The Complete Plays of Gilbert and Sullivan Part 92

RICH. For she is such a smart little craft- ROSE. Such a neat little, sweet little craft-- RICH. Such a bright little- ROSE. Tight little- RICH. Slight little- ROSE. Light little- BOTH. Trim little, prim little craft!

CHORUS. For she is such a smart little craft, etc.

(Exeunt all but Robin.)

ROB. For a week I have fulfilled my accursed doom! I have duly committed a crime a day! Not a great crime, I trust, but still, in the eyes of one as strictly regulated as I used to be, a crime. But will my ghostly ancestors be satisfied with what I have done, or will they regard it as an unworthy subterfuge?

(Addressing Pictures.) Oh, my forefathers, wallowers in blood, there came at last a day when, sick of crime, you, each and every, vowed to sin no more, and so, in agony, called welcome Death to free you from your cloying guiltiness. Let the sweet psalm of that repentant hour soften your long-dead hearts, and tune your souls to mercy on your poor posterity! (Kneeling).

(The stage darkens for a moment. It becomes light again, and the Pictures are seen to have become animated.)

CHORUS OF FAMILY PORTRAITS.

Painted emblems of a race, All accurst in days of yore, Each from his accustomed place Steps into the world once more.

(The Pictures step from their frames and march round the stage.)

Baronet of Ruddigore, Last of our accursed line, Down upon the oaken floor-- Down upon those knees of thine.

Coward, poltroon, shaker, squeamer, Blockhead, sluggard, dullard, dreamer, s.h.i.+rker, shuffler, crawler, creeper, Sniffler, snuffler, wailer, weeper, Earthworm, maggot, tadpole, weevil!

Set upon thy course of evil, Lest the King of Spectre-land Set on thee his grisly hand!

(The Spectre of Sir Roderic descends from his frame.)

SIR ROD. Beware! beware! beware!

ROB. Gaunt vision, who art thou That thus, with icy glare And stern relentless brow, Appearest, who knows how?

SIR ROD. I am the spectre of the late Sir Roderic Murgatroyd, Who comes to warn thee that thy fate Thou canst not now avoid.

ROB. Alas, poor ghost!

SIR ROD. The pity you Express for nothing goes: We spectres are a jollier crew Than you, perhaps, suppose!

CHORUS. We spectres are a jollier crew Than you, perhaps, suppose!

SONG--SIR RODERIC.

When the night wind howls in the chimney cowls, and the bat in the moonlight flies, And inky clouds, like funeral shrouds, sail over the midnight skies-- When the footpads quail at the night-bird's wail, and black dogs bay at the moon, Then is the spectres' holiday--then is the ghosts' high-noon!

CHORUS. Ha! ha!

Then is the ghosts' high-noon!

As the sob of the breeze sweeps over the trees, and the mists lie low on the fen, From grey tomb-stones are gathered the bones that once were women and men, And away they go, with a mop and a mow, to the revel that ends too soon, For c.o.c.kcrow limits our holiday--the dead of the night's high-noon!

CHORUS. Ha! ha!

The dead of the night's high-noon!

And then each ghost with his ladye-toast to their churchyard beds takes flight, With a kiss, perhaps, on her lantern chaps, and a grisly grim "good-night"; Till the welcome knell of the midnight bell rings forth its jolliest tune, And ushers in our next high holiday--the dead of the night's high-noon!

CHORUS. Ha! ha!

The dead of the night's high-noon!

Ha! ha! ha! ha!

ROB. I recognize you now--you are the picture that hangs at the end of the gallery.

SIR ROD. In a bad light. I am.

ROB. Are you considered a good likeness?

SIR ROD. Pretty well. Flattering.

ROB. Because as a work of art you are poor.

SIR ROD. I am crude in colour, but I have only been painted ten years. In a couple of centuries I shall be an Old Master, and then you will be sorry you spoke lightly of me.

ROB. And may I ask why you have left your frames?

SIR ROD. It is our duty to see that our successors commit their daily crimes in a conscientious and workmanlike fas.h.i.+on.

It is our duty to remind you that you are evading the conditions under which you are permitted to exist.

ROB. Really, I don't know what you'd have. I've only been a bad baronet a week, and I've committed a crime punctually every day.

SIR ROD. Let us inquire into this. Monday?

ROB. Monday was a Bank Holiday.

SIR ROD. True. Tuesday?

ROB. On Tuesday I made a false income-tax return.

ALL. Ha! ha!

1ST GHOST. That's nothing.

2ND GHOST. Nothing at all.

3RD GHOST. Everybody does that.

4TH GHOST. It's expected of you.

SIR ROD. Wednesday?

ROB. (melodramatically). On Wednesday I forged a will.

SIR ROD. Whose will?

ROB. My own.

SIR ROD. My good sir, you can't forge your own will!

ROB. Can't I, though! I like that! I did! Besides, if a man can't forge his own will, whose will can he forge?

1ST GHOST. There's something in that.

2ND GHOST. Yes, it seems reasonable.

3RD GHOST. At first sight it does.

4TH GHOST. Fallacy somewhere, I fancy!

ROB. A man can do what he likes with his own!

SIR ROD. I suppose he can.

ROB. Well, then, he can forge his own will, stoopid! On Thursday I shot a fox.

1ST GHOST. Hear, hear!

SIR ROD. That's better (addressing Ghosts). Pa.s.s the fox, I think? (They a.s.sent.) Yes, pa.s.s the fox. Friday?

ROB. On Friday I forged a cheque.

SIR ROD. Whose cheque?

ROB. Old Adam's.

SIR ROD. But Old Adam hasn't a banker.

ROB. I didn't say I forged his banker--I said I forged his cheque. On Sat.u.r.day I disinherited my only son.

SIR ROD. But you haven't got a son.

ROB. No--not yet. I disinherited him in advance, to save time. You see--by this arrangement--he'll be born ready disinherited.

SIR ROD. I see. But I don't think you can do that.

ROB. My good sir, if I can't disinherit my own unborn son, whose unborn son can I disinherit?

SIR ROD. Humph! These arguments sound very well, but I can't help thinking that, if they were reduced to syllogistic form, they wouldn't hold water. Now quite understand us. We are foggy, but we don't permit our fogginess to be presumed upon.

Unless you undertake to--well, suppose we say, carry off a lady?

(Addressing Ghosts.) Those who are in favour of his carrying off a lady? (All hold up their hands except a Bishop.) Those of the contrary opinion? (Bishop holds up his hands.) Oh, you're never satisfied! Yes, unless you undertake to carry off a lady at once--I don't care what lady--any lady--choose your lady--you perish in inconceivable agonies.

ROB. Carry off a lady? Certainly not, on any account.