH (Professional Bridesmaids)

GHOSTS

SIR RUPERT MURGATROYD (the First Baronet) SIR JASPER MURGATROYD (the Third Baronet) SIR LIONEL MURGATROYD (the Sixth Baronet) SIR CONRAD MURGATROYD (the Twelfth Baronet) SIR DESMOND MURGATROYD (the Sixteenth Baronet) SIR GILBERT MURGATROYD (the Eighteenth Baronet) SIR MERVYN MURGATROYD (the Twentieth Baronet) and SIR RODERIC MURGATROYD (the Twenty-first Baronet)

Chorus of Officers, Ancestors, Professional Bridesmaids, and Villagers

ACT I

The Fis.h.i.+ng Village of Rederring, in Cornwall

ACT II

The Picture Gallery in Ruddigore Castle

TIME

Early in the 19th Century

ACT I

SCENE. The fis.h.i.+ng village of Rederring (in Cornwall). Rose Maybud's cottage is seen L.

Enter Chorus of Bridesmaids. They range themselves in front of Rose's cottage.

CHORUS OF BRIDESMAIDS.

Fair is Rose as bright May-day; Soft is Rose as the warm west-wind; Sweet is Rose as the new-mown hay-- Rose is queen of maiden-kind!

Rose, all glowing With virgin blushes, say-- Is anybody going To marry you to-day?

SOLO--ZORAH.

Every day, as the days roll on, Bridesmaids' garb we gaily don, Sure that a maid so fairly famed Can't long remain unclaimed.

Hour by hour and day by day, Several months have pa.s.sed away, Though she's the fairest flower that blows, No one has married Rose!

CHORUS.

Rose, all glowing With virgin blushes, say-- Is anybody going To marry you to-day?

ZORAH. Hour by hour and day by day, Months have pa.s.sed away.

CHORUS. Fair is Rose as bright Mayday, etc.

(Enter Dame Hannah, from cottage.)

HANNAH. Nay, gentle maidens, you sing well but vainly, for Rose is still heart-free, and looks but coldly upon her many suitors.

ZORAH. It's very disappointing. Every young man in the village is in love with her, but they are appalled by her beauty and modesty, and won't declare themselves; so, until she makes her own choice, there's no chance for anybody else.

RUTH. This is, perhaps, the only village in the world that possesses an endowed corps of professional bridesmaids who are bound to be on duty every day from ten to four--and it is at least six months since our services were required. The pious charity by which we exist is practically wasted!

ZOR. We shall be disendowed--that will be the end of it!

Dame Hannah--you're a nice old person--you could marry if you liked. There's old Adam--Robin's faithful servant--he loves you with all the frenzy of a boy of fourteen.

HAN. Nay--that may never be, for I am pledged!

ALL. To whom?

HAN. To an eternal maidenhood! Many years ago I was betrothed to a G.o.d-like youth who woo'd me under an a.s.sumed name.

But on the very day upon which our wedding was to have been celebrated, I discovered that he was no other than Sir Roderic Murgatroyd, one of the bad Baronets of Ruddigore, and the uncle of the man who now bears that t.i.tle. As a son of that accursed race he was no husband for an honest girl, so, madly as I loved him, I left him then and there. He died but ten years since, but I never saw him again.

ZOR. But why should you not marry a bad Baronet of Ruddigore?

RUTH. All baronets are bad; but was he worse than other baronets?

HAN. My child, he was accursed.

ZOR. But who cursed him? Not you, I trust!

HAN. The curse is on all his line and has been, ever since the time of Sir Rupert, the first Baronet. Listen, and you shall hear the legend:

LEGEND--HANNAH.

Sir Rupert Murgatroyd His leisure and his riches He ruthlessly employed In persecuting witches.

With fear he'd make them quake-- He'd duck them in his lake-- He'd break their bones With sticks and stones, And burn them at the stake!

CHORUS. This sport he much enjoyed, Did Rupert Murgatroyd-- No sense of shame Or pity came To Rupert Murgatroyd!

Once, on the village green, A palsied hag he roasted, And what took place, I ween, Shook his composure boasted; For, as the torture grim Seized on each withered limb, The writhing dame `Mid fire and flame Yelled forth this curse on him:

"Each lord of Ruddigore, Despite his best endeavour, Shall do one crime, or more, Once, every day, for ever!

This doom he can't defy, However he may try, For should he stay His hand, that day In torture he shall die!"

The prophecy came true: Each heir who held the t.i.tle Had, every day, to do Some crime of import vital; Until, with guilt o'erplied, "I'll Sin no more!" he cried, And on the day He said that say, In agony he died!

CHORUS. And thus, with sinning cloyed, Has died each Murgatroyd, And so shall fall, Both one and all, Each coming Murgatroyd!

(Exeunt Chorus of Bridesmaids.)

(Enter Rose Maybud from cottage, with small basket on her arm.)

HAN. Whither away, dear Rose? On some errand of charity, as is thy wont?

ROSE. A few gifts, dear aunt, for deserving villagers. Lo, here is some peppermint rock for old gaffer Gadderby, a set of false teeth for pretty little Ruth Rowbottom, and a pound of snuff for the poor orphan girl on the hill.

HAN. Ah, Rose, pity that so much goodness should not help to make some gallant youth happy for life! Rose, why dost thou harden that little heart of thine? Is there none hereaway whom thou couldst love?

ROSE. And if there were such an one, verily it would ill become me to tell him so.

HAN. Nay, dear one, where true love is, there is little need of prim formality.

ROSE. Hush, dear aunt, for thy words pain me sorely. Hung in a plated dish-cover to the knocker of the workhouse door, with naught that I could call mine own, save a change of baby-linen and a book of etiquette, little wonder if I have always regarded that work as a voice from a parent's tomb. This hallowed volume (producing a book of etiquette), composed, if I may believe the t.i.tle-page, by no less an authority than the wife of a Lord Mayor, has been, through life, my guide and monitor. By its solemn precepts I have learnt to test the moral worth of all who approach me. The man who bites his bread, or eats peas with a knife, I look upon as a lost creature, and he who has not acquired the proper way of entering and leaving a room is the object of my pitying horror. There are those in this village who bite their nails, dear aunt, and nearly all are wont to use their pocket combs in public places. In truth I could pursue this painful theme much further, but behold, I have said enough.

HAN. But is there not one among them who is faultless, in thine eyes? For example--young Robin. He combines the manners of a Marquis with the morals of a Methodist. Couldst thou not love him?

ROSE. And even if I could, how should I confess it unto him? For lo, he is shy, and sayeth naught!

BALLAD--ROSE.